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^iiiiwaiiMiiiiBiiiiiiiaiiiiMTOBPiiffiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiffmiimiiiimBiiiiiim 
 
 LONDON: J. & R. MAXWELL. 
 
SMALL COST! FOR HOSIERY, &c. PRICELESS VALUE ! 
 
 Joljnson's Yerietian Kiiitting fool, 
 
 So widely known as JOHNSON'S ANTI-PHTHISIS WOOL, 
 
 Is absolutely the purest and softest Knitting Wool, and recommended by the 
 whole of the Medical Profession. To be worn Spring, Summer, Autumn and 
 Winter, in the form of Socks, Stockings, etc., by Ladies, Gentlemen, and 
 Children of all ages, and of all climates. An elegant safeguard in Winter, and 
 an invaluable preservative in Summer. The Coicrt Circular says that this 
 beautiful Wool seems "to fulfil all the requirements of the knitter, whether the 
 garments may be for the baby in arms or for the hardy sportsman. The 
 Venetian Knitting Wool, which is known as 'Johnson's Anti-Phthisis Wool,' 
 is at once firm, soft, and regular, and should be of great value in the nursery," 
 You are respectfully urged to try one sample hank, which will be sent, carriage 
 paid to your door, on receipt of i/- Made in Black, White, pretty Heathers, 
 and all Fashionable Colours, and is the only Wool that can be worn all the 
 year round with perfect comfort. Supplied direct to the public at very lowest 
 cost, and carnage paid to any part of the United Kingdom, with reduced 
 rates of carriage for the Colonies and abroad. Price i/- per hank ; 9/6 per 
 dozen; two dozen, 18/-; three dozen, £1 5s, 6d.; six dozen, £2 qs. 6d.; 
 twelve dozen, £\ i6s. 6d. 
 
 N.E.— JOHNSON'S BRITISH FINGERING YARN, at 4/11 per 
 pound, is equal to other yarns at 6/6 and 7/6 per pound. Sample quarter- 
 pound delivered free to any part for 1/3. Black, White, Heathers and all 
 Colours, one price. 
 
 ** Excellent for the use of men and boys. It is so well woven that it will 
 stand any amount of wear and tear." — Court Circular. 
 
 JOHNSON & CO., Croham Road, Croydon, London, S.E. 
 
 Bniiouncements Mortb Uestino* 
 
 Wonderful Microscope, 3/3, with full instructions, post free. Awarded 
 Fifteen First-Class Prize Medals, and magnifies 25,000 times. Shows Animal- 
 culae in bad water, eels in paste, etc. Professor Pritchard, University College, 
 Oxford, says of it — " I have a microscope which cost me nearly 200 guineas, 
 yet your instrument has nearly as much power and definement." *' Shows 
 cheese mites as large as mice." N.B. Daily Mail. 
 
 Treat for Boys of all Ages. — Contains 20 Games, Experiments, Tricks, 
 and Puzzles, Model House, 6 Expanding Flowers, 100 Conundrums, 50 
 Foreign Stamps, Magnesium Wire, 40 Comic Cards, Parlour Lightning 
 (harmless). Age Cards, 100 Assorted Pictures, and much else to amuse. 1/2 
 post free. 
 
 Amusement for All! — Moustaches, 4d.; Side Whiskers, lod.; Full 
 Beard, t '3. All post free, and superior make. 
 
 Foreigfn Stamps (Genuine), 50 different, 4d., post free, including many 
 rare. Sheets Sent. Agents wanted. New Novelty and Household Article 
 Catalogue (32 pages, illustrated) gratis and post free on application. Please 
 Address- BRITISH AND FOREIGN NOVELTY CO., 1120, No. 95, 
 Bath Street, Glasgow. 
 
 'TV \\\ f\¥ n i^Vi O CTl./>*^ ( Are prepared to undertake the Printing 
 VLUlOlSOn CK »On,j of Novels or Pamphkts. 
 
 PRINTERS, BOLTON, ( prices on Application. 
 
AT WHAT COST 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 BY THE LATE 
 
 HUGH CONWAY 
 
 JOHN AND ROBERT MAXWELL 
 
 MILTON HOUSE 
 
 14 & 15, SHOE LANE, FLEET STREET 
 
 AND 
 
 35, ST. BKIDE STREET, LUDGATE CIRCUS 
 
 \The Right of Translation is RescrvecTl 
 D^pos^. Deponirt. 
 
i.^- - 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 
 At What Cost 
 
 pack: 
 
 5 
 
 The Story of a Sculptor 
 
 39 
 
 Capital Wine 145 
 
 730 
 
AT WHAT COST. 
 
 ♦♦♦ 
 
 I 
 
 It was late at night. The fire had 
 gradually settled down until it became 
 a steady, glowing mass of red, giving 
 plenty of heat but little flame. The 
 shaded lamp from the edge of the table 
 threw a circle of light widening until it 
 reached the floor, where it lay, a luminous 
 disc, and left all outside in sombre gloom. 
 The room was evidently a library, as tall 
 cases of books loomed from each wall, 
 and the massive table in the centre was 
 strewn with pamphlets and writing ma- 
 terials. On a low chair near the fire, 
 partly in light and partly in darkness, sat 
 
 B 
 
AT WHAT COST. 
 
 a woman. She might have been about 
 forty-five years of age, and was still 
 beautiful. Her hands, with the fingers 
 interlaced, rested upon her lap and her 
 head leant wearily against the side of the 
 mantelpiece. Her attitude, even without 
 the traces of recent tears upon her face, 
 betokened extreme grief 
 
 Well, indeed, might she grieve, for In 
 the room above her lay a dead man — her 
 husband. She had told her household 
 to leave her and retire to rest, and hour 
 after hour sounded as she sat by the fire 
 and mourned in solitude. 
 
 True, the man who had died that day 
 had not been her first love — not the one 
 she had once hoped was destined to link 
 his lot with hers. She had married him 
 for esteem, friendship, respect, and many 
 other admirable reasons, but her heart 
 was with one who had died many years 
 ago. Yet, they had been man and wife 
 for twenty years, and his unwavering 
 
AT WHAT COST. 
 
 love, his kindness, the homage he had 
 ever paid her, had earned, as with a 
 woman they ever must, their reward ; and 
 as with sorrowful eyes she gazed into the 
 fire and Hved again those twenty placid 
 years, she felt that Death had that day 
 decreed a void in her life which would 
 never again be filled. 
 
 And yet, the dead man had not been 
 the most cheerful companion to a woman 
 in the prime of health and beauty. He 
 was ever sad, at times gloorny ; but no 
 harsh words to her had ever crossed his 
 lips even in his most dreary moods. He 
 had lived a fair and noble life, doing in a 
 quiet, secret way much good in the place 
 in which his life was spent ; good the extent 
 of which she, perhaps, only knew. And 
 as she thought of these things, and of the 
 poor white face upstairs, another flood of 
 tears came to her relief. She would see 
 it once more to-night, and, by the side 
 of that motionless form, kneel down and 
 
8 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 say, ''If I have not loved you as your 
 heart wished, I have done all that I 
 could — all that I promised." With this 
 intention she rose from her seat, and 
 rising, an object on the mantelpiece at- 
 tracted her attention. It was a small 
 key, and that morning, even as he died, 
 her husband, with feeble fingers, had 
 placed it in her hand, whispering with a 
 yearning look on his wan face, " Read 
 and forgive." 
 
 In the agitation of that terrible hour,, 
 she had taken little notice of those mys- 
 terious words — the last, indeed, he spoke 
 — but now she remembered them, and 
 felt there was something he wished her 
 to know. 
 
 The key, she was aware, gave access 
 to a secretaire in which her husband 
 kept his private papers. She raised the 
 shade from the lamp, and its light, 
 hitherto concentrated, spread over and 
 illuminated the room, in one corner of 
 
AT WHAT COST. 
 
 which stood a black walnut bureau, with 
 antique brass handles. She opened it, 
 and, after a few moments' search, found 
 what she intuitively knew was the docu- 
 ment designed for her perusal. It was a 
 bulky packet, sealed and addressed : 
 '' For my Wife ; Private." 
 
 Wondering, even in her grief, what its 
 contents could possibly be, and why the 
 instructions to read it were coupled w^ith 
 that piteous appeal for forgiveness, she 
 returned to her former seat, and, after 
 adjusting the light, broke open the seals 
 and commenced the perusal of the manu- 
 script. Woman-like, she turned over 
 several pages rapidly, as if to catch some 
 idea of the general tenour of the revela- 
 tion ; and, as in the cursory glance she 
 took, she saw one name, a well-known 
 name, written frequently, a feeling of fear 
 thrilled her, and, with a low cry of pain 
 and horror, she set her lips firmly, and, 
 with eager eyes, devoured the closely- 
 
lo AT WHAT COST. 
 
 written lines. The message from the 
 man who lay dead ran thus : — • 
 
 "My Wife,— 
 
 ''When you read this I shall 
 be dead, and you will, I have little 
 doubt, be still in the prime of womanhood. 
 Whether the love I have ever borne you, 
 whether the remembrance of those years 
 spent, at least happily, under this roof 
 together, will enable you after reading 
 this to think of me w^ithout cursing my 
 name, I know not. Yet, I dare not die 
 and make no sign. I dare not let the 
 grave cover the secret which is fretting 
 my life out — which has twined for years 
 around my heart like a snake, and which 
 will, at last, still its beating — a secret that 
 even you in your wildest dreams never 
 suspected. 
 
 " As you read these pages you will 
 weep, but not for me. You will call for 
 one who can never return, but the name 
 
AT WHAT COST. ii 
 
 you utter will not be mine. Widowed 
 though you be, It Is not your husband 
 you will mourn. Yet, when this Is 
 written, my mind will be more at ease, 
 although I know the confession which 
 may lighten my remorse a little, lays a 
 heavy burden on you. At least forgive 
 me this. 
 
 "How shall I begin ? As I sit here 
 to-night, a prematurely aged man, I look 
 back through the long years — so long, 
 so weary to me — and see myself In this 
 same room, a young man of twenty-five, 
 with all that could make life pleasant at 
 my command. Riches and friends — 
 youth and health — and, as I fondly 
 hoped at that time, love that, sooner or 
 later, would be mine. Here I sat, I 
 remember, one winter's evening, with 
 my favourite companions even then — my 
 books. Was I reading, or was I 
 dreaming of what might be ? I know 
 not. 
 
12 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 " My servant entered and handed me 
 a card — ' Mr. Gerald Gordon ' — I shall 
 feel, even in my grave, your heart throb 
 as you read that name. Gerald Gordon 
 had been one of my earliest and dearest 
 friends ; and, if lost sight of for some 
 years, never forgotten. I was delighted 
 to find him under my roof, and hastened 
 to greet him. He had prospered in the 
 world, both having made and inherited 
 money, and had recently returned to 
 England after some years' profitable 
 work abroad. Affairs had called him 
 to my neighbourhood, and upon his 
 return journey he had come a little out 
 of his way to pay me a visit for the 
 sake of old times. 
 
 *' We were unfeignedly glad to meet, 
 and, as our hands clasped, many recol- 
 lections of happy, boyish days rose 
 between us, and the pressing invitation 
 I gave him to stay some time with me 
 was accepted as freely and heartily as it 
 was given. 
 
AT WHAT COST. 13 
 
 *'For you, Gertrude, least of all, need 
 I paint his portrait ; but well I remember 
 .as he sat with me that night, looking at 
 his handsome face, with those straight, 
 clear-cut features, bronzed by the 
 •southern sun ; his crisp, brown hair, and 
 •stalwart, manly frame, and thinking one 
 of the greatest gifts, after all, was per- 
 sonal appearance. 
 
 *'Our conversation after so long a 
 separation naturally consisted of questions 
 and answers of a personal nature, and I 
 soon asked him : 
 
 ' " H ave you met your fate yet, Gerald ? ' 
 
 *''Been in love, I suppose you mean?' 
 he replied, laughing. ' Well, you see, I 
 have just come from parts where a fellow 
 must make love, or pretend to, to get 
 along at all ; but I cannot plead guilty to 
 any grand passion as yet.' 
 
 '' ' But how about you ?' he continued. 
 * Have any bright rustic eyes come be- 
 tween you and your books ?' 
 
 
14 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 *'Fool that I was not to open my heart 
 to him then and there ! Not to tell him 
 I thought of one woman only ! Yet, I 
 was shy and proud. I could not eveni 
 say that my love was viewed favourably. 
 A withered flower, given half In jest — do 
 you remember It ? A little preference, 
 it might be, over my rivals, and that be- 
 stowed for the sake of friendship, not 
 love — this was all I had to show in return 
 for the love I had given and which 1 
 knew must ever give through life. So I 
 laughed as he questioned me, and ans- 
 wered as In jest : 
 
 '"I am heart-whole as you, Gerald, and 
 certainly invulnerable against the attacks 
 of rustic maidens hereabouts.' 
 
 *' ' I hoped and expected to be Intro- 
 duced to your future wife In the person 
 of the only daughter of some neighbour- 
 ing squire ; and would have done you a 
 good turn by sounding your praises whilst 
 I admired his fat oxen.' 
 
AT WHAT COST. 15 
 
 '''Well, I will present you to all the 
 eligible daughters hereabout, and you can 
 
 r raise their papa's oxen on your owrt 
 ccount.' 
 " ' Thank you — although, seriously, T 
 I am tired of living alone and want a wife 
 pnd a home ; so I am quite ready to meet 
 my fate when and wherever she appears.' 
 
 i" I do not hesitate, my wife, to record 
 hese trivial words, for I know they 
 vill seem to you as sweet echoes of a 
 ong-stllled voice. 
 " Gordon and I sat talking nearly all 
 ithat night, and parted, at last, each happy 
 to find the other's friendship the same as 
 of old. 
 j " The next day, with little regret, I 
 tossed my books aside and did all in my 
 Bpower to make my guest's visit a pleasant 
 "one to him. We shot, drove, and rode 
 together, and the short wintry days- 
 seemed even shorter with my light- 
 hearted friend at my side. I took him 
 
1 6 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 to visit all my friends save one ; I need 
 scarcely say the reason for that omission. 
 Too well I knew that, had I been a girl, 
 "Gerald Gordon was the man who might 
 have won my heart had he chosen. Too 
 well I knew that, if the eves of love en- 
 hanced, they did not imagine your charms, 
 .and that his interest, at least, could scarcely 
 fail to be aroused. So I dreaded to 
 bring about a meeting between him and 
 you. It came at last. I would have 
 shunned that gathering could I have 
 found a decent pretext, but the whole 
 countryside were bidden to that ball, and 
 my absence from it would have been re- 
 marked. Besides, Gerald would have 
 gone anyway. He was very merry as 
 we drove over, at the expense of the 
 imaginary persons we should meet ; but 
 I said nothing. The moment we entered 
 the room I saw his eyes fall upon you. 
 I saw his look of surprise, of admiration, 
 as he comprehended your regal beauty 
 
AT WHAT COST. 17 
 
 at one glance, and, before the evening' 
 ras over, I felt that what I dreaded was 
 [foot, and that my friend would probably 
 >e my rival. If his attentions to you 
 lat evening were no more than man 
 light properly pay to the most attractive 
 roman In the assemblage, they were 
 iufficlent to make me fear the worst. 
 Iven as I write this, I can see his tall 
 Igure bending over you, and hear him 
 whispering words which, spoken with 
 the easy, self-confident manners of a man 
 >f the world, I knew intuitively must 
 lave been sweet to any young girl's 
 ;ars. 
 
 ''At last that night, gay and enjoyable 
 to all save me, ended. You had departed, 
 ind after that it needed little persuasion 
 )n my part to draw Gerald from the scene. 
 
 'e started on our drive home, with the 
 itars shining pure and clear through the 
 frosty skies. I was sullen and unhappy; 
 my companion brimful of curiosity to 
 
1 8 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 learn all I could tell him concerning his 
 late partner. 
 
 " ' Is Misslioward a friend of yours?' 
 was his first question. 
 
 *' ' I have known her some years. Do 
 you admire her ? Although I need 
 .scarcely ask,' I added, bitterly. 
 
 '' ' Admire her ! I should think so. I 
 have seen some of the most beautiful 
 women in the world, but never one I 
 admired more. She was not very well 
 dressed, of course, but that is only a 
 milliner's business.' 
 
 '* So he talked on and on as we drove 
 that six miles of road, and my heart sank 
 within me, and I cursed the friendship 
 which had led him to visit me and induced 
 me to press him to jorolong his stay. 
 He spoke of nothing but you, ringing 
 your praises in various keys, until I 
 relapsed into a sort of moody silence, or 
 only answered his eulogistic remarks by 
 monosyllables. Probably he noticed my 
 
AT WHAT COST. 
 
 19 
 
 changed manner, as, on reaching home, 
 
 he said : 
 
 B '' ' You are awfully tired, I can see, 
 
 ■Philip ; so I win be merciful to-night 
 
 and not keep you up for another cigar. 
 
 ood night.' 
 
 ''Whether he kept me up or not, it 
 mattered nothing. Weary as I truly 
 was, there was little sleep for me that 
 night. 
 
 '' When we met the next morning it 
 was the same again, your image clearly 
 was before his eyes. Although he spoke 
 jestingly of the havoc you had wrought, 
 I knew that more than jest lay under the 
 laughing exterior ; that the Impression 
 you had made was no transient one. I 
 tried to hide my feelings, and to answer 
 his playful remarks in the like vein, but 
 my efforts were of little use. I felt that 
 his keen eye detected something amiss 
 with me. He looked inquisitive, but 
 said nothing for a while. After breakfast. 
 
20 AT AVHAT COST. 
 
 as we were discussing our plans for the 
 day, he asked : 
 
 '''Would it not be politeness to ride 
 over and enquire how Miss Howard Is 
 after last night's dissipation ? ' 
 
 " I started, and answered, ' If you wish 
 it particularly we will do so ' ; and, as I 
 forced the words, my voice sounded 
 strange and I felt that the colour had left 
 my cheeks. 
 
 " The manner of my assent^niust, I 
 suppose, have strengthened any suspicion. 
 he already felt as to the true state of the 
 case with me, for he crossed the room, 
 placed his hands on my shoulders, and 
 with his bright, searching eyes looked 
 deep Into mine. 
 
 "'Tell me truly, Philip — truly, mind 
 — is there anything like love between* 
 you two ? ' 
 
 " Even then I might have told him,, 
 but I was too proud to say I loved 
 without love In return. Too proud ta 
 
AT WHAT COST. 
 
 21 
 
 throw myself on his mercy, as It seemed 
 to me such a confession must ; so I met 
 his eyes without quailing, and answered 
 firmly : 
 
 '' ' There Is no love between us.' 
 
 *' ' But you do love her?' persisted 
 Gerald. 
 
 " ' I admire her for her great beauty ; 
 that Is all.' 
 
 ''And even as I told the lie, I saw 
 that he believed what he wished to 
 believe, and I knew that my fate was 
 sealed. 
 
 i' ' Then let us go,' he said, quietly, as 
 le moved his hands from my shoulders. 
 
 '' We rode over to your home ; we saw 
 "you, and my jealous eyes detected a 
 faint blush and look of pleasure on your 
 face as you greeted us — a blush and a 
 look such as my coming alone had never 
 yet called forth. 
 
 *' Gertrude, It Is for you, not for me, 
 to picture the events of the next few 
 
2 2 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 days. Sick at heart, I pleaded indis- 
 position and returned to my books ; 
 sacrificing politeness, I left Gordon free 
 to follov/ his own devices. Well did I 
 know whither his steps turned every day, 
 and clearly could I read in the brightened 
 expression of his ever bright face how 
 well the suit he was urging prospered. 
 So much so, that it was with a feeling of 
 dull despair, not surprise, I listened when 
 one night he told me you had consented 
 to be his wife. Lover-like, he sat hour 
 after hour dilating upon the perfections 
 of the prize he had won, and revelling in 
 his visions of future happiness. And I, 
 who loved you as I believe no man ever 
 yet loved woman, suffered torture on the 
 •rack of his raptures. I had to listen to 
 your praises from the lips of the one whom 
 I had now almost brought myself to 
 believe had robbed me of all I longed 
 for in the world, x^nd there was to be 
 no delay — no respite for me. He was 
 
AT WHAT COST. 23 
 
 wealthy, so what was there to wait for ? 
 Within three months' time you were to 
 be married. 
 
 '' ' How I bless the day I came to see 
 you, old fellow ! ' he cried once, in the 
 effusion of his joy. * Now you shall 
 complete your kindness by letting me 
 stay with you until the happy time. Of 
 course, I must go away for a bit to see 
 about a house and that sort of thing, but 
 I mean to be here as much as I can.' 
 
 '' If I had followed my true impulse as 
 he spoke, I should have cursed him and 
 bade him begone ; but I was forced to 
 restrain myself and tell him how welcome 
 he was to make my house his home as 
 long as it pleased him. Yet, I felt I dare 
 not stay myself and witness his 
 happiness. That night, as I lay In bed 
 casting about for an excuse plausible 
 enough to enable me to leave my guest 
 alone for the next month or two, I knew 
 that in the depths of my heart I hated 
 
2 4 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 Gerald Gordon — I hated him as the one 
 who had stolen my life's hope from me — • 
 I hated him for his animal spirits, his 
 good looks, his power of pleasing and 
 winning the affection of man, woman, or 
 child ; so different from me — I even 
 hated him because I knew you would be 
 happy with him, for he had all the 
 qualities to make a home happy — I hated 
 him as Cain hated Abel, and for the 
 same reason : had not his offering been 
 accepted and mine rejected ? And 
 several days passed by ; each day the 
 tortures I endured seemed greater ; each 
 day my hatred grew more intense. In a 
 feverish sort of way I forced myself to^ 
 laugh and jest, and Gordon, with a 
 lover's selfishness, never noticed now 
 how unnatural my manner was, or 
 guessed how, by this time, I detested the 
 sound of his voice, the clear ring of his 
 laugh, or even his very presence. 
 
 *' ' One thing pleases me more than . 
 
I 
 
 AT WHAT COST. 25 
 
 can say,' he placidly remarked one even- 
 ing. ' It is that what I once believed to 
 be a fact was only a creation of my own 
 brain. I was afraid I might be the rival 
 of my old friend ; but Gertrude herself 
 assures me the only feeling that ever 
 existed between you two was one of pure 
 friendship. So I am happier, knowing 
 you will dance at my wedding with a 
 light heart.' 
 
 " Dance at his wedding ! I would 
 rather dance on my mother's grave ! 
 
 " Gertrude, my wife, there is one day 
 in every year which is solemn and sad to 
 both of us. A day when the choicest 
 flowers are laid on a tomb now growing 
 grey with time. A day, many hours of 
 which you spend alone, holding a lock of 
 hair and gazing on a miniature. And 
 yet, if the love you bore another man is 
 strong in your heart, upon that day you 
 have ever seemed to draw closer to 
 
26 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 me than at other times. As your eyes^ 
 sad with unforgotten sorrow, meet mine, 
 you think, 'our grief is from the same 
 source — mine for love and his for friend- 
 ship.' And with one memory between 
 us, I know for the moment your heart 
 grows nearer to mine, and I reaHse what 
 Hfe might have been coukl your love 
 have crowned it. Read now the truth 
 and hate me. 
 
 ''That day was the first for a long 
 time I had spent alone with Gerald Gor- 
 don. You were away on a visit to some 
 friends at a distance. The weather was 
 fine, though wintry, and as I felt I could 
 not endure the long hours indoors, in the 
 society of the man I hated, I suggested 
 taking our guns and walking down to the 
 coast in the hope of shooting some 
 ducks. Gordon leapt at the idea. ' I 
 shall be glad to do a bit of hard walking,' 
 he said ; ' for three weeks I have only 
 been love-making, and that isn't much 
 
AT WHAT COST. 27 
 
 exercise. I fancy my muscles must be 
 growing soft from want of using.' 
 
 '' As he spoke he held out an arm like 
 an Iron bar for me to feel. 
 
 '' An hour's walk brought us to the 
 coast ; you know It well. For the dis- 
 tance of perhaps two miles, runs a turf- 
 covered, almost perpendicular cliff; then 
 it shelves away gradually, and one can 
 easily get down to the water's edge. 
 Here was our destination. We Intended 
 to walk along the edge of the sea, shoot- 
 ing anything worth powder and shot. 
 
 ''The tide, when high, lashes the foot of 
 the coast cliff ; when low, It leaves a strip 
 of sand uncovered. The rock of which 
 the cliff Is composed is of crumbling, 
 unstable chalk, and has the habit of get- 
 ting hollowed-out under the surface^ 
 leaving green cushions, firm enough in 
 appearance, but apt to break away as the 
 unwary foot presses them. A dangerous 
 cliff it Is, from the edge of which one 
 shrinks instinctively. 
 
28 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 ''We walked briskly along the green- 
 sward ; I was some paces in front of 
 Gordon, not being much in the humour 
 to listen to his inevitable rhapsodies on 
 the one theme. As he followed, I could 
 hear him singing a love song. It was 
 Mexican, I believe, and picked up some- 
 where on his travels. Though the lan- 
 guage was strange to me, the words 
 sounded soft and musical, and the repeti- 
 tion of the passionate refrain almost 
 maddened me, so well did I know to 
 whom it was directed. Suddenly, the 
 melody of the song changed to a sharp 
 cry of despair — a cry that went through 
 me like a knife — and, as I turned hastily 
 round, the rent at the edge of the 
 treacherous greensward told its tale, 
 even before I heard the horrible, hope- 
 less, dull thud on the sand below. 
 
 " Believe me, when I say, at that 
 moment all thought of hatred and envy 
 left me. Horror-stricken, I threw my- 
 
I 
 
 AT WHAT COST. 29 
 
 self at full length on the grass and crept 
 to the edge of the cliff, looking for what 
 I dreaded to see — his mangled body. 
 The cliff at this spot overhung even 
 more than usual, and it was with a feeling 
 of hope I saw that Gordon had fallen 
 clear of the rock and lay upon the sand. 
 He w^as lying almost in a heap, and must 
 have sustained fearful injuries ; but dead 
 he was not, for I saw him, after making 
 a few piteous struggles, succeed in turn- 
 ing his face towards me. 
 
 "'Gerald,' I cried, 'are you much 
 hurt ? For God's sake try and answer 
 me.' 
 
 " A faint voice — the ghost of his usual 
 voice — replied : ' I have broken one arm 
 and, I think, my thigh. Can you come 
 down to me ? ' 
 
 '' * I cannot,' I said, 'without going 
 along the coast for a mile or more. I 
 •am going now to get ropes and help. 
 Try and bear up till I return.' . 
 
c-o AT WHAT COST. 
 
 J 
 
 " And then, leaving my gun to mark 
 the spot where he fell, I turned, and, 
 swiftly as I could, commenced running- 
 across country. I knew the part well. 
 The nearest house was at least two miles 
 away, so the poor fellow must He In 
 agony for some time before I could bring 
 him the Indispensable aid. With the 
 remembrance of that helpless form lying 
 on the sand before me, my thoughts 
 w^ere only how to rescue him with as« 
 little loss of time as possible, and for the- 
 first five minutes I ran at the top of my 
 speed. Sheer exhaustion then compelled 
 me to pause and draw breath, and, as I 
 moderated my pace, the awful thought 
 for the first time came to me. The tide f 
 the tide ! I remembered It was rising — 
 that It was about three-quarters flood — • 
 that Gordon was lying very near to the 
 edge of the water, and I knew If I could 
 not bear him aid before the sea covered 
 that narrow strip of sand, he was a dead 
 
AT WHAT COST. 31 
 
 man. And then the temptation began.. 
 
 Let no man say there is no devil, for I 
 
 tell you in that moment the devil was- 
 
 with me! He brought your form, with 
 
 all its beauty, before me ; yes, and w^ith 
 
 love for me shining in your eyes. He 
 
 shaped the thought in my mind, * It is- 
 
 for her, who might love you, you are- 
 
 saving him. Is she not worth the sin ? ' 
 
 And, as the tempter prompted me, I said 
 
 to myself, ' One half-hour's delay ; a rest 
 
 by the way ; a fancied inability to proceed 
 
 further ; a mistake — so easy to make — in 
 
 the road, and you are free once more- 
 
 and may yet be mine.' The price was- 
 
 crime — loss of honour, of self-respect, 
 
 [and all peace of mind ; but, you might 
 
 be mine, and what price was too heavy 
 
 I to pay for that .'^ And, as thought after- 
 thought, each like a devil from hell, came 
 to me, I leant against a gate, knowing 
 ' as I did so that every moment I lingered 
 risked a man's life. The sudden tempta- 
 
32 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 ition, the commencement of the crime, 
 the consequences to follow, the shame I 
 ^elt, even then, bewildered me, and for a 
 time I was beside myself. I seemed in 
 a dream ; all around me was unreal ; the 
 air seemed full of horrible forms and 
 •sounds. How long I waited motionless 
 I cannot tell — would that I knew ! — it 
 might have been moments, minutes, or 
 'hours. At last, it seemed as though I 
 woke, and, as I turned and ran like one 
 -pursued by wolves, I fancied I heard the 
 words, ' Too late ! too late ! ' shrieked 
 .after me in fiendish glee. As I ran, I 
 ^believe I even ceased to think, and fell 
 utterly exhausted at the door of the farm- 
 -house, to which I mechanically directed 
 my steps. In broken sentences I told my 
 tale ; I begged the men to hurry down 
 •with ropes ; I offered large rewards should 
 they reach the coast in time to avert 
 what I now shuddered to think might 
 happen. They started with all possible 
 
 I 
 
AT WHAT COST 
 
 I 
 
 "despatch, and, as soon as my strengdi 
 returned to me, I followed. Gertrude, 
 how can I pen the rest ? I reached the- 
 fatal spot just as the men from the farm 
 lowered one of their party over the edge 
 of the cliff, and, as sick and dizzy I leant 
 over, I saw beneath me the cruel waves 
 dashing a dark form against the crueller 
 rocks ; and, as one of the men turned tO' 
 me and said, ' Poor chap ; If we had 
 been a quarter of an hour sooner we- 
 might have saved him,' I knew that In 
 the eye of God I was as much a murderer 
 as the ruffian who drives his knife through 
 the heart of his victim. Little wonder 
 was It, as they bore his nerveless form to 
 the top of the cliff, as I saw that pale 
 face, stained here and there with blood, 
 the blue eyes yet open, and, as I almost 
 fancied, seeking my own, that I fell as 
 one dead upon the grass, and was borne 
 away unconscious as the man I had foully 
 slain. 
 
34 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 ''What more remains to be said? 
 You know the rest — how the illness that 
 followed was attributed to the shock I 
 had undergone and the exertions I had 
 used to save my friend ; how people 
 praised my presence of mind in at once 
 .starting for assistance ; how you — even 
 you — wrote kind words to me — words 
 that cut mv heart like knives. Yet, no 
 •one knev/ that with me, night and day, 
 was the face of the dead, as I saw^ it ere 
 I fell senseless on the cliff; that ever 
 in my dreams I was running, it seemed 
 to be, from an image of you, and that 
 fearful thino^s were strivinof to stOD me. 
 No one knew how often I went to the 
 spot where Gordon fell, and timed, as 
 nearly as I could, the rising waters, to 
 ascertain if it were possible for a man to 
 have compassed the distance and brought 
 aid in time to save him. Alas, I only 
 learnt I was a murderer in act as well as 
 thought! I gained the prize that tempted 
 
AT WHAT COST. 35 
 
 Tiie — but, at what a cost ! When, after 
 some years, you gave me your hand, I 
 knew your heart could never be mine, 
 but lay in Gerald's grave ; I knew that 
 the thing which at last induced you to 
 accede to my repeated request was more 
 the love you fancied I bore him than the 
 
 ■Jove you felt for me. And so, at the 
 price of a life's remorse, I won a woman 
 whose love in life could never be mine, 
 
 ■and who, after death, must hate my 
 memory. 
 
 ■ " Ah, Gerald Gordon, slain by the 
 waves at the bidding of your friend, just 
 as the supreme joy of life was yours, 
 
 (your lot, after all, was happier than 
 As she read the last words, Gertrude 
 Blake dropped the manuscript, and, 
 : burying her face in her hands, cried, ''O! 
 why did he tell me ? Why did he tell 
 me ? This Is the worst of all to bear. 
 
 uiime ! 
 
36 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 Thank God I have no children in whose- 
 faces I may see 'Murderer' written." 
 Then, with bitter grief and hatred in her 
 heart, she sat on and on through the 
 weary night. And ever before her was 
 the image of Gerald Gordon, with the 
 hungry waters creeping round him, his 
 poor maimed limbs battling in vain? 
 struggles to keep his life until the delayed 
 help arrived. And her face was sterr^ 
 and cold as she pictured it. If her 
 husband's hopes of heaven rested on her 
 forgiveness, she felt she could not bring 
 her lips to frame the words. 
 
 She could scarcely credit the tale she 
 had read ; at times she fancied it must 
 have been in a great part imagination. 
 But his face, ever sad, even when others 
 were gayest, came again and again to 
 her mind, and she felt that strange 
 sadness stamped the confession with 
 truth. Yet, in all else, he had been sa 
 noble, both in thought and in deed. He 
 
AT WHAT COST. 37 
 
 had loved her so ; and now, with his 
 dreary secret bared before her, even 
 through the bitterness of her mind passed 
 the knowledge that he had been leading 
 not only a life of remorse, but also of 
 atonement, and, as she grew more calm, 
 she fell at last Into a troubled sleep with 
 wet tears upon her lashes. 
 
 And as she slept she dreamed. They 
 stood before her, she thought : her first 
 and only love, Gerald, and her husband. 
 The latter, not the careworn, prematurely 
 old man of past years, but young, 
 gay and handsome as when he rode with 
 Gerald to see her that morning In the 
 winter. There was no sadness In his 
 eyes now, and Gerald's arm was round 
 his neck : — "Sweet love," she heard him 
 whisper, "see, I have forgiven — cannot 
 you likewise ?'' And then, striving to 
 speak, she awoke. 
 
 With the dream yet lingering in her 
 memory, she rose, and, tearing the 
 
 D 
 
38 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 manuscript to shreds, threw it upon the 
 smouldering fire. When every vestige 
 of paper was consumed, she sought her 
 room, but, as she passed the chamber of 
 death she entered, and, bending over 
 the pale, cold, placid face, kissed it, 
 whispering : ''I forgive, as I hope to 
 be forgiven." 
 
 THE END. 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR, 
 
 ♦•» 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 After you pass the '' Blue Anchor" — - 
 •the sign of which swings from the branch 
 of an elm tree older even than the house 
 itself — a few steps along the road bring 
 you in sight of the pinnacled, square 
 ftower of Coombe-Acton church. You 
 
 I cannot see the church itself, as — with 
 schools and rectory close by it — It lies at 
 the back of the village, about two hun- 
 IP^dred yards up a lane. Like the village 
 l_ to whose spiritual needs it ministers, the 
 church, to an ordinary observer, is 
 nothing out of the common, although 
 certain small peculiarities of architecture. 
 
40 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 not noticed by an uncultured eye, make 
 it an object of some interest to archaeolo- 
 gists. Visit it or not, according to your 
 inclination, but afterwards keep straight 
 on through the long, straggling village, 
 until the houses begin to grow even more 
 straggling, the gardens larger and less 
 cared for as ornaments, displaying more 
 cabbages and scarlet-runners than roses 
 ■ — keep on until the houses cease alto- 
 gether, and hawthorn hedges take the 
 place of palings and crumbling walls — • 
 and at last you will come to Watercress 
 Farm, a long, low, white house, one side of 
 which abuts on the highway, whilst the 
 other looks over the three hundred acres 
 of land attached to it. 
 
 Not a very large acreage, it is true, 
 but then it is all good land, for the most 
 part such as auctioneers describe as rich,, 
 warm, deep, old pasture land ; such land 
 that, at the time this tale opens, any 
 farmer by thrift, knowledge of his busi-^ 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 41 
 
 ness and hard work, could make even 
 more than a bare Hving out of, and could 
 meet his landlord on rent-day with a 
 cheerful face, knowing that, after rent 
 and other outgoings were provided for, 
 something would yet be left for himself. 
 
 I Who occupies Watercress Farm now, 
 and whether in these days of depression 
 • his rent is readily forthcoming or not, 
 matters little. At the time I write of, it 
 
 ■ was rented by Farmer Leigh, even as 
 his forefathers, according to village tradi- 
 
 ■ tion, had rented it for some two hundred 
 years. In quiet, conservative places like 
 Coombe- Acton, a farm of this kind often 
 
 ' goes from father to son with more regu- 
 larity than an entailed estate, landlord 
 and tenant well knowing that their 
 
 ■ interests are Identical. 
 
 ■ It was a fine afternoon towards the 
 " end of June. Abraham Leigh was 
 
 standing by the gate of the field known 
 as the home meadow, looking at the long, 
 
42 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 ripe grass rippling as the summer breeze 
 swept across it. He was a thoroughly 
 good specimen of a Somersetshire farmer. 
 A big, sturdy man, whose movements 
 were slow and deliberate ; his face, if 
 heavy and stolid, not by any means the 
 face of a fool. No doubt, a man of cir- 
 cumscribed views — the world for him 
 extending eastwards to Bristol market 
 and westwards to the Bristol Channel- 
 Nevertheless, respected in his little worldl 
 as a w^onderful judge of a beast, a great 
 authority on tillages, and, above all, a 
 man who always had a balance in his. 
 favour at the Somersetshire Bank ; a 
 type of that extinct race, the prosperous 
 farmer, who looked on all townsmen with 
 contempt, thinking, as all farmers should 
 think, that the owmers of broad acres 
 and those engaged in agriculture w^ere 
 alone worthy of respect. 
 
 Yet, to-day, in spite of his advantages 
 and acquirements, Farmer Leigh looked 
 
I 
 
 I 
 
 THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 43 
 
 on the fifteen-acre meadow with a puzzled 
 and discontented expression on his honest 
 face ; and, moreover, murmurs of chs- 
 satisfaction were proceeding from his 
 Hps. Farmers — Somersetshire farmers 
 especially — are proverbial grumblers, but. 
 it is seldom they grumble without an 
 audience. It is outsiders who get the 
 benefit of their complaints. Besides, 
 one would think that the tenant of 
 Watercress Farm had little, at present, 
 to complain of. The drop of rain so 
 badly wanted had been long in coming, 
 but it had come just In the nick of time 
 to save the grass, and If the crop, 
 outwardly, looked a little thin, 
 Mr. Leigh's experienced eye told him 
 that the undergrowth was thick, and that 
 the quality of the hay would be first-class. 
 Moreover, w^hat corn and roots he had 
 looked promising, so it seems strange 
 that the farmer should be grumbling 
 when he had no one to listen to him, and 
 
44 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 should lean so disconsolately upon the 
 gate of the field when no one observed 
 him. 
 
 " I can't make him out," he said. 
 " Good boy he be, too. Yet, instead 
 o' helping me with the land, always 
 going about dreaming or messing with 
 mud. Can't think where he got his 
 notions from. Suppose it must 'a been 
 from the mother, poor thing ! Always 
 fond o' gimcracks and such like she were. 
 Gave the lad such an outlandish name 
 I'm ashamed to hear it. Father's and 
 grandfather's name ought to be good 
 enough for a Leigh. Good boy though 
 he be, too ! " 
 
 A soft look settled on Abraham 
 Leigh's face as he repeated the last 
 words ; . then he went deeper into his 
 slough of despond, where, no doubt, he 
 battled as manfully as Christian, until 
 he reached the other shore and fancied 
 he had found the solution of his 
 difficulties. 
 

 THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 45 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 His face brightened. " Tell 'ee what," 
 he said, addressing the waving grass in 
 front of him, *' I'll ask Mr. Herbert. 
 Squire's a man who have seen the world. 
 I'll take his advice about the boy. Seems 
 
 thard like on me, too. Ne'er a Leigh, 
 till this one, but what were a farmer to 
 the backbone ! " 
 His mind made up, the farmer strode 
 •off to make arrangements with the 
 mowers. Had he been troubled with 
 twenty unnatural and incompetent sons, 
 the hay must be made while the sun 
 shines. 
 
 Although he had settled what to do. 
 It was some time before the weig^hty 
 resolve was carried into execution. 
 Folks about Coombe-Acton do not move 
 with the celerity of cotton-brokers or 
 other men of business. Sure they are, 
 but slow. So it was not until the 
 September rent-day that the farmer 
 consulted his landlord about his domestic 
 
 I 
 
46 AT WHx\T COST. 
 
 difficulty — the possession of a son, an 
 only child of about fifteen, who, instead 
 of making himself useful on the land, did 
 little else save wander about in a dreamy 
 way, looking at all objects in nature,, 
 animate or inanimate, or employed 
 himself in the mysterious pursuit whicb 
 his father described as '' messing with 
 mud." Such conduct was a departure 
 from the respectable bucolic traditions. 
 of the Leigh family so great that, at 
 times, the father thought it an infliction- 
 laid upon him, for some cause or other^ 
 by an inscrutable Providence. 
 
 There are certain Spanish noblemen 
 who, on account of the antiquity of their 
 families and services rendered, are 
 permitted to enter the Royal presence 
 with covered heads. It was, perhaps, 
 for somewhat similar reasons, a custom 
 handed down from father to son, and 
 established by time, that the tenant of 
 Watercress Farm paid his rent to the 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 47 
 
 landlord In person, not through the 
 medium of an agent. Mr. Herbert 
 being an important man in the west 
 country, the Leigh family valued this 
 privilege as highly as ever hidalgo- 
 valued the one above-mentioned. Mr. 
 Herbert, a refined, intellectual-looking 
 man of about fifty, received the farmer 
 kindly, and, after the rent— without a 
 w^ord as to abatement or reduction — had 
 'been paid in notes of the County bank 
 — dark and greasy, but valued in this 
 particular district far above Bank of 
 England promises — landlord and tenant 
 settled down to a few minutes' conver- 
 sation on crops and kindred subjects. 
 Then the farmer unburdened his mind. 
 
 *' I've come to ask the favour of your' 
 advice, sir, about my boy, Jerry. ' 
 
 "Yes," said Mr. Herbert, "I know 
 him — a nice, good-looking boy. I see 
 him at church with you, and about your" 
 place when I pass. What of him ? " 
 
48 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 " Well, you zee, zur," said the farmer, 
 speaking with more Somerset dialect 
 than usual, ''he've a-been at Bristol 
 Gammar School till just now. Masters 
 all send good accounts of him. I don't 
 hold wi' too much learning, so thought 
 'twer time he come home and helped me, 
 like. But not a bit o' good he be on the 
 varm ; not a bit, zur ! Spends near all 
 his time messing about wI' dirt." 
 
 " Doing what ? " asked Mr. Herbert, 
 .astonished. 
 
 " A-muddlIng and a-messing with bits 
 ■o' clay. Making little figgers, like, and 
 tries to bake 'em in the oven." 
 
 *' Oh, I see what you mean. What 
 sort of figures ? " 
 
 " All sorts, zur. Little clay figgers of 
 horses, dogs, pigs. Why, you'd scarce 
 believe it, zur — last w^eek I found him 
 making the figger o' a naked 'ooman ! 
 A naked 'ooman ! Why, the lad could 
 never a' seen such a thing." 
 
 1 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 49 
 
 I 
 
 Abraham Leigh waited with open eyes- 
 to hear Mr. Herbert's opinion of such an 
 extraordinary, if not positively unusual, 
 l^roceeding. 
 
 Mr. Herbert smiled. " Perhaps your 
 son is a youthful genius." 
 
 " Genius or not, I want to know, zur, 
 what to do wi' him. How's the boy ta- 
 make a living ? A farmer he'll never be." 
 
 " You follow me and I will show you 
 something." 
 
 Mr. Herbert led his guest to his draw- 
 ing-room — a room furnished with the 
 taste of a travelled man. As the farmer 
 gaped at its splendour, he directed his 
 attention to four beautiful statuettes 
 standing In the corners of the room. 
 
 " I gave the man who made those- 
 seven hundred pounds for them, and 
 could sell them to-morrow for a thousand 
 ; if I choose. That's almost as good as- 
 farming, isn't it ?" 
 
 His tenant's eyes were wide with 
 amazement. 
 
50 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 /'A thousand pounds, zur!" he gasped. 
 '*' Why, you might have bought that 
 fourteen-acre field with that." 
 
 " These give me more pleasure than 
 land," replied Mr. Herbert. *' But 
 about your boy. When I am riding by I 
 will look in and see what he can do ; 
 ;then give you my advice." 
 
 The farmer thanked him and returned 
 home. As he jogged along the road to 
 Watercress Farm, he muttered at 
 intervals: ''A thousand pound in those 
 white figures ! Well, well, well, I never 
 did ! " 
 
 Mr. Herbert was a man who kept a 
 promise, whether made to high or low. 
 Five days after his interview with Abra- 
 ham Leigh, he rode up to the door of the 
 farm. He was not alone. By his side 
 rode a gay, laughing, light-haired child 
 of thirteen, who ruled an indulgent 
 father with a rod of iron. Mr. Herbert 
 had been a widower for some years ; the 
 
I 
 
 I 
 I 
 
 THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 51 
 
 girl, and a boy who was just leaving 
 Harrow for the University, being his 
 only surviving children. The boy was, 
 perhaps, not all that Mr. Herbert might 
 have wished, but he could see no fault 
 in the precocious, imperious, spoilt little 
 maid, who was the sunshine of his life. 
 
 She tripped lightly after her father into 
 the farm-house, laughing at the way in 
 which he was obliged to bend his head 
 to avoid damage from the low doorway. 
 She seated herself with becoming dignity 
 on the chair, which the widowed sister 
 who kept house for Abraham Leigh ten- 
 dered her, with many courtesies. A 
 pretty child, indeed, and one who gave 
 rare promise of growing into a lovely 
 woman. 
 
 The farmer was away somewhere on 
 the farm, but could be fetched in a 
 minute if Mr. Herbert would wait. Mr. 
 Herbert waited, and very soon his tenant 
 made his appearance, and thanked his 
 
52 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 visitor for the trouble he was taking on 
 his behalf. 
 
 ** Now, let me see the boy," said Mr. 
 Herbert, after disclaiming all sense of 
 trouble. 
 
 Leigh went to the door of the room, 
 and shouted, "Jerry, Jerry, come down ;; 
 you're wanted, my man." 
 
 In a moment the door opened, and the 
 cause of Mr. Leigh's discontent came 
 upon the scene in the forxTi of a dark- 
 eyed, dark-haired, pale-faced boy, tall 
 but slightly built, not, so far as physique 
 went, much credit to the country-side. 
 Yet, in some respects, a striking-looking 
 if not a handsome lad. The dark, elo- 
 quent eyes and strongly-marked brow 
 would arrest attention ; but the face was 
 too thin, too thoughtful for the age, and 
 could scarcely be associated with what 
 commonly constitutes a good-looking lad. 
 Yet, regularity of feature was there, and 
 no one would dare to be sure that beauty 
 would not come with manhood. 
 
¥■ 
 
 THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 53 
 
 He was not seen at that moment under 
 advantageous circumstances. Knowing 
 nothing about the distinguished visitors, 
 he had obeyed his father's summons In 
 hot haste, consequently he entered the 
 room In his shirt-sleeves, which were cer- 
 tainly not very clean, and with hands 
 covered with red clay. Mr. Herbert 
 looked amused, whilst the little princess 
 turned up her nose In great disdain. 
 
 II Poor Abraham Leigh was much 
 mystified at the unpresentable state in 
 which his son showed himself. To 
 make matters worse, the boy was not 
 soiled by honest, legitimate toil. 
 m " Tut ! tut ! " he said, crossly, *' all 
 of a muck, as usual." 
 
 I The boy, who felt that his father had 
 a right to complain, hung his head and 
 showed signs of retreating. Mr. Her- 
 bert came to the rescue. 
 
 '' Never mind," he said, patting young 
 Leigh on the shoulder, ''he has been 
 
 1 E 
 
54 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 working in his own fashion. I have 
 come on purpose to see those modellings 
 of yours, my boy." 
 
 The boy started as one surprised. His 
 cheeks flushed, and he looked at the 
 speaker with incredulity yet hope in his 
 eyes. 
 
 '* Yes," said his father, sharply. *'Go 
 and put your hands under the pump, 
 Jerry, then bring some of 'em down. 
 Mabbe, anyway, they'll amuse the little 
 lady." 
 
 *^No, no," said Mr. Herbert. "I'll 
 come with you and see them for myself. 
 Lead the way." 
 
 Young Leigh did not speak, but his 
 eyes thanked Mr. Herbert. That gen- 
 tleman followed him from the room, 
 leaving the farmer to amuse the little 
 maid. He did this so far as he was able 
 by producing a well-thumbed copy of 
 " Pilgrim's Progress," the leaves of which 
 Miss Herbert condescended to turn 
 
I 
 
 THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 55 
 
 daintily over until she was quite terrified 
 by the picture of the combat with 
 Apolyon. 
 
 Meanwhile, "Jerry," with a beating 
 heart, led Mr. Herbert upstairs, to a 
 room destitute of furniture, save an old 
 table and chair. A bucket, half-full of 
 common red clay, stood In one corner, 
 and on the table were several of the 
 little clay figures which had excited the 
 farmer's Ire and consternation. 
 
 Crude, defective, full of faults as they 
 were, there was enough power in them 
 to make Mr. Herbert look at the lad In 
 wonderment, almost envy. He was a 
 man who worshipped art ; who had 
 dabbled as an amateur in painting and 
 sculpturing for years ; who considered a 
 gifted artist the most fortunate of man- 
 kind. So the word envy is not Ill-chosen. 
 What he would have given half his 
 wealth to possess came to this boy un- 
 sought for — to the son of a clod of a 
 farmer the precious gift was vouchsafed ! 
 
56 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 As he would have expected, the most 
 ambitious efforts were the worst — the 
 "naked 'ooman" was particularly atro- 
 cious. But, still wet, and not ruined by 
 an abortive attempt at baking, was a 
 group modelled from life ; a vulgar sub- 
 ject, representing, as it did, Abraham 
 Leigh's prize sow surrounded by her ten 
 greedy offspring. There was such 
 power and talent in this production that, 
 had he seen nothing else, Mr. Herbert 
 would have been certain that the lad, as 
 a modeller and copyist, must take 
 first rank. If, in addition to his manual 
 dexterity, he had poetry, feeling and 
 imagination, it might well be that one of 
 the greatest sculptors of the nineteenth 
 century stood in embryo before him. 
 
 As Mr. Herbert glanced from the 
 rough clay sketches to the pale boy, who 
 stood breathless, as one expecting a ver- 
 dict of life or death, he wondered what 
 could have been the cause of such a 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 57 
 
 |ivergence fro. the traits habitual to the 
 
 ■^eighs. Then he remembered that, 
 
 ■some twenty years ago, Abraham Leigh 
 
 had chosen for a wife not one of his own 
 
 kind, but a dweller in cities — a governess, 
 
 who exchanged, no doubt, a life of 
 
 tienury and servitude for the rough but 
 omfortable home the Somersetshire far- 
 ler was willing to give her. Mr. 
 ■Herbert remembered her, remembered 
 how utterly out of place the delicate, 
 refined woman seemed to be as Leigh's 
 
 tafe ; remembered how, a few years 
 fter the birth of the boy, she sickened ' 
 and died. It was from the mother's side 
 
 the artistic taste came. 
 Mr. Herbert, although a kind man, 
 ^as cautious. He had no intention of 
 raising hopes which might be futile. 
 Yet, he felt a word of encouragement 
 was due to the lad. 
 
 " Some of these figurges show decided 
 talent," he said. "After seeing them, I 
 
58 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 need scarcely ask you if you wish to be 
 a sculptor ? " 
 
 Young Leigh clasped his hands to- 
 gether. ''Oh, sir!" he gasped, "if it 
 could only be ! " 
 
 ''You do not care to be a farmer, like 
 your father ? " 
 
 " I could never be a farmer, sin I am 
 not fit for it." 
 
 " Yet, if you follow in your father's 
 track, you will lead a comfortable, useful 
 life. If you follow art, you may go 
 through years of poverty and suffering 
 before success is attained." 
 
 The boy raised his head and looked 
 full at the speaker — there was almost 
 passionate entreaty in his eyes. 
 
 " Oh, sir," he said, "if you could only 
 persuade my father to let me try — even 
 for a few years. If I did not succeed, I 
 would come back to him and work as a 
 labourer for the rest of my life without a 
 murmur." 
 
THE STORY OF A ' SCULPTOR. 59 
 
 Mr. Herbert was impressed by the 
 oy's earnestness. ** I will speak to 
 your father," he said. Then the two 
 went back to the sitting-room, where 
 
 I they found Abraham Leigh much exer- 
 cised by some difficult questions pro- 
 pounded by Miss Herbert, respecting 
 
 Pthe nature of Apolyon. 
 
 " Take my little girl for a walk round 
 the garden," said Mr. Herbert to young 
 Leigh. *' I want to speak to your 
 father." 
 
 ■ In spite of the great gulf between her 
 and the clay-bespattered boy in his shirt- 
 
 ^sleeves, the little princess was too glad 
 
 "of a change of scene to wish to disobey 
 her father. She followed her conductor 
 
 j^to the back of the house, and the boy 
 and girl stepped out Into the autumnal 
 
 J sunshine. 
 
 B The little maid looked so trim and 
 dainty in her neat riding habit, coquettish 
 hat, and tiny gloves, that his own 
 
6o AT WHAT COST. 
 
 draggled appearance struck the boy 
 forcibly. 
 
 ''If you will excuse me a minute," he 
 said, '* I will run and wash my hands." 
 
 *'Yes, I think it will be better," said 
 Miss Herbert, with dignity. 
 
 In a minute or two young Leigh re- 
 turned. He had found time not only to 
 wash the rich, red clay from his long, 
 well-shaped fingers, but to slip on his coat 
 and generally beautify himself. His im- 
 proved appearance had a great effect 
 upon the child, who, like most of her 
 age, was influenced by exteriors. 
 
 So Miss Herbert, this little great lady, 
 unbent, and allowed '' Jerry " to lead her 
 round the old-fashioned garden, to the 
 outhouses and pigsties, where the obese 
 pigs lay, oblivious of what fate had in 
 store for them ; to the stables ; to the 
 dairy, where she condescended to drink 
 a glass of new milk, and, by the time 
 they had returned to the garden, the two 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 6i 
 
 Bwere as good friends as their different 
 
 .stations in life would permit. Young 
 
 ™ Leigh, who saw in this dainty little maid 
 
 the incarnation of fairies, nymphs, god- 
 
 Idesses, and other ideals which, in a dim 
 way, were forming themselves in his brain, 
 ] endeavoured, after his first shyness had' 
 
 I passed away, to show her what beautiful 
 shapes and forms could be found in 
 ^flower, leaf and tree, and other things in 
 'nature. His talk, indeed, soared far 
 B above her pretty little head, and when 
 ^they returned to the garden, he was try- 
 ■ ing to make her see that those masses of 
 white clouds low down in the distance 
 
 I were two bodies of warriors just about to 
 meet in deadly fray. 
 " You are a very, very funny boy," 
 said Miss Herbert, with such an air of 
 conviction that he was startled into 
 ' silence. 
 
 "Your name is Jerry, isn't it?" she 
 continued. " Jerry's an ugly name !" 
 
62 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 ** My name Is Gerald — Gerald Leigh.'' 
 
 ** Oh — Gerald ! " Even this child 
 could see the impropriety of a tenant 
 farmer having a son named Gerald. Na 
 wonder Abraham Leigh addressed his 
 boy as Jerry ! 
 
 *' Do you like being a farmer ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 *' I am not going to be a farmer — I 
 don't like it." 
 
 *' What a pity. Farmers are such a 
 worthy, respectable class of men," said 
 the girl, using a stock phrase she had 
 caught up somewhere. 
 
 The boy laughed merrily. Mr. Her- 
 bert's approbation sat newly upon him, 
 and he was only talking to a child. So 
 he said : — 
 
 *' I hope to be worthy and respectable, 
 but a much greater man than a farmer.'* 
 
 " Oh ! How great ? — as great as 
 papa r 
 
 ** Yes, I hope so." 
 
I 
 
 THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 63 
 
 /* That's absurd, you know," said Miss 
 Herbert, with all the outraged family 
 pride that thirteen years can feel ; and, 
 turning away, she switched at the flowers 
 with her riding whip. 
 
 However, a few words from Gerald 
 made them friends once more, and she: 
 expressed her pleasure that he should 
 pick her one of the few roses which re-^ 
 malned In the garden. 
 
 *' Roses are common," said the boy. 
 ** Everyone gives roses. I will give youi 
 something prettier." 
 
 He went to the sunny side of the 
 house, and soon returned with half-a- 
 dozen pale lavender stars In his hands. 
 They were blossoms of a new sort of 
 late clematis, which someone's gardener 
 had given Abraham Leigh. Gerald's 
 l_ deft fingers arranged them into a most 
 ^ artistic bouquet, the appearance of which 
 was entirely spoilt by Miss Herbert's 
 insistance that two or three roses should. 
 
 I 
 I 
 
64 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 be added. The bouquet was just finished 
 and presented when Mr. Herbert, fol- 
 lowed by the farmer, appeared. 
 
 Although he said nothing more to 
 young Leigh on the subject which was 
 uppermost In the boy's mind, the kindly, 
 encouraging look he gave him raised the 
 wildest hopes In his heart. Mr. Herbert 
 bade the father and son a pleasant good 
 ■day, and rode off with his little daughter. 
 
 Miss Herbert carried the bunch of 
 clematis for about two miles, then, finding 
 it rather encumbered her, tossed It over 
 a hedge. 
 
 Gerald Leigh went back to his attic 
 and commenced about half-a-dozen clay 
 sketches of the prettiest object which, as 
 yet, had crossed his path. For several 
 -days he was on thorns to hear what fate 
 had In store for him ; but fate, personified 
 by his father, made no sign, but went 
 about his work stolid and Sphinx-like. 
 Mr. Herbert, Gerald learned, had gone 
 tto London for a few days. 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 65 
 
 However, before a fortnight had gone 
 by, Abraham Leigh received a letter 
 from his landlord, and the same evening, 
 whilst smoking his pipe in the farm kit- 
 chen, informed his son and his sister that 
 to-morrow he was going into Gloucester- 
 shire to see If his brother Joseph could 
 spare him one of his many boys to take 
 Jerry's place. Jerry was to go to Lon- 
 don next day and meet Mr. Herbert. 
 Most likely he'd stay there. 'Twas clear 
 as noontide the boy would never make a 
 L farmer, and. If there were fools enough in 
 ' the world to buy white figures at hun- 
 dreds of pounds a-piece, Jerry might as 
 well try to make his living that way as 
 any other. 
 
 The truth is, Mr. Herbert told Abra- 
 ham Leigh, that if he would not consent 
 to pay for his son's art education, he, 
 Mr. Herbert, would bear the expense 
 himself. But the monetary part of it 
 troubled the substantial farmer little. 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 I 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
66 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 He could pay for his child's keep if he 
 could bring his mind to consent to his 
 going. And now the consent was 
 given. 
 
 Gerald heard his father's communica- 
 tion with glowing eyes. For shame's 
 sake he hid his joy, for he knew that, 
 with all his stolid demeanour, his father 
 almost broke down as he contemplated 
 the diverging paths his son and he must 
 henceforward tread. The boy thanked 
 him from his heart, and the rough 
 farmer, laying his hand on his child's 
 head, blessed him, and bade him go 
 and prosper. 
 
 In this way, Gerald Leigh left Coombe- 
 Acton. At long intervals, he re-appeared 
 for a few days. The worthy villagers 
 eyed him askance ; the only conception 
 they could form of his profession being 
 connected with dark-skinned itinerants, 
 who bore double-tiered platforms on 
 their heads, and earned a precarious 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 67 
 
 livelihood by traversing the country- 
 selling conventional representations of 
 angels and busts of eminent men. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 Some seven years after the ambitious 
 boy left Coombe-Acton, honest farmer 
 Abraham, just when the old-fashioned 
 hawthorne hedges were in whitest bloom, 
 sickened, turned his stolid face to the 
 wall, and died. Gerald had been sum- 
 moned, but arrived too late to see his 
 father alive. Perhaps it was as well it 
 should be so, the farmer's last moments 
 being troubled ones, and full of regret 
 that Watercress Farm would no longer 
 know a Leigh. The nephew who had 
 taken Gerald's place had turned out an 
 utter failure, so much so, that Abraham. 
 Leigh had roundly declared he would be 
 bothered with no more boys, and for the 
 last few years had managed his business 
 
I 
 
 I 
 
 THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 69 
 
 single-handed. However, although 
 
 Gerald's upheaval of family traditions 
 made the farmer's death-bed unhappy, 
 he showed that his son had not forfeited 
 his love. All he possessed, some three 
 thousand pounds, was left to him. Mr. 
 Herbert took the lease of the farm off 
 the young man's hands ; by-and-bye the 
 live and dead stock was sold off, and 
 Watercress Farm was waiting for 
 another tenant. 
 
 The winding-up of his father's affairs 
 kept Gerald In the neighbourhood for 
 some weeks, and when It became known 
 that Mr. Herbert had Insisted upon his 
 taking up his quarters at the Hall, the 
 simple Coombe-Acton folks were stricken 
 with a great wonder. Knowing nothing 
 of what Is called the "aristocracy of art," 
 their minds were much exercised by such 
 an unheard-of proceeding. What had 
 ''Jerry" Leigh been doing In the last 
 seven years to merit such a distinction ? 
 
 F 
 
70 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 Nothing his agricultural friends could 
 have understood. After picking up the 
 rudiments of his art in a well-known 
 sculptor's studio, young Leigh had been 
 sent to study In the schools at Paris. 
 Mr. Herbert told him that, so far as his 
 art was concerned, Paris was the work- 
 shop of the world — Rome Its bazaar and 
 show-room. So to Paris the boy went. 
 He studied hard and lived frugally. He 
 won certain prizes and medals, and was 
 now looking forward to the time when 
 he must strike boldly for fame. Even 
 now he was not quite unknown. A 
 couple of modest but very beautiful 
 studies In low relief had appeared In last 
 year's exhibition, and. If overlooked by 
 the majority, had attracted the notice of a 
 few whose praise was well worth winning. 
 He was quite satisfied with the result of 
 his first attempt. In all things that con- 
 cerned his art he was wise and patient. 
 No sooner had he placed his foot on the 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 71 
 
 lowest step of the ladder than he realised 
 the amount of work to be done, the 
 technical skill to be acquired, before he 
 could call himself a sculptor. Even now, 
 after seven years study and labour, he 
 had self-denial enough to resolve upon 
 being a pupil for three years' longer be- 
 fore he made his great effort to place 
 himself by the side of contemporary 
 sculptors. Passionate and impulsive as 
 was his true nature, he could follow and 
 woo art with that calm persistency and 
 method which seems to be the surest 
 way of winning her smiles. 
 
 He is now a man — a singularly hand- 
 •some man. If not so tall as his youth 
 promised, he is well-built and graceful. 
 Artist is stamped all over him. Brow, 
 eyes, even the slender, well-shaped hands 
 proclaim it. The general expression of 
 his face is one of calm and repose, yet 
 
 Ian acute observer mio^ht assert that. 
 
 I 
 I 
 I 
 
 I 
 
72 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 depict passions stronger than those which 
 sway most men. 
 
 His dark hair and eyes, and something 
 in the style of his dress, gave him a look 
 not quite that of an Englishman — a look 
 that terribly vexed poor Abraham Leigh, 
 on those rare occasions when his erratic 
 boy paid him a visit ; but, nevertheless, 
 it Is a look not out of place on a young 
 artist. 
 
 This Is the kind of man Gerald Leigh 
 has grown Into ; and, whilst his trans- 
 formation has been In progress. Miss 
 Eugenia Herbert has become a woman. 
 
 Although remembering every feature 
 of the child who seemed In some wav 
 associated with the day of his liberation,, 
 Gerald had not again seen her until his 
 father's death called him back to Eng- 
 land. Each time he had visited Coombe- 
 Acton he had, of course, reported 
 progress to Mr. Herbert, but shortly 
 after the change in his life, Mr. Herbert,. 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 73 
 
 by a great effort of self-denial, had sent 
 his darling away to school, and at school 
 she had always been when Gerald called 
 at the Hall. But now, when he accepted 
 Mr. Herbert's hospitality, he found the 
 fairy-like child grown, it seemed to him, 
 into his ideal woman ; and found, more- 
 over, that there was a passion so intense 
 that even the love of art must pale be- 
 fore it. 
 
 He made no attempt to resist it. He 
 let it master him, overwhelm him, 
 sweep him along. Ere a week had gone 
 by, not only by looks, but also in burning 
 words, he had told Eugenia he loved 
 her. And how did he fare ? 
 
 His very audacity and disregard of 
 -everything save that he loved the girl, 
 succeeded to a marvel. Eugenia had 
 already met with many admirers, but not 
 -one like this. Such passionate pleading, 
 such fiery love, such vivid eloquence 
 were strange and new to her. There was 
 
74 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 an originality, a freshness, a thorough- 
 ness in the love he offered her. His very 
 unreasonableness affected her reasonw 
 All the wealth of his imagination — 
 all the crystalizations of his poetical' 
 dreams, he threw into his passion. His. 
 ecstacy whirled the girl from her mental 
 feet — his warmth created an answering 
 warmth — his reckless pleading conquered. 
 She forgot obstacles as his eloquence 
 overleapt them — she forgot social distinc- 
 tions as his great, dark eyes looked into 
 hers, and at last she confessed she loved 
 him. 
 
 Then Gerald Leigh came down from 
 the clouds and realised what he had 
 done, and as soon as he touched the 
 earth and became reasonable, Eugenia 
 fancied she did not care for him quite so- 
 much. 
 
 His conscience smote him. Not only 
 must Mr. Herbert be reckoned with, but 
 a terrible interval must elapse before he 
 
I 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 ( 
 THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR 75 
 
 had fame and fortune to lay before 
 Eugenia. He could scarcely expect her 
 to leave her luxurious home in order to 
 live ati- qitatrieme or au ciiiqtdeme in 
 Paris whilst he completed his studies. 
 He grew sad and downcast as he thought 
 of these things, and Eugenia, who liked 
 pleasant, bright, well-to-do people, felt 
 less kindly disposed towards him, and 
 showed she did so. 
 
 This made him reckless again. He 
 threw the future to the winds ; re-com- 
 m^nced his passionate wooing ; recovered 
 his lost ground, and gained, perhaps, a 
 little more. 
 
 But Abraham Leigh's affairs were 
 settled up, and Gerald knew he must 
 tear himself from Acton Hall and go 
 back to work. He had lingered a few 
 days to finish a bust of Mr. Herbert. 
 This done, he had no excuse for staying 
 longer. 
 
 The summer twilight deepened into 
 
76' AT WHAT COST. 
 
 night. The sculptor and Miss Herbert 
 stood upon the broad and gravelled 
 terrace walk that runs along the stately 
 front of Acton Hall. They leant upon 
 the grey stone balustrade ; the girl, with 
 musing eyes, was looking down on 
 shadowy lawn and flower-bed under- 
 neath — the young man looked at her, 
 and her alone. Silence reigned long 
 between them, but at last she spoke. 
 
 '' You really go to-morrow ? " 
 
 " Tell me to stay, and I will stay," he 
 said, passionately: "but next week — 
 next month — next year — the moment 
 when it does come, will be just as 
 bitter." 
 
 She did not urge him. She was silent. 
 He drew very near to her. 
 
 '* Eugenia," he whispered, ''you love 
 me : 
 
 " I think so." Her eyes were still 
 looking over the darkening garden. She 
 spoke dreamily, and as one who is not 
 quite certain. 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 77 
 
 *' You think so ! Listen ! Before we 
 part, let me tell you what your love 
 means to me. If, when first I asked for 
 it, you had scorned me, I could have left 
 you — unhappy, but still a man. Now, it 
 means life or death to me. There is no 
 middle course — no question of joy or 
 misery — simply life or death ! Eugenia, 
 look at me and say you love me ! " 
 
 His dark eyes charmed and compelled 
 her. " I love you ! I love you ! " she 
 murmured. Her words satisfied him ; 
 moreover, she let the hand he grasped 
 remain in his, perhaps even returning 
 the pressure of his own. So they stood 
 for more than an hour, whilst Gerald 
 talked of the future and the fame he 
 meant to win — talked as one who has 
 the fullest confidence in his own powers 
 and directing genius. 
 
 Presently, they saw Mr. Herbert walk- 
 ing through the twilight towards them. 
 Gerald's hand tightened on the girl's so 
 as to cause her positive pain. 
 
78 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 *' Remember," he whispered, " Hfe or 
 death ! Think of it while we are apart.. 
 Your love means a man's life or death ! " 
 
 Many a lover has said an equally 
 extravagant thing, but Eugenia Herbert 
 knew that his words were not those of 
 poetical imagery, and, as she re-entered 
 the house, she trembled at the passion 
 she had aroused. What if time and 
 opposition should work a change in her 
 feelings ! She tried to reassure herself 
 by thinking that, if she did not love him 
 in the same blind, reckless way, at any 
 rate, she would never meet another man 
 whom she could love as she loved 
 Gerald Leigh. 
 
 The sculptor went back to Paris — tO' 
 his art and his dreams of love and fame. 
 Two years slipped by without any event 
 of serious import happening to the per- 
 sons about whom we are concerned. 
 Then came a great change. 
 
 Mr. Herbert died so suddenly that 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 79 
 
 neither doctor nor lawyer could be sum- 
 moned In time, either to aid him to live 
 or to carry out his last wishes. His will 
 gave Eugenia two thousand pounds and 
 an estate he owned In Gloucestershire — 
 everything else to his son. Unfor- 
 tunately, some six months before, he had 
 sold the Gloucestershire property, and, 
 with culpable negligence, had not made- 
 a fresh will. Therefore, the small money 
 bequest was all that his daughter could 
 claim. However, this seemed of little 
 moment, as her brother at once an- 
 nounced his Intention of settling upon 
 her the amount to which she was- 
 equitably entitled. He had even given 
 his solicitors Instructions to prepare the 
 deed. 
 
 James Herbert, Eugenia's brother, 
 was unmarried, and at present had no 
 intention of settling down to the life of 
 a country gentleman. Six weeks after 
 Mr. Herbert's death, the greater number- 
 
8o AT WHAT COST. 
 
 of the servants were paid off, and Acton 
 Hall was practically shut up. Eugenia, 
 after spending some weeks with friends 
 in the north of England, came to Lon- 
 don to live for an indefinite time with 
 her mother's sister, a Mrs. Cathcart. 
 
 Since her father's death, Gerald Leigh 
 had written to her several times — letters 
 full of passionate love, and penned as if 
 the writer felt sure of her constancy and 
 wish to keep her promise. He, too, was 
 coming to London. Had she wished it, 
 he would at once have come to her side ; 
 but, as it was, he would take up his 
 quarters in town about the same time 
 Eugenia arrived there. 
 
 The hour was at hand — the hour to 
 which Miss Herbert had, for two years, 
 looked forward with strangely mingled 
 feelings — when her friends must be told 
 that she intended to marry the young, 
 and, as yet, unknown sculptor, Gerald 
 Leigh, the son of her father's late tenant- 
 farmer, Abraham. 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 81 
 
 She loved him still. She felt sure of 
 that much. If time and absence had 
 somewhat weakened the spell he had 
 thrown over her proud nature, she knew 
 that, unless the man was greatly changed, 
 the magic of his words and looks would 
 sway her as irresistibly as before. She 
 loved him, yet rebelled against her fate. 
 
 Her father had died ignorant of what 
 had passed betw^een his daughter and 
 the young artist. Many a time Eugenia 
 had tried to bring herself to confess the 
 truth to him. She now regretted she 
 had not done so. Mr. Herbert's ap- 
 proval, or disapproval, would have been, 
 at least, a staff by which to guide her 
 steps. He had suspected nothing. The 
 few letters which passed between the 
 lovers had been unnoticed. Their love 
 was, as yet, a secret, known only to 
 themselves. 
 
 She loved him, but why had he dared 
 to make her love him ? Or, why was. 
 
82 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 he not well-born and wealthy ? Could 
 :she find strength to face, for his sake, 
 the scorn of her friends ? 
 
 She must decide at once. She is 
 sitting and thinking all these things in 
 her own room at Mrs. Cathcart's, and, in 
 front of her, lies a letter in which Gerald 
 announces his intention of calling upon 
 her to-morrow. She knows that, if she 
 receives him, she will be bound to pro- 
 claim herself his affianced wife. 
 
 He called. She saw him. Mrs. Cath-' 
 cart was out, so Eugenia was alone when 
 the servant announced Mr. Leigh. She 
 .started and turned pale. She trembled 
 in every limb as he crossed the room to 
 where she stood. He took her hand 
 and looked into her face. He spoke, 
 .and his rich, musical voice thrilled her. 
 
 '* Eugenia — Is it life or death ? " 
 
 She could not answer. She could not 
 turn her eyes from his. She saw the 
 intensity of their expression deepen, saw 
 
I' 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 83 
 
 •a fierce, yearning look come into them, a 
 look which startled her. 
 
 " Is it life or death ? " he repeated. 
 
 His love conquered. ''Gerald, it Is 
 life," she said. 
 
 Drunk with joy, he threw his arms 
 around her and kissed her until the 
 ^ blushes dyed her cheeks. He stayed 
 ' with her as long as she would allow, but 
 his delight was too delicious to permit 
 him to say much about his plans for the 
 future. When, at last, she made him 
 leave her, he gave her the number of a 
 studio at Chelsea, which he had taken, 
 and she promised to write and let him 
 know when he might call again. 
 
 They parted. Eugenia walked to the 
 window, and, for a long time, looked out 
 on the gay thoroughfare, now full of 
 carriages, going to and returning from 
 the park. Of course, she loved Gerald 
 dearly — that was now beyond a doubt. 
 But what would she have to go through 
 
84 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 when the engagement was announced- 
 
 what had she to look forward to as his 
 wife ? Must love and worldly misery be 
 synonymous ? 
 
 The current of her thoughts was 
 interrupted by the arrival of another 
 visitor — her brother. James Herbert 
 was a tall young man, faultlessly dressed,, 
 and bearing a general look of what is 
 termed high breeding. He bore a like- 
 ness to his father, but the likeness was 
 but an outward one. By this time he 
 was a cold, cynical man of the world. 
 He had not lived the best of lives, but^ 
 being no fool, had gained experience 
 and caution. He was clever enough to 
 study human nature, with a view of 
 turning his knowledge to account. 
 Eugenia had some pride of birth ; her 
 brother had, or affected, a great deal 
 more. He was by no means unpopular. 
 Few men could make themselves more 
 agreeable and fascinating than James 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. Ss 
 
 Herbert, when it was worth his while to 
 be so. In his way, he was fond of his 
 sister ; certainly proud of her beauty ; 
 and she, who knew nothing of his true 
 nature, thought him as perfect as a 
 brother could be. 
 
 He kissed her, complimented her on 
 her good looks, then sat down and made 
 himself pleasant. She answered his 
 remarks somewhat mechanically, wonder- 
 ing all the time what effect her news 
 would have upon him. She hated things 
 hanging over her head, and had made 
 up her mind to tell him of her intentions, 
 if not to-day, the next time she met him. 
 
 ''The lawyers have almost settled 
 your little matter," he said. " It's lucky 
 for you I made up my mind at once ; 
 things haven't turned out so well as we 
 expected." 
 
 She thanked him, not effusively, as if 
 he was doing no more than she had a 
 right to expect. Yet, the thought flashed 
 
 G 
 
86 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 across her, that before she took his 
 bounty she was in honour compelled to 
 make him acquainted with what she 
 purposed doing. 
 
 " By-the-bye, Eugenia," said Herbert, 
 '* you know Ralph Norgate ? " 
 
 *' Yes. He called a day or two ago. 
 I did not see him." * 
 
 " Well, I expect he'll soon call again. 
 He has been forcing his friendship on 
 me lately. In fact — I'd better tell you 
 — his mind is made up — you are to be 
 the future Lady Norgate. Now, you 
 know what to look forward to." 
 
 Her face flushed. Her troubles were 
 beginning. 
 
 ** But, James," she stammered, '* I 
 was just going to tell you. I am already 
 engaged." 
 
 He raised his eyebrows. To express 
 great surprise was against his creed, and 
 the idea Eugenia was capable of dis- 
 gracing herself did not enter his head. 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 87 
 
 ** So much the worse for Norgate," 
 he said. *' Who Is the happy man ? " 
 
 ** You will be angry, very angry, I 
 fear." She spoke timidly. His manner 
 told her she had good grounds for fear. 
 His mouth hardened, but he still spoke 
 politely and pleasantly. 
 
 " My dear girl, don't discount my 
 displeasure. Tell me who it is ? " 
 
 ''His name is Gerald Leigh." 
 
 ** A pretty name, and one which 
 sounds familiar to me. Now, who is 
 Gerald Leigh ? " 
 
 '* He is a sculptor." 
 
 *'Ah! — now I know. Son of that 
 excellent old tenant of my father's. The 
 genius he discovered on a dungheap. 
 Eugenia, are you quite mad ? " 
 
 ''He will be a famous man some day." 
 
 Herbert shrugged his shoulders in a 
 peculiarly irritating way. 
 
 " Let him be as famous as he likes. 
 What does it matter ? " 
 
88 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 " The proudest family may be proud 
 of allying themselves to a great artist." 
 
 Herbert looked at his sister with a 
 pitying but amused smile. " My poor 
 girl, don't be led astray by the temporary 
 glorification of things artistic. When 
 these fellows grow talked about, we ask 
 them to our houses, and make much of 
 them. It's the fashion. But we don't 
 marry them. Indeed, as they all begin 
 in the lower ranks of life, like your 
 friend, they are generally provided with 
 wives of their own station, who stay at 
 home and trouble no one." 
 
 She winced under the sting of his 
 scorn. He saw it, and knew he was 
 pursuing the right treatment for her 
 disease. 
 
 '' Now, this young Leigh," he con- 
 tinued, ''what will he be for years and 
 years ? A sort of superior stonecutter. 
 He will make what living he can by 
 going about and doing busts of Mayors 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 89 
 
 Band Mayoresses, and other people of 
 that class, who want their common 
 , features perpetuated. Perhaps he may- 
 get a job on a tombstone, for a change. 
 I Bah ! of course, you have been jesting 
 with me, Eugenia. I shall tell Norgate 
 to call as soon as possible." 
 ■ "I shall marry Gerald Leigh,'" said 
 iB-Eugenia, sullenly. All the same, the 
 busts and tombstones weighed heavily 
 upon her. 
 
 ''That," said her brother, rising, and 
 still speaking with a smile, " I am not 
 the least afraid of, although you are of 
 age and mistress of two thousand 
 pounds. You are not cut out to 
 ornament an attic. I need not say I 
 must countermand that settlement. It 
 must wait until you marry Norgate or 
 some other suitable man." 
 
 He kissed her and walked carelessly 
 away. To all appearance, the matter 
 did not cause him a moment's anxiety. 
 
90 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 He was a clever man, and flattered him- 
 self he knew how to treat Eugenia. 
 Human nature should be assailed at its 
 weakest points. 
 
 His carelessness was, of course, 
 assumed, for, meeting Mrs. Cathcart 
 as she drove home, Eugenia's news was 
 sufficiently disturbing to make him stop 
 the carriage, seat himself beside hts 
 aunt, and beg her to take another turn 
 in the park, during which he told her 
 what had transpired. 
 
 They were fitting coadjutors. Mrs. 
 Cathcart was delighted to hear of Sir 
 Ralph's overtures, and was shocked to 
 find that Eugenia was entangled in some 
 low attachment. She quite agreed that 
 the girl must be led, not driven — must 
 be laughed, not talked, out of her folly. 
 " Girls nearly always make fools of 
 themselves once in their lives," said 
 Mrs. Cathcart, cynically. 
 
 "They do," said James Herbert, who 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR, ^i 
 
 knew something about the sex. '' All 
 the same, Eugenia shall not. Find 
 out all about the fellow, where he 
 lives, and all the rest of it. She 
 doesn't know I've told you about this. 
 Keep a sharp look out for any letters." 
 So the next day, when Eugenia and 
 ._ her aunt were together, the latter, a 
 skilled domestic diplomatist, commenced 
 operations by regretting that Mr. 
 Herbert, although so fond of statuary, 
 had never employed a sculptor to make 
 his own bust. Mrs. Cathcart spoke so 
 naturally, that Eugenia fell into the trap, 
 and Informed her that Mr. Herbert's 
 likeness had been taken in clay two 
 years ago by a young sculptor then 
 staying at Acton Hall. It had been 
 done for pleasure, not profit, but her 
 father had always Intended to order a 
 copy In marble. Mrs. Cathcart was 
 delighted. Did Eugenia know where 
 the young man could be found ? 
 
92. AT WHAT COST. 
 
 Eugenia did know. She told her with 
 a tinge of colour on her cheeks, and 
 took advantage of the opportunity, and 
 perhaps soothed her spirit somewhat, by- 
 expatiating on what a great man her 
 lover was to become. Mrs. Cathcart, 
 in return, spoke of geniuses as struggling, 
 poverty-stricken persons, to befriend 
 whom was the one great wish of her life. 
 It was, indeed, pleasant for Miss Herbert 
 to hear her aunt speak of her lover as 
 she might of a hard-working seamstress 
 or deserving laundress ! She had not 
 yet written to Gerald. She must find 
 strength to throw off her brother's scorn 
 and the busts and tombstones before she 
 again met her lover. 
 
 Sir Ralph Norgate called that morning. 
 He was a man of about forty. Not ill- 
 looking, but with the unmistakeable 
 appearance of one who has led a hard 
 life. He was rich and of fine old 
 family. It was clear to Mrs. Cathcart 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 93 
 
 that he meant business. Eugenia had 
 met him several times last year, and it 
 was no news to her that he was her 
 ardent admirer. She was very cold 
 towards him to-day, but Mrs. Cathcart 
 did not chide her. She, clever woman, 
 knew that men like Norgate value a 
 prize at what it costs them to win it. So 
 the baronet came, stayed his appointed 
 time, then went away presumably in fair 
 train to a declaration by-and-bye. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 The next day, whilst driving with her 
 niece, Mrs. Cathcart was seized by a. 
 sudden thought. " My dear," she said, 
 *' let us go and see about that bust. 
 Where did you say the sculptor-man was. 
 to be found ? Nelson Studios, King's- 
 road. What number ?" 
 
 " Number ten," said Eugenia, wonder- 
 ing if her Aunt's sudden resolve would 
 be productive of good or evil. 
 
 The carriage went to Nelson Studios ; 
 the ladies dismounted, and Mrs. Cathcart 
 tapped at the door of number ten, a 
 studio which, being a sculptor's, was, of 
 course, on the ground floor. 
 
 The door was opened by a handsome 
 young man, whose outside garb was a 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 95 
 
 ragged old blouse, and whose hands were 
 white with half-dried clay — one of those 
 hands, moreover, held a short pipe. 
 Indeed, Gerald Leigh w^as in as unpre- 
 sentable trim as when, years ago, he first 
 met Miss Herbert. 
 
 He did not at once see the girl. She 
 was behind Mrs. Cathcart, and that lady's 
 majestic presence absorbed all his- 
 attention.- Mrs. Cathcart put up her 
 eye-glass. 
 
 *' Is your master in ?" she asked. 
 
 Gerald laughed. " I am my own 
 master," he said. 
 
 ''This is Mr. Leigh, aunt," said 
 Eugenia, coming forward. 
 
 " Oh "' said Mrs. Cathcart, and the 
 palpable meaning of that exclamatory 
 monosyllable sent the blood to Eugenia's 
 cheek. 
 
 Gerald started as he heard the girl's 
 voice and recognised her in the shadow. 
 He stretched out his clay-covered hand^ 
 
96 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 then withdrew it and laughed. Mrs. 
 Cathcart, who saw the action, put on a 
 look of supreme astonishment — then she 
 recovered herself. 
 
 ''Oh, I forgot," she said to Eugenia. 
 ■" Of course, you have seen Mr. Leigh 
 before. May we come In, Mr. Leigh." 
 
 He moved aside, and the ladles 
 •entered the studio. He placed his two 
 chairs at their disposal. He wondered 
 the while what had brought Eugenia to 
 him. He gave her a questioning glance, 
 but her eyes avoided his. Then Mrs. 
 Cathcart began. She spoke In that 
 manner which certain persons assume 
 towards those whom they are pleased to 
 think their inferiors. 
 
 '' I believe, some time ago, you made 
 a bust of my late brother-in-law, Mr. 
 Herbert, of Coombe- Acton." 
 
 Gerald bowed. 
 
 '' I wish to have a copy of It. Can 
 you make one ?" 
 
I 
 
 THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 97 
 
 "Certainly. In marble?" 
 
 ''In marble, of course. How much 
 will it cost ?'' 
 
 It was a painful experience to Eugenia 
 to hear her future husband talked to by 
 Mrs. Cathcart, much as that lady talked 
 to the obliging young men and women 
 at the various emporiums which enjoyed 
 her patronage. 
 
 *' Mr. Herbert was my best friend," 
 said Gerald. " My services are at your 
 disposal." 
 
 "You do not understand me," said 
 Mrs. Cathcart, coldly. " I asked you 
 what It would cost." 
 
 Gerald coloured and glanced at 
 Eugenia. He was utterly puzzled. It 
 could only have been through the agency 
 of the girl he loved that this new 
 patroness sought him. 
 
 " Mr. Leigh was my father's friend, 
 aunt," said Eugenia. 
 
 "My dear ! Mr. Leigh Is not 7uy 
 
98 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 friend. I want to know his terms for a 
 marble bust." 
 
 '' Eighty pounds, madam," said Gerald, 
 rather shortly. 
 
 '* Oh, much too much ! Eugenia, do 
 you not think such a price extortionate ?" 
 
 Eugenia w^as silent, but her cheeks 
 burned. Gerald's lip quivered with 
 anger. Only Mrs. Cathcart was calm. 
 ■" I will pay you forty pounds," she 
 said, '' but then it must be approved 
 by a competent judge." 
 
 ** You have heard my terms, madam," 
 said Leigh, curtly. 
 
 '' Absurd ! I will even say fifty 
 pounds. If you like to take that, you 
 may call upon me. Good morning. 
 Come, Eugenia ! " 
 
 She swept out of the studio. Eugenia 
 followed her. She looked back, and saw 
 Gerald's face wearing an expression of 
 actual pain. For a moment, her impulse 
 was to run back, throw her arms round 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 99 
 
 his neck, and defy everyone. However, 
 she did not yield to it, but followed her 
 aunt to the carriage. 
 
 " I call that young man a most 
 common, ill-bred person," said Mrs. 
 Cathcart. 
 
 Eugenia flushed. " He is not," she 
 said, hotly. " Your manner towards 
 him must have been most mortifying." 
 
 " My dear child ! " exclaimed Mrs. 
 Cathcart, in innocent surprise, *'and I 
 was trying to befriend the young man ! 
 He presumes on his acquaintance with 
 your father. I always told your poor 
 father it was a mistake becoming 
 intimate with persons of that class." 
 
 Eugenia said no more. If she had 
 thought of so doing, it was not the 
 moment to open her heart to Mrs. 
 Cathcart. She went to her room intend- 
 ing to write to Gerald — but no letter 
 was written that day. How could she 
 ask him to call at her aunt's after what 
 had occurred ? 
 
loo AT WHAT COST. 
 
 '' I love him," she said to herself, 
 *' but I am not brave enough to give up 
 all for him. Oh, why did we ever 
 meet ! " 
 
 The next morning she received a 
 letter from Gerald. It contained na 
 reproach — only an entreaty that she 
 would name a time when he might see 
 her. Mrs. Cathcart was true to her 
 duty. Before James Herbert was out 
 of bed, she had sent him word that a 
 letter had come for Eugenia. He went 
 at once to his sister. His greeting was 
 quite friendly. 
 
 "Eugenia," he said, presently, ''of 
 course, by now, you have put all that 
 nonsense about that sculptor-fellow out 
 of your pretty head ? " 
 
 '* It is no nonsense." 
 
 ''Well, if you mean to be obstinate,, 
 
 I must interfere. Have you seen him 
 
 ■J )> 
 smce : 
 
 " Aunt went to his studio. I was 
 with her." 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. loi 
 
 '' She ought to have known better. 
 If she encourages you we shall quarrel. 
 Do you correspond ? Tell me the truth." 
 
 '' I always tell the truth. I had a 
 letter this morning. You may read it." 
 
 She offered him Gerald's letter. He 
 waved it aside as a thing beneath his 
 notice. 
 
 " Have you answered It ? " he asked. 
 
 " Not yet. I am just going to." 
 
 Her brother still remained calm and 
 polite, with that contemptuous, incredu- 
 lous smile playing round his lips. 
 
 ''If you will make a fool of yourself, 
 I can't stop you. If you, with your 
 beauty and position, choose to go and 
 live in a garret, you must do so. Still, 
 as your brother, I have certain respon- 
 sibilities which would still be mine were 
 your lover the highest in the land. I 
 must make enquiries as to his character 
 and moral worth — these fellows are 
 generally a loose lot." 
 
 H 
 
I02 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 *' You may make what enquiries you 
 choose." 
 
 '' Thank you. Now, one favour — a 
 command — the last I shall ask or give. 
 You will not answer this letter — you will 
 not see the man — until I have satisfied 
 myself on these points. It is not too 
 much to ask, Eugenia." 
 
 She felt the justice of his remarks. 
 Could it be she was weak enough to be 
 glad of a little delay and breathing 
 space ? But Gerald's face, as last she 
 saw it, rose before her. 
 
 *' You must name a time," she said. 
 
 '' So impatient for true love and social 
 extinction," sneered Herbert. ''Surely 
 you can restrain yourself until this day 
 week." 
 
 It was longer than she had meant, but 
 her brother's bitter sneers settled it. 
 
 " So be it," she said, "until this day 
 week." 
 
 The promise given, James Herbert 
 dismissed the matter, but he filled up the 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 103 
 
 next half-hour with the very cream of 
 society gossip, which was, undoubtedly, 
 as palatable to Eugenia as it would have 
 been to any other woman. James 
 Herbert lived within the inner circle, 
 and, as to-day, for purposes of his own, 
 he spoke to Eugenia as if she were one 
 of the initiated, his conversation was not 
 without charm. 
 
 He was clever enough to know when 
 to trust. He had not the slightest fear 
 that Eugenia would break her promise. 
 So he cautioned Mrs. Cathcart to keep 
 the little fool well within sight, and thus 
 avoid the danger of a chance meeting — 
 to order the servants to refuse the 
 sculptor admission, if he ventured to 
 call — and, above all, to be sure that 
 Norgate had every opportunity of press- 
 ing his suit. After this, he waited 
 calmly, and did nothing more in the 
 matter for six whole days. 
 
 Days during which Gerald Leigh 
 
I04 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 chafed and fretted. He refused tO' 
 doubt, but his heart grew heavy within 
 him. He felt sure that Mrs. Cathcart's 
 visit boded no good. At last, he could 
 bear the suspense no longer. He called, 
 and asked for Eugenia. She was out. He 
 called again — the same result. He went 
 back to his studio and tried to conquer 
 his growing uneasiness by hard work* 
 One morning, a gentleman called and 
 introduced himself as James Herbert. 
 
 Gerald received him courteously.. 
 Herbert was suave, smiling, and bland. 
 He spoke of the interest he felt in the 
 young sculptor for his father, Mr. 
 Herbert's sake. He admired some 
 embryo designs, and wished and 
 prophesied all success. Then, as 
 
 Gerald began to hope that Eugenia's 
 brother might some day be his friend, 
 he turned upon him and tore him ta 
 pieces. 
 
 ''But, after all, Mr. Leigh, my great 
 object in calling concerns my sister." 
 
I 
 
 THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 105 
 
 Gerald grew very pale. 
 
 *' She is a good girl, but weak. She 
 has confessed to me that some sort of 
 romantic nonsense has passed between 
 you." 
 
 ** She has vowed to be my wife — no 
 more, no less." 
 
 His impetuosity seemed to amuse 
 Herbert. '' I am afraid such a thing 
 IS an impossibility," he said, serenely. 
 '' I shall not insult you by telling you 
 she is all but penniless — geniuses, I 
 know, never think of money — but, I 
 fear, I must pain you by saying she 
 repents of her hasty words." 
 
 ''That," said Gerald, slowly^ yet 
 fiercely, ''is a lie." 
 
 " My good sir, I cannot allow you 
 to use such words. My temper is fair, 
 but it has its limits." 
 
 " I apologise," said Gerald, sullenly. 
 \ ""I should have said you were coercing 
 her." 
 
io6 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 *' I never coerced anyone In my life, 
 much less my sister. Naturally, I shall 
 object to her marriage with you, but 
 that makes no difference." 
 
 ''Tell me what vou have to tell," said 
 Gerald, nervously. He hated and feared 
 this smooth, smiling man. 
 
 " In a few words, then. My sister is. 
 unhappy and unsettled. For several 
 days she has been trying to answer a 
 letter you sent her. At last, she confided 
 all to me. I am sure I am not going 
 too far when I say that she would be 
 glad to think that all boy and girl 
 promises between you were forgotten." 
 
 '' She sent you to tell me this } " asked 
 Gerald, hoarsely. 
 
 *' No. She knew I was coming. I 
 am putting her thoughts in my own 
 words." 
 
 " 1 don't expect you to understand 
 what my love for your sister means — 
 you could not," said Gerald. " But you 
 know she has vowed to be my wife." 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 107 
 
 "Yes, and will keep her promise, if 
 you Insist upon It." 
 
 The emphasis Herbert laid on nslst 
 made Gerald's heart sick. He said 
 nothing, but, with a strange smile on his 
 white face, went to a table and wrote a 
 few words. He handed the paper to his 
 visitor. 
 
 " Read," he said, " you say you are 
 her messenger, now you can be mine." 
 
 The words were : — 
 
 *' Eugenia, — If this is unanswered, I 
 shall believe you wish to recall every- 
 thing that has passed between us." 
 
 *' Thank you," said Herbert. ''This 
 is all I could expect." 
 
 With trembling hands the sculptor 
 placed the paper in an envelope, and 
 once more tendered it to Herbert. 
 
 *' No, thank you," said Herbert. 
 " People have been tempted to suppress 
 letters before now. Post it in the 
 ordinary way." 
 
 Gerald left the room. He returned 
 
io8 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 in a few moments, and Herbert knew 
 that the letter had been posted. He 
 had nothing further to do with Gerald, 
 so he held out his hand affably. 
 
 "No," said Gerald, "I would rather not." 
 
 His eyes were gleaming strangely. 
 
 ''As you will," said Herbert, with 
 indifference. 
 
 '' I will change my mind," said Gerald, 
 in a low voice, and taking the other s 
 hand. " Condemned people always 
 shake hands with the hangman, 1 
 think." 
 
 He spoke with a ghastly attempt at 
 mirth. Hierbert left the studio without 
 another word, but, as he drove to Mrs. 
 Cathcart's, said to himself, " The sooner 
 that beggar shoots or hangs himself, the 
 better." 
 
 He went straight to his sister. He 
 placed his hand on her shoulder, and, 
 with a look she had never seen on his 
 face, said, in a cold, contemptuous 
 manner : — 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 109 
 
 *' Eugenia, I have been taking some 
 trouble on your behalf. To-day, two 
 things are going to happen which will 
 settle your future. Norgate will be here 
 presently and ask you to be his wife. 
 By the next post you will get a letter 
 from that stone-cutter. Before you 
 answer it, shut yourself up and think 
 until you are in a proper frame of mind. 
 Women are fools, but surely you can't 
 be the biggest amongst them." 
 
 "You have seen him?" asked 
 Eugenia, faintly. 
 
 *' Yes. An extremely nice young 
 [jnan — in his place." 
 
 ■^' Was he well?" 
 
 '" Very well and very comfortable. 
 My dear girl, he quite won my respect. 
 A thoroughly practical young man, 
 with lots of common sense. Now, 
 good-bye. Don't make any mistake." 
 
 Did she hear aright ? Her brother 
 found Gerald a thoroughly practical 
 
no AT WHAT COST. 
 
 young man ! The lie was so gigantic 
 that it seemed impossible it could be alt 
 a lie. She was revolving it in her mind 
 even when Sir Ralph Norgate was 
 announced. 
 
 As for the practical young man, he 
 had locked his door and thrown himself 
 on the ground. James Herbert's words 
 had impressed him, and perhaps his 
 faith in Eugenia's faith was not so great 
 as he fancied. To-morrow he would 
 know the verdict. He felt sure that if 
 his letter remained unanswered for 
 twenty-four hours, James Herbert had 
 spoken the truth. 
 
 Miss Herbert found her brother a true 
 prophet. Sir Ralph Norgate offered his 
 hand, and, when the offer was refused^ 
 told her he did not mean to accept her 
 answer as final. She did not, on her 
 part, say anything about her love being 
 given elsewhere. Then Gerald's letter 
 came, and, following her brother's advice. 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR, iir 
 
 she did think everydiing over ; she sat 
 for hours trying to nerve herself to- 
 answer the letter as love and faith 
 demanded. 
 
 She loved him. Had he been present 
 
 her indecision would soon have vanished ;. 
 
 but, as it was, she could reflect fully on 
 
 hat an answer to his letter must mean 
 
 alienation of all her friends — an end 
 
 f social ambition — many years, if not a. 
 
 ife, of poverty. Eugenia shuddered as 
 
 f she thought of the consequences, and 
 wished that she and Gerald had never 
 met. She wished, moreover, that the 
 temptations of rank and wealth, held out 
 
 l^y her other suitor, were less. 
 
 ■ What would Gerald do if his letter 
 
 ■was not answered ? If she could but 
 
 rpersuacle herself that her brother's. 
 
 Il estimate of his character was the right. 
 
 If one ! Possibly it might be — James knew 
 mankind well. If she could but think 
 so — could believe that Gerald would^ 
 
112 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 forget — she might then find it easier to 
 be wise, and, by taking him at his word, 
 save herself, and perhaps him, from what 
 must ensure unhappiness. 
 
 She was no heroine of romance. She 
 was not one who could lightly defy the 
 w^orld or despise what the world values. 
 Gerald's fervent impetuosity had won 
 her love, but she had always blamed him 
 for winning it. Now, if she could bring 
 herself to tread it, an easy, simple road 
 to freedom was open. 
 
 So she reasoned — so she excused her 
 half-meditated treason — so she persuaded 
 herself it would eventually be better for 
 both if they parted. Yet, all the while, 
 she knew she loved Gerald Leigh as 
 she could love no other man. In this 
 mental conflict the day passed, and night 
 found the letter unanswered. 
 
 The first step — the step which cost 
 ■ — had been taken. i\nother and another 
 day passed and the letter was still un- 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 113 
 
 nswered. Then James Herbert came 
 her. 
 
 ''Eugenia, have you replied to that 
 etter ? " 
 She shook her head. 
 ''Give it to me," he said. 
 She did so. It was a relief to get rid 
 f it He tore it into fragments. 
 
 "There," he said, "I knew I could 
 rust your good sense. There is an end 
 f the affair. It is a secret between you 
 nd me, and I shall never again allude 
 o It." 
 
 For good or ill the die w^as cast. She 
 I Jiad freed herself. But she left the room 
 with swimming eyes and went to Mrs. 
 Cathcart. 
 
 "Aunt," she cried, "will you take me 
 abroad — for a long time ? " 
 
 It was hard for Mrs. Cathcart to be 
 called upon to give up the rest of the 
 London season. But, then, Mr. Herbert's^ 
 recent death prevented her going about 
 
114 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 much, and it was paramount that 
 Eugenia's future should be satisfactorily 
 disposed of So the excellent woman 
 -sacrificed herself at once. 
 
 " I will take you abroad, Eugenia, if 
 you will promise to be Sir Ralph's wife." 
 
 Eugenia had chosen her own path and 
 knew where it would lead, yet, for very 
 shame, she would not show her thoughts 
 to others. 
 
 " I can promise nothing," she said. 
 *' Take me away." 
 
 Three days afterward, Gerald Leigh 
 learned that Eugenia had gone abroad 
 with her aunt. He knew that all hope 
 went with her. He was like a man dis- 
 tracted. He even called upon James 
 Herbert, and had the satisfaction of 
 hearing from that gentleman's own lips 
 that his sister and Gerald's love was as 
 good as betrothed to Sir Ralph Nor- 
 gate. This news did not seem to affect 
 him much ; perhaps he anticipated some- 
 thing of the kind. 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 115 
 
 Although In his studio all day long, 
 
 the sculptor did no work for weeks. At 
 
 last he aroused himself, engaged a model, 
 
 and set to work with feverish energy. 
 
 From morn till night he thumbed and 
 
 pushed about the ductile clay. He 
 
 laughed, In a sort of bitter triumph. His 
 
 hands had not lost their cunning. The 
 
 work grew and grew apace until the clay 
 
 .was done with, and a fair white block of 
 
 Hmarble stood in the centre of the studio, 
 
 waiting to be hewn into the statue which 
 
 [■was to be Gerald Leigh's first high bid 
 
 for fame. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 It was early In May. The Academy 
 had been open about a week — long- 
 enough for the newspaper critics to tell 
 the public what it ought to admire. 
 Strange to say, this year the critics were 
 unanimous in bestowing their highest 
 praises on a piece of statuary, and a 
 great future for the sculptor was predicted. 
 
 As the bulk of the good people who' 
 pay their shillings at the turnstiles care 
 little about statues, one which attracts, 
 general attention must be either a very 
 great one or a very tricky one — as a rule 
 the latter. 
 
 Yet, number 1460 in the catalogue 
 appealed to no one by cheap sentiment 
 or sensational treatment. It was but the 
 
I 
 
 I 
 
 THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 117 
 
 lightly-draped figure of a beautiful girl, 
 one just in the first flush of womanhood. 
 She was in the act of stepping hastily for- 
 ward. Her arms were extended as if to 
 welcome, perhaps embrace, someone who 
 was coming towards her. Her face bore 
 a smile of eager delight. The grace, 
 the lightness, the life of the figure 
 arrested each passer-by. The fall of the 
 drapery, the position of each well-rounded 
 limb, conveyed the idea of rapid motion. 
 It was, indeed, hard to believe that she 
 was doomed to remain for ever in one 
 fixed attitude. The stock remark of the 
 spectators was, that in a minute they ex- 
 pected to see her at the other side of the 
 room. 
 
 This statue bore no distinguishing title, 
 but those persons w^ho turned to their 
 catalogues found, under the number and 
 the artist's name, a few words of poetry. 
 
 " Her hands outstretched 
 To greet the new love ; whilst her feet 
 Tread, scornful, on the old love's gifts." 
 
 I 
 
ii8 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 After reading this, one turned, of 
 course, to her feet, and found that one 
 of them was treading on flowers — roses 
 and large, star-shaped blossoms. 
 
 Several people, whilst admiring the 
 statue, fancied they had somewhere 
 seen the original of that beautiful face ; 
 but, save the sculptor, only one, James 
 Herbert, knew the truth. He cursed 
 Leigh's Impertinence, but was too wise 
 to take any notice of It. Yet, he deter- 
 mined to keep Eugenia from the 
 Academy If possible. 
 
 She was In town, and in a week's time 
 was to be married to Sir Ralph. Two 
 months after Mrs. Cathcart had taken 
 her niece abroad, the baronet joined 
 and renewed his proposals, this time 
 with success. The girl stipulated that 
 the marriage should not take place until 
 the spring. The truth Is, she wanted 
 some months' delay In order to get rid 
 of the memories of Gerald Leigh ; and, 
 
 I 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 119 
 
 by the time she returned to England, 
 flattered herself she had successfully 
 completed the operation. 
 
 She had, in the last few days, heard 
 some talk about the statue, but had 
 steadfastly kept her eyes from the art 
 criticisms, fearing to see Gerald's name. 
 Nevertheless, she wished to visit the 
 Academy, and was surprised when 
 James Herbert, now amiability itself, 
 refused to take her there. . 
 
 " You mustn't go this year," he said ; 
 •" that fellow's statue is creating quite a 
 furore r 
 
 ''Well, v/hat of that ?" asked Eugenia, 
 coldly. 
 
 "He has had bad taste enough to 
 represent you. The likeness is un- 
 mistakeable. It's a maudlinof thinp' — a 
 girl deserting her old love, or some such 
 nonsense. Still, you'd better not go." 
 
 Eugenia said no more, but all day 
 lono: she was thinkinp- of her brother's 
 
I20 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 words, and longing to see what Gerald 
 had wrought. That evening she dined 
 out. At the table were several persons 
 who worshipped art, and Eugenia's 
 cheek burned as she heard the praise- 
 bestowed on the new sculptor, and the 
 great future prophesied for him. Had 
 she after all been wrong ? Would it not 
 have been better to have follov/ed the 
 mandates of her heart ? Had she not 
 been v/eak and mercenary ? No matter ; 
 it was too late now to repent. Poor 
 Gerald ! She must see this wonderful 
 image of herself. 
 
 Early the next morning, quietly 
 dressed and veiled, she went alone to- 
 Burlington House. Like many others, 
 she stood transfixed by the beauty and 
 grace of her prototype, but, unlike others, 
 she knew the meaning of the statue^ 
 knew the mute reproach it conveyed^ 
 knew why the marble foot trod down 
 those particular flowers. She had never 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 121 
 
 told him the fate of his boyish gift, but 
 Gerald had often and often recalled his 
 first meeting with her. Eugenia's heart 
 swelled as she remembered his brave 
 words and confidence in himself — how 
 sure he felt of success. He had, indeed, 
 succeeded, but the first great work from 
 his hands was a memento of his love 
 for a faithless woman — herself. 
 
 Sir Ralph Norgate, her impending 
 marriage, her brother's disdain, and the 
 world's sneers were forgotten, as she 
 gazed on that reproaching figure, 
 V\/rought by the man she loved, but did 
 ■not love enough. Tears w^ere in her 
 Beyes. She might have stood for an hour, 
 heedless of all save her sad thoughts, 
 
 I had not the mention of Gerald Leigh's 
 name brought her back to the fact that 
 she was surrounded by people. 
 
 Two gentlemen were at her side. 
 They were talking of the work and the 
 sculptor. One of them she knew. He 
 
122 
 
 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 was a lord, famous for his love of art 
 and encouragement of rising artists. 
 
 ''I tried to buy it," he said, "but 
 found it was not for sale." 
 
 " Commercially speaking," said his 
 companion, "it is as well you cannot 
 buy it." 
 
 " Why ? The man must go to the top 
 of his profession ? " 
 
 " I think not. Indeed, my belief is 
 he will do little more. I have inquired 
 about him. He does not live the life a 
 genius must live in these days if he 
 wants to succeed." 
 
 " I am sorry to hear it," said Lord 
 
 , moving away. 
 
 Miss Herbert left the Academy v/ith 
 an echo of Gerald's extravagant state- 
 ment, that life or death hung upon her 
 love, sounding in her ears. The conver- 
 sation she had overheard distressed her 
 greatly. The thought that her treachery 
 had ruined a life full of promise would 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 125 
 
 not be dismissed. She spent a most 
 miserable day, and its misery was not 
 diminished by the truth, which she could 
 no longer conceal from herself, that she 
 still loved Gerald. She loved him more 
 than ever. Too late ! Too late ! And 
 Eugenia Herbert wept, as many others 
 have wept, that the past could not be 
 undone. 
 
 Sir Ralph Norgate and James Her- 
 bert dined that evening at Mrs. Cathcart's. 
 Their society was little comfort to 
 Eugenia. She felt now that she hated her 
 lover — hated his polite, hollow, society 
 ways and expressions — hated that blasd 
 look which so often settled on his face. 
 She had never cared for him. Their 
 love-making had been of a frigid kind-: — 
 not, be it said, by Sir Ralph's v/ish. He 
 was proud, and perhaps really fond of 
 the beautiful girl he had bought ; so it 
 was scarcely fair that Eugenia should 
 compare his polite wooing with that 
 
124 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 of the impassioned boy's, which 
 recked no obstacles — heeded no con- 
 sequences. Oh, if Gerald were a 
 baronet, and rich ! 
 
 Miss Herbert at that moment hated 
 her brother. Bitterly as she blamed 
 herself, she felt that something he had 
 said, done, or designed, had induced her 
 to refrain from answering Gerald's letter. 
 If only she had to decide again ! 
 
 Her bitter thoughts made it Impos- 
 sible for her to sit out the dinner. Very 
 soon she pleaded headache, and went to 
 her own room to resume her self- 
 revilings. She made no further attempt 
 to banish Gerald from her thoughts. 
 She lived again every moment she had 
 spent in his company — heard again 
 every word of wild love — felt his hand 
 close on hers — his lips press her own — 
 and shuddered as the dismal words, 
 " Life or death," seemed echoing 
 through her ears. If she could but 
 undo the past ! 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 125 
 
 Why not ? The thought rushed 
 through her. What hindered her save 
 the false gods to whom she had bent? 
 She was still legally free. Gerald was 
 in the same town. Why should she 
 heed her friends ? Why trouble as to 
 ^what people would think or say ? By 
 ■one bold step she could right everything. 
 If, to-morrow — nay, this very hour — she 
 went to Gerald and bade him take her 
 and hold her against all, she knew he 
 
 iw^ould do so. He would forgive. To 
 .him, her action would not seem bold or 
 iinmaidenly. In his eyes, she would 
 rank as high as ever, and what mattered 
 the rest ? To-morrow they might be 
 
 I miles away, and the bliss of being 
 Gerald's wife might well compensate 
 for what people would say about her 
 conduct. She herself could forget all 
 save that she was now bound for ever 
 to the man she loved ! 
 
 She would do it. With feverish 
 
126 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 impatience, she threw off her rich dress 
 and wrapped herself in a plain cloak. 
 She put on the quietest hat she could 
 find, stole downstairs, and was out of 
 the house before second thoughts had 
 time to bring irresolution. Her heart 
 beat wildly. She hailed a cab and was 
 driven to Nelson Studios. On the way, 
 she remembered it was an unlikely hour 
 to find an artist in his studio, but never- 
 theless, now she had set out, resolved to- 
 complete her journey. 
 
 She walked quickly to Gerald's door. 
 She knocked softly, but met with na 
 response. She dared not wait longer 
 outside. The pictured consequences of 
 her rash act were assuming tremendous 
 proportions in her brain. Another 
 minute's delay and she must leave the 
 spot never to return. She turned the 
 handle of the door and entered the 
 room. 
 
 Now, Miss Herbert's half-form.ed plaa 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 127 
 
 of action, when she found herself face tO' 
 face with her ill-treated lover, had been 
 something like this : She would walk up 
 to him and simply say, " Gerald, I am^ 
 come." The rest must be left to him, 
 but she believed, in spite of her weakness 
 and treachery, he w^ould freely forgive- 
 her all. 
 
 I Gerald was not in the studio. The 
 gas was half-turned down, and the clay 
 casts on the wall looked grim and 
 spectral. But, if Gerald was not in the- 
 room, it was still inhabited. On a low 
 couch — a couch covered by a rich 
 Oriental rug — lay a woman, fast asleep. 
 
 In after years, Eugenia, speaking to^ 
 herself of that moment, could only 
 describe her feelings by the old image 
 of a sword passing through the heart. 
 She turned to fly the place, but, as she 
 turned, she Vv'as seized by an over- 
 whelming impulse. At all risks she 
 must see the sleeper. The truth is, she 
 
128 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 was now a prey to a second passion, which 
 ;Some say is stronger than that of love. 
 
 She crept across the room, and gazed 
 on the sleeper. Even by the dim gas- 
 light she knew that she gazed on beauty 
 before which her own must pale. The 
 woman might have been some five years 
 •older than herself, and those wonderful 
 •charms were at their zenith. The rich, 
 •clear, warm colour on the cheek, the 
 long, black lashes, the arched and perfect 
 •eyebrows, told of southern lands. The 
 ■full, voluptuous figure, the shapely, 
 rounded arms, the red lips, the soft, 
 'Creamy neck — before these the heart of 
 man would run as wax before a fire. 
 Eugenia, seeking her lover, found this 
 -woman in his stead ! 
 
 A bitter, scornful smile played on 
 
 Miss Herbert's lips as she gazed at the 
 
 .sleeper. Somehow, that oval, sunny face 
 
 :seemed familiar to her. Well might it 
 
 he. In London, Paris, everywhere she 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. i29' 
 
 had seen It in the shop windows. There 
 were few people In France or England 
 who had not heard the name of Mdlle.. 
 Carlotta, singer, dancer, darling of opera- 
 bouffe, whose adventures and amours 
 were notorious, who had ruined more 
 men than she could count on the fingers 
 of her fair hands. 
 
 Eugenia recognised her, and her smile- 
 of scorn deepened. The sight of a 
 half-emptied champagne bottle, close to- 
 the sleeper — a half-smoked cigarette 
 lying on the floor, just as It had fallen 
 from her fingers, added nothing to the 
 contempt Miss Herbert's smile ex- 
 pressed. Gathering her skirts together, 
 to avoid any chance of contamination 
 by touch, she was preparing to leave the- 
 studio as noiselessly as she had entered 
 It, when, suddenly, the sleeper awoke. 
 
 Awoke without any warning. Simply 
 opened her splendid dark eyes, stared 
 for half a second, then, with v/onderful 
 
I30 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 lightness and agility, sprang to her feet. 
 
 " Qite faites vo7is la ? Why are you 
 liere ?" she cried. 
 
 Without a word, Eugenia moved 
 towards the door. Mdlle. Carlotta was 
 before her. She turned the key and 
 placed her back against the door. 
 
 '' Doiicement ! douceiiicnt ! ma belle,'' 
 rshe said. " Permit me to know who 
 honours me with a visit ?" 
 
 '' I wished to see Mr. Leigh. I 
 :Suppose he is out. Be good enough 
 to let me pass." 
 
 '' Are you a model, then ? But no, 
 models look not as you look." 
 
 " I am not a model." 
 
 '' Not ! fi done I You are, perhaps, 
 one of those young misses who write 
 Geraldo letters of love. A la bonne 
 heure I I wish to see one of them — 
 
 onoH' 
 
 With a saucy smile, Carlotta pocketed 
 the key, turned up the gas, and com- 
 
 I 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 131 
 
 nienced a cool scrutiny of her prisoner. 
 Euofenia blushed crimson. 
 
 " Out, V02LS etes belle, ma chere — belle , 
 mtais blonde, and Geraldo he loves not 
 the blonde." 
 
 '' Let me pass!" said Eugenia, stamp- 
 InQ: her foot. 
 
 Her tormentor laughed, but not ill- 
 temperedly. 
 
 "He will soon be here," she said, 
 mockingly. Surely Mademoiselle will 
 wait. He will be enchanted to see one 
 of the young misses." 
 
 Mdlle. Carlotta, when not Injured, was 
 not vindictive or unkindly ; but she was 
 ^as mischievous as a monkey. No doubt, 
 having teased the girl to her satisfaction, 
 she would have soon released her, but it 
 happened that Eugenia turned her head, 
 and, for the first time, the light shone 
 full upon her face. Her gaoler started. 
 She sprang towards her, seized her arm, 
 and dragged her across the room. Still 
 
 I 
 
132 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 holding her captive, she tore down a. 
 sheet and revealed the clay model of the 
 statue which had made Gerald famous. 
 She looked from the lifeless to the living 
 face, then burst into a peal of derisive 
 laughter. Eugenia's secret w^ls dis- 
 covered. 
 
 '' Ha ! ha ! ha ! The young miss that 
 Geraldo loved. The one who threw him 
 away for a rich lover ! Yet, she wishes 
 to see him again — so at night she comes. 
 Ah, mademoiselle, you have w-r-r-racked 
 him, c-r-r-rushed him, r-r-ruined him, 
 still would see him. Good. Good ; it 
 is now his turn. My Gerald shall have 
 revenge — revenge !" 
 
 Eugenia, thoroughly aroused, com- 
 manded her to let her go. Carlotta 
 laughed in her face, was even ill-bred 
 enough to snap her fingers and poke out 
 her tongue at her prisoner. Eugenia 
 humbled herself, and implored her by 
 their common womanhood. Carlotta 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 133 
 
 laughed the louder. Eugenia appealed 
 to her venality, and tried to bribe her. 
 Carlotta lowered her black eyebrows 
 and scowled, but laughed louder than 
 ever. 
 
 *' He will come very soon," was all 
 she said. '* He will not stop long away 
 from me — Carlotta." 
 
 Miss Herbert was at her wit's end. 
 Yet, even through the shame of the 
 situation, the anguish of her heart made 
 itself felt. After having wrought herself 
 up to make such a sacrifice, such an 
 atonement, it was pitiable to find Gerald 
 no better than the rest of his sex ! She 
 sank upon a chair, longing for release, 
 yet dreading to hear the step which 
 would herald it. 
 
 Half-an-hour passed. Mdlle. Carlotta 
 whiled it away by emptying a glass of 
 champagne, smoking a cigarette, and 
 making comments on Gerald's prolonged 
 absence. Presently, she cried, '* Ah, 
 
 K 
 
134 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 mademoiselle, this is dull for you. See, I 
 will dance to you," and therewith she 
 raised herself on her toes, and went 
 pirouetting round her captive, humming 
 the while an air of Offenbach's. Her 
 dress was long, but she managed it with 
 marvellous skill, and Eugenia, whilst 
 loathing, could not help watching her 
 with a sort of fascination. She was as 
 agile as a panther — every attitude was 
 full of grace, every gesture alluring. 
 
 Suddenly, she stopped short. Her 
 great eyes sparkled even more brightly. 
 She glanced at her victim. " Hist," she 
 said. '* I hear him. I know his step. 
 He comes!" 
 
 A moment afterwards the door was 
 tried. Eugenia covered her face with 
 her hands. She knew not what the 
 woman meant to do or to say, but she 
 felt that her crowning shame was at 
 hand. Yet, her heart beat at the thought 
 of seeing Gerald once more, and a wild 
 
I 
 
 THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 135 
 
 idea of forgiveness, on either side, 
 passed through her. 
 
 Mdlle. Carlotta turned down the gas, 
 unlocked the door, and, as it opened, 
 threw herself into the arms of the new 
 comer. Eugenia heard the sound of 
 kisses, given and returned, and her heart 
 grew like stone. 
 
 *' Geraldo, nion ami,'' she heard the 
 dancer say, in passionate tones, '' dis 
 aiioi que tu niaimes — que tu niaimes 
 toujours /" 
 
 '' Je r adore ma belle — tu es ravis- 
 sante /" 
 
 *'Tell me in your own dear, barbarous 
 tongue. Swear it to me in English." 
 
 '' I swear it, my beautiful gipsy. I 
 love you !" 
 
 *'Me only?" 
 
 *' You only;" and Eugenia heard him 
 kiss her again and again. 
 
 '' Dis done, my Geraldo. You love 
 me more than the pale-faced miss who 
 scorned you ?" 
 
136 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 He laughed a wild, unpleasant-sound- 
 ing laugh. 
 
 " Why not ? You can love or say 
 you can love. She was the change- 
 able white moon — you are the glorious 
 southern sun. She was ice — you are 
 fire. Better be burnt to death than to 
 die of cold and starvation. Men have 
 worshipped you — men have died for 
 you. I love you !" 
 
 They came into the room. His arnu 
 was round her. Her radiant face rested 
 on his shoulder. Again and again he 
 kissed those beautiful lips. His eyes, 
 were only for her and saw not Eugenia. 
 
 Miss Herbert rose. Her face was as- 
 white as her marble prototype's. She 
 might have passed out unobserved by 
 Gerald, but Mdlle. Carlotta was on the 
 watch. She pointed to her, and Gerald 
 turned and saw Eugenia. 
 
 He had but time to realise it was no 
 vision — then she was gone. With 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 137 
 
 wild cry, he turned to follow her, but 
 the woman twined her arms around 
 him and restrained him. She was 
 strong, and for some moments detained 
 him. Her resistance maddened him. 
 With a fierce oath, he grasped her round 
 arms and tore them from his neck, 
 throwing her away with such force that 
 she fell upon the floor. Then he rushed 
 after Eugenia. 
 
 She was walking swiftly along the 
 road. He soon reached her side ; but, 
 although aware of his presence, she 
 neither spoke nor looked at him. 
 
 ''What brought you here.^" he said, 
 
 _ hoarsely. 
 
 B She made no reply — only walked the 
 
 B faster. 
 
 ^^K *' Tell me why you come?" he 
 said. '' I will never leave you until you 
 
 answer me." 
 
 She turned and looked at him. Fresh 
 from that scene in the studio — with those 
 
T38 AT AVHAT COST. 
 
 words still ringing In her ears — even the 
 great change she saw In his face did 
 not move her to pity. 
 
 "I came," she said, "on the eve of my 
 marriage, to ask forgiveness of a man 
 whom I fancied I had wronged. I am 
 glad I came. I found him happy, and 
 in society after his own heart." 
 
 Her voice was cold and contemptuous. 
 He quivered beneath her scorn. At 
 that moment a cab passed. Eugenia 
 called it. 
 
 *' Leave me," she said, to Gerald. 
 '' Leave me. Our paths In life shall 
 cross no more." 
 
 He grasped her wrist. 
 
 '' Do you dare to reproach me ? 
 You ! Eugenia, I told you it was life 
 or death !" 
 
 '' Life or death ! " she repeated. 
 '' Death, at any rate, seems made very 
 sweet to you." 
 
 Still holding her wrist, he looked into 
 
I 
 
 THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 139 
 
 her eyes in a strange, hopeless way. 
 He saw nothing in them to help him. 
 He leaned down to her ear. 
 
 '' Yes, death," he said, in a solemn 
 whisper ; " but the moral and spiritual 
 death comes first." 
 
 His hand left her wrist. He turned, 
 and, without a word, strode away. 
 Whither ? Even as Tanhauser returned 
 to the Venusberg, so Gerald Leigh 
 returned to his studio and Carlotta. 
 
 Eugenia wept all the way home. Wept 
 for herself and Gerald. Wept for the 
 shame she had endured ; wept for the 
 uselessness of the contemplated atone- 
 ment ; wept for the life before her, and 
 for a man's future and career wrecked 
 by her weakness. 
 
 The next week she married Sir Ralph 
 Norgate. The ceremony was surrounded 
 by befitting splendour. Yet, even at 
 the altar, Gerald Leigh's pale, passionate 
 face rose before her, and she knew it 
 
I40 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 !? 
 
 would never leave her thoughts. She 
 loved him still ! 
 
 On her wedding morning she received 
 many letters. She had no time to read 
 them, so took them with her, and perused 
 them as she went north with her husband. 
 Among them was one in a strange hand- 
 writing. It ran thus : — 
 
 ''For your sake he struck m.e, Carlotta! 
 But he came back to me and is mine 
 again. Him I forgive; not you! We 
 go abroad together to warm, sunny lands. 
 Some day we shall quarrel and part. 
 Then I shall remember you and take my 
 revenge. How ? That husband for 
 whom you deserted Gerald I shall take 
 from you." 
 
 Eugenia's lip curled. She tore the 
 letter, and threw the pieces out of the 
 carriage window. 
 
 Two years afterwards, Lady Norgate 
 was listlessly turning the leaves of a 
 society journal. Although she was a 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 141 
 
 I 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 •great and fashionable lady, she was often 
 listless, and found life rather a dreary 
 proceeding. She read to-day, among 
 the theatrical notes, that Mdlle. C^rlotta, 
 the divine Opera Bouffe actress, was 
 -engaged to appear next month at the 
 *' Frivolity." Although the woman's 
 absurd threat was unheeded, if not for- 
 :gotten, her name recalled too vividly the 
 most painful episode in Lady Norgate's 
 life. She turned to another part of the 
 paper, and read that the gentleman who 
 committed suicide under such distressing 
 circumstances at Monaco, had now been 
 identified. He was Mr. Gerald Leigh, 
 the sculptor, whose first important work 
 attracted so much attention two years 
 ago. It was hinted that his passion for 
 a well-known actress was the cause of 
 the rash deed. 
 
 Lady Norgate dropped the paper, and 
 covered her face with her hands. He 
 had spoken truly. Her love meant life 
 or death ! 
 
AT WHAT COST. 
 
 Had she believed, or troubled about 
 the concluding paragraph of the notice, 
 had she ventured to tell herself it was 
 true that Gerald had forgotten her, and 
 Carlotta was responsible for his deaths 
 her mind would soon have been set a 
 rest. 
 
 Like a courteous foe, who gives fair 
 warning, Mdlle. Carlotta wrote once 
 more : — 
 
 "He is dead. He died for your sake,, 
 not mine. Your name, not mine, was 
 on his lips. Look to yourself. I am 
 coming to London !" 
 
 No doubt, Carlotta meant this letter as 
 a first blow towards revenge. She would 
 hardly have written it had she known 
 that Lady Norgate would cherish those 
 words for ever. Poor comfort as it was^ 
 they told her that Gerald had loved her 
 to the last. 
 
 Then Mdlle. Carlotta, more beautiful^ 
 more enticing, more audacious than ever^. 
 came to London. 
 
THE STORY OF A SCULPTOR. 143. 
 
 For some months it had been whispered. 
 in society that Sir Ralph Norgate was. 
 not so perfect a husband as such a wife 
 as Eugenia might rightly expect. After 
 Carlotta's reappearance, the whispers 
 grew louder, the statements more cir- 
 
 , cumstantial. Eugenia caught an echo of 
 
 *them and smiled disdainfully. 
 
 If Then the name of Carlotta's new 
 victim became town-talk. Yet, Eugenia. 
 : 
 
 [made no sign. 
 
 Not even when she met her husband, 
 in broad daylight, seated side by side 
 with the siren. The man had the grace 
 
 I to turn his head away, but Carlotta shot 
 a glance of malicious triumph at the pale 
 lady who passed without a quiver of the 
 lip. James Herbert was with his sister, 
 and found this encounter too much even 
 for his cynicism. He was bound to- 
 speak. 
 
 " The blackguard !" he said. " But, 
 Eugenia, I don't think I w^ould have a. 
 
144 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 • divorce or a separation. It makes such 
 a scandal." 
 
 "It is a matter of perfect indifference 
 to me," she said, coldly. 
 
 She spoke the truth. Carlotta's ro- 
 mantic vengeance was an utter failure. 
 Lady Norgate and her husband were, in 
 truth, no farther apart than they had 
 been for many months. Eugenia was 
 indifferent. 
 
 And, as time goes on, grows more 
 and more so. Indifferent to wealth — 
 indifferent to rank, to pleasure, even to 
 pain. She cherishes nothing, cares for 
 nothing, save the remembrance that she 
 was once loved by Gerald Leigh — that 
 he bade her give him life or death — that, 
 although she gave him death, he died 
 with her name on his lips ! 
 
 THE END. 
 
CAPITAL WINE. 
 
 ♦•♦ 
 
 111 
 
 I 
 
 *' Capital wine, John," I said, hold- 
 ing the glass between the lamp and 
 my eyes, and admiring the rich, ruby 
 tint. 
 
 *' Capital, Isn't It ? " replied John, 
 cuddling his glass in the palm of 
 his hand In order to warm the wine 
 and fully bring out its bouquet and 
 flavour. 
 
 We had just finished the sort of 
 dinner I consider perfection for two 
 persons. A drop of clear soup, a sole 
 and a brace of woodcocks. That Is, 
 to my mind, as nice a dinner as can 
 
146 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 be devised, and one which, having 
 eaten, you have no occasion to reproach 
 yourself with high feeding or gluttony. 
 Others may devour huge cuts from 
 •sirloin, leg or saddle, but I am always 
 contented with a humble 7nenu like 
 the above. 
 
 *' Thirty-four, of course," I said, after 
 tasting the port again. 
 
 John nodded, and continued nursing 
 iiis glass. 
 
 '' Where did you buy it, John ?" I 
 inquired. 
 
 '' Didn't buy it," replied John. "You 
 can't buy such wine as that now." 
 
 '' A gift from a grateful client, I 
 presume," I said, re-filling my glass. 
 
 '' Not a bit of it. Clients ain't so 
 generous, now-a-days. If we can get 
 our costs we are content." 
 
 '' Well, how did you get it T 
 
 '' Stole it," replied John, shortly. 
 
 ■*'What do you mean .'^" 
 
I 
 
 CAPITAL WINE. 147 
 
 " I mean, I stole that wine as much 
 as ever a thief stole a watch. I 
 planned, plotted, and at last succeeded 
 in effectincr the theft. You w^ould 
 have done the same, would you not .^" 
 
 '' I don't know. It depends upon 
 the risk of conviction and imprison- 
 ment. But, tell me all about it." 
 
 John placed all the bottles fairly 
 between us, and began : — 
 
 '' You knew my old uncle, William 
 Slagg — at any rate you have heard 
 of him. Well, he made a good bit 
 •of money drysalting, and, what is 
 -more, made it when he was a youngish 
 anan. He must have been well brought 
 up, or mixed with the right sort of 
 people, for he developed a wonderful 
 taste for wine, and, instead of doing 
 what lots of people do now, more 
 shame to them — send out to their 
 grocer's for half-a-dozen as they want 
 it — used to buy a pipe or a butt at 
 
148 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 a time and lay it down. He reaped 
 the reward of his sensible conduct, 
 for when he retired from drysalting, he 
 found himself with a cellar not only 
 amply stocked, but without a drop of 
 bad wine in it. So he settled down 
 to live comfortably on his investments, 
 and to drink his wine in peace. 
 
 ''Poor old boy! It was beautiful ta 
 see him and amusing to hear him 
 with the decanters in front of him. 
 He knew the history of each wine he 
 gave you, and nearly all had a ten- 
 der reminiscence for him. He would 
 sip a drop of sherry, and look across, 
 at me, and say : ' I call this more 
 than wine, John. It is a poem ; 
 
 something to enjoy and think over.* 
 Then he would turn to the port. * I 
 bought that pipe, John, when I made 
 a wonderful hit in tallow ;' or, ' that 
 claret, John, I laid down when log- 
 wood went up to such a jDrice,' and 
 so on. 
 
CAPITAL WINE. 149 
 
 ** The old man was by no means a 
 wine-blbber, but he would take his 
 four or five glasses after dinner and 
 enjoy them. He suffered a little from 
 gout before he died, but not more 
 than many elderly gentlemen with ru- 
 bicund faces. He lived a good many 
 years enjoying the fruit of his labours 
 and the juice in his cellars, and at last; 
 slipped away quietly and peacefully. 
 His last words were to me : — 
 ' '''Give them the '47 and the green, 
 seal sherry at the funeral, John. There's 
 more body, more solemnity in those 
 wines than some of the others.' 
 
 " And then old William Slagg went 
 off, and I have no doubt is now the 
 best judge of nectar in the upper 
 regions. 
 
 "He left me his executor, and, I am 
 happy to say, the reversion of a con- 
 siderable sum when his widow dies. 
 
 " But it was not without a feeling of 
 
 L 
 
I50 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 disappointment I found all the contents 
 of his house, including the cellar of 
 wines, were hers absolutely. 
 
 *'It seemed absurd for a splendid lot 
 of wines like that to belong to a 
 woman who w^ould be utterly unable 
 to appreciate them, and whose ideas 
 of wine were bounded, after the man- 
 ner of womankind, by sweet champagne 
 on one side and family port on the 
 other. I had never expected to be 
 left so much money, but had always 
 cherished the hope that Uncle Slagg, 
 who had greatly approved of the way 
 in which I had discussed his liquor, 
 would have left me those wines. 
 
 *' However, I thought very likely the 
 widow would prefer a good sum of 
 money to the full bins, so I intended 
 to offer to buy them after a decent 
 interval. 
 
 ''My Aunt Slagg has very different 
 ideas to those of her late and la- 
 
CAPITAL WINE. 151 
 
 mented husband. I remember her, 
 however, as a sensible woman, and 
 having a good eye to the main chance. 
 She had been a capital wife to Wil- 
 liam Slagg, but, about a twelvemonth 
 before his death, she had attended 
 some revival meetings — a lovefeast, or 
 something of that sort — and been con- 
 verted. I can't tell, of course, but I 
 feel sure that nothing can be more 
 annoying to an ordinary man than to 
 find the wife of his bosom — who has 
 jogged along with him very comfortably 
 in a give-and-take style for many 
 years — suddenly turn round and lecture 
 him upon his amiable little weaknesses. 
 '' I am convinced the shock of her 
 conversion hastened poor old William's 
 death. He had been so accustomed 
 to look upon drinking good wine as 
 the duty of a Christian, that when 
 his wife made a new departure, and 
 became a rabid teetotaller, the thing 
 
152 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 was too much for him, and he died 
 trying to solve the problem. She 
 would quote Sir Wilfrid Lawson, Dr. 
 Richardson, and other authorities, all 
 dinner time, and, when the decanters 
 were placed upon the table, walk away 
 with a look of chastened sorrow upon 
 her face. Nothing, of course, could 
 wean Uncle Slagg from his wine-pots, 
 as she called his little weakness, but 
 I know after tirades, the liquor had 
 lost some of its flavour for him, and 
 did not taste the same as in the old 
 days before her awakening, when she- 
 would fill his glass, and even press 
 him to take an extra one for the 
 sake of his health. I wonder he did 
 not alter his will, and, no doubt, he 
 would, had he known to what lengths 
 her fanaticism would lead her. 
 
 *'I managed, by skilful tactics, to keep 
 on pretty good terms with the old lady. 
 I took the temperance tracts with which 
 
CAPITAL WINE. 153 
 
 she bristled, and led her to understand 
 that, if I could not make up my 
 mind to take the pledge at once, it 
 was a good deal out of consideration 
 for her husband's feelings, and I might 
 do so some day. She looked upon me 
 ,as a weak vessel, but had great hopes 
 that I might eventually be strong 
 enough to hold the gift of grace, as 
 she rather curiously termed it. After 
 William Slagg's death, I had, in my 
 position as executor, a lot of business 
 to transact with her, and for soine 
 weeks saw her nearly every day. I 
 thought the time was coming when 
 I might broach the subject of the 
 cellar to her, and, as I was walking 
 to the house one afternoon, deter- 
 mined to sound her upon it, I rang 
 and knocked for some minutes, but 
 could get no answer to my summons. 
 They are all upstairs, I thought, and 
 can't hear me. Then I remembered 
 
154 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 that the day before, after going through 
 a lot of papers of my uncle's, I had 
 locked the drawers and put the keys 
 in my pocket. His latch-key was 
 amongst them, and I took the liberty 
 of opening the door with it. 
 
 ''As I entered the house, I smelt 
 a very peculiar smell proceeding from 
 the kitchen. It was the odour of 
 wine and very strong. They must 
 have broken a bottle carrying it up, 
 I thought. Perhaps, after all, the old 
 lady is not so strict a teetotaller when 
 alone. And I laughed at the idea, 
 little dreaming from whence the smell 
 came. I could find no one in any 
 of the sitting rooms, and, as I heard 
 persons moving in the basement, 
 proceeded there. My Aunt, hearing 
 my steps on the stairs, ran to the 
 kitchen door to see who it was. I 
 noticed she appeared vexed as she 
 met me. 
 
CAPITAL WINE. 155 
 
 " * I am particularly engaged this 
 afternoon, John, and can't speak to 
 you now,' she said. 
 
 *'As she spoke, I noticed the smell 
 of the wine was almost overpower- 
 ing, and I wondered what she was 
 doing. 
 
 " She had some old gown on, and 
 that covered with a rough, white 
 apron, apparently soaked with some 
 coloured fluid. She was dusty, dirty, 
 untidy, and heated, and I noticed 
 blood flowing from a cut on her 
 hand. What extraordinary household 
 exploit could she be engaged in ? 
 
 " When a lady tells you decidedly 
 she can't stop to talk to you, and 
 when she appears up to her eyes in 
 cleaning the house or something of that 
 sort, the next thing to do is to make 
 yourself scarce ; so I apologised for 
 my intrusion and promised to call 
 again to-morrow. 
 
156 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 . '''But what a strong smell of wine, 
 aunt ?' I said. ' Don't you notice it?' 
 
 " ' My servants have just broken a 
 bottle or two,' she replied, looking 
 rather embarrassed. ' Good-bye, John, 
 shut the door after you.' 
 
 "'Good-bye,' I said, and retraced 
 my steps, 
 
 "As I went up those dark kitchen 
 
 stairs, a sudden thought struck me. 
 
 And yet it seemed so wild and 
 
 absurd that I laughed at the idea. 
 
 But, before I had reached the top, 
 
 it had taken full possession of me, 
 
 and I felt cold and pale with dread. 
 
 I could not bear the uncertainty, and 
 
 determined to ascertain, at any risk, 
 
 if my suspicions were correct. 
 
 Instead, therefore, of shutting the 
 
 door from the outside, I shut it with 
 
 a good bang from the inside and 
 
 waited, scarcely breathing, at the top 
 
 of the stairs. After a minute's 
 
 J 
 
CAPITAL WINE. 157 
 
 listening, my ears caught a crash of 
 glass, and then a rich gurgle of fluid, 
 that sent a thrill of horror through 
 my heart. Another crash, another 
 gurgle, and then another and another, 
 and even that strange scent of wine 
 stronger and stronger. It must be 
 as I thought, so I crept like a cat 
 down the stairs once more, and gently 
 opened the kitchen door. No one 
 was there, but I heard another crash 
 and my aunt's voice exclaim, in a 
 tone of exalted fervour : — 
 
 '"Glory — Alleluia — another bait taken 
 from Satan's trap !' 
 
 '' I passed across the kitchen and 
 looked through the door of the 
 scullery, and there I saw my aunt 
 and one of her red-cheeked servant 
 wenches busily engaged in knocking 
 the necks off the cobwebbed bottles, 
 and — oh, desecration ! — pouring their 
 priceless contents amid potato parings, 
 
iS8 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 soapsuds, and beastlinesses of that 
 sort down the sink to gladden the 
 hearts of the rats in the main sewer. 
 ''For a few moments, I was so taken 
 aback I could not speak or move- 
 It seemed like a ghastly dream. Yet 
 it was real, and I could see an 
 exalted look in my aunt's face, and 
 as I heard her exclaim with each 
 cruel decapitation, 'another bait snatch- 
 ed from Satan !' I knew the poor 
 woman was earnest in her conviction,, 
 and imagined she was doing right. 
 As I looked at this strange scene, 
 thinking what course to take, an 
 exclamation behind me made me turn, 
 and I saw in the kitchen the other 
 red-cheeked servant girl, bearing on 
 her muscular arm a bottle-basket 
 holding a dozen of wine she had 
 eyidently brought up from the cellar 
 for the purpose of immolation. O, 
 William Slagg, you must have turned 
 
CAPITAL WINE. 159 
 
 n your grave ! If I had ever believed 
 in ghosts, this work would have 
 
 ■banished by belief, for if anything- 
 could have brought a ghost back to 
 
 Bearth, the sacrifice going on would 
 
 Biave brought yours back. That 
 basket contained the very particular^ 
 the joy of your heart, the wine that 
 only came forth on the most im- 
 portant occasions, the very opening of 
 I which w^as a religious ceremony, and 
 fervent prayers went up over each 
 bottle that the cork may have with- 
 stood the ravages of years and the 
 wine be still sound ! And now 
 
 ^^''Even if the servant had not dis- 
 covered me, I should have interfered 
 
 I then, so I stepped boldly forwards 
 into the scullery and confronted the 
 heartless executioners. The servant^ 
 looking sheepish and ashamed, put 
 down the bottle, the neck of which 
 was just approaching the edge of the 
 
ii6o AT WHAT COST. 
 
 •Stone sink. My Aunt, with the con- 
 •sciousness of rectitude, met my gaze 
 firmly. 
 
 " 'Thank heaven I returned,' I said. 
 ' What does this mean ?' 
 
 "'Mean, John! Only that I am 
 >doing my duty.' 
 
 *' ' Doing your duty in pouring the 
 iinest cellar of wine in London down 
 a common sink !' 
 
 " ' You know my views, John. I 
 say, ' touch not, taste not, handle not.' 
 
 *'She has been touching and hand- 
 ling with a vengeance, I thought, 
 but I kept my temper, and said : — 
 
 '' ' But if you won't drink it, why 
 not sell it and give the jDroceeds to 
 the poor, if you like ?' 
 
 *' ' No, John. I have considered the 
 'Subject fully. My duty is to pour 
 it down there. If I sell it — if I 
 •give it away — someone will drink, 
 and every drop of wine that passes 
 
CAPITAL WINE. i6r 
 
 down a man's throat helps to float 
 him to perdition.' 
 I **Her imagery was strange, but her 
 mind was made up, so, after a pause; 
 
 II said : — 
 *' ' Come upstairs and talk with me.. 
 Tell your servants to stop for a bit.' 
 B "She followed me, saying, 'it's no^ 
 good talking, John ; my mind is made: 
 llup.' 
 
 H "I cast about for a way to move 
 her, and at last decided on a boM 
 course. 
 
 " We seated ourselves in the dining- 
 room, near that polished mahogany 
 board in which poor old Uncle Slagg 
 loved to see the crystal decanters 
 mirrored. 
 
 " Then I commenced gravely — 
 *' ' My dear Aunt, you will under- 
 stand that from motives of prudence 
 I could not speak before your servants 
 as I can now. Of course, I do not 
 
1 62 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 dispute your right to do what you 
 like with your own, but I am sure 
 you cannot be aware of the penalties 
 you are incurring in this wholesale 
 destruction of fermented liquors.' 
 
 *' ' How do you mean ? ' she said, 
 startled. 
 
 '' ' 1 mean,' I replied, in the most 
 solemn accents, 'that you are defraud- 
 ing the excise and are liable to heavy 
 fine and, I believe, imprisonment.' 
 
 " ' But the wine is my own,' she 
 argued. 
 
 '' ' Precisely ; so is this sovereign 
 mine, but were I to clip, debase, or 
 destroy it, I lay myself open to legal 
 proceedings and punishment. Wine 
 has paid duty and is protected in the 
 same manner as this sovereign.* 
 
 " ' How unjust,' she said. 
 
 *' ' It may be so, but it is the law. 
 Moreover, the informer gets a good 
 share of the fine, so see how you 
 
CAPITAL WINE. 163 
 
 I 
 
 place yourself in your servants' power 
 and what temptation you expose them 
 
 to.' 
 
 " ' But I will go to prison and 
 glory in my martyrdom,' she said, 
 with an angelic look. 
 
 *' * Excuse me, my dear Aunt, but 
 I cannot afford to go to prison, and, 
 as I am the executor and responsible 
 for everything, I should share your 
 fate. It may seem selfish, but I must 
 guard against this. I shall, therefore, 
 ask you to give me the key of the 
 cellar ; allow me to seal up the door, 
 and I promise you, at the expiration 
 of a twelvemonth, when I give you 
 legal possession of everything here 
 and take your discharge, I will return 
 the key, and you must then please 
 yourself 
 
 '* ' Now, I well know how frighten- 
 ed women are at the idea of coming 
 into collision with the law, so al- 
 
i64 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 though the penalties I threatened her 
 with were improbable and absurd, they 
 set her thinking, and I awaited her 
 answer hopefully. I added, though, 
 as a make- weight : — 
 
 " ' How terribly vexed poor uncle 
 would have been had he seen you 
 to-day.' 
 
 *' * I believe, John, that in the place- 
 my dear husband now is, he fully 
 realises the errors of his life, and 
 could he look down ' — or up I thought 
 — 'he would be pleased to see my 
 actions.' 
 
 '' I thought of the poor old fellow 
 as I last saw him at the table and 
 smiled at the idea, but was too wise 
 to contradict her. After a pause, she 
 said : — 
 
 '''Well, John, you have been very 
 kind and attentive, and I should not 
 like you to get into trouble, so I will 
 do as you wish. But, mind, at the 
 
CAPITAL WINE. 165 
 
 end of twelve months nothing shall 
 stop me throwing all the wine away.' 
 - '' I saw the basket of the ' very 
 particular ' safely restored to its snug 
 bin ; I locked the door, affixed my 
 seal to it, and carried the key away ; 
 rejoicing that I had arrived in time 
 to save the wine. 
 
 '' But my task was not half over. 
 I knew my Aunt so w^ell, and felt 
 sure she would carry out her threat 
 at the expiration of the time named, 
 so I wove a plot to obtain absolute 
 possession of the wine, without putting 
 her in a madhouse, or even forfeiting 
 
 ^her goodwill or any chance legacy. 
 
 B *' I said not another word about 
 the cellar, but, when the summer came, 
 
 IB 
 
 '^persuaded her to go away to the sea- 
 side for a short time. With all her 
 
 IB magnificent conduct as to wasting alco- 
 holic treasures, she was rather near, 
 and said she could not afford it. 
 
 M 
 
1 66 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 She would like to go for a month 
 or two, but found the expenses of 
 her present house too great. I sug- 
 gested letting it furnished for the time 
 to a respectable tenant. She fell in with 
 this suggestion, and when, through 
 the house-agent, my friend Tom Sin- 
 clair offered to take the house at a 
 handsome sum per week, and brought 
 her unexceptional references, the matter 
 was settled. Tom said he had his 
 own servants, so she sent hers away 
 on board wages. On the evening 
 of the day she left, I met Tom by 
 appointment at the house. His ser- 
 vants were all a myth, and there was 
 no one to interfere with us. We broke 
 the seal and opened the door, and 
 found in the cellar, which had been 
 excavated and enlarged by my old 
 uncle's directions, at least five hundred 
 dozens of wine, sleeping in beautifully- 
 arranged bins, peacefully and happily. 
 
CAPITAL WINE. 167 
 
 little dreaming how narrowly they had 
 escaped total destruction. 
 
 " I determined to act with great 
 caution. We had plenty of time before 
 us, and I felt, to escape detection, the 
 cellar must be left as we found it. 
 I made an exact plan of it, marking 
 the contents of the bins, and the 
 number of bottles in each, and also 
 noting the appearance as well as I 
 could. And then, Tom, commissioned 
 by me, went round to auctioneers and 
 wine merchants buying as cheaply as 
 he could all the refuse he could find. 
 Sour claret, fetid sherry, and fusty 
 port formed the staple of his pur- 
 chases. He was a perfect godsend 
 to the lucky tradesmen he patronised, 
 and if they ever imagined he was 
 going to drink his purchases, all who 
 sold him wine were equally guilty of 
 manslaughter. We had it packed and 
 sent to Tom's warehouse, and in two 
 
1 68 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 or three journeys hauled it to my 
 Aunt's and stowed it in the basement. 
 The house was in a quiet neighbour- 
 hood, and stood in a garden, so we 
 ran Httle risk of detection. And then 
 our work began. We were a month 
 at it off and on, and I assure you 
 the labour was so hard that only the 
 thought of the rich reward enabled 
 me to go through with it. We 
 trusted no one, but did everything 
 ourselves. We took the bins regularly, 
 emptied them of their contents, un- 
 packed a sufficient quantity of our 
 dreadful purchases to replace them, 
 and, having done that, filled the empty 
 cases with the real Simon Pure, 
 labelled each with the particulars, and 
 nailed them down. In about a month 
 our work was complete, and the fiive 
 hundred and odd dozens of the old 
 man's cherished wine lay ready pack- 
 ed for removal, whilst, through our 
 
CAPITAL WINE. 169 
 
 carefulness, the cellar presented an 
 appearance very much the same as it 
 did before we commenced our meri- 
 torious task. The risk of detection 
 was rendered less, from my Uncle 
 having followed the old-fashioned plan 
 of filling: the bins with sawdust. This, 
 which was old and dirty, we carefully 
 replaced, and, re-locking and re-sealing 
 the door, after packing the last case, 
 executed a dance of triumph at the 
 success of our plot so far, and fully 
 trusted to our cleverness in completely 
 deceiving the old lady. In the dusk 
 of the evening we sent two large 
 wagons to the house, and by twelve 
 o'clock that night the rescued treasures 
 were safe in Tom's warehouse under 
 lock and key. Of course, our opera- 
 tions had left the basement of my 
 Aunt's house in a terrible litter, so 
 we devoted another week to putting 
 all that straight. This being done to 
 
I70 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 our satisfaction, Tom wrote to Mrs. 
 Slagg, and enclosed a cheque for two 
 months' rent, saying that his plans 
 being changed he Intended to leave 
 the house at once. The old lady, 
 who had grown tired of the seaside, 
 came back, and, although much dis- 
 gusted at the dusty state she found 
 the house in, and vowing nothing 
 should Induce her to let It again, never 
 showed the slightest suspicion of what 
 had transpired during her absence. 
 
 '' Now that I was happy as to the 
 wines, I waited with great curiosity 
 to see whether, at the expiration of 
 the time of probation, she would carry 
 out her intentions. I found she was 
 as firmly resolved as ever, and as I 
 wished to see the end of the affair,, 
 after handing her the key, with a 
 feigned protest, I told her I had 
 almost persuaded myself with her Ideas 
 she could not do otherwise, and offered 
 
CAPITAL WINE. lyr 
 
 to give her any assistance I could 
 in the good work. Almost incredulous, 
 she accepted my aid, and a good 
 work it was to pour the filthy con- 
 tents of those bottles down the kitchen 
 sink. Faugh ! it nearly made us all 
 sick ; but I know my assistance on 
 that occasion secures me a good legacy, 
 as she altered her will in my favour 
 the next day. 
 
 '' The cream of the joke was that^ 
 as the servant girl brought up a 
 basket full of the noxious compounds 
 and reported that this was the very 
 last, my Aunt hesitated for a few 
 minutes, and, as perhaps some tender 
 recollections of her late husband pre- 
 sented themselves, said to me : — 
 
 " ' John, if you would like to take 
 this last dozen, for your poor uncle's 
 sake, you can. I ought to do away 
 with all, I know, but one dozen is 
 very little from the large quantity I. 
 
172 AT WHAT COST. 
 
 have sacrificed. So take it, if you' 
 wish.' 
 
 *' I trembled at the idea, and an« 
 swered as one who overcomes a severe 
 temptation : — 
 
 '' ' My dear Aunt, don't let any Inclina- 
 tion of mine lead you from what you 
 consider your duty. No doubt, I shall 
 be better without It, so let It follow 
 the rest.' 
 
 *' She gave me a grateful smile, and 
 the last dozen of William Slagg's. 
 supposed wine gurgled down the sink, 
 and my Aunt cleaned herself from the 
 stains of the sacrifice, and went to 
 a prayer meeting radiant and happy. 
 She, no doubt, expects her reward 
 hereafter, and doubtless she will receive 
 it, for if ever a good act was done 
 in this world, she did one when she 
 poured away that five hundred dozen 
 of horrible stufT called wine." 
 
 John, having finished his tale, took 
 
CAPITAL WINE. 
 
 173 
 
 a bright little key from his pocket, 
 and rose. 
 
 '' I suppose your friend Sinclair 
 •claimed some of the spoil?" I asked. 
 
 '' O, yes, the wretch ! Wanted a 
 hundred and fifty dozen, but I managed 
 to compound for about half that 
 ■quantity. So my cellar of wine was 
 cheap after all, and I can well spare 
 that other bottle I am now going to 
 fetch." 
 
 THE END. 
 
HTILLOTSON AND SON, STEAM PRINTERS, BOLTON. 
 
" e Route to BELFAST and the NORTH OF IRELAND is 
 
 SHOBT SEA PASSAGE. ROYAL MAIL SERVICE. 
 
 The capacious New Docks of BARROW, situated within the ancient Harbour 
 of Peel, under shelter of Wanley Island, being now open for traffic, the swift' 
 and powerful first-class Paddle Steamships, "DONEGAL" (new Steamer),- 
 " LONDONDERRY" (new Steamer), "ARMAGH," will sail between 
 BARROW and BELFAST (weather permitting), in connection with through 
 Trains to and from all parts of England, as under: — 
 
 I^FROM BARROW-IN-FURNESS TO BELFAST, 
 
 I^K Every Evening (Sundays excepted), at 8 p.m., 
 
 ^sifter arrival of through Trains from LONDON, Harwich, Nottingham, Bristol,- 
 Derb}^ Bradford, Leeds, and all parts of England. 
 
 FROM BELFAST TO BARROW-IN-FURNESS, 
 
 l^ft Every Evening (Sundays excepted), at 8 p.m., 
 
 Ulrriving at Barrow (weather permitting) in time for the through Fast Trains- 
 to Bradford, Leeds, Bristol, Harwich, LONDON, and all parts of England. 
 
 ^N.B. — Trains arrive at and depart from alongside the Steamers. 
 assengers. Goods and Live Stock are booked through at moderate Rates to 
 and from the principal Railway Stations in England and Belfast and the' 
 North of Ireland. JAMES LITTLE & Co., Barrow. 
 
 THE ROUTE TO THE ISLE-OF-MAN IS 
 
 ^^1^ Shortest Sea Passage. Average oiily Three Hours. 
 ^^Hh (Royal Mail Services. 
 
 j^prrom May to the end of September in each year, the Barrow Steam' 
 Navigation Company's First-class New and Swift Paddle-Steamers, "MANX 
 QUEEN," "MANXMAN," or other First-class Paddle-Steamers, will saili 
 daily (Sundays excepted) between 
 
 BARROW & DOUGLAS (Isle of Man.). 
 
 [From BARROW at 1-50 p.m., on arrival of through Trains from all parts 
 England and Scotland. 
 
 •"rom DOUGLAS at 8-10 a.m., arriving in Barrow in time for the Express 
 lins to all parts of England and Scotland. 
 
 fDuring July and August there will be two Sailings daily (Sundays excepted) 
 >m each port. 
 
 S^ Trains arrive at and depart from alongside the Steamers. "^S- 
 
 N.B. — Passengers' Luggage is conveyed from the Trains to the Steamers 
 by the Company's Porters free of charge. 
 
 JAMES LITTLE & Co., Barrow-in-Furness. 
 
Presents I Presents! Presents i 
 
 The New Collarette. 
 
 i/e 
 
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 Send Postal Order for i/6, or 20 Stamps, 
 
 for a Handsome Nickel and Velvet 
 
 Collarette Bracelets to match, 1/6 per 
 
 pair. Waistbands, 3/6. 
 
 Sterling Silver Thimble. 
 
 ±1- 
 
 (guaranteed), 
 
 1/- 
 
 A Solid Silver Thimble for i/-, by Post, 1/2 ; or in a 
 handsome Morocco Case, lined with Velvet and Satin, post 
 free, 1/6. Inside beautifully gilt_, 6d. extra. Pattern Sheet 
 and Price List free on application. Cut a hole in card 
 
 for size. 
 
 pickpockets' lp>u33le. 
 
 ex.. 
 
 (patent). 
 
 ezD- 
 
 Any Watch protected by the above cannot be extracted 
 
 from the wearer's pocket. They also entirely exclude 
 
 dust and damp from entering the movement. Sample, 
 
 post free, 6d. Send diameter of Watcli only. 
 
 SILVER COMPASS PENDANT 
 
 2/e 
 
 (warranted rolled). 
 
 2/e 
 
 This is a Handsome Watch Chain or Albert Appendage, and 
 makes a splendid Present for any gentleman. Sent out packed 
 in a neat box, post free, for 2/6. 
 
 Any of the above Novelties will be sent free to any address in the 
 kingdom, on receipt of Stamps or Postal Orders. 
 
 ROBERT BROWN, Wljolesale Manufacturing Jeweller 
 
 AND MEDALLIST, WATCH & CLOCKMAKER, 
 
 74, MAXWELL ROAD, POLLOCKSHIELDS, and 
 
 75, JAMAICA STREET, GLASGOW. 
 
CHEAP UNIFORM EDITION 
 
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 miss Dora Ijdssell's Novels. 
 
 3sro"W" i^E.A.iD"y- 
 
 PRIOE, 2s. EACH; CLOTH GILT, 2s. 6d. 
 
 I. 
 
 FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW. 
 
 II. 
 THE VICAR'S GOVERNESS. 
 
 III. 
 BENEATH THE WAVE. 
 
 IV. 
 
 ANNABEL'S RIVAL. 
 
 V. 
 
 LADY SEFTON'S PRIDE. 
 
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 JOHN & ROBERT MAXWELL, Milton House, 
 
 14 & 15, Shoe Lane ; and 35, St. Bride Street, Ludgate Circus. 
 
 And at all Railway Bookstalls, Booksellers, and Newsagents. 
 
THE 
 
 Dniyersal Discount Company, 
 
 X.I3yLITEX). 
 
 XCwo CIa66C6 of 3uve5tnient 
 
 ^ HARES, ^5 each, now being issued, 
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 rate of lo per cent, per annum, free of 
 Income Tax. 
 
 ? ^ 
 
 Deposits received at Fixed RateSy 
 and Interest Paid Quarterly. 
 
 For Handbook and further particulars, apply to 
 
 G. GLADSTONE EAMES, 
 
 58, LOMBARD STREET, LONDON, E.C. 
 
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