J 
 
 ITm 

 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY Or CALIFORNIA 
 
 RIVERSIDE
 

 
 ^£.At * ^UKAAsy—es^ t> (~ 
 
 
 
 1
 
 ?£.*# 
 
 INTRODUCTORY NOTE 
 
 ~^HE following short stories, now for the first 
 -*- time collected in one volume for publication 
 in England, have all, with the exception of the 
 last, ("The Soul of the Newly Born ") appeared 
 in various magazines and journals, such as Temple 
 Bar, Belgravia, The Woman at Home, The Lady's 
 Pictorial, and others. Their merits are slight, — 
 their defects numerous ; my friends, however, will 
 be generous and quick enough to discover the 
 former, and my enemies will find ample food to 
 delight them in the latter, so that it is possible 
 both sides may be satisfied. Concerning the 
 opening sketch entitled " God's Light on the 
 Mountains," which is not so much a story as a 
 very roughly drawn allegory, I may here relate 
 
 VJl
 
 viii ^ntroouctorp Bote 
 
 a rather curious incident. It was originally written 
 in a friend's album and was never intended for 
 publication. But one fine day this very friend 
 suddenly and unexpectedly developed the dis- 
 position of a practical joker, and caused the 
 allegory to be printed in the Pall Mall Budget 
 under very peculiar circumstances, and without 
 in the least consulting me on the matter. The 
 Pall Mall people were at that time busily " boom- 
 ing " the ' Dreams ' of Madame Olive Schreiner. 
 I was abroad, wintering at Montreux in Switzer- 
 land ; and my waggish friend, who, I am bound 
 to admit was also a devoted partisan, copied out 
 my hastily written " idyll," the composition of 
 which had originally taken me about ten minutes, 
 and sent it to the Pall Mall with an ambiguously- 
 worded epistle suggesting, or rather querying, 
 whether it might not possibly be the work of 
 Olive Schreiner ? Without making any inquiries, 
 the Tall Mall editors, losing sober discretion and 
 judgment in their desire to keep up the c boom ' 
 they had begun, pounced on the story, decided
 
 Sntroouctorp Bote i* 
 
 that it was by Madame Schreiner and published 
 it proudly and prominently under the heading 
 *' Another ' Dream ' by Olive Schreiner," append- 
 ing to it that lady's portrait and autograph, to- 
 gether with a flattering eulogy of both the story 
 and its writer ! My astonishment when I received 
 the number of the Budget containing my half- 
 forgotten ' scrap ' thus singularly appropriated 
 may be better imagined than described. How- 
 ever, I lost no time in clearing up the mistake. 
 I wrote to the editor of the Pall Mall claiming 
 the story as my own, and thanking him for the 
 praise bestowed upon so slight an effort. My 
 letter was printed in due course, — but the dis- 
 covery that / was the author of the story, 
 and not Madame Schreiner, of course put a 
 stop to the Pall Mall's approval and enthu- 
 
 siasm ! 
 
 I am so often wrongfully accused of misjudging 
 the Press, that I am glad to be able to acquaint 
 my friends and readers with this pleasing type of 
 journalistic ' fair play,' which distinctly shows, at
 
 x 3ntrofcmctcr£ IRote 
 
 any rate, that so long as the Pall Mall authorities 
 thought the story was by a woman whom they had 
 elected to ' boom,' it was worth prominent notice ; 
 but that, on the contrary, as soon as they had 
 learned it was by another woman, whom they were 
 strenuously endeavouring to ' quash,' it became 
 quite a different matter ! Yet the story itself 
 remained the same, — neither better nor worse for 
 praise or censure, — and so trifling do I myself 
 consider it that it would not have been included 
 at all in the present collection were it not for 
 this little ' Press-anecdote,' connected with it, 
 which I think well worth telling, — and which I 
 warmly commend to the shrewd consideration 
 and comprehension of the public. 
 
 Marie Corelli. 
 
 May \2th, 1896.
 
 Contents ksx. 
 
 GODS LIGHT ON THE MOUNTAINS 
 
 THE HIRED BABY 
 
 NEHEMIAH P. HOSKINS, ARTIST . 
 
 THE SILENCE OF THE MAHARAJAH 
 
 " THREE WISE MEN OF GOTHAM " 
 
 THE LADY WITH THE CARNATIONS 
 
 AN OLD BUNDLE .... 
 
 ' MADEMOISELLE ZEPHYR ' . 
 
 ONE OF THE WORLD'S WONDERS 
 
 ANGEL'S WICKEDNESS . 
 
 THE DISTANT VOICE . 
 
 THE WITHERING OF A ROSE 
 
 TINY TRAMPS .... 
 
 THE SONG OF MIRIAM 
 
 THE SOUL OF THE NEWLY BORN 
 
 PAGE 
 I 
 
 5 
 
 39 
 
 59 
 
 107 
 
 156 
 
 173 
 188 
 197 
 210 
 230 
 246 
 289 
 300 
 324 
 
 XI
 
 CAMEOS. 
 
 GOD'S LIGHT ON THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 AN ALLEGORY. 
 "And God said, Let there be light. And there was 
 
 light:' 
 
 ONE by one the clouds lifted, and the dense 
 drooping veils of mist were slowly with- 
 drawn. The great mountains became visible, 
 clearly denned against the heaven's ethereally faint 
 blue. Eternal snow lay frozen white upon them, 
 and their cold, high peaks seemed very far away. 
 But one wide bar of luminous gold lightened 
 their slopes towards the East ; and in that warm 
 and tender haze the hard snow melted, and the 
 purple violets opened into bloom. 
 
 # # # # # 
 
 Two dark figures of men advanced into the 
 Light. They had climbed for many hours. They 
 had seen the radiance from afar, and now they 
 
 i I
 
 2 aoo's %\Qht on tbe /IDountains 
 
 entered it together. They were brothers in their 
 common lot and creed, but as they stepped into 
 the golden glory their brows grew heavy with 
 distrust and wrath. 
 
 " What doest thou here ? " said the one. " The 
 Light is mine ! " 
 
 "Nay, fool," said the other, "thou liest — the 
 Light is mine ! " 
 
 And the evil frown deepened on their faces, and 
 they forgot their brotherhood, and fought ; fought 
 with a merciless blind fury for every inch of that 
 wondrous Light that was not theirs ; fought till the 
 violets on the turf sickened and died in the torrent 
 of blood that was shed. 
 
 But suddenly between them a Shadow fell. 
 And the Shadow's name was Death. Then those 
 contesting twain shrank from each other's grasp in 
 fear, and covering their eyes they fled swiftly, 
 and the Shadow went with them. And their 
 blood sank into the cool brown earth, and the 
 violets bloomed again. And God's Light lay still 
 upon the mountains. 
 
 Two women came into the Light. They were 
 great Queens, browbound with gold and burdened 
 with a weight of gems. With them they dragged 
 a fainting and feeble creature like a child with 
 wings; an almost dying thing that wept and
 
 Ooo's Xigbt on tbe /iDountains 3 
 
 wailed aloud and shuddered as it came. Reaching 
 the Light the women paused and faced each other. 
 
 "Loose thou thy hold of Love," said the one ; 
 " for lo, we have reached the goal, and, by the 
 wonder of my beauty in the Light, both Light and 
 Love are mine ! " 
 
 " O traitress ! ' cried the other. " What hast 
 thou to do with beauty where I am ? I am the 
 mistress of the world ; Love is my servant, Light 
 my heritage. Dispute no more, for Love and 
 Light are mine ! " 
 
 And again the Shadow fell. Then those two 
 rival Queens grew pale and thin, and melted like 
 frail ghosts into the darkness. But the winged 
 child remained alone, weeping. And God's Light 
 4ay softly on the mountains. 
 
 vP *l* TS* 7p ?£ 
 
 A solitary wayfarer advanced into the Light. 
 Bare-headed and with uplifted eyes he paused and 
 looked, — and smiled. His limbs were very weary : 
 his hands were hard with unrewarded toil ; but 
 though his face was pale and careworn, it was 
 beautiful. His lips parted in a sigh of rapture. 
 
 "This is the Light!" he said. "My God, I 
 thank Thee ! " 
 
 And the winged Love, who wept alone, drew 
 near to him and kissed his feet. 
 
 " Oh, who art thou ? " it questioned him sob-
 
 4 (Soft's Xigbt on tbe /fountains 
 
 bingly, ''Who art thou that has toiled so far to 
 find the Light, and has no word of envy on thy 
 lips, but only peace and praise ? " 
 
 And the Stranger, smiling, answered, — 
 " I am known as the Despised and Lonely : in 
 all the world I possess nothing, not even a 
 blessing. Alone I have sought the Light and 
 found it ; wherefore I praise the Giver of the 
 Light who hath not suffered me to be dismayed. 
 For I bear the name most hated among men ; the 
 name of Truth ! " 
 
 And again the Shadow fell. Only it was no 
 more a Shadow but a Brightness, brightening into 
 the Light itself. And tired Truth drank in the 
 golden Glory, and grew strong. Love dried its 
 childish tears, and afar off there was a sweet sound 
 as of the singing of angels. And God's Light 
 widened on the mountains.
 
 THE HIRED BABY. 
 
 A ROMANCE OF THE LONDON STREETS. 
 
 A DARK, desolate December night — a night 
 that clung to the metropolis like a wet 
 black shroud — a night in which the heavy low- 
 hanging vapours melted every now and then into a 
 slow reluctant rain, cold as icicle drops in a rock- 
 cavern. People passed and repassed in the streets 
 like ghosts in a bad dream : the twinkling gaslight 
 showed them at one moment rising out of the fog 
 and then disappearing from view as though sud- 
 denly engulfed in a vaporous ebon sea. With 
 muffled angry shrieks, the metropolitan trains 
 deposited their shoals of shivering, coughing tra- 
 vellers at the several stations, where sleepy officials, 
 rendered vicious by the weather, snatched the 
 tickets from their hands with offensive haste and 
 roughness. Omnibus conductors grew ill-tempered 
 and abusive without any seemingly adequate 
 reason ; shopkeepers became flippant, disobliging, 
 and careless of custom ; cabmen shouted derisive 
 
 5
 
 6 Ubc ifoirefc 3Bab£ 
 
 or denunciatory language after their rapidly re- 
 treating fares ; — in short, everybody was in a 
 discontented, almost spiteful humour, with the 
 exception of those few aggressively cheerful per- 
 sons who are in the habit of always making the 
 best of everything, even bad weather. 
 
 Down the long wide vista of the Cromwell 
 Road, Kensington, the fog had it all its own way ; 
 it swept on steadily, like thick smoke from a huge 
 fire, choking the throats and blinding the eyes of 
 foot-passengers, stealing through the crannies of 
 the houses, and chilling the blood of even those 
 luxurious individuals who, seated in elegant draw- 
 ing-rooms before blazing fires, easily forgot that 
 there were such bitter things as cold and poverty 
 in that outside world against which they had barred 
 their doors. At one house in particular — a house 
 with gaudy glass doors and somewhat soiled yellow 
 silk curtains at the windows — a house that plainly 
 said of itself — " Done up for show ! " to all who 
 cared to examine its exterior — there stood a closed 
 brougham drawn by a prancing pair of fat horses. 
 A coachman of distinguished appearance sat on the 
 box : a footman of irreproachable figure stood 
 waiting on the pavement, his yellow-gloved hand 
 resting elegantly on the polished silver knob of the 
 carriage-door. 
 
 Both these gentleman were resolute and inflex-
 
 Ube HMrefc 3Babs 7 
 
 ible of face ; they looked as if they had deter- 
 mined on some great deed that should move the 
 world to wild applause, — but, truth to tell, they 
 had only just finished a highly satisfactory " meat- 
 tea," and before this grave silence had fallen upon 
 them they had been discussing the advisability of 
 broiled steak and onions for supper. The coach- 
 man had inclined to plain mutton-chops as being 
 easier of digestion ; the footman had earnestly 
 asseverated his belief in the superior succulence 
 and sweetness of the steak and onions, and in the 
 end he had gained his point. This weighty ques- 
 tion being settled, they had gradually grown 
 reflective on the past, present, and future joys of 
 eating at some one else's expense, and in this bland 
 and pleasing state of meditation they were still 
 absorbed. The horses were impatient, and pawed 
 the muddy ground with many a toss of their long 
 manes and tails, the steam from their glossy coats 
 mingling with the ever-thickening density of the 
 fog. 
 
 On the white stone steps of the residence before 
 which they waited, was an almost invisible bundle, 
 apparently shapeless and immovable. Neither of 
 the two gorgeous personages in livery observed it ; 
 it was too far back in a dim corner, too un- 
 obtrusive for the casual regard of their lofty eyes. 
 Suddenly the glass doors before -mentioned were
 
 thrown apart with a clattering noise, — a warmth 
 and radiance from the entrance-hall thus displayed 
 streamed into the foggy street, and at the same 
 instant the footman, still with grave and im- 
 perturbable countenance, opened the brougham. 
 An elderly lady, richly dressed, with diamonds 
 sparkling in her grey hair, came rustling down 
 the steps, bringing with her faint odours of 
 patchouli and violet powder. She was followed 
 by a girl of doll-like prettiness with a snub nose 
 and petulant little mouth, who held up her satin 
 and lace skirts with a sort of fastidious disdain, 
 as though she scorned to set foot on earth that 
 was not carpeted with the best velvet pile. As 
 they approached their carriage, the inert dark 
 bundle crouched in the corner started into life, — 
 a woman with wild hair and wilder eyes, — whose 
 pale lips quivered with suppressed weeping as her 
 piteous voice broke into sudden clamour : 
 
 " Oh lady ! " she cried, " for the love of God 
 a trifle ! Oh lady, lady ! " 
 
 But the ' lady,' with a contemptuous sniff and a 
 shake of her scented garments, passed her before 
 she could continue her appeal, and she turned 
 with a sort of faint hope to the softer face of the 
 girl. 
 
 " Oh, my dear, do have pity ! Just the smallest 
 little thing, and God will bless you ! You are
 
 Zbc HMrefc 3Baf>s 9 
 
 rich and happy — and I am starving ! Only a 
 penny ! For the baby — the poor little baby ! " 
 and she made as though she would open her 
 tattered shawl and reveal some treasure hidden 
 therein, but shrank back repelled by the cold 
 merciless gaze that fell upon her from those eyes 
 in which youth dwelt without tenderness. 
 
 " You have no business on our door-step," said 
 the girl harshly. " Go away directly, or I shall 
 tell my servant to call a policeman." 
 
 Then as she entered the brougham after her 
 mother, she addressed the respectable footman 
 angrily, giving him the benefit of a strong nasal 
 intonation. 
 
 " Howard, why do you let such dirty beggars 
 come near the carriage ? What are you paid 
 for I should like to know ? It is perfectly dis- 
 graceful to the house ! " 
 
 " Very sorry, miss ! " said the footman gravely ; 
 "I didn't see the — the person before." Then 
 shutting the brougham door, he turned with a 
 dignified air to the unfortunate creature who still 
 lingered near, and with a sweeping gesture of his 
 gold-embroidered coat-sleeve, said majestically, — 
 
 " Do you 'ear ? Be hofF! " 
 
 Then having thus performed his duty, he 
 mounted the box beside his friend the coachman, 
 and the equipage rattled quickly away, its gleaming
 
 lights soon lost in the smoke-laden vapours that 
 drooped downwards like funeral hangings from 
 the invisible sky to the scarcely visible ground. 
 Left to herself, the woman who had vainly sought 
 charity from those in whom no charity existed, 
 looked up despairingly as one distraught, and 
 seemed as though she would have given vent to 
 some fierce exclamation, when a feeble wail came 
 pitifully forth from the sheltering folds of her 
 shawl. She restrained herself instantly and walked 
 on at a rapid pace, scarcely heeding whither she 
 went, till she reached the Catholic church known 
 as the ' Oratory.' Its facade loomed darkly out 
 of the fog ; there was nothing particularly inviting 
 about it, yet there were people passing softly in 
 and out, and through the swinging to and fro 
 of the red baize-covered doors there came a 
 comforting warm glimmer of light. The woman 
 paused, hesitated, — and then having apparently 
 made up her mind, ascended the broad steps, 
 looked in and finally entered. The place was 
 strange to her, — she knew nothing of its religious 
 meaning, and its solemn appearance oppressed her. 
 There were only some half-dozen persons scattered 
 about like black specks in its vast white interior, 
 and the fog hung heavily in the vaulted dome 
 and dark little chapels. One corner alone blazed 
 with brilliancy and colour ; — this was the Altar
 
 XTbe HMrefc Bab£ « 
 
 of the Virgin. Towards it the tired vagrant 
 made her way, and on reaching it sank on the 
 nearest chair as though exhausted. She did not 
 raise her eyes to the marble splendours of the 
 shrine — one of the masterpieces of old Italian art : 
 she had been merely attracted to the spot by the 
 glitter of the lamps and candles, and took no 
 thought as to the reason of their being lit, though 
 she was sensible of a certain comfort in the soft 
 lustre shed around her. She seemed still young ; 
 her face, rendered haggard by long and bitter 
 privation, showed traces of past beauty, and her 
 eyes, full of feverish trouble, were large, dark and 
 still lustrous. Her mouth alone — that sensitive 
 betrayer of the life's good and bad actions — 
 revealed that all had not been well with her ; its 
 lines were hard and vicious, and the resentful 
 curve of the upper lip spoke of foolish pride not 
 unmixed with reckless sensuality. She sat for a 
 minute or two motionless, — then with exceeding 
 care and tenderness she began to unfold her thin 
 torn shawl by gentle degrees, looking down with 
 anxious solicitude at the object concealed within it. 
 Only a baby, — and withal a baby so tiny and 
 white and frail that it seemed as though it must 
 melt like a snow-flake beneath the lightest touch. 
 As its wrappings were loosened, it opened a pair 
 of large, solemn blue eyes and gazed at the
 
 12 Ube Ibireb Bab£ 
 
 woman's face, with a strange pitiful wistfulness. 
 It lay quiet, without moan, a pinched pale 
 miniature of suffering humanity, — an infant with 
 sorrow's mark painfully impressed upon its drawn 
 small features. Presently it stretched forth a 
 puny hand and feebly caressed its protectress, and 
 this too with the faintest glimmer of a smile. 
 The woman responded to its affection with a sort 
 of rapture ; she caught it fondly to her breast 
 and covered it with kisses, rocking it to and fro 
 with broken words of motherly endearment. 
 " My little darling ! " she whispered softly. 
 " My little pet ! Yes, yes I know ! So tired, 
 so cold and hungry ! Never mind, baby, never 
 mind ! — we will rest here a little, then we will 
 sing a song presently and get some money to take 
 us home. Sleep a while longer, dearie ! There ! 
 now we are warm and cosy again." 
 
 So saying she re-arranged her shawl in closer 
 and tighter folds so as to protect the child more 
 thoroughly. While she was engaged in this 
 operation, a lady in deep mourning passed close 
 by her, and advancing to the very steps of the 
 altar, knelt down, hiding her face with her clasped 
 hands. The tired wayfarer's attention was 
 attracted by this ; she gazed with a sort of dull 
 wonder at the kneeling figure robed in rich 
 rustling silk and crape, and gradually her eyes
 
 XTbe UMrefc 3Babs 13 
 
 wandered upwards, upwards, till they rested on the 
 gravely sweet and serenely smiling marble image 
 of the Virgin and Child. She looked and looked 
 again, surprised, incredulous ; then suddenly 
 rose to her feet and made her way to the altar 
 railing. There she paused, staring vaguely at 
 a basket of flowers, white and odorous, that had 
 been left there by some reverent worshipper. She 
 glanced doubtfully at the swinging silver lamps, 
 the twinkling candles ; she was conscious too of 
 a subtle strange fragrance in the air as though 
 a basketful of spring violets and daffodils had 
 just been carried by ; then, as her wandering gaze 
 came back to the solitary woman in black who 
 still knelt motionless near her, a sort of choking 
 sensation came into her throat and a stinging 
 moisture struggled in her eyes. She strove to 
 turn this hysterical sensation to a low laugh of 
 disdain. " Lord, Lord ! " she muttered beneath 
 her breath, " What sort of place is this, where 
 they pray to a woman and a baby ? " 
 
 At that moment the lady in black rose ; she 
 was young, with a proud, fair but weary face. 
 Her eyes lighted on her soiled and poverty- 
 stricken sister, and she paused with a pitying look. 
 The street wanderer made use of the opportunity 
 thus offered, and in an urgent whisper implored 
 charity. The lady drew out her purse, then
 
 14 Uhc lblre& 3Bab^ 
 
 hesitated, looking wistfully at the bundle in the 
 shawl. 
 
 " You have a little child there ? " she asked 
 in gentle accents. " May I see it ? " 
 
 "Yes, lady;' and the wrapper was turned 
 down sufficiently to disclose the tiny white face, 
 now more infinitely touching than ever in the 
 pathos of sleep. 
 
 " I lost my little one a week ago," said the 
 lady simply, as she looked at it. " He was all 
 I had." Her voice trembled ; she opened her 
 purse and placed a half-crown in the hand of 
 the astonished supplicant. " You are happier 
 than I am ; perhaps you will pray for me ! I am 
 very lonely ! " 
 
 Then dropping her long crape veil so that it 
 completely hid her features, she bent her head 
 and moved softly away. The woman watched 
 her till her graceful figure was completely lost 
 in the gloom of the great church, and then turned 
 again vaguely to the altar. 
 
 " Pray for her ! " she thought. " I ! As if 
 I could pray ! " And she smiled bitterly. Again 
 she looked at the statue in the shrine ; it had no 
 meaning at all for her. She had never heard 
 of Christianity save through the medium of a 
 tract, whose consoling title had been " Stop ! 
 You are going to Hell ! " Religion of every
 
 Ufoe UMrefc Babs is 
 
 sort was mocked at by those among whom her 
 lot was cast ; the name of Christ was only used 
 as a convenience to swear by, and therefore this 
 mysteriously smiling, gently inviting marble figure 
 was incomprehensible to her mind. 
 
 " As if I could pray ! " she repeated with a 
 sort of derision. Then she looked at the broad 
 silver coin in her hand and the sleeping baby in 
 her arms. With a sudden impulse she dropped 
 on her knees. 
 
 " Whoever you are," she muttered, addressing 
 the statue above her, " it seems you've got a child 
 of your own ; perhaps you'll help me to take 
 care of this one. It isn't mine ; I wish it was ! 
 Anyway I love it more than its own mother does. 
 I daresay you won't listen to the likes of me, but 
 if there was God anywhere about I'd ask Him 
 to bless that good soul that's lost her baby. / 
 bless her with all my heart, but my blessing ain't 
 good for much. Ah ! " and she surveyed anew 
 the Virgin's serene white countenance, " you look 
 just as if you understood me, but I don't believe 
 you do ! Never mind, I've said all I wanted to 
 say this time." 
 
 Her strange petition or rather discourse con- 
 cluded, she rose and walked away. The great 
 doors of the church swung heavily behind her as 
 she stepped out and stood once more in the muddy
 
 16 Ufoe UMrefc $a&s 
 
 street. It was raining steadily — a fine, cold, 
 penetrating rain. But the coin she held was a talis- 
 man against outer discomforts, and she continued 
 to walk on till she came to a clean-looking dairy, 
 where for a couple of pence she was able to re- 
 plenish the infant's long ago emptied feeding- 
 bottle ; but she purchased nothing for herself. 
 She had starved all day and was now too faint to 
 eat. Soon she entered an omnibus and was driven 
 to Charing Cross, and alighting at the great 
 station, brilliant with its electric light, she paced 
 up and down outside it, accosting several of the 
 passers-by and imploring their pity. One man 
 gave her a penny ; another, young and handsome, 
 with a flushed intemperate face and a look of his 
 fast-fading boyhood still about him, put his hand 
 in his pocket and drew out all the loose coppers 
 it contained, amounting to three pennies and an 
 odd farthing, and dropping them into her out- 
 stretched palm, said half gaily, half boldly, — 
 
 " You ought to do better than that with those 
 big eyes of yours ? ' She drew back and 
 shuddered ; he broke into a coarse laugh and 
 went his way. Standing where he had left her,' 
 she seemed for a time lost in wretched reflections. 
 The fretful wailing cry of the child she carried 
 roused her, and hushing it softly, she murmured, 
 " Yes, yes, darling, it is too wet and cold for you ;
 
 we had better go." And acting suddenly on her 
 resolve, she hailed another omnibus, this time 
 bound for Tottenham Court Road, and was, 
 after some dreary jolting, set down at her final 
 destination — a dirty alley in the worst part of 
 Seven Dials. Entering it, she was hailed with 
 a shout of derisive laughter from some rough- 
 looking men and women who were standing 
 grouped round a low ginshop at the corner. 
 
 "Here's Liz ! " cried one. " Here's Liz and 
 the bloomin' kid ! " 
 
 " Now, old gel, fork out ! How much 'ave 
 yer got, Liz ? Treat us to a drop all round ! ' 
 
 Liz walked past them steadily ; the conspicuous 
 curve of her upper lip came into full play and 
 her eyes flashed disdainfully, but she said nothing. 
 Her silence exasperated a tangle-haired, cat-faced 
 girl of some seventeen years, who, more than half 
 drunk, sat on the ground clasping her knees with 
 both arms and rocking herself lazily to and fro. 
 " Mother Mawks ! " cried she, " Mother Mawks ! 
 You're wanted ! Here's Liz come back with 
 your babby ! " 
 
 As if her words had been a powerful incantation 
 to summon forth an evil spirit, a door in one of 
 the miserable houses was thrown open and a stout 
 woman, nearly naked to the waist, with a swollen, 
 blotched and most hideous countenance, rushed 
 
 i
 
 1 8 Cbe Ifofrcfc 38ab£ 
 
 out furiously, and darting at Liz shook her 
 violently by the arm. 
 
 " Where's my shullin' ? " she yelled, " where's 
 my gin ? Out with it ! Out with my shullin* 
 and fourpence ! None of your sneakin' ways 
 with me ; a bargain's a bargain all the world over ! 
 You're makin' a fortin' with my babby — yer know 
 y'are ; pays yer a deal better than yer old trade ! 
 Don't say it don't — yer knows it do. Yer'll not 
 find such a sickly kid anywheres, an' it's the sickly 
 kids wot pays an' moves the 'arts of the kyind 
 ladies and good gentlemen," — this with an imitative 
 whine that excited the laughter and applause of 
 her hearers. " You've got it cheap, I kin tell yer, 
 an' if yer don't pay up reg'lar, there's others that'll 
 take the chance, and thankful too ! " 
 
 She stopped for lack of breath, and Liz spoke 
 quietly : 
 
 " It's all right, Mother Mawks," she said, with 
 an attempt at a smile ; " here's your shilling ; 
 here's the four pennies for the gin. I don't owe 
 you anything for the child now." She stopped 
 and hesitated, looking down tenderly at the frail 
 creature in her arms, then added almost pleadingly, 
 " It's asleep now. May I take it with me to- 
 night ? " 
 
 Mother Mawks, who had been testing the coins 
 Liz had given her by biting them ferociously
 
 TTbe trirefc JBabp i 9 
 
 with her large yellow teeth, broke into a loud 
 laugh. 
 
 " Take it with yer ! I like that ! Wot imper- 
 ence ! Take it with yer ! " Then with her huge 
 red arms akimbo, she added with a grin, " Tell 
 yer wot, if yer likes to pay me 'arf-a-crown, yer 
 can 'ave it to cuddle an' welcome ! " 
 
 Another shout of approving merriment burst 
 from the drink-soddened spectators of the little 
 scene, and the girl crouched on the ground re- 
 moved her encircling hands from her knees to 
 clap them loudly, as she exclaimed, — 
 
 " Well done, Mother Mawks ! One doesn't 
 let out kids at night for nothing ! 'Tought to 
 be more expensive than day-time ! " 
 
 The face of Liz had grown white and rigid. 
 
 " You know I can't give you that money," she 
 said slowly. " I have not tasted bit or drop all day. 
 I must live, though it doesn't seem worth while. 
 The child," and her voice softened involuntarily, 
 " is fast asleep ; it's a pity to wake it, that's all. 
 It will cry and fret all night, and — and I would 
 make it warm and comfortable if you'd let me." 
 She raised her eyes hopefully and anxiously, " Will 
 you r 
 
 Mother Mawks was evidently a lady of an 
 excitable disposition. The simple request seemed 
 to drive her nearly frantic. She raised her voice
 
 20 ITbe ibfrefc :JBabs 
 
 to an absolute scream, thrusting her dirty hands 
 through her still dirtier hair as the proper 
 accompanying gesture to her vituperative oratory. 
 
 " Will I ? Will I ?" she screeched. « Will 
 I let out my hown babby for the night for nothing ? 
 Will I ? No, I won't ! I'll see yer blowed into 
 the middle of next week fust ! Lor' a'mussey ! 
 'ow 'igh an' mighty we are gittin', to be sure ! 
 The babby'll be quiet with you, Miss Liz ; will 
 it hindeed ! An' it will cry an' fret with its hown 
 mother ; will it hindeed ! ' And at every 
 sentence she approached Liz more nearly, increas- 
 ing in fury as she advanced. " Yer low hussey ! 
 D'ye think I'd let yer 'ave my babby for a hour 
 unless yer paid for't ? As it is yer pays far too 
 little. I'm a honest woman as works for my livin' 
 an' wot drinks reasonable, better than you by a 
 long sight, with your stuck-up airs ! A pretty 
 drab you are ! Gi' me the babby : ye an't no 
 business to keep it a minit longer ; ' and she 
 made a grab at Liz's sheltering shawl. 
 
 " Oh, don't hurt it ! " pleaded Liz tremblingly. 
 " Such a little thing ; don't hurt it ! " 
 
 Mother Mawks stared so wildly that her blood- 
 shot eyes seemed protruding from her head. 
 
 " 'Urt it ! Hain't I a right to do wot I likes 
 with my hown babby ? 'Urt it ! Well I never ! 
 Look 'ere ! " and she turned round on the
 
 Ube HMrefc IBaby 21 
 
 assembled neighbours. " Hain't she a reg'lar one ! 
 She don't care for the law, not she ! She's keepin' 
 back a child from its hown mother ! " And with 
 that she made a fierce attack on the shawl, and 
 succeeded in dragging the infant from Liz's 
 reluctant arms. Wakened thus roughly from its 
 slumbers, the poor mite set up a feeble wailing ; 
 its mother, enraged at the sound, shook it violently 
 till it gasped for breath. 
 
 " Drat the little beast ! " she cried. " Why 
 don't it choke an' 'ave done with it ! " 
 
 And without heeding the terrified remonstrances 
 of Liz she flung the child roughly, as though it 
 were a ball, through the open door of her lodging, 
 where it fell on a heap of dirty clothes, and lay 
 motionless ; its wailing had ceased. 
 
 " Oh, baby, baby ! ' exclaimed Liz in accents 
 of poignant distress. " Oh ! you have killed it 
 I am sure ! Oh, you are cruel, cruel ! Oh, baby, 
 baby ! " % 
 
 And she broke into a tempestuous passion of 
 sobs and tears. The bystanders looked on in 
 unmoved silence. Mother Mawks gathered her 
 torn garments round her with a gesture of defiance, 
 and sniffed the air as though she said, " Any one 
 who wants to meddle with me will get the worst 
 of it." There was a brief pause ; suddenly a man 
 staggered out of the gin-shop, smearing the back
 
 22 Zhc UMreD UBabs 
 
 of his hand across his mouth as he came, — a 
 massively-built, ill-favoured brute with a shock of 
 uncombed red hair and small ferret-like eyes. 
 He stared stupidly at the weeping Liz, then at 
 Mother Mawks, finally from one to the other of 
 the loafers who stood by. " Wot's the row ? ' 
 he demanded thickly, " Wot's up ? 'Ave it out 
 fair ! Joe Mawks'll stand by an' see fair game. 
 Fire away, my hearties ! fire, fire away ! ' And 
 with a chuckling idiot laugh he dived into the 
 pocket of his torn corduroy trousers and produced 
 a pipe. Filling this leisurely from a greasy pouch, 
 with such unsteady fingers that the tobacco dropped 
 all over him, he lit it, repeating with increased 
 thickness of utterance, " Wot's the row ? 'Ave 
 it out fair ! " 
 
 " It's about your babby, Joe ! " cried the girl 
 before-mentioned, jumping up from her seat on 
 the ground with such force that her hair came 
 tumbling all about her in a dark dank mist, through 
 which her thin eager face spitefully peered. " Liz 
 has gone crazy ! She wants your babby to cuddle ! ' 
 And she screamed with sudden laughter, " Eh, 
 eh ! fancy ! Wants a babby to cuddle ! ' 
 
 The stupefied Joe blinked drowsily and sucked 
 the stem of his pipe with apparent relish. Then, as 
 if he had been engaged in deep meditation on the 
 subject, he removed his smoky consoler from his
 
 TTbe Ibfrefc :©abs 23 
 
 mouth and said, " W'y not ? Wants a babby to 
 'cuddle? All right ! Let 'er 'ave it — w'y not ? ' 
 
 At these words Liz looked up hopefully through 
 her tears, but Mother Mawks darted forward in 
 raving indignation. 
 
 " Yer great drunken fool ! " she yelled to her 
 besotted spouse, " aren't yer ashamed of yerself ? 
 Wot ! Let out yer babby a whole night for 
 nuthin ' ? It's lucky I've got my wits about me ; 
 an' I say Liz shdnt 'ave it ! There now ! ' 
 
 The man looked at her and a dogged resolution 
 darkened his repulsive countenance. He raised 
 his big fist, clenched it, and hit straight out, 
 giving his infuriated wife a black eye in much less 
 than a minute. " An' I say she shall 'ave it ! 
 Wheer are ye now ? " 
 
 In answer to this query Mother Mawks might 
 have said that she was ' all there,' for she returned 
 her husband's blow with interest and force, and 
 in a couple of seconds the happy pair were engaged 
 in a ' stand-up ' fight, to the intense admiration 
 and excitement of all the inhabitants of the little 
 alley. Every one in the place thronged to watch 
 the combatants and to hear the blasphemous oaths 
 and curses with which the battle was accompanied. 
 In the midst of the affray, a wizened, bent old 
 man, who had been sitting at his door sorting 
 rags in a basket, and apparently taking no heed
 
 24 Uhc 1bire& 3Bab£ 
 
 of the clamour around him, made a sign to 
 Liz. 
 
 " Take the kid now," he whispered. " Nobody 
 '11 notice. I'll see they don't come arter ye." 
 Liz thanked him mutely by a look, and rushing 
 to the house where the child still lay, seemingly 
 inanimate, on the floor among the soiled clothes, 
 she caught it up eagerly and hurried away to her 
 own poor garret in a tumble-down tenement at the 
 furthest end of the alley. The infant had been 
 stunned by its fall, but under her tender care, and 
 rocked in the warmth of her caressing arms, it 
 soon recovered, though when its blue eyes opened 
 they were full of a bewildered pain such as may 
 be seen in the eyes of a shot bird. 
 
 " My pet ! my poor little darling ! " she mur- 
 mured over and over again, kissing its wee white 
 face and soft hands ; "I wish I was your mother 
 — Lord knows 1 do ! As it is you're all I've 
 got to care for. And you do love me, baby, don't 
 you ? just a little, little bit ! " And as she 
 renewed her fondling embraces, the tiny, sad- 
 visaged creature uttered a low crooning sound 
 of baby satisfaction in response to her endearments 
 — a sound more sweet to her ears than the most 
 exquisite music, and which brought a smile to 
 her mouth and a pathos to her dark eyes, render- 
 ing her face for the moment almost beautiful.
 
 Ube UMrefc 3Bab£ 25 
 
 Holding the child closely to her breast, she looked 
 cautiously out of her narrow window, and per- 
 ceived that the connubial fight was over. From 
 the shouts of laughter and plaudits that reached 
 her ears, Joe Mawks had evidently won the 
 day ; his wife had disappeared from the field. 
 She saw the little crowd dispersing, most of those 
 who composed it entering the gin-shop ; and very 
 soon the alley was comparatively quiet and deserted. 
 By-and-by she heard her name called in a low 
 voice : " Liz ! Liz ! " 
 
 She looked down and saw the old man who had 
 promised her his protection in case Mother 
 Mawks should persecute her. " Is that you, Jim ? 
 Come upstairs ; it's better than talking out there." 
 He obeyed, and stood before her in the wretched 
 room, looking curiously both at her and the 
 baby. A wiry, wolfish-faced being was Jim Duds, 
 as he was familiarly called, though his own name 
 was the aristocratic and singularly inappropriate 
 one of James Douglas ; he was more like an 
 animal than a human creature, with his straggling 
 grey hair, bushy beard, and sharp teeth protruding 
 like fangs from beneath his upper lip. His pro- 
 fession was that of an area-thief, and he considered 
 it a sufficiently respectable calling. 
 
 " Mother Mawks has got it this time," he said, 
 with a grin which was more like a snarl. " Joe's
 
 26 zrbe UMrefc 35Sab^ 
 
 blood was up an' he pounded her nigh into a jelly. 
 She'll leave ye quiet now ; so long as ye pay 
 the hire reg'lar ye'll have Joe on yer side. If 
 so be as there's a bad day, ye'd better not come 
 home at all." 
 
 " I know," said Liz ; " but she's always had 
 the money for the child, and surely it wasn't 
 much to ask her to let me keep it warm on such a 
 cold night as this." 
 
 Jim Duds looked meditative. " Wot makes 
 ye care for that babby so much ? " he asked. 
 " 1 am t yourn. 
 
 Liz sighed. 
 
 "No!' she said sadly. "That's true. But 
 it seems something to hold on to like. See what 
 my life has been ! " She stopped and a wave 
 of colour flushed her pallid features. " From 
 a little girl, nothing but the streets — the long 
 cruel streets ! and I just a bit of dirt on the 
 pavement — no more ; flung here, flung there, and 
 at last swept into the gutter. All dark — all 
 useless ! " She laughed a little. " Fancy, Jim ! I've 
 never seen the country ! " 
 
 " Nor I," said Jim, biting a piece of straw 
 reflectively. " It must be powerful fine, with 
 nought but green trees an' posies a-blowin' an' 
 a-growin' everywheres. There ain't many kitch- 
 ing areas there though, I'm told."'
 
 Zhe IMrefc Babs 27 
 
 Liz went on, scarcely heeding him : " The 
 baby seems to me like what the country must be — 
 all harmless and sweet and quiet ; when I hold it 
 so, my heart gets peaceful somehow, — I don't 
 know why." 
 
 Again Jim looked speculative. He waved his 
 bitten straw expressively. 
 
 " Ye've had 'sperience, Liz. Hain't ye met no 
 man like, wot ye could care fur ? ' 
 
 Liz trembled and her eyes grew wild. 
 
 " Men ! " she cried with bitterest scorn — " no 
 men have come my way, — only brutes ! ' 
 
 Jim stared, but was silent ; he had no fit answer 
 ready. Presently Liz spoke again more softly : 
 
 " Jim, do you know I went into a great church 
 to-day ? " 
 
 " Worse luck ! " said Jim sententiously. 
 " Church ain't no use nohow as fur as I can 
 see. 
 
 " There was a figure there, Jim," went on Liz, 
 earnestly, " of a Woman holding up a Baby, and 
 people knelt down before it. What do you s'pose 
 it was r 
 
 " Can't say ! ' replied the puzzled Jim. "Are 
 ye sure 'twas a church ? Most like 'twas a 
 
 mooseum." 
 
 " No, no ! " said Liz. " 'Twas a church for 
 certain ; there were folks praying in it."
 
 28 Zhc Ibfrefc Babs 
 
 " Ah well ! " growled Jim gruffly, " much 
 good may it do 'em ! I'm not of the prayin' sort. 
 A woman an' a babby, did ye say ? Don't ye get 
 such cranky notions into yer head, Liz ! Women 
 an' babbies are common enough — too common by 
 
 a long chalk, an' as for prayin' to 'em " Jim's 
 
 utter contempt and incredulity were too great for 
 further expression, and he turned away, wishing 
 her a curt lt Good-night ! " 
 
 " Good-night ! " said Liz softly ; and long after 
 he had left her, she still sat silent, thinking, think- 
 ing, with the baby asleep in her arms, listening to 
 the rain as it dripped, dripped, heavily, like clods 
 falling on a coffin-lid. She was not a good woman 
 — far from it. Her very motive in hiring the 
 infant at so much a day was entirely inexcusable — 
 it was simply to gain money upon false pretences, 
 by exciting more pity than would otherwise have 
 been bestowed on her had she begged for herself 
 alone, without a child in her arms. At first she 
 had carried the baby about to serve as a mere trick 
 of her trade, but the warm feel of its little helpless 
 body against her bosom day after day had softened 
 her heart towards its innocence and pitiful weak- 
 ness, and at last she had grown to love it with 
 a strange, intense passion, — so much so that she 
 would willingly have sacrificed her life for its 
 sake. She knew that its own parents cared
 
 Zhc 1biret> :JBab£ 29 
 
 nothing for it, except for the money it brought 
 them through her hands, and often wild plans 
 would form in her poor tired brain, — plans of 
 running away with it altogether from the roaring 
 devouring city, to some sweet humble country 
 village, there to obtain work, and devote herself 
 to making this one little child happy. Poor Liz ! 
 Poor, bewildered, heart-broken Liz ! Ignorant 
 London heathen as she was, there was one fragrant 
 flower blossoming in the desert of her soiled and 
 wasted existence — the flower of a pure and guile- 
 less love for one of those ' little ones ' of whom 
 it hath been said by an All-Pitying Divinity 
 unknown to her : " Suffer them to come unto Me 
 and forbid them not, for of such is the Kingdom 
 of Heaven." 
 
 The dreary winter days crept on apace, and as 
 they drew near Christmas, dwellers in the streets 
 leading off the Strand grew accustomed of nights 
 to hear the plaintive voice of a woman, singing in 
 a peculiarly thrilling and pathetic manner, some of 
 the old songs and ballads familiar and dear to the 
 heart of every Englishman, — "The Banks of 
 Allan Water," "The Bailiff's Daughter," "Sally 
 in our Alley," " The Last Rose of Summer." All 
 these well-loved ditties she sang one after the 
 other, and though her notes were neither fresh nor 
 powerful they were true and often tender, more
 
 3° Ube 1IMre& 3Bab2 
 
 particularly in the hackneyed but still captivating 
 melody of " Home, sweet Home." Windows 
 were opened and pennies freely showered on the 
 street-vocalist, who was accompanied in all her 
 wanderings by a fragile infant, which she seemed 
 to carry with especial care and tenderness. 
 
 Sometimes too, in the bleak afternoons, she 
 would be seen wending her way through mud and 
 mire, setting her weary face against the bitter east 
 wind, and patiently singing on, — and motherly 
 women coming from the gay shops and stores 
 where they had been purchasing Christmas toys 
 for their own children would often stop to look at 
 the baby's pinched white features with pity, and 
 would say, while giving their spare pennies, 
 " Poor little thing ! Is it not very ill ? " And 
 Liz, her heart freezing with sudden terror, would 
 exclaim hurriedly, " Oh, no, no ! It is always pale ; 
 it is just a little bit weak, that's all ! ' And the 
 kindly questioners, touched by the large despair of 
 her dark eyes, would pass on and say no more. 
 
 And Christmas came — the birthday of the Child- 
 Christ — a feast, the sacred meaning of which was 
 unknown to Liz ; she only recognised it as a sort 
 of large and somewhat dull bank-holiday, when all 
 London devoted itself to church-going and the 
 eating of roast beef and plum pudding. The 
 whole thing was incomprehensible to her mind, —
 
 TLhe 1btre& 3Babs 31 
 
 but even her sad countenance was brighter than 
 usual on Christmas Eve and she felt almost gay, 
 for had she not, by means of a little extra starva- 
 tion on her own part, been able to buy a wondrous 
 gold and crimson worsted bird suspended from an 
 elastic string — a bird which bobbed up and down 
 to command in the most lively and artistic manner ? 
 And had not her hired baby actually laughed at 
 the clumsy toy ? — laughed an elfish and weird 
 little laugh, the first it had ever indulged in ? And 
 Liz had laughed too, for pure gladness in the 
 child's mirth, and the worsted bird became a sort 
 of uncouth charm to make them both merry. 
 
 But after Christmas had come and gone, and 
 the melancholy days, the last beatings of the failing 
 pulse of the Old Year, throbbed slowly and heavily 
 away, the baby took upon its wan visage a strange 
 expression, — the expression of worn-out and suffer- 
 ing age. Its blue eyes grew more solemnly 
 speculative and dreamy, and after a while it seemed 
 to lose all taste for the petty things of this world 
 and the low desires of mere humanity. It lay 
 very quiet in Liz's arms ; it never cried, and was 
 no longer fretful, and it seemed to listen with a 
 sort of mild approval to the tones of her voice as 
 they rang out in the dreary streets through which, 
 by day and night, she patiently wandered. By- 
 and-by the worsted bird, too, fell out of favour ;
 
 32 Ube UMrefc 38ab£ 
 
 it jumped and glittered in vain; the baby surveyed 
 it with an unmoved air of superior wisdom, — just 
 as if it had suddenly found out what real birds 
 were like, and was not to be deceived into 
 accepting so poor an imitation of Nature. 
 
 Liz grew uneasy, but she had no one in whom 
 to confide her fears. She had been very regular in 
 her payments to Mother Mawks, and that irate 
 lady, kept in order by her bull-dog of a husband, 
 had been of late very contented to let her have 
 the child without further interference. Liz knew 
 well enough that no one in the miserable alley 
 where she dwelt would care whether the baby were 
 ill or not. They would tell her, " The more sickly 
 the better for your trade." Besides, she was 
 jealous, — she could not endure the idea of any one 
 touching or tending it but herself. Children 
 were often ailing, she thought, and if left to them- 
 selves without doctor's stuff, they recovered some- 
 times more quickly than they had sickened. Thus 
 soothing her inward tremors as best she might, 
 she took more care than ever of her frail charge, 
 stinting herself that she might nourish it, though 
 the baby seemed to care less and less for mundane 
 necessities, and only submitted to be fed, as it 
 were, under patient and silent protest. 
 
 And so the sands in Time's hour-glass ran 
 slowly but surely away, and it was New Year's
 
 XTbe 1bfrefc> Babp 33 
 
 Eve. Liz had wandered about all day singing her 
 little repertoire of ballads in the teeth of a cruel, 
 snow-laden wind — so cruel, that people, otherwise 
 charitably disposed, had shut close their doors and 
 windows, and had not even heard her voice. 
 Thus the last span of the Old Year had proved 
 most unprofitable and dreary ; she had gained no 
 more than sixpence ; how could she return with 
 only that humble amount to face Mother Mawks 
 and her vituperative fury? Her throat ached — 
 she was very tired, and as the night darkened from 
 pale to deep and starless shadows, she strolled 
 mechanically from the Strand to the Embankment, 
 and after walking some little distance she sat down 
 in a corner close to Cleopatra's Needle, — that 
 mocking obelisk that has looked upon the decay 
 of empires, itself impassive, and that still appears 
 to say, " Pass on, ye puny generations ! I, a mere 
 carven block of stone, shall outlive you all ! " 
 
 For the first time in all her experience the 
 child in her arms seemed a heavy burden. She 
 put aside her shawl and surveyed it tenderly ; it 
 was fast asleep, a small, peaceful smile on its thin 
 quiet face. Thoroughly worn out herself, she 
 leaned her head against the damp stone wall behind 
 her, and clasping the infant tightly to her breast, 
 she also slept, — the heavy dreamless sleep of utter 
 fatigue and physical exhaustion. The solemn 
 
 3
 
 34 ftbe 1bfre£> 3Babs 
 
 night moved on, a night of black vapours ; the 
 pageant of the Old Year's death-bed was un- 
 brightened by so much as a single star. None 
 of the hurrying passers-by perceived the weary 
 woman where she slept in that obscure corner, 
 and for a long while she rested there undisturbed. 
 Suddenly a vivid glare of light dazzled her eyes ; 
 she started to her feet half-asleep, but still in- 
 stinctively retaining the infant in her close embrace. 
 A dark form, buttoned to the throat, and holding 
 a brilliant bull's-eye lantern, stood before her. 
 
 " Come now," said this personage, " this won't 
 do ! Move on ! " 
 
 Liz smiled, faintly and apologetically. 
 
 "All right!" she answered, striving to speak 
 cheerfully and raising her eyes to the policeman's 
 good-natured countenance. " I didn't mean to fall 
 asleep here. I don't know how I came to do it. 
 I must go home of course." 
 
 " Of course ! ' said the policeman, somewhat 
 mollified by her evident humility, and touched in 
 spite of himself by the pathos of her eyes. Then 
 turning his lamp more fully upon her, he continued, 
 " Is that a baby you've got there ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Liz, half proudly, half tenderly. 
 " Poor little dear ! it's been ailing sadly, — but I 
 think it's better now than it was." And encour- 
 aged by his friendly tone, she opened the folds of
 
 Uhc HMrefc) Sabs 35 
 
 her shawl to show him her one treasure. The 
 bull's-eye came into still closer requisition, as the 
 kindly guardian of the peace peered inquiringly at 
 the tiny bundle. He had scarcely looked when 
 he started back with an exclamation : 
 
 " God bless my soul ! " he cried, " it's dead ! " 
 
 "Dead!" shrieked Liz, "Oh, no, no! Not 
 dead ! Don't say so, oh, don't, don't say so ! Oh, 
 you can't mean it ! Oh, for God's love say you 
 didn't mean it ! It can't be dead, not really dead, 
 no, no indeed ! Oh, baby, baby ! You are not 
 dead, my pet, my angel, not dead, oh no ! " 
 
 And breathless, frantic with fear, she felt the 
 little thing's hands and feet and face, kissed it 
 wildly and called it by a thousand endearing names, 
 in vain — in vain ! Its tiny body was already stiff 
 and rigid ; it had been a corpse more than two 
 hours. 
 
 The policeman coughed, and brushed his thick 
 gauntlet glove across his eyes. He was an emissary 
 of the law, but he had a heart. He thought of 
 his bright-eyed wife at home, and of the soft- 
 cheeked cuddling little creature that clung to her 
 bosom and crowed with rapture whenever he came 
 near. 
 
 " Look here," he said very gently, laying one 
 hand on the woman's shoulder as she crouched 
 shivering against the wall and staring piteously at
 
 J 
 
 6 Ube Ibirefc ^Sab? 
 
 the motionless waxen form in her arms, " It's no 
 use fretting about it." He paused, — there was 
 an uncomfortable lump in his throat and he had 
 to cough again to get it down. " The poor little 
 creature's gone, — there's no help for it. The 
 next world's a better place than this, you know ! 
 There, there ! don't take on so about it," — this as 
 Liz shuddered and sighed — a sigh of such complete 
 despair that it went straight to his honest soul and 
 showed him how futile were his efforts at con- 
 solation. But he had his duty to attend to and 
 he went on in firmer tones. " Now, like a good 
 woman, you just move off from here and go 
 home. If I leave you here by yourself a bit, will 
 you promise me to go straight home ? I mustn't 
 find you here when I come back on this beat, d'ye 
 understand ? " Liz nodded. " That's right ! " he 
 resumed cheerily. " I'll give you just ten minutes ; 
 you just go straight home." 
 
 And with a " Good-night," uttered in accents 
 meant to be comforting, he turned away and 
 paced on, his measured tread echoing on the silence 
 at first loudly, then fainter and fainter, till it 
 altogether died away, as his bulky figure disappeared 
 in the distance. Left to herself, Liz rose from 
 her crouching posture ; rocking the dead child in 
 her arms, she smiled. " Go straight home ! " she 
 murmured half aloud, " Home, sweet home ! Yes,
 
 ZTbe 1btret> 3Ba&p 37 
 
 baby ; yes, my darling, we will go home together ! " 
 And creeping cautiously along in the shadows she 
 reached a flight of the broad stone steps leading 
 down to the river. She descended them one by 
 one ; the black water lapped against them heavily, 
 heavily ; the tide was full up. She paused ; a 
 sonorous deep-toned iron voice rang through the 
 air with reverberating, solemn melody. It was the 
 great bell of St. Paul's tolling midnight, — the Old 
 Year was dead. " Straight home ! " she repeated 
 with a beautiful expectant look in her wild, weary 
 eyes. " My little darling ! Yes, we are both 
 tired ; we will go home ! Home, sweet Home ! 
 We will go ! " 
 
 Kissing the cold face of the baby corpse she 
 held, she threw herself forward ; there followed a 
 sullen deep splash — a slight struggle — and all was 
 over ! The water lapped against the steps heavily, 
 heavily as before ; the policeman passed once more, 
 and saw to his satisfaction that the coast was clear ; 
 through the dark veil of the sky one star looked 
 out and twinkled for a brief instant, then dis- 
 appeared again. A clash and clamour of bells 
 startled the brooding night ; — here and there a 
 window was opened and figures appeared in 
 balconies to listen. They were ringing in the 
 New Year, — the festival of hope, the birthday of 
 the world ! But what were New Years to her,
 
 o 
 
 8 XTbe UMre& 3Bat>s 
 
 who with white upturned face and arms that 
 embraced an infant in the tenacious grip of death, 
 went drifting, drifting, solemnly down the dark 
 river, unseen, unpitied of all those who awoke to 
 new hopes and aspirations on that first morning 
 of another life-probation ! Liz had gone — gone 
 to make her peace with God — perhaps through 
 the aid of her ' hired ' baby — the little sinless 
 soul she had so fondly cherished, gone to that 
 sweetest ' home ' we dream of and pray for, 
 where the lost and bewildered wanderers on this 
 earth shall find true welcome and rest from grief 
 and exile, — gone to that fair, far Glory-World 
 where reigns the Divine Master whose words still 
 ring above the tumult of ages : " See that you 
 despise not one of these little ones, for I say unto 
 you that their Angels do always behold the face of 
 My Father who is in Heaven ! "
 
 NEHEMIAH P. HOSKINS, ARTIST. 
 
 " T HEV," said Mr. Hoskins, "made up my 
 X mind that this ' Daphne ' will be the picture 
 of the year — that is, so far as visitors to Rome are 
 concerned. I do not exhibit at the French Salon, 
 nor at the English Academy. I find " — and Mr. 
 Hoskins ran his hand through his hair and smiled 
 complacently — " that Rome suffices me. My 
 pictures need no other setting than Rome. The 
 memories of the Cassars are enough to hallow their 
 very frames ! Rome and Nehemiah Hoskins are 
 old friends. What ? " 
 
 This " What ? " was one of Mr. Hoskins's 
 favourite expressions. It finished all his sentences 
 interrogatively. It gracefully implied that the 
 person to whom he was speaking had said, or was 
 going to say, something, and it politely expressed 
 Mr. Hoskins's own belief that no one would or 
 could be so rude as to hear his eulogies of himself 
 without instantly corroborating and enlarging them. 
 Therefore, when, on the present occasion, Mr. 
 
 39
 
 4° IRebemiab fl>. Ifoosfefns, Hrttet 
 
 Hoskins said " What ? " it was evident that he 
 expected me to respond, and make myself agree- 
 able. Unfortunately, I had no flatteries ready ; 
 flattery does not come easy to me, but I was able 
 to smile. Indeed, I found it convenient to smile 
 just then : the intimate association of the two 
 names, ' Rome ' and c Hoskins,' moved me to 
 this pleasantness. Then, without speaking, I took 
 up a good position in the studio, and looked at the 
 ' Daphne.' 
 
 There was not the least doubt in the world that 
 it was a very fine picture. Drawing, grouping, 
 colouring, all were as near perfection as human 
 brain and hand could possibly devise. The scene 
 depicted was the legended pursuit of Daphne by 
 Apollo. It was an evening landscape ; a young 
 moon gleamed in the sky, and over a field of 
 nodding lilies came the amorous god, with flying 
 feet and hair, blown backward by the wind, his 
 ardent poetic face glowing with the impatience 
 and fierceness of repulsed passion. Pale Daphne, 
 turning round in fear, with hands uplifted in 
 agonised supplication, was already changing into 
 the laurel ; half of her flowing golden tresses were 
 transformed into clustering leaves, and from her 
 arched and slender feet the twisted twigs of the 
 tree of Fame were swiftly springing upward. The 
 picture was a large one ; and for ideality of concep-
 
 IRebemiab jp. tbosMns, Hrttst 41 
 
 tion, bold treatment, and harmony of composition 
 would have been considered by most impartial 
 judges, who have no ' art-clique ' to please, a 
 marvellous piece of work. Yet the wonder of it 
 to me was that it should have been painted by 
 Nehemiah P. Hoskins. The ' Daphne ' was 
 grand, but Hoskins looked mean, and the contrast 
 was singular. Hoskins, with his greased and 
 scented hair, his velveteen coat, his flowing blue 
 tie, and his aggressive, self-appreciative, ' up-to- 
 date ' American ' art ' manner, clashed with the 
 beauty of his work discordantly. 
 
 " I presume," he said, twirling his moustache 
 with a confident air, " that picture is worth its 
 price. What ? " 
 
 " It is very fine — very fine, indeed, Mr. 
 Hoskins ! " I murmured. " What are you asking 
 for it ? " 
 
 " Fifteen thousand dollars is my price," he 
 answered jauntily. " And cheap it is at that. 
 My friends tell me it is far too cheap. But what 
 matter ? I am not hampered by mercenary con- 
 siderations. I work for the work's sake. Art is 
 my goddess ! Rome is my altar of worship ! I 
 will not debase myself or my profession by vulgar 
 bargaining. When I first set this picture up on 
 the easel for exhibition I said fifteen thousand 
 dollars would content me. Since that time my
 
 42 IRebemiab p. Ifeosftfns, Brtfst 
 
 countless admirers have reproached me, saying, 
 ' You ask too little, Hoskins ; you are too modest, 
 you do not realise your own greatness. You 
 should demand a hundred thousand dollars ! ' 
 But no ! Having said fifteen thousand, I stick 
 to it. I know it is cheap, ridiculously cheap, 
 but never mind ! there are more ideas still 
 left in the brain that produced this work. 
 What ? " 
 
 " Indeed, I hope so," I said earnestly, endea- 
 vouring to overcome my dislike of the man's 
 personality. " It is a magnificent picture, Mr. 
 Hoskins, and I wish I could afford to purchase it. 
 But as I cannot, let me say at least how warmly I 
 congratulate you on the possession of so much 
 true genius." 
 
 Mr. Hoskins bowed complacently. 
 
 " A word of appreciation is always welcome," he 
 observed grandiloquently. " Sympathy is, after 
 all, the best reward of the inspired artist. What 
 is money ? — Dross ! When a friend comprehends 
 the greatness of my work and acknowledges its 
 successful accomplishment, my soul is satisfied. 
 Money can only supply the vulgar necessities of 
 life, but sympathy feeds the mind and rouses anew 
 the divine fires ! What ? " 
 
 I really could not find any words to meet his 
 interrogative cc What ? " this time. It seemed to
 
 IRebemfab fl>. UDosftfns, Hrtist 43 
 
 me that he had said all there was to say, and more 
 than was necessary. I took my leave and passed 
 out of the studio, vaguely irritated and dissatisfied. 
 The ' Daphne ' haunted me, and I felt unreason- 
 ably annoyed to think that one so vulgar and 
 egotistical as Nehemiah P. Hoskins should have 
 painted it. How came such a man to possess the 
 all-potent talisman of Genius ? I could now com- 
 prehend why the American colony in Rome made 
 such a fuss about Hoskins ; no wonder they were 
 proud of him if he could produce such master- 
 pieces as the ' Daphne' ! Still thinking over the 
 matter perplexedly, I re-entered the carriage which 
 had waited for me outside the artist's studio, and 
 should have driven away home, had it not been for 
 the occurrence of one of those apparently trifling 
 incidents which sometimes give the clue to a whole 
 history. A little dog was suddenly run over in 
 the street where my carriage stood — one of its 
 forelegs was badly cut and bled profusely, but 
 otherwise it was not seriously injured. The 
 driver of the vehicle that had caused the mishap 
 came to me and expressed his regrets, thinking 
 that I was the owner of the wounded animal, as, 
 indeed, I seemed to be, for it had limped directly 
 up to me, yelping pitifully, as though appealing 
 for assistance. I raised the small sufferer in my 
 arms, and seeing that it wore a plain brass collar
 
 44 IRebemiab fl>. Ibosftins, Hrttst 
 
 inscribed " Mitu, 8, Via Tritone," I bade my 
 coachman drive to that address, resolving to 
 restore the strayed pet to its owner or owners. It 
 was a pretty dog, white and fluffy as a ball of 
 wool, with soft brown eyes and an absurdly small 
 black nose. It was very clean and well kept, and 
 from its appearance was evidently a favourite with 
 its master or mistress. It took very kindly to 
 me, and lay quiet on my lap, allowing me to bind 
 up its wounded paw with my handkerchief, now 
 and then licking my hand by way of gratitude. 
 
 " Mitu," said I, " if that is your name, you are 
 more frightened than hurt, it seems to me. 
 Somebody spoils you, Mitu, and you are affected ! 
 Your precious paw is not half so bad as you would 
 make it out to be ! " 
 
 Mitu sighed and wagged his tail ; he was 
 evidently accustomed to be talked to, and liked it. 
 When we neared the Via Tritone he grew quite 
 brisk, perked up his silky ears, and looked about 
 him with a marked and joyful recognition of his 
 surroundings ; and when we stopped at No. 8 his 
 excitement became so intense that he would cer- 
 tainly have jumped out of my arms, in complete 
 forgetfulness of his injured limb, had I not re- 
 strained him. The door of the house was opened 
 to us by a stout, good-natured-looking lady, 
 arrayed in the true Italian style of morning des-
 
 mebemfab fl\ Ibosfcfns, Hrtfst 45 
 
 habille, but who, in spite of excessive fat and 
 slovenliness, possessed a smile sunny enough to 
 make amends for far worse faults. 
 
 " Oh, Mitu ! Mitu ! " she cried, holding up 
 her hands in grave remonstrance, as she caught 
 sight of the little dog. c ' How wicked thou art ! 
 Well dost thou deserve misfortune ! To run away 
 and leave thy pretty signora ! " 
 
 Mitu looked honestly ashamed of himself, and 
 tried to hide his abashed head under my cloak. 
 Curious to see the ' pretty signora ' alluded to, 
 I asked if I might personally restore the stray 
 pet to its owner then and there. 
 
 " But certainly ! " said the smiling padrona, in 
 mellifluous tones of Roman courtesy. " If you 
 will generously give yourself the trouble to ascend 
 the stairs to the top — the very top, you under- 
 stand ? of the house, you will find the signora's 
 studio. The signora's name, Giuletta Marchini, 
 is on the door. Ah, Dio ! But a minute ago she 
 was here weeping for the wicked Mitu ! " 
 
 Plainly, Mitu understood this remark, for he 
 gave a smothered yelp by way of relieving his 
 feelings. And to put him out of his declared 
 remorse, suspense, and wretchedness as soon as 
 possible, I straightway began to 'generously 
 give myself the trouble ' of climbing up to his 
 mistress's domicile. The stairs were many and
 
 46 IRebemiab fl>. Ibosfcfns, Brtlst 
 
 steep, but at last, well-nigh breathless, I reached 
 the topmost floor of the tall old house, and 
 knocked gently at the door, which directly faced 
 me, and on which the name ' Giuletta Marchini ' 
 was painted in neat black letters. Mitu was now 
 trembling all over with excitement, and when 
 the door opened and a fair woman looked out, 
 exclaiming in surprised glad accents, " Oh, Mitu ! 
 caro Mitu ! ' he could stand it no longer. 
 Wriggling out of my arms he bounced on the 
 floor, and writhed there with yelps and barks of 
 mingled pain and ecstasy, while I, in a few words, 
 explained to his owner the nature of his mis- 
 adventure. She listened, with a sweet expression 
 of interest in her thoughtful dark eyes, and a 
 smile lighting up one of the most spirituelle faces 
 I ever saw. 
 
 " You have been very kind," she said, " and 
 I do not know how to thank you enough. Mitu 
 is such a dear little friend to me that I should 
 have been miserable had I lost him. But he is 
 of a very roving disposition, I'm afraid, and he 
 is always getting into trouble. Do come into the 
 studio and rest — the stairs are so fatiguing." 
 
 I accepted this invitation gladly, but scarcely 
 had I crossed the threshold of the room than I 
 started back with an involuntary exclamation. 
 There, facing me on the wall, was a rough cartoon
 
 Webemiab $>. f>osfefns, Hrtfst 47 
 
 in black and white of the ' Daphne ' as exhibited 
 by Nehemiah P. Hoskins [ 
 
 " Why ! " I cried, " that is a sketch of the 
 picture I have just seen ! " 
 
 Giuletta Marchini smiled, and looked at me 
 attentively. 
 
 " Ah ! you have been visiting the American 
 studios ? " she asked. 
 
 " Not all of them. This morning I have only 
 seen Mr. Hoskins's work." 
 
 " Ah ! ' ' she said again, and was silent. 
 
 Impulsively I turned and looked at her. She 
 was attending to Mitu's injured paw. She had 
 placed him on a cushion and was bandaging his 
 wound carefully, with deft, almost surgical skill. 
 I noticed her hands, how refined they were in 
 shape, with the delicate tapering fingers that 
 frequently indicate an artistic temperament — I 
 studied the woman herself. Young and as slight 
 as a reed, with a quantity of fair hair partially 
 lifted in thick waves from a broad intelligent brow, 
 she did not bear any semblance to that type known 
 as an ' ordinary ' woman. She was evidently 
 something apart from the commonplace. By- 
 and-by I found out a certain likeness in her 
 to the ' Daphne ' of Hoskins's wonderful pic- 
 ture, and, thinking I had made a discovery, I 
 said —
 
 48 IFtebemfab fl\ Ibosfefns, Brtfst 
 
 " Surely you sat to Mr. Hoskins for the figure 
 of Daphne ? " 
 
 Smiling, she shook her head in the negative. 
 
 I felt a little embarrassed. I had taken her for 
 a model, whereas it was possible she might be an 
 artist herself of great talent. I murmured some- 
 thing apologetic, and she laughed — a clear, sweet, 
 rippling laugh of purest mirth and good-humour. 
 
 " Oh, you must not apologise," she said. " I 
 know it must seem to you very singular to find 
 the first sketch of the ' Daphne ' here and the 
 finished picture in Mr. Hoskins's studio. And it 
 is really such an odd coincidence that, through 
 Mitu, you should come to me immediately after 
 visiting Mr. Hoskins, that I feel I shall have to 
 explain the matter. But, first, may I ask you to 
 look round my studio ? You will find other 
 things beside that ' Daphne ' cartoon." 
 
 I did look round, with ever-growing wonder 
 and admiration. There were " other things," as 
 she said — things of such marvellous beauty and 
 genius as it would be difficult to find in any 
 modern art-studio. In something of incredulity 
 and amazement I instantly asked — 
 
 " These studies are yours ? — you did them all 
 yourself?" 
 
 Her level brows contracted a little — then she 
 smiled.
 
 Iftebemfab p. Ibosftfns, Hrtfst 49 
 
 " If you had been a man I should have expected 
 that question. But, being a woman, I wonder at 
 your suggesting it ! Yes — I do my work myself, 
 every bit of it ! I love it ! I am jealous of it 
 while it remains with me. I have no master — I 
 have taught myself all I know, and everything you 
 see in this room is designed and finished by my 
 own hand — I am not Mr. Ho skins ! " 
 
 A sudden light broke in upon me. 
 
 " You painted the ' Daphne' ! " I cried. 
 
 She looked full at me, with a touch of melan- 
 choly in her brilliant eyes. 
 
 " Yes, I painted the ' Daphne.' " 
 
 " Then how — why " I began excitedly. 
 
 " Why do I allow Mr. Hoskins to put his name 
 to it ? ' she said. " Well, he gives me two 
 thousand francs for the permission — and two 
 thousand francs is a small fortune to my mother 
 and to me." 
 
 "But you could sell your pictures yourself!" 
 I exclaimed. " You could make heaps of money, 
 and fame ! " 
 
 " You think so ? ' and she smiled very sadly. 
 " Well, I used to think so, too, once. But that 
 dream is past. I want very little money, and my 
 whole nature sickens at the thought of fame. 
 Fame for a woman in these days means slander 
 and jealousy — no more ! Here is my history," 
 
 4
 
 / 
 
 so TKlebemtab flX Dosfttns, Brttet 
 
 and with a quick movement of her hand she drew 
 aside a curtain which had concealed another picture 
 of great size and magnificent execution — repre- 
 senting a gro'jp of wild horses racing furiously 
 onward together, without saddle or bridle, and 
 entitled " 1 Barberi." 
 
 " I painted this," she said, while I stood lost in 
 admiration before the bold and powerful treatment 
 of so difficult a subject, " when I was eighteen. I 
 am twenty-seven now. At eighteen I believed in 
 ideals ; and, of course, in love, as a part of them. 
 I was betrothed to a man — an Austrian, who was 
 studying art here in Rome. He saw me paint 
 this picture — he watched me draw every line and 
 lay on every tint. Well, to make a long story 
 short, he copied it. He brought his canvas here 
 in this studio and worked with me — out of love, 
 he said — for he wished to keep an exact fac-simile 
 of the work which he declared would make me 
 famous. I believed him, for I loved him ! When 
 he had nearly finished his copy he took it away, 
 and two days afterwards came to bid me farewell. 
 He was obliged to go to Vienna, he told me, but 
 he would return to Rome again within the month. 
 We parted as lovers part — with tenderness on both 
 sides — and when he had gone I set to work to 
 give the last finishing touches to my picture. 
 When I had done all I thought I could do, I wrote
 
 IRebemfab p. fboskins, Hrtfst 51 
 
 to a famous dealer in the city and asked him to 
 come and give me his judgment as to the worth of 
 my work. Directly he entered this room he 
 started back, and looked at me reproachfully. ' I 
 can do nothing with a copy,' he said ; ' I have just 
 purchased the original picture by Max Wieland.' " 
 
 I uttered an exclamation of indignation and 
 compassion. 
 
 " Yes," continued Giuletta Marchini, " Max 
 Wieland was my lover. He had stolen my picture, 
 he had robbed me of my fame. I do not quite 
 know what happened when I heard it. I think I 
 lost my head completely for a time — my mother 
 tells me I was ill for months. But I myself have 
 no remembrance of anything but a long blank of 
 hopeless misery. Of course, I never saw Max 
 again. I wrote to him ; he never answered. I 
 told the picture-dealer my story, but he would not 
 believe it. 'The design of " I Barberi," ' he said, 
 * is not that of a feminine hand. It is purely mas- 
 culine. If Max Wieland is your damo y you do 
 him a great and cruel injustice by striving to pass 
 off your very accurate copy as the original. It 
 will not do, my dear little sly one, it will not do ! 
 I am too old and experienced a judge for that. 
 No girl of your age was ever capable of designing 
 such a work — look at the anatomy and the colour- 
 ing ! It is the man's touch all over — nothing
 
 52 IRebemiab fl>. Ibosfefns, Hrtist 
 
 feminine about it.' And then," went on Giuletta 
 slowly, c< the story got about that I tried to steal 
 Max Wieland's picture, and that he had broken 
 off his engagement with me on that account. My 
 mother, who is old and feeble, grew almost mad 
 with anger, for she had witnessed his work of 
 copying from me — but no one would believe her 
 either. They only said it was natural she should 
 try to defend her own daughter. Then we were 
 poor, and we had no money to appeal to the law. 
 No dealer would purchase anything that bore my 
 name — as an artist I was ruined." 
 
 Here the dog Mitu, conscious that his mistress's 
 voice had rather a sad tone in it, limped across to 
 her on his three legs, holding up his bandaged 
 paw. She smiled and lifted him up in her arms. 
 
 " Yes — we were ruined, Mitu ! " she said, rest- 
 ing her pretty rounded chin on his silky head. 
 " Ruined as far as the world and the world's 
 applause went. But one cannot put a stop to 
 thoughts — they will grow, like flowers, wherever 
 there is any soil to give them root. And though 
 I knew I could not sell my pictures, I continued 
 to paint for my own pleasure ; and to keep my 
 mother and myself alive I gave drawing-lessons 
 to children. But we were poor — intolerably, 
 squalidly poor — till one day Mr. Hoskins came." 
 
 " And then ? " I inquired eagerly.
 
 IRebemtab fl>. Ibosfctns, Hrtist 53 
 
 " Why, then — well ! " and the fair Marchini 
 laughed a little. " He made me a curious pro- 
 posal. He said he was an American artist who 
 desired to establish himself in Rome. He could 
 only paint landscapes, he told me, and he knew 
 he would require to have c figure-pictures ' in his 
 studio to ' draw.' He said he would pay me 
 handsomely to do these ' figure-pictures ' if I 
 would sell them to him outright, let him put his 
 name to them, and ask no more about them. I 
 hesitated at first, but my mother was very ill at 
 the time, and I had no money. I was driven by 
 necessity, and at last I consented. And Mr. 
 Hoskins has kept his word about payment — he is 
 very generous — and my mother and I are quite 
 well off now." 
 
 " But he is asking fifteen thousand dollars for 
 the ' Daphne,' " I cried, " and he only gives you 
 two thousand francs ! Do you call that generous ? " 
 
 Giuletta Marchini looked thoughtful. 
 
 " Well, I don't know ! " she said sweetly, with a 
 plaintive uplifting ot her eyebrows ; " you see it 
 costs him a great deal to live in Rome ; he enter- 
 tains numbers of people and has to keep a carriage. 
 Now it costs us very little to live as we do, and 
 we have no friends at all. Two thousand francs 
 is quite as large a sum to me as fifteen thousand 
 dollars is to him."
 
 54 IRebemfab p. Ibosfeins, Hrtist 
 
 " And you will never make any attempt to 
 secure for yourself the personal fame you so well 
 deserve? " I asked in astonishment. 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "I think not ! What is the use of it — to a 
 woman ? Celebrity for our sex, as I said before, 
 simply means — slander ! A man may secure fame 
 through the vilest and most illegitimate means, he 
 may steal other people's brains to make his own 
 career, he may bribe the critics, he may do any- 
 thing and everything in his power, dishonourably 
 or otherwise — provided he succeeds he is never 
 blamed. But let a woman become famous through 
 the unaided exertions of her own hand and brain, 
 she is always suspected of having been ' helped ' by 
 somebody. No, I cannot say I care for fame. I 
 painted my picture, or, rather, Mr. Hoskins's 
 picture " — and she smiled — " out of a strong 
 feeling of sympathy with the legend. The god 
 approaches, and the woman is transformed from a 
 creature of throbbing joys and hopes and passions 
 into the laurel — a tree of bitter taste and scentless 
 flower ! I am happier as I am — unknown to the 
 world — while Hoskins ' is an honourable man ' ! " 
 she finished, making the Shakesperian quotation 
 with a bright laugh, as she dropped the curtain over 
 the great canvas of " I Barberi," the picture that 
 had been the cause of so much sorrow in her life.
 
 mebemtab fl>* IfoosMns, Hrttet ss 
 
 After this adventure I visited Giuletta Marchini 
 often, and tried to argue with her on the errone- 
 ous position she occupied. I pointed out to her 
 that Nehemiah P. Hoskins was making out of her 
 genius a fraudulent reputation for himself. But 
 she assured me there were many struggling artists 
 in Rome who made their living in the same way 
 as she did — namely, by painting pictures for 
 American " artists " who had no idea of painting 
 for themselves. I discussed the matter with her 
 mother, a dried-up little chip of an old woman 
 with black eyes that sparkled like jewels, and I 
 found her quite as incorrigible on the subject as 
 Giuletta herself. 
 
 " When a girl's heart is broken, what can you 
 do?" she said, with eloquent gestures of her head 
 and hands. " The Austrian devil is to blame — 
 Max Wieland ; may all evil follow him ! Giuletta 
 loved him. I believe, if she would only confess 
 it, she loves him now. Her character is not a 
 changeful one. She is one of those women who 
 would let her lover kill her and kiss the hand that 
 dealt the blow. She has genius — oh, yes ! Genius 
 is not rare in Italy. It is in the blood of the 
 people, and we do not wonder at it. Things are 
 best as they are. She is not happy, perhaps, but 
 she is at peace. She loves her work, and we are 
 able to live. That is enough, and all we want in
 
 s 6 IRebemfab p. Ifoosfetns, Hrtist 
 
 this world. And for Giuletta — a woman does not 
 care for fame when she has lost love." 
 
 And from her I could get no other verdict. She 
 had, however, a strong sense of humour, I found, 
 and fully recognised the art-fraud practised on his 
 patrons by Nehemiah P. Hoskins ; but she could 
 not see that her daughter was either affected or 
 injured by it. At Giuletta's own earnest request 
 I therefore refrained from any immediate inter- 
 ference with Nehemiah's prosperity and growing 
 reputation. He was quite the * lion ' in Rome 
 that year, and entertained whole embassies at tea. 
 The ' Daphne ' was purchased at his own price by 
 one of the wealthiest of his countrymen (a former 
 ' navvy,' who now keeps * secretaries ' and buys 
 historical land in England), who has had it care- 
 fully ' hung ' in the most conspicuous part of his 
 new picture-gallery, and who calls Hoskins ' the 
 American Raphael.' 
 
 Meanwhile, at my suggestion, Giuletta Marchini 
 is painting a work which she intends to submit to 
 some of the best judges of art in Paris ; and, 
 judging from its design so far as it has proceeded, 
 I think it is possible that in a couple of years 
 Nehemiah P. Hoskins will be found to have ' gone 
 off' in a singular manner, while Giuletta Marchini 
 will have ' come up,' to be received, no doubt, 
 with the usual mixture of abuse and grudging
 
 IRebemiab fl\ t>osfefns, Hrtist 57 
 
 praise awarded to work that is known to be 
 woman's, instead of the applause that frequently 
 attends the inane productions of pretentious and 
 fraudulent men. In truth, it would sometimes 
 seem that it is better, as this world goes, to be a 
 man and an impostor, than a woman and honest. 
 And concerning American artists in Rome, it is 
 well known how many a one has there enjoyed a 
 brief but dazzling reputation for ' genius,' which 
 has suddenly ended in 'smoke,' because the gifted 
 Italian who has played ' ghost ' behind the scenes 
 has died, or emigrated, or gone elsewhere to make 
 a name for himself. This rapid and apparently 
 mysterious failure has attended the career of one 
 Max Wieland, upon whom the Viennese journals 
 now and then comment in terms of reproach and 
 disappointment. His great picture, they say, of 
 " I Barberi," had led the world of art to expect 
 works from him of the very highest order, but, 
 strange to say, he has done nothing since worthy 
 of remark or criticism. Giuletta knows this, but 
 is silent on the subject, and for herself, is certainly 
 more alarmed than pleased at the prospect of 
 winning her deserved fame. 
 
 " To be censured and misunderstood," she says, 
 " is it pleasant — for a woman ? To be pointed out 
 as if one were a branded criminal, and regarded 
 with jealousy, suspicion, and even hatred — is it
 
 58 uaebemiab flX Ibosftfns, Brtist 
 
 worth fighting for? I myself doubt it. Yet if 
 the laurel must grow from a human heart I sup- 
 pose it cannot but cause pain." 
 
 And even while she works steadily on at her 
 new picture, she tells me she is quite contented as 
 she is, and happier than she thinks she is likely to 
 be as an art ' celebrity.' In the interim, Nehe- 
 miah P. Hoskins, the ' American Raphael,' is 
 triumphant ; accepting homage for genius not his 
 own, and pocketing cash for work he has not 
 done ; while he is never so magnificently con- 
 vincing, so grandiloquently impressive, as when, 
 surrounded by admiring male friends, he dis- 
 courses complacently upon the ' totally mistaken ' 
 vocation of ' woman in art ' !
 
 THE SILENCE OF THE MAHARAJAH. 
 
 OUT in India at a certain English station 
 which was generally admitted to be socially 
 ' fast,' with that unique sort of fastness peculiar 
 to Anglo-Indian life, the leader of the most 
 1 rapid ' set was a handsome, dashing woman, 
 known to the irreverent as ' Lolly,' and to the 
 more orthodox as Mrs. Claude Annesley. She 
 was the wife of Colonel Claude Annesley, of 
 course, but this fact had to be strongly borne in 
 upon the minds of those who were not thoroughly 
 well acquainted with her, because at first sight she 
 did not appear to be the wife of anybody. She 
 gave you the impression of being a ' free lance ' 
 among women, joyously insolent and independent ; 
 and the bonds of matrimony seemed to press very 
 lightly on her frivolous butterfly soul. She was 
 not what one would call positively young any 
 longer, being a trifle over forty, but she was so 
 slim and light on her feet, besides knowing exactly 
 what kind of corsets would give her the most 
 
 59
 
 6o zrbe Silence of tbe /IDabarajab 
 
 perfectly pliant and svelte figure, that she was 
 generously allowed by her men friends (though 
 not by her women rivals) to pass for being still in 
 the early thirties. She went in thoroughly, too, 
 for all the newest methods of ' skin treatment,' 
 and succeeded in preserving a fresh and even 
 brilliant natural complexion, despite the heats of 
 India. She was tall and brown-haired, with dark 
 eyes which had a sparkle of the devil's own 
 mischief in them ; she had very white even teeth, 
 and could smile bewitchingly. 
 
 Her husband was younger than herself — some 
 said four or five years younger — though at times 
 he looked ten years older. He was a big, gaunt, 
 grave-featured man with a turn for philosophy. 
 He would sit silently smoking for hours, meditat- 
 ing inwardly and looking very old ; but if a 
 friendly comrade came in and disturbed his soli- 
 tude with some senseless yet well-meaning remark 
 about the weather or the Government, he would 
 spring up to give a hearty return greeting : his 
 eyes, which were a clear blue, would flash with 
 pleasure, and in a moment he became young — 
 quite young, with an almost boyish youngness 
 which was amazing. It was on these occasions 
 that people called him handsome, and murmured 
 among themselves sotto-voce, " I wonder why he 
 married Lollv ? "
 
 TTbe Silence ot tbe flDabarajab 61 
 
 And somehow it did seem a singular thing, till 
 one fine day somebody discovered the reason of it. 
 It was very simple, and not at all uncommon. 
 1 Lolly ' had money ; Colonel Annesley had none, 
 or what was as bad as none. ' Lolly ' entertained 
 largely, and gave expensive luncheons and garden- 
 parties ; her husband was little more than an 
 invited guest at these. He did not pay for them 
 — he could not pay : and though he was supposed 
 to do the honours, he fulfilled this duty with so 
 timid and hesitating a demeanour that Mrs. 
 Annesley would generally send him away to smoke 
 by himself, saying, with a perfectly unruffled brow 
 and good-natured laugh, " Really, Claude, you 
 have no tact ! " And certainly he did appear to 
 be deficient in this social quality. It was impos- 
 sible to the gaunt, young-old Colonel to feign 
 things — to pretend he was rich when he knew he 
 was poor ; to assume the airs of manly and easy 
 independence when his wife had all the sinews of 
 war and reins of government and expenditure in 
 her hands, and seldom lost an opportunity of 
 reminding him of the fact. Of course he had his 
 pay, but that he scrupulously set aside for his own 
 clothes, tobacco, and extras. A good deal of it 
 went, by the by, in his annual birthday present to 
 his wife. He was at heart a good fellow, yet 
 somehow as soon as people found out that his
 
 62 ube Silence of tbe /iDabarajab 
 
 wife had all the money and he had none, he 
 got generally misunderstood. Sentimental young 
 ladies exclaimed to one another, " What a horrid 
 man ! — to marry for money ! ' Mothers who had 
 dowerless daughters to wed experienced a violent 
 revulsion of feeling against him, and observed, 
 " Dear me ! Fancy if all men were as selfish as 
 Colonel Annesley ! " His own sex, however, 
 thought more leniently of him. Impecunious 
 officers judged him by themselves, and said 
 feelingly, " He's not to be blamed for looking 
 after the main chance. And Lolly must be a 
 trial, even taking the cash in. " 
 
 Nevertheless they were obliged to own that 
 ' Lolly ' was not without her charm. She was 
 extremely good-tempered, an excellent hostess, 
 a clever match-maker, a sprightly talker, and a 
 generally accomplished society woman all round. 
 So that everybody was not a little interested and 
 excited when it was known that Mrs. Claude 
 Annesley had made up her mind to entertain for 
 three or four days in the grandest style the 
 Maharajah of the neighbouring province, a prince 
 noted for his wealth and the enormous quantity 
 of his jewels. He was young, and had received 
 a first-class English college education, and accord- 
 ing to report was a very superior type of native 
 potentate, being something of a poet in his own
 
 TTbe Silence or tbe flbabarajab 6 3 
 
 fanciful way of Eastern symbolism, and having 
 furthermore distinguished himself by the publica- 
 tion of a brilliantly-written treatise in Hindustani 
 on the most recent discoveries in astronomy. 
 Wherefore Mrs. Annesley determined to ' lionise ' 
 him. She did not consult the Colonel on the 
 subject at all ; his opinion would have been worth 
 nothing. She believed somewhat in the creed of 
 the ' New ' woman, which declares men generally 
 to be either brutes or fools. She did not include 
 her husband in the former class ; he was too 
 gentlemanly and inoffensive ; but she silently and 
 without open incivility placed him among the 
 latter. Consequently, in her proposed intention 
 to f make capital ' out of the entertainment of a 
 bejewelled Maharajah, he — ' poor Claude,' as she 
 called him — was not admitted into the discussion 
 of ways and means. He was only the ornamental 
 dummy or figure-head of the establishment. The 
 house, the biggest residence in the whole place, and 
 almost palatial, was Hers ; the money was Hers. 
 He had nothing to do with it ; he was merely Her 
 husband. Therefore, when he met people who 
 said, " So the Maharajah is coming to stay with 
 you ? " he answered absently, " I believe so," with- 
 out being at all certain on the point. He thought 
 about it now and then while smoking his own 
 tobacco, tobacco which he found particularly
 
 64 TTbe Silence of tbe fllbabarajab 
 
 soothing because he had paid for it himself, and 
 did not owe it to his wife's purse. And he was 
 not at all sure that he liked the idea of the 
 Maharajah's visit. He did not take kindly to 
 native princes. He had all the prejudices of the 
 pugnacious Briton ' born for precedence,' and 
 had no love for that type of human being known 
 to some poets as the ' dusky, dark-eyed Oriental.' 
 Dusky and dark-eyed the Oriental might be, but 
 he was also likely to be dirty And * poor 
 Claude,' though apparently vague on other matters, 
 had particularly strong ideas on the subject of 
 frequent ' tubbing.' It was to this, perhaps, that 
 he owed his rather fine, clear skin, under which 
 the blood flowed with such easy freedom that he 
 was frequently accused of blushing. The least 
 emotion or excitement of a pleasurable nature 
 brought a ruddy tint to his cheeks, and gave 
 them that ' glow of health ' for which certain 
 beauties pay so much per box or bottle at the 
 perfumer's. He blushed now at the possibility 
 of having an untubbed Maharajah in the house. 
 " However," he murmured, " he's had an 
 English education, and she will have her way " — 
 the ' she ' referring to his wife, lady, and ruler — 
 " I like a quiet life, and it's best not to interfere. 
 She's got a perfect right to do as she likes with 
 her own money."
 
 Tlbe Silence of tbe /Ifeabarajab 65 
 
 And he resigned himself as usual to the 
 inevitable. For there was no doubt that the 
 Maharajah was coming. He had accepted 
 the invitation given him, and he was known to be 
 a man of his word. His treatise on astronomy- 
 had proved him to be that. He had said he 
 would write that treatise, and nobody believed him, 
 not even his college tutors. " He's too lazy," 
 one Englishman remarked of him, the said 
 Englishman having been four years at work on the 
 writing of an extremely feeble novel which he had 
 sent to London to get published, and which no 
 publisher would accept ; " he'll never write anything. 
 / know these native fellows ! " But, despite this 
 prophecy, he had done it, and done it so well that 
 it was the subject of interested and admiring com- 
 ment among scientific people generally. And this 
 very treatise on modern astronomy was one of the 
 reasons why Mrs. Annesley wanted to lionise him. 
 But it was not the chief reason — not by any means. 
 The chief reason was perfectly human and particu- 
 larly feminine : it was that Mrs. Claude Annesley 
 wished to impress everybody in the place with a 
 sense of her wealth, her importance, her influence, 
 her position generally. And she had chosen this 
 special time to do it because — well, the ' because ' 
 involves a little explanation, which runs as 
 follows : — 
 
 5
 
 66 Zhc Silence of tbe flftafoarajafo 
 
 Long ago, and long before handsome Laura 
 Egerton, now Mrs. Claude Annesley, had married 
 Colonel Claude Annesley, while she was yet the 
 dashing belle of the London ' season,' she had 
 contracted what was for her a curiously senti- 
 mental friendship with a girl several years younger 
 than herself — a pale, slim, tiny, golden-haired crea- 
 ture with great plaintive grey eyes set in her small 
 face like stars too big for the position in which 
 they found themselves. This elf-like being exer- 
 cised a peculiar fascination over the sprightly 
 ' Lolly,' partly on account of her ethereal looks, 
 which caused her to be sometimes called La Belle 
 Tiame sans Merci, after Keats's heart-throbbing 
 poem, partly because she was so unworldly and 
 childlike, and partly because she had such naive 
 and fantastic notions concerning men. She was 
 named Idreana, which had the advantage of being 
 an unusual name and fascinating in its long-drawn 
 vowel sound. 
 
 Idreana used to say in her soft, thrilling voice, 
 that a man, according to the notion she had 
 formed of the one she could ' love, honour and 
 obey,' must be a hero, morally and physically ; 
 that she pictured him as brave and tender, chival- 
 rous and true. A grand great creature whom to 
 look upon was to honour, revere, and adore ! To 
 lose one's very identity in an absorbing passion for
 
 Ube Silence of tbe /IDabarajab 6 7 
 
 such an one, to sacrifice everything for so worthy 
 a master and lord, would be the happiest, proudest, 
 most glorious fate imaginable for any woman ! 
 So she would speak, this fairy-like feminine bundle 
 of nerves and sentiment, her whole little frame 
 a-quiver with enthusiasm. And ' Lolly,' then 
 in the thick of motley ' society,' would listen 
 vaguely entranced, compassionately amused, wholly 
 astonished, wondering within herself as to what 
 would become of this self-deluding, imaginative 
 small maiden when she came to know the world — 
 when Fashion and Frivolity burst in like drunken 
 clowns upon the holy quiet of her girlish fancies, 
 and with blatant laughter and lascivious jest tore 
 down the rose-coloured veil she had woven about 
 herself, and forced her to look on social life as it 
 is, and on men as they are. ' Lolly ' did not 
 suffer from sentiment as a rule ; and the only 
 really violent attack of that malady she ever had 
 was during her intimacy with this weird little 
 Idreana. 
 
 And now Idreana was married — had been married 
 three years or more, to a Captain Le Marchant, 
 whose regiment was also stationed in India, but at 
 a rather dismal place, a good way distant from the 
 * happy valley,' where Mrs. Claude Annesley 
 held her social court ; and thus it had happened 
 that the two ladies, since their respective marriages,
 
 68 Uhc Silence of tbe /IDabarajab 
 
 had never met. But they were going to meet 
 now. Mrs. Annesley had invited Captain and 
 Mrs. Le Marchant to stay with her, and after 
 some little delay the Captain had obtained a 
 month's leave of absence, and the invitation was 
 accepted. It was after this acceptance of the 
 Le Marchants that Mrs. Annesley had bethought 
 herself of entertaining the Maharajah. " It will 
 astonish the Le Marchants," was her first thought. 
 " It will please Idreana's picturesque turn of 
 mind," was her second. Perhaps if her motive 
 had been probed down to its farthest root, it would 
 have been found to be nothing more nor less than 
 a desire to ' show off" ' before the friend of her 
 unmarried days, and prove that her position as 
 a wife was unexceptionable. She knew that la belle 
 dame sans merci had made a poor match, financially 
 considered, and she had heard (only through 
 friendly rumour of course) that Captain Le 
 Marchant, though a ' fine man/ had contracted 
 rather a disagreeable habit, that of getting heavily 
 drunk on occasions. But she could not quite 
 believe this. " If it were so, Idreana, with her 
 fastidious notions about men, would never have 
 married him," she thought. Yet she admitted 
 within herself that it was quite possible Idreana, 
 like other women ' with fastidious notions,' might 
 have been deceived.
 
 Ube Silence of tbe /Ifcabarajab 6 9 
 
 It was with a certain amount of curiosity and 
 excitement, therefore, that Mrs. Claude Annesley 
 prepared to receive the Le Marchants on the 
 afternoon of their arrival. They came a few days 
 before the date fixed for the visit of the Maharajah, 
 and it is due to Mrs. Claude Annesley's sense of 
 old friendship and hospitality to observe that she 
 was much more particular over the comfortable 
 arrangements of the rooms set apart for Idreana 
 and Idreana's husband than she was for the adorn- 
 ment of those palatial apartments, the best in her 
 large luxurious residence, which were destined to 
 receive the Maharajah. She was genuinely eager 
 to see her little friend of former days again, and 
 wondered if marriage had altered her — if she had 
 lost that singularly sylph-like belle dame sans merci 
 expression that had once marked her out from 
 ordinary young women. 
 
 " ' Her hair was long, her foot was light, 
 And her eyes were wild ! ' " 
 
 hummed Mrs. Annesley softly, as she moved from 
 room to room, setting flowers here, a mirror there, 
 and giving to everything that final touch which is 
 essentially feminine, and which imparts even to 
 lifeless furniture a sentient, confidential, and 
 welcoming air. " What will she think of us all, 
 I wonder ? " ' Us all ' included herself and a 
 very large number of officers and civilians, married
 
 70 Zhc Silence of tbe /l&abarajab 
 
 and unmarried — ' the boys/ as she called them. 
 The wives of the married ones did not come into 
 the category, neither was Colonel Annesley counted 
 among ' the boys.' In fact, he was not to be 
 discovered in any particular social roll-call ; he 
 was not exactly a ' boy ' ; and as he was in a 
 manner dependent on his wife, he was not exactly 
 a man. This is socially speaking. In his regi- 
 ment he was thought a good deal of. But as 
 this story has nothing to do with his regiment, 
 and does not in the least concern his military 
 career, there is no occasion to enlarge on the 
 ideas of the regiment concerning him. They 
 were old-fashioned ideas, very blunt and com- 
 monplace, and did not take in Mrs. Annesley at 
 all as part of the Colonel's existence. They 
 are very well known, and have been duly 
 chronicled. 
 
 " What will she think of us all ? ' repeated 
 Mrs. Annesley with a smile and an approving 
 glance at her well-dressed figure as she passed a 
 convenient mirror. " She was always such a 
 quixotic little thing. I am curious to see what 
 sort of a husband she has chosen." 
 
 Her curiosity was almost immediately gratified, 
 for as she entered her drawing-room, after a final 
 survey of the apartments prepared for her visitors, 
 Captain and Mrs. Le Marchant, with their ser-
 
 Zhc Silence of tfoe /Iftafoarajab 71 
 
 vants, their bag and baggage, duly arrived, and 
 were straightway announced. 
 
 " My dear Idreana ! ' cried Mrs. Annesley, 
 stepping quickly to embrace the small, slight 
 figure of the woman now entering the doorway, 
 " What an age it is since we met ! ' Then again, 
 " My dear Idreana ! " 
 
 The small woman smiled — a rather grave and 
 doubtful smile. 
 
 " It is pleasant to see you again, Laura," she 
 said in a low voice. Then with a touch of some- 
 thing like appeal in her tone, " Let me introduce 
 — my husband." 
 
 A tall, heavily-made man, thickly moustached, 
 with fine eyes and a somewhat flushed face, 
 bowed. 
 
 " Charmed to meet you ! " he drawled. " Old 
 friend of my wife's — delightful ! Awfully good 
 of you to put us up ! " 
 
 " Oh, the pleasure is mine, I assure you ! " 
 exclaimed Mrs. Annesley eagerly, anxious to put 
 an end to the temporary embarrassment of intro- 
 duction, and nervously conscious that she had 
 taken an instant dislike to Captain Le Marchant. 
 " I cannot tell you how delighted I am to see dear 
 Idreana again. And as sweet as ever ! Positively, 
 my dear, you look a mere child still ; no one 
 would ever take you for a married woman. Do
 
 72 Zftc Silence of tbe ZlDabarajab 
 
 sit down and have some tea before you go to your 
 rooms. Claude ! Claude ! " 
 
 Colonel Annesley, part of whose marital duty 
 it was to be always within call on the arrival of 
 visitors, entered from the verandah. 
 
 " This is my husband," said Mrs. Annesley 
 with a sudden glow of unaccustomed pride as 
 she noticed that ' poor Claude ' did really look 
 singularly distinguished as contrasted with Le 
 Marchant — " Colonel Annesley, Captain Le Mar- 
 chant : and this, Claude, is Mrs. Le Marchant, 
 my dear little friend of old days at home, 
 Idreana." 
 
 Colonel Annesley bowed, not without a certain 
 grace. In one keen glance he had taken in the 
 characteristics of the married pair. 
 
 " The man is of the ' fine brute ' bull-throated 
 type," he said inwardly, " and his wife — poor little 
 sweet soul ! " 
 
 These were his only mental comments ; he was 
 accustomed to disguise his feelings. He sat down 
 by Mrs. Le Marchant and began talking to her, 
 now and then asking her husband the particulars 
 of their journey and other trifles, in order to 
 bring him into the conversation. For once Mrs. 
 Annesley felt grateful to ' poor Claude.' He 
 was making things easy — things that she would 
 somehow have found difficult. For not only did
 
 Ube Silence of tbe flDabarajab 73 
 
 she not like the look of Captain Le Marchant but 
 she was painfully impressed by the expression in 
 Mrs. Le Marchant's face. Idreana was still 
 wonderful to look at with her cloud of gold hair 
 and small delicate face — she was still the very ideal 
 of the belle dame sans merci, but she was a belle 
 dame who had been mysteriously insulted and 
 outraged. A silent tragedy was written in her 
 large deep eyes ; a hint of it was set in the proud 
 curve of her upper lip ; traces of it were discern- 
 ible in one or two lines about her mouth and 
 forehead. She was choicely though simply attired. 
 She listened to Colonel Annesley's conversation 
 attentively, and answered his various questions 
 with that gentleness and grace which mark perfect 
 breeding ; and then, tea being finished, she accom- 
 panied Mrs. Annesley to her room, leaving her 
 husband to smoke with his host in the verandah. 
 Once alone together, the two women looked each 
 other steadily in the face. Then Mrs. Annesley 
 spoke out impulsively. 
 
 " Idreana, you are not happy ? " 
 
 " I'm sorry my condition is so evident," said 
 Idreana with a pale smile, setting aside her hat and 
 cloak. " Certainly, I am not happy. But it 
 doesn't matter." 
 
 " Doesn't matter ? " 
 
 " No ! Why should it ? People are not meant
 
 74 Ubc Silence of tbe /l&abarajab 
 
 to be happy in this world." She sat down, and 
 clasping her hands in her lap looked up seriously. 
 " Dreams fade, delusions die — life is never what it 
 seems to promise. This is everybody's story ; it 
 is mine. I do not complain." 
 
 " But you married for love, Idreana ? " 
 
 " Certainly I did," she answered. " You put it 
 exactly — for love. I wanted love — I longed for 
 it, as they say the saints long for God. One hears 
 and reads so much about love in one's youth, you 
 know, one actually believes in it. I believed in 
 it; it was foolish of me to fasten my faith on a 
 mere rumour. Did you marry for love too ? " 
 
 A faint flush tinted Mrs. Annesley's well- 
 preserved skin. 
 
 " No dear," she admitted frankly. " I married 
 — well, because it was time I married. I was 
 getting what they call passee. I wanted a sober 
 and respectable husband. And Colonel Annesley 
 is that." 
 
 " Ah ! '" and Idreana's straight brows contracted. 
 " Well, Captain Le Marchant is not that." 
 
 Mrs. Annesley started. The report she had 
 heard, the friendly report, was true, then. 
 
 " My dear, I am sorry," she began stammer- 
 ingly. 
 
 " Don't be sorry," said Idreana, rising and 
 beginning to arrange her hair in front of the
 
 Ufoe Silence of tbe flfcabarajafo 75 
 
 mirror. "And don't let us talk about it. You 
 know what fancies I used to have? Well, they 
 are dead and done for. I have buried them all, 
 and — sometimes — I brood a little over the grave. 
 But you were always sensible ; you never had any 
 delusions to bury, and my griefs, such as they are, 
 have chiefly arisen from my own wilful ignorance 
 of things. I understand life now, and am quite 
 prepared to live it out without undue grumbling 
 at the inevitable." 
 
 She raised a mass of her bright hair and settled 
 it in its place. Mrs. Annesley looked at her 
 wonderingly, and the former romantic fascination 
 this slight creature used to exercise over her own 
 matter-of-fact disposition, returned. 
 
 " How pretty you are, Idreana ! ' ' she said with 
 ungrudging admiration. " How very pretty ! 
 Whatever you have suffered, your looks are not 
 spoilt." 
 
 " I am glad of that," returned Mrs. Le Marchant 
 with a little laugh in which there was a ring of 
 bitterness. " No woman likes to grow ugly — the 
 sense of ugliness almost makes one lose one's self- 
 respect. But, my dear Laura " — here her voice 
 softened — " you always thought too much of me. 
 You were a beauty in your girlhood — I never 
 was." 
 
 " No, you were never a beauty," returned Mrs.
 
 76 TTbe Silence ot tbe jflbabarajab 
 
 Annesley musingly, " but you were what you are 
 still — an indescribable being. And, do you know, 
 I don't think men get on with indescribable beings. 
 Antony liked Cleopatra, and she was indescribable ; 
 but then the modern man is never a Marc Antony, 
 though I believe there are plenty of Cleopatras 
 among modern women. You are a sort of enigma, 
 you know ; you can't help it — you were made like 
 that, and men are always silly at guessing 
 enigmas." 
 
 Idreana smiled rather sadly. " I think you 
 mistake me, dear," she said gently : " I am not 
 an enigma. I am only a weak, loving woman 
 whose best emotions have been killed like leaves 
 in a frost. There never was any mystery about 
 my nature, and if there seems to you any mystery 
 now, it is only because I try to shut within myself 
 the secret of my life's disappointment and sorrow. 
 If my heart is broken, the world need not know 
 it. And you will help me, will you not ? " she 
 added with a certain tremulous eagerness. " You 
 
 will not let any one guess my husband's " here 
 
 she paused and sought for a word, and finally said, 
 " my husband's failing. One must always keep up 
 appearances, and there is no occasion to make an 
 exhibition of one's domestic griefs for the benefit 
 of unsympathetic society. While we are here, you, 
 as hostess, can do so much for me ; in your hospi- 
 
 ,
 
 Zhc Silence of tbe flfcabarajafo 77 
 
 tality you will not, I am sure, encourage Captain 
 Le Marchant in his habit " 
 
 She broke off, and her self-command gave 
 way a little. Mrs. Annesley saw the tears 
 in her eyes, and her own throat contracted 
 unpleasantly. 
 
 " Of course not, my dear," she said hastily. 
 " But — I must tell Claude. Otherwise, you see, 
 he will keep on passing the wine and other things. 
 He is very good-natured, and he has an idea 
 that every decent man knows when he has had 
 
 enough " Here she paused, remembering 
 
 that ' poor Claude ' himself was one of these 
 decent men. " He is really an awfully good 
 fellow,." she thought, with a most curious and 
 quite novel touch of remorse. "Now I come to 
 consider it, he has been the most perfect of 
 husbands ! " Aloud, she went on, f * You agree 
 with me, don't you, Idreana, that it will be best 
 just to mention it to Claude ? " 
 
 Mrs. Le Marchant's large pathetic eyes appeared 
 to be looking dreamily into futurity. 
 
 "Yes, it will be best," she answered at last. 
 " Besides, your husband is a good man, and 
 naturally you can have no secrets from him." 
 
 Mrs. Annesley winced a little and flushed. 
 Things were not exactly as Idreana put them. 
 But never mind ! Idreana was always fanciful.
 
 78 Zbc Silence of tbe /IDabarajab 
 
 She was silent, and presently Mrs. Le Marchant 
 spoke again. 
 
 " One thing I have not told you," she said. 
 " I had a child." 
 
 " You had, Idreana ! " and Mrs. Annesley 
 gazed at her with a lurking envy in her soul, for 
 in this respect the Fates had not been good to 
 her. " When ? " 
 
 "Oh ! nearly two years ago." And the delicate 
 face of the belle dame sans merci grew paler and 
 more wistful. " It was a pretty little creature, 
 and I always imagine it loved me, though it was 
 so young. It died when it was three months 
 old." 
 
 " My poor darling," exclaimed Mrs. Annesley, 
 slipping an arm round the younger woman's waist. 
 " What a trial for you ! What a grief! " 
 
 " No, it was a gladness," said Idreana quietly. 
 " I have thanked God many a time for my baby's 
 death. If it had lived " — she shuddered — " it 
 might have grown up to be like its father ! " 
 
 The intense horror in her tone sent quite a 
 disagreeable chill through her listener's blood. 
 This was dreadful ! Idreana was dreadful ; the 
 conversation was dreadful ! It must be put a 
 stop to. Mrs. Annesley's eminently practical 
 nature suddenly asserted itself. 
 
 " My dear girl, for goodness' sake don't let us
 
 XTbe Silence of tbe /Ibabarajab 79 
 
 get on these melancholy subjects," she said briskly, 
 the social * Lolly,' beginning to shine out of 
 every feature of her still handsome face. " You 
 mustn't think about troubles while you are with 
 me. You are here for a little change and gaiety, 
 and I intend that you shall enjoy yourself. We'll 
 manage Captain Le Marchant, and you will have 
 no need to fret yourself. Just you put on a 
 pretty gown now, and make yourself look as sweet 
 as ever you can ; there are some nice fellows 
 coming to dine to-night, and I want them to 
 admire you. I shall have to run away myself 
 now to change my dress. Will you be 
 long ? " 
 
 " No," answered Mrs. Le Marchant gently, 
 " I shall not be long." 
 
 Mrs. Annesley paused on the threshold, with 
 a bright look. " And, oh ! " she said, " I forgot 
 to tell you that we are going to have a wonderful 
 native prince here on a visit — a really very 
 delightful Maharajah, extremely well educated. 
 He speaks English perfectly, and he wears — oh ! 
 my dear ! such diamonds ! We are going to 
 hold some big receptions in his honour, and wind 
 up with a ball. I am sure you will enjoy it all 
 immensely." 
 
 She nodded and tripped off, meeting Captain 
 Le Marchant on the way. He was coming up
 
 8o TCfoe Silence of tbe dfcabarajafo 
 
 to his room to dress for dinner, under the escort 
 of Colonel Annesley. 
 
 "Claude," she said in her sweetest voice, "when 
 you have shown Captain Le Marchant his room, 
 will you come to me ? I want to speak to you." 
 
 The Colonel returned assent, and presently 
 came into the drawing-room, where he found his 
 wife awaiting him. 
 
 " Claude," she began hesitatingly, " it's a 
 dreadful thing to have to say, but I'm obliged 
 to tell you, Captain Le Marchant drinks ! ' 
 
 " He looks it," responded the Colonel briefly, 
 and then stood ' at attention ' ready for further 
 revelations. 
 
 " Oh, Claude," exclaimed ' Lolly ' irrelevantly, 
 " I have never seen you drunk ! " 
 
 Colonel Annesley stared. 
 
 " Of course not ! What's that got to do with it ? " 
 
 "Oh, I don't know." And Mrs. Annesley 
 looked up, and then down nervously, and finally 
 assuming her most impressive and wife-like manner 
 she added, " I'm only so glad and proud, Claude, 
 that I never have ! " 
 
 The tall Colonel blushed and looked extremely 
 young. A stranger observing him would have 
 said he was evidently ashamed of himself. Perhaps 
 he was. He said nothing, however, and only 
 smiled dreamily.
 
 Ube Silence of tbe /IDabarajab 81 
 
 " Claude," went on Mrs. Annesley, " you must 
 try and keep this man sober — you must, really ! 
 Fancy if he were to make a scene with Idreana, 
 before people, and here I " 
 
 " Does he make scenes with her ? " inquired 
 the Colonel. 
 
 "Well, she hasn't actually said so much, but 
 I imagine he does. Anyway, keep the wine and 
 spirits out of his reach, because, you see, if he 
 never knows when to stop " 
 
 " Beast ! " muttered the Colonel under his 
 breath. 
 
 His wife looked at him almost humbly. " Yes, 
 he must be," she agreed. " Poor little Idreana ! " 
 
 The Colonel did not echo this sentiment. He 
 was playing with a small bullet that was set as 
 a charm on his watch-chain (a bullet that had a 
 history) and appeared stolidly unmoved. 
 
 " You understand, Claude, don't you ? " went 
 on his wife. " You are the host, and you mustn't 
 be the one to set temptation in his way. Don't 
 let him have the chance to disgrace himself." 
 
 The Colonel looked perplexed. " I'll do my 
 best," he said curtly, and turned on his heel to 
 leave the room. 
 
 " Claude ! " called his wife softly. 
 
 He came back obediently. 
 
 " You haven't got a flower in your coat for 
 
 6
 
 82 xrfoc Silence of tbc fl&abarajab 
 
 dinner," she said with a trembling little laugh. 
 " Let me give you one." 
 
 She took a small, sweet-scented blossom from 
 a vase and fastened it in his button-hole. Under 
 his clear skin the blood swiftly reddened and rose 
 to the very roots of his close-cropped brown hair. 
 He was blushing again apparently, and again he 
 looked extraordinarily young. A novel and peculiar 
 sense of being petted and made much of was on 
 him, but he was quite silent. He was too much 
 astonished to speak. 
 
 "There!" said Mrs. Annesley with a coquettish 
 look of triumph as she finished decorating him. 
 " Now you do me credit ! " 
 
 Surprise gave him a little catch in his throat. 
 He coughed nervously. 
 
 " Do I ? ' he managed to say at last. " I — er 
 — thank you ! ' And out he went in a whirl 
 of amazement. She meanwhile laughed and 
 scolded herself for indulging in a sort of side 
 flirtation with her own husband. 
 
 " Poor Claude ! " she murmured, repeating 
 that favourite phrase which had now become almost 
 hackneyed. " But he really is a gentleman." 
 
 The dinner that night went off successfully. 
 Captain Le Marchant made himself most agreeable, 
 and managed to impress everybody more or less 
 with the idea that he was really a ' charming '
 
 Ubc Silence of tfoe /IDabarajab 83 
 
 man. Even Mrs. Annesley decided that he was 
 " not so bad after all," and that perhaps Idreana, 
 always imaginative, had unconsciously exaggerated 
 his ' failing.' The Colonel sat listening to him, 
 like a good host, with polite and apparently 
 absorbed attention. The gentlemen who added 
 the intellectual grace and splendour of their 
 presence to the table were chiefly young subalterns, 
 open admirers and followers of Mrs. Annesley, 
 who alternately flattered them, laughed at them, 
 mocked them, neglected them, and drove them 
 to despair, just as her humour suited her ; and 
 on this particular occasion these ' boys ' were 
 rendered rather awkward and bashful by the fairy- 
 like loveliness of Mrs. Le Marchant. 
 
 Idreana, dressed in pure white, with her gold 
 hair knotted in a Greek twist, and her tragic-sweet 
 eyes, was a wonderful sight to see. She said so 
 little, she looked so much. She was only a small 
 woman, but to the dazzled subalterns she was 
 ' immense ! ' They found her, as Mrs. Annesley 
 had said, ' indescribable,' and did not quite know 
 what to make of her. Her husband himself 
 seemed to stand just a little in awe of her. What 
 Colonel Annesley thought concerning her was not 
 new. His first comment, " Poor little sweet soul ! ' 
 still held good as the sum and substance of his 
 opinion. It was a relief to the whole party to talk
 
 84 TTfoe Silence of tbe flDabarajab 
 
 of the coming Maharajah. What he would do, 
 and what they would do, formed a perpetually 
 interesting topic of conversation. The f boys ' 
 commented silently on the fact that neither Colonel 
 nor Mrs. Annesley seemed very lavish of wines at 
 dinner, and that the ' drink ' generally was dis- 
 pensed with a somewhat stingy care. But they 
 were charitable ' boys ' and concluded that 
 ' Lolly ' had run out of supplies and was laying 
 in fresh stock. So that the evening passed off 
 pleasantly without a hitch, and Captain Le 
 Marchant showed no tendency whatever to fall 
 into his ' habit.' 
 
 Some days now passed in pleasant tranquillity. 
 Colonel Annesley, though he kept a constant 
 watch on his guest with the ' failing,' began him- 
 self to think that the case had been over-stated. 
 Beyond a more or less settled gloominess of dis- 
 position, Captain Le Marchant was very much like 
 any other ordinary army man. He was not clever, 
 and in conversation he was occasionally coarse, but 
 on the whole he maintained a decent and well-bred 
 behaviour. He was a magnificent athlete and a 
 keen sportsman, and these attributes made him 
 rather a popular ' man's man.' Idreana began to 
 look happier ; a little of the tragedy went out of 
 her eyes, leaving the light of hope there instead, 
 whereat Mrs. Annesley rejoiced unselfishly.
 
 Zhe Silence of tbe /Hiabarajab 85 
 
 And at last the Maharajah arrived. In splendid 
 garb he came, and showed himself to be a some- 
 what remarkable specimen of an Oriental. In the 
 first place he was exceedingly handsome ; secondly, 
 he was exceptionally well-mannered. Courteous, 
 yet not abating one jot of his dignity, he and a 
 limited suite — limited in order not to put his 
 hosts to too much trouble — took possession of 
 that part of Mrs. Annesley's house reserved and 
 arranged for his special accommodation. All the 
 particulars of his caste had been noted and 
 remembered, and he showed his appreciation of 
 this careful forethought and consideration by 
 proving himself to be what rumour had already 
 described him, a brilliant and gifted man, whose 
 conversational capacities were not to be despised. 
 From the first hour of his arrival, he had fastened 
 his glowing dark eyes on the fair and spirituelle 
 beauty of Mrs. Le Marchant, and had, in the 
 briefest possible space of time, fallen secretly a 
 victim to her unconsciously exerted charm. For 
 her he strove to appear at his best ; to interest her 
 he spoke of the long vigils which he was wont to 
 pass on the flower-garlanded flat roof of his palace, 
 his great telescope set up and pointed at the stars ; 
 to her he told strange legends of the East, myths 
 and fantasies of India's oldest period ; to see her 
 large eyes sparkle and her sweet lips part in
 
 86 zbc Silence of tbe fl&afoarafab 
 
 breathless attention he related hair-breadth escapes 
 from the jaws of wild beasts, and wonderful adven- 
 tures in forest or jungle. 
 
 And the other visitors would listen to him 
 entranced, fascinated not only by his attractive 
 personality, but also by the priceless jewels that 
 flashed on his breast, diamonds clear as drops of 
 dew, and opals shining with the mystic evanescent 
 light of frozen foam. He had about him a certain 
 air of sovereignty which became him well, and 
 which kept the fashionable vulgarity of the ' fast ' 
 set in check. He was by turns elegant, wise, witty 
 and humorous, and distinctly proved to a few of 
 the frivolous and empty-headed that there is no 
 necessity to cultivate 'chaff' or learn stable slang 
 in order to be considered clever. He was a 
 curious lesson in good-breeding to some of the 
 English, this Maharajah ; and one or two of the 
 more thoughtful mused unpleasantly on what 
 might happen in India if ' college education ' 
 turned out goodly numbers of ' natives ' such as 
 he. His visit to the station, however, was an 
 undoubted success ; nothing else was talked of in 
 the whole place, and Mrs. Claude Annesley had 
 * scored ' again, and added another to her long 
 list of social triumphs. 
 
 Meanwhile, if the truth must be told, the 
 Maharajah himself was undergoing the tortures of
 
 ZTbe Silence of tbe /IDabarajab 87 
 
 the damned. His beautiful manners were with 
 difficulty maintained, his polished grace, his fluent 
 talk, his easy urbanity and apparent calm covered 
 a passion and a rage as fierce as that of any 
 famished tiger. For the belle dame sans merci had 
 him in thrall. The strange and subtle languor 
 that lurked in her large pathetic eyes, her delicate 
 and elfin beauty, had run like a swift poison 
 through his Eastern blood and set it on fire. Of 
 what avail ? None, he knew ; she was as abso- 
 lutely denied to him as the stars he studied in the 
 hot summer midnights. Nevertheless, he loved 
 her ; loved her with a fury and despair that nearly 
 drove him frantic. To approach her made him 
 tremble ; the wondering, unconscious, half-wistful 
 looks she gave him made his heart beat to a sense 
 of tears and suffocation. Once, when she by 
 chance dropped a few flowers from her bosom, and 
 he snatched them up stealthily, his act unseen, he 
 thought he must have gone mad with the joy of 
 kissing them. Yet with all this fever at work 
 within him he kept his secret ; no hint of it ever 
 escaped him by so much as an unguarded look or 
 tremor of the voice, for he was brave. He had 
 received his death-blow, so he said within himself, 
 but none should see the wound. And he played 
 his part as a manly man should, living his agony 
 down hour by hour heroically, till the last day of
 
 88 Zfte Silence of tfoe /iDafoarajab 
 
 his sojourn came, the day .fixed by Mrs. Annesley 
 for her grand ball. 
 
 This entertainment was to be the climax of the 
 festivities, and was to outdo everything in the way 
 of balls that had ever been given in the neighbour- 
 hood. A splendid pavilion was erected for 
 dancing, the decorations were magnificent, every- 
 thing was as complete as it could be, and Mrs. 
 Annesley herself was satisfied. Mrs. Annesley, 
 indeed, was in a state of devout thankfulness 
 generally — she was even thankful for her husband. 
 She felt instinctively sure that it was owing to his 
 apparently unobservant observation that Captain 
 Le Marchant had had no lapse into his ' habit,' 
 and had always passed muster as a gentleman and 
 officer worthy of serving the Queen. 
 
 On the evening of the ball and just before it, a 
 grand dinner-party was arranged to take place, at 
 which the Maharajah was not present. From the 
 half-open door of his apartment he saw Idreana 
 descend the stairs, dressed for both dinner and 
 ball, and as he beheld her, himself unseen, his 
 heart sank like an aching weight within him. 
 What was code or caste or anything in the world 
 compared to the desire of possessing this ethereal 
 small woman, clad in her floating white draperies, 
 her gold hair knotted loosely on her neck, and a 
 strange scarlet flower at her bosom ! He peered
 
 Zhe Silence of tbe /n>abarajab 8 9 
 
 after her, she all unconscious of his anguished 
 gaze, then, withdrawing himself softly he closed 
 the door, and covered his eyes with his hand, 
 ashamed of the great tears that forced their 
 burning way through his lashes. " The difference 
 of race, the difference of creed, the difference of 
 law," he muttered. "These part man and woman 
 more than God and Nature would ever part 
 them ! " 
 
 That night, when some twenty or more people 
 sat down to dine at Mrs. Claude Annesley's well- 
 spread table, there could naturally be no stint of 
 wine. The Colonel kept a vigilant eye on Captain 
 Le Marchant, and judged him to be drinking 
 moderately, and keeping well within bounds. 
 Before dessert was quite over the ladies adjourned 
 to the ball-pavilion, and Mrs. Ann©sley insisted on 
 her husband accompanying them, in order to help 
 her in receiving the already arriving- guests. The 
 Maharajah, attired in a dazzling glitter of gold 
 and gems, entered with his attendants, and took 
 his seat in a gilded chair set on a canopied dais for 
 his special honour and accommodation. 
 
 The music struck up and the dancing com- 
 menced. At the first sound of the band all the 
 other lingerers at the dinner-table came in, Captain 
 Le Marchant among them. Colonel Annesley, 
 busy assisting his wife as well as he was able,
 
 90 ZTbc Silence of tbe /Iftabavajab 
 
 glanced at him as he entered, decided that he was 
 all right, and took no further notice of him. The 
 Captain sauntered about aimlessly for a little, spoke 
 to two or three people, and then left the ball-room 
 again without his departure being noticed. Dancing 
 was soon in full swing, and the tide of swift motion 
 and merriment rose quickly to its height. The 
 Maharajah, sitting enthroned apart, the flashing 
 jewels he wore contrasting singularly with his dark 
 and rather grave features, was entirely absorbed 
 in watching Mrs. Le Marchant dancing. His 
 ardent sombre eyes followed her everywhere as she 
 floated to and fro, round and round, light as 
 thistle-down, with her different partners, the loose 
 knot of glistening hair shining at the back of her 
 white neck, the scarlet flower like a flame on her 
 white bosom. 
 
 And as she danced on, he presently descended 
 from the dais, and stood at the side of the pavilion 
 in order to observe her more closely, and also in 
 the hope that haply her white gown might touch 
 him in its silvery whirl, for he felt he could not 
 bear to lose even that possible chance of contact 
 with her. And by-and-by he saw a young 
 subaltern approach her rapidly and say something 
 to her in a low tone. She turned very pale, and 
 her eyes seemed to close, then rousing herself she 
 smiled faintly, murmured some excuse to her
 
 Kftc Silence of tbe flfeabarajab 91 
 
 partner and hurried away. Led by some instinct, 
 and careless of what might be thought of his also 
 absenting himself, the Maharajah followed. He 
 had the stealthy step of a cat or a panther, and his 
 tread behind her was unheard. She passed out of 
 the ball-pavilion, and along the flower-garlanded 
 corridor which divided it from the house — the 
 young subaltern was with her, and together they 
 entered Mrs. Annesley's dining-room. There, at 
 the half-cleared dinner-table, fallen forward in a 
 sort of stupor, sat Captain Le Marchant, with one 
 empty brandy bottle before him and another half 
 begun. The Maharajah came to a stand-still 
 outside the door — he was still unheard and un- 
 perceived. 
 
 Mrs. Le Marchant went up to the tumbled heap 
 by the table, and put her little white-gloved hand 
 on its shoulder. 
 
 ' c Richard ! " she said in a trembling voice, 
 " Richard, don't stay here. Do come away, up- 
 stairs, anywhere." 
 
 She broke off, and the young sub., somewhat 
 distressed, tried what he could do. He put his 
 wholesome strong young arm round the disgraceful 
 bundle before him, and said cheerily, " Hullo, 
 Captain ! I say, get out of this, you know ! You 
 mustn't go to sleep here, they want to lay the 
 supper. Get up, there's a good fellow ! "
 
 92 Ube silence of tfoc /l&abarajab 
 
 The bundle stirred and raised itself. A red 
 face showed above a crumpled dress-shirt ; two 
 bloodshot eyes opened slowly, and the individual, 
 understood to be an officer and a gentleman, made 
 a vaguely threatening movement of his arms. 
 
 " Richard ! ' murmured his wife again earnestly, 
 " do come upstairs ; you are not well, you know. 
 I can easily say you are not well if you will only 
 come upstairs and go to bed. Richard, do 
 come ! " 
 
 He looked at her stupidly and laughed. She 
 touched his arm entreatingly. 
 
 " Richard ! " she said, "don't let the Annesleys 
 see you like this ! " 
 
 With a sudden oath and a savage movement of 
 his body, he clenched his big fist and struck 
 straight out at her white pleading face, — a brutal 
 blow that stretched her on the ground senseless. 
 In one second the Maharajah had sprung upon 
 him and pinned him by the throat. Down on the 
 floor he rolled him and knelt upon him, his long, 
 brown, lithe fingers clutching at the thick bull- 
 neck in such a masterly manner that the young 
 subaltern, overcome with confusion and terror, 
 rushed into the ball-room for the Colonel and 
 brought him forth in frantic haste, explaining in a 
 few incoherent words the whole extraordinary 
 situation. The Colonel proved himself a man of
 
 Zftc Silence ot tbe flbabarajab 93 
 
 action. Flinging himself upon the Maharajah he 
 dragged him away from the prostrate body of Le 
 Marchant. 
 
 "Don't you see he's drunk?" he exclaimed. 
 " You can't fight a man who is unable to defend 
 himself. You are neither a coward nor a 
 murderer ; you must let him be." Then, seeing 
 Mrs. Le Marchant where she lay senseless, he 
 addressed the pale-faced young subaltern : " Fetch 
 Mrs. Annesley." 
 
 The Maharajah stood mute and breathless, with 
 folded arms and flashing eyes. Captain Le 
 Marchant was, with many unsavoury oaths, 
 endeavouring to pick himself up from the ground. 
 The Colonel surveyed the erect proud figure of 
 the Indian potentate with a look in which mili- 
 tary resolve was blended with a good deal of 
 respect. 
 
 " Your Highness is my guest," he said calmly, 
 " and I must apologise for laying hands roughly 
 upon you. But you cannot quarrel with a 
 drunkard; the thing is manifestly impossible." 
 
 " He has killed his wife ! ' exclaimed the 
 Maharajah fiercely. 
 
 " I think not ; but even if he has, that is not 
 your Highness's affair. You have no right to 
 defend an English lady from even the blows of 
 her own lawful husband. Pardon me ! You, like
 
 94 Xlbc Silence of tfoe /Ifcabarajafo 
 
 myself, are a subject of the Empress ; these 
 things are known to you without further explan- 
 ation." 
 
 The Maharajah was silent and immovable for a 
 moment. Then with a slight, haughty bow, he 
 left the room. As he went, he glanced back once, 
 a world of pent-up agony and yearning in his 
 eyes. Mrs. Annesley had hurried in, and was 
 compassionately raising her friend Idreana from 
 the floor, and all that he seemed to see in the air, 
 as he made his way out, was a small pale face, and 
 a scarlet flower. 
 
 The affair soon got wind, and the ball that 
 evening came to a hasty and rather disastrous 
 conclusion. Idreana was carried to her room still 
 unconscious ; Captain Le Marchant was given an 
 apartment on the other side of the house, where 
 he could swear to his heart's content, and sleep 
 off his brandy potations ; and when the morning 
 broke, it found them all more or less haggard 
 and anxious. It was the day of the Maharajah's 
 departure, hov/ever, for which Colonel Annesley 
 was secretly thankful, though ' Lolly ' was in 
 despair that his visit should have had such an 
 untoward termination. Captain Le Marchant 
 woke up sober and furious. He had been 
 attacked by an ' Indian beast,' he said, and he 
 would shake his ' dirty life ' out of him. He
 
 XTfoe Silence of tbe /Ifcabarajab 95 
 
 was still soliloquising in this fashion when Colonel 
 Annesley entered his room. 
 
 " Captain Le Marchant, your wife is very ill." 
 
 Captain Le Marchant growled something un- 
 intelligible. 
 
 " You conducted yourself disgracefully last 
 night," went on the Colonel. " I am glad you 
 do not belong to my regiment. As a soldier, I 
 am ashamed of you ; as a gentleman, I find you 
 insufferable. You — an English officer — to strike 
 your wife ! Good God ! what a cowardly act ! 
 and what humiliation to us all to think that the 
 Maharajah witnessed it ! A nice impression to 
 give him of our social civilisation ! He nearly 
 killed you, by the way ; it is fortunate I came in 
 at the moment I did, otherwise he would have 
 done so. He is leaving this morning, and he has 
 asked me to tell you that he wishes to see you 
 before his departure." 
 
 " I sha 'n't comply with his wish, then," re- 
 torted Le Marchant ; " I'll see him damned 
 first ! " 
 
 " I'll see you damned, if you don't ! ' said the 
 Colonel, with sudden heat and vehemence. " If 
 you refuse to go to him it looks as if you were 
 afraid of him, and, by Jove sir ! no British 
 officer shall play the coward twice where I am ! '-' 
 
 Captain Le Marchant stared, then looked
 
 96 XLhc Silence of tbe /Ifcabarajab 
 
 down slightly disconcerted, and pulled his long 
 moustaches. 
 
 " Very well," he muttered crossly. " Where 
 is he ? " 
 
 " In his own rooms, and alone" replied the 
 Colonel meaningly. " I may as well tell you that 
 he wishes to apologise." 
 
 " Oh ! " and Le Marchant laughed. " That 
 alters the case entirely. Rather funny to see him 
 eating humble pie ! I'll go at once." 
 
 And out he sauntered, whistling carelessly. 
 
 " Cad ! ' commented Colonel Annesley, under 
 his breath. " That poor child Idreanu and her 
 ' ideals ' ! Now, Laura never had any ideals, she 
 says, and that is how she has managed to put up 
 with me." 
 
 This idea served him as a favourable theme 
 for meditation, and he went to have a smoke and 
 think it out. Meanwhile, Captain Le Marchant 
 rapped at the door of the Maharajah's apartment. 
 
 A servant admitted him, and without a word 
 ushered him into a small interior chamber, where 
 at an open window, looking out on a fair garden 
 below, sat the Maharajah himself. Dismissing his 
 attendant by a sign, he turned his head towards 
 Le Marchant, in acknowledgment of his presence, 
 but made no further salutation or movement to 
 rise. And now, for the first time since his last
 
 XLbc Silence of tbe /Iftabarajab 97 
 
 night's brandy debauch, the Captain began to be 
 ashamed of himself. Fidgety and embarrassed, he 
 felt singularly unable to hold himself with any 
 dignity or display the jaunty air of indifferent 
 ease he desired to assume. He looked about for 
 a|chair to sit down on : there was not one in the 
 room save that on which the Maharajah was 
 himself enthroned. And the composed sovereignty 
 of the Maharajah's attitude, the terrible steadfast- 
 ness of the Maharajah's eyes, which regarded him 
 with a look wherein hatred, contempt, reproach 
 and wonder were all combined in one dark and 
 piercing flash, began to be distinctly trying to the 
 not over-steady nerves of this particular officer and 
 gentleman. He shifted awkwardly from one foot 
 to the other, and studied the pattern of the floor, 
 finding the atmosphere suddenly warmer than 
 usual. Two minutes, perhaps, passed like this 
 in uncomfortable stillness ; then the Maharajah 
 spoke. 
 
 " Captain Le Marchant," he said, in low, but 
 very clear accents, " I regret that I attacked you 
 last night when you were unable to defend your- 
 self. Men of my race and caste do not drink, 
 hence we are not always able to realise the de- 
 gradation of drunkenness in others. I understand 
 that I was wrong. I therefore apologise." 
 
 Captain Le Marchant moistened his dry lips 
 
 7
 
 98 TTbe Silence of tfoe /Ibabarajab 
 
 and bowed stiffly. The Maharajah went on, still 
 in the same even voice : 
 
 " Do you demand further satisfaction, or do you 
 accept this apology ? " 
 
 The Captain raised his head and endeavoured 
 to look magnanimous, but only succeeded in 
 looking foolish. He cleared his throat and twirled 
 one end of his tawny moustache. 
 
 " I accept it," he said, and his voice was husky 
 and uncertain. 
 
 The Maharajah's burning glance swept over 
 him like lightning, and a faint, contemptuous 
 smile rested on the proud mouth. 
 
 " I wish you to comprehend me perfectly, 
 Captain Le Marchant," he went on. " If I could 
 fight you now that you are capable of fighting, 
 hand to hand, man to man, I would do it ! I am 
 ready for it at this moment ! It would give me 
 the keenest joy ! ' His brown hands clenched, 
 his chest heaved. Anon he resumed : " But I 
 cannot. The lady whose cause I would defend, 
 whose sorrows move me to indignation, is your 
 wife ; you can do what you will with her — it is 
 your law. I, at any rate, have no right to protect 
 her ! " 
 
 A shuddering sigh broke from him. Le 
 Marchant stared amazed. A new light dawned 
 upon his mind — a sudden conviction that moved
 
 Ufoe Silence of tbe ZlDabarajab 99 
 
 his coarse and flippant nature to a sense of 
 malicious amusement. And now in his excitement 
 the Maharajah rose, fiercely gripping with both 
 hands the carved ivory arm-rests of his chair. 
 
 " If I could buy your wife from you," he said, 
 his mellow voice quivering with passion, " and save 
 her from another such outrage upon her as that 
 which I witnessed last night, I would give you half 
 my possessions ! If I could steal her from you 
 without shame to her or to me, I should be ' un- 
 civilised ' enough to do it ! Of course you know 
 what this means, and you can make scorn of me 
 if you choose. I am powerless to prevent you. 
 We are a conquered race, and you English despise 
 us. I will not say that we do not merit your 
 contempt — we have allowed ourselves to be kept 
 down under the yoke of evil custom and barbarous 
 superstition for countless ages, and we have never 
 truly discovered our own intellectual force. Per- 
 haps we shall discover it some day — who knows ? 
 Yours is a great nation, but men such as you 
 disgrace it. You buy our Indian women, and 
 neglect and ill-treat your own. This I cannot 
 understand. But 1 waste words. I have made 
 you an apology which you have accepted ; so much 
 being clear between us, I ask you one thing before 
 we part for ever — give me your word as a man 
 that the scene of last night shall never be repeated ;
 
 ioo ftbe Silence of tbe /llbabarajab 
 
 that you will cherish your wife with the tenderness 
 she merits, and never give her further cause to 
 regret having married you. I have no right to 
 appeal to you, I know, but for once forget this — 
 forget the difference of race and creed between us, 
 and as man to man before the Eternal, give me 
 your promise ! " 
 
 He spoke with eloquence and earnestness, and 
 as he concluded stretched out his hands with a 
 gesture of entreaty. But Captain Le Marchant 
 was now himself again. He realised the situation 
 completely, and felt he was the master of it. He 
 folded his arms and looked the Maharajah full in 
 the face. 
 
 " Your request is most extraordinary," he said 
 coldly and with a haughty stare. " I can promise 
 nothing of the kind — to you ! " 
 
 The Maharajah advanced a step towards him. 
 
 " You are a Christian ? ' he demanded. 
 
 Le Marchant bent his head in stiff assent. 
 
 " I am often told that Christianity is the one 
 true faith," said the Maharajah with impressive 
 slowness, " the one pure creed. I also have a 
 creed — not Christian. But in my creed there are 
 oaths which bind. Is there nothing in yours 
 which can bind you ? " 
 
 The Captain smiled superciliously, and flicked a 
 little dust off his coat.
 
 Ufoe Silence of tfoe /IRabarajab 101 
 
 " Nothing ! " he replied. 
 
 With a stifled cry of indignation the Maharajah 
 suddenly drew a dagger from his belt. Poising it 
 aloft he made one tigerish spring forward ; then, 
 as swiftly as he had advanced, he drew back, and 
 flung the glittering weapon harmlessly on the 
 ground. Pale and breathless he fixed his glowing 
 eyes full on the startled Captain, who at sight of 
 the lifted sharp steel had recoiled, and pointed 
 imperiously to the door. 
 
 " Go ! " he said. 
 
 And without another word, another look, Le 
 Marchant went. 
 
 Two hours later the Maharajah and his suite had 
 departed, with many courteous farewells to Colonel 
 and Mrs. Annesley, and profuse thanks for all the 
 hospitality enjoyed. No special message of any 
 sort was left by the Indian prince for Mrs. Le 
 Marchant beyond a formally expressed regret at 
 her continued indisposition. Nothing ambiguous 
 was said or even hinted, and the ' society ' that 
 circled round the brilliant ' Lolly ' was speedily 
 left to itself to discuss the events of the past 
 evening in the usual way that society does discuss 
 things everywhere, propounding utterly erroneous 
 suppositions and arriving at totally wrong con- 
 clusions. All the gossips, however, were un- 
 animously correct in observing that ' Lolly '
 
 io2 Zftc Silence of the flfeabarajab 
 
 herself was singularly silent and subdued, and that 
 what was still more wonderful was, that she 
 appeared to have grown suddenly fond of her 
 husband the Colonel. 
 
 That same night, on the shining flat roof of his 
 own palace, a roof which resembled a broad open 
 terrace decked with creepers and flowers, after the 
 style of the ancient Babylonian ' hanging gardens,' 
 the Maharajah sat alone. Above him the dense 
 blue of the sky arched itself like a dome, pierced 
 through by the golden fire-ball of the Indian moon 
 that sailed slowly along her course with a lazy, 
 languid movement, suggesting voluptuous idleness 
 and sleep. Close by him a great telescope was set 
 up, man's peephole of inquiry at worlds inscrut- 
 able ; but he did not turn to consult this, the 
 favourite companion of his . studies, as was his 
 nightly habitude. He reclined restfully in a low 
 chair, the shield-shape back of which was carved 
 curiously, and studded here and there with tur- 
 quoise, on which now and again the moon-rays 
 flashed with a greenish-white glitter. His attitude 
 was one of calm meditation ; his eyes dreamily 
 watched the solemn splendour of the midnight 
 heavens. The diamond clasp of his turban scintil- 
 lated in the moonlight like a stray star fallen out 
 of the clear ether, and the priceless ruby, set as
 
 TLfte Silence of tbe /Ifcabarajab 103 
 
 a ring on his right hand, glowed warmly with the 
 hue of blood. He was thinking deeply, and his 
 thoughts were of love, thoughts widely different 
 from those of most men on the same subject. 
 
 " Let me not hide this thing from myself," he 
 said half aloud. " It is a sin and it is a glory. It 
 is a sin to love her whom I may not love if I live 
 on to bear that guilty living love towards her, but 
 it is a glory to love if I die, and with myself kill 
 all my erring passion. He — her husband — has 
 guessed, and will most surely tell her of my folly. 
 I saw that in his cruel face. She in her gentle 
 nature will be grieved and pained, perchance she 
 may be offended, and rightly, to think that I should 
 dare to love her and live on. With this fever in 
 my soul, this desire in my blood, my very life 
 insults her. Dead, she will think kindly of me if 
 she thinks at all. Moreover, love is life ; without 
 love life is death. What we shall therefore do 
 now, my soul, is to leave this world ; we shall 
 learn the news of other worlds best so. To live 
 on and think of her, my pearl, my white lily ! — 
 yes, let me call her so once in secret, as if she were 
 indeed mine — to think of her in the pitiless posses- 
 sion of the man who is her husband, — this would 
 drive me out of sober reason. Better to forget it 
 and go elsewhere. Love is a mystery which God 
 or the gods only can explain. But of this I am
 
 io 4 XTbe Silence of tbe fl&abarajafo 
 
 sure — that if a man loves once and truly, he must 
 so love always. Custom and law and creed cannot 
 control it, nothing can change it, nothing can pacify 
 it, nothing can quench the fire burning here " — 
 and he laid one hand on his breast — " except the 
 full possession of the one beloved, and — the other 
 alternative — death. And after death? What shall 
 I find ? Myself again with all my sorrow ? or 
 God ? " 
 
 He raised his eyes with a wondering look to the 
 bright moon and stars. 
 
 " Worlds unexplored, universes unguessed, mys- 
 teries unfathomed ! ' he murmured — " all vague 
 and vast and inexplicable, yet surely full of 
 promise. There must be Something — something 
 behind the veil, when spirits are stripped of 
 mortality and front each other unafraid ! There 
 must be Love — there should be Peace ! God ! in 
 Thy unknown deeps of Life, let me lose myself 
 and find — Thee ! " 
 
 Still keeping the same restful, half-reclining 
 attitude, he slowly raised his right hand, and looked 
 thoughtfully at the ruby ring that shone there ; 
 then he deliberately placed the splendid jewel 
 between his lips, drawing it in with the lingering 
 delicacy of one who is tasting for the first time 
 some rare and precious cordial. A minute or so 
 elapsed, and he let his hand drop gently again at
 
 Zbc Silence of tfoe flDabarajafo 105 
 
 his side. The ruby centre of the ring was open 
 and showed a small cavity within, a cavity now 
 quite empty. 
 
 An hour passed and the Maharajah did not 
 move. Apparently he slept, and a peaceful smile 
 rested on his features. He might have been taken 
 for a figure cast in bronze, he was so very still. 
 The moon sank out of sight, and the pale pink 
 flush of dawn began to spread softly over the 
 horizon. Delicious puffs of fragrance arose from 
 the thousands of flowers and scented shrubs that 
 grew in the fairy-like gardens surrounding the 
 palace, and presently as the morning advanced, 
 the Maharajah's confidential servant appeared 
 according to his usual custom, to bring his master's 
 breakfast and receive his orders for the day. He 
 approached noiselessly, and, with a look of wonder, 
 which quickly deepened into fear, surveyed his 
 lord. He touched his robe — there was no responsive 
 movement of that still figure, majestic in its attitude 
 of proud repose ; he called, first softly, then loudly 
 — there was no answer. Falling on his knees, he 
 caught up the inert right hand and saw the ruby 
 ring with its secret cavity open — the ring which 
 he alone of all the household knew had contained 
 the swiftest and deadliest of Eastern poisons. 
 With a cry of horror he sprang up and looked 
 wildly about him, then, realising that all help was
 
 106 Zhc Silence of tbe flfcabarajab 
 
 unavailing, he fell down again at his master's feet, 
 and there crouching, covered his face and wept 
 despairingly. 
 
 Not a hundred miles away a certain ' officer and 
 gentleman' was playing off coarse witticisms 
 among his fellows at the expense of ' a petty 
 native prince ' who had presumed to fall in love 
 with his wife — " an English married woman, by 
 Jove ! like his confounded impudence ! " — the 
 'petty native prince' himself being far beyond 
 even the wide-reaching influence of that supreme 
 British scorn which is levied against everything 
 not of its own cult and country. A bright gold 
 point like a lifted spear flashed above the eastern 
 hills — the sun was rising — the faint murmuring of 
 insects and the fluttering of birds' wings stirred 
 the warm and odorous foliage ; the light swiftly 
 broadened upwards and fell in ardent waves of 
 heat and splendour over the palace roof and its 
 twisted garlands of flowers, touching with tender 
 warmth the rigid figure seated in grave kingliness 
 beside the great telescope pointed heavenwards ; 
 all the gentle and familiar noises of waking life 
 beginning a new day filled the air with their 
 customary sweet monotony. But the silence of 
 the Maharajah was complete, and never to be 
 broken.
 
 "THREE WISE MEN OF GOTHAM." 
 
 AN OLD RHYME WITH A ' NEW ' READING. 
 
 " Three Wise Men of Gotham 
 Went to sea in a bowl, 
 Had the bowl been stronger 
 My song might have been longer." 
 
 THE Three Wise Men sat together in their 
 club smoking-room. They were met there 
 for a purpose — a solemnly resolved purpose — 
 though that fact was not to be discovered in the 
 expression of their faces or their attitudes. The 
 casual observer, glancing at them in that ignorant 
 yet opiniated fashion which casual observers gener- 
 ally affect, would have sternly pronounced them to 
 be idle loafers and loungers without a purpose of 
 any sort, and only fit to be classified with the 
 ' drones ' or do-nothings of the social hive. 
 Three stalwart bodies reclined at ease in the soft 
 depths of three roomy saddle-bag chairs ; and 
 from three cigars of the finest flavour three little 
 spiral wreaths of pale blue smoke mounted steadily 
 towards the ceiling. 
 
 107
 
 io8 "TTforee Mtse /ll>en of Ootbam" 
 
 It was a fine day : the window was open, and 
 outside roared the surging sea of human life in 
 Piccadilly. Rays of sunshine danced round the 
 Wise Men, polishing up the bald spot on head 
 number one, malignly bringing into prominence 
 the grey hairs on head number two, and shining 
 a warm approval on the curly brown locks 
 of head number three. The screech of the 
 wild newsboy echoed up and down the street — 
 " Hextra speshul ! Evening piper ! Evening 
 pepper ! Piper ! Westy-min-ister speshul ! Hall 
 the winners ! ' A spruce dandy alighting from 
 a hansom commenced a lively altercation with 
 the cabby thereof, creating intense excitement in 
 the breasts of four Christian brethren — to wit, 
 a dirty crossing-sweeper, a match-seller, a District 
 Messenger-boy and a man carrying a leaden water- 
 pipe. " Call yerself a masher ! ' cried cabby 
 vociferously. " Git along with yer, an' hask one 
 of the club blokes to lend yer 'arf a crown ! " 
 Here the man carrying the leaden water-pipe 
 became convulsed with mirth, and observed, 
 " Bully, ain't it ? ' confidentially to the messenger- 
 boy, who grinningly agreed, the smartly dressed 
 young dandy growing scarlet with rage and 
 insulted dignity. The dispute was noisy, and 
 some minutes elapsed before it was settled — yet 
 through it all the mvstic Three Wise Men never
 
 "ftbree Mise flften of eotbam" 109 
 
 stirred to see what was the matter, but smoked on 
 in tranquil silence with closed eyes. 
 
 At last one of them moved, yawned, and broke 
 the spell. He was fair, stoutish and florid ; and 
 when he opened his eyes they proved to be of a 
 good clear blue — honest in expression, and evi- 
 dently meant for fun ; so much so, indeed, that 
 though their owner was by no means in a laughing 
 humour at the moment, he was powerless to 
 repress their comic twinkle. His name was 
 George — George Fairfax — and he was a ' gentle- 
 man at ease,' with nothing to do but to look after 
 his estates, which, as he was not addicted to either 
 betting, drinking, or gambling, brought him in a 
 considerably substantial yearly income. 
 
 " Fact is," he said, addressing himself to his two 
 companions, whose eyelids were still fast shut, 
 " the world's a mistake. It ought never to have 
 been created. Things go wrong in it from morn- 
 ing till night. Fellows who write books tell you 
 how wrong it is ; they ought to know." Here he 
 knocked off the end of his cigar into the ash-tray. 
 " Then read the newspapers : by the Lord Harry ! 
 they'll soon prove to you how wrong everything is 
 everywhere ! " 
 
 Man number two, in the chair next to Fairfax, 
 happened to be the individual with the hair 
 approved of by the sunshine — a long-limbed, well-
 
 no "Ubree Wise Men of Gotbam" 
 
 built fellow with a rather handsome face. Unclos- 
 ing his eyes, which were dark and languid, he 
 sighed wearily. 
 
 " No world in it ! " he murmured in brief 
 sleepy accents, " Social institutions — civilisation — 
 wrong. Man meant for free life — savage — forest : 
 no houses — no clubs — raw meat — suits digestion 
 — no dyspepsia — tear with fingers ; polygamy. 
 Read ' Woman Who Did ' — female polygamist — 
 live with anybody, noble ; marriage, base degrada- 
 tion — white rose in hair — polygamous purity — 
 died." 
 
 Exhausted by this speech, he closed his eyes 
 again, and would no doubt have relapsed into an 
 easy slumber had not Man number three suddenly 
 waked up in earnest, disclosing a pair of very 
 keen bright grey eyes, sparkling under brows that, 
 by their shelving form, would have seemed to 
 denote a fair depth of intelligence. 
 
 " Look here, you fellows," he said sharply, 
 " it's no use mincing matters. Things have come 
 to a crisis. We must take the law into our own 
 hands and see what can be done. Life as we live 
 it — married life — has become impossible. You 
 said so yourself, Adair " — this with head reproach- 
 fully turned towards the languid being with the 
 shut eyes — " you said no man of sense or spirit 
 would stand it ! "
 
 "Ubree Mise /IDen of Ootbam" m 
 
 Adair rolled his head feebly to and fro on the 
 saddle-bag chair-pillow. 
 
 " Sense — spirit — all up in me ! ' he replied 
 dolefully. " Pioneers ! " 
 
 As this word escaped him, more in the way of 
 a groan than an utterance, Man number three, 
 otherwise known as John Dennison, gave a gesture 
 of contempt. Dennison was a particularly lucky 
 individual, who had managed to make a large 
 fortune while he was yet young, through successful 
 land speculations ; and now at his present age of 
 forty-eight he bore scarcely any traces of the 
 passing of time, save the small bald spot on the top 
 of his head which the sunlight had discovered, but 
 which few less probing searchers would have 
 perceived. He was of an energetic, determined 
 temperament, and the listless attitude and con- 
 fessed helplessness of Adair excited him to action. 
 Shaking himself out of his reclining posture, and 
 sitting bolt upright, he said sternly, — 
 
 " Look here, Adair, you're too lazy to go 
 through with this thing. If you don't show a 
 little more character and firmness, Fairfax and I 
 will have to slope it without you." 
 
 At this Adair opened his eyes wide, and also sat 
 up, wearing an extremely astonished and injured 
 expression. 
 
 " I say, old man ! " he expostulated — " no
 
 n2 "Ubree Mise /Iftcu of 6otbam" 
 
 threats — bad form — sneak out of promise — oh, 
 by Jove ! " 
 
 " Well then, pay some attention to the question 
 in hand," said Dennison, mollified. " Have we, 
 or have we not, resolved to make a move?" 
 
 " We have ! ' declared Fairfax emphatically. 
 
 " Must make a move ! ' groaned Adair. 
 
 " I ask you both," went on Dennison, " does it 
 look well, is it creditable to us as men — men of 
 position, influence, and sufficient wealth — that we 
 should be known in society as the merest append- 
 ages to our wives ? Is it decent ? ' 
 
 " Damned ^decent, / think ! ' said Fairfax 
 hotly. 
 
 Adair gazed straight before him with the most 
 woebegone expression. 
 
 " Awful lot of fellows — same predicament," he 
 remarked. " Wife pretty — drags ugly man round 
 — introduces him casually, ' Oh, my husband ! ' — 
 and all Society grins at the poor chap. Wife ugly 
 — goes in for football — asks husband to be spec- 
 tator — kicks ball his way — says ' Excuse me ! ' — 
 then explains to people standing by, ' My hus- 
 band ! ' and the poor devil wishes he were dead. 
 Fact ! Lots of 'em, I tell you ! We're not the 
 only ones." 
 
 " Of course we're not," said Dennison. " I 
 never supposed we were. But we are Three — and
 
 u 
 
 XTbree Wise ZlDen of (Botbam" 113 
 
 three of us can show an example to the others. 
 We will give these women a lesson, my boys ! — a 
 lesson they'll never forget. Have you made up 
 your minds ? " 
 
 " / have ! " said Fairfax determinedly. et And 
 I know Adair will be with me — why, he and 
 I were married on the same day, weren't we, 
 Frank?" 
 
 Frank smiled mournfully. 
 
 "Yes, and didn't the girls look pretty then — 
 your Belle and my Laura ! " 
 
 "Ah! who would have thought it!' sighed 
 Fairfax. " Why my wife was the simplest soul 
 that ever lived then — happy as a bird, full of life 
 and fun, no nonsense of any sort in her head ; 
 and as for dogs — well, she liked them, of course, 
 but she didn't worship them ; she didn't belong to 
 the Ladies' Kennel Association, or any other asso- 
 ciation, and she didn't worry herself about prizes 
 and exhibitions. Now it's all dogs — dogs and 
 horses ; and as for that little beast Bibi, who has 
 taken more medals than a fighting general, I 
 believe she loves it better than her own boys. 
 It's a horrible craze for a woman to be doggy" 
 
 " It's not so bad as being Pioneery," said Adair, 
 rousing himself up at this part of the conver- 
 sation. " Your wife's a very pretty woman, 
 
 George, and a clever one, but my wife — well " 
 
 8
 
 n4 "TOree Misc /Ifeen of Gotfoam" 
 
 He broke off and waved his hand in a descriptive 
 fashion. 
 
 " Yes, I admit it," said Fairfax respectfully. 
 " Your wife is lovely — a really beautiful creature ; 
 no one can deny it." 
 
 " That being the case," continued Adair, 
 " what do you suppose she can want with thj 
 Pioneers ? " 
 
 The other two Wise Men shook their heads 
 desperately. 
 
 " Only yesterday," resumed Adair, " I went 
 home quite unexpectedly in time for afternoon tea. 
 She was in the drawing-room, wearing a new tea- 
 gown and looking charming. c Oh ! ' said she, 
 with a cool smile, l you home ! At this hour ! 
 How strange ! Have some tea ? ' And nothing 
 more. Presently in came a gaunt woman — short 
 hair, skimped skirt, and man's coat. Up jumps 
 Laura, hugs her, kisses her, cries ' Oh, you dear 
 thing ! How sweet of you to come ! ' She was 
 a Pioneer — and she got kissed. / had no kiss. I 
 was not called a ' dear thing.' I've got short hair 
 and a man's coat, but it doesn't go down some- 
 how, on me. It used to, before we were married ; 
 but it doesn't now." 
 
 " Stop a bit ! " interposed Dennison suddenly 
 and almost fiercely. " Think of me I I've been 
 married longer than either of you, and I know a
 
 "Zftvcc Wise flfoen of eotfoam" 115 
 
 thing or two ! Talk of fads ! my wife goes in for 
 them all ! She's mad on 'em ! Wherever there's 
 a faddist, you'll find her. Whether it's the Anti- 
 Corset League, or the Nourishing Bread Society, 
 or the Social Reformation Body, or anything else 
 you like to think of — she's in it. I've got 
 nothing to say against her intentions ; she means 
 well, too well, all round ; but she is so absorbed in 
 her ' meetings,' and ' councils,' and ' boards,' and 
 what not, that I assure you she forgets me entirely 
 — I don't believe she realises my existence ! 
 When I go home of an evening she hands me the 
 papers and magazines with an amiably provoking 
 smile, as if she thought the damned news was all 
 I could possibly want ; then she goes to her desk 
 and writes letters — scratch, scratch all the time. 
 She never gives me a word ; and as for a kiss ! ' 
 — here he gave an angry laugh — " God bless my 
 soul ! she never thinks of it ! " 
 
 " I expect," said George Fairfax seriously, " we 
 are too old-fashioned in our notions, Dennison. 
 Lots of fellows would go and console themselves 
 with other women." 
 
 " Of course they would," retorted Dennison. 
 " There are plenty of dirty cads about who act 
 that way. And I believe, as it is, we don't get 
 much credit for keeping clean. I daresay our 
 wives think we are as bad as we might be.''
 
 n6 "Zhvee liaise /Iften of <5otfoam" 
 
 " They've no cause to," said Adair quietly. 
 " And if I had any suspicion that Laura enter- 
 tained a low opinion of me, I should take the 
 liberty of giving her a piece of my mind." 
 
 Fairfax and Dennison looked at him, gravely at 
 first ; then they laughed. 
 
 " A piece of your mind," echoed Dennison. 
 "I think I know what it would amount to ; just a 
 ' By Jove ! too bad ! ' and you would go to 
 smoke and think it over. No ; we cannot offer 
 ' pieces of our minds ' to our spouses on any 
 subject whatsoever, because, you see, we cannot 
 bring any actual cause of complaint against them. 
 They are good women " 
 
 His friends nodded. 
 
 " Good-looking women " 
 
 More nods. 
 
 " And clever women." 
 
 " Yes ! " sighed Adair. " That's the worst of 
 it. If they had only been stupid " 
 
 " They would have been dull ! " interposed 
 Fairfax. 
 
 " And they might have grown fat," murmured 
 Adair, with a shudder. 
 
 " Well," went on Dennison, " they are not 
 stupid, they are not dull, and they are not fat. 
 We have agreed that they are good, good- 
 looking, and clever. Yet, with these three
 
 "XTbree Mise /Ifcen of ©otbam" 117 
 
 qualities, something is wrong with them. What 
 is it r 
 
 " I know," said Adair. " It is want of heart." 
 
 " Indifference to home and home-affections," 
 said Fairfax sternly. 
 
 " All comprised in one glaring fault," declared 
 Dennison ; " a fault that entirely spoils the natural 
 sweetness of their original dispositions. It is the 
 want of proper respect and reverence for Us ; for 
 Us as men ; for Us as husbands ! " 
 
 Nothing could have been more majestically 
 grandiloquent than Dennison's manner while mak- 
 ing this statement, and his two friends gazed 
 admiringly at him in speechless approval. 
 
 " This state of things," he went on, " must be 
 remedied. All the unloved, miserable, hysterical 
 women who have lately taken to cackling about 
 their rights and wrongs, are doing it, I believe, 
 out of sheer malice and envy, in an effort to make 
 happy wives discontented. The upheaval and rend- 
 ing of home-affections must be stopped. Our 
 wives, for example, appear to have no conception 
 of our admiration and affection for them " 
 
 " Perhaps," interposed Fairfax, " they think that 
 we have no conception of their admiration and 
 affection for us ! " 
 
 "Oh! I say, that won't do, old fellow," mur- 
 mured Adair. " Admiration for us is no go !
 
 u8 "Uhxcc Wise /Ifcen of Ootbam" 
 
 You don't suppose Laura, for instance, admires 
 me ? Not much ; though I believe she used to. 
 Of course Mrs. Fairfax may admire you " 
 
 Here a faint smile began to play about his 
 mouth, which widened into an open laugh as he 
 surveyed Fairfax's broad, good-natured counte- 
 nance — a laugh in which Fairfax himself joined so 
 heartily that the water came into his eyes. 
 
 "No ; of course it's ridiculous," he said, re- 
 covering himself at last. " She couldn't admire 
 me. She's too pretty herself. All she sees is a 
 red-faced man coming home punctually to dinner. 
 However, she admires Bibi." 
 
 " Bother admiration," struck in Dennison 
 sharply. " I didn't suggest that our wives should 
 admire us ; I said that they should reverence and 
 respect us; and I also said I thought they 
 appeared to be quite indifferent to the admiration 
 and affection we have for them." 
 
 " That's true ! " said Fairfax gloomily. " It's a 
 positive fact." 
 
 " Well then," went on Dennison, " as they 
 don't seem to want us, let's clear out." 
 
 " Agreed ! " said Adair. " Gold coast and 
 fever for me ! " 
 
 " Same for me," said Fairfax. " I don't want a 
 healthy climate ! " 
 
 " All right. I'll see to that ! " And Dennison
 
 "XTbree Wise /llbeit of Ootfoam" "9 
 
 stood up, smiling a grim smile. " We'll take the 
 worst part of the coast, where even the natives 
 die ! Of course I shall tell my wife where I am 
 going:' 
 
 This with dreadful emphasis. 
 
 " And I shall tell mine," said Fairfax. 
 
 " And I mine," sighed Adair. 
 
 " Now come and look at the maps and the days 
 of sailing," went on Dennison. " We can easily 
 start in a fortnight." 
 
 They left the smoking-room for the reading- 
 room, and were soon absorbed in the discussion of 
 their plans. 
 
 That evening, when Adair went home, he 
 found his wife dressed for a party, and looking 
 radiantly youthful and lovely. 
 
 " Going out somewhere to-night, Laura ? ' he 
 inquired languidly, as his eyes took in every detail 
 of her graceful figure and really beautiful face. 
 
 " Yes," she replied. " Only round the corner 
 to the Jacksons\ They have an ' at home.' Will 
 you come ? " 
 
 "No, thanks," he said, as he sat down to 
 dinner. " I hate crushes." 
 
 She made no comment, but simply took her 
 place at table and smiled upon him like a benefi- 
 cent angel. He, meanwhile, was thinking within 
 himself that she was the very prettiest woman he
 
 i2o "TLforee Mise /Ifoen of Ootbam" 
 
 had ever seen ; but he considered that if he ven- 
 tured to express that thought aloud she would 
 laugh t him. A husband to compliment his 
 wife ? Pooh ! the thing was unheard of ! Be- 
 sides, the butler was in the room — a civil man in 
 black, of high repute and decorous character — and 
 he would have been truly shocked had his master 
 made any remark of a personal nature during the 
 course of his attendance at dinner. When this 
 dignified retainer had departed, leaving husband 
 and wife alone to dessert, the impulse to say 
 pretty things to his better half was no longer 
 dominant in Adair's mind, so instead of a compli- 
 ment he made an announcement. 
 
 <c Laura, I am going away." 
 
 She looked at him straightly, her soft violet 
 eyes opening a little more than usual. 
 
 "Are you ? " 
 
 " Yes. I want a change," he said, keeping his 
 gaze riveted on the table-cloth, and trying to 
 work himself up to the required pitch of melo- 
 dramatic feeling, " a change from this hum-drum 
 society life where — where I am not wanted. You 
 see, I don't get enough to do here in London. 
 I'm sick of town life. I'm not necessary to you' 
 — this with a touch of bitterness. " You can do 
 the social round well enough without me, and I — 
 I'm going to try roughing it for a time."
 
 "TTbree Mise /l&en of 6otbam" 121 
 
 Had he looked up that moment, he would have 
 seen his wife's face growing pale, and he might 
 also have noted that her breath came and went 
 quickly, as though she were trying to suppress 
 some strong emotion ; but he did not look — not 
 just then ; he only heard her speak, and her voice 
 was both cheerful and calm. 
 
 "What fun!" she said. "It will do you a 
 world of good ! " 
 
 He looked up this time, and his expression was 
 one of reproachful astonishment. 
 
 " Fun ! " he echoed. " Well, I don't know 
 about that. I am going to the Gold Coast with 
 Jack Dennison. It's full of fever, and even the 
 natives die. I don't suppose I shall escape scot- 
 free." 
 
 " Why do you go, then ? " she asked, with a 
 smile, rising from her chair and preparing to put 
 on her evening cloak. Adair rose also, and, 
 taking the mantle from her hands, put it round 
 her. 
 
 " Why do I go ? " he echoed, with just the 
 slightest suspicion of a tremor in his voice. 
 " Well, if you can't guess, Laura, / can't explain. 
 I couldn't be rough with you for the world, and 
 it might sound rough to say that I know you're 
 sick of me, and that I'm better out of your way 
 for a time. Married people ought to separate
 
 i22 "Tflbree Wise flfoen of aotbam" 
 
 occasionally ; it's quite natural you should get 
 bored seeing me every day of your life. You 
 wouldn't take to the ' Pioneers ' if you weren't in 
 need of a change of some sort from the monotony 
 of my company. If I go off to Africa, I shall 
 have the pleasure of hoping you'll be glad to see 
 me back. It'll give you time to be glad. At 
 present you can't be glad, because you see too 
 much of me. You don't mind my going ? " 
 
 " Not in the least ! ' she answered, and to his 
 secret indignation he fancied he saw almost a 
 laugh in her eyes. " I think it will be jolly for 
 you. And Jack Dennison is going, is he ? ' : 
 
 " Yes ; and George Fairfax." 
 
 " Really ! How nice ! You three v/ere always 
 such good chums. I expect you'll have a per- 
 fectly lovely trip. When are you thinking of 
 starting ? " 
 
 " In a fortnight." 
 
 " Delightful ! We must have a little dinner- 
 party before you go to wish you all luck ! I hope 
 you mean to bring me some nuggets and any 
 amount of queer necklaces and bracelets and bar- 
 baric ornaments. Ta-ta for the present ! I must 
 be off or I shall be late at the Jacksons'. Don't 
 sit up for me!" 
 
 She floated gracefully out of the room like a 
 sylph on wings, giving him a dazzling smile as
 
 "TTforce Mise /n>en of ©otbam" 123 
 
 she went. When she had quite disappeared he 
 flung himself into a chair and said, " Damn it ! ' 
 very gently. Then he lit a big cigar, and medi- 
 tated. 
 
 " She doesn't care a bit ! ' he reflected. " That 
 hint about even the natives dying didn't affect her 
 in the least. She is quite callous. Ah ! this is 
 what comes of social faddists and problemists, and 
 the artificial ' tone ' at which life is taken nowa- 
 days. All humbug and sham, and no time for 
 sentiment. Love ? — pooh ! — that's over and done 
 with ; there's no such thing. Upon my life, I 
 believe if I were dead, Laura would only squeeze 
 a couple of tears out of those pretty eyes of hers, 
 and then set about considering the newest fashions 
 for mourning." 
 
 While he sat thus absorbed in solitary musings 
 of a sufficiently dreary and despondent character, 
 his friend George Fairfax had likewise gone home 
 to dinner, and had, in quite another sort of 
 fashion, broken the news of his intended departure 
 to his wife, an exceedingly pretty, lively little 
 woman, with a quantity of fair hair and dancing, 
 laughing, roguish blue eyes. 
 
 " Well, I sha'n't be here for the Dog Show ! ' 
 he remarked abruptly, shooting out the words with 
 fierce emphasis, and casting an indignant glance at 
 a tiny Yorkshire ' toy ' terrier that was curled up
 
 i24 "Xlbree Mise ZlDen ot Gotbam" 
 
 in its mistress's lap like a ball of fine spun silk. 
 " I shall be thousands of miles away. And if you 
 want to 'wire' me any of Bibi's triumphs you'll 
 find it expensive." 
 
 " Really ! " and Mrs. Fairfax looked up sweetly, 
 stroking her pet the while. " Why, where are 
 you going ? " 
 
 " To Africa ! ' replied her husband solemnly. 
 " To the Gold Coast — to the worst part, where 
 fever rages, and where even the natives die." 
 
 He pronounced, the last words with particular 
 emphasis. But she remained perfectly placid : she 
 only bent over Bibi, and murmured with an 
 ecstatic chuckle, " Oh, zoo ducky 'ittle sing ! " 
 
 George stared very hard at her without pro- 
 ducing any impression, and in a deeply injured 
 tone he resumed : " Yes ; I am going out with 
 Jack Dennison. I find it necessary ; in fact, im- 
 perative, to go " 
 
 " Ah, yes, agricultural affairs are in a bad way!" 
 she said sympathetically. <c Do you know, I 
 thought you would have losses this year on the 
 lands — rentals are going down so much, and 
 everything is so hopeless for the farmers ; I 
 really think you are wise to try and recuperate. 
 I suppose Dennison has got a mine or some- 
 thing ? " 
 
 He favoured her with a look that was meant to
 
 "TTbree Mise /Iften of <3otfoam" 125 
 
 be scornful, but which only succeeded in being 
 plaintive. 
 
 " You mistake the position, Belle," he said, with 
 severe politeness. " I have had no losses, I do not 
 need to recuperate, and Dennison has no mine. I 
 am going because I wish to go ; because, as I have 
 had occasion to mention to you before, I do not 
 appear to be wanted here. You are too much 
 absorbed in — in your ' kennel ' duties to attend to 
 me;" and here he gave vent to what he considered 
 a culminating burst of sarcasm. " Yes, I feel in 
 the dog's way. The dog is master here — I am not. 
 You have several dogs, I know ; but the dog, the 
 one I mean at present in your lap, is the chief 
 object of your consideration, tenderness, and in- 
 terest. He always takes prizes ; he deserves atten- 
 tion. I do not take prizes ; I cannot compete with 
 him. Therefore I am going away for a change — a 
 change from society and dog shows. It will do 
 me good to grapple with danger and death " — here 
 he looked as tragic as his amiable round face 
 would allow him — " and when I return home 
 again, after many adventures, you will be glad, 
 perhaps, to see me." 
 
 His wife's eyes twinkled prettily, like sapphires, 
 as she surveyed him. 
 
 " Of course I shall be glad," she said frankly ; 
 " but I quite agree with you in thinking that the
 
 i26 "ZTbree Wise /iDcn of (Sotbam" 
 
 trip will do you all the good in the world. I 
 have thought for some time that you've been a 
 little out of sorts — a trifle hypochondriacal — or a 
 touch of the spleen ; because you say such funny 
 things." (" Funny things ? ' George was speech- 
 less.) " And Dennison will make a splendid 
 travelling companion. When do you go? ' 
 
 " In a fortnight," he answered feebly, utterly 
 bewildered at her cool way of taking what he 
 thought would prove a startling and fulminating 
 announcement. 
 
 " Oh, then I must see to your flannel shirts," 
 she observed. " They wear flannel next to the 
 skin as a preventive of fever in Africa." 
 
 " Ah ! there's no preventive against that fever," 
 he muttered morosely, adding almost under his 
 breath, " Even the natives die ! " 
 
 " Oh, I should think quinine and flannel would 
 be useful," she responded cheerfully. " The 
 natives don't know how to take care of them- 
 selves, poor things ! Englishmen do. I sha'n't 
 be a bit anxious about you." 
 
 " Won't you ? No, I don't suppose you will ; " 
 and Fairfax began to feel rather snappish. " It 
 isn't as if I were Bibi. Adair is going, too." 
 
 " Is he really ? Can he bear to leave his lovely 
 Laura ? " 
 
 "His lovely Laura will get on very well
 
 "Ubree Mise /iDen of Ootbam" 127 
 
 without him, I dare say," retorted Fairfax. 
 " By the time he comes back she'll very likely 
 be in knicker-bockers, playing football with the 
 Pioneers ! " 
 
 With this parting shot he marched out of the 
 room in haste, disappointed and indignant at his 
 wife's indifference. She, left alone, lay back in 
 her chair and indulged in a hearty laugh, which 
 had the effect of rousing the pampered ' Bibi ' to 
 such a pitch of wonder that he found it necessary 
 to rise on his hind legs and apply his cold, wet 
 nose to his mistress's chin with a mild sniff of 
 inquiry. She caught the pretty little animal up in 
 her arms and kissed its silky head,, still laughing 
 and murmuring, " Oh, Bibi ! men are funny 
 creatures ! — ever so much funnier than dogs ! 
 You can't imagine how nice and funny they 
 are, Bibi ! " 
 
 After a while she became serious, though her 
 eyes still danced with mirth. Putting her little 
 dog down, she began to count on her fingers. 
 
 ' c In a fortnight — well, I must see Laura, and 
 find out what she thinks about it. Then we'll 
 both go and consult Mrs. Dennison. The boys 
 are at school — so that's all right. I wonder what 
 the steamer is ? We can easily find out. Dear 
 old George ! what a silly he is ! And John 
 Dennison and Frank Adair are equally silly — three
 
 i28 "TOree Wiisc /H>en of <5otbam" 
 
 of the dearest old noodles that ever lived ! I must 
 see Laura to-morrow." 
 
 Meanwhile a conversation more or less similar 
 had taken place between Mr. and Mrs. Dennison. 
 John was a man of action, and prided himself on 
 the swift (and obstinate) manner in which he 
 invariably made up his mind. His wife did not 
 consider herself behind him in resolution ; she was 
 a handsome woman of about thirty-eight, with a 
 bright expression and a frank, sweet smile of her 
 own which proved very attractive to her friends, 
 who came to her with all their troubles, and gave 
 her their unbounded confidence. She was active, 
 strong, and energetic, and never wasted a moment 
 in useless argument ; so that when her husband 
 said, quite suddenly, " I am going to Africa," she 
 accepted the statement calmly as a settled thing, 
 and merely inquired, — 
 
 "When?" 
 
 He eyed her severely. 
 
 " In a fortnight," he answered, jerking out his 
 words like so many clicks of a toy-pistol. " Gold 
 Coast. Bad place for fever. Even the natives 
 die." 
 
 Mrs. Dennison's tender heart was touched at 
 once, but, as her husband thought, in quite the 
 wrong way. 
 
 " Poor things ! " she said pityingly ; " I dare
 
 "XTbree Mise ZlDcn of Gotbam" 129 
 
 say their notions of medicine are very primitive. 
 You must take a double quantity of quinine with 
 you, John, dear, and you may be able to save 
 many lives." 
 
 He stared at her, his face reddening visibly. 
 
 " God bless my soul, Mary, I shall have enough 
 to do in taking care of my own life," he snapped 
 out, " without bothering after the natives. You 
 don't seem to think of that ! " 
 
 " Oh, yes, I do," responded Mary, very tran- 
 quilly. " But you are a strong, healthy man, 
 John, and very sensible ; you know how to look 
 after yourself — no one better ; and I should in- 
 deed be silly if I felt any anxiety about you. May 
 I ask what you are going to the Gold Coast for ? 
 or is it a secret ? " 
 
 Now, John Dennison was, on the whole, a good 
 fellow ; honest, honourable, and true to the heart's 
 core ; but with all his virtues he had a temper, 
 and he showed it just then. 
 
 " No, it is not a secret, madam ! " he burst 
 forth, trembling from head to foot with the 
 violence of his emotions. " If I were to speak 
 quite plainly, I should say the reason of my going 
 is an open scandal ! Yes, that is what it is ! Oh, 
 you may look at me as if you thought me a trou- 
 blesome lunatic — you have that irritating way, you 
 know — but I mean it. I may as well be a 
 
 9
 
 130 "Ubree Mise /n>en of ©otbam" 
 
 wanderer and a vagabond on the face of the earth, 
 for I have no home. What should be my home is 
 turned into a meeting-place for all the crack- 
 brained faddists in London, who form ' societies ' 
 for want of anything better or more useful to do. 
 It may be very interesting to talk and make 
 speeches about the necessity of feeding the people 
 on nourishing bread instead of non-nourishing 
 alum stuff, but it has nothing to do with Me ! I 
 don't personally care what the people eat, or what 
 they don't eat. I ought to care, I suppose, but 
 I don't ! When I was a hard-working lad, I ate 
 what I could get, and was thankful ; no nice ladies 
 and gentlemen met in drawing-rooms to assert that 
 I was badly fed, and that I ought to be looked 
 after more tenderly. ' Fads ' were not in fashion 
 then ; people fought for themselves manfully, as 
 they should do, and came up or went down 
 according to their own capabilities ; and there 
 wasn't all this cosseting and coddling of the silly 
 and incompetent. It is quite ridiculous that in an 
 age like ours a ' society ' should be formed for 
 the purpose of teaching the majority what sort of 
 bread to eat. By the Lord Harry ! if they're 
 such confounded idiots that they can't distinguish 
 between good bread and bad, they deserve to 
 starve. Even the dullest donkey knows the differ- 
 ence between a real turnip and a sham one. I've
 
 "Qhvee Wise ffl>cn of 6otbam" 131 
 
 given you my opinion on these sort of subjects 
 before. I'm against all ' Leagues ' and ' Bodies ' 
 and ' Working Committees.' I hate them. You 
 like them. That's where we differ. Tom, in your 
 Anti-Corset League, want to make girls give up 
 tight-lacing ; now, / say, let them tight-lace till 
 they split in half, if they like it ; there'll only be 
 so many feminine fools the less in the world. 
 And as for the ' Social Reformation ' business — 
 pah ! that's not fit for a decent woman to meddle 
 with. If women would only begin to ' reform ' 
 themselves, and make their husbands happy, 
 society might be purified' to a great extent ; but so 
 long as households are looked upon as a nuisance, 
 husbands a bore, and children a curse, nothing but 
 misery can come of it. And the reason I am 
 going away is this — that I do not feel myself the 
 master of my own house ; there are too many 
 * Committees ' accustomed to meet in it at their 
 own discretion ; your time is entirely taken up 
 with laudable efforts to improve the community " 
 — here he indulged in a mild sneer — " so much so 
 that I have become nothing but an unnecessary 
 appendage to the importance of your position. 
 Now " — and he grew fierce again — " I do not 
 choose to play second fiddle to any one, least of 
 all to my own wife. So I shall clear out and 
 leave you to it. George Fairfax and Frank Adair
 
 132 "Zbtce Wise /Iften of 6otbam" 
 
 feel the domestic wretchedness of their positions as 
 keenly as I do, and they are going out to the Gold 
 Coast with me. I shall provide you amply with 
 means — and they will do the same on behalf of 
 their wives — and we shall be absent for a consid- 
 erable time. In fact, who knows whether we may 
 ever come back at all ? " — here his voice became 
 sepulchral. " Fortunately, our wills are made ! ' 
 
 He ceased. Throughout his somewhat lengthy 
 tirade, his wife had sat quite still, patiently listen- 
 ing, her hands reposefully folded over a book on 
 her knee, her eyes regarding him with a clear 
 steadfastness in which there was a soft lurking 
 gleam of something like compassion. Now that 
 he had finished what he had to say she spoke, in 
 gentle deliberate accents. 
 
 " I am to understand then, my poor John," she 
 said, almost maternally, " that you are leaving 
 home on account of your dislike to the way I try 
 to employ myself (very ineffectually I admit) in 
 doing good to others ? " 
 
 He gave a short nod of assent and turned his 
 eyes away from her. It rather troubled him to 
 be called ' my poor John ! ' 
 
 " And Mr. Adair finds equal fault with his 
 beautiful girl-wife Laura ! " 
 
 " Poor Adair has equal reason to find fault," 
 was the stern reply. " A man may very well
 
 "XTbree Mise /Ifcen of 6otbam" 133 
 
 become crusty when he finds the woman he loves 
 to adoration deliberately rejecting his affection for 
 that of a Pioneer ! " 
 
 A curious little trembling appeared to affect 
 Mrs. Dennison's full white throat, suggestive of 
 a rising bubble of laughter that was instantly 
 suppressed. 
 
 " Mr. Fairfax, you say, is going also ? " she 
 murmured gently. 
 
 " He is. Not having the necessary qualifications 
 for a dog-trainer, he is not required in his home," 
 replied her husband with intense bitterness. 
 " Dogs now occupy Mrs. Fairfax's whole time, to 
 the total exclusion of her domestic duties." 
 
 Mrs. Dennison was silent for a little while, 
 thinking. Then she put the book she held care- 
 fully down on a side-table, and rose in all her 
 stately height and elegance, looking the very beau 
 ideal of a handsome English matron. Crossing 
 over to where her husband stood, she laid her 
 plump pretty hand, sparkling with rings, tenderly 
 on his bald spot, and said in the sweetest of 
 voices ; — 
 
 " Well, John, dear, all I can say is that I am 
 delighted you are going ! It will do you good ; in 
 fact, it's the very best thing possible for all three 
 of you. I think you've all been too comfortable 
 and lazy for a long time ; a voyage to the Gold
 
 i34 "Zhxcc Mtee /l&en of Ootbam" 
 
 Coast will be the very tonic you require. Of 
 course I'm sorry you've no sympathy with me in 
 my humble efforts to do a little useful work among 
 my fellow-women during my leisure days and 
 while the children are at school, but I don't blame 
 you a bit. Of course you have your ideas of life 
 just as I have mine, and there's no need for us to 
 be rude to each other or quarrel about it. An 
 ocean-trip will be just splendid for you. I'll see 
 to your things. I know pretty well what you will 
 want in Africa. I fitted out a poor fellow only 
 the other day, who was convicted of his first theft ; 
 the gentleman he robbed wouldn't prosecute, 
 because of the sad circumstances. It's too long a 
 story to tell now, but we got him a place out in 
 Africa with a kind farmer, and I fitted him out. 
 So I know just the kind of flannels and things 
 required." 
 
 "Exactly!" said Dennison, quivering and snort- 
 ing with repressed wrath and pain. " Fit me out 
 like a convicted thief ! Nothing could be better ! 
 Suit me down to the ground ! " 
 
 His wife looked at him with that kind maternal 
 air of hers and laughed. She had a very musical 
 laugh. 
 
 " Oh, you dear old boy ! " she said cheerfully. 
 "You must always have your little joke, you 
 know ! "
 
 "TTbree Wise /Ifoen of 0otbam" 135 
 
 And with that she moved in a queen-like way 
 across the room, and out of it. 
 
 Left alone, John sank into a chair and wiped 
 his fevered brow. 
 
 " Was there ever such a woman ! ' he groaned 
 within himself despairingly. " To think that she 
 once loved me ! and now — now she takes my 
 going to a malarial climate as coolly as if it were a 
 mere trip across Channel and back ! What a 
 heart of stone ! These handsome women (she is 
 a handsome woman) are as impervious to all senti- 
 ment as — as icebergs ! And as for tact, she has 
 none. Fancy bringing that convicted thief into 
 the conversation ! Almost as if she thought I 
 resembled him ! Oh, the sooner I'm out of 
 England the better! I'll lose myself in Africa, 
 and she can get up an ' Exploration Fund ' with 
 a working committee, and pretend to try and find 
 me. And then when she hasn't found me, she can 
 write a book of adventure (made up at home) 
 entitled How I Found my Husband. That's the 
 way reputations are made nowadays, and by the 
 Lord Harry, what devilish humbug it all is ! ' 
 
 Plunging his hands deep in his pockets he sat 
 and stared at the pattern of the carpet in solitary 
 reverie, angrily conscious, through all his musings, 
 of having ' felt small ' in the presence of his wife, 
 inasmuch as throughout their conversation she had
 
 136 "Zftvcc Mfse /Ifoen ot Ootbam" 
 
 maintained her wonted composure and grace, and 
 he, though of the ' superior ' sex, had been unwise 
 enough to lose his temper. 
 
 Two or three days later Mrs. Dennison, Mrs. 
 Fairfax, and Mrs. Adair had what they called ' a 
 quiet tea.' They spent the whole afternoon 
 together, shut up in Mrs. Adair's elegant little 
 boudoir, and spoke in low voices like conspirators. 
 The only witness of their conference was Bibi, 
 who took no interest whatever in their -conver- 
 sation, he being entirely absorbed in the contem- 
 plation of a tiger-skin rug which had a stuffed and 
 very life-like head. Desiring, yet fearing, to 
 spring at the open throat and glittering teeth of 
 this dreadfully-alive looking beast, Bibi occupied 
 his time in making short runs and doubtful barks 
 at it, and quite ignored the occasional ripples of 
 soft and smothered laughter that escaped from the 
 three fair ones seated round the tea-table, because 
 he thought, in his ' prize-terrier ' importance, that 
 their amusement was merely derived from watch- 
 ing his cleverness. It never entered into his head 
 that there could be any other subject in the world 
 so entertaining and delightful as himself. So he 
 continued his dead-tiger hunt, and the ladies 
 continued their causerie, till the tiny Louis Seize 
 clock on the mantelpiece tinkled a silvery warning
 
 "ZTbree TKRtse flfccn of Ootbam" 137 
 
 that it was time to break up the mysterious 
 debate. 
 
 " You're quite agreed then ? " said Mrs. Denni- 
 son, as she rose and drew her mantle round her in 
 readiness to depart. 
 
 ic Quite ! ' ' exclaimed Laura Adair, clasping her 
 hands in ecstasy. " It will be glorious ! ' 
 
 " Simply magnificent ! "' echoed Belle Fairfax, 
 with rapture sparkling in her blue eyes ; then 
 suddenly perceiving her Liliputian dog nigh upon 
 actually getting bodily into the elaborately- 
 modelled throat of the tiger-head, she caught him 
 up, murmuring, " Zoo naughty sing ! zoo sail go 
 too ; rocky-pocky, uppy-downy, jiggamaree ! ' 
 
 " Good heavens, Belle," cried Mrs. Dennison, 
 putting up her hands to her ears in affected horror, 
 " no wonder your husband complains if he hears 
 you talk such rubbish to that little monster ! " 
 
 " He isn't a monster ! " protested Belle indig- 
 nantly. " You can't say it ; you daren't ! Just 
 look at him ! " 
 
 And she held Bibi up, sitting gravely on his 
 haunches in one little palm of her hand. He 
 looked so absurdly small and quaint, and withal 
 had such a loving, clever, bright, wee face of his 
 own, that Mrs. Dennison relented. 
 
 " Positively he is a darling ! " she said ; " I'm 
 bound to admit it. Landseer might have raved
 
 i33 "ZTbree Wise /Ifoen of Gotbarn" 
 
 over him. No wonder your husband's jealous of 
 him ! " 
 
 All three ladies laughed gaily, though Laura 
 had something like tears in her beautiful eyes. 
 
 " I think," she said softly, " that as far as I am 
 concerned, Frank may have a little cause to feel 
 himself neglected. You see when one goes very 
 much into society, as I do, one falls unconsciously 
 into society's ways, and one gets ashamed of 
 showing too decided a liking for one's own hus- 
 band. It is a false shame, of course, but there it 
 is. And I am really so deeply in love with 
 Frank, that when we were first married, people 
 remarked it, and other women made fun of me, 
 and then — then I joined the Pioneers out of a silly 
 notion of self-defence. The Pioneers, you know, 
 are all against husbands and the tyrannies of 
 men generally — even the loving tyrannies ; and I 
 thought if I was a Pioneer nobody would tease me 
 any more for being too fond of my own husband. 
 It was very stupid of me, yet when I once got 
 among them I felt so sorry for them all ; they 
 seemed to have such topsy-turvy notions of mar- 
 riage and life generally, that I set myself to try 
 and cheer up some of the loneliest and most 
 embittered of the members, and do you know I 
 have succeeded in making a few of them happier, 
 but Frank sees it in the wrong light "
 
 "ZTbree Wise flfcen of 6otbam" 139 
 
 She stopped, and Belle Fairfax kissed her 
 enthusiastically. 
 
 " You are a dear ! " she declared. " The 
 prettiest and sweetest woman alive ! The upshot 
 of it all is, that if we have made mistakes with the 
 dear old boys, so have they made mistakes with us, 
 and we've hit upon the best plan in the world for 
 proving how wrong they are. All we've got to 
 do now is to carry out our scheme thoroughly and 
 secretly." 
 
 ' f Leave that to me ! " said Mrs. Dennison, 
 smiling placidly ; " only you two girls be ready — 
 the rest is plain sailing." 
 
 The following week Mr. and Mrs. Dennison 
 gave a little dinner-party. The company num- 
 bered six, and were the host and hostess, Mr. and 
 Mrs. Adair, and Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax. It was a 
 f farewell ' feast ; the ladies were in high spirits, 
 the gentlemen spasmodically mirthful and anon 
 depressed. Bright Mrs. Fairfax, at dessert, made 
 a telling little speech, proposing the healths of 
 " Our Three dear Husbands ! A pleasant trip 
 and a safe return to their loving wives ! " Laura 
 smiled sweetly, and looked volumes as she kissed 
 her glass and waved it prettily to Adair. Mrs. 
 Dennison nodded smiling from the head of the 
 table to her husband sitting glumly at the foot 
 thereof, and Mrs. Fairfax openly wafted a kiss to
 
 14© "Ubree Mise flben of (Botbam" 
 
 the silent George, whose face was uncommonly 
 red, and who, moreover, had evidently lost his 
 usual excellent appetite. As a matter of fact the 
 Three Wise Men were very uncomfortable. 
 Their wives had never seemed to them so 
 perfectly fascinating, and they themselves had 
 never felt so utterly ' small ' and embarrassed. 
 However, they were all too obstinate to confess 
 their sensations one to another ; their resolve was 
 made, and there was no going back upon it 
 without, as they considered, a loss of dignity. 
 
 The days flew on with incalculable speed, and 
 the evening came at last when they all said ' good- 
 bye ' to the fair partners of their lives, and started 
 for Southampton. They had purposely arranged 
 to leave London on the evening before the steamer 
 sailed, in order that during the silence and solitude 
 of night each wife might have ample opportunity 
 for mournful meditation and the shedding of such 
 repentant tears as are supposed to befit these 
 occasions. But up to the last moment the fair ones 
 maintained their aggravating cheerfulness ; they 
 were evidently more inclined to laugh than to 
 cry, and they bade farewell to their husbands 
 " with nods and becks and wreathed smiles " suit- 
 able to festal jollity. There was no sentiment in 
 their last words either : Mrs. Dennison tripped out 
 of her house to see her husband into his hansom,
 
 "Zbtec Wise Men of Ootfoam" mi 
 
 and pitching her 'sweet soprano' in its highest 
 key cried, " Remember, your things for the 
 voyage are in the yellow portmanteau ! The 
 yellow portmanteau, mind ! Good-bye ! " 
 
 ' f Good-bye ! " growled John. Then gathering 
 himself into a heap in one corner of the cab, he 
 said, " Damn the yellow portmanteau ! " 
 
 "Good-bye, Frank, dear!" Laura Adair had 
 chirruped like some pretty tame bird, as she 
 raised herself on tip-toe to kiss her tall and 
 handsome spouse. "All I ask is, do try not to 
 get your nose sunburnt ! It is so unbecoming. 
 Such a lot of African travellers have a peeled 
 nose ! 
 
 " I'll do my best, Laura," returned Frank, with 
 melancholy resignation. " If I live, I will take 
 care of — my — nose. If I die " 
 
 " Oh, but you won't die ! ' declared Laura 
 vivaciously. " You will come home and bring 
 me heaps of nuggets." 
 
 Then the cab had driven off with him, and 
 Laura had run into the house like a wild creature 
 to cry over the chair where he had lately sat, and 
 to kiss the stump of cigar he had left in the 
 ash-tray, and roll it up in paper like a precious 
 relic. Laughing and crying together, she behaved 
 like a lunatic for about five minutes ; then be- 
 coming rapidly sensible, she murmured " Darling !
 
 i42 "Ubtxe Wise /Ifceii of 6otbam." 
 
 It will soon be all right ! " and went quietly 
 upstairs to finish something she had to do in the 
 way of packing. 
 
 George Fairfax had to kiss the dog Bibi as well 
 as his wife when he left, and his parting words 
 were gruff and husky. He loved the bright little 
 woman with the blue eyes, who stood watching 
 him off with her little toy-terrier in her arms — 
 loved her with all the tenderness of a strong man's 
 heart — and once or twice he was tempted to break 
 his promise to Dennison and throw up the whole 
 business. But he fought obstinately against his 
 rising sentiment, and said, " Ta-ta, Belle ! " as if he 
 were going to the club for an hour, and she 
 laughed, waved her hand, and said, " Ta-ta " also. 
 When he had actually gone, however, she, like her 
 friend Laura, cried and kissed things of his which 
 she found lying about ; then she, too, became 
 composed and practical, and drying her eyes, went 
 in her turn to finish something she had to do in 
 the way of packing. 
 
 Next morning the Three Wise Men stood 
 together on the deck of the great ship outward 
 bound, and mournfully watched the shores of 
 England receding rapidly from their view. They 
 had been almost the last to come on board, for 
 having carefully told their wives at what hotel in 
 Southampton a telegram would find them, they
 
 "Uforee Mise fll>en ot ©otbam" 143 
 
 had, each one secretly, hoped against hope that 
 some urgent message from home might have 
 forced them (much against their wills, of course) 
 to return in haste to London. But no such 
 i reprieve ' had been granted ; no news of any 
 kind had arrived, and so there they were — per- 
 fectly free to carry out their plans, and steaming 
 away as fast as possible from the land they held 
 dearest and fairest in all the world. They were very 
 silent, but they thought a good deal. The captain 
 of the ship, a jolly man, with a pleasant twinkle 
 in his eye, spoke to them now and then in passing, 
 and told them casually that there were several very 
 pleasant ladies among the saloon passengers. 
 They heard this with stoical indifference, verging 
 on bilious melancholy. As the English coast 
 vanished at last into a thin blue line on the edge 
 of the horizon, George Fairfax broke the ' dumb 
 spell ' by a profane c swear.' 
 
 " Damn it ! I think Belle might have wired' to 
 say good-bye ! " 
 
 " I confess I am surprised," murmured Adair 
 slowly, " that Laura never thought of it." 
 
 " Women are all alike," snapped Dennison. 
 cc Court them and they're all romance ; marry 
 them, and they're dead to feeling." And 
 grumbling inaudibly he went below. The 
 other two followed him in gloomy resignation,
 
 i44 "XTbrcc Mise /Ifocn of 6otfoain" 
 
 angry with themselves and with all their surround- 
 ings. When, later on, they took their places at 
 the dinner-table, they were so unsociable, morose, 
 and irritable, that none of the passengers cared to 
 talk to them or attempted to 'draw them out.' 
 As for the women — " I see no pretty ones," said 
 Adair. 
 
 "All old frumps!" grunted Fairfax. 
 
 "Women's rights and men's lefts!" snarled 
 Dennison. 
 
 Three seats at table were empty. 
 
 " Those three ladies who came on board early 
 this morning are dining below ? " inquired the 
 captain cheerfully of the steward. 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 Towards evening the wind freshened, and 
 presently blew a heavy gale. The waves ran high, 
 and many a bold heart began to sicken at the 
 giddy whirl of waters, the nervous plunging of 
 the ship, the shuddering of her huge bulk as she 
 slipped down into the gulfs and climbed up again 
 on the peaks of the foam- crested and furious 
 billows. Next day, and the two next after that, 
 the storm went on increasing, till, in the Bay of 
 Biscay, the clamour and confusion of the elements 
 became truly appalling. All the passengers were 
 kept below by the captain's orders. The Three 
 Wise Men lay in their berths, because it seemed
 
 "Zlbree Mise /IDenot (Sotbam " 145 
 
 better to lie there than try to stand upright, and 
 be tumbled about with the risk of breaking bones. 
 Adair, too, was grievously sea-sick, and so reduced 
 to utter mental and bodily misery, that he thought 
 nothing, knew nothing, and cared nothing, though 
 the heavens should crack. One night the wind 
 sank suddenly, the waves continued to run into 
 high hills and deep hollows with dizzy pertinacity; 
 but there was a comparative calm, and with the 
 calm came a blinding close grey sea-fog. The 
 steamer's speed was slackened : the dismal fog- 
 horn blew its melancholy warning note across the 
 heaving waste of waters ; and partially soothed by 
 the deadly monotony of the sound, and the slower 
 pace at which the ship moved, all Three Wise 
 Men dropped off into a profound and peaceful 
 slumber — the deepest and most restful they had 
 enjoyed since they came on board. All at once, 
 about the middle of the night, they were startled 
 up and thrown violently from their berths by a 
 frightful shock — a huge crash and cracking of 
 timber. All the lights went out ; then came 
 roarings of men's voices, whistlings, and faint 
 shriekings of women, accompanied by the rush 
 and swirl of water. 
 
 " What's the matter ? " shouted Dennison, 
 picking himself up from the floor of his cabin. 
 
 "Collision, /should say ! " returned Adair, out 
 
 10
 
 146 "Ubree Wise /IDen of Ootbam" 
 
 of the darkness. " Get your clothes on. Where's 
 George ? " 
 
 " Here ! ' answered Fairfax. " I am standing 
 in a pool of water. Our window's smashed in — 
 the sea's pouring through the port-hole." 
 
 They threw on what clothes they could find, 
 and made the best of their way on deck, where 
 they at once learned the extent of the disaster. A 
 large foreign steamer had borne down upon their 
 vessel in the fog, making a huge rent in the hull, 
 through which the water was pouring ; and the 
 prospect of sinking within half an hour seemed 
 imminent. The foreign liner had gone on her way, 
 as usual, without stopping to learn what damage 
 she had done. All the passengers and crew were 
 assembled on deck, the former quiet and self- 
 possessed, the latter engaged in actively lowering 
 the boats ; and the captain was issuing his orders 
 with the customary coolness of a brave Englishman 
 who cares little whether his own lot be death or 
 life so long as he does his duty. 
 
 "By Jove!" exclaimed Dennison as he surveyed 
 the scene : "we're in for it ! They're beginning to 
 fill the boats ; women and children first, of course. 
 If there's no room for us, we'll have to sink or 
 swim in grim earnest ! " 
 
 His two friends, Fairfax and Adair, looked on 
 at the scene for a moment in silence. What each
 
 "ftbree Mise fl&en of Gotbam" 147 
 
 man thought within himself concerning the com- 
 fortable homes they had left behind cannot here be 
 expressed — they kept their feelings to themselves, 
 and merely went forward at once to proffer their 
 assistance to the captain. 
 
 " Oh, you will take care of me, I'm sure ! ' 
 suddenly said a sweet pleading voice behind Adair, 
 while a face, fair as an angel's, shone full upon 
 him out of the storm and darkness. " I shall not 
 be at all frightened with you ! ' 
 
 Adair turned sharply round. 
 
 14 Laura ! " he gasped. 
 
 She slipped her arm through his, and smiled 
 bravely up at him. 
 
 ' f Yes, it's me ! ' she said. " You didn't sup- 
 pose I was going to part with you for such a long, 
 uncertain time, did you ? Oh no, darling ! How 
 could you think it ! Are we going to be drowned ? 
 I don't mind, if I stop with you, and you hold 
 me very tight as we go down. I'm so glad I 
 came ! " 
 
 He caught her in his arms, and kissed her with 
 the frenzied passion of a Romeo. Indeed, it 
 would have been difficult even for a Shakespeare 
 to depict the tragic tumult then raging in this 
 'modern' husband's soul — the love, joy, terror, 
 remorse, and reverence that centred round this 
 delicate and beautiful creature who loved him so
 
 148 "Zbvcc Mtse fllbcn of Ootbam" 
 
 well that she was ready to confront a horrible 
 death for his sake ! Meanwhile a little blue-eyed 
 woman was clinging to George Fairfax, sobbing 
 and laughing together. 
 
 " Oh, are we going to die ? ' she inquired 
 hysterically. " Dear George, are we going to die ? 
 Do let us keep together, and poor Bibi with us ! 
 I've brought Bibi ! " 
 
 " Heaven bless Bibi ! ' cried George fervently, 
 hugging little woman and little dog together. 
 " Oh, my darling Belle ! who would have thought 
 of seeing you here ? Why did you come ? " 
 
 " To take care of you, of course ! " she replied, 
 her blue eyes full of tears. " I didn't mean to 
 show myself till we got to that horrid place in 
 Africa, where you said the natives die of fever 
 and things. Oh dear, are we to get into boats ? 
 I won't go without you, George ; nothing shall 
 induce me ! '' 
 
 <c My dearest, women and children must go 
 first," said the unhappy George. f ' Oh, what 
 fools we were to leave England ! To think we 
 should have brought you to this ! Why, there's 
 Mrs. Dennison ! " 
 
 There she was indeed, calm, and almost smiling 
 in the midst of danger. She held her husband's 
 arm, for bluff John Dennison was completely 
 taken aback and unnerved, and made no attempt
 
 "ftbrcc Mise /I&en of Ootbam" 149 
 
 to hide the tears that filled his eyes and rolled 
 down his cheeks. 
 
 "It's all my fault," he said huskily. "If it 
 hadn't been for me, Fairfax and Adair would 
 never have started on this unlucky journey, and 
 you dear women would not have got into this 
 danger. As it is, God help us all ! I believe we 
 are doomed." 
 
 " Oh, let us hope not," answered Mrs. Denni- 
 son softly and cheerily ; " and if we are, it's not a 
 hard death if we can only keep together. Look ! 
 there's the captain beckoning us now ; come, 
 girls ! " 
 
 And how it happened none of them could ever 
 quite realise, but certain it is that within the next 
 few minutes the Three Wise Men found them- 
 selves in a small open boat, with their three wives, 
 rocking up and down in the wallowing trough of 
 the sea, the dog Bibi being the only other passen- 
 ger. Fortunately, the clearance of the living 
 freight from the sinking steamer had been effected 
 with such promptness and method, that every soul 
 on board got safely away before she began to heel 
 under, and the pale light of morning showed the 
 little fleet of boats riding high on the crests of the 
 still uproarious billows. But as the hours went 
 on, and the sun rose, these boats began to part 
 company, and by ten o'clock in the morning, the
 
 15° "Ubree TOse flben of 6otbam" 
 
 little skifF containing the Three Wise Men and 
 their fair partners was the only object visible on 
 the shining expanse of the sea. The steamer had 
 sunk. 
 
 Slowly and needfully the Three pulled at their 
 oars, and many a loving and anxious look did 
 each man cast at the soft bundled-up figures in 
 the stern, huddled together for warmth and 
 support. All three women slept, out of sheer 
 exhaustion, and the morning sunshine beamed full 
 on the sweet face of the beautiful Laura, her 
 peacefully closed eyelids making her look like 
 some dreaming saint, while the fresh wind ruffled 
 the bright uncovered locks of Belle Fairfax, whose 
 tiny dog, curled close against her breast, was not 
 asleep, but, on the contrary, was watchfully ob- 
 serving, with sharp eyes and attentively quivering 
 nose, every wave that threatened to disturb his 
 mistress's slumbers. Presently John Dennison 
 essayed a remark. 
 
 " They're too good for us." 
 
 The silence of his friends gave tacit consent. 
 Encouraged, he offered another opinion. 
 
 " If we drown we shall deserve it. We've been 
 fools." 
 
 Again silence implied agreement. Then all 
 three bent to the oars more earnestly, now and 
 then turning their heads to scan the ocean in
 
 "XCbree Wise /Iften of Gotbam" 151 
 
 search of some home-returning ship which might 
 offer them rescue. The sun rose higher and 
 higher, the great sea sank to smoothness and 
 turned to liquid gold, and at about midday Belle 
 awoke. At first she looked frightened ; but, 
 meeting her husband's fond eyes, she smiled. 
 
 " Well, we're not dead yet ! ' she said briskly. 
 " But I'm afraid we shall soon be hungry ! ' 
 
 " I'm afraid so too ! ' responded George de- 
 jectedly. 
 
 Laura sat up just then, whereupon Mrs. Den- 
 nison spoke as if she herself had not been asleep at 
 all. 
 
 " I have some biscuits and some brandy," she 
 said, in her bright clear voice. " We can hold 
 out for a little while on that." 
 
 " Of course," said Belle ; then mournfully, " If 
 the worst comes to the worst, we must eat Bibi ! ' 
 
 At this a smile came on every face. Bibi him- 
 self, always alert at the mention of his own name, 
 seemed much interested at the direful proposal ; 
 and presently, despite anxiety and danger, they all 
 laughed outright. 
 
 " I'd cut off my own hand and eat it rather 
 than eat Bibi," declared George emphatically. 
 " Besides, poor little chap, he would hardly be a 
 mouthful for a hungry man." 
 
 " Oh, but he would be better than nothing ! "
 
 152 "Ubrec Misc /Ifecn of Gotbam" 
 
 said Belle bravely, winking away the tears that 
 would come at the thought of the possible end of 
 her small favourite. " I would rather he were 
 eaten than that anybody should suffer " 
 
 As she spoke the distant heavy throbbing of 
 engines across the water was heard. Adair sprang 
 up in the boat, shading his eyes from the sun. 
 
 " Here comes a liner ! ' he cried, " bearing 
 straight down upon us, by Jove ! Here, let us 
 wave something : they're sure to see us ! ' 
 
 Quick as thought Mrs. Dennison slipped off a 
 dainty white petticoat she wore, and handed it to 
 her husband to serve as a signal of distress. Tied 
 to an oar, its lace frills fluttered to the breeze, and 
 in less time than it takes to relate they were per- 
 ceived and rescued. The vessel that took them 
 on board was bound for Southampton, and in due 
 time the Three Wise Men, with their wives and 
 Bibi, were landed on their native shore, none the 
 worse, though much the wiser, for their little ex- 
 perience. The rest of the shipwrecked passengers, 
 together with the captain and crew, were similarly 
 rescued. 
 
 About a week after their safe return to London, 
 Mr. and Mrs. Dennison gave another little dinner- 
 party. The same number sat down to table as 
 before, and the party was composed of the same 
 persons. It was a very blithe and festive gather-
 
 "TTbree Misc /Iftcn of Gotbam" 153 
 
 ing indeed, and the Three Wise Men were much 
 merrier than most wise men are supposed to be. 
 Healths were proposed of a strange and wild char- 
 acter by both the ladies and the gentlemen. 
 
 "Here's to Bibi ! " cried George Fairfax 
 enthusiastically. " Long may he hold his own as 
 the smallest and prettiest of Yorkshires ! ' 
 
 Loud applause ensued, accompanied by wild 
 yapping on the part of the toasted canine hero, 
 who, in due consideration of his having been ship- 
 wrecked and run the risk of being eaten, was on a 
 velvet cushion within kissable distance of his 
 mistress. Then Mrs. Adair got up, glass in hand. 
 
 " I beg to propose the continuance of love- 
 making between husbands and wives ! ' she said, 
 blushing divinely. " Kind words never do harm, 
 — tender nothings are more than learned some- 
 things ! Pretty courtesies save many misunder- 
 standings ; and, coupled with my toast, I will ask 
 you to drink to the womanlier and happier en- 
 lightenment of my friends the Pioneers ! ' 
 
 Amid loud clappings the toast was drunk ; and, 
 on silence being restored, John Dennison rose to 
 his feet, and, in a voice somewhat tremulous with 
 feeling, said, — 
 
 " My dear boys — Frank Adair and George 
 Fairfax, I have only one toast to propose, the only 
 one in my opinion worth proposing — our wives !
 
 154 "Ubree Mise /Ifcen of Gotbam" 
 
 The dear women who have patiently borne with 
 our humours ; who have allowed us to have our 
 own way ; who followed us in faithful devotion 
 when out of a mere fit of the spleen we left them ; 
 and who proved that they were ready and willing 
 to die with us if death had come. We imagined 
 they were faulty women — -just because they en- 
 deavoured to find some useful employment for 
 themselves while we were wasting our time at our 
 clubs and billiard-rooms ; but we have discovered 
 that the biggest fault we can accuse them of is 
 their love for us ! My boys, we don't deserve it, 
 but we may as well try to. Any man who has 
 won for himself the treasure of a good woman's 
 entire love, should do his level best to make 
 himself as worthy of it as he can. We're all 
 lucky men ; we've got three of the best women 
 alive to share our fortunes with us ; we behaved 
 like fools in leaving them, and they behaved like 
 angels in coming after us ; and now we're 
 all together again there's nothing more to say, but 
 here's to them with all our hearts. Our love to 
 them ! our devotion ! our reverence ! ' 
 
 The applause here was somewhat subdued be- 
 cause too deeply felt ; and Belle Fairfax was 
 crying a little out of sheer happiness. Mrs. 
 Dennison thought it was time to make a diversion, 
 and rose to the occasion with her usual spirit.
 
 "Uhvce Wise /Ifeen of Gotbam" 155 
 
 " John, dear ! " she said, smiling at him across 
 the table, " do you know when we were all in that 
 little boat in mid-ocean, uncertain whether we 
 should be rescued, or killed with starvation and 
 exposure, I was irresistibly reminded of the old 
 nursery jingle about the Wise Men of Gotham. 
 Do you remember it ? — 
 
 'Three wise men of Gotham 
 Went to sea in a bowl — 
 If the bowl had been stronger 
 My song might have been longer ! ' 
 
 You know, dear, you were all so like those 
 wonderful men ! You went to sea — you would go 
 to sea — in your own bowl of a theory ! Now, if 
 that bowl had been stronger, why the song might 
 
 have been longer ! As it is " 
 
 " It is finished," said John, with a smile, coming 
 round from his place and openly kissing her 
 where she sat. " And I defy any man to show me 
 a better ending ! "
 
 THE LADY WITH THE CARNATIONS. 
 
 A DREAM OR A DELUSION ? 
 
 IT was in the Louvre that I first saw her — or 
 rather her picture. Greuze painted her — so I 
 was told ; but the name of the artist scarcely 
 affected me — I was absorbed in the woman herself, 
 who looked at me from the dumb canvas with that 
 still smile on her face, and that burning cluster of 
 carnations clasped to her breast. I felt that I 
 knew her. Moreover, there was a strange attraction 
 in her eyes that held mine fascinated. It was as 
 though she said, " Stay till I have told thee all ! " 
 A faint blush tinged her cheek — one loose tress of 
 fair hair fell caressingly on her half-uncovered 
 bosom. And, surely, was I dreaming ? — or did I 
 smell the odour of carnations on the air ? I 
 started from my reverie — a slight tremor shook 
 my nerves. I turned to go. An artist carrying a 
 large easel and painting materials just then ap- 
 proached, and placing himself opposite the picture, 
 began to copy it. I watched him at work for a 
 
 156
 
 Ufoe Xao# witb tbe Carnations 157 
 
 few moments — his strokes were firm, and his eye 
 accurate ; but I knew, without waiting to observe 
 his further progress, that there was an indefinable 
 something in that pictured face that he with all 
 his skill would never be able to delineate as 
 Greuze had done — if Greuze indeed were the 
 painter, of which I did not then, and do not now, 
 feel sure. I walked slowly away. 
 
 On the threshold of the room I looked back. 
 Yes ! there it was — that fleeting, strange, appealing 
 expression that seemed mutely to call to me ; that 
 half-wild yet sweet smile that had a world of 
 unuttered pathos in it. A kind of misgiving 
 troubled me — a presentiment of evil that I could 
 not understand — and, vexed with myself for my 
 own foolish imaginings, I hastened down the broad 
 staircase that led from the picture-galleries, and 
 began to make my way out through that noble hall 
 of ancient sculpture in which stands the defiantly 
 beautiful Apollo Belvedere and the world-famous 
 Artemis. 
 
 The sun shone brilliantly ; numbers of people 
 were passing and repassing. Suddenly my 
 heart gave a violent throb, and I stopped short 
 in my walk, amazed and incredulous. Who 
 was that seated on the bench close to the Artemis, 
 reading ? Who, if not ' the Lady with the Car- 
 nations,' clad in white, her head slightly bent,
 
 158 XLhc 3iaos witb tfoe Carnations 
 
 and her hand clasping a bunch of her own 
 symbolic flowers ! Nervously I approached her. 
 As my steps echoed on the marble pavement she 
 looked up ; her grey-green eyes met mine in that 
 slow wistful smile that was so indescribably sad. 
 Confused as my thoughts were, I observed her 
 pallor, and the ethereal delicacy of her face and 
 form — she had no hat on, and her neck and 
 shoulders were uncovered. Struck by this peculi- 
 arity, I wondered if the other people who were 
 passing through the hall noticed her deshabille. 
 I looked around me inquiringly — not one passer- 
 by turned a glance in our direction ! Yet surely 
 the lady's costume was strange enough to attract 
 attention ? A chill of horror quivered through 
 me — was / the only one who saw her sitting 
 there ? 
 
 This idea was so alarming that I uttered 
 an involuntary exclamation : the next moment 
 the seat before me was empty, the strange lady 
 had gone, and nothing remained of her but — the 
 strong sweet odour of the carnations she had 
 carried ! With a sort of sickness at my heart I 
 hurried out of the Louvre, and was glad when 
 I found myself in the bright Paris streets filled 
 with eager, pressing people, all bent on their 
 different errands of business or pleasure. I entered 
 a carriage and was driven rapidly to the Grand
 
 Zhe Xaos witb tbe Carnations 159 
 
 Hotel, where I was staying with a party of 
 friends. I refrained from speaking of the curious 
 sensations that had overcome me — I did not even 
 mention the picture that had exercised so weird 
 an influence upon me. The brilliancy of the life 
 we led, the constant change and activity of our 
 movements, soon dispersed the nervous emotion I 
 had undergone ; and though sometimes the re- 
 membrance of it returned to me, I avoided dwell- 
 ing on the subject. Ten or twelve days passed, 
 and one night we all went to the Theatre Francais 
 — it was the first evening of my life that I ever 
 was in the strange position of being witness to a 
 play without either knowing its name or under- 
 standing its meaning. I could only realise one 
 thing — namely, that ' the Lady with the Carna- 
 tions ' sat in the box opposite to me, regarding 
 me fixedly. She was alone ; her costume was 
 unchanged. I addressed one of our party in a 
 low voice, — 
 
 "Do you see that girl opposite, in white, with 
 the shaded crimson carnations in her dress ? ' 
 
 My friend looked, shook her head, and re- 
 joined, — 
 
 "No ; where is she sitting ? " 
 
 " Right opposite ! " I repeated in a more 
 excited tone. " Surely you can see her ! She is 
 alone in that large box en face T
 
 160 Uhc Xaos wttfo tbe Carnations 
 
 My friend turned to me in wonder. ' c You 
 must be dreaming, my dear ! That large box is 
 perfectly empty ! " 
 
 Empty — I knew better ! But I endeavoured to 
 smile ; I said I had made a mistake — that the 
 lady I spoke of had moved — and so changed the 
 subject. But throughout the evening, though I 
 feigned to watch the stage, my eyes were con- 
 tinually turning to the place where SHE sat so 
 quietly, with her steadfast mournful gaze fixed 
 upon me. One addition to her costume she had 
 — a fan — which from the distance at which I 
 beheld it seemed to be made of very old yellow 
 lace, mounted on sticks of filigree silver. She 
 used this occasionally, waving it slowly to and fro 
 in a sort of dreamy, meditative fashion ; and ever 
 and again she smiled that pained, patient smile 
 which, though it hinted much, betrayed nothing. 
 When we rose to leave the theatre ' the Lady with 
 the Carnations ' rose also, and drawing a lace wrap 
 about her head, she disappeared. Afterwards I 
 saw her gliding through one of the outer lobbies ; 
 she looked so slight and frail and childlike, alone 
 in the pushing, brilliant crowd, that my heart 
 went out to her in a sort of fantastic tenderness. 
 " Whether she be a disembodied spirit," I mused, 
 " or an illusion called up by some disorder of my 
 own imagination, I do not know ; but she seems
 
 Ube Xaos witb tbe Carnations 161 
 
 so sad, that even were she a Dream, I pity 
 her ! " 
 
 This thought passed through my brain as in 
 company with my friends I reached the outer door 
 of the theatre. A touch on my arm startled me — 
 a little white hand clasping a cluster of carnations 
 rested there for a second — then vanished. I was 
 somewhat overcome by this new experience ; but 
 my sensations this time were not those of fear. I 
 became certain that this haunting image followed 
 me for some reason ; and I determined not to 
 give way to any foolish terror concerning it, but 
 to calmly await the course of events, that would in 
 time, I felt convinced, explain everything. 
 
 I stayed a fortnight longer in Paris without 
 seeing anything more of f the Lady with the Car- 
 nations,' except photographs of her picture in the 
 Louvre, one of which I bought — though it gave 
 but a feeble idea of the original masterpiece — and 
 then I left for Brittany. Some English friends of 
 mine, Mr. and Mrs. Fairleigh, had taken up their 
 abode in a quaint old rambling chateau near Quim- 
 perle on the coast of Finisterre, and they had 
 pressed me cordially to stay with them for a fort- 
 night — an invitation which I gladly accepted. 
 The house was built on a lofty rock overlooking 
 the sea ; the surrounding coast was eminently wild 
 and picturesque ; and on the day I arrived, there 
 
 II
 
 1 62 zix Xaog vvitb tbc Carnations 
 
 was a boisterous wind which lifted high the crests 
 of the billows and dashed them against the jutting 
 crags with grand and terrific uproar. Mrs. Fair- 
 leigh, a bright, practical woman, whose life was 
 entirely absorbed in household management, wel- 
 comed me with effusion — she and her two 
 handsome boys, Rupert and Frank, were full of 
 enthusiasm for the glories and advantages of their 
 holiday resort. 
 
 " Such a beach ! ' cried Rupert, executing a 
 sort of Indian war-dance beside me on the path. 
 
 " And such jolly walks and drives ! ' chorussed 
 his brother. 
 
 " Yes, really ! " warbled my hostess in her clear 
 gay voice. " I'm delighted we came here. And 
 the chateau is such a funny old place, full of odd 
 nooks and corners. The country people, you 
 know, are dreadfully superstitious, and they say it 
 is haunted ; but of course that's all nonsense ! 
 Though if there were a ghost, we should send you 
 to interrogate it, my dear ! " 
 
 This with a smile of good-natured irony at me. 
 I laughed. Mrs. Fairleigh was one of those 
 eminently sensible persons who had seriously 
 lectured me on a book known as " A Romance of 
 Two Worlds," as inculcating spiritualistic theories, 
 and therefore deserving condemnation. 
 
 I turned the subject.
 
 XTbe %ao\? witb tbe Carnations 163 
 
 " How long have you been here ? " I asked. 
 " Three weeks — and we haven't explored half 
 the neighbourhood yet. There are parts of the 
 house itself we don't know. Once upon a time — 
 so the villagers say — a great painter lived here. 
 Well, his studio runs the whole length of the 
 chateau, and that and some other rooms are locked 
 up. It seems they are never let to strangers. 
 Not that we want them — the place is too big for 
 us as it is." 
 
 " What was the painter's name ? " I inquired, 
 pausing as I ascended the terrace to admire the 
 grand sweep of the sea. 
 
 " Oh, I forget ! His pictures were so like 
 those of Greuze that few can tell the difference 
 
 between them — and " 
 
 I interrupted her. "Tell me," I said, with a 
 faint smile, " have you any carnations growing 
 here ?" 
 
 " Carnations ! I should think so ! The place 
 is full of them. Isn't the odour delicious ? " 
 And as we reached the highest terrace in front of 
 the chateau I saw that the garden was ablaze with 
 these brilliant scented blossoms, of every shade, 
 varying from the palest salmon pink to the deepest, 
 darkest scarlet. This time that subtle fragrance 
 was not my fancy, and I gathered a few of the 
 flowers to wear in my dress at dinner. Mr.
 
 1 64 Ube Xaop witb tbe Carnations 
 
 Fairleigh now came out to receive us, and the 
 conversation became general. 
 
 I was delighted with the interior of the house ; 
 it was so quaint, and old, and suggestive. There 
 was a dark oaken staircase, with a most curiously 
 carved and twisted balustrade — some ancient 
 tapestry still hung on the walls, — and there were 
 faded portraits of stiff ladies in ruffs, and maliciously 
 smiling knights in armour, that depressed rather 
 than decorated the dining-room. The chamber 
 assigned to me upstairs was rather bright than 
 otherwise — it fronted the sea, and was cheerfully 
 and prettily furnished. I noticed, however, that 
 it was next door to the shut-up and long-deserted 
 studio. The garden was, as Mrs. Fairleigh had 
 declared, full of carnations. I never saw so many 
 of these flowers growing in one spot. They 
 seemed to spring up everywhere, like weeds, even 
 in the most deserted and shady corners. 
 
 I had been at the chateau some three or four days, 
 and one morning I happened to be walking alone in 
 a sort of shrubbery at the back of the house, when 
 I perceived in the long dank grass at my feet a 
 large grey stone, that had evidently once stood 
 upright, but had now fallen flat, burying itself 
 partly in the earth. There was something carved 
 upon it. I stooped down, and clearing away the 
 grass and weeds, made out the words, —
 
 TTbe %ao£ witb tbe Carnations 165 
 
 " MANON 
 Cceur perfide .' " 
 Surely this was a strange inscription ! I told 
 my discovery to the Fairleighs, and we all examined 
 and re-examined the mysterious slab, without 
 being able to arrive at any satisfactory explanation 
 of its pictures. Even inquiries made among the 
 villagers failed to elicit anything save shakes of 
 the head, and. such remarks as 'Ah, Madame! si 
 on savait ! . . .' or ' Je crois bien qu'il y a une 
 histoire la ! ' 
 
 One evening we all returned to the chateau at 
 rather a later hour than usual, after a long and 
 delightful walk on the beach in the mellow 
 radiance of a glorious moon. When I went to 
 my room I had no inclination to go to bed — I was 
 wide awake, and moreover in a sort of expectant 
 frame of mind ; expectant, though I knew not 
 what I expected. 
 
 I threw my window open, leaning out and 
 looking at the moon-enchanted sea, and inhaling 
 the exquisite fragrance of the carnations wafted to 
 me on every breath of the night wind. I thought 
 of many things — the glory of life ; the large 
 benevolence of Nature ; the mystery of death ; 
 the beauty and certainty of immortality ; and then, 
 though my back was turned to the interior of my 
 room, I knew — I felt, I was no longer alone. I
 
 1 66 XLhc %aO£ witb tbc Carnations 
 
 forced myself to move round from the window ; 
 slowly but determinedly I brought myself to 
 confront whoever it was that had thus entered 
 through my locked door ; and I was scarcely 
 surprised when I saw ' the Lady with the Carna- 
 tions ' standing at a little distance from me, with 
 a most woebegone appealing expression on her 
 shadowy lovely face. I looked at her, resolved 
 not to fear her, and then brought all my will to 
 bear on unravelling the mystery of my strange 
 visitant. As I met her gaze unflinchingly she 
 made a sort of timid gesture with her hands, as 
 though she besought something. 
 
 " Why are you here ? ' I asked, in a low, clear 
 tone. " Why do you follow me ? " 
 
 Again she made that little appealing movement. 
 Her answer, soft as a child's whisper, floated 
 through the room, — 
 
 " You pitied me ! " 
 
 " Are you unhappy ? " 
 
 " Very ! ' And here she clasped her wan white 
 fingers together in a sort of agony. I was grow- 
 ing nervous, but I continued, — 
 
 " Tell, me, then, what you wish me to do ? " 
 
 She raised her eyes in passionate supplication. 
 
 " Pray for me ! No one has prayed for me 
 ever since I died — no one has pitied me for a 
 hundred years ! "
 
 TTfoe Xafcp witfo tbe Carnattcms 167 
 
 ' c How did you die ? " I asked, trying to 
 control the rapid beating of my heart. c The 
 Ladv with the Carnations ' smiled most mourn- 
 fully, and slowly unfastened the cluster of flowers 
 from her breast — there her white robe was darkly 
 stained with blood. She pointed to the stain, and 
 then replaced the flowers. I understood. 
 
 "Murdered!" I whispered, more to myself 
 than to my pale visitor — ' c murdered ! " 
 
 " No one knows, and no one prays for me ! " 
 wailed the faint sweet spirit voice — " and though 
 I an dead I cannot rest. Pray for me — I am 
 tired ! " 
 
 And her slender head drooped wearily — she 
 seemed about to vanish. I conquered my rising 
 terrors by a strong effort, and said, — 
 
 "Tell me — you must tell me" — here she raised 
 her head, and her large pensive eyes met mine 
 obediently — c ' who was your murderer ? " 
 
 " He did not mean it," she answered. " He 
 loved me. It was here " — and she raised one 
 hand and motioned towards the adjacent studio — 
 " here he drew my picture. He thought me false 
 — but I was true. ' Manon, coeur perfide ! ' Oh, 
 no, no, no ! It should be c Manon, cceur fidele ! ' ' 
 
 She paused and looked at me appealingly. 
 Again she pointed to the studio. 
 
 " Go and see ! ' she sighed. " Then you will
 
 1 68 Qhc Xaos witfo tfoe Carnations 
 
 pray — and I will never come again. Promise 
 you will pray for me — it was here he killed me — 
 and I died without a prayer." 
 
 " Where were you buried ? " I asked, in a 
 hushed voice. 
 
 " In the waves," she murmured ; " thrown in 
 the wild cold waves ; and no one knew — no one 
 ever found poor Manon ; alone and sad for a 
 hundred years, with no word said to God for 
 her ! " 
 
 Her face was so full of plaintive pathos, that I 
 could have wept. Watching her as she stood, I knelt 
 at the quaint old prie-Dieu just within my reach, 
 and prayed as she desired. Slowly, slowly, slowly 
 a rapturous light came into her eyes ; she smiled 
 and waved her hands towards me in farewell. 
 She glided backwards towards the door — and 
 her figure grew dim and indistinct. For the 
 last time she turned her now radiant countenance 
 upon me, and said in thrilling accents, — 
 
 " Write, < Manon, coeur fidele ! ' " 
 
 I cannot remember how the rest of the night 
 passed, but I know that with the early morning, 
 rousing myself from the stupor of sleep into which 
 I had fallen, I hurried to the door of the closed 
 studio. It was ajar ! I pushed it boldly open and 
 entered. The room was long and lofty, but 
 destitute of all furniture save a battered-looking,
 
 Zhc Xaop witfo tbe Carnations 169 
 
 worm-eaten easel that leaned up against the damp 
 stained wall. I approached this relic of the 
 painter's art, and examining it closely, perceived 
 the name " Manon " cut roughly yet deeply upon 
 it. Looking curiously about, I saw what had 
 nearly escaped my notice — a sort of hanging 
 cupboard, on the left-hand side of the large central 
 bay window. I tried its handle — it was unlocked, 
 and opened easily. Within it lay three things — 
 a palette, on which the blurring marks of long- 
 obliterated pigments were still faintly visible ; a 
 dagger, unsheathed, with its blade almost black 
 with rust ; and — the silver filigree sticks of a 
 fan, to which clung some mouldy shreds of yellow 
 lace. I remembered the fan c the Lady with the 
 Carnations ' had carried at the Theatre Francais, 
 and I pieced together her broken story. She had 
 been slain by her artist lover — slain in a sudden 
 fit of jealousy ere the soft colours on his picture 
 of her were yet dry — murdered in this very 
 studio ; and no doubt that hidden dagger was the 
 weapon used. Poor Manon ! Her frail body 
 had been cast from the high rock on which the 
 chateau stood " into the wild cold waves," as she or 
 her spirit had said ; and her cruel lover had 
 carried his wrath against her so far as to perpetuate 
 a slander against her by writing <c Cceur perfide " 
 on that imperishable block of stone ! Full of
 
 170 Zhc Xaop witb the Carnations 
 
 pitying thoughts I shut the cupboard, and slowly 
 left the studio, closing the door noiselessly after 
 me. 
 
 That morning as soon as I could get Mrs. 
 Fairleigh alone I told her my adventure, beginning 
 with the very first experience I had had of the 
 picture in the Louvre. Needless to say, she heard 
 me with the utmost incredulity. 
 
 " I know you, my dear ! " she said, shaking her 
 head at me wisely ; " you are full of fancies, and 
 always dreaming about the next world, as if this 
 one wasn't good enough for you. The whole 
 thing is a delusion." 
 
 " But," I persisted, " you know the studio was 
 shut and locked ; how is it that it is open now ? " 
 
 " It isn't open ! ' : ' declared Mrs. Fairleigh — 
 " though I am quite willing to believe you dreamt 
 it was." 
 
 " Come and see ! ' I exclaimed eagerly ; and I 
 took her upstairs, though she was somewhat re- 
 luctant to follow me. As I had said, the studio 
 was open. I led her in, and showed her the name 
 cut on the easel, and the hanging cupboard with 
 its contents. As these convincing proofs of my 
 story met her eyes, she shivered a little, and grew 
 rather pale. 
 
 " Come away," she said nervously — " you are 
 really too horrid ! I can't bear this sort of thing !
 
 ZTbe Xaop witb the Carnations 171 
 
 For goodness' sake, keep your ghosts to your- 
 self!" I saw she was vexed and pettish, and I 
 readily followed her out of the barren, forlorn- 
 looking room. Scarcely were we well outside the 
 door when it shut to with a sharp click. I tried 
 it — it was fast locked ! This was too much for 
 Mrs. Fairleigh. She rushed downstairs in a per- 
 fect paroxysm of terror, and when I found her in 
 the breakfast- room she declared she would not 
 stop another day in the house. I managed to 
 calm her fears, however ; but she insisted on my 
 remaining with her to brave out whatever else 
 might happen at what she persisted now in calling 
 the c haunted ' chateau, in spite of her practical 
 theories. And so I stayed on. And when we 
 left Brittany, we left altogether, without having 
 had our peace disturbed by any more manifesta- 
 tions of an unearthly nature. 
 
 One thing alone troubled me a little — I should 
 have liked to obliterate the word "pernde" from 
 that stone, and to have had " fldele " carved on it 
 instead ; but it was too deeply engraved for this. 
 However, I have seen no more of ' the Lady with 
 the Carnations.' But I know the dead need 
 praying for — and that they often suffer for lack of 
 such prayers — though I cannot pretend to explain 
 the reason why. And I know that the picture in 
 the Louvre is not a Greuze, though it is called
 
 172 Zhc Xaop vvitb tbe Carnations 
 
 one — it is the portrait of a faithful woman deeply- 
 wronged ; and her name is here written as she 
 told me to write it, — 
 
 " manon " 
 
 Cceur Fidele!
 
 AN OLD BUNDLE. 
 
 " ^* HE'S a reg'lar old bundle — she is ; more 
 
 w_} worry than she's wuth ! " 
 
 The speaker was a buxom laundress of some 
 thirty-five or forty years of age, with a plump, 
 merry face, a twinkling eye, and an all-round 
 comfortable kindly manner ; and her words, 
 though in themselves apparently harsh, were uttered 
 in such a tone of genuine, if half-playful, affection, 
 as robbed them of every suspicion of ill-humour. 
 She was ironing out some dainty articles of fem- 
 inine apparel profusely trimmed with lace, and 
 though her attention was chiefly bent on her work, 
 she glanced every now and then, with a curious 
 mingling of wearied patience and keen anxiety, to 
 the chimney-corner of her ironing-room, where, 
 in a large chair, propped up by a large pillow, sat 
 the ' old bundle ' alluded to. 
 
 " She will come in here on ironin' days ; it ain't 
 no good tryin' to prevent 'er. She can't see a bit 
 how the things is bein' done ; but she fancies she
 
 174 Bit ©l& BunMe 
 
 can, an' that's just as good for 'er. Lor', now ! 
 Look at 'er, all droopin' forward fit to break 
 'erself in two ! Here, granny ! — Hold up ! " 
 
 And thus exclaiming, she hurried to the chair, 
 and, with tender zeal, lifted the c bundle ' into a 
 better sitting posture, thereby disclosing to view 
 a little old woman with a nut-brown wrinkled face 
 like that of some well-preserved mummy. Two 
 very small, very dim eyes peered up at her as she 
 settled the pillow, and a weak wheezy voice piped 
 out — 
 
 " That's 'er ! That's my little Betty, my 
 youngest grandarter ! I knows 'er — I knows 'em 
 all — fine-grown boys an' gels, for sure ! Betty, 
 she's a good hand at frills, but she can't do 'em as I 
 could when I was a gel. Lor' ! when I was a gel 
 
 — eh, dearie, dearie me " Here the voice 
 
 sighed away into indistinct murmurings, and 
 ceased. 
 
 Her ' youngest grandarter ' looked round with a 
 matronly smile. 
 
 " That's the way old folks alius goes on," she 
 observed indulgently. " I 'xpect I'll do the same 
 if I'm ever 'er age. She's a wonderful one for 'er 
 time of life — ninety-five come Christmas. Such a 
 memory as she's got ! A bit mixed now an' then, 
 but there's a'most nothing she can't remember. 
 She was a married woman with a family before
 
 Hn ©to BunMc 175 
 
 the Queen was crowned ; an' once she was some- 
 where nigh Windsor Park an' saw the Prince o' 
 Wales carried about as a baby. Didn't ye, 
 granny ? " Here she raised her voice to something 
 between a shriek and a whistle. " Didn't ye see 
 the Prince o' Wales in long clothes ? ' 
 
 A galvanic shock appeared to go through the 
 ' old bundle,' and two skinny hands were thrust 
 forth tremblingly in the air. 
 
 <c Ay, that I did ! " wheezed the weak voice 
 again. " He wor the dearest little dear, as rosy 
 as r osy — Lor' bless his 'art ! I seed 'im on his 
 marriage-day, too — me an' my 'usband ; we were 
 a'most killed in the crowd, so we was, but I seed 
 'im, an' he smiled at me — so did the beautiful 
 princess from Denmark, she smiled, too — just 
 straight at me. It's truth I'm tellin' — both en 'em 
 smiled at me just straight an' pleasant like — it's 
 truth I'm tellin' " 
 
 " No one's doubtin' ye, granny," said the comely 
 Betty, shaking out the ethereal-looking lace petticoat 
 she had just finished, and unrolling another pre- 
 paratory for further operations. " You were a 
 fine, handsome woman still, then, worn't ye, eh ? ' 
 This with a sly wink round. 
 
 " Ah, worn't I, worn't I ? " screamed granny, 
 now becoming wildly excited. " You ask William 
 what I wor ! He'll tell ye ! He used to say,
 
 i7 6 Hn ©to Bunole 
 
 ' You'll never get old, my dear ; that's what it is 
 you'll never get old.' Where's William ? You 
 ask 'im — he's the man to talk o' my looks ; he 
 thought a deal o' them — he'll tell ye. It ain't for 
 me to praise myself" — and here an odd chuckle 
 and creak came from the chair, whereby it became 
 dimly manifest that the ' old bundle ' was laughing 
 — " it ain't for me — you fetch 'im an' ask 'im — 
 he'll tell ye " 
 
 " That's poor grandfather she's chattering about 
 now," said Betty very softly. " He's been dead 
 these twenty years." 
 
 She went on ironing, meditatively, for a few 
 minutes, and then said, — 
 
 "It's queer how some folks never get quite what 
 they want in this world. Now she " — jerking her 
 head in the c old bundle's ' direction — " she's had 
 a particular wish all 'er days, an' it's never been 
 given to 'er — now and again she do harp on it till 
 she wears a body out. In all 'er terrible long life 
 she's never seen the Queen, an' that's 'er craziness. 
 She takes it awful badly. We've tried all we 
 know to manage it for 'er, an' it seems as if there 
 was a fate against it. She could never manage 
 it for 'erself when she was well an' strong, an' now 
 it's more 'ard than ever. We took 'er with us on 
 Jubilee day, an' she began to cry at the sight of 
 the crowd, an' got nervous like ; then we took 'er
 
 an ©to SunMe 177 
 
 when the Imperial Institute was opened, an' that 
 worn't no use neither, she was too feeble to stand 
 the pushing an' scrambling. We've done our best, 
 but something alius comes in the way, so I expect 
 it's no good trying any more." 
 
 At that moment granny lifted herself up with a 
 good deal of energy and peered at the ironing- 
 board. 
 
 " What are ye doin' with them frills ? " she 
 demanded. " You ain't 'arf a hand at them. 
 When I was a gel, I could do frills fit for the 
 Queen to wear. Ah ! she must be a fine leddy, 
 the Queen of England, with 'er gold crown on 'er 
 head an' 'er great jewels on 'er breast ; an' 'er 
 grand robes all round an' about 'er, an' trailing 
 yards on the ground. Eh, dearie, dearie, dearie 
 me ! " — and she shook a sort of eldritch wail out 
 of herself — "I'll never be at peace till I see 'er — 
 never ! I've seen the Prince of Wales many a 
 time, God bless 'im ! — an' the princess — an 
 they've smiled at me — but Lor' ! the Queen is 
 like the Lord Almighty — we've got to believe in 
 'er without seein' 'er ! " 
 
 Her granddaughter looked gravely shocked. 
 
 c Lor', granny, you shouldn't talk so — it 
 sounds as blasphemous as if ye were in church," 
 she said, with a most curious irrelevance. " I'm 
 just surprised at you — a decent, God-fearing body 
 
 12
 
 178 Hit ©ID 3BunMc 
 
 like yourself. Surely there's no such need for us 
 to see the Queen ; it's enough to know that she's 
 there." 
 
 " 'Tain't ! " shrieked the c old bundle' vehe- 
 mently. " 'Tain't, I tell ye ! She's there, is she ? 
 Where ? Where is she, ye silly gel ? Don't 
 make me a fool nor yourself neither ! Where is 
 she? " 
 
 " Why, granny, in 'er palaces, for sure ! ' 
 replied Betty soothingly. 
 
 " Don't she never come out o' them palaces ? ' 
 expostulated granny, getting shriller and shriller. 
 " Don't she never take no air ? Then it's a 
 shame to the country to let 'er be stifled up an' 
 hidden away from the people who would 1 ove 
 to see 'er with 'er robes an' crown on 'er 'ead, 
 poor pretty dear ! I call it just disgraceful, I 
 do ! Get 'er out of it — yes, you tell William 
 what I say ; the country ain't got no business to 
 keep 'er shut up, first in one prison an' then another 
 — an' I tell ye, Betty, there's something very queer 
 about the way they send 'er to Scotland for such 
 a long time — 'tain't right, Betty ! — you mark my 
 words, 'tain't right ! — it's a plot to keep 'er away 
 from us, you see if it ain't ! Lor ! she's a young 
 woman yet — just lost 'er 'usband too ! it's 'ard on 
 'er to shut 'er up — it's powerful 'ard " 
 
 Here granny sank back exhausted, her withered
 
 Bn ©Ifc 3BunMe 179 
 
 head shaking to and fro involuntarily with the 
 violence of her emotions. 
 
 " Lor' ! bless 'er 'art ! " cried Betty, running 
 to her, and tenderly caressing what now truly ap- 
 peared to be nothing but a sunken heap of clothes. 
 " How she do mix up things, to be sure ! She 
 can't get 'em right nohow. She ain't forgotten 
 nothing, an' yet she can't sort 'em straight. 
 Hullo, granny ! Lord love 'er ! If she ain't 
 cryin' now ! " 
 
 " They ain't got no right," whimpered granny 
 dolefully, burying her wrinkles in her grand- 
 daughter's ample bosom, " to shut up the Queen. 
 Let us 'ave a look at her, I say — we all loves 'er, 
 and we'll 'arten 'er up a bit " 
 
 " Don't you worrit, granny," said the buxom 
 Betty consolingly. " She isn't shut up — don't you 
 think it ! She can go out whenever she likes." 
 
 " Can she ? " And the c old bundle ' lifted her 
 tear-stained, aged face, with a faint hope expressed 
 upon it. 
 
 " Ah, well, if it's the truth you're speakin,' I'm 
 glad to 'ear it. I'm glad and thankful she can 
 come out o' them palaces. But I've never seen 
 'er, an' I wish — I wish " — here came a prolonged 
 and dismal snuffle — " I wish I could see 'er with 
 my own eyes afore " — a long pause — " afore I 
 die."
 
 i8o Bn ©lb Bunole 
 
 The poor ' old bundle ' was by this time 
 completely done up, and meekly submitted to be 
 put comfortably back on her pillow, where in a 
 few minutes she was sound asleep. The kind- 
 hearted Betty resumed her ironing, and, glancing 
 up once wistfully at the interested visitor who had 
 witnessed the little scene, remarked, — 
 
 <c It do seem a pity that she can't 'ave what she 
 wants ! She won't last long ! " 
 
 The visitor agreed sympathetically, and presently 
 withdrew. 
 
 It was then the ' season ' in town, and in due 
 course it was announced in the papers that the 
 Queen would visit London on a certain day to 
 hold a special ' drawing-room,' returning to 
 Windsor the next afternoon. Betty was told of 
 this, and was also informed that if she got a bath- 
 chair for her ' old bundle,' and started early, a 
 friendly constable would see that she was properly 
 placed outside Buckingham Palace in order to view 
 the Queen as she drove by on her arrival from the 
 station, and before the carriages for the Drawing- 
 room commenced to block the thoroughfare. 
 There would, of course, be a crowd, but the 
 English crowd being the best-natured in the world, 
 and invariably kind to aged persons and little 
 children, no danger to ' Granny ' need be antici- 
 pated. The joy of the old lady, when she was
 
 Hn ©lo Bundle 181 
 
 told of the treat in store for her, was extreme, 
 though her great age and frail health made her 
 nervous, and filled her with fears lest again she 
 should be disappointed of her one desire. 
 
 " Are you sure I shall see the Queen, Betty ? " 
 she asked, twenty times a day. c< Is there no 
 mistake about it this time ? I shall really see 'er ; 
 'er own darling self? God bless 'er ! " 
 
 " Quite sure, granny ! " responded the cheery 
 Betty. " You'll be just at the Palace gates, an' 
 you can't help seeing 'er. An' I shouldn't wonder 
 if she smiled at you, like the Prince o' Wales ! " 
 
 This set the ' old bundle ' off into a fit of 
 chuckles, and kept her happy for hours. 
 
 " Like the Prince o' Wales ! ' she mumbled ; 
 then nodding to herself mysteriously : " Ah, he 
 do smile kind ! Everybody knows that. He do 
 smile ! " 
 
 The eventful morning at last arrived, ushered in 
 by the usual ' Queen's weather ' — bright sunshine 
 and cloudless skies. The ' old bundle ' was 
 wrapped up tenderly and carried into a comfortable 
 bath-chair, wheeled by an excessively sympathetic 
 man, with an extremely red face, who entered con 
 amore into the spirit of the thing. 
 
 " A rare fine old lady she be," he remarked, as 
 he fastened the leather apron across his vehicle. 
 " Ninety-five ! Lord bless me ! I hope I'll have
 
 1 82 Hn ©l& BunMe 
 
 as merry an eye as she has when I'm her age ! 
 See the Queen ? To be sure she shall ; and as 
 close as I can manage it. Come along, mother ! ' 
 And off he trotted with his charge, Betty bring- 
 ing up the rear, and enjoying to the full the fresh 
 beauty of the fine sunny spring morning. 
 
 Outside Buckingham Palace a crowd had com- 
 menced to gather, and a line of mounted soldiery 
 kept the road clear. Betty looked around anxiously. 
 Where was the friendly constable ? Ah, there 
 he was, brisk and business-like, though wearing a 
 slightly puzzled air. He joined her at once and 
 shook hands with her, then bent kindly towards 
 the aged granny. 
 
 " Lovely morning, mother," he said, patting the 
 mittened hand that lay trembling a little on the 
 apron of the bath-chair. " Do you a world of 
 good." 
 
 "Yes, yes," murmured the old woman; "an' 
 the Oueen ? " 
 
 " Oh, she's coming," returned the ' Bobby,' 
 looking about him in various directions ; "we 
 expect her every minute." 
 
 " The fact is," he added, in an aside to Betty, 
 ' c I can't rightly tell which gate of the palace Her 
 Majesty will enter by. You see, both are guarded ; 
 the crowd keeps to this one principally just about 
 where we are, so I suppose it will be this one ; but
 
 Bn ©ID JBunWe 183 
 
 I couldn't say for certain. It is generally this 
 
 one." 
 
 "Is it?" said Betty, her heart sinking a little. 
 " Shall granny be placed here then ? " 
 
 " Yes, you can wheel her as far as here ; " and he 
 designated the situation. " If the Queen drives in 
 by this gate, she will pass quite close ; if she goes 
 by the other, well — it can't be helped." 
 
 " Oh, surely she won't ! " exclaimed the sensi- 
 tive Betty. " It would be such a disappoint- 
 ment ! " 
 
 " Well, you see, Her Majesty doesn't know 
 
 that " began the constable, with an indulgent 
 
 smile. 
 
 " But the crowd is here — outside this gate," 
 persisted Betty. 
 
 " That's just why she may go in at the other,' 
 said the guardian of the peace thoughtfully. 
 " You see, the Queen can't abear a crowd." 
 
 " Not of 'er own subjects ? " asked Betty, " when 
 they love 'er so ? " 
 
 ' Bobby ' discreetly made no answer. He was 
 busy instructing the man who wheeled the bath- 
 chair to place it in a position where there would 
 be no chance of its being ordered out of the way. 
 Once installed near the Palace gates, the ' old 
 bundle ' perked her wizened head briskly out of 
 her wrappings, and gazed about her with the most
 
 1 84 Bit ©to JBnnMe 
 
 lively interest. Her aged eyes sparkled ; her poor 
 wrinkled face had a tinge of colour in it, and 
 something like an air of juvenility pervaded her 
 aspect. She was perfectly delighted with all her 
 surroundings, and the subdued murmur of the 
 patiently waiting crowd was music to her ears. 
 
 " Ain't it a lovely day, Betty ? " she said, in her 
 piping, tremulous voice. cc And, ain't there a lot 
 of nice good-looking people about ? " 
 
 Betty nodded. There was no denying the fact. 
 There were c nice good-looking ' people about — 
 an English crowd respectfully waiting to see their 
 Sovereign is mostly composed of such. Honest 
 hard-workers are among them, men of toil, women 
 of patience ; and all loyal to the backbone — loyal, 
 loving, and large-hearted, and wishful to see their 
 Queen and Empress, and cheer her with all the 
 might of wholesome English lungs as she passes 
 them by. 
 
 " It's lucky it's a fine day," said a man standing 
 close to Betty, "else we shouldn't see the Queen 
 at all — she'd be in a close carriage." 
 
 "She won't be in one to-day," said Betty confi- 
 dently. 
 
 " I don't think so. She may. Let's hope not!" 
 
 Again Betty's faithful heart felt an anxious thrill, 
 and she glanced nervously at her l old bundle.' 
 That venerable personage was sitting up quite
 
 Bn ©it) Bundle 185 
 
 erectly for her, and seemed to have got some of 
 her youth back again in the sheer excitement of 
 hope and expectation. Presently there was a stir 
 among the people, and the sound of horses' hoofs 
 approaching at a rapid trot. 
 
 " Here she comes ! ' exclaimed the bath-chair 
 attendant, somewhat excitedly, and Betty sprang 
 to her grandmother's side. 
 
 " Here she comes, granny ! Here comes the 
 Queen ! " 
 
 With an access of superhuman energy the old 
 woman lifted herself in the chair, and her eyes 
 glittered out of her head with a falcon-like eager- 
 ness. Nearer and nearer came the measured trot 
 of the horses ; a murmur of cheering rose from the 
 outskirts of the crowd. Betty strained her eyes 
 anxiously to catch the first glimpse of the royal 
 equipage, then — she shut them again with a dizzy 
 sense of utter desolation — it was a closed vehicle, 
 and not the smallest glimpse could be obtained of 
 England's Majesty. The Queen, no doubt fatigued, 
 sat far back in the carriage, and never once looked 
 out. The horses turned in at the very gate near 
 which the ' old bundle ' waited, alert — and in an 
 almost breathless suspense — trotted past and were 
 gone. 
 
 "We must go now, granny," said Betty, the 
 tears rising in her throat. " It's all over."
 
 1 86 Bit ©It) 3BunMc 
 
 The old woman turned upon her fiercely. 
 
 " What's all over?" she demanded quaveringly. 
 " Ain't I come here to see the Queen ? " 
 
 " Well, you've seen 'er," answered Betty, with 
 an accent of bitterness which she could not help, 
 poor soul. " You've seen all anybody has seen. 
 That was 'er in that carriage." 
 
 Granny stared in vague perplexity. 
 
 " In the carriage ? " she faltered. " That was 
 'er ? Who ? Who ? Where ? There worn't 
 nothin' to see — nobody " 
 
 " Get home, mother ; you'll get mixed up in the 
 crowd if you don't. We'll be having all the car- 
 riages along for the Drawing-room presently," 
 said the friendly constable kindly. "The Queen's 
 in the palace by now." 
 
 At this, the poor old dame stretched out her 
 trembling hands towards the palace walls. 
 
 "Shut up again!" she wailed. "Poor dear — 
 poor dear ! Lord help ye in your greatness, my 
 lovey ! God bless ye ! I'd 'a' given the world to 
 see your face just once — just once — eh, dearie, 
 dearie, dearie me ! It's a cruel day, an' I'm very cold 
 — very cold — I shall never see — the Queen, now ! " 
 
 The constable gave a startled glance at Betty, 
 and sprang to the side of the bath-chair. 
 
 " What, what, mother ! Hold up a bit ! " he 
 said. cc Here, Betty — I say — be quick. ! "
 
 Bn ©to BunMc 187 
 
 Two or three bystanders clustered hurriedly 
 round, while Betty caught the drooping venerable 
 head, and, laying it against her bosom, burst out 
 crying. 
 
 " Oh, granny, granny dear ! " 
 
 But ' Granny ' was dead. Betty's 'old bundle' 
 had been suddenly moved out of her way, leaving 
 empty desolation behind, and an empty corner 
 never to be filled. Some of the crowd, hearing 
 what had chanced, whispered one to another, — 
 
 " Poor old soul ! She wanted to see the Queen 
 just once before she died. She'd never seen her, 
 they say. Ah well, the Queen has a rare kind 
 heart — she'd be sorry if she knew." 
 
 And there was many a wistful, upward glance 
 at the windows of the palace, as the ' old bundle 
 was reverently covered and borne home, giving 
 place to the daintier burdens of rich-robed beauty 
 and jewels brought freely to ' see the Queen ' on 
 Drawing-room day.
 
 'MADEMOISELLE ZEPHYR.' 
 
 A VISION of loveliness? A dream of 
 beauty ? Yes, she was all this and more. 
 She was the very embodiment of ethereal grace 
 and dainty delicacy. The first time I saw her she 
 was queen of a fairy revel. Her hands grasped a 
 sceptre so light and sparkling that it looked like a 
 rod of moonbeams ; her tiny waist was encircled 
 by a garland of moss-rosebuds, glittering with 
 dew, and a crown of stars encircled her fair white 
 brow. Innocent as a snowflake she looked, with 
 her sweet serious eyes and falling golden hair ; yet 
 she was ' Mademoiselle Zephyr ' — a mere danseuse 
 on the stage of a great and successful theatre — an 
 actress whose gestures were simple and unaffected, 
 and therefore perfectly fascinating, and whose 
 trustful smile at the huge audience that nightly 
 applauded her efforts startled sudden tears out of 
 many a mother's eye, and caused many a fond 
 father's heart to grow heavy with foreboding pity. 
 For ' Mademoiselle Zephyr ' was only six years 
 
 1 88
 
 /ifeafcemotseUe Zepbsr 189 
 
 old ! Only six summers had gilded the ' refined 
 gold ' of the little head that now wore its wreath 
 of tinsel stars ; and scarcely had the delicate 
 young limbs learned their use than they were 
 twisted, tortured, and cramped in all those painful 
 positions so bitterly known to students of the 
 1 ballet.' 
 
 "A very promising child," the wealthy manager 
 of the theatre had said, noticing her on one of the 
 c training ' days, and observing with pleasure the 
 grace with which f Mademoiselle ' lifted her tiny 
 rounded arms above her head, and pointed her 
 miniature foot in all the approved methods, while 
 she smiled up into his big fat face with all the 
 fearless confidence of her age and sex. 
 
 And so the ' promising child ' advanced step by 
 step in her profession, till here she was, promoted 
 to the honour of being announced, on the great 
 staring placards outside the theatre, as f Made- 
 moiselle Zephyr,' the ' Wonderful Child-Dancer ! ' 
 and, what was dearer far to her simple little soul, 
 she was given the part of the ' Fairy Queen ' in 
 the grand Christmas pantomime of that year — a 
 role in which it was her pride and pleasure to be 
 able to summon elves, gnomes, witches, and 
 flower-sprites with one wave of her magic wand. 
 And she did it well too ; never could wand or
 
 i go flftafcemoisclle Zepforr 
 
 sceptre sway with prettier dignity or sweeter 
 gravity ; never did high commands issuing from 
 the lips of mighty potentates sound so quaintly 
 effective as * Mademoiselle Zephyr's ' tremendous 
 utterance — 
 
 " You naughty elves ! begone to yon dark wood ! 
 You'll all be punished if you are not dood! " 
 
 This word " dood," pronounced with almost 
 tragic emphasis in the clearest of baby voices, was 
 perhaps one of the greatest ' hits ' in Made- 
 moiselle's small repertoire of ' effects ' ; though I 
 think the little song she sang by herself in the 
 third act was the culminating point of pathos after 
 all. The scene was the f Fairies' Forest by 
 Moonlight,' and there Mademoiselle Zephyr 
 danced a pas seul round a giant mushroom, with 
 stage moonbeams playing upon her long fair curls 
 in a very picturesque manner. Then came the 
 song — the orchestra was hushed down to the 
 utmost softness in order not to drown the little 
 notes of the tiny voice that warbled so falteringly, 
 yet so plaintively, the refrain — 
 
 " I see the light of the burning day 
 Shine on the hill-tops far away, 
 
 And gleam on the rippling river, — 
 Follow me, fairies ! follow me soon, 
 Back to my palace behind the moon, 
 ■ Where I reign for ever and ever ! "
 
 /I&aoemoi3elle 2epb$>r 191 
 
 A burst of the heartiest applause always re- 
 warded this vocal effort on the part of little 
 ' Mademoiselle,' who replied to it by graciously 
 kissing her small hands to her appreciative audi- 
 ence ; and then she entered with due gravity on 
 the most serious piece of professional work she 
 had to do in the whole course of the evening. 
 This was her grand dance — a dance she had been 
 trained and tortured into by an active and energetic 
 French ballet-mistress, who certainly had every 
 reason to be proud of her tiny pupil. ' Mademoi- 
 selle Zephyr ' skimmed the boards as lightly as 
 a swallow — she leaped and sprang from point to 
 point like a bright rosebud tossing in the air — she 
 performed the most wonderful evolutions, always 
 with the utmost grace and agility ; and the final 
 attitude in which she posed her little form at the 
 conclusion of the dance, was so artistic, and withal 
 so winsome and fascinating, that a positive roar 
 of admiration and wonderment greeted her as the 
 curtain fell. Poor little mite ! My heart was full 
 of pity as I left the theatre that night, for to give 
 a child of that age the capricious applause of the 
 public instead of the tender nurture and fostering 
 protection of a mother's arms, seemed to me both 
 cruel and tragic. 
 
 Some weeks elapsed, and the flitting figure 
 and wistful little face of ' Mademoiselle Zephyr '
 
 192 /l&afcemoiselle Zcvhyv 
 
 still haunted me, till at last, with the usual 
 impetuosity that characterizes many of my 
 sex, I wrote to the manager of the theatre that 
 boasted the ' Wonderful Child-Dancer,' and, 
 frankly giving my name and a few other particu- 
 lars, I asked him if he could tell me anything of 
 the ' Zephyr's ' parentage and history. I waited 
 some days before an answer came ; but at last I 
 received a very courteous letter from the manager 
 in question, who assured me that I was not alone 
 in the interest the talented child had awakened, 
 but that he had reason to fear that the promise 
 she showed thus early would be blighted by her 
 extreme delicacy of her constitution. He added 
 en passant, that he himself was considerably out of 
 pocket by the ' Zephyr's ' capricious health ; that 
 she had now been absent from the boards of his 
 theatre for nearly a week ; that on making in- 
 quiries, he had learned that the child was ill in bed 
 and unable to rise, and that he had perforce 
 stopped her salary, and provided a substitute, an 
 older girl not nearly so talented, who gave him a 
 great deal of trouble and vexation. He further- 
 more mentioned in a postscript that the 'Zephyr's' 
 
 real name was Winifred M , that she was the 
 
 daughter of a broken-down writer of libretti ^ and 
 that her mother was dead, her only female relative 
 being an elder sister whose character was far from
 
 /IDafcemoiselle Zepb^r 193 
 
 reputable. He gave me the c Zephyr's ' address, a 
 bad street in a bad neighbourhood ; and assuring 
 me that it was much better not to concern myself 
 at all with the matter, he concluded his letter. 
 His advice was sensible enough, and yet somehow 
 I could not obey it. It is certainly a worldly- 
 wise and safe course to follow, that of never 
 inquiring into the fates of your unfortunate 
 fellow-voyagers across the tempestuous sea of 
 life ; it saves trouble, it prevents your own feelings 
 from being harrowed, and it is altogether a 
 comfortable doctrine. But the sweet plaintive 
 voice of the ' Zephyr ' haunted my ears ; the 
 serious child-face, with its frame of golden curls, 
 got into my dreams at night, and at last I made up 
 my mind to go, accompanied by a friend, to that 
 questionable street in a still more questionable 
 neighbourhood, and make inquiries after the 
 ' Zephyr's ' health. After some trouble, I found 
 the dirty lodging-house to which I had been 
 directed, and stumbling up a very dark rickety 
 flight of stairs, I knocked at a door, and asked if 
 
 ' Miss M ' was at home. The door was 
 
 flung suddenly wide open, and a pretty girl of 
 some seventeen years of age, with a quantity of 
 fair hair falling loosely over her shoulders, and 
 large blue eyes that looked heavy and tear-swollen, 
 demanded in a somewhat hardened tone of voice, 
 
 I 3
 
 194 fll>afcemotselle Z^pb^r 
 
 " Well ; what do you want ? ' My companion 
 answered, " A lady has come to know how your 
 little sister is — the one that acts at the theatre." I 
 then stepped forward and added as gently as I 
 
 could, " I heard from Mr. , the manager, that 
 
 the child was ill — is she better ? " 
 
 The girl looked at me steadily without replying. 
 Then suddenly, as if with an effort, she said, 
 " Come in." We passed into a dark and dirty 
 room, ill-smelling, ill-ventilated, and scarcely fur- 
 nished at all ; and while I was trying to distinguish 
 the objects in it, I heard the sound of a feeble 
 singing. Could it be the ' Zephyr's ' voice that 
 sounded so far away, so faint and gasping ? I 
 listened, and my eyes filled unconsciously with 
 tears. I recognised the tune and the refrain, — 
 
 " Follow me, fairies ! follow me soon 
 Back to my palace behind the moon, 
 Where I reign for ever and ever ! " 
 
 " Where is she ? ' I asked, turning to the fair- 
 haired girl, who stood still regarding me, half-wist- 
 fully, half-defiantly. She nodded her head towards 
 a corner of the room, a corner which, though very 
 dark, was still sheltered from any draught from 
 either window or door ; and there, on a miserable 
 pallet bed, lay the poor little ' Fairy Queen,' toss- 
 ing from side to side restlessly, her azure eyes wide 
 open and glittering with feverish trouble, her lovely
 
 /iRafcemoteelle Zepfopt 195 
 
 silken hair tangled and lustreless, and her tiny hands 
 clenching and unclenching themselves mechanically 
 and almost fiercely. But as she tossed about on 
 her miserable pillow, she sang unceasingly, if such 
 a feeble wailing might be called singing. I turned 
 from the heartrending sight to the elder girl, who, 
 without waiting to be asked, said abruptly, " She 
 has got brain-fever. The doctor says she cannot 
 live over to-morrow. It's all been brought on 
 through overwork, and excitement and bad food. 
 I can't help it. I know she has never had enough 
 to eat. I am often half-starved myself. Father 
 drinks up every penny that we earn. It's a good 
 thing, I think, that Winnie will get out of it all 
 soon. I wish I were dead myself, that I do ! " 
 And here the hardened look on the pretty face 
 suddenly melted, the defiant flash in the eyes 
 softened, and, flinging herself down by the little 
 pallet, she broke into a passion of sobs and tears, 
 crying out, " Poor Winnie — poor little Winnie ! " 
 I prefer to pass over the remainder of this scene 
 in silence. Suffice it to say that I did what I could 
 to alleviate the physical sufferings of poor little 
 ' Zephyr ' and her unfortunate sister ; and before 
 leaving, I earnestly entreated the now quite softened 
 and still sobbing elder girl to let me know whether 
 her sister grew better or worse. This she promised 
 to do, and, leaving my name and address, I kissed
 
 196 Mademoiselle ^epb^r 
 
 the hot little forehead of the fallen ' Fairy Queen,' 
 and took my departure. The next morning I 
 heard that the child was dead. She had died in the 
 night, and with her last fluttering breath she had 
 tried to sing her little fairy song. And so the 
 human ' Zephyr ' had floated away from the stage 
 of this life, where fairy-land is only the dream 
 of poets, to the unknown country — to the 
 
 "Island valley of Avilion, 
 Where never wind blows loudly." 
 
 Thinking of her as I write, I almost fancy I see a 
 delicate sprite on rainbow pinions flitting past me ; 
 I almost hear the sweet child-voice rendered power- 
 ful and pure by the breath of immortality, singing 
 softly — 
 
 " Follow me soon 
 Back to my palace behind the moon, 
 Where I reign for ever and ever ! " 
 
 And who shall assert that she does not reign in 
 some distant glorified region — the little queen 
 of a chosen court of child-angels for whom this 
 present world was too hard and sorrowful ?
 
 ONE OF THE WORLD'S WONDERS. 
 
 THERE is something not exactly high-class in 
 the name of Margate. Sixpenny teas are 
 suggested, and a vulgar flavour of shrimps floats 
 unbidden in the air, while the looming figures of 
 Jemima and her ever-present 'Arry obtrude them- 
 selves on the mind in spite of our best efforts to 
 believe that Margate may be a very charming 
 place, as its air is certainly remarkable for bracing 
 and invigorating the system. 
 
 But there is something at Margate besides the 
 air, the sands, and the sea ; something that calls 
 for recognition from students, antiquarians, lovers 
 of romance, and savants of all classes and nations ; 
 something that, just because it is at plebeian 
 Margate, has escaped the proper notice and 
 admiration it so strongly deserves. If the curious 
 and beautiful subterranean temple, of which I 
 am about to speak, existed anywhere but at Mar- 
 gate, it would certainly be acknowledged as one of 
 
 the wonders of the world, which it undoubtedly 
 
 197
 
 198 ©ne of tbe Move's Mcmoers 
 
 is. Thousands of people go annually to Margate, 
 and come away again, without knowing of its 
 existence. I have asked residents at Margate 
 about it, and found them perfectly ignorant of its 
 whereabouts, and I have been instrumental in 
 sending them to see what they may be more 
 reasonably proud of than anything in or about 
 their town ; namely, the magnificent and wonder- 
 ful piece of ancient workmanship known as the 
 ' Shell Grotto.' 
 
 To begin with, this name is a mistake. The 
 whole management of the place is a mistake. 
 When a man meets you at the corner of the pier 
 and puts a badly printed fly-leaf in your hand 
 with the words " Go and see the Grotto " upon it, 
 you naturally believe that it is the advertisement 
 of a place built out of oyster-shells, where you 
 can have tea and shrimps ad libitum ; and you 
 immediately set yourself against such allurements, 
 preferring to be in the fresh salt air, and roam at 
 your pleasure by the sea. It was the merest 
 chance in the world that persuaded me to see this 
 ' Grotto.' I was crumpling the fly-leaf advertise- 
 ment in my hand, about to throw it away, when 
 some words in small print caught my eye. They 
 were, " Two thousand square feet of shell-work" 
 This aroused my curiosity, for I thought that 
 even two thousand square feet of oyster-shells
 
 ©ne of tbe Morlo's Wonoers 199 
 
 would be worth looking at. So I turned to the 
 man who had given me the advertisement, and 
 said, " Where is this Grotto ? " 
 
 He was a pale, hungry-looking individual, and 
 had a monotonous way of speaking, which pro- 
 bably arose out of a long and bitter experience of 
 trying to persuade people to ' go and see the 
 Grotto ' who wouldn't go. 
 
 " Up on the Dane" he replied. 
 
 " Where is the Dane ? " 
 
 " Right through the town. You can't miss it." 
 And he turned a filmy eye upon me with a show 
 of interest. " Are you going to see it ? " 
 
 " Yes, I think so. Is it something you have 
 built up there ? " 
 
 The man broke into a hoarse laugh. 
 
 " / built it ! Lor' bless yer 'art, it's been there 
 no one knows how long ! You'd be a clever one 
 if you could tell who built it. I don't know 
 nothink about it, no more don't any one else that 
 I ever heerd on." 
 
 I was now fairly interested in the matter, and 
 lost no time in walking to the ' Dane.' My way 
 lay right through the town, in and out some very 
 dirty streets, smelling strongly of fish and tar, and 
 then up a slight eminence. This eminence was 
 the f Dane,' called so for reasons that must be 
 left to antiquarians to decide ; and the third turn-
 
 2oo ©ne of tfoe Worlo's Monoers 
 
 ing to the left was marked " To the Grotto." It 
 was quite a quarter of an hour's walk from the 
 pier, which is perhaps one of the reasons why so 
 few excursionists seem to know anything about 
 the place ; and those few who have seen it, have 
 no idea of its value as an antiquity, apart from its 
 extreme beauty. My expectations were at first 
 somewhat disappointed when, following the way 
 indicated ' To the Grotto,' it led me to an 
 unpretending little house, with flowers in the front 
 garden, and a bill in the window which said, " Tea 
 provided." " Perhaps," thought I, " it is only a 
 catch-penny after all," and I looked suspiciously at 
 a hanging board on which was printed, " Visitors 
 to the Grotto are requested to ring the bell." 
 
 I hesitated a moment, but finally rang, and 
 prepared myself for some carefully constructed 
 piece of humbug. The door was opened by a 
 cheery-looking woman, to whom I said, " Can I 
 see the Grotto ? " 
 
 ' f Certainly," she replied. " If you will go 
 down those three little steps to the right, my 
 daughter will bring you a light and show you the 
 way." 
 
 " Is it underground ? " I asked, with some 
 surprise. 
 
 " Oh yes," she said, smiling affably, " quite 
 underground."
 
 One of tbe Morlo's Mongers 201 
 
 And then she disappeared, shutting her door. 
 She evidently had no intention of proposing a 
 shrimp tea, so I descended the steps indicated and 
 found a closed door, which, however, was speedily 
 opened by a fresh-faced, intelligent-looking girl, 
 who invited me in and then proceeded to light a 
 wax taper. The little room in which I found 
 myself was a kind of shop, where views of Mar- 
 gate, shells, baskets, and other trifles were on sale ; 
 among other things, photographs of the ' Grotto' 
 I had come to see. I examined one of these with 
 increasing wonder. " Is it really like this ? ' I 
 exclaimed. " Not possible ! " 
 
 " Oh, it is much better than that," said the girl, 
 smiling. "You see, it is difficult to take a good 
 photograph of the place, as it is so dark. H you 
 will come this way, please, I will light the gas as 
 we go." 
 
 And, with lighted taper in hand, she went 
 down a flight of rough stone steps, I following 
 her, and in a minute we were in the subterranean 
 temple, miscalled a Grotto, and which, as my 
 guide lit the gas all along it, proved to be one of 
 the most beautiful, fantastic, and interesting relics 
 of the ancient days that exists in England or 
 anywhere else. I had expected nothing like it. 
 I had no idea there was such a place to be seen 
 anywhere, least of all in Margate, and I was fairly
 
 202 ©ne of tbe Morlo's Monoers 
 
 bewildered at the fine architecture and artistic 
 proportions of the beautiful temple in which 
 I stood. It is spaciously and mathematically 
 planned ; a long winding passage, with exquisitely 
 designed archways here and there, leads to the 
 culminating point, a square room with the frag- 
 ments of an altar at each end. An enormous 
 column, as thick and as handsomely rounded as 
 the centre column in Roslin Chapel, supports the 
 roof; but the wonder of it all, apart from its 
 architectural construction, is that the walls, the 
 centre column, and the altars, are covered with 
 shell panels, designed by the brain and worked by 
 the hand of man, every panel different in design, 
 and all beautifully executed. Here a sunflower, 
 with leaves and buds, all exquisitely worked out 
 in shells of different form and size, covers one 
 panel ; next to it, a rising sun surrounded with 
 triangles, stars and crescents — one particularly 
 beautiful panel has upon it a full-blown rose with 
 leaves, thorns and buds, all perfect. Two hearts, 
 one within the other, a sword or dagger half 
 drawn from its hilt, a star-fish, rings entwined, 
 and all sorts of emblematical signs, form centres 
 for these wonderful shell-panels, each panel having 
 a different and more or less elaborate border. 
 The great centre column is a perfect marvel of 
 shell-work, some portions of it being as finely
 
 One ot tbe Motto's Monoers =o 3 
 
 worked as Florentine mosaic. The shells used are 
 the usual ones found on the sea-shore, and are 
 bedded in common clay. Utterly unprepared as I 
 was for such a marvel of art and beauty, I said to 
 my guide, — 
 
 " What is the history of this wonderful place ? 
 Does any one know anything about it ? " 
 
 " Very little is known," said the girl. " It was 
 first discovered in 1834. The foundations for a 
 school were being laid just above here, and one 
 of the workmen let his spade fall. To his 
 surprise it dropped through a hole and dis- 
 appeared. A small boy was then let down 
 through the hole to look after the spade, and 
 when he got to the bottom he found himself 
 just close to the centre column of the Grotto. 
 Afterwards the entrance was found, and cleared 
 of stones and rubbish, so that people could walk 
 through. The piece of land on which it is has 
 always been private property, and the lady to 
 whom it now belongs allows us to live here for 
 a small rental and make what we can by showing 
 the Grotto, as long as we take good care of it. 
 She had the gas laid on all through the place 
 as it is now. A great many people who have 
 seen it have said it ought to be written about 
 in the papers, but no one has taken any particular 
 notice of it yet."
 
 2o4 ©ne of tbe Mora's Monoers 
 
 On further inquiry, I heard that Frank Buck- 
 land, the naturalist, had paid many visits to the 
 cave, purposing to write a book about it, had 
 not untimely death put an end to his useful 
 labours. His theory was, that all the shells used 
 in the ornamentation of the place must have been 
 taken alive — that is, with fish in them — or they 
 could not have remained in the wonderful state 
 of preservation in which they now are. This 
 is, however, a difficult question, which only pro- 
 found conchologists can determine. 
 
 The square room at the end of the beautiful 
 vaulted passage looks as if intended for a place 
 of worship, though the Christian emblem of the 
 cross is nowhere to be seen. The walls here are 
 richly emblazoned with designs in shells of the 
 sun ; the sun rising, setting, and in the full 
 splendour of all his rays ; these rays exquisitely 
 worked in the minutest shells, some of them so 
 small that one needs a microscope to judge the 
 amount of patience, thought, and skill bestowed 
 on their arrangement. On some of the panels 
 in this room too, are worked urns or vases of 
 primitive shape, from which flames are depicted 
 ascending. Tapping the middle panel at the 
 end of this chamber, I found that it sounded 
 hollow. I suggested to my guide that it might 
 be well to make some excavations there ; she
 
 One of tbe Morlb's Mongers 205 
 
 agreed, but averred that the present owner of 
 the property would never allow it. 
 
 Wandering slowly back through the beautiful 
 vaulted passages, I noticed at the top of one of 
 the arches the small figure of a man in a sitting 
 posture, carved out of one stone ; the arms are 
 tightly folded, the head is gone, but, judging 
 from the position of the body, the head had 
 evidently turned downwards so that the chin 
 rested on the breast. 
 
 Full of curiosity and surprise, I turned back 
 once more to look at the whole effect of this 
 almost unrecognised memento of the past, and 
 noticed how marvellously the designs harmonised 
 together, the different colours and shapes of the 
 shells blending so that from the foot of the steps 
 that led into it, as far as eye could see, it looked 
 like a miniature chapel ornamented with the finest 
 mosaic work. It is difficult to guess for what 
 purpose it could have been built. It is certainly 
 not a Christian temple; nor is it Druidical, as 
 the Druids never worshipped underground, but 
 on hills and in forests. It is more likely to be a 
 relic of Scandinavian mythology — it is suggestive 
 of the sea, and may have been a burial-place 
 of the Vikings, though it is generally believed 
 that these bold riders of the waves preferred to 
 let their lifeless bodies drift out to sea in ships
 
 206 ©ne of tfoe Morlo's Mongers 
 
 and sink in the ' cold, populous graves ' of the 
 ocean they loved so well, rather than be laid in 
 the damp and wormy earth. 
 
 Whatever it be, the Shell Grotto at Margate 
 deserves a better name and a wider fame, and 
 so it will prove when antiquarians and scholars 
 shall have given it proper consideration, and have 
 freed it from its present common surroundings. 
 Sixpence, for seeing so beautiful and extraordinary 
 a place, seems an absurdly small sum, considering 
 what * guides,' as a rule, charge for showing 
 sights not half so interesting ; yet that humble 
 silver coin is the only key required to unlock 
 the wonders of a palace almost as beautiful as 
 one of the scenes in Hans Christian Andersen's 
 "Little Mermaid." 
 
 Before leaving, I asked the gentle and obliging 
 damsel of the Grotto if many people visited the 
 place. 
 
 " Sometimes a great many," she replied ; " but 
 they just scramble through, and never ask any 
 questions. I don't suppose they stop to think 
 whether it is an old relic or a modern building. 
 Some of the roughs try to pick the shells out and 
 destroy the panels ; we have to watch very care- 
 fully to prevent mischief being done." 
 
 She showed me one place where the ruthless 
 fingers of some particularly destructive 'Arry had
 
 ©ne of tbe Worlo's Monoers 207 
 
 broken away the centre petals of a rose, and I 
 was able to discern more closely than ever the 
 exquisite beauty and fineness of the work. It 
 would be absurd indeed to imagine such a place 
 to be modern, for who, in these busy days, would 
 bestow so much time, labour, and patience on the 
 building and ornamentation of a subterranean 
 chapel with shells ? At a rough calculation, I 
 should say that it would take a man an entire day, 
 working hard every hour, to make one square 
 foot of this shell-work, and there are two thousand 
 square feet of it altogether. The trouble of 
 collecting the shells, sorting and arranging them, 
 the infinite patience, skill, and delicacy of finger 
 required to bed them in the clay, apart from the 
 knowledge of art exhibited in the plan of each 
 design on the panels — all this taken into consid- 
 eration, heightens the interest and increases the 
 value of this Grotto as a splendid example of 
 early artistic effort 
 
 The name of the hill in which it was 
 excavated, ' the Dane,' suggests the idea that 
 perhaps when the Danish hordes ravaged the 
 coast in the time of the ancient Britons, the 
 place may have been used for secret worship of 
 some kind. It was evidently not a mere hiding- 
 place ; it was not a dungeon, for the lavish orna- 
 mentation of the walls and the spaciousness of the
 
 2o8 ©ne of tfoe Morlo's Monbers 
 
 building would, in such a case, have been quite 
 unnecessary. At any rate, it affords a field for 
 students of early art and architecture, and I shall 
 be glad if my description of the place induces 
 those who are learned in the land to visit it and 
 give public voice to their ideas respecting its 
 origin. It is as wonderful in its way as Fingal's 
 Cave, or the Blue Grotto at Capri, both of which 
 magnificent natural structures are celebrated 
 throughout the world ; while the Shell Grotto, 
 badly named, and badly advertised, and moreover 
 having the disadvantage of being at over-popular 
 Margate, remains temporarily in obscurity. 
 
 All mention of it has been lately omitted from 
 the Margate Guide-book. I hear that it was once 
 alluded to there, en -passant^ in two or three lines, 
 but in the new editions even that allusion has 
 dropped out. The place should be called l The 
 Shell Tomb of the Vikings,' ' The Norseman's 
 Cave,' f The Scandinavian Shell Temple,' any 
 taking, descriptive title — anything but the 
 ' Grotto ' ; for, say what we will, a Margate 
 ' Grotto ' cannot be divided from the idea of 
 shrimps — yea, even horrible suggestions are pre- 
 sented of periwinkles and pins ! Everybody of 
 taste and refinement will and must avoid a 
 Margate * Grotto,' even if they know nothing of 
 it but its name.
 
 ©ne of tfce Morlo's Wonders 209 
 
 If some enthusiastic worshipper of Art would 
 but take a trip to Margate, and give the 
 world his opinion on the design and art- 
 work of this subterranean temple, I am sure he 
 would tell us that we are a very dense and stupid 
 people to be so indifferent to one of the rarest 
 antiquities we possess. The place should be 
 given a new and fitting title, to raise it with 
 honour from the half-suspicious distrust and 
 incredulity in which it is now held, and make it 
 famous in the eyes of the public by giving us the 
 clue to its origin ; proving perhaps, as far as proof 
 can go, that these shining, shell-embroidered walls 
 and arched roofs have once resounded to the 
 shouts of the strong sea-warriors whom no terrors 
 of wind or wave could daunt, and who swore by 
 and sometimes defied, in the plenitude of their 
 muscular vigour and prowess, the great gods Odin 
 and Thor. 
 
 14
 
 u 
 
 ANGEL'S WICKEDNESS. 
 
 T HATE God ! " said Angel. 
 
 And having made this un-angel-like state- 
 ment, she folded her short arms across her breast 
 and surveyed her horrified audience defiantly. 
 
 It was a cold December Sunday afternoon, and 
 the Reverend Josiah Snawley was superintending 
 a Bible-class in a small, white-washed, damp and 
 comfortless schoolroom in one of the worst quar- 
 ters of the East End. He was assisted in his 
 pious task by the virginal Miss Powser, a lady of 
 uncertain age, tall and lanky of limb, with sandy 
 locks much frizzled, and a simpering smile. The 
 children ranged in a forlorn row before these two 
 charitable persons were the miserable offspring of 
 fathers and mothers whose chief business it was in 
 life to starve uncomplainingly. And Angel — such 
 was the odd name given her by her godfathers and 
 godmothers in her baptism — was one of the thin- 
 nest and most ragged among all the small recipi- 
 ents of the Reverend Josiah's instructions, which 
 
 210
 
 Hngcl's Mfcfeefcness 211 
 
 had that day consisted of well-worn mild platitudes 
 respecting the love of God towards His wretched, 
 selfish and for ever undeserving creation. She had 
 usually figured as rather a dull, quiet child, more 
 noticeable perhaps than others of her condition 
 by reason of her very big dark eyes, small sensi- 
 tive mouth, and untidy mass of chestnut-golden 
 hair ; but she had never come prominently to the 
 front, either for cleverness or right-down naughti- 
 ness till now, when she boldly uttered the amazing, 
 blood-curdling declaration above recorded. 
 
 " Was that Angel Middleton who spoke ? " 
 inquired the Reverend Josiah, with bland austerity. 
 " Say it again, Angel ! But no, no ! " — here he 
 shook his head solemnly — " you will not dare to 
 say it again ! " 
 
 " Yes, I will ! " retorted Angel stubbornly. " I 
 hate God! There ! " 
 
 A terrible pause ensued. The other children 
 stared at their refractory companion in stupefied 
 amazement ; they did not quite understand who 
 ' God ' was themselves, being but poor little weak, 
 physically incapable creatures, who were nearly 
 always too hungry to think much about Infinite 
 and Unreachable splendours ; but they had a 
 dim idea that whoever the ' Unknown Quantity ' 
 in Creation's plan might be, it was very wrong 
 to hate Him ! Dreadfully wrong ! Frightfully
 
 212 
 
 angers Micfeefcness 
 
 wicked, and alarming from all points of view. 
 After staring at Angel till they could stare no 
 more, some of them put their fingers in their 
 mouths and stared at Miss Powser. What did 
 she think of it ? Oh, she was limp with horror ! — 
 her eyes had grown paler, greener, and more 
 watery than ever. She had clasped her hands, 
 and was looking plaintively at the Reverend 
 Josiah, as indeed it was her frequent custom to 
 do. He meanwhile laid down the Testament he 
 held, and surveyed the whole class with a glance 
 of righteous indignation. 
 
 cc I am shocked ! ' : he said slowly, " shocked, 
 and pained, and grieved ! Here is a child — one 
 who has been taught Bible-lessons Sunday after 
 Sunday — who tells me she hates God ! What 
 blasphemy ! What temper ! Stand forward, 
 Angel Middleton ! Come out of the class ! ' 
 
 Whereupon Angel came out as commanded, 
 and fully declared herself. Like a small alien on 
 strange soil, she stood in advance of the other 
 children, her worn, bursting shoes showing the 
 dirty-stockinged feet within, her patched skirt 
 clinging scantily about her meagre little figure, 
 her arms still folded across her chest, and her lips 
 set in a thin, obstinate line. Something in her 
 look and attitude evidently irritated the Reverend 
 Mr. Snawley, for he said sharply, —
 
 angers Mlcfeefcnesa 213 
 
 " Unfold those arms of yours directly ! ' 
 
 She obeyed ; but though the offending limbs 
 dropped passively at her sides, the little grimy 
 hands remained firmly clenched. 
 
 " Now ! " and the clergyman drew a deep 
 breath, and taking up his Testament gave a smart 
 rap with it on the desk in front of him. " Ex- 
 plain yourself ! What do you mean by such 
 wicked conduct ? Why do you hate God ! ' 
 
 Angel looked steadily on the floor, and her 
 lips quivered. 
 
 " Because I do J ' " she replied resolutely. 
 
 " That's no answer ! " And the reverend gen- 
 tleman turned to his lady-assistant in despair : 
 " Really, Miss Powser, you should not have 
 admitted such a child as this into the Sunday 
 class. She seems to me quite incorrigible ; a 
 mere insolent heathen ! " 
 
 Miss Powser appeared quite crushed by the 
 majesty of this reproach, and feebly murmured 
 something about a ' mistaken idea of character,' 
 adding as a bright suggestion that the child had 
 better be dismissed. 
 
 " Dismissed ? Of course, of course ! " snorted 
 the Reverend Josiah angrily. " She must never 
 come here again. Such a bad example to the other 
 children ! Do you understand what I say, Angel 
 Middleton ? You must never come here again ! '
 
 214 Hngel's TKHicI;e&ness 
 
 " All right," said Angel calmly ; fC I don't care." 
 
 cc Oh, Angel ! Angel ! " moaned Miss Powser 
 faintly, <( T am so sorry to see this. I had 
 hoped for much better things from you. Your 
 father " 
 
 " That's it," interrupted the girl suddenly, her 
 breast heaving. " That's why I hate God. You 
 teaches us that God does everything ; well, then, 
 God is killing father. Father never did any harm 
 to any one ; and yet he's dying. I know he is ! 
 He couldn't get work when he was well, and now 
 there isn't enough to eat, and there's no fire, and 
 we're as miserable as ever we can be, and all the 
 time you say God is good and loves us. I don't 
 believe it ! If God won't care for father, then I 
 won't care for God." 
 
 The words rushed impetuously from her lips 
 with a sort of rough eloquence that almost carried 
 conviction ; her way of reasoning seemed for the 
 moment surprising and unanswerable. But the 
 Reverend Mr. Snawley was equal to the emer- 
 gency. 
 
 " You are a very wicked, ignorant child," he 
 declared sternly. " If your father can't get work, 
 it is most probably his own fault. If he is ill and 
 incapable there is always the workhouse. And 
 if God doesn't take care of him as you say, it 
 must be because he's a bad man."
 
 anael's Mtcftefcness 215 
 
 Angel's big eyes flashed fire. 
 " Yer lie ! " she said steadily. " He's worth a 
 dozen such as you, anyway." 
 
 And with this she turned on her heel and left 
 the schoolroom, her proud step and manner indi- 
 cating that she metaphorically shook the dust of 
 it for ever from her feet. Her departure was 
 watched in absolute silence by her startled com- 
 panions, the insulted and indignant clergyman, 
 and the pathetic Miss Powser ; but when she had 
 fairly gone Mr. Snawley, turning to the rest of 
 the class, said solemnly, — 
 
 " Children, you have seen to-day a terrible ex- 
 hibition of the power of Satan. No one that is 
 not possessed of a devil would dare to express any 
 hatred of God ! Now remember, never let me see 
 any of you playing with Angel Middleton ; keep 
 away from her altogether, for she's a bad girl — 
 thoroughly bad — and will only lead you into mis- 
 chief. Do you hear ? " 
 
 A murmur, which might have meant either as- 
 sent or dissent, ran through the class, and the Rev- 
 erend Josiah, smoothing his vexed brow, took up 
 his Testament and was about to resume his instruc- 
 tions, when a little shrill, piping voice cried out, — 
 
 " Please, sir, I want to leave the class, sir ! ' 
 
 " You want to leave the class, Johnnie Cole- 
 man ! " echoed the clergyman — (c What for? "
 
 216 angel's Micfcebness 
 
 "Please, sir, 'cos Angel's gone, sir!" and 
 Johnnie stumped his way to the front and showed 
 himself — a small, bright, elfish-looking boy of 
 about twelve. (C Yer see, sir, I can't anyways 
 promise not to speak to Angel, sir ; she's my 
 
 A gurgling laugh of evident delight rippled 
 along the class at Johnnie's bold avowal, but a 
 stern look from Mr. Snawley rapidly checked this 
 ebullition of feeling. 
 
 "Your gall" And the good clergyman re- 
 peated the words in a tone of shocked offence. 
 " John Coleman, you surprise me ! " 
 
 John Coleman, ragged, blue-eyed and dirty, 
 seemed to care but little as to whether he sur- 
 prised the Reverend Josiah or not, for he resumed 
 the thread of his shameless argument with the 
 most unblushing audacity. 
 
 " 'Iss, sir. She's my gal, an' I'm her bloke. 
 Lor' bless yer, sir ! we've bin so fur years an' 
 years — ivver since we wos babbies, sir. Yer see, 
 sir, 'twouldn't do fur me to go agin Angel now — 
 'twouldn't be gentleman-like, sir ! " 
 
 Evidently John Coleman knew his code of 
 chivalry by heart, though he was only a coster- 
 monger's apprentice, and was not to be moved by 
 fear from any of the rules thereof, for, gathering 
 courage instead of alarm from the amazed and
 
 angel's Micfeeoness 217 
 
 utter speechlessness of wrath with which Mr. 
 Snawley regarded him, he proceeded to defend the 
 cause of his absent ladye-love after the fashion of 
 all true knights worthy of their name. 
 
 " I spec's Angel's hungry, sir. That's wot riles 
 her wrong-like. Don't yer know, sir, what it is 
 to 'ave a gnawin' in yer inside, sir? Oh, it's 
 orful bad, sir ! really 'tis, sir — makes yer 'ate 
 everybody wot's got their stummicks full. An' 
 when Angel gets a bit 'ere an' there, she gives it 
 all to 'er father, sir, an' niver a mossul for 'erself ; 
 an' now 'e's a going to 'is long 'ome, so they sez, 
 an' it's 'ard on Angel anyways, an' " 
 
 " That will do ! " burst out Mr. Snawley 
 loudly, and suddenly interrupting the flow of 
 Master Johnnie's eloquence, and glaring at him in 
 majestic disdain ; " You can go ! " 
 
 " 'Iss, sir. Thank-ye, sir. Much obleeged, 
 sir." And, with many a shuffle and grin, Johnnie 
 departed cheerfully, apparently quite unconscious 
 of having committed any breach of good manners 
 in the open declaration of his sentiments towards 
 his f gal,' and entirely unaware of the fact that, 
 apart from the disgust his ' vulgarity ' had 
 excited in the refined mind of the Reverend 
 Josiah, he had actually caused the pale suggestion 
 of a blush to appear on the yellow maiden-cheek 
 of Miss Powser ! Immoral John Coleman ! It
 
 zi8 angers Mfcfeeoncss 
 
 is to be feared he was totally ' unregenerate ' — 
 for once out of the schoolroom he never gave it 
 or his pious teachers another thought, but, whoop- 
 ing and whistling carelessly, started off at a run, 
 intending to join Angel and comfort her as best 
 he might, for her private and personal griefs as 
 well as for her expulsion from the Bible-class. 
 For once, however, he failed to find her in any of 
 those particular haunts they two were wont to 
 patronise. 
 
 " S'pose she's gone home!" he muttered dis- 
 contentedly. " An' she won't thank me for 
 botherin' round w'en 'er father's so bad. Never 
 mind ! I'll wait near the alley in case she comes 
 out an' wants me for ennythink." 
 
 And with this faithful purpose in view, he 
 betook himself to the corner of a dirty back slum, 
 full of low tenement houses tottering to decay, in 
 one of which miserable abodes his ' gal ' had her 
 dwelling ; and, sitting down on an inverted barrel, 
 he began to con over a pictorial alphabet, a 
 present from Miss Powser, which, though he 
 knew it by heart, always entertained him mightily 
 by reason of the strange-coloured monstrosities 
 that adorned every separate letter. 
 
 Meanwhile, as he imagined, Angel had gone 
 home — c home ' being a sort of close cupboard, 
 dignified in East End parlance by the name of
 
 Sneers XKIUcfeefcness 219 
 
 f room,' where, on a common truckle-bed, scantily- 
 covered, lay the sleeping figure of a man. He 
 was not old — not more than forty at most — but 
 Death had marked his pale, pinched features with 
 the great Sign Ineffaceable, and the struggle of 
 passing from hence seemed to have already begun, 
 for as he slept his chest heaved labouringly up 
 and down with the rapid breath that each moment 
 was drawn in shorter gasps of pain and difficulty. 
 Angel sat close by him, and her big soft eyes 
 were fixed with passionate eagerness on his face 
 — her whole little loving, ardent soul was mirrored 
 in that watchful, yearning gaze. 
 
 " How can I ? ' she murmured to herself, 
 " how can I love God, when He is so cruel to 
 father ? " 
 
 Just then the sick man stirred, and, opening his 
 eyes, large, dark and gentle, like those of his 
 little daughter, he smiled faintly. 
 
 " Is that you, Angel ? " he asked whisperingly. 
 
 c ' Yes, father ! ' And taking his thin hand in 
 her own, she kissed it. His glance rested on her 
 lovingly. 
 
 {i Ain't you been to class, dearie ? " 
 
 " Yes, father. But " She paused — then 
 
 seeing he looked anxious and inquiring, she 
 added — " But they don't want me there no 
 more."
 
 220 angel's Micfee&ness 
 
 " Don't want yer there no more ! " her father 
 echoed, in feeble wonder. " Why, Angel " 
 
 " Don't ye worry, father ! " she burst forth 
 eagerly, " it's all my fault ; 'tain't theirs ! I said I 
 hated God, and Mr. Snawley said I was wicked, 
 an' I s'pose I am, but I can't help it, and there's 
 all about it ! I'm sick of their preachin' an' non- 
 sense, an' it don't make you no better nor me, an' 
 we're all wretched, an' if it's all God's doing then 
 I do hate God, an' that's the truth ! " 
 
 A flickering gleam of energy came across the 
 suffering man's face, and his large eyes shone with 
 preternatural light. 
 
 " Don't ye, Angel ! Don't ye hate God, my 
 little gel ! ye mustn't — no, no ! God's good ; 
 always good, my dear ! It's all right wi' Him, 
 Angel ; it's the world that forgets Him that's 
 wrong. God does everything kind, dearie. He 
 gave me your mother, and He only took her away 
 when she was tired and wanted to go. All for 
 the best, Angel ! All for the best, little lass ! 
 Love God, my child, love Him with all your 
 heart, an' all your soul, an' all your mind." 
 
 His voice died in indistinct murmuring, but he 
 still kept his gaze fixed wistfully on his daughter's 
 half-ashamed, half-sullen little face. She, continu- 
 ing to fondle his hand, suddenly asked, " Why 
 was I called Angel, father ? "
 
 angel's OTcfeefcness 
 
 221 
 
 He smiled, a very sweet and youthful smile. 
 
 " Just a fancy o' mine an' your mother's, my 
 dear, that's all! We was young an' happy-like 
 then, an* work was easier to get ; an' such a dear 
 sweet baby lass ye were when ye were born, with 
 gold curls all over your head and bonnie bright 
 eyes, that we said ye were like a little angel. 
 An' so we named ye Angel for the sake of the 
 pleasantness of it an' the sound of it ; an' ye 
 must be an angel, dearie — Angel by name and 
 angel by nature. Yes, yes ! it's all right ! God 
 gave ye to me, an' He knows all — all the trouble 
 an' worry an' fret " 
 
 He broke off suddenly, and sat up straight in 
 his bed, while Angel, terrified by a strange expres- 
 sion in his face that she had never seen there before, 
 cried out sharply, " Father ! Father ! what is it ? " 
 
 He did not answer her ; his eyes were full of 
 radiance, and seemed to be looking at something 
 his frightened child could not see. 
 
 " Angel ? " he said, presently, in a faint hoarse 
 whisper, " look ! There's your mother ! I knew 
 she'd come ! Don't ye hate God, my little gel ! 
 He's sent her for me. God's as good as good can 
 
 be ; it's the world that's wrong the world 
 
 " He paused ; his breathing almost stopped, 
 
 and he still stared steadily before him. 
 
 " Father ! Father ! " sobbed Angel, sinking on
 
 222 angers Mtcftefcness 
 
 her knees in a passion of grief and fear. " Oh, 
 father ! " 
 
 His hand wandered feebly to her bent head, and 
 lay coldly on her warm soft hair. 
 
 " Don't ye — hate — God — Angel," he gasped 
 brokenly. " Love Him ! — an' — an' He'll take 
 care of ye ! ' : Then, all at once, with a rich manly 
 ring in his voice, such as his poor forlorn daughter 
 had seldom heard, he exclaimed, "All right, my 
 lass, I'm coming ! " 
 
 Starting up at the sound and chilled to the heart 
 with dread, Angel gave one wild look at him ; and 
 lo ! while she yet gazed, he fell back heavily ; a 
 solemn shadow crossed his face — a shadow which, 
 passing as swiftly as it had descended, left the 
 features smooth and young. Every line of care 
 and perplexity vanished as if by magic ; a smile 
 settled on the lips, and all was over. With a 
 shriek of agony the desolate child flung herself 
 across the bed by her father's stiffening corpse, 
 unable to realise his death, and out of the very 
 acuteness of her despair sank for the time being 
 into merciful insensibility. 
 
 Late on that same evening Johnnie Coleman, 
 sleepy and disappointed, prepared to leave the 
 corner of the alley where he had kept faithful vigil 
 all the afternoon, and set himself to return to the 
 dirty piece of matting on the floor in his master
 
 UwqcVs Mfcfeefcness 22 
 
 j 
 
 the costermonger's abode, which matting he, being 
 an orphan, accepted as bed and lodgement. Sud- 
 denly his eyes were attracted by a bright glare in 
 the sky, and hardly had he had time to receive the 
 impression of this when the cry of " Fire ! Fire ! ' 
 resounded through the street, and set him running 
 off at racing speed for the exciting scene of the 
 disaster. It was some distance away, and as he 
 ran he was quite unaware that another fleet-footed 
 figure pursued him — no other than his ' gal/ 
 Angel Middleton. She had crept out of her 
 wretched dwelling, poor child, sick with hunger 
 and stupefied with grief, and perceiving her ragged 
 boy-friend waiting for her at the corner, had come 
 towards him slowly and languidly, and had been 
 just about to call him by name when off he had 
 rushed at the pace described, not seeing her, 
 whereupon she, in the mere nervous impulse of 
 the moment, followed. Soon the two, running 
 thus, were merged and lost in a great crowd of 
 people, who stood looking up at a wreath of 
 brilliant flames that darted from the roof and walls 
 of a small shop and dwelling in one — the house of 
 a general grocer and dealer in oil and household 
 provision. Owing to the imflammable nature of 
 the goods kept in the store, the fire grew fast and 
 furious, and though the engines rapidly arrived 
 it was evident that very little could be done to
 
 224 angel's Mic fce&ness 
 
 save the perishing building. The owner of the 
 place threw himself from one of the windows and 
 escaped by a miracle without injury ; but when his 
 wife, half-suffocated with smoke, was dragged out 
 from the burning walls more dead than alive, she 
 struggled frantically to rush back again into the 
 heart of the flames. 
 
 " My children ! my baby ! '" she screamed and 
 wailed. " Save them ! Oh ! save them ! Let 
 me go ! — let me die with them ! " 
 
 " Steady, mother ! " said one of the pitying 
 firemen, holding her arm in a tight grip. " 'Tain't 
 no use frettin'. Leave the little 'uns to God ! ' 
 
 Yes, truly to God, and — His ' Angel ' ! For 
 suddenly the crowd parted ; a little girl, white- 
 faced and dark-eyed, with golden-brown hair 
 streaming behind her like a comet, rushed through 
 and made straight for the burning house. There 
 was a horrified pause ; then Johnnie Coleman's 
 shrill voice, rendered shriller by terror, cried 
 out, — 
 
 " It's Angel ! Angel Middleton ! " 
 
 " Angel Middleton ! " roared the crowd, not 
 knowing the name, but catching it up and echoing 
 it forth like a cheer in responsive excitement. 
 " Hooray for Angel ! There's a brave gel for ye ! 
 See ; she's got the baby ! " 
 
 And, sure enough, there at one of the burnt-out
 
 Bngel's TCUcfeetmess 225 
 
 windows, with smoke and flame eddying around 
 her, stood Angel, holding a tiny infant in her 
 arms, the while she looked anxiously down into 
 the street below for some further means of rescue. 
 Several people rushed forward, holding an ex- 
 tended sheet which had been hastily procured, 
 and, fearing lest she should be stupefied into 
 inaction by the smoke, they shouted, — 
 
 " Throw it, Angel ! Never fear ! Throw it 
 down ! " 
 
 Whereupon Angel threw the child ; it was 
 caught in safety, and she, the rescuer, vanished. 
 Only to reappear again, however, at the same 
 window with two more small children, of about 
 two and four years of age, at sight of which such 
 a thunder of acclamation went up as might have 
 been heard at the furthest holes and corners of 
 degraded Whitechapel. She meanwhile, leaning 
 far out over the charred and smoking window- 
 frame, demanded in clear, ringing tones, — 
 
 "Are there any more children ? Are these all?" 
 
 " Yes, yes ! ' shrieked the frantic mother, 
 running forward with her just-restored baby 
 clasped to her breast — " All ! YouVe saved 
 them all ! God love you, dear ! " 
 
 Once more the protecting sheet was outspread, 
 and without any haste or alarm for her own 
 safety, Angel let one child after another drop 
 
 15
 
 226 angel's Mfcfeefcness 
 
 straightly and steadily from her hold ; they were 
 caught and saved, uninjured. Then all interest 
 became centred on the girl-heroine herself; and 
 as the wall on which she had her footing tottered 
 to and fro, a great cry went up from the crowd. 
 
 " Quick, quick, Angel ! Jump ! " 
 
 A smile crossed her pale face for a moment ; 
 she looked to right and left, and was just about 
 to leap from her perilous position when, with a 
 sickening crash, the brickwork beneath her gave 
 way and crumbled to ruins, while up roared a 
 new and fierce pyramid of fire. Quickly and 
 courageously all hands went to the rescue of the 
 rescuer, and in a few minutes, which to the 
 pitying onlookers seemed long hours, they dragged 
 her forth, cruelly burnt, but not disfigured ; 
 crushed and dying, but not dead. Lifting her 
 tenderly, they carried her out of the reach of the 
 smoke, and laid her down — one gentle-hearted 
 fireman supporting her little golden head against 
 his arm, while the mother, whose children she had 
 saved, fell on her knees beside her, weeping and 
 blessing her, and kissing her poor charred hands. 
 She was quite conscious, and very peaceful. 
 
 " Don't ye mind," she said placidly ; " father's 
 gone, and 'twould ha' bin no use for me to stay. 
 Why, Johnnie, are you there ? " And her wan- 
 dering eyes rested smilingly on a small doubled-
 
 Enters TK&fcfceoness 227 
 
 up object close by that looked more like a bundle 
 of rags than a boy. 
 
 "'Iss," sobbed Johnnie. "Oh, Angel! I've 
 bin waitin' for ye all the arternoon. I wouldn't 
 stop in class arter they wouldn't 'ave ye no more — 
 an' I v/anted to see ye an' tell ye as how it wouldn't 
 make no change in me, an' now — now " 
 
 Tears prevented the faithful Johnnie's further 
 utterance ; and Angel, with an effort, made a 
 sign that she wished him to come nearer. He 
 came, and she put up her lips to his. 
 
 " Kiss me, Johnnie," she whispered. He 
 obeyed, the great drops rolling fast down his 
 grimy cheeks, while the crowd, reverently con- 
 scious of the solemn approach of death, circled 
 round these two young things and watched their 
 parting with more passionate though unspoken 
 sympathy than could ever have been expressed 
 by the noblest poet in the noblest poem. 
 
 " I was wicked," said Angel softly, then. 
 " You must tell them all, Johnnie — at class — that 
 I was wicked, and — that I am — sorry I said I 
 hated God ; I didn't understand. It's all for the 
 best — father's gone, and I'm goin' — an' I'm so 
 glad, Johnnie — so happy ! Bury me with father, 
 please ; — and tell everybody — everybody — that I 
 love God — now?' 
 
 There was a silence. The fireman supporting
 
 228 Hngers Wtcftefcness 
 
 the girl's head suddenly raised his hand with 
 suggestive gravity, and those who wore hats in 
 the crowd reverently lifted them. The smothered 
 sobbing of tender-hearted women alone broke the 
 stillness ; the stars seemed to tremble in the sky 
 as the Greater Angel descended and bore away 
 the lesser one on wings of light to heaven. 
 
 And the East End turned out from every 
 grimy hole and squalid corner all its halt and 
 blind, and maimed and miserable, and bad and 
 good, to attend at Angel's funeral. The East 
 End has a rough heart of its own, and that heart 
 had been touched by an Angel's courage, and 
 now ached for an Angel's loss. She and her 
 father were buried together in the same grave on 
 Christmas Eve ; and the Reverend Josiah Snawley, 
 realising perhaps for the first time the meaning of 
 the words, " Let your light so shine before men, 
 that they may see your good works, and glorify your 
 Father which is in heaven" read the Burial Ser- 
 vice with more emotion than was usual with him. 
 Poor Johnnie Coleman, wearing a bit of crape in 
 his hat, and carrying three penny bunches of 
 violets, to throw upon his little sweetheart's coffin, 
 was the most sincerely doleful of all chief 
 mourners ; desperately rubbing and doubling his 
 dirty fists into his eyes he sobbed incessantly and 
 refused to be comforted.
 
 Heel's Mtcfcefcness 229 
 
 "Worn't she my gal?" he blubbered in- 
 dignantly to a would-be consoler. ' c An' ain't I 
 to be sorry at losin' 'er ? I tell ye there ain't no 
 one left alive as good as she wos ! " 
 
 Even Miss Powser forgot for the nonce that 
 she was a lonely spinster, whom nobody, not even 
 Mr. Snawley, seemed disposed to marry, and, 
 only remembering simple womanliness, shed tears 
 unaffectedly, and spent quite a little fortune in 
 flowers to strew over the mortal remains of the 
 1 mere insolent heathen ' — the rebellious child 
 who had said she ' hated God.' For in this one 
 thing was the sum and substance of Angel's 
 wickedness ; she hated what seemed to her poor 
 unenlightened mind the wanton cruelty of the 
 inexorable Fate that forced her father to starve 
 and die ! Forgive her ! — pity her, good Chris-- 
 tians all ! You who, comfortably fed and clothed, 
 go to church on Christmas Day and try to shut 
 out every suggestion of misery from your thoughts, 
 forgive her as God forgives — God who knows 
 how often His goodness is mistaken and misre- 
 presented by the human professed exponents of 
 Divine Law, and how He is far more frequently 
 portrayed to His most suffering, ignorant and 
 helpless little ones as a God of Vengeance rather 
 than what He is — a God of Love !
 
 THE DISTANT VOICE. 
 
 " A FTER long sleep, to wake up in heaven 
 
 1~\ to the sound of a beautiful voice, 
 singing ! . . ." 
 
 The sick man muttered these words aloud, and, 
 turning on his pillows, opened his eyes to meet 
 the cold, grey, passionless ones of his physician, 
 who bent over him, watch in hand. 
 
 " Delirious, eh ? " said the doctor, observing 
 him narrowly. " This won't do at all. How's 
 the pulse ? " The patient extended his wrist. 
 " H'm ! Not so bad ! You were talking non- 
 sense just now, Mr. Denver." 
 
 " Was I ? " Denver smiled faintly, and sighed. 
 " I was dreaming, I think ; a strange dream, 
 about " — he paused a moment, then went on — 
 ,c about heaven." 
 
 The doctor put his big watch back in its 
 pocket, and looked about for his hat and gloves. 
 
 " Ah, indeed ! " he murmured abstractedly. 
 
 " Very pleasant, no doubt ! Dreams are often 
 
 230
 
 ZTfoe Distant Doice 231 
 
 exceedingly agreeable. You must go on with the 
 medicine, Mr. Denver ; it will alleviate pain, and 
 it is all I can do for you at present. If you 
 could pick up your strength, we might try an 
 operation ; but it's no use just now." 
 
 Denver's sad dark eyes rested on him wistfully. 
 
 " Stop a moment, doctor," he said. " I should 
 like to ask you a question. I'm not delirious ; 
 I'm quite myself — at least, as much as I shall ever 
 be. I know mine is a hopeless case ; cancer is 
 bound to kill, sooner or later. Still, you're only 
 mortal yourself, and the time must come when 
 you will have to go the same way I am going. 
 I'm on the verge of the grave, so it's not worth 
 while deceiving me. Now, tell me honestly, do 
 you believe in heaven ? " 
 
 The doctor had found his hat and gloves by 
 this time, and was ready for departure. 
 
 "Dear me, no ! " he answered ; " certainly not ! 
 That is, if you mean a supernatural heaven. The 
 only heaven possible to the human being is the 
 enjoyment of a certain set of brain sensations 
 which elevate him into a particular mood of hap- 
 piness ; hence the saying that ' heaven is not a 
 place but a state of mind.' " 
 
 " Then," went on Denver slowly, " you do not 
 think there is any sort of conscious or individual 
 life after death ? "
 
 232 XTbe Distant Voice 
 
 " My dear sir," replied the doctor, somewhat 
 testily — he was a great man in his profession and 
 had a number of distinguished patients waiting for 
 him that morning — " these are questions for the 
 clergyman of the parish, not for me. I really 
 have no ability to argue on such abstruse matters. 
 I can only say, as a man who has studied science 
 to some extent, that I personally am convinced 
 that death is the natural and fitting: end of the 
 diseased or superannuated human being, and that, 
 when he dies, he is beyond all doubt absolutely 
 dead and done for." 
 
 John Denver still looked at him earnestly. 
 
 " Thank you ! " he said at last, after a pause. 
 " You are a clever man, doctor, and you ought to 
 know. I am an ignorant fellow, — always was 
 ignorant, I'm afraid. But when I worked for my 
 living as a lad down in the mines, and looked up 
 from the darkness of that deep earth to the round 
 bit of blue sky that shone in thick with stars 
 above me, I used to believe heaven was there and 
 God in the midst of it. It was nonsense, I suppose, 
 but I wish I had the old faiths now. I think I 
 should be able to bear my trouble better." 
 
 The doctor was slightly embarrassed and per- 
 plexed. It was the old story ; he had no drug 
 wherewith to 'minister to a mind diseased.' 
 Patients often bored him in this way with trouble-
 
 ftbe Distant IDoice 233 
 
 some questions. If John Denver had been a poor 
 man instead of a rich one, he might not have even 
 answered him ; but millionaires are not met with 
 every day, and Denver was a millionaire. 
 
 " Why do you not see your clergyman ? '" he 
 asked. " It is possible he might reinstate you in 
 your beliefs " 
 
 Denver's brows clouded. 
 
 " My clergyman ? " he echoed, a trifle sorrow- 
 fully. " My clergyman is far too much occupied 
 with the comforts of earth to think over-deeply 
 concerning the joys of heaven. The last time I 
 saw him, he urgently begged me to leave something 
 to the Church in my will. ' I am sorry to hear 
 your disease is hopeless,' he said, ' but I am sure 
 you would wish a part of your wealth to be of 
 some benefit to the Almighty.' As if any man's 
 money could really ' benefit ' the Creator of all 
 things ! No, doctor ! My clergyman has no 
 support to give me in the trial I am passing 
 through. I must bear it quite alone. Don't let 
 me detain you any longer. Good-morning, and 
 again thank you ! " 
 
 The physician muttered a hasty response, and 
 made his exit, glad to escape from what he 
 considered the ' fads ' of a fanciful invalid. 
 
 Left to himself, John Denver stared wearily 
 into the vacancy of the great room in which he
 
 234 U\K Distant Doice 
 
 lay. It was furnished simply, yet richly, and 
 through the large bay window, set half open, he 
 could see the verdant stretches of park and meadow 
 land of which he was the owner. He thought of 
 the years of patient toil he had endured to amass 
 his present wealth ; of his life out in the ' far 
 West ;' of the sudden discovery of silver ore which 
 had made him one of the richest men in the world, 
 and of all the glamour and glitter of slavish society 
 which had attended him ever since his attainment 
 to fortune. He thought of the pretty woman he 
 had married — a fresh, lively girl when he had first 
 met her, and one whom he had fondly fancied 
 loved him for himself alone, but who was now 
 no more than a frivolous mondaine, for whom 
 nothing was sacred but social conventionalism, and 
 whose heart had steadily hardened under the 
 influence of boundless wealth till she was as 
 soulless as a fashion-plate. He thought of his 
 children, who had never loved him with really 
 disinterested affection — of his son, who only looked 
 upon him as the necessary provider of his yearly 
 allowance ; of his daughter, who was running the 
 rounds of society in search of some titled noodle 
 for a husband, almost, if not utterly indifferent to 
 the fact that her father was dying of an incurable 
 disease : and as memory after memory chased itself 
 through his tired brain, a sudden rush of tears
 
 XTbe Distant Dotce 235 
 
 blinded him, and he groaned aloud, " O God ! 
 what has my life been worth ! What worth has 
 any life if death must be the end ? ' 
 
 At that moment a slight tap came at his door, 
 and before he had time to say " Come in ! " the 
 intending visitor abruptly entered. 
 
 " I thought I should find you alone, John 
 Denver," he said, in singularly slow, musical 
 tones. " I met your wife in the garden, and she 
 told me the doctor had just left you." 
 
 Denver nodded a faint assent. He was weary 
 and exhausted, and in the presence of this 
 particular friend of his, was always strangely 
 disinclined to speak. Truth to tell, Paul Valitsky, 
 known to many as a great painter, and suspected 
 by some of being a dangerous Russian Nihilist, 
 was a rather remarkable-looking man, possessed, 
 too, of a certain fascination which attracted some 
 people and distinctly intimidated others. Though 
 small of stature and somewhat bent, he was not 
 old ; his face, pale and rather angular, was beauti- 
 fied by a pair of fine eyes, greenish-grey in hue, 
 with an occasional changeful light in them like 
 that which plays on opals. These eyes were his 
 chief feature ; they at once captivated and held all 
 who met their fiery iridescent glances ; and as he 
 turned them now on Denver, a great kindness 
 softened them — an expression of infinite tenderness
 
 236 Zhc 2>tstant t)oice 
 
 and regard, which was not lost upon the invalid, 
 though he lay still and apparently unmoved to any 
 responsive feeling by that gentle and searching 
 scrutiny. 
 
 " So the fiat has gone forth, and we must die ! " 
 said Valitsky presently, in almost caressing accents. 
 " Well, there are worse things in life than death." 
 
 Denver was silent. 
 
 <c You dislike the idea ? " resumed his visitor 
 after a slight pause. " The quiet of the tomb is 
 not an agreeable prospect ? You seem discom- 
 posed ; but you are a brave man — you surely 
 cannot be afraid ! " 
 
 " No, I am not afraid," replied Denver steadily. 
 " I am only — sorry ! " 
 
 " Sorry ! And why ? " 
 
 " Well, in the first place I am sorry to have 
 made so little good use of my time. All I have 
 done has been to amass money, and what is that ? 
 — a delusive quest and an unsatisfactory gain, for 
 I profit nothing by my life's work — my gold 
 cannot cure sickness or keep back death. In some 
 unfortunate way, too " — he paused and sighed — " I 
 have missed love out of all my fortunes, and now, 
 here at the last, I am left alone to meet my fate as 
 best I can, and my ' best' is a bad attempt. Yes, 
 I am sorry to die ; I am sorry to leave the world, 
 for it is beautiful ; sorry to lose the sight of the
 
 Gbe Distant IDoice 237 
 
 sun and the blue sky " he broke off for a 
 
 moment, then went on, " But I tell you, Paul, if I 
 could believe in another life after this one, as you 
 do, and if the dream I had an hour ago were a 
 truth, then I should not be sorry, I should be 
 glad ! " 
 
 " Ay, ay ! " and Valitsky nodded sympatheti- 
 cally. " And what was this dream ? " 
 
 " I dreamed I was in heaven," said Denver, 
 his troubled face lighting up with an inward 
 rapture. <c But not such a heaven as the parsons 
 preach of; it was a world somewhat resembling 
 this one, only vaster and more beautiful. I 
 seemed to myself to have wakened suddenly out 
 of a deep sleep, and as I woke I heard a voice — 
 the loveliest and tenderest voice imaginable ! — 
 singing a sweet song ; and I swear to you, Paul, 
 I thought I knew and loved the unseen singer ! ' 
 
 Valitsky rose from the chair he had occupied 
 near the window, and, approaching the bed, laid 
 his fine, nervous hand on Denver's wrist, fixing 
 him at the same time with his strange iridescent 
 eyes. 
 
 "So you have heard a voice from the other 
 world, my friend ! " he said. { ' And yet you 
 doubt ! You know what I am — you know that 
 for me, at times, the portals of the Unseen are set 
 open. Men call me artist, idealist, madman,
 
 238 Zhe Distant Dotce 
 
 judging me thus because I know the touch of 
 higher things than are common to ordinary eating, 
 drinking, breeding, perishing clay ; but let them 
 call me what they will, at death my faith will 
 bridge the tomb, where their materialism shrinks 
 away in fear and horror. That voice you heard 
 — listen and tell me — was it at all like this ? " 
 
 He held up his hand with a warning gesture — 
 and, through the silence, a faint, delicious sound 
 of song came floating distinctly — clear, yet far off, 
 as though it fell from the regions of the upper air. 
 
 " My God ! ' ' cried Denver, starting up in his 
 bed. " It is the same — the very same ! Paul, 
 Paul ! What does it mean ? " 
 
 " It means," answered Valitsky steadily, " that 
 you are on the verge of the Eternal, my friend, 
 and that I, a poor unworthy medium of communi- 
 cation, am bidden to assure you of the fact. The 
 heaven you dreamed of is a real heaven ; the voice 
 you hear is a real voice ; and the one who sings 
 awaits your coming with all the love you have 
 missed in your life till now. Believe me or not as 
 you will, I speak the truth. Death, or what mor- 
 tals call death, will bestow upon you such joy as 
 is incapable of human comprehension or expres- 
 sion ; but at the same time it is but fair to you to 
 say that you can have your choice — knowing 
 what I have told you, you yet have the privilege
 
 XTbe Distant tDoice 239 
 
 given to you to decide whether you will die or 
 live on." 
 
 Denver stared amazedly. " You talk in riddles, 
 Paul ! Live on ? I ? My doom is sealed ; I 
 know that well enough. You can do nothing, 
 spiritualist and idealist though you are, to hinder 
 it." 
 
 " If you choose to live, you shall live ! ' said 1 
 Valitsky firmly. " I will guarantee it, for so I 
 have been commanded. Cancer shall not kill, nor 
 any other evil cut the thread of your existence. 
 But, were I you, I would die rather than live." 
 
 Denver had grown very pale. 
 
 " You — you will guarantee my life if I choose 
 to live ? " he asked, in low, tremulous tones. 
 " Can you guarantee it ? " 
 
 " I can and will. I swear it ! I came here to- 
 day on purpose to tell you so. But think well 
 before deciding ! — the barriers of the unseen 
 world are lifted now, ready for your admission. 
 If by your own choice they close again, the Voice 
 you heard will sing to you no more." 
 
 With a wild, searching glance Denver scruti- 
 nised his strange friend's pale countenance. It 
 was passionate and earnest — only the eyes 
 sparkled with an intense, fiery gleam. Uncertain 
 what to believe, and yet strongly impressed by 
 Valitsky's steadfast manner, — knowing him, too,
 
 240 XTbe Bfstant Voice 
 
 for a man who was credited, rightly or wrongly, 
 with singularly occult powers, he suddenly made 
 up his mind and spoke out impetuously. 
 
 " I will live ! " he said. " The next world may 
 be a dream; the sweet voice that stole away my 
 heart may be a delusion ; but this world is real, — 
 a tangible fact, a place in which to move and 
 breathe and think in. I will stay in it while I can ! 
 If you indeed have the force you seem to possess, 
 why, use it upon me and give me life — this life ! 
 I choose, not heaven but earth ; I will live 
 on ! 
 
 Slowly Valitsky withdrew from the bedside, 
 and, standing a few paces away, surveyed Denver 
 with an intense expression of mingled scorn and 
 compassion. 
 
 " Be it so," he said. " Live ! And try to find 
 joy, peace, or love in what life brings you. You 
 have chosen badly, my poor friend ! You have 
 rejected a glorious reality for a miserable delusion. 
 When you are tired of your choice let me know. 
 For the present, farewell ! " 
 
 The door opened and closed softly — he was 
 gone. For hours John Denver lay still with wide- 
 open eyes, going over and over every detail of the 
 strange conversation he had had with this strange 
 man, and wondering whether it was true that he 
 was granted a new lease of life, or whether it was
 
 Zhc Distant Voice 241 
 
 mere fantastic boasting on Valitsky's part. Finally 
 he slept a sound and dreamless sleep. 
 
 The next day, on awaking, he was free from 
 pain, and during the ensuing week he was so far 
 recovered as to be able to leave his bed and resume 
 his ordinary occupations. The great physician 
 who attended him was completely taken aback ; 
 the supposed cancerous ailment appeared after all 
 to have no existence, and for the thousandth time 
 an apparently infallible doctor was proved wrong. 
 John Denver lived — as Valitsky had sworn he 
 should do. He lived to see his son in the criminal's 
 dock for forging a friend's name ; he lived to see 
 his daughter married to a vicious ' nobleman,' 
 whose days were passed in gambling and nights in 
 drinking ; he lived to know that his wife had been 
 faithless to him for years, and that she had hoped 
 for his death and was furiously disappointed at his 
 continuance of life ; he lived to entertain flatterers 
 who fawned upon him for his wealth alone, to feed 
 servants who robbed him at every turn, to realise 
 to the full the cruelty, hypocrisy, meanness, and 
 selfishness of his fellow-creatures — till, at last, after 
 seven tedious summers and winters had passed 
 away, a great weariness came over him and a 
 longing for rest. Conscious of the failure and 
 futility of his life, he sat all alone one evening 
 in his great library, looking vaguely out on the 
 
 16
 
 242 Uhc distant Doice 
 
 misty moonlit lawn, and unbidden tears rose to his 
 eyes as he thought, " If I could only dream again 
 that dream of heaven, and wake to hear the sound 
 of that beloved and beautiful voice singing ! " 
 
 On a sudden impulse he drew pen and paper 
 towards him, and wrote to Paul Valitsky, whom 
 he had only very rarely and casually seen since 
 that strange personage had offered him the choice 
 of life or death. 
 
 "My Friend, — You told me when I was tired 
 to let you know. I am tired now. Life offers 
 me nothing. I made, as you said, a bad choice. 
 If you believe in a heaven still, will you assure me 
 of it ? If that voice I once heard is real, if it is 
 the voice of one who is pitiful, and true, and 
 tender, may I not hear it again ? Certain mysteries 
 are unveiled to you, certain faiths are clear to you ; 
 if to your potent secret force I owe the gift of 
 longer life, take it back I entreat you, and let me 
 find myself where I was seven years ago, on the 
 verge of the Eternal, with the golden gates ajar ! " 
 
 Several days elapsed before he received any 
 reply to this letter, and he was growing restless, 
 feverish, and impatient, when at last it came, its 
 characteristic brevity quieting him into a strange 
 and passive peace. It ran thus : " Heaven has not 
 altered its design or changed its place, my friend,
 
 Zhc Distant Dolce 243 
 
 because blind Earth doubts its beauty. Your 
 seven years is a little seven minutes to the dwellers 
 in that higher sphere — a mere pause in the song 
 you heard ! Be satisfied — on the night you receive 
 this letter, the Song shall be continued and the 
 Singer declared." 
 
 Dreamily John Denver sat at his open window, 
 with this missive in his hand ; the glory of a rosy 
 sunset bathed all the visible country, and a thrush, 
 swaying to and fro on a branch of pine, piped a 
 tender little evening carol. He listened to the 
 bird with a vague pleasure ; he was quite alone, — 
 alone as he had been for many months since his 
 wife had fled from him with her latest lover. He 
 was conscious of a singular sensation, an impression 
 of duality , as though he, John Denver, were the 
 mere frame or casing for another individual and 
 intelligent personality, a creature that until now 
 had been pent up in clay, suffering and resentful, 
 but that at the present moment was ready to break 
 loose from imprisonment into a vast and joyous 
 liberty. 
 
 " And yet," he murmured, half aloud, " if there 
 is a heaven, what right have I to enter it ? I 
 have done nothing to deserve it. I have honestly 
 striven to do my best according to my poor 
 knowledge ; but that is of no account. I have 
 missed love on earth, it is true ; but why should
 
 244 Ufoe ^Distant Doice 
 
 I expect to find it in another world? Valitsky 
 declares that all God's work is founded on pure 
 equity, and that every human soul has its mate 
 either here or elsewhere ; if that were true — if 
 that could be true — perhaps by the very law of 
 God which knows no changing, I may meet and 
 love the singer of that heavenly song ! " 
 
 At that very moment a sound, sweet and 
 penetrating, pierced the silence — the full, delicious 
 cadence of a melody more dulcet than ever came 
 from the throat of any amorous lark or nightin- 
 gale ; and John Denver, the weary and world- 
 worn man of many cares and many disappointments, 
 stood up alert, pale and expectant, peering wistfully 
 yet doubtfully into the gathering shadows of his 
 room. Earth and earth's gains had proved 
 delusions — would the hope of heaven prove equally 
 vain ? 
 
 " The Voice divine ! " he whispered rapturously. 
 " The same beloved voice I heard before ! ... it 
 sings again ! So sweet a voice could not deceive. 
 I will accept it as assurance of the truth of 
 God ! " 
 
 With straining sight he still gazed into the 
 deepening darkness. . . . Was it fancy ? or did 
 he see there an Angel- figure, and face fairer than 
 that of any pictured vision ? — a face luminous as 
 a star, and full of tenderest appeal, love, and
 
 Zftc Bistant Uoice 245 
 
 ecstasy. He stretched out his arms blindly . . . 
 wonderingly . . . with a supernal sense of joy. 
 
 " It is true ! " he said. " God is just, and 
 heaven exists, despite all narrow, worldly doubtings ! 
 What has been missed shall be found ; what has 
 been lost shall be gained ; and even to the poorest, 
 the most sinful, and most ignorant, shall consolation 
 be given ! For death is not death — but Life ! ' 
 
 He staggered a little — his breath failed him — 
 and falling back in his chair he closed his eyes. 
 The mystic voice sang on, flooding the silence 
 with exquisite music ; he smiled, listening. 
 
 " After long sleep, to wake up in heaven to 
 the sound of a beautiful voice singing ! " he 
 murmured ; — and then was still. 
 
 And even so John Denver slept the sleep of 
 death ; and, if all faiths are not frenzies, even so 
 he woke !
 
 THE WITHERING OF A ROSE. 
 
 IMMEDIATELY above the picturesque town 
 of Lucerne there is a towering eminence 
 clothed with pines, to the summit of which the 
 exploring and aspiring tourist can ascend by one of 
 those ingeniously contrived ' funicular ' railways, 
 now so common in all the mountainous districts of 
 Switzerland. 
 
 The little passenger-car is worked by the cog- 
 wheel-and-water system, and jogs slowly up a 
 precipitous incline, which, surveyed from the 
 bottom, appears to slant at about an angle of 
 seventy degrees. But it is not so perilous as it 
 seems. The journey is easy and safe enough ; and 
 those who are troubled with ' nervous sensations,' 
 and who insist on closing their eyes firmly while 
 travelling up in the strange conveyance, which, 
 when observed from a sufficient distance, certainly 
 somewhat resembles a squat kind of blue-bottle 
 clinging to a wall, will have their full consolation 
 
 and reward on arriving at the top. 
 
 246
 
 XTbe TOtbertng of a 1Rose 247 
 
 For there one of the most glorious landscapes in 
 the world is spread before the enraptured sight ; 
 the lovely c Lake of the Four Cantons ' glitters 
 below in all its width of vasty blue, surrounded 
 by kingly mountains, the peaks of which, even in 
 the height of summer, still keep on their sparkling 
 diadems of virginal snow; on either hand a forest 
 of tall pine-trees stretches away for miles, — a forest 
 where one may wander in solitude for hours, 
 walking on a thick carpet of the softest moss, 
 strewn with the brown and fragrant ' pine needles,' 
 scarcely hearing one's own footsteps, and seeing 
 nothing but the arching cathedral-like splendour of 
 solemn green gloom, flecked through here and 
 there by the blue of the sky and the bright rays 
 of the sun. 
 
 At the entrance of this forest stands one of the 
 prettiest of rustic hotels, known as the * Pension 
 Gutsch,' a house built in the true Swiss style, with 
 picturesque gabled roofs and wide wooden veran- 
 dahs — its charming seclusion and simplicity offering 
 a delightful contrast to the garish glories of the 
 * Schweizerhof ' and the other monstrous Ameri- 
 canised hotels of Lucerne, where the main object 
 of every one concerned, from the portier down to 
 the smallest paying guest, appears to be to forget 
 as completely as possible the fact that Switzerland, 
 as Switzerland, exists, and to live solely for the
 
 248 Ube Mttfocrtno of a 1Rosc 
 
 enjoyment of the table-cChote^ dress, flirtation, and 
 lawn-tennis. 
 
 It is a singular fact, but true, that all the big 
 hotels in Lucerne have their table-tT hole dinner 
 served precisely at the sunset-hour — the very time 
 when grand old Mount Pilatus is gathering around 
 his frowning brows strange and mystic draperies 
 of crimson and gold and green — when the lake 
 looks like melted jewels, and all the lovely hues of 
 heaven are merging by delicious gradation into 
 the cool, pearly grey of such pure twilight as is 
 never seen save in countries where the air is rarefied 
 by the presence of perpetual snow. For this very 
 reason persons of a fanciful and romantic turn of 
 mind, who prefer scenery to soup, frequently do 
 battle with their nerves to the extent of being 
 lifted — like little frightened children in a basket 
 — up the precipitous < Gutsch ' where at the un- 
 pretentious, spotlessly clean, and fragrant hotel 
 bearing that name, they can do pretty much 
 as they like, and have the supreme comfort of 
 quiet rooms and refreshing sleep, luxuries com- 
 pletely denied them at all the large hotels in the 
 town. 
 
 Moreover, by making a special arrangement and 
 paying a little extra, they can have their meals 
 served at their own stated hours, all of which 
 sensible management and forethought on the part
 
 Ubc Mitbering of a IRose 249 
 
 of the proprietor has the result of making his 
 house a favourite resort of artists, poets, and 
 dreamers generally. The frivolous and empty- 
 headed would not care for such a place — it offers 
 nothing but repose and beauty ; it is not a suitable 
 abode for golfers or tomboy tennis-players — they 
 do well to remain in Lucerne and cling to the noisy 
 and overcrowded ' Schweizerhof.' But it is emi- 
 nently fitted for lovers in the first stage of senti- 
 mental ardour, and it is an ideal nook wherein to 
 spend a happy honeymoon. 
 
 When, on one dazzling afternoon in early July, 
 a gentleman with black moustaches got out of the 
 little * funicular ' car, and assisted a charmingly 
 attired and very young lady with fair hair to alight 
 also ; and when these twain were followed by a 
 valet, a maid, and the porter, bearing some very 
 new-looking luggage ; — none of the people already 
 staying at the ' Gutsch ' had any difficulty in 
 classifying them. They were newly married ; 
 their very appearance betrayed them. One of the 
 regular habitues of the place, a dark-eyed young 
 man clad in carelessly fitting tweeds, said as much 
 to the landlord, who, having bowed the couple in, 
 now stood on his doorstep benevolently surveying 
 the prospect. 
 
 " On their wedding tour, I suppose ? ' he 
 observed, with a smile.
 
 25 o Ube Mitbcrino of a 1Rosc 
 
 ," It is possible," replied mine host discreetly. 
 " The lady is young. Not so young the gentleman. 
 They have engaged the best rooms." 
 
 " Ah ! Plenty of money about, then ? ' 
 
 " It is to be thought so," replied the proprietor, 
 as he continued to smile blandly at the scenery. 
 " The lady has a maid, the gentleman a valet. 
 Everything " — and he spread out his hands ex- 
 pressively — " is de luxe. They are English people 
 — evidently well bred. Perhaps you know the 
 name — Allingham — Mr. and Mrs. Allingham, or 
 Dunscombe Hall, Norfolk ? " 
 
 The dark-eyed artist thought a moment, then 
 said " No." A vague idea was in his mind that 
 he had seen a sketch or photograph somewhere 
 of Dunscombe Hall, but he was not sure. And 
 mine host being called away at the moment, the 
 conversation was broken off. 
 
 The new arrivals had their meals served to them 
 privately in their own apartments ; so any curiosity 
 felt concerning them among the table-dhote com- 
 pany at the ' Pension Gutsch ' was not destined to 
 be largely gratified. One morning, however, Mr. 
 Francis Fane, the dark-eyed artist already men- 
 tioned, met Mrs. Allingham walking by herself in 
 one of the lonelier and more outlying paths of the 
 pine forest, and was quite taken aback by her 
 extremely childish appearance. She was so small
 
 TLbc Mitbertna of a IRose 251 
 
 and light on her feet, she had such a young, 
 wistful, wondering face, and her figure was cast in 
 such a dainty and delicate mould, that, as she 
 passed him silently by, in her simple white morn- 
 ing dress, tied round the waist with a knot of blue 
 ribbon, she looked like a little girl just fresh from 
 school, and it seemed impossible, almost absurd, to 
 consider her as a married woman. 
 
 " Why, she can't be more than fifteen or six- 
 teen ! ' he mentally ejaculated, staring after her 
 bewilderedly. As a matter of fact she was twenty, 
 and had seen two ' seasons ' in town ; but things 
 of the ' world worldly ' had as yet left no trace 
 on her fair features, and her eyes still held their 
 dreams of innocence unsullied, — hence, though a 
 woman, she was still a child. 
 
 " Mrs. Allingham, of Dunscombe Hall, Nor- 
 folk ! ' repeated Frank Fane to himself, with 
 a short gruff laugh. " By Jove ! It seems 
 preposterous ! " 
 
 It did seem, if not preposterous, a little strange ; 
 and Rose Allingham herself sometimes thought so. 
 She had been married just a fortnight, and had not 
 yet got over the novel sensation of having a big 
 thick wedding-ring on the tiny third finger of her 
 little white hand. She would turn it round and 
 round with a whimsical solemnity, and now and 
 then she secretly polished it up with a small bit of
 
 252 Ufoe Mttberfng of a IRose 
 
 chamois leather kept in her jewel-case for the 
 purpose. And as she regarded her wedding- 
 ring even so she regarded her husband. The 
 well-dressed gentleman with the perfectly irre- 
 proachable manner, even features, and well-groomed 
 moustache, was Harold Brentwood Allingham, 
 of Dunscombe Hall, Norfolk ; and she was Mrs. 
 Harold Brentwood Allingham, of Dunscombe 
 Hall, Norfolk. 
 
 It all seemed very interesting, and new, and 
 important. She was never tired of going over 
 and over the events which had, in their sequence, 
 led her up to this lofty position of matrimonial 
 dignity. She had left school to be ' brought 
 out ' and ' presented ' — oh, that presentation ! 
 Would she ever forget the misery of it ? The 
 bother of her long train — the nasty, spiteful 
 behaviour of the ladies who pushed her, pinched 
 her, and generally ' scrimmaged ' for entrance 
 into the Throne-room ; the bitter cold of the 
 weather, and the horrible draughts that blew all 
 over her uncovered neck and arms ; the dis- 
 appointment of there being no Sovereign to 
 receive her when she made her pretty curtsey 
 (practised for three weeks under the tuition of 
 one of the best mistresses of deportment in 
 London), but only one of the Princesses ; the 
 extreme hunger and thirst from which she suffered
 
 tTbe Mitberina of a IRose 253 
 
 during the long { wait ' ; then, her utter prostra- 
 tion and sinking into a dead faint when she got 
 home, and having beef-tea put down her throat 
 in hot spoonfuls by her anxious mother ; — all this 
 was perfectly fresh in her mind. 
 
 Then came the memory of several balls and 
 dances, at many of which she had met the good- 
 looking and rich Mr. Harold Brentwood Ailing- 
 ham, and had danced with him — he was a splendid 
 dancer ; then Henley, where the same Harold 
 Brentwood Allingham had invited her to his 
 house-boat, and given her flowers and bon-bons ; 
 then, a visit to a beautiful country house in 
 Devonshire, where she had found him installed 
 as one of the house-party ; then, that afternoon 
 when he had discovered her alone in the rose- 
 garden, reading poetry, and, taking the book 
 out of her hands, had begun to make love to 
 her. 
 
 Such funny love ! Not at all like the love the 
 poets write about — nothing in the least like it. 
 There was no nonsense about ' breaking hearts ' 
 and c wild despairs ' and ( passionate tinglings ' 
 in Mr. Harold Brentwood Allingham. He was 
 a very self-complacent man — he thought marriage 
 a sensible and respectable institution, and was 
 prepared to enter upon it in a sensible and respect- 
 able manner.
 
 254 Zhc Mitbevino of a IRose 
 
 So, without verbiage, or what is called ( high- 
 flown ' sentiment, he had put his case kindly and 
 practically. He had said " Rose, would you like 
 to marry me?" And she had surveyed him in 
 such astonishment that he was quite amused. 
 
 " I have spoken to your parents," he had then 
 continued, taking her hand, and patting it encour- 
 agingly ; " and they approve — very highly. You 
 are a charming, unspoilt girl ; and though I am 
 some years older than you, that is just as it should 
 be. I am sure we shall be very happy together. 
 You know I can give you anything you want. 
 My wife " — and here his back had stiffened slightly 
 — " would naturally occupy an enviable position 
 in society." And Rose had trembled all over 
 with nervousness. 
 
 " I know ! ' she had faltered. " But I am 
 not sure that I — I love you, Mr. Allingham." 
 
 He had laughed at this. " Oh, but I am sure," 
 he had replied, " I know you better than you do 
 yourself. There is no one else you care for, is 
 there ? " 
 
 " Oh, no," she answered earnestly, which indeed 
 was true. She had often reflected on the fact — 
 rather desolately. No one had shown her any 
 special kindness or attention since she ' came out ' 
 except this Mr. Allingham. 
 \" Then let us consider it settled," he had said,
 
 XTbe Mttfoerlna of a IRose 255 
 
 and had kissed her, and led her out of the rose 
 garden ; and later on in the day had given her a 
 wonderful engagement ring of the most superb 
 diamonds. And so things had drifted on, and the 
 preparation of her trousseau had been a great 
 excitement, and her marriage day another excite- 
 ment ; and now, here she was, fast wedded, and on 
 her honeymoon in Switzerland, with the irre- 
 proachable gentleman, whose black moustache 
 would henceforth have to command her wifely 
 admiration, year after year, till it turned grey. 
 Somehow she had not realised the weight and 
 seriousness of marriage till it was consummated. 
 She had read many love-stories, many love-poems, 
 in which all the heroes and heroines raved and 
 swore in exquisitely choice language, and ended 
 by killing themselves or somebody else with the 
 dagger, pistol, or poison bowl ; but the even 
 prosaicness of married life had not been set before 
 her in similarly graphic style. 
 
 Now and then she was a little afraid of herself 
 — afraid that she was not as happy as she ought 
 to be. She could not analyse her own feelings 
 very well, but occasionally she caught herself 
 sighing and murmuring uneasily, " I wonder if 
 I really love him ? " The doubt made her un- 
 comfortable, for she had a tender heart and 
 sensitive conscience. The relations between her-
 
 256 Zhe Mitberino of a TRosc 
 
 self and her husband had, up till now, been more 
 formal than passionate ; for among his other 
 idiosyncrasies, Mr. Allingham had a nervous 
 horror of ridicule, and, in consequence of this, had 
 endured positive torments during their journey up 
 the Rhine into Switzerland. He suspected every 
 one he met of the crime of knowing he was on 
 his honeymoon c tour,' and the unpleasant scowl 
 he assumed for would-be friendly strangers fre- 
 quently remained on his brows for the benefit of 
 his young wife, who was thereby rendered con- 
 strained and depressed. 
 
 Arrived at the ' Pension Gutsch,' he adopted 
 an equally severe and distrustful demeanour 
 towards the good-natured landlord, who made a 
 dreadful mistake one morning by becoming too 
 friendly, and venturing to suggest a drive, which 
 he humbly considered would be a charming ex- 
 cursion for une jeune mariee. Mr. Allingham 
 gave him a look which ought to have transfixed 
 him, if looks had any such power, and told him 
 curtly that he did not care about f excursions,' 
 and that ' Madame ' would please herself as to 
 a choice of walks or drives. After this, the 
 humiliated landlord took care to avoid giving 
 further offence by any undue exhibition of per- 
 sonal interest in his best-paying guests, and the 
 days rolled slowly on in a long sunshiny stretch
 
 Ube Mitbcrincj of a 1Rose 257 
 
 of perfect calm, without any change to vary or 
 break their peaceful monotony. Days of delicious 
 weather they were — pure and balmy as spring, 
 though it was full summer — happy days they 
 might have proved to Rose Allingham if they 
 had not also been days of ever-deepening per- 
 plexity. She was a very loving little creature — 
 quick to respond to kindness — and she troubled 
 herself desperately in secret as to why she could 
 not, though she tried, be altogether loving to 
 her husband. Something held her back from 
 him — there was some impalpable barrier between 
 his nature and hers that kept them singularly 
 apart, though to all appearances united. The 
 veriest trifles helped to emphasise this curious 
 state of things. One evening, strolling together 
 in the pine-woods, she began to think of all the 
 dainty love-poems she used to read and be so 
 fond of, and bringing to mind their dulcet 
 teachings, she suddenly took her husband's hand, 
 and gently slipped it round her waist, leaning her 
 fair little head confidently back against the shelter 
 of the arm thus encircling her. Then, looking 
 up, with shy, sweet eyes, and a ravishing blush, 
 she said softly, — 
 
 " There ! Isn't that nice ? " 
 
 He regarded her with a gentlemanly amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 17
 
 258 Ube Witbering ot a 1Rose 
 
 " Certainly not ! It is not ' nice.' It is any- 
 thing but nice ! I am surprised at you, Rose ! 
 I really am ! Suppose any one were to meet us 
 walking along in this ridiculous position ! Why, 
 they would take us for Cook's tourists — a Cockney 
 'Arry and 'Arriet out for a stroll ! Nothing could 
 be more vulgar and degrading ! " 
 
 He withdrew his arm in haste, and walked be- 
 side her stiffly erect, scenting the piney air in 
 virtuous indignation. His young wife said not a 
 word, but walked on also, with crimsoning cheeks 
 and downcast eyes, her little feet moving some- 
 what wearily. Presently he glared down upon her 
 with an air of relenting condescension. 
 
 " Surely you know that demonstrations of af- 
 fection in public are very bad form ? " he in- 
 quired. 
 
 She looked up, her soft eyes flashing for once 
 with something very like scorn. 
 
 "Where is the public?" she asked. " We are 
 quite alone ; alone with the forest and the sunset 
 — and with God ! But I am sorry if my action 
 offended you." 
 
 " Dear me, I am not offended — why should I 
 be ? " he retorted pettishly. " You meant it well, 
 no doubt. But wherever we are, alone or before 
 witnesses, we must avoid even the appearance ot 
 vulgarity. And pray do not quote poetry to me ;
 
 Uhc Mitbenno of a IRosc 259 
 
 I hate it. 'Alone with the forest and the sunset, 
 and with God ! ' What rubbish that is ! 
 
 " Is it ? " and she gave a little sigh. " It is not 
 poetry at any rate. It is only me ! " 
 
 " Only you ! ' he repeated. " What do you 
 mean ? " 
 
 " I mean that I said it — they are my own words ; 
 just as they came into my head. Very silly, of 
 course." 
 
 He eyed her with dignified wonder. 
 
 " Silly ! " he echoed. " I should think so, in- 
 deed. Nothing could be sillier. They remind me 
 of the style which the newspaper critics condemn 
 as c forcible feeble.' " 
 
 He smiled, and stroked his black moustache. 
 All at once she looked up at him with an expres- 
 sion of pathetic pleading in her young face. 
 
 " Harold," she said, in a low uncertain voice, 
 " are you sure — I mean — do you reallv love 
 me r 
 
 At this he felt seriously vexed ; she was going 
 to be hysterical or something, he was sure — women 
 were all alike. 
 
 " My dear Rose," he replied, with laborious 
 politeness, " I think if you will take into consider- 
 ation the fact that I have married you, you will 
 scarcely need to ask such a very foolish question. 
 If I had not loved you I should not have made
 
 260 Uhc miitbcring of a 1Rose 
 
 you my wife. That you are my wife ought to be 
 sufficient for you — the deepest feelings, as you 
 know, have the fewest words. I hope " — here his 
 voice became distinctly aggrieved in tone — " I hope 
 you are not going to cry. Nothing is more child- 
 ish ; but perhaps you are over-tired, and had 
 better go indoors. Pray remember that we are 
 living more or less under public inspection, and 
 that an hotel is not the place to make a ' scene ' 
 in. 
 
 She raised her eyes to his. They were dry and 
 bright and cold. 
 
 " Do not be afraid," she said. " I am not cry- 
 ing, and I shall make no scene." 
 
 And, turning from him, she entered the hotel 
 in silence. He did not follow her, but remained 
 sauntering up and down on the turf outside, 
 smoking a cigar. 
 
 The next morning Mr. Francis Fane was out in 
 the woods with his easel and sketching-block, bent 
 on finishing a rather powerful study of a tall pine- 
 tree split through by lightning He had been 
 hard at work for more than an hour before he 
 became aware that there was a small white bundle 
 lying, apparently thrown, on the moss at some 
 little distance ofF. He could not make it out very 
 distinctly, for the shadows of the pines were so 
 long and wide, and presently, moved by curiosity,
 
 Zftc Mitberino of a IRose 261 
 
 he got up and went to see what it was. As he 
 approached, it resolved itself into a figure — a 
 slight little figure clad in white with a blue ribbon 
 round its waist — and stopping abruptly in his 
 advance, he caught the smothered sound of low 
 sobbing. 
 
 " By Jove ! " he muttered — " Mrs. Allingham ! " 
 
 Indescribably pained and uncomfortable at this 
 discovery, he was about to step noiselessly back to 
 his easel without uttering a word, when the girl 
 suddenly raised her head, and perceiving him, 
 started up, nervously trying to control herself. 
 
 " I — I beg your pardon ! " he stammered. " I 
 — I came out here to make a sketch " 
 
 " Not of me, I hope ! " she said, with a little 
 tremulous smile ; then without the least pretence 
 or affectation, she dried her eyes with a tiny lace 
 handkerchief and began to laugh, though a trifle 
 forcedly. 
 
 " I came out here, not to sketch, but to cry," 
 she confessed naively. " You know it's very nice 
 to have a little weep all to oneself sometimes." 
 
 "Is it? " and he reddened foolishly. " I should 
 
 have thought " But he could not devise any 
 
 fitting end to the sentence ; and she looked at 
 him with a touch of wistfulness in her dewy eyes. 
 
 " May I see your sketch ? " she said, picking up 
 a large pine-cone from the ground and studying
 
 262 xrbe Witbering of a iRose 
 
 its pretty polished divisions with intense interest. 
 " I have often noticed you wandering about with 
 your easel and paint-box. You are Mr. Francis 
 Fane, are you not ? and you are staying at the 
 same hotel as we are ? " 
 
 To all this he assented, walking beside her 
 dreamily, and always thinking what a child she 
 looked. As they drew near the spot where he 
 had left his easel, he woke up to consciousness of 
 prosy etiquette, and endeavoured to realise that 
 his companion was not a woodland sylph as she 
 seemed, but a ' married lady ' of position. 
 
 " I'm afraid my poor sketch is hardly worth 
 your looking at, Mrs. Allingham ? " he began for- 
 mally. She interrupted him by a little gesture. 
 
 " Oh, you know I am Mrs. Allingham ? " she 
 queried, smiling. 
 
 " Of course I do ! ' he answered, somewhat 
 amused and surprised at her tone. " Everybody 
 at the ■ Pension Gutsch ' knows you by sight." 
 
 She mused a little, still intent on the mathe- 
 matical partitions of the pine-cone she held. Sud- 
 denly she looked up. 
 
 " And what do they say of me ? " she asked. 
 
 Fane was quite taken aback by the directness 
 of the question. Meeting her eyes, however, and 
 noting the inquiring candour and sweet innocence of 
 their expression, he answered manfully, —
 
 XTbe Mitberino of a 1Rose 263 
 
 " They say you are very young, and very pretty. 
 You could hardly expect them to say or to think 
 anything else, could you ? " 
 
 She smiled and blushed. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know ! " she said. " You see, I 
 thought they might think me — well — funny ! ' 
 
 He stared. 
 
 " Funny ? " 
 
 " Yes. Because it does seem funny, doesn't it, 
 for such a little thing as I am to be a married 
 woman ? Some people must think it curious. 
 Fancy — a married woman ! Oh, I am quite old 
 enough — I am twenty — but I don't seem to be 
 tall enough or big enough ! " and she spread out 
 her pretty hands expressively and with a charming 
 smile. " I don't know quite where I got all my 
 silly ideas from, but when I was at school I used 
 to think a married woman meant somebody fat 
 and important-looking, who always wore a cap at 
 breakfast, and a bow of velvet on the exact top of 
 her head by way of full dress at dinner. I did, 
 really ! ' and her eyes sparkled at the sound of 
 Fane's joyous laughter. " Of course, I know 
 
 better now, but then " here she broke off as 
 
 she saw the easel just in front of her with the un- 
 finished sketch upon it. She looked at it long 
 and earnestly, and Fane watched her, feeling 
 somewhat curious to know what sort of criticism
 
 264 XTbe Withering of a 1Rose 
 
 this baby-faced creature would pass upon it. She 
 studied it from every point with close attention, 
 and her eyes grew soft and serious. 
 
 "It is very human ! " she said, at last. "The 
 poor split tree tells its own history. You can see 
 it did not know anything — it grew up quite 
 happily, always looking at the sky and believing 
 that no harm could befall it — till all at once the 
 lightning struck it to the heart and killed it. 
 And in this picture of yours it seems to ask, Was 
 it my fault that I fell ? Of course, you mean it as 
 an emblem of some noble ruined life, do you not?" 
 
 He heard her with a certain wonder and rever- 
 ence — her voice was so very sweet and grave. 
 
 " I cannot say I ever thought of it in the way 
 you see it," he answered, " but I am very glad — 
 and proud, that you find so much poetry in my 
 poor effort." 
 
 " Poetry ? — oh, no. I am not at all poetical ! " 
 she said quickly, and almost shamefacedly. " I 
 used to be rather fond of reading Keats and 
 Byron, but I never do that now — my husband 
 does not like it " 
 
 " Indeed ! ' murmured Fane vaguely, wishing 
 he could make a picture of her as she stood 
 before him in her little white gown, with a pic- 
 turesque, broad-brimmed hat resting on the sunny 
 curls of her abundant hair.
 
 Zhc Wtbetfng of a iRosc 265 
 
 "No," she went on confidingly, "he thinks it 
 such nonsense. You see, he is a very clever man, 
 and very scientific. He reads all the heavy maga- 
 zines, and thinks it is very silly to waste time on 
 studying verse, when one can have so much prose." 
 
 "Yes, there certainly is a good deal of prose 
 about," said Fane. 
 
 At that moment a shadow crossed the sunlight 
 in which they stood, and Mr. Allingham sud- 
 denly made his appearance. 
 
 " Why, Harold ! " exclaimed his wife, spring- 
 ing towards him, " I thought you had gone into 
 the town ! " 
 
 " I have been into the town," he replied 
 frigidly, " but I returned a few minutes ago. 
 Perhaps you are not aware it is nearly our 
 lunch hour ? ' Then, with a stand-offish yet 
 would-be patronising air, addressing himself to 
 Fane, " You are an artist, sir ? " 
 
 "I do a little in that way," replied the young 
 man modestly. " Mrs. Allingham happened to 
 pass by while I was at work, and she has been 
 kind enough to look at my sketch." 
 
 " Ah — yes — er — yes ! Very good indeed ! " 
 murmured Mr. Allingham, scarcely glancing at 
 the picture as he spoke. " Rose, it is time we 
 went in. You are staying at our hotel are you 
 not, Mr.— er— Mr. ? "
 
 266 xrbe TKHitfoering of a IRose 
 
 " Fane," said that gentleman mildly. 
 
 " Fane, oh ! ah — yes. I think I have heard 
 of you in London. You have exhibited, have 
 you not ? " 
 
 " Frequently." 
 
 " Oh, yes, er — I remember ! Charmed — 
 charmed to meet you ! Are you coming our 
 way now ? " 
 
 "No!" said Fane, rather brusquely, "I must 
 finish my work." 
 
 And he raised his hat courteously as husband 
 and wife in their turn saluted him and walked 
 away together. He looked after them for some 
 minutes, noting with an artist's eye the swaying 
 youthful grace of the woman's dainty figure and 
 the stiff uncompromising squareness of the man's. 
 
 " Ill-matched in every way," he said to himself, 
 — " She is too young ; and he is too — conceited." 
 
 That same evening he was somewhat sur- 
 prised when Mr. Allingham came up to him 
 with almost an air of cordiality, and invited him 
 to take coffee, and a smoke afterwards, in that 
 private part of the c Gutsch ' verandah which had 
 been specially partitioned off for the sole use and 
 benefit of the newly-wedded pair. He went, 
 and was shyly welcomed by Mrs. Allingham, 
 who looked more like a small lost angel than 
 ever, attired in a loose tea-gown of silky white,
 
 Xlbe Withering of a IRose 267 
 
 adorned with old lace, and sleeves of delicate 
 chiffon. She sat a little apart, looking out 
 through the creepers which festooned the veran- 
 dah at the full moon sailing slowly through 
 white clouds over the heights of Sonnenberg. 
 
 " Mrs. Allingham does not object to smoke ? " 
 said Fane courteously, before lighting his cigar. 
 She turned her head, surprised ; her husband 
 laughed. 
 
 " Well, I never asked her," he said. " Rose, 
 do you hear ? Do you object to smoke ? " 
 
 " Object ? I ? Oh, no," she faltered. " Not 
 at all ! " 
 
 Her husband laughed again and passed the 
 liqueurs to his guest, who, however, helped him- 
 self very sparingly. Allingham drank off some 
 cognac, and began to talk, and presently brought 
 round the conversation to the subject of his place 
 in Norfolk — Dunscombe Hall. 
 
 " I have been looking," he said, with a pompous 
 air, " for a competent person to make sketches of 
 the place. Now, I believe, if I am not mistaken, 
 that you are on the staff of one of the pictorials ? ' 
 
 Fane admitted the fact. 
 
 " Then you would be the very man for me. I 
 should not at all mind giving you the job if you 
 would care to undertake it." 
 
 It was on the tip of Fane's tongue to say that
 
 263 zhc Withering of a 1Rose 
 
 he would see him d d first, for the man's tone 
 
 was so bumptious and patronising as to be dis- 
 tinctly offensive. But, glancing at the delicate 
 profile of the girl who leaned out among the 
 clambering vines, looking at the solemn beauty 
 of the night, he restrained himself by an 
 effort. 
 
 " If my engagements will allow me to accept 
 any extra work I shall not object," he answered 
 stiffly, " but I should have to communicate with 
 my editor first." 
 
 " Oh, certainly, certainly," said Mr. Allingham 
 complacently. " Only if you do it at all you must 
 do it in October. If you can't arrange that I 
 must get somebody else. Dunscombe Hall is a 
 very fine subject for an artist's pencil. It used to 
 be a monastery, and there are still some ruins of 
 the old cloisters in the grounds. And there is a 
 showy bit of sketching always at hand in the 
 Haunted Mere." 
 
 " Is it haunted ? " 
 
 "Well, they say so," replied Allingham, lighting 
 his cigar. " I've never seen the ghost myself, but 
 I am told that whenever there is to be a death in 
 the family a lady appears in a boat on the water 
 and beckons the departing spirit. All nonsense, 
 of course. But I rather like a family ghost." 
 
 "And you?" asked Fane of Mrs. Allingham,
 
 XTbe Wtbering of a iRose 269 
 
 seeing that she had turned towards them and was 
 listening attentively. 
 
 " I cannot quite tell whether I do or not," she 
 said slowly, and he fancied he saw her tremble. 
 " I have never been in a haunted house to my 
 knowledge, and, of course, it will be a new experi- 
 ence." She forced a little smile. " I did not 
 know Dunscombe Hall had a ghost." 
 
 c< Well, you know now," said her husband 
 cheerfully. " But it is a ghost that never comes 
 indoors. And the Haunted Mere is a mile off 
 from the house, so no one is likely to make its 
 acquaintance. You will let me know in good 
 time, Mr. Fane, as to whether you can undertake 
 my commission or not ? " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 The conversation then changed to other matters, 
 and when they parted for the night Fane thought 
 Mrs. Allingham looked very tired and sad. A 
 great pity filled his heart for the winsome little 
 creature who seemed made for special tenderness 
 and care, and who, despite the fact of her married 
 dignity, had such an air of pathetic loneliness about 
 her. 
 
 " Poor little woman ! " he murmured, as he 
 strolled out by himself in the warm moonlight, 
 before going to bed. " She has got a perfectly 
 irreproachable, commonplace prig for a husband —
 
 270 TTfoe Mitbcrincj of a IRosc 
 
 he will never do her any harm openly — never 
 grudge her anything — never scandalise her in the 
 
 least — and yet " 
 
 He did not pursue the train of his reflections — 
 he glanced at the moon, the tall straight pine- 
 trees, the dewy turf — then, with a sigh over 
 what he, as a modern pessimist, was disposed to 
 consider the c fairness and futility ' of creation 
 generally, forgot everything in a sound and 
 dreamless sleep. 
 
 During the rest of their stay at the l Pension 
 Gutsch ' Mr. Fane saw a good deal of the Ailing- 
 hams. Moved by the consideration that the artist 
 was a man not unknown to fame, Mr. Allingham 
 unbent towards him as much as so important a 
 person could be expected to unbend, and even 
 condescended to take a few * excursions,' such as 
 he had once declared he hated, in his new ac- 
 quaintance's company. They parted in August 
 — Mr. and Mrs. Allingham to return to Eng- 
 land, and the stately attractions of Dunscombe 
 Hall, Norfolk, and Fane to make a climbing 
 tour in the Tyrol. They left the « Gutsch ' all 
 together on the same day, jogging down the steep 
 declivity for the last time in the odd little cog- 
 wheel car. 
 
 "It is like coming down from heaven!' said
 
 XIF3C MttberinG of a 1Rosc 271 
 
 Rose Allingham, looking wistfully up at the re- 
 ceding pine-trees, bending to and fro like tall 
 plumes on the height. 
 
 cc Let us hope we are not going to the ' rival 
 region' ! " laughed Fane. " You liked the 
 ' Gutsch,' then, Mrs. Allingham ? " 
 
 " Very much," she answered. 
 
 " It is a fairly pleasant place for a short sojourn," 
 said her husband disparagingly. " Very monoto- 
 nous, of course. I should never care to go there 
 again." 
 
 "Wouldn't you?" murmured Rose timidly. 
 " Oh, I should." 
 
 " No doubt ! " retorted her husband, with a 
 hard smile. " But then, you see, I shouldn't." 
 And he began to read a London paper two days 
 old, which had arrived for him that morning. 
 
 At Lucerne station they said good-bye to Fane, 
 Mr. Allingham expressing his hope in language 
 that savoured more of command than entreaty, 
 that the artist would undertake his ' commission ' 
 in October to sketch the various beauties of 
 Dunscombe Hall. 
 
 "As to terms," he said loftily, "I think we 
 need not mention them, as nothing or that sort 
 will stand in your way or mine. Whatever you 
 choose to fix I shall very willingly agree to." 
 
 The young man flushed a little, but said nothing.
 
 2?2 Ubc Mitbcring of a Iftose 
 
 Shaking hands .again with Mrs. Allingham, he 
 presented her with a pretty bunch of Alpine blue 
 gentians and edelweiss as a parting * souvenir,' 
 and liftmg his hat, remained uncovered till the 
 train had steamed off. 
 
 " If it were not for her," he mused, c ' I would 
 see Dunscombe Hall and its priggish owner at 
 Jericho before I'd go near either of them. As it 
 is — well — I'll think about it." 
 
 September passed in a glorious blaze of beauty 
 and perfect weather ; and by the time October 
 was a week old, his ' thinking about it ' had 
 resolved into a definite course of action. So that, 
 on one solemn and shadowy evening, when the 
 smell of falling leaves was in the air, and the 
 indefinable melancholy of autumn darkened the 
 landscape even as a sad thought darkens a bright 
 face, he was driven under the frowning and pictur- 
 esque gateway of Dunscombe Hall, and up the 
 fine but rather gloomy avenue of ancient elms that 
 led to the stately building. The carriage had been 
 sent to meet him at the station, and when he 
 finally arrived and got out at the door of the 
 house, he was received by a dignified man-servant 
 in dark livery who informed him that Mr. Alling- 
 ham had been obliged to go out for an hour, but 
 that Mrs. Allingham was ' waiting tea ' for him in 
 the drawing-room. To the drawing-room he was
 
 Ubc Mitbcring of a IRose 273 
 
 therefore shown ; and such was the size and 
 antique splendour of that vast apartment, that for 
 a moment he could scarcely perceive his young 
 hostess, who at the announcement of his name 
 came forward to meet him. And when he did 
 realise her presence, such a shock of pain went 
 through him that he could scarcely speak. The 
 change wrought in her during a space of barely two 
 months was so terrible, that he could only stammer 
 out some unintelligible words, press her small cold 
 hand, and gaze at her wonderingly. She mean- 
 while met his pitying, inquiring regard with a 
 gentle patience in her own eyes. 
 
 a I see," she said, with a faint smile, " you think 
 I am looking ill, don't you ? Yes — everybody 
 does. It is quite true I am not well — I fancy 
 sometimes this place " — and a light shiver ran 
 through her — " does not agree with me. It is 
 very, very big" — here she laughed — "and I am 
 very small. I am sure a little woman ought to 
 live in a little house to be comfortable. But I 
 have a very good doctor — so kind and clever — he 
 says it is only want of tone and a little heart-weak- 
 ness — that's all. Come and have some tea — there's 
 a fire at this end of the room." 
 
 She led the way to a sort of ' cosy corner,' where 
 light and warmth were concentrated near a tea- 
 table set out with Oueen Anne silver and Serves 
 
 18
 
 274 XTbe Witberino of a 1Rose 
 
 china, and sitting in a low chair opposite her, 
 Fane watched her in compassionate silence. 
 
 If she had looked a child before, she seemed 
 more than ever one now — she had grown so thin 
 and pale and fragile, that it seemed as if the merest 
 puff of wind would blow her out of existence alto- 
 gether. Her little hands, waxen-white and deli- 
 cate, were scarcely equal to the task of lifting the 
 teapot to pour out the tea, but as she busied her- 
 self with her hospitable duties, a faint colour came 
 into her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled more 
 brightly. 
 
 " Isn't this a huge room ? " she said, as she 
 passed Fane his cup. " It's meant for hundreds 
 of people, you know — people in powdered wigs 
 and court suits. I don't think it accommodates 
 itself to modern life at all." 
 
 " It is indeed enormous ! " and Fane glanced 
 up and down and round about him. " The 
 ceiling appears to be frescoed." 
 
 " Oh, yes, it is wonderful. Quite horrid, in 
 my opinion — but Mr. Allingham says it is 
 marvellous. Any number of fat goddesses and 
 Cupids. You will see it much better by day- 
 light. We have no gas in this room, because it 
 would spoil the fresco — that is why it is always 
 so dark. To light it up we should have to put 
 candles in all those four big Venetian chandeliers ;
 
 JLhc WLifbctinQ of a 1Rose 275 
 
 and each one of' them holds two hundred 
 lights." 
 
 " No economy in candles there ! ' said Fane, 
 laughing. 
 
 " No, indeed ! But, of course, we never have 
 occasion to light it up — we never give parties ; 
 there are not enough people in the neighbourhood 
 to come to them if we did." 
 
 " How far are you from Sandringham ? " he 
 inquired. 
 
 " Oh, a long way. We are just conveniently 
 out of the reach of everybody worth knowing, 
 and everything that is going on." 
 
 .And she laughed, a trifle bitterly. 
 
 " It must be rather dull at times," he said, 
 studying her changed face attentively. " You 
 should get some friends to come and stay with 
 you — a jolly house-party." 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Allingham would never hear of such 
 2l thing," she said quickly. " He cannot bear to 
 .have a number of people about him. My mother 
 tame down for a short time in September, but she 
 declared the house was damp and gave her rheu- 
 matism. She went back to London after about a 
 week, and then I fell ill." 
 
 " What was the matter with you ? " he asked 
 sympathetically. 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders.
 
 276 z\k MitbeniiG of a IRose 
 
 " All sorts of things — fainting-fits, weakness, 
 nerves — disagreeableness generally. Here is 
 Harold." 
 
 She broke off her conversation with Fane di- 
 rectly her husband entered the room, and seemed 
 to shrink into herself like a sensitive plant too 
 roughly handled. Allingham himself was the 
 same as ever — irreproachable in dress, demeanour, 
 and what is understood by a portion of society 
 as c gentlemanliness.' He greeted Fane with ex- 
 actly the correctly measured air of cordiality — 
 namely, that of the wealthy host and encouraging 
 patron — and it was an air that galled the young 
 artist's pride considerably, though he was careful 
 for Mrs. Allingham's peace and comfort to show 
 no offence. He certainly could not complain of his 
 entertainment. He had a suite of rooms to him- 
 self, and perfect liberty of action ; he breakfasted, 
 lunched, and dined at a table appointed with the 
 costliest luxuries ; a carriage was at his disposal 
 whenever he needed it ; and Mr. Allingham had, 
 furthermore, given him the choice of any horse in 
 his stables, should he care for riding. He had 
 engaged to make two dozen sketches of Duns- 
 combe Hall from all the different points of view, 
 and when once he began his work he became 
 almost entirely engrossed in it. 
 
 The place was undoubtedly a fine object for
 
 TTbe Mttbering of a tftose 277 
 
 any artist's study — its architecture was well-nigh 
 perfect, and all the surroundings were eminently 
 picturesque, though indubitably of a solitary and 
 melancholy character. He did not see as much 
 of Mrs. Allingham as he could have wished ; she 
 was often ailing, and though she invariably 
 exerted herself to appear at dinner, there were 
 times when she was not equal even to the effort, 
 and her husband, seated in solitary state at his 
 glittering board, would make formal excuses for 
 her absence.] 
 
 " My wife is very young," he would explain 
 ponderously, "and is therefore inclined to give 
 way to any trifling ailment. The doctor assures 
 me she is suffering merely from a little want of 
 tone, and the autumnal air depresses her ; there 
 is nothing at all serious the matter." 
 
 " She looks extremely ill," said Fane impulsively. 
 
 " You think so ? " and Mr. Allingham smiled 
 indulgently. " I expect you are not accustomed 
 to the ways of women ; they put their looks on 
 and off as easily as their gowns. In her present 
 nervous condition of health it quite depends on 
 Mrs. Allingham's own humour as to whether she 
 looks well or ill — it has nothing whatever to do 
 with any actually real organic mischief." 
 
 Fane swallowed a glass of wine hastily to keep 
 down the angry remark that rose to his lips, for
 
 278 Ubc Mitberfno of a 1Rose 
 
 the cold callousness of his host was almost more 
 than he could bear. Reflecting quickly, however, 
 that it was not his business to interfere, and that 
 the less he said the better for Mrs. Allingham, 
 he was silent. 
 
 " You have not tried your hand yet at the 
 Haunted Mere ? ' inquired Mr. Allingham pre- 
 sently. 
 
 " No. I — er — the fact is — I have not yet had 
 time to go and look at it." 
 
 " True — you have been very much occupied 
 with the house itself" — and Mr. Allingham nodded 
 approvingly — c< and your work is admirable — quite 
 admirable ! But I should suggest your visiting 
 the Mere before the foliage quite falls. I fancy 
 you will find it well worth your study." 
 
 " I will go to-morrow," said Fane. 
 
 And on the morrow he went. He started early 
 in the morning, one of the gardeners directing him 
 as to which path to follow. When he came in 
 full sight of the glittering sheet of water he could 
 scarcely refrain from uttering a cry of rapture. 
 It was so mystically beautiful ; the deep solitude 
 surrounding it was so intense and unbroken, that 
 he no longer wondered at the reputation it had 
 of being ' haunted.' Grand old willow-trees, with 
 gnarled trunks and knotty stems bent above its 
 glassy surface, and beyond it in the distance the
 
 ftbe WtitbcttiiQ of a 1Rose 279 
 
 land rolled away in gentle undulations of green 
 and brown, relieved here and there with a clump 
 of stately elms, or a tangle of bright yellow furze. 
 The place was so still that not even the twitter of 
 a bird broke the breathless calm — and, powerfully 
 impressed by the whole scene, Fane took a rapid 
 pencil sketch in outline to begin with, his ultimate 
 intention being to make a large picture of it, with 
 a view to exhibition in one of the London gal- 
 leries. Returning rapidly to the house, to finish 
 what he had commenced the previous day, he met 
 Mrs. Allingham walking slowly to and fro on the 
 terrace. 
 
 " Have you been to the ' Haunted Mere ' ? ' 
 she asked, smiling. 
 
 For a moment he could not speak. The weary 
 pathos of her young face, the fatigue of her soft 
 eyes, the listless expression of her very figure, all 
 this went to his heart, and made him pity her as 
 he had never pitied any woman. He felt her to 
 be no more than a little tired-out child — a child 
 longing to be taken up in tender arms and gently 
 carried home. There was a slight tremble in his 
 voice as he answered, with an effort at playfulness, — 
 
 " Yes, I have seen the Mere, but not the 
 ghost. Do you know, Mrs. Allingham, I begin 
 to think you must be the ghost — you look like 
 one this morning."
 
 2 8o ube Mttberlna of a TCose 
 
 " Do I ? I'm sorry. I hate to be ill — my 
 husband doesn't like it. I wish I could get 
 strong more quickly." 
 
 " Are you feeling worse, then, to-day ? " asked 
 Fane, with a touch of real anxiety in his tone, 
 which made her look at him in grateful wonder. 
 
 " Oh, no," she said. " I am only a little ' run 
 down,' as the doctor says, and weak. Harold 
 declares it is all woman's nonsense, and thinks 
 I don't exert myself to get well ; but indeed I 
 do. It is very kind of you to take so much 
 interest " 
 
 " Kind ! " echoed Fane, almost irritably ; then, 
 glancing about him to make sure there was no 
 one in sight, he approached her more closely. 
 " Look here, Mrs. Allingham, do forgive me if I 
 seem officious or impertinent, but I can't help ask- 
 ing you this one question — are you quite happy ? ' 
 
 She glanced up at him almost arTrightedly, and 
 meeting his friendly eyes, her own filled with 
 sudden tears. 
 
 "No, I am not," she faltered. "But it is 
 wicked of me to say so, because you see it is 
 quite my own fault. I ought to be happy — I 
 have everything I want." 
 
 " Except — love ! " said Fane, in a half whisper, 
 struggling mentally with the insane desire that 
 had suddenly seized him, to take this pale little
 
 ZTbe Mitberiwj of a 1Rose 281 
 
 child-woman in his arms and show her what the 
 tenderness of love could be. 
 
 She looked at him half reproachfully. 
 
 " I think you mistake," she said gently, with 
 a curiously sad little old-world air of dignity. 
 " Harold loves me very much in — his own way. 
 He is not of a demonstrative nature." 
 
 Fane was silent. Presently she resumed in the 
 same gentle accents. 
 
 " It is not his fault ; indeed, it is nobody's fault 
 that I do not feel as happy as I ought to do. It 
 is something in my own temperament. I fancy 
 that perhaps I am too young to be married ; not 
 in years, I mean, but in feeling and education. 
 You see, being quite small and slight as I am, 
 I have always been treated as more or less of a 
 child Even when I came home from being 
 presented at the Queen's Drawing Room, and 
 fainted away all in a heap on the stairs, my 
 mother called me a c poor baby.' You remember 
 what I told you at the ' Gutsch ' ? — how I had 
 always imagined that married women must be big 
 and fat, and important ? Well, really they are, as 
 a rule, and I am so different ! All the married 
 ladies in this neighbourhood, for instance, look 
 upon me as quite an absurdity." 
 
 " Then they are very impudent and ill-bred," 
 said Fane hotly.
 
 2S 2 zhc mitbcvinQ of a 1Rose 
 
 " Oh, no, they're not," and she laughed a little. 
 " They come and call on regular days, and ask me 
 if I am equal to the management of such a large 
 house ? Do I not find the servants a great trial ? 
 Have I a strong constitution ? One lady always 
 surveys me mournfully through her pince-nez, 
 and says, ' You are very young to have secured 
 such a magnificent establishment.' And that is 
 quite true ! Dunscombe Hall is magnificent — 
 don't you think so ? " 
 
 They paused on the terrace just at a point 
 which faced the extensive left wing of the grand 
 old pile. Carved escutcheons, flying buttresses, 
 and heraldic devices were all thrown up into sharp 
 prominence by the mellow rays of the autumnal 
 noonday sun, and immediately opposite them was 
 the sculptured figure of a warrior-saint in a Gothic 
 niche, festooned with clambering white roses, 
 whose delicate blossoms surrounded and softened 
 the statue's frigid aspect of frozen prayer. 
 
 Fane shivered slightly. " Yes," he said in a 
 tone of one who makes reluctant admission. " It 
 is a fine old place. But its character is distinctly 
 melancholy. It is not a Beethoven ' Sonata ' or a 
 Mendelssohn ' Lied ' — it is one of Chopin's most 
 mournful ' Nocturnes.' " 
 
 Rose Allingham gave him a quick glance of 
 perfect comprehension, but said nothing in reply.
 
 Zhc Mitbcring of a 1Rose 283 
 
 Moving in her light, bird-like way across the 
 terrace, she gathered one of the roses that hung 
 near the statue in the niche and gave it to him. 
 He had scarcely taken it from her before its 
 leaves fell in a white fragrant shower at his feet. 
 She smiled a little forcedly. 
 
 " I was afraid of that," she said. " They are all 
 on the very point of falling. I will not give you 
 another from that tree. This afternoon — or to- 
 morrow — I will get you one from the rosery : 
 they are in better condition there. Now I must 
 not detain you from your work any longer ; you 
 want all the daylight possible. Have you got 
 this old stone saint in any of your sketches yet ? ' 
 
 " Not yet," he answered abstractedly, looking 
 first at her and then at the petals of the fallen 
 rose. 
 
 " Oh, I hope you will put him in somewhere ! ' 
 she exclaimed, almost playfully. He is such a 
 dear old thing ! You seem quite melancholy over 
 that wasted rose." 
 
 " I am," he admitted. " I hate to see any 
 beautiful thing perish." 
 
 " But then so many beautiful things do perish," 
 she said, with a musing regret in her eyes. " One 
 must get accustomed to that. You recollect your 
 picture of the great pine-tree on the ' Gutsch,' 
 split through by lightning ? That suggested to
 
 23 4 Ube Mitberino of a IRose 
 
 me the ruin of a noble life. Well, all these little 
 white roses that fall so easily at a touch, they are 
 to me the emblems of just such a number of little 
 lives ; quite little lives, you know, of no actual use 
 to anybody ; only just pretty and fragrant and 
 harmless, that at a rough touch or hasty misunder- 
 standing drop to pieces and sink into the ground 
 unnoticed and unmissed. I believe each little rose 
 has its own little secret sadness." 
 
 She smiled and waved her hand to him, as she 
 moved away slowly and re-entered the house. 
 
 When she was quite out of sight Fane, moved 
 by some odd sentiment which he could not him- 
 self analyse, picked up every one of the fallen 
 rose-petals and put them in his pocket-book. 
 Then he set about sketching the ancient sculptured 
 saint, while the sun was still bright on its weather- 
 beaten features and piously folded hands. 
 
 The next day was the first of November, the 
 ( Feast of All Saints.' The weather was beauti- 
 fully clear and warm, and Fane went out early, 
 without even seeing his host and patron as usual, 
 in order to profit by the clearness of the atmo- 
 sphere and get a long day's steady work. When 
 he returned in time for the late dinner he heard 
 that Mrs. Allingham had been seized with a suc- 
 cession of fainting-fits, and that the doctor had 
 been sent for. Greatly disconcerted by this news
 
 Zhc Mitberino of a 1Ro5e 285 
 
 he entered the dining-room full of eager and 
 sympathetic inquiries, but found his host so bland 
 and calm, and so perfectly satisfied that there was 
 no cause whatever for anxiety as to his young 
 wife's condition, that he felt it would be deemed 
 odd and out of place if he, as a visitor and ' paid 
 artist,' had exhibited any unduly great concern. 
 
 " It is mere weakness and nervous prostra- 
 tion," said Mr. Allingham, drinking his champagne 
 with relish as he spoke, " and in these cases faint- 
 ing-fits are a relief rather than a danger. I am 
 sorry Rose has allowed herself to run down in this 
 way. I am afraid it will necessitate my going 
 with her to the sea-side for a short time. It would 
 be particularly inconvenient to me just now — but 
 if it must be done it must." 
 
 Fane could not speak. He gulped his food 
 and wine down hastily with such a sense of im- 
 potent rage as almost choked him. He could 
 scarcely bear to look at the composed, sleek, self- 
 satisfied man beside him, attired as was his usual 
 evening custom in irreproachable dress-suit, starchy 
 shirt and white tie — he would have liked to knock 
 him down and trample on him. As soon as 
 dinner was ended, he left the room with a muttered 
 hasty excuse about " having letters to write," and 
 went out in the soft night air to smoke by himself 
 and " cool down," as he inwardly expressed it, for
 
 286 xrbe Mitberina of a IRose 
 
 his feelings were in a perfect tumult. Pity and 
 anxiety for Mrs. Allingham, and contempt for her 
 husband, struggled for the mastery in his mind ; 
 and he walked on and on through the grounds 
 under the light of a full moon, not heeding where 
 he was going to in the heat of his wrath and 
 excitement. 
 
 " I can't stand it ! " he said, half aloud, at last. 
 "I'll leave the place to-morrow ! I can finish the 
 sketches at home now — I've got enough material to 
 go upon. If I stay here any longer I shall come 
 to fisticuffs with that egotistical prig, or — or — 
 otherwise make a fool of myself." 
 
 A sudden shiver ran through him ; and con- 
 scious of a certain dampness and unpleasant chill 
 in the air, he stopped abruptly to see whither he 
 had come. 
 
 To his amazement, right in front of him stretched 
 the ' Haunted Mere,' glittering like polished steel 
 in the silver rays of the moon. Something there 
 was in the weird aspect of the still water and the 
 twisted willows that impressed him with a sense of 
 awe ; and, as though a cold hand had been laid 
 upon his heart, his anger died away into a dull, 
 aching pain. He stood like one hypnotised, staring 
 vaguely at the Mere, disinclined to move, and 
 scarcely capable of thought. And as he remained 
 thus, waiting for he knew not what, he saw dis-
 
 Ube XRHitbering of a 1Rose 287 
 
 tinctly a pale Shadow fall like the reflection of a 
 cloud across the shining width of water — a shadow 
 that darkened slowly and grew, as it were, palpably 
 into the shape of a small boat with a curved and 
 curiously luminous prow; straining his eyes he 
 watched, every nerve in his body throbbing with 
 fear. The boat began to move out of shadow into 
 moonlight, and as it moved it showed its spectral 
 occupant — a woman's figure veiled completely in 
 misty white, that stood erect and waved its arms 
 beckoningly towards the turret of Dunscombe Hall. 
 Reaching the very middle of the Mere where 
 the moonlight shone broadest and brightest, the 
 ghostly skifF paused on the water motionless. 
 Again and yet again the veiled Phantom waved its 
 arms appealingly, commandingly ; then, like a 
 wreath of mist or smoke, it vanished ! 
 
 Released from the terrible tension of his nerves, 
 Fane uttered a loud cry ; it was echoed among the 
 dark woods and answered by the mournful hooting 
 of owls. All at once he remembered the legend — 
 that the ghost of Dunscombe Hall was said only 
 to appear when death threatened some member of 
 the family. 
 
 " My God !" he exclaimed, " can it be possible!" 
 
 And without waiting to think another moment 
 
 he turned and ran, ran as though he were running 
 
 a race for life straight back to the Hall. Breath-
 
 288 ftbe Withering of a IRose 
 
 lessly rushing through the dark antiquated porch, 
 he jostled against a man coming out. 
 
 " Mr. Allingham " he began. 
 
 " I am not Mr. Allingham," said the stranger, 
 "I am Dr. Dean." 
 
 " The doctor ? Oh, then " and he leaned 
 
 back against a pillar of the porch to recover breath 
 and equanimity ; " Mrs. Allingham is " 
 
 a Dead," said the doctor gently.
 
 TINY TRAMPS. 
 
 THE idea of childhood is generally associated 
 in our minds with mirth, grace, and beauty. 
 The fair-haired, blue-eyed treasures of proud and 
 tender mothers; the plump, rosy little ones whose 
 fresh young hearts know no sorrow save the some- 
 times ungratified longing for a new toy or new 
 game — these are the fairy blossoms of our lives, 
 for whom childhood really exists, and for whose 
 dear sakes we think no sacrifice too great, no pain 
 too wearisome, no work too heavy, so long as we 
 can keep them in health, strength, and happiness, 
 and ward off from their lives every shadow of 
 suffering. And as we caress our own dimpled 
 darlings, and listen to their merry prattling voices 
 and their delightful laughter, we find it difficult 
 to realise that there are other children in the 
 world, born of the same great Mother Nature, 
 who live on without even knowing that they are 
 children, and who have ' begun life ' in the bitterest 
 manner at a time when they can scarcely toddle ; 
 
 289 19
 
 290 TTinp tramps 
 
 children to whom toys are inexplicable mysteries, 
 and for whom the bright regions of fairyland have 
 never been unclosed. 
 
 These poor little waifs and strays, no matter 
 how young they are in years, are old — one might 
 almost say they were born old — they are familiar 
 with the dark and crooked paths of life, and the 
 broad, shining, golden road of love, duty, wisdom, 
 and peace, has never been pointed out to their 
 straying little feet. 
 
 Homes for destitute children may and do exist, 
 refuges and charities of all kinds are open to those 
 who seek them ; and yet, in spite of all that is done, 
 or is doing, poor child-wanderers walk the earth, 
 and meet us in streets and country roads, clothed 
 in rags, their pinched faces begrimed with dirt and 
 tears, and their tiny voices attuned to the beggar's 
 whine, while too often, alas ! their young hearts 
 are already withered by the corroding influences 
 of deceit and cunning. 
 
 The other day one of these tiny tramps came to 
 my door, and implored in piteous accents for a 
 crust of bread. He was a pretty little fellow of 
 some seven or eight years old, and his blue eyes 
 looked bright with innocence and trust. His tiny, 
 naked feet were cracked and sore, and covered 
 with mud, and his clothes were in so dirty and 
 ragged a condition that it seemed a miracle how
 
 ZFtin? tramps 291 
 
 they could hang together at all. Through the 
 large holes in these wretched garments, however, 
 might be seen many pretty glimpses of soft pink 
 and white skin, and his face was as plump, and fair, 
 and rosy, as the fondest mother could desire it to 
 be. Nevertheless, he assured me in the most 
 mournful manner that he was very cold and 
 hungry, and that his feet were so very sore he 
 could scarcely stand ; so, without more ado, we 
 took him into the kitchen, bathed his feet for 
 him in refreshing warm water, and provided him 
 with a warm pair of stockings and a strong pair 
 of boots. Then we put him on a chair by the 
 fire, and feasted him with a large bowl of barley- 
 broth, which he appeared to enjoy exceedingly. 
 A piece of cake was then given to him as a con- 
 cluding relish, and when he had quite finished his 
 meal, I asked him where he was going. 
 
 My small tramp screwed his knuckles into his 
 eyes, and mournfully replied, " Home." 
 
 " Where is home? " I inquired. 
 
 "With mother." 
 
 " And where does mother live ? " 
 
 " Please, 'm, she lives on the road." 
 
 " Lives on the road ! ' I exclaimed ; «' but 
 where does she sleep ? " 
 
 " On the road, 'm, please W 
 
 I looked at the small waif in silence. He met
 
 292 Uinv Uramps 
 
 my glance with a weird upraising of his eyes and 
 eyebrows, which gave him an expression that was 
 half-plaintive, half-cunning. 
 
 " What road does she live on ? ' I asked. 
 
 " Please, 'm, any road as comes 'andy." 
 
 I sighed involuntarily. He was such a pretty 
 child ; and what a life seemed in store for him ! 
 
 " What does your mother do ? " I continued. 
 
 " Please, 'm, she sells buttings" 
 
 " Buttings ? " 
 
 "Yes, 'm, buttings, an' 'ooks an' 'ise." 
 
 Buttons, and hooks and eyes. I knew the kind 
 of woman she must be — bold, slovenly, and dirty, 
 most likely wearing a flashy bonnet on one side 
 of her head, and brass rings on her fingers. A 
 woman with a carneying voice, with which she 
 insinuated herself into the good graces of servants, 
 and persuaded them to purchase her trumpery 
 goods. 
 
 " Have you a father ? " I asked. 
 
 " Yes, 'm. He gits drunk, 'm." 
 
 Dismissing the idea of the father at once, I con- 
 tinued my catechising. 
 
 " Why doesn't your mother send you to 
 school ? " 
 
 " I dunno, 'm." Here the small knuckles 
 were screwed into the eyes more violently than 
 ever.
 
 UUvQ ftramps 293 
 
 " Where is your mother now ? ' 
 
 " I dunno, 'm." 
 
 " Well, then, how are you going to find her ? ' 
 
 " I dunno, 'm. I kin try." 
 
 " Do you know where to try ? ' ' 
 
 " Yes, 'm. I knows her pub." 
 
 " Do you mean the public-house ? ' 
 
 " Yes, 'm, please, 'm." And as if the recollec- 
 tion of the ' pub ' had suddenly aroused him to 
 action, the little forlorn wanderer slipped off his 
 chair by the fire, and prepared to start. I fastened 
 an old warm cloth jacket round him, and turning 
 his little rosy face up that I might survey it 
 closely, I said, — 
 
 <c Now, suppose you cannot find your mother, 
 will you come back here ? I'll take care of you 
 till we can find her for you, and you shall have 
 some more cake. Do you understand ? " 
 
 " Yes, W 
 
 "Stop a minute," I said ; and seizing a scrap of 
 paper, I hastily wrote the words — " Should you 
 wish this child taken care of, put to school, and 
 brought up to earn an honest livelihood, you can 
 call at this house any day during the next three 
 weeks ; ' and adding my name and address, I 
 sealed the paper carefully. Then putting it in the 
 pocket of the jacket I had just given him, I again 
 addressed my small tramp, —
 
 294 ttttts TTramps 
 
 "Will you give that letter to your mother 
 when you find her ? " 
 
 He looked decidedly astonished, and somewhat 
 doubtful about the propriety of acceding to this 
 request ; but after a moment of consideration, he 
 gave me his invariable reply, — 
 
 "Yes, 'm, please, 'm." 
 
 Raising the child in my arms, I kissed his rosy 
 intelligent face, my heart swelling with pity for 
 his hard fate, and then I led him to the front 
 door. He made a kind of attempt at a salute, 
 by pulling one of his chestnut curls into his eyes, 
 and then scrambled down the steps and ran away, 
 while I rushed to my window, which commands 
 an entire view of the street, and watched him. 
 He looked round now and then to see if any one 
 were near, and finding the road pretty well 
 deserted, he finally seated himself on a door- 
 step, and I was able to observe the whole of his 
 proceedings, which filled me with the greatest 
 surprise and dismay. 
 
 The first thing he did was to take off the boots 
 and stockings with which he had been provided, 
 and to tie them in a bunch together. He then 
 deliberately walked into a heap of the thickest 
 black mud he could find, and tramped and 
 splashed about therein till the feet, which had 
 been so nicely washed, were as black and grimy
 
 Zinv tramps 295 
 
 as they could well be. This done, he took off 
 the warm jacket, and rolling it up in as small a 
 bundle as he could manage to make, he tucked it 
 under his arm ; then giving himself two or three 
 dexterous shakes which had the effect of dis- 
 playing the large holes in his own tattered 
 garments to the best advantage, he uttered a sort 
 of wild whoop or yell, and scampering up the 
 street as fast as he could go, he disappeared from 
 my sight. I knew his destination as well as if it 
 had been told to me then and there. He was 
 going to convert that jacket and those boots and 
 stockings into money at the nearest old-clothes 
 shop, and then he would no doubt hasten to his 
 mother's ' pub,' and detail to her his successful 
 morning's adventure. She would take the money 
 he had obtained for the clothes, and, perhaps, 
 give the child twopence for himself as reward 
 for his smartness, and there would be an end ; 
 while certainly the letter I had prepared would 
 never be thought of or even discovered unless 
 by some old Jew salesman, who would not com- 
 prehend its meaning. Yet could I blame the 
 poor little tramp for his behaviour ? No, indeed, 
 I only pitied the unfortunate child more than 
 ever. 
 
 Trained to deceive as thoroughly as happier chil- 
 dren are trained to speak the truth, could anything
 
 296 Zltnp Uramps 
 
 else have been reasonably expected of him ? it 
 would have been a real matter for surprise had he 
 acted differently. Still, I was foolish enough to 
 feel somewhat disappointed, for the boy's face 
 had attracted me. It is curious, too, to observe 
 how very many attractive child-faces there are 
 among the little vagrants of the London streets. 
 Children with beautiful eyes and hair — children 
 whose flesh is a perfect marvel of softness and 
 fair delicacy, in spite of the dirt that grimes them 
 from top to toe — and children whose limbs are so 
 gracefully and finely formed, and whose whole 
 manner and bearing are so indescribably lofty, that 
 one would almost deem them to have been born 
 in the purple. An excellent type of the tramp 
 aristocracy came to me one morning in the shape 
 of an Italian boy of about ten or eleven years of 
 age, who strolled under my window, twanging 
 prettily enough the chords of a much-used, far- 
 travelled, but still sweet-toned, mandoline. I 
 have always an extra soft heart for these straying 
 minstrels from the sunny land of song, and I 
 immediately called him, and entered into conversa- 
 tion with him. He told me he had travelled far 
 and earned little, and that he seldom had enough 
 to eat, but he was merry. " Oh, yes," he said, 
 smiling his bright southern smile, " he was always 
 hopeful and light-hearted."
 
 Uinp Uramps 297 
 
 Some peculiarity in his accent impelled me to 
 ask him if he were not from Lombardy, and never 
 shall I forget the superb gesture of head and the 
 proud flash of his eyes, as he drew himself up, and 
 replied, with dignity, (i No, signorina, to son Ro- 
 mano " (" I am a Roman "). 
 
 If he had declared himself an emperor, he could 
 not have asserted his position with more dignity. 
 Many a languid dandy, dawdling through the 
 saloons of fashion, might have envied his grace of 
 figure and princely bearing. 
 
 There was a very interesting account once in 
 the papers, concerning two baby tramps known 
 as ' Sally and her Bloke.' Sally was eight, and 
 her boy companion, the ' Bloke,' was nine. No 
 matter how great the distances each had to traverse 
 during the day in obedience to the will of the 
 tyrannical parents or masters who employed them 
 to beg, or sell matches in the streets, as surely as 
 the evening fell these two mites were always found 
 together. Some irresistible attraction, some inex- 
 plicable sympathy, drew them together, and the 
 poor little things entertained for each other so 
 harmless, and withal so true, an affection, that 
 even the coarse companions with whom their lot 
 was cast were touched by their behaviour, and 
 spoke with rough good-nature akin to respect, of 
 ' Sally and her Bloke,' and forbore to interfere
 
 298 Uinp ZTramps 
 
 with their pretty and pathetic little romance. I 
 wondered at the time if anything would be done 
 for this forlorn little couple, but the matter seems 
 to have died out in mere sentiment, and ' Sally 
 and her Bloke ' will no doubt be left to grow up 
 as such children do grow up — in vice and misery. 
 It is terrible to think that we must always be 
 doomed to see sorrow, ignorance, and vice im- 
 printed on the tender, flower-like faces of the 
 very young, and that there must always be, in 
 spite of the efforts of the wisest and best men, a 
 large majority of babes and children for whom 
 there is and can be no hope of good. Must there 
 be a perpetual sacrifice of the innocents to the 
 god of all evil ? One of the saddest sights to 
 me, among all the sad sights of London, are the 
 neglected children who have somehow eluded the 
 kindly-meant, though occasionally stern, grasp of 
 the Government officials, and who have literally 
 nothing to hope for, nothing to render their lives 
 of value to the nation ; and who, as far as their 
 wretched parents are concerned, might be better 
 out of the world than in it. The streets swarm 
 with such helpless little ones, and yet it seems 
 impossible to do more than is being done every 
 day. English men and women have tender hearts, 
 full of pitiful gentleness for the helplessness of 
 infancy, and the charities that are instituted for
 
 XTin\? Uramps 299 
 
 poor and neglected children are, I believe, most 
 generously supported ; yet, amid such a mass of 
 distress and evil, how futile seems all the best 
 work of statesmen and philosophers ! We must, 
 however, continue to hope for better times, when 
 every child that is born into the land may be 
 recognised as the child of the Government no less 
 than of its parents, and may be brought to realise 
 its own responsible position and value as a servant 
 of the state. This was the condition of things 
 in Sparta, and, though the Spartans carried their 
 ideas rather too far, still it must be admitted that 
 their system had its foundation in very excellent 
 common-sense. Whatever mistakes and short- 
 comings Lycurgus may have had to answer for, it 
 is certain that he never would have tolerated baby 
 tramps.
 
 THE SONG OF MIRIAM. 
 
 "XT OW she sings, poor Miriam ! She is 
 
 X J. always singing." 
 
 And the old man who murmured these words 
 raised his head in the sunshine where he sat, and 
 listened with an expression of pleased attention 
 stealing over his worn features. He was very- 
 poor, very feeble, very much despised by all his 
 neighbours, and generally known as ' that dirty 
 Jew,' a designation by no means complimentary, 
 yet happening to fit him exactly. He made no 
 secret of being a Jew, neither did he make any 
 attempt to be otherwise than dirty. As a matter 
 of fact he had only one suit of clothes and was 
 hopelessly unable to afford another ; while the 
 simple operation of washing became an involved 
 and troublesome business in the narrow dimen- 
 sions of the room he occupied, a roof attic no 
 bigger than a medium sized store-cupboard. In- 
 deed, few good housekeepers could have been 
 
 found who would not have grumbled at it as 
 
 300
 
 Uhc Song of fllMriam 301 
 
 being much too ' stuffy ' for the proper pre- 
 servation of jams and pickles ; but he, poor 
 human wretch, managed to live and breathe in 
 it resignedly enough, sharing it with the only 
 creature he loved in the world, his grandchild 
 Miriam. She it was whose full young voice 
 pealed forth just now in rich round notes of 
 music through which the words ran with the 
 dominating force and fervour of almost operatic 
 declamation : 
 
 " ' O give thanks to the Lord, for He is good, 
 and His mercy endureth for ever ! ' " 
 
 The voice came from outside the attic, for its 
 owner had scrambled through the window and 
 was seated at her ease on the sloping roof — a 
 small, picturesque figure in ragged clothing, with 
 a mass of dark hair tumbling wildly about, and 
 falling so thickly over the face as nearly to conceal 
 it from view. A flash of large, bright, eager 
 eyes, a glimmer of red lips and white teeth, and 
 the tip of a decidedly Jewish nose was all that 
 could be discerned of Miriam as she lounged 
 on the slanting roof slates in the full sunlight, 
 swinging her bare feet idly to and fro, and de- 
 claiming over and over again with many roulades 
 and brilliant cadenzas, — 
 
 " ' O give thanks unto the Lord, for He is 
 good, and His mercy endureth for ever !
 
 302 Z\k Soncj of fllMriam 
 
 " c Let Israel now confess that His mercy en- 
 dureth for ever ! 
 
 i( c Let the house of Aaron now say that His 
 mercy endureth for ever ! 
 
 " ' Let all that fear the Lord proclaim that His 
 mercy endureth for ever ! ' " 
 
 Over the crowded chimneys of one of the worst 
 and poorest quarters of Paris the grand words 
 echoed in their own sonorous Hebrew tongue, 
 and ' the dirty Jew,' Reuben David, listened till 
 a burning moisture began to gather in his half- 
 blind eyes, and covering his face with one wrinkled 
 hand he muttered, — 
 
 " How long, O Lord — how long ! O that Thou 
 would'st rend the heavens and come down, that the 
 eye might perceive Thee in all Thy glory ! What 
 have we done unto Thee, O God of my fathers, 
 that we should be exiled from hope ? Thy mercy 
 endureth for ever ! Let me believe it so, O God ! 
 Let me believe it while faith is still possible." 
 
 He rose totteringly, and crossing to the window 
 put his head through its square opening. 
 
 " Miriam ! Miriam ! " 
 
 The song ceased, the ragged figure sprang up 
 lightly, the mass of dark hair was flung back 
 with a quick movement, and the face of the child 
 gleamed out like a flower from amidst her 
 squalid surroundings.
 
 Ube %o\\q of flDfrtam 303 
 
 " Grandfather ! " 
 
 " Come in, child, come in ! ' said Reuben 
 gently. " The neighbours will not like thy sing- 
 ing so loud." 
 
 Miriam's black eyes glistened — her lips laughed 
 scornfully. 
 
 " The neighbours ! What do I care ! They 
 will take me for one of the cats on the roof, that 
 is all." 
 
 Nevertheless, she obeyed her grandfather's mute 
 sign, and slipped nimbly through the window 
 into the room, where she stood looking up 
 wistfully at the old man's face, while she mechani- 
 cally twisted a thick strand of her black hair 
 round and round her fingers. 
 
 " Is there nothing to eat ? " she asked pre- 
 sently, in an anxious tone. " Not even a crust 
 for you, beloved and kind one? " 
 
 Reuben sighed and shook his head. Then 
 shuffling feebly across the room again, he sat 
 down in his accustomed place on the same chair, 
 in the same resigned and patient attitude. 
 
 " There is nothing, child," he said, " and I am 
 weak and faint, else I would go into the streets 
 and beg for food. But I fear I cannot move 
 far ; I am stricken useless with long fasting." 
 
 While he thus spoke, Miriam had been swiftly 
 binding up her rebellious locks, and now she
 
 304 XTfoe Soiuj of fllMriam 
 
 straightened herself with a gesture and look of 
 eloquent determination. She had a curiously 
 resolved face for a girl of her age — she was 
 barely fourteen. 
 
 " Wait here ; ' she said, and with an impulsive 
 movement she threw her arms round the old 
 man's drooping figure, and kissed him tenderly. 
 
 Cl Wait here, and I will go ; I will find some- 
 thing ; all people cannot be hard-hearted and 
 uncharitable. I will study the faces as they pass, 
 and see where love looks through the eyes, then 
 I will plead for help and I know I shall win 
 my cause ! — yes, dear and beloved one ! I shall 
 come back rich." 
 
 "Rich ! " Old Reuben echoed the word faintly, 
 with a flickering smile at the absurdity of the 
 idea. 
 
 " One is rich with enough ! ' said Miriam 
 gaily, and opening the door, she waved her hand 
 and darted away. 
 
 Her grandfather, left to himself, let his weary 
 head droop forward on his chest, and, closing his 
 eyes, tried to forget the pangs of hunger in sleep. 
 But though he partially dozed he never quite 
 lost consciousness, and through the dream-haze 
 of semi-somnolence he was aware of the warm 
 breadth of afternoon sunshine that brightened 
 his poor room, of the rumbling noise of the
 
 TLhc Sono of /HMriam 305 
 
 passing vehicles outside, even of the humming 
 song of a big bluebottle fly that circled about and 
 bounced against the ceiling with buzzing pertin- 
 acity. So that the stealthy lifting of the door- 
 latch startled him broad awake in a moment, 
 and he half rose out of his chair to confront the 
 intruder, a young man of shabby and slouching 
 appearance, who paused on the threshold before 
 entering. 
 
 " Well, Uncle Reuben ! Pretending to starve, 
 as usual ? " 
 
 " Pretending to starve ! " The old man 
 pushed his chair aside and stood erect, his in- 
 dignation flushing his thin features with a glow 
 of new life. 
 
 " Worthy nephew, I do not lie," he said sternly ; 
 " I am only a Jew. I leave lies to Christians." 
 
 The new-comer strode into the room, his thin 
 lips twitching with an evil smile. 
 
 " You insult my religion," he began. 
 
 " Your religion ? " queried Reuben, " you mean 
 your father's religion. You, Josef Perez, never 
 had a religion, I think, except when as a child at 
 the knee of your mother — the sister who used to 
 be all in all to me — you lisped your first prayers 
 to the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, the one 
 Jehovah who hath never deserted His people — 
 until now !'' 
 
 20
 
 306 Ubc Song of /i&irfam 
 
 The last two words escaped his lips involun- 
 tarily and were accompanied by a heavy sigh. 
 
 Young Perez looked at him morosely. 
 
 " All this is mere cant and humbug," he said 
 impatiently, " I don't care two sous about one 
 religion more than another, you know that well 
 enough. With a Jewish mother and a Christian 
 father, I am a half-breed between a lie and a truth, 
 I suppose, and it doesn't matter to me which is 
 the truth and which the lie. Where is Miriam ?" 
 
 "She has gone out." 
 
 " That's a good hearing at any rate. I hate to 
 see her crawling about like a snake, and staring at 
 me with her big eyes. You know what I've come 
 for, well enough. I want money." 
 
 Reuben David threw up his hands with an 
 eloquent gesture. 
 
 " Money ! ' he cried ; " where can I get it ? 
 Should I lack food if I knew ? " 
 
 " Oh that's all sham ! " retorted Perez. " If 
 you've no money yourself, you know very well 
 how to find it. You can give me a letter to one 
 of your hang-dog friends of usurers, and I daresay 
 enough cash can be screwed out to keep me going. 
 I only want a thousand francs ; it's a mere trifle." 
 
 The old man stared at him for a moment as 
 though misdoubting the evidence of his own eyes 
 and ears.
 
 Zhc Song of fllMriam 307 
 
 " A thousand francs ! " he exclaimed at last. 
 " Are you mad, nephew, or am I ? What do 
 you expect of me? I have not a sou to buy 
 bread, and you demand a thousand francs ! You 
 tell me to ask my friends — I have no friends ? 
 Would I let the child Miriam suffer the pains of 
 hunger if I had friends ? Would I suffer myself ? 
 I can do nothing ; nothing for my own needs or 
 yours. I am almost destitute of clothing ; I have 
 to beg charity in the streets to get sufficient 
 money to pay the rent for this wretched room ; 
 and yet, you, knowing all this, come to me for a 
 thousand francs ! You must be dreaming ! ' 
 
 Perez scowled. 
 
 " Dreaming or waking, I know you are a Jew," 
 he said. " And Jews always have money. My 
 father told me so. And he said of you that you 
 could coin it if you chose. There was no love 
 lost between you and him I remember, and 
 between you both, I believe you worried my 
 mother into her grave. You were always miser 
 as well as Jew, and I daresay you've got a tidy 
 hoard hidden away in this very room, under the 
 boards or behind the grate for all I know. But 
 I'll get all I can out of you this time, depend 
 upon it ! I have come prepared for that, so you 
 may as well make the best of the business and give 
 me what I want without any foolery about it."
 
 308 tl\k Sono of ZIIMilam 
 
 He looked around him suspiciously as he spoke, 
 and lowered his voice to a threatening whisper. 
 Reuben made no answer. 
 
 " Do you hear me ? " continued Perez, advanc- 
 ing close up to him with a sudden stride. " I'm 
 sick of all your stories about starvation and 
 poverty ; you are the best liar I ever met. Out 
 with your hidden cash, or it will be the worse 
 for you ! I've no time to stand here arguing the 
 matter ; find me the money I tell you, or I'll find 
 it for myself." 
 
 The old man met his fierce gaze calmly and 
 -fixedly. 
 
 " You are at liberty to do so, nephew Perez," 
 he said tranquilly ; "if you can discover gold in 
 this poor room you are welcome to it. God is 
 my witness that I have spoken truth to you when 
 I tell you I have not a penny in the world." 
 
 As he uttered the words with uplifted eyes and 
 an eloquent gesture of sorrow, his nephew's face 
 grew livid, the veins in his forehead standing out 
 like cords in the rush of evil blood that heated 
 his brain. 
 
 " Lying devil ! ' he muttered with an oath ; 
 then springing forward he lifted his hand — it 
 grasped something sharp and glittering — there 
 followed a brief struggle — a fiercely-dealt heavy 
 blow — and Reuben David, with a faint choking
 
 Zbc Song of /llMriam 309 
 
 groan, fell dead on the floor, the blood welling 
 from a ghastly wound in his throat where his 
 nephew had mortally stabbed him. The after- 
 noon sunlight poured fully on the prone figure, 
 the white hair, and the red blood that stained the 
 floor, and the murderer, still grasping the Spanish 
 poniard that had wrought the wicked deed, stared 
 at his work for a moment in sick and giddy 
 horror. His limbs seemed paralysed ; he had no 
 power to stir, and while he stood thus rooted to 
 the spot he heard in the distance the notes of a 
 full pure voice floating upwards and sounding 
 ever nearer and clearer. 
 
 " ' Oh give thanks unto the Lord, for He is 
 good, and His mercy endureth for ever. 
 
 " ' Let all who fear the Lord confess that His 
 mercy endureth for ever.' " 
 
 Seized with a panic, Perez roused himself from 
 his apathy. The dagger dropped unheeded from 
 his hand. 
 
 " No time," he muttered, looking wildly about 
 him. " No time to hunt for the money. Curse 
 that Miriam ! I could twist her throat easily — 
 but — I dare not — not so soon after " 
 
 He stopped, shuddering, then creeping to the 
 door he lifted the latch noiselessly and passed out 
 into the darkness of the landing beyond — a close 
 narrow passage which led to an unused loft ; and
 
 3 io Z\K Sono of /IDiriam 
 
 here, among the shadows, he shrank out of sight, 
 straining his ears to listen to Miriam's light step 
 as it came bounding up from the ground floor in 
 an almost rhythmic measure with the sound of her 
 singing. She passed him close ; her skirt brushed 
 his foot ; he could just see her face, which was 
 smiling and radiant. Crouching back further into 
 the semi-obscurity he waited, holding his breath — 
 he heard her call out in a mirthful voice, " Grand- 
 father ! " 
 
 Then a wild shriek of pitiful anguish pierced 
 the air ; a shriek that turned the blood to ice in 
 the wretched assassin's veins and set his nerves 
 quivering. Only that one shriek sounded, then 
 all was still. And in that awful silence, the 
 murderer, creeping cautiously along like a stealthy 
 animal, glided down the stairs without a sound, 
 and reaching the open house-door unobserved, 
 
 fled away. 
 
 # # # * * 
 
 Years passed, and the murder of the Jew, 
 Reuben David, was almost forgotten. Justice 
 had been baffled, and the law had busied itself 
 in vain — the murderer, though tacitly understood 
 to be one Josef Perez, a nephew of the dead man, 
 had never yet been found. Miriam, on the day 
 of the murder, had been discovered lying in a 
 swoon by the side of her slain relative, and on
 
 Ufoe Song of /IIMriam 311 
 
 recovering consciousness and being questioned, 
 declared amid her passionate sobs and tears that 
 she knew no possible cause for the brutal deed. 
 Her grandfather was always poor, she said, and 
 had been forced to beg for his livelihood, being 
 too old and feeble to work. She was able, how- 
 ever, to identify the Spanish stiletto that was 
 found in the room, as the property of her cousin, 
 Josef Perez, son of a wine merchant in Madrid 
 who had failed recently in business. This same 
 wine merchant, brother-in-law of the murdered 
 Reuben, was sought for by the police and found, 
 but, on being interrogated, swore that he knew 
 nothing of his son's whereabouts, adding that he 
 was always, a ne'er-do-weel, and had deserted his 
 home some years since. Finally, after long and 
 fruitless search, inquiries were dropped, and 
 Miriam alone remembered the horror of that 
 sunlit afternoon, when she had found her only 
 protector in the world lying dead, with his white 
 hair soaked in a pool of blood. She could never 
 blot the awful picture from her sight ; it was 
 always before her. She remembered, too, how 
 she had sung — " O give thanks unto the Lord 
 for He is good, and His mercy endureth for 
 ever ! ' And she had asked herself many times 
 since, — 
 
 " Where was God then ! Why did He permit
 
 3i2 Zhc Song oX /iiMrfam 
 
 a dastard crime ? How did He show His 
 mercy ? " 
 
 And it was a question she was never able to 
 answer to her own satisfaction. As a Jewess, 
 she believed in the axiom, " An eye for an eye, 
 and a tooth for a tooth," and certainly she would 
 have added, "A life for a life." Revenge was 
 just and reasonable, she considered ; and for 
 years she always carried about with her the 
 dagger that had killed old Reuben, hoping 
 against hope that one day she might meet the 
 murderer and confront him with the proof of 
 his crime. 
 
 And so time went on, and it was the full season 
 in Paris. All the world of fashion was pouring 
 itself in the Grand Opera, for it was the night 
 of a new production, in which one of the most 
 marvellous singers of the day ' the divine 
 Miriami,' as she was called, had consented to 
 1 create ' the title-role. At the last moment a 
 serious contretemps occurred ; one of the male 
 singers, who had a small secondary part to per- 
 form, was suddenly taken ill, and the only person 
 who could be found to replace him was an obscure 
 individual named Manuelos, an ' under-study ' 
 who had never appeared before in grand opera. 
 The manager hastened to explain the affair to 
 the famous Miriami, who, he thought, might
 
 ZTbe Song of /IIMriam 313 
 
 justly consider herself affronted to be thus forced 
 to sing even a few bars with an untried stranger ; 
 but the great prima-donna was in a very good 
 humour, and treated the matter lightly. After 
 all, the part that had to be filled was a small one, 
 its performer's chief business consisting in being 
 stabbed by the heroine in the last act. 
 
 " Any one can sing the few bars of music 
 necessary," she said indifferently, to the explan- 
 atory and apologetic manager. " It is scarcely 
 more than recitative. I shall not be at all put out 
 by this stranger, as long as he keeps in time and 
 tune." 
 
 And with a smile of conscious power, she swept 
 out of her dressing-room, gorgeous and superb 
 in the rich costume and jewels of her part. She 
 was very beautiful, was c the divine Miriami ' ; 
 her great black eyes, her magnificent figure, her 
 ravishing grace, had won her the admiration of 
 kings and emperors, and her glorious voice, united 
 to intense dramatic power, gave her undisputed 
 pre-eminence in her profession. On this night, 
 in particular, from the very commencement of 
 the new opera she scored triumph after triumph, 
 and it was not till the close of the second act that 
 she came face to face with the unknown c under- 
 study,' Manuelos. As soon as she fully perceived 
 him, a curious change came over her — she seemed
 
 314 TTbe Sono of /l&trfam 
 
 to grow taller and more majestic than ever — she 
 looked like a goddess, and sang like an angel, 
 and the brilliant audience almost wore itself out 
 with enthusiastic acclamations and recalls. At 
 last the curtain fell, and she walked slowly up to 
 the man who had been summoned at an hour's 
 notice to take the place of the singer who was 
 ill. 
 
 " You rendered your few bars very well," she 
 said, with a gracious smile. " What is your name ? 
 I forget " 
 
 The ' under-study/ a middle-aged man of 
 handsome yet dissolute appearance, bowed low, 
 flattered by the famous -prima-donnd s notice, and 
 replied, — 
 
 " Josef Manuelos, Madame ! " 
 
 " Ah ! that is your stage-name of course ! 
 Your father's name was Manuelos, and your own 
 is Josef. It is a pretty combination ! Mine is 
 also pretty. I am known as ' Miriami,' but my 
 real name " — and she smiled again brilliantly — 
 " is Miriam David, just as yours is Josef Perez ! ' 
 
 He started, and an awful pallor blanched his 
 features. The orchestra was playing a delicious 
 ' intermezzo,' and it seemed to him like the 
 shrieking of devils. 
 
 " Miriam David ! " he gasped. " Miriam
 
 Ubc Sono ot /iDiviam 315 
 
 And he stared, panic-stricken, at the mag- 
 nificent woman before him, with her regal figure, 
 her blazing eyes, her scarlet lips, parted just now 
 in that strange, cold smile. 
 
 " Yes, I am Miriam," she said. " You would 
 scarcely think it, would you ? But children alter 
 so much, you know ! Are you not glad to see 
 me ? I am particularly pleased to find you ; I 
 have been looking for you a long while ! I knew 
 you could sing a little ; but I never thought you 
 would make it a profession. How strange it is 
 we should meet like this ! " 
 
 She spoke in the lightest and most indifferent 
 tone possible, but conscious guilt made him quick 
 to hear the suppressed fury in her voice, and 
 quick to see the gathering passion in her eyes. 
 He cowered and shrank before her ; a cold per- 
 spiration bedewed his forehead and hands. 
 
 "This is your property I believe?' she said 
 suddenly, drawing a glittering object from her 
 belt and showing it to him. He uttered a faint 
 exclamation, — it was the Spanish dagger with 
 which he had murdered old Reuben. He looked 
 wildly around him, — the stage was full of super- 
 numeraries, carpenters and dressers, who were all 
 busy in their respective places, preparing for the 
 last act of the opera, — he tried to speak, but 
 vainly, — he sought everywhere with his eyes for
 
 316 XTbe Song ot fllMrfam 
 
 some means of exit and escape, and Miriam saw 
 it. Replacing the dagger in her girdle, she 
 approached him closely and whispered, — 
 
 " Beware what you do ! If you make the least 
 attempt to leave the house I will have you arrested 
 at once. I shall watch your every motion — your 
 every look ! Play your part throughout the 
 opera as I shall play mine ! We can settle our 
 private affair afterwards ! " 
 
 He lifted his eyes to hers in terrified appeal, 
 but saw no pity in those night-black orbs, no 
 softening touch of pardon in the expression of 
 the beautiful face, a face such as Judith's must 
 have been when she went forth first to captive 
 and then to slay the mighty Holofernes. At 
 that moment the manager approached ; he was 
 in an excellent humour, and entirely delighted 
 with the success of the new opera. He began to 
 compliment the prima-donna on her triumph, and 
 added, with a glance at the ' understudy,' — 
 
 " Signor Manuelos satisfied you in his part, 
 Madame ? " 
 
 " Perfectly ! " replied the great ' Miriami ' com- 
 posedly. " As I have just told him, if he continues 
 to perform his role as well as he has begun, we 
 shall not quarrel ! 
 
 <c Ah, well ! whatever his faults are, you will 
 soon get rid of him, as you kill him in the last
 
 XTbc Sow* of /nMriam 317 
 
 act," laughed the manager. "So, for any mis- 
 takes he makes, he will be punished ! The 
 curtain goes up in two minutes, Madame." 
 
 And, bowing politely, he hurried on. 
 
 Miriam, or ' Miriami,' stood still, looking med- 
 itatively at Perez, who, despite himself, trembled 
 in every limb. 
 
 " You had better take a glass of sherry or 
 cognac, Signor Manuelos" she suggested tran- 
 quilly, emphasising his stage name somewhat 
 sarcastically, " or I fear you will be too nervous to 
 sing your death-song. You must present a bold 
 front when I kill you. Stage-fright is a terrible 
 malady." 
 
 And, moving slowly to one of the side-wings 
 she took up a position where she could watch him 
 wherever he went. The wretched man tried to 
 conquer the palsy of fear that possessed him like 
 the ague ; a f super ' brought him, at his own 
 request, some wine, which he swallowed at a gulp, 
 while he sought to assume the jaunty manners of 
 one perfectly at ease. But he felt the basilisk 
 eyes of Miriam upon him, burning as it were into 
 his very heart's core ; the flash of her jewels, the 
 rustle of her robes, the faint perfume of the price- 
 less lace upon her breast, all these trifling things 
 seemed to pervade the air he breathed with a 
 ghastly chill of terror. He could not tell what he
 
 318 TTbe Sono of fllMriam 
 
 feared, and the fear was all the greater because so 
 vague and unspeakable. The curtain at last went 
 up, and the opera proceeded ; the grand ' finale,' 
 in which there was a magnificent piece of vocalisa- 
 tion for the ■prima-donna, began. Never had the 
 famous ' Miriami ' sung more superbly ; her voice 
 rang out with luscious fulness, like a peal of 
 golden bells, and in the concluding c cadenza ' she 
 executed such a marvellous roulade of upward 
 trills that the audience were fairly taken by sur- 
 prise, and listened in almost breathless silence. 
 The moment had come, when the heroine of the 
 piece was to turn fiercely on a certain false" servant 
 who had betrayed a secret, and slay him with her 
 own hand. This false servant was personated by 
 Perez. Uneasy and nervous he advanced towards 
 the footlights, and sang in a faint husky voice; the 
 brief recitative of his part, a recitative implying 
 acknowledgment of guilt and including an appeal 
 for pardon ; but he could scarely enunciate either 
 words or music, so appalled was he at the terrible 
 look of Miriam's eyes, as with a slow, stealthy, 
 panther-like movement, she glided towards him 
 across the stage. For he saw his own Spanish 
 dagger glittering in her hand, and what was far 
 worse, he saw vengeance — stern relentless vengeance 
 — written on every line of her features. Fear ren- 
 dered him speechless ; — rage made Miriam pitiless.
 
 TZhc Sono of /JIMriam 319 
 
 With one fierce bound she was upon him, and in a 
 second had plunged the dagger deep in his heart ! 
 The thrust was so firm and well-aimed that he 
 fell without a groan, the blood quickly welling up 
 and soaking through the lace and tinsel of his 
 stage costume ; — the audience meanwhile, taking 
 the whole scene as a splendid piece of realistic 
 acting, rose en masse, waving their hats and hand- 
 kerchiefs, and shouting forth thunders of applause. 
 But Miriam stood stiff and inert by the side of the 
 fallen man, her lips rigidly set, her eyes looking 
 blankly away into nothingness ; and the manager, 
 seeing something was wrong, hurried anxiously up 
 to her, while the curtain was quickly dropped. 
 
 " What is the matter ? What has happened ? ' 
 he exclaimed. " Get up, Manuelos ! ' Then, 
 seeing the blood trickling on the floor, — " Good 
 God!" And he turned to the silent prima- 
 donna: "You have killed him!" 
 
 She made no answer. She seemed absorbed in 
 solemn meditation, looking down at her slain victim. 
 
 "What a frightful thing! What a horrible 
 accident ! " gasped the disconcerted manager : 
 " What is to be done ? " 
 
 Then Miriam roused herself and spoke. 
 
 " It was not an accident," she said calmly. 
 " It was purposely done. I meant to kill him. 
 He murdered the one I loved best in the world ;
 
 320 xifoe Sono ot dDfriam 
 
 and for that dear and honoured life I have taken 
 his. He deserved his fate. It is a just venge- 
 ance ! 
 
 And with a sudden wild gesture, she lifted up 
 her voice and sang in full pure notes of majestic 
 melody, words in a language which the astonished 
 and fear-stricken people about her knew nothing 
 of, but which carried in their very sound a sense 
 of awe. 
 
 " * O give thanks unto the Lord, for He is 
 gracious, and His mercy endureth for ever. 
 
 " ' He giveth us the victory over our enemies : 
 for His mercy endureth for ever ! ' " 
 
 Then all at once her voice broke in an hysteri- 
 cal cry — her unnatural composure gave way, and 
 she seemed to realise more fully the horror of 
 the deed she had done. Turning shudderingly 
 away from the bleeding corpse of Perez, she 
 staggered a few steps, reeled, and fell senseless. 
 
 All Paris soon knew the story, and Miriam 
 David, making no attempt to escape from justice, 
 was tried and found guilty of the wilful murder 
 of Josef Perez, her own relative, whom she had 
 recognised under his stage-name of Manuelos. 
 Plenty of proofs were, however, forthcoming, as 
 to his identity with the criminal for whom the 
 French police had long been searching — namely,
 
 ZTbe Song of fllMriam 3 21 
 
 the murderer of the old Jew, Reuben David, 
 grandfather of this very Miriam, who as 
 1 Miriami,' had enchanted the whole cultured 
 world. And after examination and consideration 
 of all the circumstances, the French jury found 
 for Miriam, ' extenuating circumstances ' ; and, 
 while solemnly admonishing her of the enormity 
 of her offence in thus taking the law into her 
 own hand, and severely reprimanding her for 
 the same, wound up the case by a panegyric 
 on her ' superb talent,' and let her go scot-free. 
 And her beautiful face, her beautiful voice, were 
 from henceforth lost to Europe. The ' divine 
 Miriami ' was seen no more ; it was rumoured 
 that she was dead, and in the hurrying world of 
 fashion and pleasure she was soon forgotten. 
 But there is a certain retreat in Palestine where 
 approved Jewish teachers and professors educate 
 the children of the neighbouring Jewish poor ; 
 and among these, there is a mistress of music 
 and singing, a grave, dark, beautiful woman, 
 whose grand voice is the wonder of the place, 
 and whose steadfast gentle ways have a great 
 and lasting influence on the minds of her pupils. 
 She is known as Madame David, and only one or 
 two of her fellow- workers remember that she was 
 once an artistic ' queen of song ' and ' star ' of 
 opera. She is very patient with idle and refrac- 
 
 21
 
 322 Ufoe Sono of fl&lrtam 
 
 tory scholars, but also very firm and unyielding 
 in her demands for excellence in music as in all 
 things, and from the other teachers with whom 
 she associates she has won both respect and 
 admiration, not altogether unmingled with fear. 
 Her sombre black eyes, her dark, meditative 
 brows, have a certain imperious grandeur that 
 impresses an observer with a sense of awe ; and 
 the few persons who know her history wonder 
 at times whether she ever feels remorse for the 
 murder of Perez. No one can tell ; her creed is 
 not Christian. Her sympathies are in tune with 
 the Psalmist who thus appeals against his enemies : 
 
 " Let them fall from one wickedness to another, 
 and let them not come into Thy righteousness. 
 
 " Let them be wiped out of the book of the 
 living, and not be written among the righteous ! " 
 
 And on great days of Jewish festival, when 
 the whole school is assembled at solemn prayer, 
 teachers with them, every heart is moved and 
 every soul stirred by the pure sound of a perfect 
 voice that floats through the stillness, singing with 
 the triumph and sweetness of some victorious 
 prophetess of old : 
 
 " ' O give thanks unto the Lord, for He is 
 gracious, and His mercy endureth for ever ! 
 
 " ' O give thanks unto the God of all gods, for 
 His mercy endureth for ever.
 
 Qhc Sono of /IDiilam 323 
 
 " ' Who alone doeth great wonders, for His 
 mercy endureth for ever. 
 
 " ' Yea, and slew mighty kings, for His mercy 
 endureth for ever. 
 
 " ' Who remembered us when we were in trouble, 
 for His mercy endureth for ever. 
 
 " ' And hath delivered us from our enemies, for 
 His mercy endureth for ever ! 
 
 " ' O give thanks unto the God of Heaven, for 
 His mercy endureth for ever ! ' " 
 
 And it is much to be doubted whether there is 
 any touch of penitence in this exulting song of 
 Miriam. For those who follow the Mosaic Law 
 are not bound to love or to forgive their enemies, 
 and the God of the Old Testament is not the God 
 of the New !
 
 THE SOUL OF THE NEWLY BORN. 
 
 A BLACK starless night ; hard with frost and 
 bitter cold. Long after sunset a chill 
 silence had brooded over the dreary stretch of 
 Yorkshire moorland that rolled away to the coast 
 in an unbroken line as far as eye could see, the 
 stillness at times being so intense that it seemed 
 as if the very air were frozen. But as the hours 
 moved on towards midnight a sudden wind arose, 
 and, rushing out of the stormiest quarter of the 
 heavens, gathered strength and fury as it flew. 
 Tearing over the sea, it lashed the waves into 
 mountainous billows ; — leaping over forests it bent 
 tall pines like reeds and snapped sturdy oak- 
 boughs asunder ; — sweeping across the open plains 
 it scattered in its wake showers of stinging hail 
 and whirling snow. Round one old red-brick 
 manor-house that stood on a slightly rising ground, 
 fully exposed to every gale from the sea, it roared 
 and screamed and whistled with the noise of a 
 thousand demons let loose ; — it shook the iron 
 
 324
 
 Z\k Soul of tbe IRewlp Born 325 
 
 gates on their rusty hinges ; it tore long sprays 
 of ivy from the wall ; and in the impassive faces 
 of two weather-beaten stone lions on either side 
 of the doorway it cast great snowflakes which 
 clung where they fell, congealed on the projecting 
 eyes and foreheads of these emblematic guardians 
 of the habitation, giving them a more quaint 
 and grimly fabulous aspect than they were wont 
 to wear. The house was amply provided with 
 windows, but nearly all were shuttered closed as 
 though some one were lying dead within, and the 
 angry wind shrieked and battered at them in vain. 
 Only one on the ground-floor showed a pale light 
 for a little while, and even this disappeared at 
 last. The big square building, looming darkly 
 out of the darker night, might have been a prison 
 or a madhouse for aught it looked to the contrary, 
 yet it was known as the frequent abode of one 
 of the wealthiest men in the county, who had 
 purchased it for the singular reason that there 
 was not another human habitation within six miles 
 of it. The people of the nearest town called it 
 1 Elverton's Folly,' for it was generally understood 
 among them that Richard Elverton, the owner, 
 had other objects in view besides that of mere 
 solitude when he chose to reside there for eight 
 months out of every twelve. One was, that 
 there could not well be found a more retired and
 
 326 Ube Soul of tbe IRewls Born 
 
 convenient place to get dead drunk in without 
 too many tell-tale witnesses ; — another, that it was 
 a first-class dungeon in which to shut up a 
 handsome wife, who, during a certain * season ' 
 in London had revenged herself for two long 
 years of wedded wretchedness by numerous and 
 somewhat reckless flirtations with various well- 
 known men. 
 
 Three miles off, the sea broke in through 
 straggling rocks upon a rough shingly beach 
 where not even the smallest boat could find safe 
 mooring ; and when a storm was raging, as now, 
 its angry voice could be heard thundering above 
 the loudest wind. To-night the thud and rumble 
 of the waves were appallingly distinct, and, 
 mingling with the furious howling of the blast, 
 made a terrific, uproar, which crept gradually and 
 with fierce persistence into the ears of a helpless 
 human creature whose senses were only at that 
 moment awaking to the consciousness of earthly 
 things. Up in one of the largest and dreariest 
 rooms of the ' Folly ' a child had been born that 
 afternoon, — and it now lay, not in its mother's 
 arms, but in a small wooden crib, near a fire 
 which, allowed to smoulder by the carelessness 
 of the dozing nurse, emitted more smoke than 
 flame. The infant lay inert, but open-eyed, quiet, 
 and apparently thoughtful. Not itself, but the
 
 XTbe Soul of tbe 1ttewl£ JBom 327 
 
 Soul within its tiny frame was awake and wonder- 
 ing. Curiously wistful and vaguely aware of some 
 great loss and mysterious doom, that Soul looked 
 out of the new-born child's innocent blue eyes and 
 silently asked itself the meaning of the strange 
 things it heard and saw. Darkness and storm ! — 
 a fulminating wrath somewhere in the unseen 
 heavens ! — and, most marvellous transformation of 
 all, as well as most sorrowful, a complete evanish- 
 ment of those broad spaces of illimitable light and 
 ever-unfolding beauty in which It had so lately 
 dwelt, safe and serene. 
 
 " How has this chanced to me ? " mused the 
 imprisoned Soul, in pain ; " Where and how did 
 I lose my consciousness of joy ? " 
 
 No answer was vouchsafed ; no heavenly whisper 
 solved the mystery : the wind shrieked and the 
 rain fell ; and, mournfully impressed by an in- 
 creasing sense of dreariness and desolation, the 
 strayed Immortal peered through its frail mortal 
 casement with a keen anxiety that almost touched 
 despair. At a little distance off, on a bed heaped 
 with soft wrappings and pillows, lay a woman sleep- 
 ing. Her face was beautiful, worn as it was by 
 illness and exhaustion ; her hand, thin and delicate, 
 rested outside the coverlet, and the rings upon her 
 fingers sparkled like so many small stars. Her 
 hair, loosely knotted up, shone above her brows
 
 328 Ube Soul of tbe 1Rewl$ 3Born 
 
 like finely spun gold, and as she slept, she looked 
 gentle and pitiful ; a creature made to be loved 
 and caressed and sheltered in strong arms, safe 
 from the sorrow and shame of life in a censorious 
 world. Many women look so, and many men are 
 thereby deceived. And the Soul of the child, 
 gazing yearningly at her, felt a sudden thrill of 
 knowledge mixed with uncertain hope and fear. 
 
 " There," It said within Itself, " is one who will 
 love me. She will be called my Mother ! " 
 
 And it trembled through all its delicate and 
 heavenly fibres, — and the tiny human frame in 
 which it was imprisoned instinctively stretched 
 out appealing arms and wailed softly for the 
 comfort of embraces, the tenderness of kisses, the 
 blessedness of welcome. But the sleeping mother 
 did not stir ; and another woman sitting in the 
 further corner of the room rose slowly and came 
 forward at the sound of the infant's crying. Her 
 coarse ungainly figure loomed like a black mass 
 out of the shadows ; — with ungentle hands she 
 snatched the child up and shook it violently, mut- 
 tering under her breath, " Be quiet, you wretched 
 little puling brat, do ! Can't you let a body 
 sleep ! " And, rolling it up afresh in its flannel 
 wrappings, she angrily replaced it in its crib, after 
 having rendered it nearly breathless. While she 
 was thus occupied a voice called from the bed, —
 
 Ube Soul of tbe IRewls Born 329 
 
 "Nurse! " 
 
 " Ma'am ? " 
 
 " What is the matter ? " 
 
 " Nothing, Ma'am." 
 
 " Did the child cry ? " 
 
 " Yes, Ma'am. It's a bit fretful, — will you 
 have it with you for a little ? " 
 
 The mother gave a shuddering movement of 
 repulsion, and hid her face in her pillow. 
 
 " No, no ! " she moaned — " I cannot ! " 
 
 The nurse shrugged her shoulders in apparent 
 contempt. Poking the dull fire into a brief blaze, 
 she poured something out from a bottle that stood 
 on the mantelpiece, and drank it off ; then setting 
 her arms akimbo she looked round at her patient. 
 
 " Don't take on so, Missis Elverton," she said 
 fawningly — " These things can't be helped some- 
 times. It ain't the baby's fault you know ! May- 
 be it would comfort you to have it a while ; poor 
 little thing, I daresay it feels lonesome ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Elverton raised her head, — her cheeks 
 were flushed, and a cruel line hardened her mouth. 
 
 " I wish it were dead ! " she exclaimed passion- 
 ately. 
 
 The nurse smiled a wicked smile, but said 
 nothing. She poked the fire again, and again 
 bent over the newly-born child. To all appear- 
 ances it slept. Satisfied, the nurse resumed her
 
 330 zibe Soul of tbe IRewls Born 
 
 position in an armchair placed well out of all 
 possibility of draughts, and, drawing a thick shawl 
 about her shoulders, settled herself for a doze, 
 unconscious, or pretending to be unconscious,' of 
 the fact that the patient had buried her face again 
 in her pillows and was sobbing bitterly. 
 
 The storm howled on incessantly outside, and 
 the clamour of the sea on the beach grew louder 
 as the night wore on. And presently the eyes of 
 the child opened again in the semi-gloom, and 
 once more through their translucent windows the 
 fluttering and perplexed Soul peered forth into 
 the unknown realm into which it had so strangely 
 and involuntarily wandered. It turned its ethereal 
 regard towards the figure on the bed, — it listened 
 to the dreary and smothered sound of weeping, — 
 it palpitated with pity, wonder and fear. But the 
 words " I wish it were dead ! " had pierced to 
 the very centres of its being, and though they 
 were to it, in a manner, inexplicable, because Death 
 was a thing unknown, it felt a sense of banishment 
 and loss that was colder than the night and fiercer 
 than the storm. Nay, the very wrath of the war- 
 ring elements was more familiar and friendly to 
 its immortal nature than the unalluring proximity 
 of its two human companions. With a quivering 
 desire for escape thrilling through its fine essence 
 the Soul trembled violently within the little frame
 
 Zhc Soul of tbe IFlewlp Born 331 
 
 in which it was pent up ; — such a tiny, feeble, yet 
 beautiful and perfect organism, moved by light 
 breathings and delicate nerve-throbbings, though 
 as yet scarcely aware of life. Half compassionate, 
 half pained, and wholly perplexed, the imprisoned 
 Immortal, finding its struggles of no avail, presently 
 became touched by a vague anxiety for the safety 
 of its weak habitation, and ceased for the moment 
 to rebel or complain. Withdrawing its gaze from 
 outer things, it rested passive. And, rendered 
 suddenly tranquil, the new-born infant slept. 
 
 With the morning the wind ceased, and a dull 
 grey day set in, accompanied by heavy rain. The 
 nurse awoke, and, yawning wearily, re-lit the fire 
 which had gone out, — a servant came with break- 
 fast for both nurse and patient. This servant was 
 a girl of about seventeen or thereabouts, with a 
 broad good-humoured face and lively manners. 
 
 "Well, how's the baby? " she asked. 
 
 " As right as babies usually are at such a time 
 of life," responded the nurse crossly — " The less 
 they're wanted, the more they thrive." 
 
 " And how's she ? " went on the servant, nod- 
 ding towards the bed. 
 
 " Doing nicely. Is Mr. Elverton downstairs 
 yet?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Well, you tell him his baby's a girl, and
 
 332 Zbc Soul of tbe IRewls IBom 
 
 that I'll bring it to him as soon as I've had my 
 breakfast." 
 
 " Ah ! you'll find him very queer ; " — and the 
 maid shook her head mysteriously. c ' He went on 
 something awful last night ! " 
 
 (t Last night isn't this morning," said the nurse 
 sententiously. " Muddlehead or no muddlehead, 
 he's got to see his baby whether he likes it or 
 not. Otherwise he'd be quite capable of saying 
 it's some one else's." 
 
 And she smiled knowingly. The smile was 
 reflected curiously on the young servant's face as 
 she withdrew. 
 
 " Now, ma'am, — now, Missis Elverton," pro- 
 ceeded the nurse, approaching the bedside, — 
 " Here's your tea. Lord's sake ! if you haven't 
 been crying ! You ought to know better than 
 that. You'll get the fever if you don't learn to 
 control yourself." 
 
 " What does that matter ! " — and Mrs. Elverton 
 moved restlessly. " I wish with all my heart I 
 could die, and there would be an end of it. Oh, 
 nurse ! Do you think he will ever know ? Do 
 you think he will guess ? " 
 
 The nurse, whose name was Collins, busied 
 herself in cutting a slice of toast into strips 
 before replying. Then she looked up with a dull 
 sarcasm expressed in her hard eyes.
 
 Zhc Soul of tbe 1Klewl£ Bom 333 
 
 " Men are blind as bats when they're sober," 
 she said. "And when they're drunk they're 
 blinder still. I don't suppose you've any cause 
 for alarm, if you keep quiet. But you're not a 
 very clever woman, if you'll excuse the liberty 
 I take in saying so, — I've known a'many cleverer. 
 And if the child should grow at all like its father, 
 of course unpleasant things might be said " 
 
 Mrs. Elverton pushed away her untasted tea, 
 with a gesture of irritation. 
 
 " He can prove nothing," she murmured. 
 " There are no letters, — nobody can say anything 
 except " — here her wild eyes turned appealingly 
 on her attendant — " except, — you ! " 
 
 Nurse Collins smiled coldly. 
 
 "I shall say nothing, you may be sure, ma'am," 
 she replied. " It's none of my business. I know 
 too many ladies' secrets to mind another being 
 added to the list. Besides, I get all my income 
 out of knowing how to hold my tongue. Don't 
 you think you'd better look at the child ? " 
 
 "No ! " said Mrs. Elverton vehemently — ' : I tell 
 you I hate it ! I feel that it will be my curse ! ' 
 
 The nurse looked slightly contemptuous at this 
 outburst, and, without replying, turned to tl : 
 discussion of her own breakfast. After she had 
 made a thoroughly substantial meal, and not 
 before, she moved leisurely over to the baby's
 
 334 Zhc Soul of tfoe IRevvlp JSorn 
 
 crib and sat down beside it, studying intently the 
 features of the helpless little creature within. Its 
 eyes were fully open, and regarded her with 
 such a weird pathos, that, as she said to herself, it 
 " worried her." In fact, after a little time she 
 could not refrain from uttering her thoughts aloud. 
 " Upon my word, Missis Elverton," she said, 
 with an involuntary low laugh as she spoke — 
 " There's one thing quite positive about this 
 child — it's got its father's eyes ! " 
 
 Mrs. Elverton with an effort raised herself in 
 bed, uttering a frightened exclamation. 
 
 " Its father's eyes ! " she echoed, and her thin 
 hands clutched the coverlet nervously. 
 
 " The very images of them ! " went on Nurse 
 Collins, evidently gloating over her discovery. 
 % " They're rather remarkable eyes you know, 
 ma'am ; you don't often see their like in a man's 
 head. Very blue, and with black centres — for all 
 the world like cornflowers, — and here this blessed 
 baby has them as plain as plain can be ! " 
 
 With a sort of shuddering half-sob, Mrs. 
 Elverton sank back and covered her face, as 
 though she strove to hide herself from the very 
 light of day. The nurse noticed her action with 
 more disdain than compassion. 
 
 " What cowards these fine ladies are to be 
 sure ! " she considered. " With a drunken brute
 
 Qhe Soul of tbe IRewlE Born 335 
 
 for a husband, I would tell any number of lies 
 without turning a hair, or fretting my conscience 
 about it either. Come here, you poor little mite, — 
 I must do my duty by you as far as I can." 
 
 And lifting the infant in her arms, she wrapped 
 a thick white shawl about it many times, and pre- 
 pared to leave the room. 
 
 " Where are you going, nurse ? " Mrs. Elverton 
 asked, in faint alarmed accents. 
 
 " Downstairs, ma'am. It's best to take the bull 
 by the horns at once. I'm sure Mr. Elverton will 
 want to see his baby ! " — and she laughed some- 
 what derisively. " You trust me, ma'am, — I'll 
 manage. Try and drink your tea while I'm gone." 
 
 She closed the door of the room noiselessly 
 behind her, and began to descend a broad, thickly- 
 carpeted stair. The rain beat against the hall 
 windows with a pattering, dreary noise, and the 
 Soul of the child, passively looking out on all 
 that surrounded it, became again conscious of pain 
 and discomfiture. Again it asked itself the reason 
 of its strange imprisonment, its bound and tor- 
 tured state. Why, in this hollow of space and 
 time into which it had unwittingly flown like a 
 stray moth at nightfall, was there so little light 
 and liberty, so much close darkness and bitter 
 thrall ? No solution was as yet vouchsafed of 
 the intricate and agonising mystery !
 
 336 Ubc Soul of tbe IRewlp Bom 
 
 And now the nurse, carefully hushing her frail 
 charge, crossed the threshold of a large and well- 
 furnished apartment, where the blaze from a 
 bright fire cast a cheerful glow over a table that 
 glittered with silver and china and all the appur- 
 tenances of wealth amounting to extravagance. 
 Here, in a deep armchair, with his slippered feet 
 on the fender, and his bloated figure wrapped in 
 a costly fur-lined dressing-gown, sat a repulsive- 
 looking man of about forty-five or fifty, reading 
 the morning's newspaper. 
 
 " Who's that ? " he shouted impatiently, spring- 
 ing to his feet as the nurse entered. She curtsied 
 respectfully. 
 
 " It's Nurse Collins, if you please, sir," she said 
 in meek accents, curtseying again with a fawning 
 leer on her dull commonplace features. " You'll 
 be glad to hear, sir, that your dear lady's doing 
 very well indeed ; and here is the sweet baby, sir — 
 a fine little girl " 
 
 He stopped her with a fierce gesture and still 
 fiercer oath. His coarse face, swollen with excess 
 of drink, grew purple with fury, — his eyes, pro- 
 truding from his head, shone luridly with the glare 
 of madness and wickedness. Trembling from head 
 to foot, he advanced a step or two, dashing the 
 newspaper behind him. 
 
 ' c Damn you ! " he said — " And damn the
 
 ZTbe Soul of tbe IRewlp Born 337 
 
 woman upstairs too ! How dare you bring that 
 brat to me ? Take it out of my sight ! Smother 
 it, — drown it ! — go to hell with it ! What are 
 you standing there for ? " — and he almost foamed at 
 the mouth in the extremity of his delirious rage. 
 " Go, if you want to keep a whole skin ! And 
 take that cursed bastard with you ! " 
 
 The face of the nurse turned a sickly white; 
 but she still made an effort to hold her ground. 
 
 (i Lord, Mr. Elvcrton, sir ! Won't you even 
 look at the poor little dear ? And begging your 
 pardon, sir, it's the very image of yourself, sir, say 
 what you like, — and I'm sure you don't know 
 your own mind, sir, this morning, if I may make 
 so bold, — and the poor baby hasn't done you no 
 harm " 
 
 He made a wild bound towards her with raised 
 arm and clenched fist. 
 
 " Go to the devil ! " he yelled. " Must I speak 
 twice ? " — and he panted heavily for breath. 
 " By God, I'll break every bone in your body if 
 you stay here another instant ! " 
 
 Thoroughly startled now, the nurse fell back 
 from the murderous-looking figure that threatened 
 her, and made a slinking and frightened exit, 
 endeavouring, as she went, to soothe and quiet the 
 infant, for it had broken out into a desolate and 
 helpless wailing, and its tiny face was wet with 
 
 22
 
 333 zbc Soul of tbe 1Rc\vl\? Born 
 
 tears. A speechless misery was expressed in its 
 wide-open eyes ; — the misery of the captive Soul 
 within. Memory and woeful consciousness were 
 pouring rapidly in upon that ethereal Intelligence, — 
 it knew, it felt the frightful hopelessness of wilful 
 sin born and bred in the children of humanity, — 
 it realised with sudden horror that this world was 
 but an outer phase of some deeper and more 
 inextricable form of banishment from its Creator, — 
 and with all the fervour of its immortal strength it 
 silently protested, prayed and strove to rend its 
 narrow prison. But in vain ; for its time was not 
 yet. 
 
 Half-way up the stairs, the nurse met a house- 
 maid coming down. 
 
 " Well ? " said the girl tentatively. 
 
 "He's a beast ! " returned the nurse emphatically. 
 " He's as drunk this morning as he was last night." 
 
 <c Why, of course ! " — and the maid looked 
 surprised that any one should imagine that her 
 master could ever be otherwise than in a drunken 
 condition. " When they're took that way it lasts 
 them a long time. I've been here six weeks and 
 I've never seen him really sober. It's what the 
 doctors call delirum treemens. I'd leave him to 
 it if I were her." And she jerked her head 
 in the direction of her mistress's bedroom. 
 
 " Ah ! But if you had no money of your own,
 
 Zbc Soul of tbe IRewls Born 339 
 
 what would you do ? ' inquired Nurse Collins 
 scornfully". " You wouldn't care to beg your 
 bread in the streets I daresay ! She hasn't got a 
 penny to bless herself with ; how can she leave 
 him ? " 
 
 " She could get a divorce, couldn't she ? " 
 suggested the housemaid. 
 
 " Could she ? " — and the nurse smiled a covert 
 smile. " Well, I don't know about that. Divorce 
 is a nasty business ; no end of disagreeable ques- 
 tions are asked which are not always convenient 
 to answer." 
 
 And she went on her way murmuring " Sh, — 
 sh ! ' to the still wailing baby. She found Mrs. 
 Elverton fast asleep, so she set about ministering 
 to the poor infant's wants as well as she could, 
 being a woman of rough manners and rougher 
 touch. But the tiny mortal gave her no trouble. 
 It ceased crying directly it was brought into its 
 mother's room, and now lay on her lap passively, 
 without moving its large blue eyes from the 
 weirdly contemplative study of her face. Even 
 when she put it back in its crib it still gazed at her 
 in the same patient, wondering, pained way, much 
 as a trapped animal might look at its captor. 
 
 " I never in all my life saw such a child ! " she 
 grumbled to herself in some perplexity — " Staring 
 away for all the worlc| as if it knew all about
 
 34° XTbe Soul of the Iftewls 3Born 
 
 itself and its parents too ! It doesn't sleep half 
 enough" either ; it's an unnatural sort of baby 
 somehow. Perhaps it's just as well Mr. Elverton 
 didn't see those big eyes ; drunk as he is from 
 morning to night, he might have " 
 
 ' f Nurse ! " Mrs. Elverton had awakened sud- 
 denly with a nervous start, and was trying to lift 
 herself up in bed — " Did you take the child to 
 him ? " 
 
 "Yes, I did, ma'am." 
 
 " What did he say ? " 
 
 Nurse Collins hesitated a moment. 
 
 (< Well, he's very bad this morning ; I don't 
 think he quite knows what he says, so it isn't any 
 use telling you " 
 
 " Ah ! " Mrs. Elverton closed her eyes and 
 heaved a deep sigh — "I can guess." 
 
 " He wouldn't look at it," went on the nurse. 
 " But I shouldn't worry about that if I were in 
 your place." 
 
 " Worry ! ' echoed Mrs. Elverton, opening 
 her eyes that were suddenly ablaze with scorn ; 
 " Worry about him ? I never give him a moment's 
 thought if I can help it. He has made my 
 life a perfect misery to me ever since we were 
 married. Do you know what he did when my 
 first child was born, — his own child V — and she 
 emphasised these words with a dreadful intensity
 
 Zbc Soul of tbe IRewlp Bom 341 
 
 of meaning — " He came into my room, deliriously- 
 drunk, dragged the baby out of bed and flung it 
 on the ground naked. There it lay for an hour, 
 while he stamped about, raving and swearing. 
 He had locked the door so that no one should 
 come in, and I was afraid to ring my bell and give 
 the alarm lest he should kill me. When at last 
 he went away and the servants came, I was 
 almost mad with terror ; and the child, happily 
 for itself, died three days afterwards. And you 
 tell me not to l worry ' for such a brute as that ! " 
 
 Nurse Collins had taken a chair by the bedside 
 and was busied with some sewing. 
 
 " Well, ma'am, you've a deal to suffer and that's 
 a fact," she said — " But you're not the only one 
 by a long way. The drink is a curse to many 
 gentlemen as well as to the ' poorer classes ' about 
 which the newspapers are always a-talking. And 
 if so be it's true as I've heard say, that you 
 married Mr. Elverton for his money, there's what 
 you've got for it. It often happens to ladies who 
 are on the look-out for wealth and a good 
 position, that they get men like that, and men, too, 
 who don't and won't give them any money to 
 spend either. I often think myself that the old- 
 fashioned way of marrying for love was best. 
 Folks might have hard times, and no doubt they 
 had, and they might have to work hard too, which
 
 342 Ube Soul of tbe IRcwIe Born 
 
 is a healthy thing in itself, — but I daresay they led 
 happier lives and kept themselves a deal honester 
 and cleaner." 
 
 Mrs. Elverton's face flushed ; and turning her 
 head away she said no more. 
 
 All day the rain was incessant. Towards three 
 o'clock in the afternoon there was a crunching of 
 quick wheels on the roughly kept carriage-drive of 
 the ' Folly,' and Nurse Collins, looking out of the 
 window, saw Mr. Elverton getting into his dog- 
 cart, evidently bent on a journey. His groom 
 put in a small portmanteau and several wraps, and 
 then assisted his master (who was decidedly 
 unsteady on his legs) to mount the seat. The 
 light vehicle was drawn by a spirited mare who at 
 the first touch of the whip started down the drive 
 at a brisk canter which was almost a gallop ; the 
 groom swung himself up behind, — the iron gates 
 opened, and in two or three minutes the whole 
 equipage had disappeared among the mists of 
 drifting rain. Finding her patient dozing, the 
 nurse slipped out of the room, and leaning over 
 the upper banisters called softly to a servant whom 
 she heard moving to and fro below. 
 
 11 Where has the master gone ? " 
 
 " Into the town to dine and sleep," replied 
 the girl, looking up at her. " Isn't it a 
 mercy ! We shall have a quiet night of it
 
 Ube Soul of tbe IRewlp Born 343 
 
 for once. Peters, the groom, has gone with 
 1m. 
 
 Nurse Collins returned to her post, and as 
 soon as the invalid awoke, told her of her 
 husband's sudden departure. A great relief and 
 joy brightened Mrs. Elverton's face, and gave 
 it back all its own original beauty, — rousing her- 
 self, she sat up in bed, and readily partook of 
 some nourishing broth which her attendant pre- 
 pared for her ; and then, with her own hands, 
 she undid and re-twisted her beautiful hair, ask- 
 ing for a mirror, that she might see for herself 
 how many flaws her sufferings had made in the 
 delicate perfection of her charms. 
 
 "Oh, what ugly lines!" she said playfully, 
 marking with her small forefinger the hollows 
 of pain beneath her eyes — " But they will go away 
 soon, won't they, nurse ? They will not stay 
 there as if I were old, — I am only six-and-twenty. 
 My eyes are wonderfully bright, aren't they ? 
 You don't think it is fever, do you ? Oh, no ! 
 They were always bright ; — and I really think — 
 yes, I really do think the lashes have grown 
 longer since I was ill. I like long lashes ; I 
 know some women who would give anything 
 in the world to have them as long as mine." 
 
 She laughed with conscious vanity, — then she 
 ran one hand through her hair and raised it
 
 344 Uhc Soul of tbe IRewlE JBont 
 
 slightly on one side so that the gold colour 
 rippled and shone like a stray gleam of sunlight 
 where it waved back from the brow. Surveying 
 herself with meditative admiration for some 
 minutes, she sighed as she laid down the mirror. 
 
 " Now, — you may bring me the child," she 
 said suddenly. 
 
 The nurse obeyed, and placed the little creature 
 in her arms. As she met the upward look of 
 its solemn, sad blue eyes, she trembled through 
 and through ; the pitiful, beseeching, wistful gaze 
 had something in it that appalled and shamed her. 
 She had nothing of the spiritual in her nature, — 
 she could not know or dream that it was an 
 angelic Being that so reproachfully regarded her, 
 — a bright thing strayed from Heaven, and yearn- 
 ing to return thither. For now the Soul was 
 fully conscious of its exile and its grief, — it 
 realised that every day of its imprisonment in 
 its earthly habitation would but add to its abase- 
 ment and despair. Undesired, unloved, and 
 bitterly lonely its existence would be, — sin and 
 fraud and shame accompanying it in all the 
 different phases of its life-experience. And no 
 tenderness was now expressed in the infant's clear 
 orbs of vision as they reflected the unloving 
 mother's face, — only distrust and pain. 
 
 Mrs. Elverton surveyed it, noting every small
 
 Zbc Soul of tbe Iftewls 36om 345 
 
 feature of the tiny visage with cold unsympathetic 
 intentness. 
 
 " What a pity it was ever born ! ' she said. 
 " Born dead it would not have mattered, — but a 
 living child, and a girl, too ! — what chance will 
 it ever have in such a world as this ! It is a most 
 unfortunate affair ; — a more unwished-for baby 
 never breathed ! " 
 
 Knitting her brows in a vexed frown, she signed 
 to the nurse to take it away, and, when it was 
 replaced in its crib, lay back on her pillows, not in 
 sleep but in thought. 
 
 Slowly the afternoon wore on, and once more 
 the night descended. The storm had now entirely 
 ceased, though a light wind still blew in from the 
 sea-coast, moaning softly at the cracks of the 
 windows and doors, as though in penitence for its 
 past fury. Stars came dimly out in the faintly 
 clouded heavens, and the waves could be heard on 
 the distant beach, coming in with a long solemn 
 organ-roll of sound, very different to the wild 
 crashing and upheaving they had made among the 
 rocks a few hours before. Between eight and 
 nine o'clock a tall man, wrapped close in a dark- 
 hooded ulster, arrived at ' Elverton's Folly,' and, 
 with a few words uttered in a low tone, and a 
 couple of sovereigns slipped into the hand of the 
 servant who opened the door, was instantly
 
 346 Zhz Soul of tbe fllewIP Born 
 
 admitted. Once inside the hall, he asked to see 
 Nurse Collins. Summoned, she came immediately, 
 and held up her hands in amazement as she recog- 
 nised her visitor. 
 
 "Lord, it's never you, Sir Godfrey!' she 
 exclaimed — " What a turn you've given me to be 
 sure ! And the daring of it ! Why couldn't you 
 wait till I wrote as I'd promised ! Suppose Mr. 
 Elverton had been here ? " 
 
 " I should have throttled him I daresay," was 
 the cool reply, and the speaker, Sir Godfrey 
 Lawrence, unfastened his coat and threw it aside, 
 showing himself to be a distinctly handsome man 
 of about two- or three-and-thirty — "I've been 
 haunting this confoundedly dull neighbourhood 
 for a week and more, and to-day by good luck I 
 met him driving recklessly towards the town, 
 drunk as usual, and whipping that unfortunate 
 mare of his almost to madness. The groom was 
 holding on to the trap behind with both hands in 
 sheer desperation, lest he should be flung off into 
 the road and left there. Neither master nor man 
 saw me. But I guessed they would be absent for 
 a few hours at any rate, so I walked on here as 
 fast as the mud would let me. I have been 
 nearly out of my mind with suspense ; — how is 
 she ? " 
 
 " Weak enough, but doing well," replied the
 
 Ube Soul of tbe IRewls J6orn 347 
 
 nurse, eyeing him curiously as she spoke — " I 
 make no doubt you've been anxious." 
 
 "Anxious ! Good God ! " — and he strode up 
 and down agitatedly — " I have seen her in my 
 dreams, lying stiff in her coffin, poor little soul ! — 
 I have felt myself to be worse than a murderer, — 
 if you call that being anxious ! Is she out of all 
 danger ? " 
 
 " One can never quite say that," returned Nurse 
 Collins sedately — "Not so soon. You see, the 
 baby was only born yesterday afternoon between 
 five and six o'clock." 
 
 Sir Godfrey turned white, then red, and bit 
 his lips hard. 
 
 " Dead, I hope ? " he said in a harsh whisper. 
 
 The nurse looked him full in the eyes. 
 
 " No, Sir Godfrey. Living." 
 
 He made a swift step towards her. 
 
 " Why didn't you smother it ? You could have 
 done so, and no one would have been any the wiser ! " 
 
 Nurse Collins smiled coldly. 
 
 " Thank you, sir, but I have a conscience, 
 little as you seem to think it. I would rather 
 not commit murder, if you will excuse me, Sir 
 Godfrey, — I could not do it, even to oblige you ; 
 it would be against my principles." 
 
 " Damn your principles ! ' he muttered under 
 his breath, and again he strode up and down.
 
 348 Ghc Soul of tbe IRewls Born 
 
 " Can I see her ? " he demanded suddenly, 
 stopping abruptly. 
 
 " Well, I should think you might," the nurse 
 replied meditatively, — " I fancy perhaps it would 
 rouse her a bit. She is certainly nervous and 
 fretful. You might perhaps set her mind more 
 at ease. But I must prepare her first. And you 
 can see the baby too ! " she added, with an unkind 
 smile, as she left the room. 
 
 Sir Godfrey frowned, but said nothing, and 
 during the few minutes he was kept waiting 
 paced up and down in chafing discontent, remorse, 
 and misery. He was a notoriously ' fast ' man, 
 very popular among the ' Upper Ten,' and he 
 had more time and money on his hands than he 
 knew what to do with. As a natural result of 
 idleness and wealth combined, he was always 
 more or less in what he called a ' hobble,' and 
 the ' hobble ' generally had a woman in the centre 
 of it. But he was not wholly bad ; and the latent 
 manliness in him made him heartily ashamed of 
 himself at the present moment. His so-called 
 ' flirtation ' with pretty Mrs. Elverton, begun 
 lightly, had deepened into a dangerous passion 
 and had gone too far ; " much too far," he told 
 himself with a smarting conscience. Yet, after 
 all, how could he help it ? he queried. He was 
 but a man, — and she, — she was so winsome and
 
 XTbe Soul of the 1Rewl£ Born 349 
 
 lovely and trustful, and so ill-treated by her 
 drunken brute of a husband, that surely it was 
 no wonder that 
 
 Here his unhappy musings were interrupted by 
 the return of Nurse Collins. 
 
 " You can come upstairs, Sir Godfrey. She is 
 quite ready to see you." 
 
 Treading softly on tiptoe, and trembling with 
 a nervousness quite unusual to him, the baronet, 
 whose marked attentions to another man's wife 
 had provided society with scandal for a consider- 
 able period, followed his guide into the room 
 where lay the woman he loved with all that brief 
 madness that only comes once in a lifetime, leaving 
 disaster and ruin in its train. She had turned 
 round on her pillows to catch the first glimpse 
 of him as he entered ; her eyes were brilliant 
 with joy, and she stretched out her arms to him 
 as he approached. 
 
 " Oh, Godfrey ! How good — how brave of 
 you to come ! " 
 
 " Violet ! my darling ! " he murmured tremu- 
 lously ; and drawing her tenderly to his breast, 
 he held her there while she wept softly from sheer 
 weakness and delight combined. Nurse Collins 
 turned away, and bent over the crib where the 
 lonely infant quietly reposed. It was strangely 
 passive, — it neither moved nor cried, and when the
 
 35° Ube Soul of tbe 1Re\vl£ Born 
 
 nurse came near it, it was not startled from its 
 weirdly tranquil condition. Its eyes were fixed 
 with singular tenacity on certain shadows thrown 
 by the firelight upon the opposite wall, — the 
 shadows of two guilty creatures, its mother and 
 her lover, locked in each other's arms. 
 
 After about half an hour's whispered conversa- 
 tion, Sir Godfrey turned from the bedside, still 
 holding one of Violet Elverton's hands within his 
 own, and said in an anxious voice, — 
 
 " She is very weak, nurse. For God's sake 
 take care of her ! " 
 
 " I shall do my best, sir," responded Nurse 
 Collins, somewhat frigidly. — " Will you look at 
 the child ? " 
 
 The baronet started violently, and dropped the 
 hand he held. Mrs. Elverton grew deadly pale, 
 and her beautiful eyes searched his face alarmedly. 
 
 " Oh, Godfrey ! " she whispered with a half sob ; 
 " If it had only died ! " 
 
 " Ah ! if it had ! " he answered under his breath. 
 " As it is, it must live on a lie, — it must be 
 
 the unconscious witness of " He flushed a 
 
 shamed red. " Violet, — it is a bad beginning ! " 
 
 She made no reply, but only clung to him. 
 Gently disengaging himself he laid her back on 
 her pillows, and, rising from his place at the bed- 
 side, advanced somewhat unsteadily.
 
 Ufoe Soul of tbe mewls Born 351 
 
 " Where is it ? " he asked in hoarse accents. 
 
 The nurse silently pointed to the crib. Ap- 
 proaching almost timidly, he bent down lower 
 and lower, gazing in vague wonder not unmixed 
 with fear at the small creature he beheld — so frail 
 and feeble a morsel of humanity, so infinitely 
 touching in its helplessness and innocence. Pre- 
 sently, sinking on one knee, he lightly brushed 
 the infant's soft little face with his lips. Its 
 earnest eyes, the angel copies of his own, looked 
 up at him so sorrowfully, so appealingly, that he 
 was moved to a greater remorse and shame than 
 he had thought possible to his nature. 
 
 " Poor little child " he murmured — " Poor 
 little sinless child of sin ! " 
 
 And with the words a new and keener compre- 
 hension of its unhappy fate swept like a sudden 
 flare of lightning over the suffering Soul, pent up 
 in flesh even as a prisoner behind close dungeon 
 bars. ' A child of sin ! ' Yes ; and therefore 
 doomed by mystic and eternal laws to bear the 
 burden of sin, which meant to an immortal Spirit 
 the utter deprivation of all its highest privileges 
 for all that bitterest phase of troublous striving 
 known as human life. Ah, what strange passion 
 was that which leaped into the child's eyes 
 then ? — what dread and horror was it that held 
 its erring father motionless, gazing into those
 
 352 Ube Soul of tbe IRewls Born 
 
 eyes as though he read in them reproach and 
 doom ? 
 
 " God forgive me!" he whispered, laying his 
 trembling hand on the tiny head — " God forgive 
 me that I wish you were dead, my poor little one ! 
 Nothing but sorrow awaits you, — nothing but a 
 fraud practised on your innocence all through your 
 days ; and who knows if the time may not come 
 when both I and your mother will loathe the sight 
 of you as the visible if unconscious witness of our 
 sin ! Poor child ! — how much kinder would death 
 be to you than life ! " 
 
 A few hot tears dropped on the infant's curled- 
 up hand, — then, ashamed of his weakness, he again 
 kissed the soft cheek, and rose, pale to the lips, 
 and with a tremor running through his stalwart 
 frame. 
 
 " It is a pretty little thing," he said briefly to 
 the nurse, at the same time laying a crisp ten- 
 pound Bank of England note on the table ; then, 
 knitting his brows sternly, he added in a low tone, 
 "You must keep your own counsel." 
 
 Nurse Collins curtsied as she took the note 
 and pocketed it. 
 
 " You may rely upon me, Sir Godfrey," she 
 replied. " But of course you know Mr. Elverton 
 has his suspicions." 
 
 "A drunkard's suspicions are worthless," he
 
 Hbe Soul of tbe Wewlp Born 353 
 
 said. — <c The child is born in wedlock, and he can 
 prove nothing. All you have to do is to hold 
 your tongue. And don't let Mrs. Elverton worry 
 herself ; — there is no cause for fear." 
 
 And he moved gently again to the bedside, 
 taking his love's pale hands in his own and 
 kissing them tenderly. 
 
 "Where are you going now, Godfrey?' she 
 asked plaintively. 
 
 " I am staying at the inn on the coast," he 
 replied. — " You know it, — about seven miles from 
 here. It is a fine night, and I shall walk. Don't 
 be in the least anxious, Violet ; — sleep and get well 
 quickly ; remember, there is no danger." 
 
 He said these last words slowly and with 
 emphasis. 
 
 " Have you looked at it ? " she whispered. 
 
 " The child ? Yes." 
 
 "It's eyes " 
 
 Sir Godfrey kissed her quivering lips. 
 
 " I know. They are tell-tales ; but do not 
 alarm yourself needlessly now. Try not to think. 
 Rest, and have confidence that all will go well. 
 Nurse Collins is faithful." 
 
 At that moment the nurse approached him. 
 
 " I think you had better be going, sir," she 
 said respectfully. — " I expect the doctor about 
 eleven." 
 
 23
 
 354 Ube Soul ot the Bewl^ JBom 
 
 Sir Godfrey at once accepted the warning, and, 
 with a hurried yet tender farewell, left the room 
 quickly, without again turning his head towards 
 the shadowed corner where lay his love-abandoned 
 child. Outside the door he shook hands with 
 the nurse. 
 
 " I'm sure you will do all you can for her," 
 he said with great earnestness. — " You know very 
 well her husband doesn't care ; — but / care, — and 
 if she had died " 
 
 " You would have soon forgotten her, sir," 
 remarked Nurse Collins composedly — " And found 
 another lady. It is the way with most gentlemen 
 of your standing." 
 
 He gave her an angry glance, vexed at the 
 coolness with which she thus estimated his cha- 
 racter ; then remembering she held his guilty 
 secret in her hands, he forced a careless laugh. 
 
 " You think so ? " he said lightly. " Per- 
 fectly natural on your part, I daresay. But you 
 do not understand what real love is. Good- 
 night." 
 
 And in another moment or two he had left 
 the house. 
 
 The nurse stood for a little while on the land- 
 ing from whence she had watched him disappear, 
 thinking her own thoughts half aloud. 
 
 " Real love ! " she muttered. " Ah ! poor
 
 XTbe Soul of tbe mewlp ®orn 355 
 
 folks have their ideas about that as well as rich. 
 What / call real love is very different to what 
 your fine gentlemen of fashion calls it. To love 
 a woman well enough to save her from any 
 suspicion of slander is real love if you like ; not 
 to go dangling after her everywhere, and making 
 people talk about her till she hasn't got a shred 
 of reputation left. Real love, indeed ! " 
 
 Yet, with all her seeming-honest notions, she 
 found a peculiar satisfaction in fingering Sir 
 Godfrey's crisp bank-note in her pocket, and she 
 foresaw plenty of future opportunities for getting 
 money out of him when matters required to be 
 ' hushed up ' or otherwise smoothed over. There- 
 fore she was in a very contented frame of mind 
 with herself and things in general when she re- 
 entered her patient's room. Finding that Mrs. 
 Elverton had fallen peacefully asleep and that the 
 infant in its crib was apparently sleeping too, she 
 softly stirred the fire and sat comfortably down 
 beside it to await the arrival of the doctor, and also 
 to concoct a plan by which Sir Godfrey Lawrence's 
 visit to the house during Mr. Elverton's absence 
 should be kept a secret by the other servants as 
 well as herself. 
 
 Meanwhile, the Soul of the newly-born was 
 struggling rebelliously in its narrow prison, resolved 
 to make a desperate fight for liberty ; and up to
 
 356 Zhc Soul of tbe IRewls Born 
 
 the throne of Eternal Love its complaint piteously 
 ascended. 
 
 " Not in this world, O divine Creator, — not 
 in this world let me suffer ! Not here shall be 
 found the fires which purify, — not here, where 
 Falsehood is given the dominion over Truth ! 
 Surely, O righteous Father, in this dark corner 
 of Thy Universe Thy creatures have forgotten 
 Thee, — and for this cause cometh all their sin ! 
 Condemn me not, O Thou supreme Mercy, to 
 share their dreadful banishment ! — for behold, I 
 do not forget, — Thou and Thou only art my 
 memory and my joy ! If for some flaw in my 
 nature I must needs pass a time of exile and 
 severance from Thee, plunge me if Thou wilt into 
 an abyss of fiery torture, provided such torture 
 have Truth in its centre, rather than surround 
 me by the infinitely worse and inextricable agony 
 of Lies which blaspheme Thy majesty and mock 
 Thy Holy Name ! Dread God, in darkest Hell 
 they know Thee, fear Thee, and recognise Thy 
 justice ! — but on this earth it seems they know 
 Thee not, — they doubt Thy manifest existence, 
 and are but evil shadows of an evil time. Make 
 me not as one of these, Father Divine ! — 
 pity me, pardon me, release me, O Thou All- 
 Powerful ! Elsewhere let me find the cleansing 
 flames ; — but not here, — not in this doomed and
 
 Ube Soul of tbe tflewlE Bom 357 
 
 desolate world, where even Thy Light is made 
 Darkness ! " 
 
 So prayed the prisoned Soul, in silent musings 
 that were in Heaven clear utterances, distinctly 
 heard. And presently the longed-for Answer 
 came, — an answer swift, sweet and penetrative, 
 that filled the aerial essence of the suffering Im- 
 mortal with a joy exceeding the limits even of 
 angelic speech. Slowly expanding its hidden 
 fibres and gathering all its winged force, the 
 undying creature pressed towards its granted 
 liberty. The body of the infant quivered con- 
 vulsively in the throes of the impatient Spirit's 
 eager struggles, — and once it gave a feeble cry. 
 The nurse, however, more than half asleep, and 
 absorbed in her own thoughts, did not hear, and 
 the piteous sound was not repeated. Silence and 
 peace reigned in the room, till, at the appointed 
 hour, a quick tread upon the stairs announced 
 the doctor, and Nurse Collins rose to receive 
 him. He was a big, burly, good-humcured 
 man, and entered, smiling pleasantly. 
 
 " Well, nurse ? How are we all ? " he inquired 
 in cheery accents. " Ah, Mrs. Elverton ! " This, 
 as his patient turned on her pillows, awake and 
 bright-eyed — " You are looking almost yourself 
 again ! And your husband's away I hear ? Ah ! 
 well, perhaps it's a good thing. You must be
 
 358 Zbc Soul ot the mewls Born 
 
 kept quiet ; no worry and no excitement. Your 
 pulse is excellent, — if you go on as well as this, 
 you'll be about again in a couple of week's time. 
 And how's the baby ? " 
 
 As he spoke, he advanced, large, genial, and 
 still smiling, towards the crib. 
 
 "It's been asleep some time, sir," said Nurse 
 Collins, uncomfortably conscious that she had not 
 looked at it for at least three-quarters of an hour. 
 " It's a quiet little thing, though, when it's awake 
 — almost too quiet I fancy." 
 
 " Well, well, there's no harm in its being 
 quiet," said the doctor amiably. "Just let me 
 see 
 
 He touched the infant's forehead, gave a slight 
 start, and bent down his ear to listen. 
 
 " Good Heavens ! ' he exclaimed, aghast. — 
 " Nurse ! This child is dead ! " 
 
 With a shock of alarm the nurse sprang to his 
 side, incredulous. He lifted the little body up 
 in his arms ; it was yet warm. The small face 
 was very white and chill, — a pretty pathetic smile 
 rested on the tiny mouth. The doctor made his 
 examination tenderly, and shook his head. 
 
 " Some sudden convulsion, with contraction of 
 the heart," he said. " Life has been extinct quite 
 twenty minutes." And with kindly pity he laid 
 the dead baby back in its crib, carefully composing
 
 Zbc Soul of tbe 1Rewl£ Born 359 
 
 its fragile limbs. " Break it to the mother 
 gently." 
 
 But Mrs. Elverton had heard ; and, burying 
 her head in her pillows, was sobbing hysterically. 
 Not in sorrow, but in joy ! — joy, and such exquisite 
 relief as she had never dared to hope for. Weep- 
 ing in apparent despair, she murmured over and 
 over again amid her tears, — 
 
 " Thank God ! Oh, thank God ! " 
 
 And up through the star-strewn spaces of the 
 night, a radiant Angel, released from brief bondage, 
 soared higher and ever higher, like a bird, to the 
 glory of the sun ; the Soul of the newly-born 
 returned to Him who made it ; and its happy 
 Voice, echoing far into the centres of Eternal Light, 
 sang again and again till the song was caught up 
 in a triumphant chorus by hosts of its heavenly 
 companions, — 
 
 " Thank God for escape from the World and 
 its Darkness ! Oh, thank God ! " 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Printed by Hazell, Watson, &. Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.
 
 Eighth Edition, completing 
 
 53rd Thousand Copies 
 
 OF 
 
 MARIE GORELLI'S 
 
 NEW BOOK 
 
 THE MIGHTY ATOM. 
 
 In handsome cloth gilt, 3s, 6d. 
 
 London : 
 
 HUTCHINSON & CO., Paternoster Row.
 
 r.ni i