OF THE 
 
 ni^lVEKSlTY 
 
SOME HAPPENINGS 
 HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL 
 
By HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL 
 
 NOVELS 
 
 some happenings 
 
 fishpingle 
 
 the triumph of tim 
 
 spragge's canyon 
 
 quinneys' 
 
 LOOT 
 
 BLINDS DOWN 
 JOHN VERNEY 
 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 PLAYS 
 
 quinneys* 
 
 searchlights 
 
 jelf's 
 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 NEW YORK 
 
SOME 
 HAPPENINGS 
 
 BY 
 
 HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL 
 
 Author of 
 
 "Fishpingle/' ''The Triumph 
 
 of Tim," etc. 
 
 NEW XS^ YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
Copyright, 1918, 
 By George H, Daran Company 
 
 Printed in the United States of America 
 
sovv 
 
 GEORGE MALCOLM HEATHCOTE 
 
 M597424 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I THE SHADOW ON THE BLIND ----- II 
 
 n THE CHILDREN OF HATE ------ 26 
 
 III AN AMAZING CHRISTMAS EVE ----- 38 
 
 IV THE EIGHTH YEAR -------48 
 
 V THE BLACK VELVET CAP ------ 65 
 
 VI messiter's sister 88 
 
 VII THE SUPREME EVENT - - - - - -I08 
 
 VIII fenella's bounder 127 
 
 IX A CUTLET FOR A CUTLET 147 
 
 X THE WAITRESS AT SANTY ----- 161 
 
 XI THE DEATH MASK - 175 
 
 XII THE LACQUER CABINET - - - - - -197 
 
 XIII A BRETON LOVE-STORY - - - - - -215 
 
 XIV jimmy's REST CURE ------ 234 
 
 XV BEANFEASTERS - - - - - - -25O 
 
 XVI THE GRAND SLAM ------- 261 
 
 XVII bingo's FLUTTER - - - - - - -281 
 
 XVni BULWINKLE &C0. - - - - - - - 30O 
 
 XIX DOG-LEG RAPIDS 317 
 
 vu 
 
SOME HAPPENINGS 
 
SOME HAPPENINGS 
 
 THE SHADOW ON THE BLIND 
 
 HOBO GEORGE was beach-combing at Catalina Is- 
 land when word came to him, through a somewhat 
 tainted source, that his father had struck it "rich." Really 
 convincing details were lacking, but Hobo intended to sup- 
 ply these for himself and by himself. The old man, so 
 he heard, had bought some cattle and hogs, a new barn had 
 been built, and an old house repainted. 
 
 **Can you beat it ?" exclaimed Hobo. 
 
 His companion, who had actually seen these amazing "im- 
 provements," hazarded the conjecture that the old man 
 might be fixing things to get married again. Hobo dis- 
 missed this as unthinkable. 
 
 "I know Pop," he affirmed positively, "better'n he knows 
 hisself. He didn't hev no box at the opery with Maw, far 
 from it. No harmony, ye understand; all give from Maw 
 Tind all take from him." 
 
 His companion looked puzzled. 
 
 "All give from her? What she give, Hobo?** 
 
 George replied promptly : 
 
 "First, last, and all the time— hell !" 
 
 Next day Hobo crossed the seas and took the north road. 
 
 II 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 He was no tramp, in the professional sense of the word, 
 but he had consorted much with tramps^ and knew the tricks 
 of the trade. He meant to beat his way to the old home- 
 stead some five hundred miles away. He did it. 
 
 During his journeyings curiosity consumed him. He was 
 vaguely sensible, also, of the lure of home — a home, such 
 as it was, which he had left suddenly and under regrettable 
 circumstances, with the injunction not to come back. He 
 had intended to obey this injunction. 
 
 *'Had the old man struck it rich, and, if so, how?" 
 
 Of one thing he was quite sure : the curiosity which con- 
 sumed him would not be slaked by the author of his being. 
 
 The day dawned when he beheld the "improvements." 
 Yes, money had paid for them — unearned money, because 
 the old man was incapable of doing more than eking out 
 a bare existence upon a rough mountain ranch. As a miner, 
 in the good old days of rich placers, he might have pros- 
 pered ; as a farmer he was honourably known, far and wide, 
 as one of the many who never got there. 
 
 But he had got there, apparently, with both feet. 
 
 In a saloon in Highville, a collection of shacks situated 
 some five miles from his sire's domain. Hobo gleaned more 
 information from the bar-keep, who was what the French 
 call ''une bonne gazette du pays/' The bar-keep did not 
 recognise Hobo. Probably his own mother, had she been 
 alive, would have failed to identify her son. 
 
 Hobo listened attentively to the bar-keep and others. Two 
 of these were gamblers of the ''tinhorn" brand, with evil 
 reputations as bad men. One and all were unanimous in 
 declaring that the old man had the dust. 
 
 ''Dust?" repeated Hobo. "Ther' ain't no dust left in these 
 parts." 
 
 ^'He has it," said the bar-keep. 
 
 "Mebbe," said Hobo tentatively, "the old man plastered" 
 
 12 
 
The Shadow on the Blind 
 
 (mortgaged) "the ranch to pay for these yere improve- 
 ments ?" 
 
 "Not he," replied the bar-keep. "A friend of mine took 
 a squint at the records just to see. If the old man has a 
 weakness, it's bein' overly fond o' braggin' that what he 
 owns is paid fer." 
 
 "Thet's so," assented Hobo. 
 
 "You know him?" 
 
 Hobo answered evasively : 
 
 "I ain't seen him fer ten years." 
 
 "Wal — he ain't changed any. And ther's another thmg, 
 boys. Once a miner, allers a miner. The old man begun 
 life in the placers. He noses about these hills with his gun, 
 but I reckon he's lookin' for gold most o' the time." 
 
 One of the gamblers said reflectively: 
 
 "Boys, I'd like to have half the dust that has passed 
 over this yere bar." 
 
 "You bet!" replied the bar-keep. 
 
 This was in allusion to the days of yore, the golden days 
 long since gone by, when Highville had been Highville, a 
 mining town of five thousand men transmuted now into 
 dust other than that for which they bartered souls and 
 bodies. 
 
 Another gambler murmured tentatively: 
 
 "He may have found a cache." 
 
 "Quite likely," replied the bar-keep. "That's my own idee. 
 If he came around any, we'd be better posted; but he sets 
 to home. Two trips he's made, and nary a word about 
 'em. Cunning as a coyote ! If it is dust, more'n likely he 
 makes a bee-line for San Francisco, for the Mint. He paid 
 for his improvements in gold twenties." 
 
 Hobo noticed that the gamblers licked their lips, like hun- 
 gry hounds ; but the talk wandered back into other channels. 
 
 Hobo went forth into the night. 
 
 13 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 And he slept cosily in his sire's new barn, amongst 
 fragrant hay, with the pungent odour of tarweed in his 
 nostrils. So snug did he lie that he overslept himself, and 
 was discovered curled up by his father, and incontinently 
 cast as rubbish to the void under a copious torrent of lan- 
 guage more easily imagined than printable. Hobo fled. As 
 he crawled through a barbed wire fence he muttered to 
 himself: *'He ain't changed any; and, by Jukes, he didn't 
 know me— m^^ his only son and heir !" 
 
 He spent that day upon the ranch, playing spy upon his 
 father; but the old man never wandered far from the cor- 
 rals. Hobo noticed that he lived alone, doing his own 
 "chores." When night fell. Hobo crawled back into the 
 barn and finished what was left of a ''poke out" (cold food) 
 handed to him by a good Samaritan some twenty-four hours 
 before. After this light supper he stalked, clutched, and 
 strangled a nice young chicken asleep upon its perch. He 
 found also three new-laid eggs and a sack of potatoes. He 
 was pocketing some potatoes, when he perceived a light in 
 the house. Knowing his sire's habits, this surprised him. 
 The light came from the sitting-room through a drawn 
 blind, and on that blind, plainly silhouetted, black upon 
 amber, was the shadow of his father's head. 
 
 Whatever was the old man up to ? 
 
 Hobo kept vigil for some three hours. Then the light 
 was extinguished. Next morning Hobo left the barn be- 
 times, taking his provant with him. In a snug gulch, far 
 from human eyes, he built his fire and cooked his chicken, 
 with potatoes "on the side." After a full meal he smoked 
 for an hour, and then fell asleep. Curiosity permeated his 
 dreams. It became more importunate when he awoke. He 
 decided to allay irritation, both physical and mental, by 
 taking a bath. It was a very hot day in August, and he 
 remembered a pool in the creek wherein he went swimming 
 14 
 
The Shadow on the Blind 
 
 as a boy. He might have bathed in half-a-dozen pools, but 
 fancy — or was it something else ? — led him uphill to this par- 
 ticular spot. As he walked, glimpses of a not unhappy 
 childhood were vouchsafed to him. He had been a foothill 
 boy, running wild amongst wild flowers and wild creatures. 
 After many years he was in the Paradise which he had 
 reckoned to be his own. In it and yet hopelessly out of it. 
 He found the pool, but there was no water in it. The 
 creek, a mountain torrent in the winter, had changed its 
 channel. Hobo sat down. The creek was singing an 
 inviting song some fifty yards away; but the desire to 
 bathe had been side-tracked. Hobo sat staring at the sand 
 and gravel at the bottom of his former bath. His father 
 had been at work here. Why? 
 
 At this moment the insistent problem of a fortnight 
 was solved. The bar-keep had guessed aright. His father 
 had found gold in this silt— gold washed out of the quartz 
 formations above. In early days gold had been taken out 
 of this creek in large quantities. 
 
 Hobo whistled softly to himself. The unaccustomed 
 light in the sitting-room illumined his understanding. The 
 old man was by nature secretive and cautious. To rock the 
 gold out of this silt in the daytime meant discovery. With 
 infinite labour and patience he must have carried the sand 
 and gravel to his house. At night he extracted from the 
 silt the precious dust. In San Francisco he exchanged that 
 dust for the big, shining twenties. 
 
 Hobo whistled the same tune many times. Then it 
 occurred to him that he might be discovered by his sire. 
 So he withdrew, still whistling, to a patch of chaparral 
 which commanded a view of the sometime pool. He kept 
 careful watch, but nobody appeared. Probably, so he re- 
 flected, the old man worked here by moonlight, removing 
 enough gravel to keep him busy when the nights were 
 
 15 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 dark. He was not one to run risks — a reason, perhaps, 
 why he had not prospered as a farmer. 
 
 Presently Hobo evolved a plan. He must ingratiate 
 himself with his sire — no easy task. To return boldly as 
 the repentant prodigal with an eye upon the fatted calf 
 would be courting disaster. On the other hand, the suc- 
 cessful carrying-out of his plan included a sacrifice of what 
 he deemed his most precious possession — leisure. He 
 would have to work, and he abhorred work. 
 
 He was frowning, not whistling, as he wended his way 
 back to the house. 
 
 His sire saw him approaching the corral. Hobo sauntered 
 up with his pipe in his mouth. 
 
 "What you want?" growled the father. 
 
 *'Work," repHed the son. "I aim to pay my debts. I 
 owe you for a night's lodgin'. Lemme split up some 
 stove-wood." 
 
 As he spoke he wondered whether some familiar inflec- 
 tion of his voice might betray him. The old man said 
 grimly : 
 
 'Thar's the wood-pile." 
 
 Without another word Hobo went to work. He laboured 
 diligently, knowing the short, sure cut to his sire's heart. 
 He had split wood as pay for many a meal, and he knew 
 to a splinter what was expected of the ordinary tramp. 
 The old man milked a couple of cows and attended to his 
 horses and hogs. Hobo went on splitting wood. After a 
 couple of hours' work he saw his father approaching him. 
 This was the fateful moment, and Hobo governed himself 
 accordingly. He went on wielding his axe with vigour. 
 
 "Who air ye?" asked the father. 
 
 The son answered cheerfully: 
 
 *TVIr. Nobody from back o' Nowhere." 
 
 "Jest so. A stranger?" Hobo nodded. He was noting 
 i6 
 
The Shadow on the Blind 
 
 signs of age in his father — the dimmed eyes, the bowed 
 back, the tired, trembhng hands. The old man continued 
 aggressively: ''What you doin' in these hills?" 
 
 Hobo laughed. As he did so, the father started. He 
 had not heard that laugh for ten years. His face relaxed 
 a little. 
 
 "I like the foothills," said Hobo. '1 was raised in 'em. 
 I like the smell of 'em." 
 
 ^'Better'n the smell o' whisky?'* 
 
 *'Much better. I ain't no use fer whisky." 
 
 "Mebbe I fired you outer my barn overly quick yester- 
 day. I took ye for a hobo; and I'm scairt sick o' folks 
 smokin' in barns." 
 
 ''Don't blame ye; it's a mighty nice barn. Ther's one 
 the dead spit o' that in my old home, an' plum full o' jest 
 such sweet hay." 
 
 "W^al, you kin sleep in it agen, if ye've a mind to." 
 
 "That's O.K., pervided I do yer chores to-morrer 
 mornin'." 
 
 "I allow yer a whale to work. Supper'll be ready in 
 jest one hour." 
 
 The old man went into the house. Hobo smiled and lit 
 his pipe. 
 
 "It's a cinch," he murmured. 
 
 II 
 
 A week passed. 
 
 Hobo was working for his board, and working hard. 
 The old man attended to that. He slept in the barn and 
 took his meals in the kitchen. Each night the lamp burned 
 in the sitting-room; each night Hobo saw the shadow of 
 his father's head, black against amber, upon the drawn 
 blind. He watched and waited, biding his chance, knowing 
 
 17 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 that the right moment would come, and with it a rich 
 father's forgiveness. Oddly enough, for the first time 
 in his idle life, appetite for work came with the working. 
 Hobo realised that he was working for himself — a fact 
 which completely changed his point of view. Day by day, 
 the thought that this would be his ranch in the fullness 
 of time grew upon him. He stripped his cows carefully, 
 conscious of former shortcomings in this regard. He 
 mended fence without orders, duly sensible that his cattle 
 might escape. He picked ''stickers" out of his horses' 
 mouths, and whistled when he groomed them. And all 
 the time he knew that he was earning not money but a 
 tacit approval which meant money. Each day relaxed the 
 indurated sinews of his sire's tongue; but of the precious 
 dust, not a whisper ! 
 
 But it was there. He knew that. He had guessed 
 aright. The old miner had not covered his tracks. They 
 led straight from the creek to the house. Hobo had at- 
 tempted more than once to explore the house, but his 
 father was too cunning for him. One door led from the 
 kitchen into the house, and that door was locked. The 
 front door, never used, was locked also, and heavily 
 barred. And Hobo never doubted that his father was 
 always watching him, keenly alert, and quite ready to 
 "pull a gun" without asking unnecessary questions. Let 
 it be said frankly that Hobo had no intention of robbing 
 his father. Rehabilitation had become a fixed idea. The 
 vagabondage of the previous ten years lay behind him. He 
 envisaged peace and plenty at home. 
 
 At least twenty times a day he murmured to himself: 
 "It's a cinch." 
 
 Finally, the moment came. Father and son were at 
 supper, warmed by good food and hot coffee. The gambit 
 was opened by the old man. He said abruptly: 
 i8 
 
The Shadow on the Blind 
 
 "I had a son like you onct." 
 
 "Is thet so?" 
 
 "Yep." 
 
 "Dead?" 
 
 "Dead ter— me." 
 
 **A scallywag, I reckon?" 
 
 "Of the worst kind." 
 
 "Throwin' bokays at me, ain't ye? Why, if it don't 
 worry you to answer sech questions, d'ye say that this yere 
 scallywag, now dead to you, was like me?" 
 
 The old man finished his coffee. 
 
 "George," he replied drawlingly, "hed eyes like yourn 
 and the same kind o' laugh. He was stout-built, was 
 George. You 'mind me of him. Yep. My George was 
 spoiled in the bakin'. What was worst in the boy come 
 from his Maw." 
 
 Hobo, not quite at his ease, said coolly enough : 
 
 "You lost track of him?" 
 
 "Yep. I allers suspicioned that he'd come back to at- 
 tend my funeral." 
 
 Hobo lit his cig, conscious that his sire's dimmed eyes 
 were smouldering. He replied, not too happily: 
 
 "Mebbe he will." 
 
 The old man snapped out viciously: 
 
 "Mebbe he'll turn in his checks first — a nice set o' papers, 
 too !" 
 
 Hobo murmured uncomfortably : 
 
 "Say, what you got agin him?" 
 
 "I'll tell ye. He was allers a loafer of the worst kind, 
 was George. Never worked 'cep' with his jaw; a loafer, 
 and a liar, and a thief. He stole from me, he did." 
 
 "You paid this yere George wages, I reckon?" 
 
 "No. I calcilated to do so. I'd fattened him up, good 
 and soHd, for twenty years. He owed me consid'able." 
 
 19 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 "I guess you owed him something?" 
 
 The two men glared at each other. The father stood 
 up, a gaunt, forbidding figure. 
 
 ''Ye're George!" he said thickly. "I knew ye bang off, 
 when I heard ye laugh. I know what ye're here for. Ye 
 came back to play the spy! But I did the double twist on 
 ye! You pulled the wrong stop, young man. Now, if 
 there*s a derned thing of me in you, own up that yer a 
 loser!" 
 
 He ended with a derisive cackle. 
 
 Hobo shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "Looks like it," he admitted. ''But ye'll allow that I've 
 worked hard fer my board?" 
 
 He rose slowly and faced his father. 
 
 "Ye kin git outer this — quick. I've no use for a fraud." 
 
 'T'm yer only son. Pop." 
 
 "Quit that! The prodigal-son turn has whiskers on it. 
 If ye'd played it straight, come to me like a man, and 
 axed fer fergiveness, I might hev given ye one more 
 chanst. You don't want me — never did. Ye're after what 
 I've got. Wal, it'll come to ye after I'm dead, and I 
 reckon ter live some time yet. Skin out!" 
 
 He pointed to the door. 
 
 Hobo went. 
 
 Ill 
 
 A dull anger possessed him, the futile rage of the 
 baffled and discomfited schemer. This dim-eyed old man 
 had fooled him. That rankled. He went back to the 
 barn to get his blankets. He had no intention of tres- 
 passing further upon his sire's hospitality. Apart from 
 his anger, his thoughts were turning southward, to the land 
 of sunshine, the paradise of the beach-comber and tramp. 
 He would come north again when his father died. 
 20 
 
The Shadow on the Blind 
 
 Having rolled his blankets, he sat down in the sweet- 
 smelling hay. At this moment he became aware of voices. 
 Instantly he was alert. The voices were hushed and inar- 
 ticulate, attenuated whispers. Hobo wriggled through the 
 hay. Two men were talking together just outside the 
 bam. It was too dark to see them, but instantly he identi- 
 fied them as being the "tinhorn" gamblers whom he had 
 met in Highville. As instantly he divined their purpose — 
 robbery and murder. He divined also, recalling vividly 
 the mean, simian faces of the gamblers, that they would 
 take no ''chances." The old man had a reputation as a 
 shot. To ''hold him up" in his own house would be a 
 difficult and dangerous enterprise. 
 
 Hobo listened to their talk. 
 
 Yes, they had a plan. Obviously, these two scoundrels 
 had played, in their turn, the spy. They had seen the 
 shadow on the blind. They intended to shoot through 
 the blind, to kill the worker at his work, and then to rob 
 him at their leisure. 
 
 Hobo shivered as temptation tore at him. The old man 
 had ordered him peremptorily to go — quick. If he obeyed 
 his sire; if before dawn he put many miles between him- 
 self and the ranch ; if he lay low for a few weeks till the 
 papers advertised for him, his object in coming north 
 would be triumphantly achieved. 
 
 Something else occurred to him. He might be accused 
 of his father's murder. The mere fact that a tramp had 
 been seen upon the ranch working for his board — and 
 surely these two spies must have seen him — would be 
 deadly evidence against him. From his knowledge of such 
 men it was more than likely that they had deliberately 
 planned to fasten the guilt upon him. Probably, also, the 
 very murderers would help Judge Lynch to execute foot- 
 hill law. What an easy way of saving their own skins ! 
 
 21 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 The cold sweat broke out upon him. 
 
 He crawled back to his blankets and stole out of the 
 barn, ready to take the road. He could see the house and 
 a light in the kitchen. Soon there would be a light in 
 the parlour. 
 
 Hobo crossed the cow-corral, climbed it, and struck 
 into the home pasture. He walked quickly, pausing now 
 and again to listen. He heard a thud of following steps, 
 and something large and uncanny loomed up behind him. 
 It was his father's old saddle-horse, whom he had fed and 
 watered each night and morning. He put out his hand, 
 and a soft muzzle was thrust into it. Hobo had always 
 been fond of animals, and they liked him. He stroked 
 the velvety nose of the old sorrel with a cold and trem- 
 bling hand. . 
 
 ''Gee !" he muttered. "I can't do it !" 
 
 He couldn't explain why this reaction had set in. He 
 stood still, patting the neck of the horse, hesitating be- 
 cause he was wondering what he should say to his father. 
 The old man was capable of believing that another "wrong 
 stop" had been pulled on him. The gamblers might over- 
 hear voices and postpone their undertaking. But sooner or 
 later they would "down" an old man living by himself, 
 engrossed in his own business. 
 
 Hobo cautiously retraced his steps. 
 
 He had been ready enough to confront his father with 
 a lie, but the truth palsied his lips. The old man had no 
 use for a — fraud! 
 
 As he climbed the corral fence, the pine poles upon 
 which he had sat as a boy, he saw that the light in the 
 kitchen was out. The parlour lay upon the other side of 
 the house. Hobo fetched a compass, skirting the small 
 garden-yard, enclosed in a cypress fence. 
 
 A light burned in the parlour. 
 
 22 
 
The Shadow on the Blind 
 
 He hastened back to the kitchen and entered the house. 
 Not a moment was to be lost. There was a rubber hose 
 in the kitchen. That told the tale of the washing. Prob- 
 ably his father kept the sacks of gravel in the cellar. The 
 door between the kitchen and the house was unlocked. 
 
 Hobo wasted no time in vain speculation. He left the 
 kitchen, crossed a narrow passage, and opened the parlour 
 door, too excited to be aware that he ran no small risk 
 of being shot dead as he did so. 
 
 The parlour was empty. All the furniture had been 
 taken out. Nothing remained but what was necessary to 
 wash the gold out of the gravel. The floor was inches 
 deep in silt. Two big tubs and the rocker stood near a 
 table upon which a lamp burned steadily. 
 
 For a moment Hobo forgot the two men outside. The 
 cellar was underneath the parlour, and he could just hear 
 his father moving about below. Upon the table lay a 
 shot-gun, loaded, it might be presumed, with buck-shot. 
 The table was against the wall, and the rocker stood 
 between the lamp and the drawn blind. 
 
 Hobo had always been fairly quick to think for himself, 
 but the faculty of thinking for others may have been 
 atrophied by disuse. He stood still, wondering whether 
 the old man carried a pistol. U he did, he could not use 
 it, burdened as he would be with a hundredweight of 
 gravel. Yes, yes, he would have ample time to explain. 
 It never occurred to him to turn out the lamp, because, as 
 has been said, he was thinking of his father and not of 
 the two men in ambush. 
 
 A shot rang out. 
 
 Hobo fell in a crumpled heap upon the spot where he 
 stood, as a buck falls when the bullet flies true to its mark. 
 The two men outside waited a moment, and then ap- 
 proached the house. Hobo's father, hearing the shot, left 
 
 23 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 the cellar. A door slammed loudly. The two men 
 bolted, believing that they had missed their quarry. 
 
 Hobo's father entered the parlour. 
 
 Instinct told him what had happened. He turned down 
 the lamp and pulled up the blind. A broken pane of 
 glass met his glance. He threw up the sash of the window, 
 seized his shot-gun, and looked out. The ground in front 
 of the house, beyond the cypress fence, was covered with 
 brush and sloped sharply to the creek. In the stillness 
 of the night the old man could hear the crackling of broken 
 twigs. He turned up the lamp and knelt down beside the 
 heap of rags upon the floor. 
 
 He was quite certain that George was dead. 
 
 He lay curiously still, as if asleep. The father searched 
 for the wound and found it. Then he started back with 
 an exclamation. 
 
 George had been creased. 
 
 The old hunter knew well what "creasing" was. He had 
 creased more than one fine buck. The bullet passes 
 through the flesh of the neck, almost grazing the spinal 
 vertebrae. Shock causes the beast to drop as if stone-dead 
 in its tracks. And he recovers consciousness as instan- 
 taneously, jumping up and galloping oflF unhurt. 
 
 Presently, at any moment, George would open his eyes, 
 none the worse save for a shallow cut. Standing en proHl 
 to the assassin, who had aimed at his head, he had escaped 
 death by a hair's-breadth. 
 
 But what was George doing in this room? Why had a 
 bullet struck the son instead of the father? 
 
 With some difficulty he lifted George into a chair and 
 waited. What he expected came to pass. George recov- 
 ered instant consciousness. He jumped up, confronting 
 his father, obviously unaware of what had passed. He 
 spoke excitedly: 
 24 
 
The Shadow on the Blind 
 
 "Pop, I come back to warn ye. Two tinhorns from 
 Highville air out thar. I heard 'em talkin' back o' the 
 barn. Me and you'll cop 'em, if we git a move on." 
 
 The Oxd man answered slowly, staring into the eager 
 eyes of his son, seeing once again the child he had held 
 upon his knee. 
 
 "They hev got a move on," he said. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 *'Them skunks hev vamoosed. I'm kinder under obliga- 
 tions to 'em. Me and you, George, '11 stay right here — 
 an' begin agen." 
 
 Hobo betrayed some astonishment. 
 
 "I'm feelin' dazed, Pop. But them fellers air out thar — 
 sure." 
 
 "No, they ain't." 
 
 Then, with a queer smile upon his lips, he touched his 
 son's neck, and showed him an encarmined finger. 
 
 "Whatever's that. Pop?" 
 
 "It's blood, my son. Yours and — mine." 
 
 25 
 
II 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF HATE 
 
 THE Root-Diggle feud began about a strip of Californian 
 land (part of a Spanish grant, but subsequently dis- 
 covered to be the property of Uncle Sam), which was 
 taken up by a third party, Jack Hart, who lived undis- 
 turbed between enemies who had, perhaps, exhausted 
 hatred upon each other with none to spare for a new- 
 comer. The feud was a blood feud, for Sam Diggle and 
 Abe Root had shot each other to bits in a saloon near 
 Seco. Each recovered of his wounds ; each vowed ven- 
 geance on the other ; each avoided contact with the other. 
 In a sense the land about which they had quarrelled be- 
 came a buffer between them. And, living in different 
 townships, the children of each went to different schools. 
 
 And so it came to pass that the younger members of 
 the two families had never met, although they were care- 
 fully trained to loathe each other. 
 
 Some years after the shooting affair, Johnnie Diggle 
 went trout-fishing in the creek which runs through his 
 father's ranch. But, as Johnnie knew, that part of the 
 creek was nearly fished out. Upon the Hart ranch, as 
 Johnnie also knew, the trout were allowed to increase and 
 multiply in peace. From early youth Johnnie had been posi- 
 tively enjoined not to trespass upon land where he might 
 meet an enemy. The Root children had received similar 
 orders. Johnnie, however, was a keen fisherman, and in 
 the Californian foothills the Fifth Commandment is re- 
 garded as a counsel of perfection. 
 26 
 
The Children of Hate 
 
 Upon this pleasant April afternoon Johnnie was filling 
 his basket. He fished diligently. After the fishing, 
 before he returned home to do "chores," he intended to 
 have a nap under some live-oak. It was a slightly sultry 
 day, and he felt sleepy. Presently, he lay down, closed 
 his eyes, and slumbered blissfully. When he awoke a 
 little girl was staring at him, with a faint smile upon her 
 face. She had been watching him intently for more than- 
 a minute, wondering vaguely who he might be. Johnnie 
 sat up, rubbed his eyes, and said: 
 
 "Hello !" 
 
 "Hello!" she replied demurely. Then, as if presenting 
 an excuse for her presence, she said softly: 
 
 "You bin fishin'?" 
 
 He stood up. 
 
 "Yep. You like to see my fish?" 
 
 She nodded. Johnnie displayed the speckled beauties, 
 uneasily conscious that he had not asked leave to fish this 
 part of the creek, and that the girl looking pensively at 
 the trout might be the daughter of a neighbour with whom 
 he and his had no dealings. He decided to propitiate her 
 by offering part of the spoil. She declined the offer with 
 embarrassment. Johnnie wanted to ask her name, but her 
 increasing shyness infected him. She turned to go with- 
 out a word. 
 
 "Where's your hurry?" asked the boy. He was just 
 twelve, and the maid shyly glancing at him from beneath 
 the shade of her sun-bonnet might have been a year 
 younger. Behold them as children of the sun and wind, 
 clear of skin and eyes, straight and lissome, perfectly 
 healthy but otherwise undistinguished. Had they changed 
 clothes, the boy would have passed easily as a girl, and 
 vice versa. 
 
 The girl paused and came back. 
 
 7.7 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 "I ain't in no particular hurry." 
 
 She smiled, and to Johnnie, at that instant, she stood 
 revealed as — SHE. Hitherto he had despised girls, and 
 kept aloof from them. He smiled back, artlessly. 
 
 "Gee!" he exclaimed. "I like you." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "I dunno. I think yer the peartest thing I ever seen. 
 What's your first name?'* 
 
 "Mandie." 
 
 "I'm Johnnie." 
 
 Had Mandie replied: "My name is Amanda Root," 
 one wonders whether inherited hate would have triumphed 
 over incipient love. To Mandie — incredible as it may 
 seem — ^Johnnie had been metamorphosed into a fairy 
 prince, wearing shining armour. To Johnnie the tow- 
 headed, blue-eyed girl who stood upon one leg and gently 
 rubbed herself with the other had come straight out of 
 Dreamland. He wondered how he could impress her. 
 
 "Like ter see me tickle a trout?" he asked. 
 
 Mandie nodded. 
 
 He took her hand in his and knelt down, signing to her 
 to do as he did. Together, side by side, they wriggled 
 through the grass till they came to the creek. Johnnie, 
 finger upon lip, peered keenly into the pool. He had 
 marked, an hour before, a fat trout who had paid no atten- 
 tion to the grasshopper dangled above his nose. The trout 
 lay close to the bank, with head up-stream. Johnnie bared 
 an arm and sHd his hand into the water. Mandie, much 
 excited, craned forward. The trout vanished. 
 
 "You scared him," said Johnnie. 
 
 "I didn't." 
 
 "Never mind! It's awful hot. Let's paddle." 
 
 They paddled contentedly, chattering like monkeys, each 
 intent upon impressing the other favourably. They might 
 28 
 
The Children of Hate 
 
 have been two nice congenial boys. But the boy, not 
 the girl, remembered the flight of time. He explained that 
 he would be late for his "chores." 
 
 "Me too," said Mandie. 
 
 Johnnie became tongue-tied. Mandie, apparently, suf- 
 fered from the same infirmity. When the silence grew 
 oppressive, the boy said abruptly : 
 
 "So long!" 
 
 "So long," replied Mandie. 
 
 They separated, but each turned simultaneously for a 
 parting glance. Johnnie made a supreme effort: 
 
 "See you here to-morrer, mebbe?" 
 
 "Mebbe." 
 
 "Gee !" exclaimed Johnnie, addressing a blue jay. "Am't 
 she a daisy?" 
 
 The blue jay screamed derisively and flew off. Johnnie 
 noticed that the bird followed Mandie. 
 
 He returned home in the highest spirits. The trout 
 were served at supper, and Johnnie, finding himself in 
 favour, hazarded a question. 
 
 "Say, Pop, what sort o' feller is Jake Hart?" 
 
 Mr. Diggle answered promptly: 
 
 "Pore white trash, Johnnie. He jumped a claim that 
 rightly belongs ter me. You let him stew in his own juice, 
 my son." 
 
 "Yep. Has Jakea fam'ly. Pop?" 
 
 "Yer mighty curious. You know right well that he has a 
 fam'ly — a lot o' bare-legged kids as ugly and ignerunt as 
 himself." 
 
 "Scum!" added Mrs. Diggle. 
 
 Johnnie blushed, but nobod<y noticed that. His last 
 thought, as he fell asleep, was — 
 
 "Will Mandie be thar, to-morrow?" 
 
 « • • • • 
 
 29 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 He arrived first at the trysting-place, a-quiver with ex- 
 citement, straining his ears to catch the sound of her 
 approaching steps. But when she appeared certain care- 
 fully prepared speeches were abbreviated into one word : 
 
 *'Hello !'^ 
 
 "That you, Johnnie?" said the maid. 
 
 "Yep— it's me." 
 
 "I come up the creek," continued Mandie. 
 
 "I come down it." 
 
 After this superlative effort conversation languished. It 
 quickened into life again when Mandie asked the following 
 confounding question: 
 
 *'Say, Johnnie, are you acquainted with the Diggles ?" 
 
 "You bet," replied the boy. 
 
 "Hateful crowd," said Mandie viciously. 
 
 By this time they were sitting together under the live-oak, 
 where Johnnie had fallen asleep. 
 
 "Hateful?" repeated Johnnie. 
 
 "Mean skunks." 
 
 Now Johnnie Diggle was no fool. The wilderness had 
 sharpened his wits rather than his tongue. And, habitually, 
 he thought before he spoke. He guessed that Mandie was 
 a Root, and he divined also that she had taken him for a 
 Hart. It would be kind not to undeceive her. But, being a 
 Diggle, he felt constrained to say something derogatory 
 about the Roots, with a mental reservation to exclude the 
 female members of that family. Accordingly he drawled 
 out: 
 
 "I like the Diggles first-rate, what I seen of 'em. They 
 ain't like the Root boys." 
 
 "What you say?" 
 
 "Them Root boys is scum. The Diggles is— quality." 
 
 Mandie opened her mouth and closed it again. She was 
 not quite so sharp as Johnnie. For example she still be- 
 
 30 
 
The Children of Hate 
 
 lieved that she was speaking to a Hart, and indignation 
 filled her innocent heart because a Hart, not acquainted with 
 Root, dared to describe as "scum" her own brothers. 
 Nevertheless she said : 
 
 *'You know the Root boys, Johnnie?" 
 
 ''I've heard a heap about 'em." 
 
 *'I reckon you heard — lies." 
 
 "Mebbe you're acquainted with the Root boys?" 
 
 Mandie dissembled in her turn. She decided quickly 
 that this nice Hart boy must be trained to a proper ap- 
 preciation of the Roots. Probably, he was feeling sore 
 because the Roots had ignored the existence of the Harts. 
 She murmured reflectively : 
 
 "1 ate turkey dinner with the Roots last Thanksgiving." 
 
 "Is that so ? Wal— the Diggles had turkey and ham and 
 mince pie and plum-puddin' and pop-overs and " 
 
 "How do you know?" 
 
 "Because I was thar." 
 
 Something defiant in his tone revealed the truth. He was 
 Johnnie Diggle, one of the hateful skunks! If she be- 
 haved like a true Root, she ought to rise up, denounce him 
 and leave him. 
 
 But she didn't ! Instinct saved the situation. She liked 
 Johnnie and he liked her; but she wondered whether he 
 would go on liking her when the truth shone blindingly 
 upon him. It would be unkind to enlighten him too soon. 
 Whilst these reflections were passing through her mind, 
 she felt Johnnie's hand on hers. She pretended not to no- 
 tice it. Then she heard him say gently : 
 
 "I ain't nothing agen the Root wimmen-folk." 
 
 To this Mandie replied briskly : 
 
 "Let's talk o' things." 
 
 "Let's." 
 
 "You begin, Johnnie." 
 
 31 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 Johnnie, thus adjured, said valiantly: 
 
 "Vd like mighty well to show you my cave. If you was 
 a boy we might live in it. I found it, when I was huntin' 
 abalones. It's my secret hidin'-place. You git into it at 
 low tide. It's low tide now." 
 
 Mandie said fervently: 
 
 "I'd jest love to see it." 
 
 "But you'd tell about it, bein' a girl." 
 
 Mandie rose sorrowfully, turned her back, and wandered 
 half-a-dozen steps from Johnnie. He pursued her. 
 
 *'Mandie, I was jokin'. I was — honest Injun! You 
 come along, right now." 
 
 They had a mile to go. Love-making beguiled the way. 
 Johnnie was not a boy to do things ansemically. He began 
 resolutely : 
 
 "I'd jest as lief marry you, Mandie. Why not?" Mandie 
 blushed. 
 
 "Then we could live in the cave. I'd be busy fishin' 
 from the rocks and you'd do the cookin'." 
 
 "I'd like to fish some, Johnnie." 
 
 "Thar's honey to be got. I know two bee trees. And 
 thar's clams. We'd hev a hog-killin' time. Say, Mandie, 
 will you marry me?" 
 
 "You mean jest fer — fun?" 
 
 "I mean fer keeps, ever and ever — Amen ! I kiss you ; 
 you kiss me. I say : *I marry you,' and you say : *I marry 
 you.' It's as easy as easy. Then you're mine and I'm 
 yours — see ?" 
 
 Mandie nodded. But if he knew — ! She stood still, 
 staring at him. Then she whispered, gaspingly: 
 
 "Thar's our folks." 
 
 They looked hard at each other. Johnnie burst out 
 desperately : 
 
 "S'pose I was a Diggle?" 
 32 
 
The Children of Hate 
 
 "S'posel wasaRoot?" 
 
 "I shouldn't keer overly much." 
 
 *'Nor me neither." 
 
 *'\Val— I am a Diggle." 
 
 ''And I'm a Root." 
 
 They breathed more freely, smiling faintly at each other. 
 Excitement tickled them agreeably. 
 
 "We'll git married in the cave," said Johnnie. 
 
 "Yes," murmured the maid. 
 
 They followed the creek down till it became an estuary, 
 and then paddled happily across the sands till they came to 
 the rocks where abalones may be found at low tide. The 
 rocks were kelp-covered and slippery. Johnnie took 
 Mandie's arm. 
 
 "It's my own cave, Mandie. I found it." 
 Hand in hand they entered the wonderful place, car- 
 peted with fine white sand which sloped sharply to the sea. 
 The children wandered on and upward till a smaller cave 
 presented itself. To this sanctuary the boy had carried 
 rough pine boards, out of which he had fashioned a rude 
 table, a bench, and something approximating to a bunk, 
 which he had filled with dried grass and fern. Mandie 
 clapped her hands with delight. 
 
 "Oh, Johnnie; it's jest too lovely for anything." 
 'Now, Mandie, we'll git married." 
 
 «M, 
 
 In the Diggle homestead, that evening, an anxious mother 
 feared that her Johnnie would get waled for being late for 
 "chores." In the Root board-and-batten mansion another 
 mother pledged herself to spank a naughty little girl. Later, 
 both Sam Diggle and Abe Root set forth to find a missing 
 child. Each, from such evidence as was available, came to 
 the independent conviction that the truant must have wan- 
 
 3-^ 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 dered on to the Jake Hart ranch, where there was more 
 than a probability of getting lost in the chaparral. For- 
 tunately, it happened to be a bright moonlight night. Sam 
 Diggle found Johnnie's tracks and lost them again. He 
 followed the creek, knowing that there were deep pools in 
 it, knowing, also, that rattle-snakes lurked in the stony 
 places. Both he and Abe were expert trailers and hunters. 
 Sam moved slowly and patiently. Abe Root was following 
 smaller tracks as patiently. 
 
 Suddenly Sam heard a sound. He stood stilL 
 
 Abe, not fifty yards from him, heard a sound also. 
 
 The men shouted together : 
 
 **That you, Johnnie?" 
 
 "Mandie— Mandie !" 
 
 A minute later, the enemies, who had sworn to kill each 
 at sight, stood face to face. The moon shone full upon 
 their set jaws and smouldering eyes. For an instant the 
 children were forgotten. Abe said threateningly: 
 
 "What the h— 11 you doin' here?" 
 
 Sam replied grimly : 
 
 'This ain't yer land, nor mine." 
 
 But each had heard the other call for his child. Abe 
 growled out: 
 
 "I'm huntin' my leetle Mandie." 
 
 Sam responded as ungraciously: 
 
 "My Johnnie is missin'." 
 
 They stood together in the bed of the creek, close to the 
 pool where Johnnie had tried to tickle the trout. Abe 
 pointed dov/mvards. 
 
 *T reckon they're together," he said. 
 
 *'Gee!" exclaimed Sam. "They air." 
 
 In stupefaction they stared at each other and then at the 
 iracks of the children. To each the one blasting, con- 
 3^ 
 
The Children of Hate 
 
 founding fact that the children were together howled for 
 explanation. Abe said huskily: 
 
 "We better hit the trail quick." 
 
 In silence they advanced and then retreated, at fault 
 within a few minutes. A quarter of a mile away twinkled 
 a light in Jake Hart's house. Sam spoke this time, very 
 reluctantly : % 
 
 "That son of a gun, mebbe, seen 'em?" 
 
 "Mebbe," replied Abe. 
 
 Without further speech they strode swiftly towards the 
 twinkling light. When the astonished Jake beheld them, 
 glaring at him, he may be excused for believing that these 
 two men whom he had "bested" were joining issue at his 
 expense. Sam, however, put him at ease by asking curtly : 
 
 "Say — you seen two kids, boy and girl?" 
 
 "I see 'em together down by the mouth o' the creek, 
 makin' for the rocks. They was huntin' abalones, I 
 reckoned." 
 
 Sam saw in Abe's eyes the fear that had just entered 
 his soul. 
 
 "Big spring tide," he muttered. "Let's git a move on." 
 
 Jake accompanied them, carrying a lantern. 
 
 The spring tide was beginning to ebb when they reached 
 the rocks. If the children had been caught on the rocks, 
 assuredly they were drowned. If they had wandered back 
 to the estuary, why were they missing? 
 
 After a dreary quest along the base of precipitous cliffs, 
 at the moment when hope abandoned each father, Jake Hart 
 mentioned the cave. He was of opinion that they would 
 find the children inside the cave. 
 
 "Alive?" asked Abe. 
 
 Jake could not answer this poignant question. And he 
 knew nothing of the second cave. For the moment it was 
 impossible of approach. A heavy surf broke sullenly upon 
 
 35 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 the rocks. Jake moved away from the unhappy fathers, 
 leaving them alone. An hour, at least, according to Jake, 
 must pass before the cave could be entered. Abe said 
 miserably : 
 
 "She was the cutest little cuss." 
 
 Sam nodded. All rancour had gone from his voice as 
 he muttered : 
 
 "Johnnie was the likeliest colt in my bunch." 
 
 After that, cruel and devastating silence ! 
 
 When it was possible the two fathers waded into the 
 cave. Jake remained outside. Abe carried Jake's lantern. 
 By this time it was midnight, and a sea mist had obscured 
 the moon. As they waded out of the water on to the hard 
 white sand, they knew what the fate of the children had 
 been, if the tide had caught them in such a trap. They 
 stood together no longer as enemies but partners in a com- 
 mon and overwhelming sorrow. Abe said solemnly; 
 
 "It's a judgment on us." 
 
 Sam bowed his head. Together, each man extended a 
 hand to the other. 
 
 "Shush-h-h !" 
 
 Above the swish and gurgle of the outgoing tide sounded 
 a little cough, the attenuated cough of a sleeping child. 
 
 "Gosh!" exclaimed Sam. "They're up thar!" 
 
 By the dim light of the lantern, they saw the small 
 opening of the second cave. They climbed some slippery 
 rocks, and discovered the bridal chamber. 
 
 "They ain't here," said Abe hoarsely. 
 
 "Look !" 
 
 In the bunk, fast asleep in each other's arms, lay the two 
 children. The fathers gazed at them. Sam Diggle, who 
 had denounced all Roots, said softly: 
 
 "She's as sweet as they make 'em." 
 
 Abe replied promptly: 
 
 36 
 
The Children of Hate 
 
 "Thet boy of yourn is a dandy." 
 
 "Seems a pity to wake the little cusses," whispered Sam. 
 
 Abe gripped his arm. 
 
 "I reckon their pore mothers ain't asleep." 
 
 Then he shook the slumberers, who sat up blinking. 
 Johnnie said hastily: 
 
 "We was caught by the tide." 
 
 "Was ye?" said his father with austerity, "Now, you 
 tell me this, Johnnie Diggle. Oughtn't I to wale the stuffin' 
 outer ye?" 
 
 Abe put a similar question to Mandie: 
 
 "See here, Amanda Root, ain't you mighty liable ter git 
 spanked by yer Maw good and hard ?" 
 
 Mandie puckered, but Johnnie replied stoutly : 
 
 "It's O.K., Pop." 
 
 "What d'ye mean by O.K.? And me an' Abe scairt 
 nearly silly! What's O.K.?" 
 
 "Wal — me an' Mandie's married." 
 
 ^ 
 
Ill 
 
 AN AMAZING CHRISTMAS EVE 
 
 UPON the morning of December 24th, 1895, Charles 
 Meeker, the book-keeper of my old friend Flamarion, 
 shambled awkwardly into my office. His amiable features, 
 twisted into a scowl of ludicrous perplexity, surmounted a 
 cravat that was awry and an overcoat improperly ad- 
 justed. 
 
 "Bless my soul!" said I. "What's the matter?" 
 
 He glanced nervously at the door. 
 
 "Are we alone?" he whispered nervously, wiping the 
 perspiration from his wrinkled forehead. 
 
 "We are," I replied. "Speak out, Charles, and don'f 
 mumble." 
 
 He leaned forward; his lips were quivering, his pale, 
 watery eyes glistened with excitement. 
 
 "Mr. Flamarion," he stammered, "is crazy!" 
 
 "Nonsense," I retorted. "Crazy? Pooh!" 
 
 Charles Meeker shook his head solemnly. 
 
 "Begging your pardon, doctor, I repeat that Mr. Fla- 
 marion is quite crazy. He is not the same man. He has 
 become suspicious. He has called in" — the book-keeper 
 faltered, and then whimpered out — "he has called in — an 
 expert accountant !" 
 
 "Does that prove him crazy, Charles Meeker?" 
 
 "Fve been in his service twenty years, doctor. And I 
 feel this — deeply. And he talks of closing the tea business, 
 and going into — soap ! Soap, indeed. He will find himself 
 ^8 
 
An Amazing Christmas Eve 
 
 up to his neck — not in soap, but in soup. Doctor, this 
 means ruin!" 
 
 "Where is he now?" I asked. 
 
 "In his office, and," he added desperately, "playing the 
 very deuce there." 
 
 I seized my hat and hurried down town. James Fla- 
 marion, a tea-merchant with an enlarged spleen, is a patient 
 of mine, but apart from that our friendship is of long 
 standing. He is a talker, not a thinker, and in the role of 
 listener I have become part and parcel of his life. Mrs. 
 Flamarion, I regret to say, eyes me with disapproval. She 
 is a devout believer in the late Madame Blavatsky, and a 
 constant contributor to the Theosophist. Woman-like, she 
 resents my scientific rejection of her psychical theories, and 
 she has justly incensed me by aspersing my moral character 
 — merely because her husband and I indulge occasionally 
 in a thimbleful of whisky! Jim was an old fool to marry 
 a young and pretty woman, and I told him so. I fear he 
 was indiscreet enough to repeat my remarks to his wife. 
 She cut me dead the very next day ! 
 
 I found Jim in his office. He greeted me coldly. In- 
 stead of offering me a chair and a cigar, he said curtly: 
 
 "I'm very busy. What do you want ?" 
 
 I sat down and eyed him keenly. But I could detect no 
 symptom of insanity, incipient or otherwise. On the con- 
 trary, he appeared remarkably cool and collected. 
 
 "I've a Christmas present for you," I began cheerily. 
 "Some cigarettes which will carry you back, old boy, to 
 those days we spent in Cuba. Do you remember that little 
 almond-eyed houri who taught you to " 
 
 "My memory," retorted this miserable hypocrite, "is an 
 uncertain quantity which stays at home. Did we visit Cuba 
 together? Oh, really. What! Sir, you insult me. I never 
 heard the lady's name before. Never! As for your cig- 
 
 39 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 arettes, you can smoke them yourself. Smoking," he added 
 with odious self-complacency, *'is an indefensible habit. 
 It blights — it stains. I have eschewed for ever the filthy 
 weed." 
 
 ''Doubtless," said I, ''you have sworn off whisky?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, I have. You would do well to follow my ex- 
 ample." 
 
 I rose to go. In my professional capacity I asked a 
 harmless question: 
 
 "Your liver," said I, "must be bothering you a bit — eh?" 
 
 To my surprise he blushed scarlet, accused me of grossly 
 insulting him, and intimated in plain prose that for the 
 future he would dispense with my services as physician. 
 
 "Rest assured, my dear Flamarion," I replied quietly, 
 "that my poor services will not be forced upon you. None 
 the less, I have studied your peculiar ailment for some 
 years, and I solemnly tell you that in another man's hands 
 your miserable life is not worth six months' purchase." 
 
 With this Parthian shot, I shook the dust of his con- 
 founded office from my feet and departed. 
 
 "Flamarion has certainly changed," I said to myself, in 
 the privacy of my consulting-room; "but he is not mad. 
 A queer case — a most puzzling case." 
 
 Researches in the field of mental physiology have always 
 attracted me ; and a problem, in the person of my old friend, 
 aroused interest and curiosity. Indeed, I was considering 
 the propriety of calling personally upon Mrs. Flamarion, 
 when my assistant cut the knot of pros and cons by an- 
 nouncing the lady herself. 
 
 To give the woman her due she is as handsome as an 
 odaHsque. A modern Zenobia, with flashing black eyes, 
 full red lips, and a firm, beautifully modelled chin. 
 
 "Pray be seated, madam," said I suavely. 
 40 
 
An Amazing Christmas Eve 
 
 She selected the most comfortable chair, and sank grace- 
 fully into its padded depths. 
 
 "You are delightfully installed here, doctor." 
 
 Her voice had a peculiar quality — clear, vibrant, and 
 slightly metallic. A foreign accent was perceptible, and I 
 remembered some absurd story about her mother having 
 been a begum. I bowed politely. Evidently, I reflected, she 
 means to ask a favour. 
 
 "My husband," she continued, "has often spoken to me 
 of your little merry-makings here." 
 
 "Our merry-makings, my dear lady, usually consist of 
 one modest glass of old cognac." 
 
 "I have heard extravagant encomiums of that old cog- 
 nac," she murmured. 
 
 I ventured on a mild joke. 
 
 "Mrs. Flamarion, my stairs are steep, and you look 
 fatigued ; may I prescribe a dose, a tiny dose, of that noble 
 liquor, as a tonic?" 
 
 "As a tonic, doctor? Well, then — yes." 
 
 I filled two Hqueur glasses to the brim. 
 
 "Most strengthening," she said softly; "I feel better 
 already." 
 
 A physician must be more or less of a mind reader. I 
 refilled our glasses, and smiled. 
 
 "Doctor," she sighed, "I can appreciate the very warm 
 regard that Jim has always evinced for you." 
 
 "A regard, madam, that is not shared, I fear, by his 
 wife." 
 
 "Bah !" she replied. "Let bygones be bygones. I've mis- 
 judged you, doctor ; but you must accord me the privilege of 
 my sex, and allow me to change my mind." 
 
 So speaking, she extended her shapely hand. I squeezed 
 it discreetly, and detected a pressure in return. 
 
 "And now," she continued, with a change of tone, "let 
 
 41 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 me explain the nature of my errand. Have you seen Jim 
 to-day. Indeed! Insulted you? Dear, dear! How very 
 strange. What? Refused to accept a box of cigarettes? 
 Impossible !" 
 
 "A fact," I retorted. "Here is the box. Look at it. 
 Note the fineness of these wrappers, the delicious aroma, 
 the shape." 
 
 She examined the Perfectos critically, and selected one. 
 
 "It appears," she murmured, "to be in excellent condi- 
 tion." 
 
 I lit a match. 
 
 "Madam," said I, "in Spain and Russia ladies of the 
 highest rank smoke habitually. Permit me." 
 
 She accepted the proffered match, and lighted the ciga- 
 rette ! 
 
 Dreamily she closed her lovely eyes, and let the smoke 
 curl lazily in widening circles around her blooming cheeks. 
 The abandon of her pose, almost masculine in its disregard 
 of the conventionalities, exercised an extraordinary effect 
 upon my senses. In the ardour of the moment, heaven 
 knows what folly I might have committed. Happily, a tap 
 at the door recalled me to this work-a-day world and its 
 prosaic responsibilities. I opened the door. It was my 
 assistant. 
 
 "Dr. Simpson," he said, "wishes to see you at once." 
 
 Promising an immediate return, I left my visitor. With 
 impatience I listened to Simpson as he detailed to me a 
 grave complication that had arisen in his practice ; and at his 
 urgent request consented to give him ten minutes of my 
 time But a quarter of an hour had elapsed before I found 
 myself again at home. I'm ashamed to confess it, but in 
 my excitement I ran upstairs two steps at a time, and with 
 an exultation of spirits very foreign to my normal tempera- 
 ment, opened my consulting-room door. 
 42 
 
An Amazing Christmas Eve 
 
 Mrs. Flamarion had departed ! 
 
 The fumes of that Morales tobacco still perfumed the air, 
 and on the carpet, at the edge of the hearth-rug, I saw a 
 small glove. This I placed carefully in my pocket. Then, 
 feeling strangely unstrung, I poured out another glass of 
 cognac. As I did so I idly noted that the bottle in my 
 absence had been tampered with. The inference was too 
 obvious to be misinterpreted. Jim's wife, overpowered by 
 feelings of which I alone apprehended the significance, had 
 sought, as I sought, the same remedy. 
 
 That Christmas Eve, who should come to my office but 
 Flamarion himself? He coolly sat down and asked for a 
 drink. 
 
 "You don't seem pleased to see me," he said. "After 
 climbing your confounded stairs you might welcome a fel- 
 low more warmly." 
 
 He was smoking a large cigar as he spoke. 
 
 *T thought," said I tartly, "that you had eschewed the 
 filthy weed and the debasing liquor habit. You told me so — 
 only this morning." 
 
 "This morning?" he repeated blankly. "Well, to be hon- 
 est with you, old man, I was not — er — quite myself this 
 morning. I dare say I surprised you. Eh? Told you that 
 I could dispense with your services ? Ha, ha, ha ! And 
 what did you reply?" 
 
 "I said in the plainest language that in other hands your 
 life was not worth six months' purchase." 
 
 "You did. Thank the Lord ! Gave me six months— eh ? 
 Well, that accounts for everything." 
 
 "Perhaps, James, you will kindly explain to my limited 
 intelligence what this mystery means." j 
 
 His eyes twinkled. 
 
 "In one minute, my dear fellow, your curiosity shall be 
 
 43 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 gratified; but tell me — has anything else out of the com- 
 mon occurred to-day?" 
 
 ''Your wife called." 
 
 "My wife! Why, man, she looks upon you with " 
 
 *' the feelings of a warm friend," I answered com- 
 placently. Then I gave him a slightly amended version of 
 the interview. ''If you question these facts," I concluded, 
 "ask my assistant." 
 
 "I believe them implicitly. And now be prepared for 
 the big surprise of your life." 
 
 He lit another cigar and leaned back in his chair. 
 
 "You know," he began, "that Mrs. Flamarion and I are 
 advanced Theosophists. You are also posted in the shib- 
 boleth of our science. You know, for instance, what we 
 mean by the astral plane? Just so. Now, my wife and I 
 can assume at will our astral forms." 
 
 "You will pardon me, James, if I decline flatly to believe 
 any such nonsense." 
 
 Flamarion continued: 
 
 "According to the light vouchsafed us, we know that the 
 body is a mere husk — the temporary dwelling-place of the 
 immortal spirit, and nothing more. Now, last night my 
 wife suggested that we should change bodies for five min- 
 utes or so. At first I objected, but finally gave my consent. 
 We lay down side by side. Two emanations, supported by 
 twin chords of prismatic light, proceeded from our ap- 
 parently lifeless bodies, and the metempsychosis was ef- 
 fected. I arose in my new garb, feeling devilishly un- 
 comfortable, and my wife arose in hers. To test the 
 experiment, I rang the bell and asked Rosa's maid to bring 
 me a handkerchief. 'Yes, ma'am,' she replied. 
 
 "And now," continued Jim, blushing like a schoolgirl, 
 "comes the absurd part of the story. The success of the 
 experiment being assured, I wished to rehabilitate myself. 
 
 44 
 
An Amazing Christmas Eve 
 
 Positively, I had never appreciated my own body before. 
 As a woman I not only felt supremely ridiculous, but the 
 oppression about the heart was absolutely unendurable. 
 Rosa had always assured me that she never tight-laced. I 
 know better now. And her shoes, according to a man's 
 notions, are a dozen sizes too small for her feet. 
 
 " 'Come, my dear,' said I, *we will change again.' 
 
 "To my surprise she put her hands behind her back, and 
 said insolently: 
 
 "'Not much!' 
 
 " 'What do you mean, Rosa?' 
 
 " 'What I say. You've had your day, Jimmie — I must 
 call you Rosa for the future — now it is my turn. This 
 change of sex has proved a revelation to me. Nothing 
 would induce me to become a miserable woman again. 
 What? Sacrifice this delightful freedom of limb to oblige 
 you? No, sir. Never! I'll make you a kind husband. 
 And you can rest easy in your mind about business matters. 
 I always had more brains in my little finger than you had 
 in your head. The tea trade will be the gainer with me at 
 the helm. In short, Jimmie — I mean Rosa — you must 
 resign yourself gracefully to the inevitable. I should be 
 loth to use force, but I shall not tolerate any whining or 
 whimpering. You must submit to my authority and con- 
 sider me in all things.' 
 
 " 'Rosa,' said I hotly, 'you be hanged !' and then my ab- 
 surd feminine body overpowered my masculine mind. I 
 burst into tears ! 
 
 "My dear fellow, I was at my wits' end to know what 
 to do. The spirit was willing enough, but the pitiful female 
 flesh proved deplorably weak. I must draw the veil of 
 reticence over what transpired in the first agony of this new 
 birth. It is enough to say that I went early to bed, and 
 
 45 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 cried myself to sleep. I woke up this morning partially 
 resigned. Rosa hurried off to the office, and I was told to 
 order dinner, and to darn some socks. I must tell you that 
 I came down to breakfast in a wrapper and slippers. Would 
 you believe it, that abandoned woman made me return to 
 my room and put on a tailor-made gown? 
 
 " 'You have always insisted/ said she, 'on my being 
 properly dressed, and I demand the same of you. Don't let 
 me see you unless you are presentable !' 
 
 ''In the afternoon I had a little fun. Some old hens 
 called, and began clacking away about husbands in general, 
 and me in particular. I was astonished at the extent of 
 their information. However, I played the virtuous wife to 
 perfection. I assured them I had implicit confidence in Mr. 
 Flamarion, and resented their officious interference in my 
 domestic affairs. They won't call again for some time, I 
 fancy. Then I thought of you, old man, and paid you a 
 visit. Great Scott ! I gave you a good send-off, didn't I ? 
 And I left a glove. Where is it? In your breast pocket? 
 You miserable sinner!" 
 
 "This is an extraordinary tale," said I testily. "How did 
 you persuade your wife to resume her despised body?" 
 
 "I have to thank you for that," said Flamarion. "You 
 scared her to death talking about the precariousness of my 
 life. The thought of the tomb made a woman of her. 
 When she came home to-night, she proposed a renewal 
 of the old relations. Of course I accepted. But — say, is 
 my life really in danger?" 
 
 "In my hands," I replied, "you may expect to die an 
 old man." 
 
 Flamarion laughed till I really thought he would choke. 
 
 "Rosa," said he, "is not so smart as she thinks. I'd 
 sooner be a man for six months, than a woman for fifty 
 years. B^ the way, she begged me to ask you to dine to- 
 
 46^ 
 
An Amazing Christmas Eve 
 
 morrow. You won't? Yes, you will. And we'll give you 
 a capital Christmas dinner, and make a Theosophist of you. 
 But — you mustn't squeeze Rosa's hand." ^ 
 
 I related this amazing tale to Simpson. 
 
 "The explanation is nearly as simple as you are," he 
 replied. "Flamarion and his wife have had a little fun at 
 your expense. The joke was capitally planned and carried 
 out. Astral plane, indeed — astral fiddlestick !" 
 
 Simpson is a clever surgeon, but his gross self-assurance 
 is a source of anxiety to his friends. What he does not 
 know would stock a large library. 
 
 47 
 
IV 
 
 THE EIGHTH YEAR 
 
 TOM GATHORNE was given to boasdng that he and 
 his pretty wife had married for love. Nobody con- 
 tradicted the good fellow, although the too constant affirma- 
 tion exasperated certain cynics. Burdon, for instance, 
 Gathorne's particular pal, had sgiid curtly: 
 
 ''What of it? Why do you buck about it? Or, rather, 
 why do you buck about it now ?" 
 
 *'Now?" 
 
 *'l mean this. A love match is admittedly an experiment 
 which time alone will justify or repudiate. Common sense 
 should have suggested to you the expediency of selecting a 
 wife with a bit of money, which would have helped you 
 enormously in your business. I don't say, mind you, that 
 you've made a mistake." 
 
 "I should think not." 
 
 "But I do venture to repeat what must be obvious to all 
 but impassioned sentimentalists, of which you are one, that 
 the first few years of marriage are not a sufficient test. The 
 eighth year, so I am credibly informed, is critical." 
 
 "What tosh!" 
 
 Burdon shrugged his broad shoulders. He was a doctor, 
 with an increasing practice amongst women. Also he was 
 a bachelor. What our neighbours call un celibataire 
 endurci. 
 4S 
 
The Eighth Year 
 
 Tom Gathorne began his business career as a clerk on 
 the Stock Exchange. Later he had put some five thousand 
 pounds into the business, receiving in exchange a junior 
 partnership. From the first he had prospered. Pluck and 
 Luck — those great twin brethren — had fought by his side. 
 
 Bit by bit Burdon and he drifted apart whilst remaining 
 staunch friends. Burdon was godfather to Gathorne's 
 eldest son — there were three boys — and he had kept on good 
 terms with Mrs. Gathorne, although she had refused some- 
 what peremptorily to employ him as her medical attendant. 
 However, from time to time he "vetted" Tom. 
 
 The critical eighth year was now rising above the 
 horizon. By the luck of things Burdon was spending a 
 month with the Gathornes in Scotland. Tom had taken 
 a small grouse moor with some sea-trout fishing. Mrs. 
 Tom and the children made up a party of six. The lodge 
 was comfortable, and Mrs. Tom prided herself upon 
 house-keeping. In short, from a material point of view 
 there could be no complaints. And the sport had been 
 excellent. None the less, Burdon was sensible that his old 
 friend was less cheery than usual, and his wife somewhat 
 irritable. Tom took the hill with a shorter stride. Burdon 
 noticed that the children were not particularly robust. 
 About the middle of September he told Tom that he was 
 concerned about him. 
 
 *l'm all right," growled Tom. 
 
 "You've lost weight, my good fellow. What's wrong? 
 Markets dicky?" 
 
 "Best year we've ever had. I may take a forest next 
 season." 
 
 "Liver can't be out of whack with all this exercise." 
 
 "I tell you I'm as fit as a fiddle." 
 
 "Foolish expression that. Fiddles are not always fit, 
 as any violinist will tell you. A Strad is most susceptible, 
 
 49 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 for instance, to the company it keeps. You can't put me 
 off, Tom. Fm worried about you. On my word I am." 
 
 His voice softened, and he laid his hand upon Tom's 
 arm, gazing keenly but kindly into his friend's eyes. 
 
 "There is something wrong," Tom admitted. 
 
 'T knew it. Now — out with it." 
 
 They were alone in the smoking-room. Mrs. Tom had 
 gone to bed. Each man was smoking his pipe. Whisky 
 and water in long tumblers lent an adventitious aid to 
 confidence. 
 
 *'Eve," said Tom moodily, "no longer cares for me." 
 
 "Impossible !" 
 
 Burdon was genuinely distressed, for Tom spoke with 
 conviction. 
 
 "It's like this, old man. She's wrapped up in the kids. 
 She devotes herself to them — at my expense. See?" 
 
 Burdon did see. What surprised and annoyed him was 
 the realisation of not finding this fact out for himself. 
 He had written a clever pamphlet entitled "Maternal 
 Instinct." In it he had tried to show that women, speaking 
 generally, were divided into two classes, wives and mothers. 
 He had admitted that some women could adjust satis- 
 factorily the conflicting claims of wifehood and mother- 
 hood, but they, so he affirmed, were rare and particular 
 exceptions to the common rule. 
 
 He refilled his pipe, waiting for Tom to continue. Tom 
 said deliberately: 
 
 "You warned me once that the eighth year after mar- 
 riage was critical. It is. For example, it is a critical 
 time for the first child. Your godson, as you know, is 
 not as sturdy as we could wish. The little beggar is my 
 successful rival. Absurd, but true. I have become — 
 negligible in Eve's eyes. I have tried to blind myself to 
 50 
 
The Eighth Year 
 
 this ; I have tried — God knows ! — to make allowance for 
 a mother's anxiety. But — there it is!" 
 
 Burdon nodded. 
 
 *'I suppose," continued Tom, "there is nothing to be 
 done. I've had a wonderful innings, and it's over. It's 
 happened to half-a-dozen other fellows of my acquaint- 
 ance, and I shall have to grin and bear it as — as they do." 
 
 "Oh, no!" 
 
 **What do you mean? You can't imagine that I've not 
 done my best. I tell you, man, I've laid siege to her, 
 wooed her all over again. And she's as cold as Charity, 
 poor dear." 
 
 "Um!" said Burdon. 
 
 "I shall get over it, but I feel rather cheap." 
 
 "You look cheap. I think it's time that I prescribed." 
 
 "I can prescribe for myself. There's the business. I've 
 worked fairly hard, but I can work harder." 
 
 "And widen the gulf." 
 
 "I could be keener about shooting and golf." 
 
 "You might make love to another woman." 
 
 "As a lure? Eve would despise me. And I'm not 
 built that way. Besides, I might be let down again." 
 
 Burdon answered briskly : "I put the question merely to 
 hear you answer it. Now, look here; will you let me treat 
 you? I believe that I can do so successfully, but you 
 must place yourself unreservedly in my hands." 
 
 "Drugs?" 
 
 "Dear me, no ! Can I examine you now ?" 
 
 "You vetted me last May." 
 
 "And I was not quite satisfied with your condition 
 then." He rose from his chair. "I shall fetch a stetho- 
 scope." 
 
 Tom waited, staring into the peat fire, which smouldered 
 dully, giving out neither heat nor light. Eve's love for 
 
 51 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 him was smouldering as dully. He had not a particle of 
 faith in Burdon as bellows, but the old man meant well. 
 Doctors were so ridiculously cocksure! All the same, he 
 felt mildly interested in the vetting. And he knew that 
 he would be annoyed if things were not right. Constitu- 
 tionally he was as sound as a bell. 
 
 Burdon came back, carrying the stethoscope. He had 
 assumed his professional manner and deportment. 
 
 The examination lasted three minutes. Somewhat to 
 Tom's annoyance, Burdon remained silent, but his face 
 indicated perplexity and anxiety. Tom said nervously: 
 
 "Anything really wrong?" 
 
 ^'Nothing." 
 
 "Then why the deuce do you stare at me like that? Nq 
 kidding! H there is anything wrong, I want to know it." 
 
 "Last May the heart's action was not quite regular. 
 Probably you had been smoking too many cigars. To-day 
 you are in tip-top condition." 
 
 "Good !" said Tom, much more cheerfully. 
 
 "I rather hoped to find it otherwise." 
 
 "Eh?" 
 
 "You see. Eve is like most women " 
 
 "She isn't." 
 
 "She has a current fund of sympathy and sensibility. 
 Women will never admit that this fund is exhaustible. If it 
 were inexhaustible, Eve would have love enough for you 
 and the children. Intuitively, and acting upon a sound 
 economic principle, she is meeting her obligations in ex- 
 actly the same spirit in which you meet yours." 
 
 "Put it a bit plainer, old man." 
 
 "You do a big credit business ? Yes. And on settlement 
 days you pay up when payment has to be made, and carry 
 over the other accounts." 
 
 "I take you. Eve is carrying over — me?" 
 52 
 
The Eighth Year 
 
 "She is. Her available cash at the Bank of Love has 
 been paid out to the kids. Therefore your cheques are 
 dishonoured. To change my metaphor, the fountain is not 
 running dry, as you fear, but the stream has been diverted. 
 Between us we must restore the beneficent waters to their 
 old channel." 
 
 ^'How?" 
 
 *'Your wife must believe that you need irrigating. I 
 shall hint that your health is causing me concern. I might 
 exaggerate a little any cardiac weakness, but unhappily 
 your heart is beating like a bull's. Obviously nothing is left 
 to us but pious fraud. In a very real sense you are suffer- 
 ing from an affection of the heart, and, speaking as your 
 medical man, I advise you to go to Nauheim after leaving 
 Scotland. Eve must accompany you, and the children 
 will be left behind. I shall go, too, and play gooseberry. 
 What do you say?" 
 
 "I am to sham illness, excite Eve's pity, abandon the 
 children, and play the tame goat at a beastly German 
 spa?" 
 
 'That's admirably put." 
 
 "Of course I shall do nothing of the kind." 
 
 "Then I'll go to bed." 
 
 "I'm awfully obliged, old chap, but you see what you 
 suggest isn't cricket." 
 
 "Perhaps not. Good-night." 
 
 Burdon went to his room. He undressed slowly, think- 
 ing of his friend. 
 
 "I was a fool," said Burdon to himself, "to tell Tom 
 that he had a clean bill of health. No man can afford to 
 be honest with a patient." 
 
 He was still frowning when a sharp tap on the door was 
 followed by Tom's entrance. 
 
 "You look heated," said Burdon calmly. 
 
 53 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 His host's eyes were sparkling savagely out of a red 
 face. 
 
 "It's a bit too thick, old man ! Eve is sleeping in young 
 Tom's room. There's not the smallest necessity for it. 
 She admits that. But she likes to be with him. We've had 
 a bit of a rumpus. I'll admit to you that I got the worst 
 of it, because I lost my temper. Eve remained perfectly 
 calm.- She talked a lot of twaddle about duty. Somehow 
 it came home to me that she wants a shock. I'm on to 
 this little game of yours, cricket or no cricket. You have 
 my leave to tell my wife that my days are numbered. So 
 they are. Pitch it as strong as you like! She wants stir- 
 ring up. She accused me, by George, of being too robust! 
 You let yourself go. Don't spare her feelings ! She 
 doesn't know a word of German, and she'll loathe Nau- 
 heim. You'll play doggo and keep out of sight. She'll 
 just have to concentrate on me." 
 
 "Right," said Burdon. 
 
 II 
 
 At breakfast next morning, Mrs. Gathome was pre- 
 occupied, as usual, with the children. 
 
 "Naughty Tommy kept his mumsie awake." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 Brutal monosyllables are a woman specialist's stock-in- 
 trade. 
 
 "He was so restless in his sleep, poor darling." 
 
 "Too much desert," said Burdon. "When kids get their 
 deserts they pay for 'em." 
 
 Tommy always listened attentively to talk about him- 
 self. That is why many children die young. He remarked, 
 solemnly : 
 
 "I do have the indigest. It hurts." 
 54 
 
The Eighth Year 
 
 In a whisper, overheard by all, but intended for a doc- 
 tor's ear alone, Mrs. Gathorne made an illuminating 
 remark : 
 
 ^'Heartburn." 
 
 ''Bicarbonate of soda," suggested Burdon, with deep 
 sympathy. 
 
 Tom senior toyed with a bit of toast, refusing grilled 
 trout and kidneys. 
 
 "Indigestion is the very devil," he observed. 
 
 His wife glanced at him. 
 
 "How do you know, dear?" 
 
 "I do know," he replied, with emphasis. 
 
 Just before breakfast Burdon had led him aside. 
 
 "Play with your food," he counselled. "When Eve 
 follows the kids out of the dining-room you can pitch 
 in. Twig?" 
 
 Tom twigged. 
 
 But Mrs. Gathorne did not follow the children when 
 they scampered away. Possibly her conscience was pricking 
 her. Possibly also she wanted justification from a pro- 
 fessional man. 
 
 "I am so worried about Tommy," she murmured. 
 
 "You needn't be. Is it wise to discuss his infantile ail- 
 ments before him?" 
 
 "Right you are!" exclaimed Tom senior. "Fatal error!" 
 
 "Not fatal so far," amended Burdon. 
 
 Eve betrayed uneasiness. "I can't help being anxious." 
 
 At this moment Tom executed a strategic movement. 
 He rose languidly, walked to the side-table, pocketed a 
 cold grouse and three scones, and vanished. Eve, with 
 her back to the side-table, did not see him. As soon as 
 she was alone with Burdon, she said eagerly: 
 
 "I came to Scotland on the children's account." 
 
 "Really? Not on Tom's?" 
 
 55 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 "Tom^s?" 
 
 *Tooi old Tom." 
 
 'Toor old Tom!" 
 
 "I vetted him last night in the smoking-room. Can I 
 speak to you with entire frankness?" 
 
 "Please do! But you terrify me." 
 
 "I will say this to relieve your anxiety. There is nothing 
 organic — as yet." 
 
 "Nothing — organic?" 
 
 "Nothing — incurable." 
 
 "Heavens!" 
 
 "I may be mistaken. But in my opinion Tom, with care, 
 may live to be fifty. With — care." 
 
 Her face paled. Burdon went on relentlessly: 
 
 "Tom's appearance is deceptive. You may have no- 
 ticed that he is thinner?" 
 
 "Surely he ought to be thinner?" 
 
 "He ate no breakfast this morning." 
 
 "Dr. Burdon, please tell me the worst at once." 
 
 "How did he sleep last night?" 
 
 Eve explained, in some confusion, the reason why Tom 
 had slept, or had not slept, alone. With increasing agita- 
 tion she entreated the truth. 
 
 "Well, there is an affection of the heart — let us call it 
 cardiac weakness. Fortunately, it is amenable to treat- 
 ment." 
 
 Eve's eyes grew moist. Burdon felt a beast, but he 
 continued : 
 
 "You ought to take him to Bad Nauheim after Scotland." 
 
 "I hate the idea of going abroad with three children." 
 
 "They must be left behind." 
 
 "Left— behind?" 
 
 "I want you to give your undivided attention to your 
 
 56 
 
The Eighth Year 
 
 husband. Talk with him ; walk with him ; in short, mother 
 him!" 
 
 **Is it really as serious as that?" 
 
 Burdon nodded grimly. 
 
 Eve burst into tears ! 
 
 Afterwards, Burdon admitted to Tom that the affair 
 had been too easy. Both men would have enjoyed a less 
 one-sided victory. Eve surrendered unconditionally. She 
 arranged that the children should be left with her mother, 
 a somewhat Spartan lady, with no inclinations towards 
 spoiling little ones; she secured rooms at Nauheim; she 
 tore Tom frorn the last week's sea-trout fishing; and, 
 finally, she implored him to consult the greatest English 
 specialist. 
 
 "Burdon," said Tom, "understands me." 
 
 She was told that Burdon intended to accompany them. 
 This, it will be guessed, was the last straw. Burdon, as 
 she well knew, was an extremely busy man. Tom's con- 
 dition must be serious indeed if Burdon insisted upon 
 neglecting a fine practice. 
 
 in 
 
 Three days later the Gathomes and Burdon left England. 
 At the end of a fortnight Tom was eager to allay his wife's 
 anxiety by confessing the truth. Her devotion — so he 
 pointed out — was obvious. The beneficent waters of love 
 had been redirected into the old channel. She could hardly 
 bear Tom out of her sight. 
 
 Burdon, however, while admitting this, insisted upon a 
 radical cure. 
 
 **Our pious fraud," he said, "will infuriate her. A re- 
 action will take place. She will rush off to the kids and 
 leave you to stew in your own juice.'' 
 
 57 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 Tom was constrained to acknowledge the probability of 
 this. 
 
 "You must never tell her/' continued Burdon. 
 
 "Never?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 Tom looked abjectly miserable, but one glorious fact 
 illumined the present and future. Eve loved him. Of 
 course, she had always loved him — with natural inter- 
 mittences. 
 
 "Men," remarked Burdon, "must exact love from their 
 wives. I contend that a husband — or a wife, for that mat- 
 ter — is entitled to the fidelity and devotion which he or 
 she can exact." 
 
 "By hook or by crook?" 
 
 "Unquestionably." 
 
 "I feel such a cad." 
 
 "There are moments when you look one. Be careful 
 about that." 
 
 "And these filthy waters have pulled me down." 
 
 "To her level, mark you. It's an interesting pathological 
 fact that a too robust man like yourself is more affectionate 
 when he is below par." 
 
 Another fortnight passed. 
 
 And then something happened quite unforeseen by Bur- 
 don. He was about to return to Harley Street, triumphant 
 in the knowledge that he had treated this affection of the 
 heart to a successful issue. Upon the eve of departure 
 his friend's wife led him aside. 
 
 "I want to consult you," she said, "professionally." 
 
 "Professionally?" 
 
 "You will promise me not to tell Tom. I am feeling 
 rather queer. If there is anything the matter with me, 
 it would upset Tom dreadfully, wouldn't it?" 
 
 Burdon nodded. 
 
 58 
 
The Eighth Year 
 
 ''Undo your clever stitches?" 
 
 *lt— might." 
 
 ''I believe my heart is affected, too. Please examine 
 me." 
 
 Burdon looked uneasy. Perhaps for the first time in 
 his Hfe his face betrayed him. The lay mind may refuse 
 to admit it, but conscience does make cowards of some 
 doctors. He told himself, with abject conviction, that this 
 dear little woman had been tried too high. Anxiety con- 
 cerning Tom had undermined her own health, never too 
 robust. 
 
 He began to ask questions. 
 
 *'Why do you think that your heart is affected?" 
 
 "I have disagreeable palpitations. I don't sleep well. 
 How can I sleep w^hen at any moment dear Tom may be 
 snatched from me?" 
 
 'T never hinted at such a catastrophe." 
 
 "Your voice quavered when you told me there was 
 cardiac weakness. You tried to spare me, but a wife is 
 never deceived." 
 
 "At any rate, you can rest easy now. Tom is almost 
 himself again." 
 
 ''That is what worries me so. Gentle exercise with me 
 is not enough for him. He wants to be shooting and 
 golfing. In his heart he is pining for the office." 
 
 "Um !" 
 
 ''He has quite regained his appetite, but I have lost mine. 
 Please examine me !" 
 
 Burdon did so. By this time he had regained his im- 
 passive expression, but he was thinking more of Tom than 
 of Tom's wife. He felt absurdly angry with his old 
 friend. How dared he prattle about shooting and golf? 
 Was he growing weary of being mothered? He gave a 
 short grunt of dissatisfaction. 
 
 59 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 '1 am not mistaken," said Eve quietly ; "there is trouble." 
 
 "Well — er— yes. Nothing to be alarmed about." 
 
 "We must keep it from Tom." 
 
 "My dear lady, we can't." 
 
 "A pious fraud." 
 
 His own words came back to roost in a distracted head ! 
 Burdon pulled himself together. He smiled reassuringly. 
 
 "Tom is strong enough to know" the truth." 
 
 "I'd sooner get a little worse." 
 
 "You may get much worse. Come, come; trust me. 
 I'll speak to Tom. I promise you not to alarm him. 
 Strictly between ourselves, this small trouble of yours will 
 serve to distract his mind from golf and shooting. He 
 has become restive under treatment. I swear solemnly 
 to you, first, that I can put you right in three weeks, and, 
 secondly, that it will do Tom a lot of good to look after 
 you as tenderly as you have looked after him." 
 
 Reluctantly she consented that Tom should be told. 
 
 Now, picture to yourself, if you can, Tom's consternation 
 and distress when he was told. The poor fellow, hoist 
 with his own petard, wanted to fling himself at his beloved 
 Eve's feet and anoint them with the spikenard of unavail- 
 ing tears. If anything went wrong with her he would 
 hang himself as a murderer. 
 
 "Nothing will go wrong with her, humanly speaking." 
 
 "I must set her dear mind at rest about me." 
 
 "Then I wash my hands of both of you. This serves 
 you right. You wanted your wife's undivided devotion 
 and love. You've had it." 
 
 "At what a cost !" groaned Tom. 
 
 "Keep cool. I have noticed lately a restlessness in you, 
 a desire, no doubt, to escape from an uneasy conscience. 
 Possibly, too, this second honeymoon is waning. You 
 have been talking about business and golf." 
 60 
 
The Eighth Year 
 
 "Merely to divert Eve's mind from dwelling too per- 
 sistently upon my unworthy self. Together we have been 
 perfectly happy." 
 
 "Thanks. I have tried not to play gooseberry. Now 
 for my prescription. Eve and you must motor together 
 through Provence. It is heavenly down there in October. 
 You can make a gastronomic tour. The hotels are excel- 
 lent. Digesting a houillabaise will distract both your minds." 
 
 "Very sound! We could take the kids. Eve has been 
 pining for them, I expect. Lord, I do feel a brute !" 
 
 "Possibly. But don't talk like an ass! Eve mustn't be 
 bothered with the children. Allay her anxiety about you, 
 and she'll be as right as rain. Get a good dose of sun- 
 bum ! These waters have bleached you. Amuse her, and 
 amuse yourself. In just one month from date report to 
 me in Harley Street." 
 
 "You're not leaving to-morrow?'* 
 
 "If I stayed I should alarm her unnecessarily. My 
 going will confirm my assurance that there is really nothing 
 serious. See to it that she takes the capsules which I shall 
 entrust to you. One after each square meal." 
 
 "Anything else?" 
 
 "Send for your Rolls-Royce. Live in the open! Eat, 
 drink, and be merry!" 
 
 Next day Burdon returned to London. 
 
 IV 
 
 He did not see his two patients till the prescribed month 
 had expired. Then they presented themselves in Harley 
 Street, two sun-tanned specimens of radiant health. Bur- 
 don chuckled as he listened to a duet of praise and thanks- 
 giving. He examined each patient in turn, waving his 
 
 6i 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 stethoscope as if it were the baton of an all-conquering 
 field-marshal. 
 
 "You are," he declared, "absolutely sound. I congratu- 
 late you, and I congratulate myself. This is the sort of 
 moment that makes a hard-driven doctor's life worth 
 while. How are the kids?" 
 
 ''Simply top-hole," said Tom. 
 
 "I must admit," said Eve, "that mother understands 
 children better than I do." 
 
 "A word with you alone, old man," said Tom. 
 
 The men retreated to Burdon's dining-room. 
 
 "I haven't told her yet," murmured Tom, "but I must." 
 
 "I'll tell her," said Burdon. "You stay here and fortify 
 yourself with a whisky-and-potass. Not a word! In five 
 minutes come back to the consulting-room. 'Shush-h-h-h !" 
 
 He hurried away, leaving Tom open-mouthed, unable 
 to express gratitude and relief. Burdon joined Eve and 
 laughed. 
 
 "What's the joke?" she asked. 
 
 "I can answer that. It's not so easy to locate it. Is it on 
 me, on you, or on Tom?'* ' 
 
 "I beg your pardon?" 
 
 "You are perfectly well and happy?" 
 
 "I am, thanks to your wonderful capsules." 
 
 "And dear old Tom is happy, too?" 
 
 "Ab— solutely !" 
 
 "And the children are " 
 
 "As bonny as children can be. And when I pause to 
 reflect that less than three months ago Tom was ill, and 
 the children ailing, and the seeds of disease in me, I call 
 you just a miracle- worker." 
 
 "Thanks! Here's Tom. I want to make confession. 
 You have never been ill." 
 
 "What?" 
 62 
 
The Eighth Year 
 
 Burdon, standing upon his hearthrug, lifted a minatory 
 forefinger. 
 
 'This is the eighth and critical year of your marriage, 
 now triumphantly passed. I must remind you, Eve — may 
 
 I call you Eve? Thanks. I must remind you that, 
 
 much to my chagrin, you once refused to employ me pro- 
 fessionally. Tom stuck to me gallantly. Because of that, 
 and because I, so to speak, forced my services on you, I 
 shall charge no fee. Well, quite frankly, I was hurt, and 
 this year in Scotland I confess that I was not altogether 
 displeased to find the children rather the worse for an 
 eminent colleague's ministrations, and you" — he stared 
 keenly at Eve— ''on the ragged edge of a breakdown." 
 
 Eve could hold her own. She replied with spirit: 
 
 "I don't deny it, but Tom, under your fostering care, was 
 breaking down too." 
 
 "That is where the joke comes in. Tom has not been ill 
 either. Under my advice — and I accept full responsibility 
 — Tom malingered. That Nauheim visit was a 'plant.' I 
 faked the afifair. I wanted to separate you from the 
 kiddies, because you were fussing them and yourself into 
 coffins. Also, Tom needed that particular attention which 
 only a loving wife can give. Tom said at the time that 
 it wasn't cricket. Medicine is not cricket, although cricket 
 may be good medicine. In fine, I beheld five persons, all of 
 them dear to me, who were floundering helplessly in their 
 own ignorance and inexperience. Tom needed you, and 
 thanks to me again you got him. The children needed 
 plain food, wholesome discipline, and a rest from over- 
 fussing. Thanks to me your nursery has a clean bill of 
 health. Now — where is the joke?" 
 
 Eve looked at Tom. The motor trip through Provence 
 had been an imperishable memory. Tom looked at Eve, 
 recalling the mothering. 
 
 63 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 Eve answered the question. 
 
 "The joke," she said, "is on poor mother. She told me 
 this morning that the responsibihty of three small boys 
 had brought on acute dyspepsia. You must prescribe for 
 her." 
 
 "Have the children left her?" 
 
 "Yes ; they are at home." 
 
 "Tell your mother, v^ith my compliments and respects, 
 that she v^^ill be perfectly well in three days." 
 
 "Fee or no fee," said Tom, "you must dine with us at 
 the Ritz to-night." 
 
 "I shall be delighted," Burdon replied. 
 
 64 
 
V 
 
 THE BLACK VELVET CAP 
 
 IS Monsieur Gaston de Trevignon at home?" 
 "Monsieur le Marquis is at home," replied the man. 
 Then he added poHtely, "The late Marquis de Trevignon 
 died six months ago." 
 
 So Gaston had come into his kingdom at last. A king- 
 dom, apparently, of forest, moorland, and stream, with a 
 half-ruined chateau standing in a neglected garden. I fol- 
 lowed the servant into a stone-flagged hall of fine propor- 
 tions, with a superb granite fireplace at one end and a noble 
 flight of stairs, of the best Renaissance period, at the other. 
 These served to illustrate the contrast between a lordly 
 past and a squalid present, for the /carpet, a genuine 
 Aubusson, was in rags, and every article of furniture pre- 
 sented an appearance of extreme age and decay. Even the 
 servant, who had answered (after a long interval) my third 
 impatient ringing of the bell, seemed as old as the spindle- 
 legged chairs. And — it may have been my fancy— but I 
 could have sworn that he glared at me, as if resenting the 
 advent of a stranger and a foreigner. 
 
 A moment later Gaston came in, with both hands out- 
 stretched, and the gay smile I remembered so well upon 
 his lips. Ten years, however, had changed him greatly, 
 perhaps not for the worse. He had lost entirely the look 
 
 65 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 of youth, always so enchanting, but he had gained instead 
 a distinction — the hall-mark of suffering and disappoint- 
 ment bravely endured. 
 
 "You remembered me?" he said. "You have hunted 
 me out? How charming of you!" 
 
 He was so glad to see me that I blushed, unable to 
 explain brutally that chance *had brought me to his door. 
 Motoring through Brittany, I had lost my way. A glance 
 at the map showed me to be within a few kilometres of 
 Trevignon, and at once I recalled my old friend and felt 
 impelled to visit him. I had an indefinable conviction 
 that he was at home, and a sense, an instinct, that the 
 dropped stitches of our friendship were to be picked up 
 again. It is a fact that I had forgotten his name ! One of 
 the many young Frenchmen working beside me in Julien's 
 atelier in Paris, he had challenged attention by his bad 
 drawing and abominable colour. A greater duffer never 
 spoiled canvas. But we liked him because he was so gay 
 and keen, and so free from any taint of jealousy. We 
 knew that he was the nephew and heir of some eccentric 
 old man with a chateau in Brittany, and we knew also 
 that he had inherited from his father a small income, 
 large enough to pay his own bills and some of the bills of 
 ^is less fortunate fellow-students. 
 
 "You will stay with me? Thou must stay." 
 
 The familiar ''Hi' settled the matter. 
 
 "All the same," continued Gaston, with a frown, "this is a 
 ruin, as you see, but we shall forget that when we are 
 talking about Montmartre." 
 
 "Do you still paint?" I asked. 
 
 "Paint?" he echoed. "I have to paint now." Then, 
 
 reading some astonishment in my face, he plunged into 
 
 voluble speech. He owned the chateau and the rough landes 
 
 that encompassed it, but these, unhappily, were mortgaged. 
 
 66 
 
The Black Velvet Cap 
 
 As he was speaking the old servant entered the hall. 
 Gaston told him to bring in my suit-case. I instructed my 
 chauffeur to drive to the nearest town and return next day 
 for orders. Gaston laughed, rather awkwardly. 
 
 "I can't put him up here/' he muttered. He examined 
 the car with enthusiasm. "Lucky beggar! Made out of 
 pictures — hein?" 
 
 ''Call them portraits." 
 
 '*I heard you were painting princesses — and I was de- 
 lighted." 
 
 The sincerity of his tone was pleasant to hear. A decade 
 had not soured his sweet disposition. 
 
 "Where shall I put monsieur's suit-case?" 
 
 To my surprise Gaston answered in Breton. I knew 
 enough to understand that my. host was turning out of 
 his own room. 
 
 "Mow vieux," I said firmly. *T refuse flatly to occupy 
 your room, and I'm as obstinate as I used to be." 
 
 "There is only one other room habitable, and that " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "Was the one in which my unfortunate uncle was mur- 
 dered." 
 
 "Murdered?" 
 
 "Surely you read the case in the papers?" As I shook 
 my head, he continued, lightly, "He was robbed and mur- 
 dered. I'll tell you about it later. Meanwhile " 
 
 "Put me into your uncle's room." 
 
 Gaston made a wry face. 
 
 "You English are cold-blooded. I couldn't sleep there 
 myself. The villagers say it is haunted." 
 
 "So much the better. I want to see a ghost." 
 
 "It's locked up. Joking apart, I dislike to have you 
 sleep in that room. Coadic wouldn't sleep there for a 
 thousand francs — wouldst thou, Yann?" 
 
 67 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 *'Not for ten thousand, monsieur." He shuddered 
 slightly. In his odd, harsh voice he added: "It is locked, 
 and I have the key, but, nevertheless, it is not empty." 
 
 "That settles it!" said I gaily. "I must pass a night 
 there. If I encounter a spirit I shall ask him many ques- 
 tions." 
 
 "Have thy own way." Gaston turned to Coadic. "Put 
 monsieur's things into my uncle's room. It is, at any rate, 
 as dry as a bone, and the bed is comfortable." 
 
 -But " 
 
 **Do as I tell you," said Gaston irritably. The old man 
 bowed and went out. 
 
 **A faithful servant, but queer. All we Bretons are 
 superstitious, although we hate to admit it. Coadic has 
 never got over my uncle's death." 
 
 "It must have been an awful shock to you?" 
 
 *T expected it," he answered curtly. 
 
 "Expected it?" I echoed in astonishment. 
 
 "Yes. Come up to the studio and have a look at my 
 machins/' 
 
 He turned abruptly and I followed him upstairs and into a 
 large room upon the first floor. Two things struck me. 
 My poor friend had been working furiously and — alas ! — 
 to no purpose. His drawing seemed to have improved; his 
 colour remained atrocious. 
 
 "Your candid opinion," he said eagerly. 
 
 I hesitated, dumb with distress. Then I exclaimed: 
 "How you have come on in drawing!" 
 
 Gaston's face beamed. 
 
 "I'm thinking of a one-man exhibition in London," he 
 said. "Good idea — hein?" 
 
 "We must have a talk about that later," said I. "You 
 have a lot of stuff. Halloa! What's this?" 
 
 The head of a girl, delightfully drawn in pastel, with a 
 68 
 
The Black Velvet Cap 
 
 freshness of colour, a delicacy of tone, and an apprehen- 
 sion of values quite out of the ordinary, smiled at me from 
 the wall. 
 
 "Ah," said Gaston, "that's my Argentine." 
 
 He took down the pastel and placed it in a better light. 
 
 "What do you think of my Argentine?" 
 
 "It's the best thing you've done. You must stick to 
 pastel. It's " 
 
 He interrupted me, frowning. "I can do better work 
 than that. I want your opinion of the girl, not of the 
 picture." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 *'A friend painted it. If you could see the original " 
 
 "She must be perfectly charming." 
 
 "She is," said Gaston softly. With an ingenuous gesture 
 he laid his hand upon my sleeve. "I hope to marry her 
 some day. That is why I have worked so hard." 
 
 I stared at the sweet face upon the easel. Did the 
 winning of this dear creature depend upon the success oi 
 her lover as a painter? Why had he not devoted his time 
 and energies to something else? Then I remembered that 
 he was an avowed Legitimist, and as such disqualified for 
 public life. 
 
 "Are you engaged to her?" I asked. 
 
 "I was. It was broken off by her people a few months 
 ago. I don't blame them. Sit down ! I saw your look of 
 amazement when I told you that I expected my uncle to 
 be murdered. He had the most remarkable collection of 
 gems in France, and he kept them in his bedroom." 
 
 "I see. The sale of these gems would have made you 
 a rich man." 
 
 Gaston nodded. "They were valued at fifty thousand 
 pounds." He added details. More than one previous 
 attempt at burglary had been frustrated by the vigilance of 
 
 69 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 old Coadic. Finally, the uncle was found dead in his bed- 
 room. The police failed to discover either the murderer 
 or the gems. 
 
 "Do you mean to say," I asked, "that not one has been 
 placed on the market?" 
 
 "Not one." 
 
 "And the murderer left no trace?" 
 
 "He vanished into thin air." 
 
 "What an extraordinary crime!" 
 
 "It baffled even £pine, the famous Chief of Police. I 
 must tell you that £pine did not believe that my uncle 
 was murdered, and the doctor supported his view. They 
 held that he died of shock." 
 
 "It comes to the same thing." 
 
 "Exactly. He was found dead upon the floor, near the 
 window through which the robber escaped." 
 
 "How did the man get in?" 
 
 "That is darkest mystery. My uncle had special bars 
 and bolts to his room, as you will see. The robber came 
 through the window; but wait till you look out of that 
 window." 
 
 "You were here at the time?" 
 
 "Yes. For a day or two ;fipine suspected me." 
 
 He recited a few details. The late marquis, an eccentric, 
 had spent most of his life in Paris. The collection of rare 
 gems had become an overmastering passion. Against the 
 warnings and protests of his nephew, he had insisted upon 
 living at Trevignon. It was understood between him and 
 Gaston that the collection was to be sold after his death. 
 
 "We were talking of it the very night he died," said 
 
 Gaston. "The question of my marriage had come up, and 
 
 he told me that he was suffering from organic disease of 
 
 the heart, and that I should not have to wait long for my 
 
 70 
 
The Black Velvet Cap 
 
 Argentine. He was not a bad sort. There he is; a rough 
 sketch of mine." 
 
 He indicated an old man with white hair, dressed in old- 
 fashioned black clothes, possibly the very suit which hung 
 loosely upon the bony frame of his old servant, and wear- 
 ing a black velvet skull-cap. The best thing in the study 
 was this cap, and I said so. 
 
 "Une petite note qui chante," said Gaston. 
 
 Presently we crossed a wide corridor and entered a 
 room even larger than the studio. It was excellently fur- 
 nished, and illuminated by two windows upon the side 
 opposite to the door. The bed, a massive four-poster with 
 brocaded curtains, faced the fireplace. Gaston showed me 
 the bolts and bars of the door; then he walked to the 
 windows. The first of these evidently had not been 
 opened for many years. Gaston opened the other, a 
 diamond-paned casement. 
 
 "Look down," he said curtly. 
 
 We were above the cour d'honnmr, grey with ancient 
 paving-stones, in the interstices of which grass grew 
 rankly. Beneath the window ran a narrow ledge of 
 granite; below this was a leaden pipe, fantastically orna- 
 mented, which ran perpendicular to the ground. 
 
 "The robber climbed up that. Coadic came to me next 
 morning in great agitation, saying that he couldn't get into 
 his master's room. It took a stout blacksmith a couple of 
 hours to force an entrance. My uncle lay just there" — 
 he indicated the spot — "and the gems were gone. The 
 coffer which held them was found at the bottom of yonder 
 well." 
 
 I stared out of the window. I looked up and down. 
 The ledge ended abruptly at an angle of the wall. 
 
 "The robber must have been a bit of a cHmber." 
 
 "Nothing is more certain. He swarmed up the pipe, 
 
 71 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 pulled himself on to that ledge, and thence through the 
 window." 
 
 *'How do you know he came by the pipe?" 
 
 *'It is lead; there were marks upon it. As a matter of 
 fact, those marks lifted suspicion from me." 
 
 *'If he had dropped on to the ledge from above " 
 
 ''Impossible — without elaborate arrangements of ropes 
 and planks on the roof. ;fipine tried to squeeze a small 
 boy down the chimney. The walls are solid granite." 
 
 "And the other servants?" 
 
 "There were no other servants. Coadic and my uncle 
 lived alone ; a woman came in daily to do the cooking. We 
 continue the arrangement." 
 
 "Did you ever see these gems?" 
 
 "See them? A thousand times. I saw them the night 
 he died in this very room. He slept with them. I tell you 
 he adored them. He sacrificed everything for them. He 
 thought an intaglio the most beautiful thing in the world. 
 Perhaps yon can understand that?" 
 
 He laid a slight emphasis on the pronoun. 
 
 "What makes you say so?" 
 
 "Don't you collect?" 
 
 "Not I." 
 
 "But you wear a fine specimen." 
 
 He indicated a ring that had been given to me, a head 
 of Achilles, very delicately cut. Gaston took my hand in 
 his and examined it. 
 
 "A beautiful emerald," he murmured. 
 
 "Full of flaws." 
 
 "Most of them are. But what a colour!" 
 
 "What can have become of these gems?" 
 
 "fipine is of opinion that they have been sold in America. 
 And collectors, he says, are most unscrupulous, and some 
 are as crazy as my poor uncle. £pine told me, in confi- 
 72 
 
The Black Velvet Cap 
 
 dence, the names of two millionaires who would have 
 bought the Trevignon intaglios without asking any ques- 
 tions. So far as I am concerned, my dear fellow, the 
 confounded stones have ceased to be. Let us go back to 
 the studio and talk about painting." 
 
 We talked ''shop" till dinner-time. Coadic brought hot 
 water to my room. As he placed the brass pitcher upon 
 the washing-stand he said, heavily, ''The water is nearly 
 boiHng." Saying this, he stared at my ring. 
 
 "I always take it off," said I. 
 
 "Might I look at it, if monsieur pleases?" 
 
 I handed it to him. His hand trembled as he took it, and 
 it seemed to me that he eyed it with repugnance, as if it 
 were some malefic object. 
 
 "It is genuine," he said calmly, returning it to me. "I 
 thought for an instant it was one of the imitations." 
 
 "You care about these things?" 
 
 "With reason, monsieur. I knew every gem in the 
 Trevignon collection." 
 
 "Then, if necessary, you could identify them?" 
 
 "Certainly; but I shall not be asked to do so." 
 
 "Why are you so sure of that?" 
 
 The old man nodded his head solemnly. 
 
 "Because, monsieur, the man who stole the gems was a 
 collector himself, not an ordinary thief." 
 
 "Then fipine ought to search the world for a collector 
 young and active enough to swarm up that pipe and pull 
 himself on to that ledge." 
 
 "I ventured to say as much to Monsieur :£pine myself." 
 
 He bowed and withdrew silently. 
 
 Dinner was served a few minutes later. Coadic waited 
 on us, and filled my glass with wine. Gaston drank cider. 
 
 "This is wonderful wine," I observed. 
 
 "Romance, '87," replied Gaston. "There are a few 
 
 73 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 boftles left. My uncle liked it ; drank a bottle to himself. 
 He said it was too good to share with a friend. Indirectly, 
 I have thought that this particular wine cost him his life. 
 He had a bottle the night he was murdered. The doctor 
 was of opinion that had he drunk cider he would have heard 
 the man opening the window. He had a pistol under his 
 pillow, and knew how to use it." 
 
 I sipped the Burgundy, reflecting that it was the finest 
 wine I had ever tasted; the bottled sunshine of the Cote 
 d'Or. I entreated my host to taste it, but he refused. 
 
 *'It's a superb wine, but I've an absurd and indefensible 
 prejudice against it — for the reason I have mentioned." 
 Very simply, he added : '*! was fond of my uncle, in 
 spite of his eccentricity." 
 
 This surprised me, for I was sensible of an ever-increas- 
 ing exasperation against a selfish monomaniac who had 
 sacrificed his own flesh and blood for the sake of a few 
 so-called precious stones! And the coffer (which I had 
 seen in the studio) was light enough and small enough 
 to be carried easily in one hand. 
 
 We went to bed early. As he bade me good-night Gaston 
 said, seriously, "Are you quite certain you won't change 
 your mind?" 
 
 I laughed. 
 
 "I can hardly keep my eyes open. That Romance is 
 strong drink." 
 
 "I am so glad you liked it." 
 
 II 
 
 I began to undress as soon as I was alone. About to 
 jump into bed, I noticed that the window was shut. I 
 opened it and glanced out. A moon, nearly at the full, was 
 
 74 
 
The Black Velvet Cap 
 
 playing hide-and-seek with some dark clouds. For the 
 moment it illuminated the courtyard and the fagade of 
 the chateau. Poor Gaston ! To own so charming a home, 
 to know that a few hundred pounds would make it habit- 
 able, a shrine for the delightful creature he loved, and now 
 — unless a miracle happened — he would be constrained to 
 live on here alone, seeing his ancient house fall to pieces, 
 powerless to avert its destruction. What an abominable 
 fate ! 
 
 Why had not the accursed thief fallen and broken his 
 neck? 
 
 Examining more carefully the ledge and the pipe, I came 
 to the conclusion that the descent must have been fairly 
 easy. But the ascent was difficult enough to have taxed the 
 powers of a professional gymnast. 
 
 Again I was about to slip into bed, when I perceived 
 that the draught from the window had blown open the 
 door. I shut it, but it opened again. Impatiently I bolted 
 it, divining that the hasp was worn out. A second later 
 I was between the sheets — and asleep. 
 
 When I woke I failed to realise where I was, but I lay 
 still, a sort of vagabond in slumber's suburbs, wandering 
 idly here and there, not curious and yet not incurious, fol- 
 lowing the will o' the wisp Fancy, whithersoever the wanton 
 nymph might lead. I can swear that I was not thinking 
 of Gaston's uncle. I was vaguely conscious of occupying 
 a moonlit room and an extremely comfortable bed. 
 
 Presently this pleasing state of somnolence changed its 
 character. I heard a faint sound. Certainly, at this mo- 
 ment, I woke up, and I told myself that there was a mouse 
 or a rat under the bed. I went to sleep again, hoping that 
 it was not a rat. Again I woke with a disagreeable start. 
 This time I could hear nothing, but I experienced the 
 common and always detestable impression of not being 
 
 75 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 alone in the room. I reasoned with myself, remembering 
 that I had bolted the heavy door. And yet every fibre of 
 my being told me that some living creature stood close 
 to me. 
 
 My first impulse urged me to leave my bed and search 
 the room; an impulse I dismissed as cowardly, one to be 
 cast out as it were an unclean spirit. I shut my eyes, and 
 tested the soporific of playing over a recent game of golf. 
 I did the first hole in four, and was comfortably approach- 
 ing the second green, when I seemed to hear a faint sigh. 
 
 I opened my eyes and saw an amorphous shadow on the 
 wall to the right of the bed. The shadow moved. Moving, 
 it assumed the form of some monstrous toad. It re- 
 mained still, but it deepened in tint, and then faded to a 
 faint blur. Purposely I had drawn the left curtain of the 
 bed, so as to prevent the moonlight from falling on my 
 face. The shadow, therefore, was cast by something or 
 somebody between the window and the bed. 
 
 The uncanny thing moved again, faded, and vanished. 
 This time I recognised in the shadow the vague semblance, 
 an outline only, of a man. 
 
 I sat up in bed, making no noise, straining my ears 
 rather than my eyes, for the moon had slipped behind a 
 cloud. Peering round the edge of the curtain, I saw, 
 silhouetted against the window, the figure of a man with his 
 face turned away from me. In the very dim light he 
 appeared to be staring intently at some object upon the 
 dressing-table. Suddenly, as the moon reappeared, the table 
 was flooded with light, and I saw that the object upon 
 which my visitor's gaze was focussed was my emerald 
 ring. The man himself had his back to me, and, his head 
 being bent over the table, I could make nothing of it except 
 this — he wore a black velvet skull-cap. 
 
 ''Une petite note qui chante." 
 
 76 
 
The Black Velvet Cap 
 
 Certainly the confounded thing started a buzzing in my 
 head; every nerve seemed to be jangling. Often and often 
 I had expressed a wish to meet a ghost, and now — let me 
 be entirely frank — I was frightened. The sombre figure 
 did not move; nor did I. But my brain became active. 
 Passages from books dealing with psychical phenomena 
 flitted into my mind like bats. Thousands of men and 
 women believe that, under certain conditions, the spirits 
 of the departed return to this earth and may be seen of 
 the living. The dead marquis had exhibited an inordinate 
 passion for gems — a passion entailing misery and suffering 
 upon his nephew and a sweet, innocent girl. Was it 
 incredible — was it not rather probable and just — that the 
 spirit of this egotist should be constrained to linger in 
 expiation near the spot whence it had been torn from the 
 clay? And if it were true that even in death the ruling 
 passion of a life should remain strong, might it not be said 
 with greater truth that the same passion would remain 
 strong, or stronger, after death? 
 
 Summoning what moral courage I possessed, I deter- 
 mmed to address my visitor. 
 
 *'Who are you?" I said, in French. 
 
 As I spoke I stepped on to the floor, and, as ill luck 
 would have it, the moon once more disappeared, leaving 
 me in Cimmerian darkness. I could just discern the black 
 figure between the window and me. It seemed to assume 
 enormous proportions : an optical illusion due to the fact 
 that it had silently approached me. An instant later I 
 felt cold fingers at my throat. The attack was so swift and 
 unexpected that I fell backwards upon the bed, which was 
 behind me, and therefore an obstacle in the line of retreat. 
 I can remember feeling the balls of the man's thumbs 
 upon my gullet and a sensation of acute pain at the back 
 of my eyes. 
 
 77 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 When I recovered consciousness it was broad daylight. 
 I was lying in bed, and some one was hammering at the 
 barred door. 
 
 I admitted — Gaston. 
 
 ''Had a good night?" he asked. 
 
 Still half dazed, I glanced round me. There was no 
 sign of a struggle. I told Gaston what had passed. 
 
 "Nightmare," said he, with a smile. 
 
 "No," said I. 
 
 Gaston laughed genially. 
 
 "Come, come! If your visitor was a man, how did he 
 get in?" 
 
 "How did the murderer get in?" 
 
 "Why should a robber wear a skull-cap? If it were 
 the spirit of my poor uncle, why should he attack you? 
 He was the mildest person imaginable. After a cold bath 
 and a Breakfast you will laugh at your own story." 
 
 As he was speaking Coadic came in with my shaving 
 water. 
 
 "Monsieur has seen my uncle's ghost," said Gaston 
 gaily. 
 
 "I am not surprised," replied the old man sombrely. 
 
 "The bath-room, my one extravagance, is near the studio. 
 Are you ready?" 
 
 "Give me five minutes more," said I. 
 
 Gaston went out, leaving Coadic pottering about. In 
 my rather irritable frame of mind his slow, silent move- 
 ments exasperated me. 
 
 "You can go," I said abruptly. 
 
 Alone, I tried to determine whether the events of the 
 night were or were not nightmare. I reconstituted the 
 scene. Upon the table, where the moonbeams had fallen, 
 lay my ring. If my visitor was flesh and blood, why had 
 he not taken it? I went to the glass and examined my 
 78 
 
The Black Velvet Cap 
 
 throat. Two red marks were visible: enough to provoke 
 curiosity, not conviction. Gaston would laugh and say they 
 were self-inflicted. I examined the window and the ledge 
 beneath it. I stared at the solid stone walls of the room. 
 Lastly I lay down upon the floor. 
 
 I was about to get up, when I spied something at the 
 side of the bed, almost concealed by the brocaded curtain. 
 With an exclamation, I picked it up. 
 
 It was a black velvet skull-cap. 
 
 As I was staring at it, half-stupefied, I heard Gaston's 
 voice in the corridor, calling me. 
 
 Instantly it occurred to me that it would be edifying 
 and amusing to let him find the cap. I replaced it under the 
 curtain and went to my bath. 
 
 The cold water acted like an astringent tonic upon my 
 weakened sensibilities. I called to Gaston as I passed his 
 room. 
 
 "Come to me when you're dressed." 
 
 Entering my own room, I went straight to the curtain 
 and lifted it. 
 
 The cap had vanished ! 
 
 I sat down upon the edge of my bed, afraid to face the 
 facts, with the fear gaining strength that I was going out 
 of my mind My eyes wandered to the dressing-table and 
 fixed themselves, aimlessly, upon the ring. Another 
 mystery! The ring was not quite in the same place. 
 Somebody had moved it while I was in the bath-room! 
 
 At once the fog upon my faculties lifted and I saw 
 clearly. Coadic had moved the ring and taken away the 
 cap. Coadic, then, was my nocturnal visitor. Swooping 
 upon the truth, I realised the significance of his presence 
 in my room. Like his old master, he had become a mono- 
 maniac. The temptation to see and touch my emerald had 
 been too much for him. Probably he had reckoned upon 
 
 79 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 the soporific effects of a bottle of Burgundy, and had 
 known that he was running slight risks. But, for that 
 matter, did a monomaniac ever pause to reckon risks ? 
 
 The next question was not easily answered. 
 
 How did he get into my room? 
 
 That question I never answered then, for at that mo- 
 ment my mind leaped forward to the inevitable conviction 
 that Coadic had stolen the gems. Would it be possible 
 to prove this? 
 
 Gaston came in whistling. 
 
 He began to chaff me. I submitted with my tongue in 
 my cheek, unwilling to take the ingenuous chatterbox into 
 my confidence till I had devised some sort of plan. At all 
 hazards Coadic must be hoodwinked. Being insane, he 
 might destroy both the gems and himself if he had reason 
 to suppose that discovery was impending. The guileless 
 Gaston would betray the truth with a glance or a gesture. 
 Happily, the first breakfast in France is not a serious 
 affair. We finished our coffee, and then Gaston left me 
 to smoke a cigarette under a fine chestnut tree. I could see 
 the well and the fagade from my seat under the tree. 
 Knowing that Coadic was the robber, I was enabled to 
 co-ordinate my facts with a cumulative force denied to 
 Monsieur fipine. For instance, the ascent by the water- 
 pipe and the rise on to the ledge were, obviously, feats 
 beyond an old man's powers. But he had strong hands, and 
 the descent presented no great difficulty. 
 
 How did he get in? 
 
 The answer to the problem came to me quickly. It 
 would have come as quickly to the famous Chief of Police 
 had he had the smallest reason to suspect a servant who 
 had served his master faithfully for thirty years. 
 
 He must have been concealed in the room when his 
 master went to bed. 
 80 
 
The Black Velvet Cap 
 
 Here, however, a difficulty obstructed my advance. 
 Granting that Coadic was prepared to run risks to steal 
 the gems, was it likely that he would run equal, if not 
 greater, risks merely to look at an intaglio not so fine as 
 at least a score already in his possession ? Was he so mad 
 as that? I could hardly believe it. 
 
 Nevertheless, I was certain that the gems were con- 
 cealed, with a maniac's cunning, in or near the chateau. 
 How to find their hiding-place began to worry me. 
 
 I smoked another cigarette before I joined Gaston. Soon 
 afterwards Coadic came up and said that my chauffeur had 
 driven over for orders. 
 
 "You will stay a day or two longer?" said Gaston. 
 
 I caught a quiver of expectation upon Coadic's lips. 
 
 "Forgive me," I replied slowly, "but I must leave you 
 this afternoon." 
 
 "I can't press any friend to stay in this abominable hole," 
 said Gaston. "You won't leave till this afternoon?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Pack monsieur's suit-case," said Gaston to Coadic. 
 
 "I am anxious to inspect every nook and cranny of your 
 chateau," said I. 
 
 Once more I detected a gleam of suspicion in the eyes 
 which turned uneasily from mine. 
 
 "There is nothing to see," said Gaston. 
 
 "You forget that I'm mad on Renaissance architecture. 
 Send Coadic with me, if it bores you." 
 
 Although he protested at first, the suggestion pleased 
 him. An hour or so later Coadic and I started. There 
 was indeed little to see inside the house — the walls were 
 bare, the flooring rotten, and the rooms had been gutted 
 of furniture. 
 
 "The late marquis sold everything to buy gems?" 
 
 "Yes," said Coadic sullenly. 
 
 8i 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 To avert still further his suspicions, I spoke of the 
 events of the previous night as a bad dream. Then I 
 began to talk about gems, asking questions and receiving 
 answers more or less guarded as Coadic became excited. 
 
 If I had experienced any doubt as to his madness it was 
 resolved quickly. His eyes glittered, his face and hands 
 twitched. Any other subject turned him into a graven 
 image. 
 
 **That is all, monsieur," he said, as we came out of tKe 
 fine stone-vaulted kitchen. 
 
 "You have not shown me your room," said I. *Ts there 
 not a lit clos in it, an old armoire, something or other in- 
 teresting?" 
 
 With a shrug of his shoulders he turned to the right. 
 As I had divined, his room was on the ground floor, with 
 a small window opening on to the cour d'honneiir, and close 
 to the water-pipe. Like all the windows level with the 
 ground, it was heavily barred. 
 
 "Strong bars," said I. 
 
 "Monsieur is right," said Coadic nervously. 
 
 I made certain that one at least of the bars was remov- 
 able. I strolled to the window and looked out. 
 
 "You are close to the pipe," I said carelessly. "But you 
 heard nothing upon that night?" 
 
 "Nothing," he repeated; but the pupils of his eyes grew 
 larger and he slightly moistened his lips. My questions, 
 my presence in his room made him uneasy. I looked about 
 me. The floor was of stone — solid slabs of granite. The 
 furnishings were of the simplest — a truckle bed, a cheap 
 chest of drawers, a wash-hand stand, and a small table. 
 
 "Where do you keep the gems?" said I. 
 
 He said nothing, but his eyes glared into mine, and I 
 saw the veins stand out on his forehead. 
 
 "Come, come !" said I impatiently. "The game is up. 
 
 ^2 
 
The Black Velvet Cap 
 
 You were in my room last night. You left behind your 
 skull-cap— ar.d I found it by the curtain. The marks of 
 your thumbs are on my windpipe at this instant." 
 
 He gave a hoarse cry and jumped to the window. I 
 supposed that he wished to escape. He soon undeceived 
 me, for he plucked out the iron bar and attacked me with 
 insane fury. I avoided his first wild blow with a side- 
 step, which, however, placed me in an angle of the room. 
 Too late I regretted my folly in not speaking to Gaston. 
 
 This time the madman advanced cautiously, with up- 
 lifted weapon. Shielding my head with my right hand, I 
 closed. He struck hard, but my left fist landed full on 
 the point of his jaw. He went over backwards, striking 
 his head against the iron bed. The bar clattered upon the 
 stone flags. Instantly I secured it, but Coadic lay still, 
 with a face the colour of dirty tallow. As I stood over 
 him, Gaston rushed in. 
 
 "He has injured my arm," said I. "He's a dangerous 
 
 maniac." 
 
 Between us we got him on to the bed. He breathed 
 stertorously, but his eyes remained closed. I muttered 
 hastily half-a-dozen words of explanation. 
 
 "The gems must be at Trevignon," I said. 
 
 "We can force him to speak when he recovers," said 
 Gaston. 
 
 But within a few hours it became plain that Coadic might 
 die without regaining articulate speech. The blow — not a 
 very heavy one — the fall, or, more probably, the horror 
 of discovery, or the fear of being deprived of the gems, 
 had turned him into a raving lunatic. The doctor who 
 bandaged my arm insisted upon his removal at once to a 
 maison de sante. Gaston, from the first, refused to believe 
 that the servant had murdered his master. 
 
 83 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 *'He loved my uncle, I tell you," he repeated obstinately. 
 "His grief was not simulated. I swear to that." 
 
 'Terhaps you will affirm that he didn't take the gems?" 
 "If he took the gems we shall find them." 
 "I shan't leave this house till we do," I answered, irri- 
 tably. 
 
 "The chateau must be searched by an expert." 
 His coolness exasperated me. To be honest, I did not 
 want an expert to find the gems. I was enthusiastically 
 keen to discover them myself. We had searched Coadic's 
 room very thoroughly and found nothing except the skull- 
 cap. But, lying awake the same night, I had time to con- 
 sider the problem with a certain sense of detachment. It 
 was obvious that Coadic did not nm the risk of my dis- 
 covering him merely to stare at my emerald ring. Had 
 his madness been strong enough to justify such a risk, he 
 would have stolen the emerald, regardless of everything. 
 No, another motive had forced him to enter my room. 
 What? 
 
 I could think of only one. He must have kept the gems 
 in his late master's bedroom, of which he had the key, to 
 which, apparently, he alone had access. After the police 
 had left the chateau, what safer hiding-place could be 
 found ? Here, and here only, he could gloat over the spoil, 
 finger and caress his beloved stones. The room was said 
 to be haunted. It had been haunted by Coadic. I got out 
 of bed and looked at my watch. It was three in the morn- 
 ing. I knew that the gems were a few feet away. 
 
 Then began an absurd and painful search, simplified, 
 however, by the fact that the walls were of stone and the 
 floor of solid oak. Incidentally, I discovered not a single 
 mouse-hole. The room was mouse-proof. 
 
 By this time I had examined minutely every object except 
 the huge bed. Now I stood, candle in hand, staring at its 
 84 
 
The Black Velvet Cap 
 
 faded splendours, wondering whether it was as solid as it 
 seemed. My arm was confoundedly painful, but not so 
 painful as the thought which suddenly discoloured my san- 
 guine expectations. If Coadic had come to my room to re- 
 move the gems, was it likely that he had left them behind 
 after choking me into unconsciousness? Without doubt 
 they were lying in the same place where they had been con- 
 cealed before — some hole in a wall or a tree for which, lack- 
 ing a definite clue, one might search vainly for twenty 
 years ! 
 
 I tapped the posts of the bed. They were solid as the 
 walls of the room. I found cobwebs between the top and 
 the ceiling. Finally, with my head and arm throbbing, I 
 crawled back between the sheets. 
 
 Gaston came in early, solicitous about my welfare, pro- 
 foundly regretful that my arm had kept me awake. 
 
 "Your confounded gems kept me awake," I replied. "I 
 suppose you don't know where your uncle hid them?" 
 
 ''Certainly; in the coffer which we found in the well. I 
 showed it to you." 
 
 "But where did he keep the coffer?" 
 
 "In his bed, poor man." 
 
 "In that bed?" 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 'Where? Where?" 
 
 "He had a cunningly devised mattress. That's what de- 
 ceived the police, fipine was certain that the thief had 
 heard of this hiding-place, probably from the mechanic who 
 designed it, who, on inquiry, was found to be a vaurien." 
 
 "For Heaven's sake show me the place at once." 
 
 Gaston smiled derisively. Then he turned back bolster 
 and sheet, and the mattress beneath them. The lower mat- 
 tress was exposed, lying like a square box full of springs, 
 and well padded on the top with horse-hair. Gaston touched 
 
 85 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 a button, which released a catch. Just where my head had 
 lain there was a cunningly contrived hiding-place. 
 
 In it, with not a gem missing, lay the famous Trevignon 
 collection. 
 
 Not till a year later did we learn the truth, although 
 we divined much of it. I was staying with Gaston and his 
 delightful wife, when Coadic, long regarded as a harmless 
 imbecile, met with a serious accident in the asylum where 
 he was confined. He fell down some steps and was stunned. 
 When he recovered consciousness, to the doctor's amaze- 
 ment it was evident that he had recovered also his memory. 
 Before he died he made full confession to a priest, and also 
 to the authorities. He did not murder his master. He 
 knew that the gems would be sold when that master died, 
 and determined to steal them. As I had guessed, he con- 
 cealed himself in the room, stole the gems, escaped by the 
 window, flung away the coffer, hid the gems in the garden, 
 and regained his own room. It will never be known whether 
 the marquis discovered the theft. He was found dead, 
 hence his servant's subsequent remorse and grief. Coadic 
 told the priest that he believed he had killed his master. 
 The shock of finding his gems stolen had been too sudden 
 for an old and enfeebled man. Later, Coadic replaced the 
 gems in their original hiding-place, to which, as has been 
 said, he alone had access. Hence his distress at my occu- 
 pying the room. At the last moment, it seems, he had been 
 confronted with the possibility of Gaston showing me the 
 hiding-place. He had gone to my rooms to remove the 
 gems, counting upon my retiring late rather than early. 
 My step in the stone corridor had driven him to hide under 
 the bed. He heard me lock the door, and knew that his 
 escape was cut off. He also had the satisfaction of know- 
 ing that the gems were not disturbed. As soon as he was 
 sure I was asleep he had crept from under the bed, thereby 
 86 
 
The Black Velvet Cap ' 
 
 arousing me. He told the doctor that he meant to escape by 
 the window, but he was arrested by the sight of the emerald 
 shining in the moonlight. Then followed his detection and 
 the struggle. After choking me into insensibility he escaped 
 with the gems, leaving his cap behind him. He retrieved the 
 cap while I was in the bath-room, and, hoodwinked by my 
 declared intention of leaving the chateau, had replaced the 
 gems. 
 
 ''But how did he get possession of the skull-cap?" asked 
 Mme. de Trevignon. 
 
 "I gave him what was left of my uncle's wardrobe — not 
 much." 
 
 Madame glanced at my emerald ring, which I had pre- 
 sented to her on her marriage. 
 
 "If it hadn't been for this," she murmured, "I shouldn't 
 be sitting here." 
 
 "I don't know about that," said Gaston. "My one-man 
 exhibition in London would have made me famous perhaps, 
 and — rich." 
 
 "Of course it would," said the wise wife. 
 
 And, between ourselves, the good fellow is assured that 
 the finding of the gems wrecked his artistic career. He 
 never touches a brush now, and next year I have promised 
 to paint the portrait of his son and heir — a handsome urchin 
 of five. 
 
 87 
 
VI 
 
 MESSITER S SISTER 
 
 MISS MESSITER wishes to see you, sir." 
 ''Miss— Messiter?" 
 
 "The sister of the late Mr. John Messiter, sir. She asked 
 me to mention that." 
 
 "Oh! Show Miss Messiter in." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 The office boy vanished. Adrian Steele stared at the ceil- 
 ing. In his mind's eye was John Messiter, that queer youth 
 whose wares he, as literary purveyor, had offered to the 
 British public. In more senses than one young Messiter 
 had proved an unknown quantity. And now his sister was 
 coming upstairs to ask, perhaps, for money, or help of some 
 sort. Adrian wondered what Messiter's sister would be like. 
 
 When he looked down she was standing before him. So 
 quietly had she entered, that he was unaware how long she 
 had stood in front of his desk. He rose, offering a chair and 
 an apology. 
 
 "I beg your pardon for startling you," she said. 
 
 He flushed slightly, for she had startled him — an experi- 
 ence so novel as to be embarrassing. He withdrew his eyes 
 from a face which remained vividly impressed upon his 
 mind. As he had expected, Messiter's sister was no common 
 type. She presented the always remarkable contrast of soft 
 light hair surmounting dark eyes and brows and lashes. Ad- 
 88 
 
Messiter's Sister 
 
 rian often boasted that he could read faces, but this face was 
 undecipherable. One might hazard a guess that the owner 
 of it had suffered either in mind or body, possibly in both. 
 Serenity informed the mouth ; the voice had soothing inflec- 
 tions; no trepidation betrayed the suppliant. At the same 
 time, Messiter's sister wore shabby clothes, although they 
 became her vastly well. Her gloves were darned; her veil 
 had been carefully mended; her hat could not have cost 
 more than a few shillings. 
 
 ''What can I do for you?" said Adrian. 
 
 "I have brought a manuscript." 
 
 "Of your own?" Unconsciously he assumed the edi- 
 torial tone. 
 
 "Of my brother's." 
 
 "I should like to see it very much. Your brother, Miss 
 Messiter, did good work; it had quality. Had he lived, he 
 would have made an enduring mark." 
 
 She bowed quietly, holding out the manuscript, which Ad- 
 rian took. Then, with a certain hesitation alien to him, he 
 said: 
 
 "Have you offered this elsewhere?" 
 
 "No ; he wished me to offer it to you first." 
 
 "But — pray pardon me ! — Mr. Messiter died more than 
 six months ago, and " 
 
 "I could not bring it before." 
 
 Adrian turned over the first page. The title of the 
 manuscript, a short story, arrested his attention. Mes- 
 siter had the knack of finding arresting titles. He turned 
 another page. Yes, yes ; this was a piece of Messiter's work 
 — he recognised the brand immediately. 
 
 "I'm sure to want this," he said pleasantly. 
 
 "And in view of the fact that this is your brother's last 
 piece of work " 
 
 89 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 "There may be more," said Miss Messiter, displaying foi 
 the first time an unmistakable nervousness. 
 
 *Tndeed! You have come upon a bundle of manuscripts 
 — eh? I hope you will give us the first refusal of all of 
 them." Again his tone became professional. "Would you 
 let me see everything? I'm not prepared to say now what 
 terms we could offer, but if you will trust me " 
 
 "John said I could trust you." 
 
 Adrian's keen eyes softened. 
 
 "I'll read this at once, and write to you. Will you send 
 me the others?" 
 
 "I'll bring them — later. Could you — would you" — ^her 
 voice for the first time quavered — "p — p — pay for this on 
 acceptance? It's not customary, I know, but " 
 
 "You shall have a cheque to-morrow if it proves avail- 
 able. It is almost sure to prove available." 
 
 Miss Messiter gave an address in Bloomsbury, and then 
 took her leave. Adrian had a thousand matters clamouring 
 for attention, but he fell into a reverie, staring at the manu- 
 script on his desk. Presently he picked it up and read it 
 through with ever-increasing interest. He told himself it 
 was the best thing poor Messiter had done — a sort of swan 
 song. Yet the sister had spoken of others. He seized his 
 pen, filled in a cheque, and despatched it by a special mes- 
 senger. 
 
 "She might be in distress," he murmured. "If Messiter 
 knew that " 
 
 With an effort he dismissed from his mind such specula- 
 tion. Men said that Adrian was hard-headed ; hard-hearted 
 also, added the women. Undeniably, he had proved him- 
 self a shrewd and able editor of a famous magazine. Life 
 seemed to him a simple affair, because so far he had made 
 no serious mistakes in it. He had worked ; he made others 
 work. He had educated a younger brother, who was doing 
 90 
 
Messiter's Sister 
 
 well at the bar. His friends were workers: men with 
 definite aims and ambitions, who measured success with the 
 world's footrule. For the rest, he was generous, honour- 
 able, fearless, and an uncompromising enemy of humbug. 
 
 During the next twenty-four hours his thoughts turned 
 with exasperating frequency to Messiter and Messiter's 
 sister. He was sensible of an inordinate curiosity. He had 
 talked with Messiter several times without getting below 
 the surface. The man whom he had wished to know more 
 intimately revealed himself in his work as an Idealist. His 
 stories, for instance, as Adrian had pointed out in a short 
 obituary notice, were distinguished by an aerial delicacy 
 of tint and texture. Messiter soared — that was the word — 
 into an empyrean beyond the clouds. Adrian had never left 
 the solid earth. 
 
 Miss Messiter acknowledged the receipt of the cheque, but 
 she made no mention of her brother's other manuscripts — 
 an omission which Adrian resented. When the proof was 
 sent to her, the editor asked for an interview; the proof, 
 carefully revised, reached him next day in an envelope 
 which contained nothing else. Adrian told himself that he 
 felt "cheap." None the less, in the interests of his maga- 
 zine, he must try to secure Messiter's unpublished stuff. He 
 called upon the sister at the address she gave him. Miss 
 Messiter, as a slattern of a servant informed him, was 
 *'not at home." The hussy had her tongue in her cheek and 
 an insolent grin on her face. Adrian walked away thor- 
 oughly out of temper, because hitherto he had run on no 
 fool's errands. 
 
 The stoi-y, when published, challenged controversy. A 
 famous divine wrote to The Times. A man of science an- 
 swered his letter ; other letters followed. But, inevitably, in- 
 terest in Messiter and in Messiter's ideas waned and 
 vanished. 
 
 91 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 Six months passed. And then, one afternoon, Messiter's 
 sister called again at the office. Adrian greeted her coldly. 
 Indeed, he told himself that only a strong sense of duty to 
 his employer justified him in seeing a woman who had treated 
 him so cavalierly. Her appearance, however, thawed re- 
 sentment. The poor lady looked thin and ill; the lines on 
 her face had perceptibly deepened. 
 
 ''Why did you not come before?" said Adrian. 
 
 "1 had nothing to bring," she faltered. 
 
 As Adrian was staring at her, she held out another man- 
 uscript about the same size as the first. Adrian took it with 
 a smile, curiously compounded of derision, amusement, and 
 sympathy. 
 
 'They kept it six months, did they— and then returned 
 
 it?" 
 
 Miss Messiter raised a pair of large, perplexed eyes to 
 
 his. 
 
 ''Who kept it?" she demanded. 
 
 "Confess," he said lightly, "that you sent this to some 
 other editor. I dare say you thought our cheque was not 
 quite large enough— eh? But it was larger than any your 
 brother received in his lifetime " 
 
 "The cheque was for a sum much larger than I expected," 
 she interrupted. "I have not sent this anywhere. I brought 
 it to you first." 
 
 Adrian tried — very unsuccessfully — to conceal his im- 
 patience. 
 
 "My dear Miss Messiter, I beg pardon, but, on my soul, 
 your — your procrastination is no ha'penny matter. You 
 must know that your brother's work excited a demand for 
 more — a demand only sustained and increased by supply. 
 That is the A B C of success in letters. Commercially 
 speaking, this manuscript — which, mark you, I've not looked 
 at yet — would have been worth just twice as much to us 
 
 92 
 
Messiter's Sister 
 
 four months ago. Be frank with me. Why did you not an- 
 swer my notes ?" 
 
 "I had nothing to bring," she repeated, in the same falter- 
 ing tone. 
 
 ''This must have been in your possession then ?" 
 
 She made no answer. 
 
 '*! regret that I saw so little of your brother. What I did 
 see interested me profoundly. He told you to trust me. 
 Why do you not do so ?" 
 
 "I — I couldn't. You mustn't ask me questions." 
 
 Adrian bit his lip. The face opposite was piteous in its 
 expression of entreaty; and yet who could doubt that this 
 woman needed a friend? Who could resist the temptation 
 to help a creature so young, so forlorn, so unfitted to with- 
 stand the buffets of the world ? Adrian walked to the win- 
 dow. When he turned his voice had lost its authority, and 
 gained, instead, a persuasiveness infinitely more eloquent. 
 
 "I wish to be your friend. Let me help you, if I can. Tm 
 not blind. You are in straits. You are alone " 
 
 "What is it you wish to know ?" she asked. 
 
 "That is better. We are beginning to understand each 
 other. What do I want to know ? Well, to begin with, the 
 truth concerning these mysterious manuscripts. That last 
 one, for instance — when was it written?" 
 
 Adrian sat down again at his desk. He leaned forward as 
 he spoke, gazing straight into the eyes of his visitor. 
 
 "If I tell you the truth you will not believe it." 
 
 His glance became compassionate, magnanimous, intensely 
 sympathetic. Amongst what manner of people had she lived 
 of late that she should thus answer him? 
 
 "I ask you to trust me. Miss Messiter. You must feel 
 that I trust you. I am not putting these questions out of idle 
 curiosity." 
 
 93 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 She looked positively hunted as she replied : "That last 
 story was written the day before I brought it to you." 
 
 "Written out," he corrected. "But the rough copy " 
 
 "There was none." 
 
 "I beg pardon " 
 
 "It was dictated — communicated, if you prefer the word 
 — by my brother." 
 
 Adrian stared at her, confounded. 
 
 "Corrimunicated by your brother John, who died a year 
 ago?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And this," Adrian tapped the manuscript beneath his 
 hand, "was also, I presume, communicated by him to you?" 
 
 "Yes ; the day before yesterday." 
 
 Adrian withdrew his eyes from her face, which was deli- 
 cately flushed. Two hypotheses occurred to him. Either 
 this girl was crazy, or else she had written the stories signed 
 John Messiter herself. The second seemed the likelier of 
 the two. 
 
 "I'm going to have my tea, Miss Messiter. May I order 
 some for you ?" 
 
 "Thank you. You are very kind," she replied. Then, as 
 he gave the order through the telephone, she added quietly, 
 "What an amazing discovery this wireless telegraphy is !" 
 
 "Yes," said Adrian, eyeing her intently. 
 
 "Telepathy, too — you believe in that, Mr. Steele?" 
 
 "Some of the experiments recorded have been remark- 
 able," he admitted. 
 
 "But you don't believe what I told you just now," she 
 said softly, meeting his somewhat confused glance with a 
 smile. Adrian found himself trying to analyse the smile. 
 Was it wistful, derisive, sad, or superior? 
 
 "If you would tell me a little more. Come — begin at the 
 
 94 
 
Messiter's Sister 
 
 beginning. Did you live with your brother? Did you share 
 his ambitions?" 
 
 "Yes," she said quietly. "We were twins, orphans, and 
 everything to each other." 
 
 Adrian stared at the pattern of the office carpet, because 
 tears lay in the eyes of Messiter's sister. Sensible that she 
 was struggling with a desire to speak, to give her sorrow 
 words, he found himself strenuously willing that she should 
 speak fully, without any reserve to him. a stranger. More ; 
 he had a conviction that her hesitation, her modesty, her 
 sensibility, were thrall to his will, that in an inexplicable 
 fashion the barriers that must exist between them were 
 crumbling. When she spoke again her voice had changed. 
 It had become the voice of' an automaton : articulate, but 
 cold, measured, lacking in inflection and modulation. It 
 seemed as if it came from an immeasurable distance, sub- 
 limated, as it were, by vast spaces. He shivered slightly, 
 glancing at the window, wondering whether a draught had 
 chilled him. 
 
 "His ambitions were never realised," she continued. "He 
 touched the fringe of them just before he died. And he 
 knew that if his strength, his poor frail body, had not failed, 
 he would have held what he desired so vehemently in the 
 hollow of his hand. At the last, it was terrible : the struggle, 
 the hopeless struggle, to live a little longer, a few months, 
 so that he might taste — success " 
 
 Adrian was about to entreat her to say no more. The 
 contrast between the matter and manner of her speech had 
 an edge so sharp that he felt his own tissues — tough enough, 
 to be sure — to be lacerated. She went on, in the same dull 
 monotone : 
 
 "The night before he died we were alone. And then — 
 and then — " Her voice died away in a fluttering sigh. 
 
 95 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 *'Yes, yes." Adrian bent forward and took her hand. It 
 was cold, limp, and transparently thin. 
 
 "He said that he would try to — to come back. And he 
 did." 
 
 Adrian was conscious of a shock. Her hand fell from 
 his warm clasp, and with it much of his sympathy and re- 
 spect. Reason revolted against what was incredible. And 
 yet — and yet — her face diffused truth. 
 
 "You saw him?" 
 
 "No; I heard him." 
 
 Adrian read the terror in her dilated eye. "It happened 
 months after he was buried. I had brought myself to look 
 over his papers. I was reading an unfinished manuscript. I 
 cried because it was unfinished, because he had tried so hard 
 to finish it. Oh, it all came back, that last scene — his poor 
 face, his thin fingers clutching the pencil, and then the — 
 end ! Oh ! I hated, hated, his work, because it killed him. 
 . . . And yet I loved it, you understand, because it was 
 his — his, not a part of him, but all of him. Just as I came 
 to the last illegible line, I heard his voice in my ear." 
 
 "Go on," commanded Adrian. He spoke with a vehe- 
 mence that he knew to be brutal ; but for the moment she, 
 the frail woman, had swept him off his feet, whirled him 
 into a maelstrom of emotion, passion — aye, and fear. The 
 dead man's voice — he could remember it well — thrilled and 
 vibrated in his own ears. 
 
 "I was sitting by an open window, and the voice came 
 from outside, whispering my name, 'Christine — Christine!' 
 And I answered, 'Yes, John,' almost without thinking. And 
 then he told me to get a pen and write down what he was 
 about to say. He finished the story which— which I brought 
 to you next day." 
 
 "The story I bought and printed?" said Adrian. 
 
 "Yes. I like to think, now, that he was permitted to help 
 
 96 
 
Messiter's Sister 
 
 me, you understand, that it was not done for any selfish mo- 
 tive. I had come to the end of my resources. But I cannot 
 deny that I was terrified. It made me ill — very ill." 
 
 "And this ?" Adrian touched the second manuscript. 
 
 "1 had spent the cheque you sent me. And he came 
 again. I had prayed that he would come. Was it wicked ? 
 Perhaps we are not meant to grasp what lies beyond. When 
 I prayed, I had the feeling that I was — how shall I put it? 
 — tampering with — with a power that might kill me. If I 
 had not been — in want " 
 
 *'In want? And a hint to me " 
 
 She silenced him with a gesture so delicate, so eloquent 
 of pride, gratitude, and shame, that Adrian's cheeks flamed. 
 
 "He came," she continued. "And he dictated what I have 
 brought you to-day. That is all." 
 
 Adrian jumped up. Crossing the room, he flung the win- 
 dow wide open. The cool air flooded his brain. At the same 
 moment the oflice boy appeared with the tea. This anti- 
 climax of an interruption restored to Adrian self-possession 
 and self-confidence. He asked his visitor to pour out tea 
 with an air and accent that proclaimed the superior animal, 
 securely enthroned above the weakness and credulity of the 
 other sex. He began to talk of current topics. Messiter's 
 sister drank her tea, listening to his well-turned phrases. A 
 faint colour sparkled in her cheeks ; she smiled at his quips ; 
 she seemed to wish to exhibit herself as the agreeable, con- 
 ventional woman, pleasing without effort and easy to please. 
 Presently she rose, drawing on a pair of carefully darned 
 gloves. Instantly the situation became strained. 
 
 "Must you really go? I shall want this." He indicated 
 the manuscript. 
 
 "It is — it is his, you understand." 
 
 "Certainly; it is John Messiter's, if you say so." Her 
 eyes flared. 
 
 97 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 *'I do say so — and you don't believe me." 
 
 He bit his lip. What a brute — what a fool he was! Of 
 ■course, she had written both stories, although her brother, 
 doubtless, had begun the first. Grief at his death, and 
 abominable penury, had unbalanced a brain too finely ad- 
 justed for work-a-day uses. 
 
 ''My dear Miss Messiter, I beg your parden. I repeat, 
 with tenfold emphasis, what I said half an hour ago. I 
 should be proud to call myself your friend. I shall esteem it 
 an honour to serve you — if I may." 
 
 ''But," she held his glance, "you don't believe me: you 
 think me not mad " 
 
 "Heaven forbid!" 
 
 "But — unbalanced." 
 
 She had used his own word, reading his thoughts with 
 uncanny subtlety. 
 
 "And, that being so, I can only say good-bye, and thank 
 
 you." 
 
 Adrian stammered out: 
 
 "May I — you will f -forgive me — but — as a f -favour to 
 
 Tne " He retreated to his desk and pulled a cheque book 
 
 from a pigeon-hole. "S-s-something on account " 
 
 "No. Well, then — yes. I am in debt. My landlady is a 
 good creature. But she, too, is struggling." 
 
 Adrian filled in a cheque, thrust it into an envelope and 
 begged her to say no more. She took him at his word, 
 bowed, ignored his outstretched hand, and left the room. 
 
 "She is furious," he muttered, "because I have seen 
 through her pathetic little enterprise." 
 
 He sat down and plunged into the manuscript. Yes, yes ; 
 who could doubt that this was woman's work? Why, the 
 delicacy of it, its fragrance, its bloom — ^bloom was the word 
 — revealed the sex of the writer in every paragraph. She 
 
 98 
 
Messiter's Sister 
 
 was a genius — half crazy, half starving, and wholly charm- 
 ing; a creature of fascination. 
 
 He had hardly finished the story when the door opened, 
 and in came Paxton Wright, his sub-editor, whom Adrian in 
 expansive moments called '^friend." 
 
 ''Ah, Wright. Sit down. Something amazing has taken 
 place." 
 
 He was constrained, against his better judgment, to tell 
 this shrewd, lynx-eyed man what was in his mind. Speech 
 became a necessity. Wright curled a derisive lip. 
 
 **A clear case of obtaining money under false pretences. 
 With your experience " 
 
 "You did not see Miss Messiter." 
 
 "Yes, I did. A witch, no doubt. You are not easily hum- 
 bugged." 
 
 "She is not quite " Adrian touched his forehead sig- 
 nificantly. 
 
 "Pooh ! She's as sane as I am. I took particular notice 
 of her, because she is unquestionably pretty: too thin, but 
 graceful as a nymph. She's laughing at you now, I'll be 
 bound." 
 
 "H — I say if, Wright — if her story were true." 
 
 Wright shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "Oh ! you contemplate a fake. From a business point 
 of view Pm with you. We can hoax half England." 
 
 Adrian shuffled in the editorial chair. At times Wright 
 scraped his feelings. Not often ; he was too clever for that, 
 but now and again — and always unexpectedly. Adrian 
 asked himself the uncomfortable question: "Is Wright 
 quite straight?" 
 
 "This magazine would never lend itself to that sort of 
 thing," he said stiffly. "Did you want to see me about any- 
 thing in particular?" 
 
 99 
 
Some Happenings 
 II 
 
 Next day Adrian sent Messiter's sister another cheque, 
 the balance due, and with it this note : 
 
 **My Dear Miss Messiter, — 
 
 ''Unwittingly I placed you and myself in a false posi- 
 tion. But please forgive me. For the future I promise to 
 consider whatever you may bring or send without asking 
 questions, which, after all, are irrelevant. At the same time, 
 can't we meet? I would travel an ell to you. Won't you 
 come an inch ?" 
 
 To this she replied by return of post, acknowledging the 
 cheque with thanks. The answer he awaited with almost 
 boyish impatience was condensed into a postscript : 
 
 "I am a forgiving woman. Because you have placed me 
 in one false position, I shall not try to place you in another." 
 
 Adrian, it has been said, had found life simple. Now, 
 without gradation of any kind, it became complex. He had 
 tried to obey the philosopher's injunction, but self-study 
 and self-analysis had not taught him knowledge of char- 
 acter, temperament, and opinions other than his own. He 
 felt that he was floundering, if not foundering, in a sea of 
 speculation. Messiter's sister obsessed him. 
 
 He knew many so-called spiritualists and spiritists ; he had 
 assisted at their disappointing seances; he had read their 
 pamphlets, their manifestoes, their affidavits. And the 
 thoughts, the messages, the words twisted out of planchette, 
 had without exception proved trivial, or senseless, or ilHter- 
 ate ; generally all three. He recalled a message from John 
 Milton, an Alexandrine faulty in quantity, ill-spelled, and 
 
 lOO 
 
Messiter's Sister 
 
 grotesque in sentiment. A woman of his acquaintance 
 claimed to have constant intercourse with departed spirits. 
 He did not doubt that she was sincere in believing that cer- 
 tain illustrious persons hovered about her even at unseason- 
 able hours. She saw them, heard them, as clearly, let us say, 
 as a delirious patient sees and hears the creatures of his 
 imagination. Adrian, in compliance with this lady's request, 
 had put some searching questions. What, for instance, was 
 
 the late Y , that admirable painter, doing in the world 
 
 unseen. "He is painting," replied the lady solemnly, ''pic- 
 tures more beautiful than any he painted here." This an- 
 swer was reasonable and satisfying. ''And W ?" Adrian 
 
 named a famous poet. *'Ah ! he too is at w^ork. He tells me 
 that he has just finished a poem, in nine cantos, finer than 
 anything recorded here." Adrian admitted that it would be 
 impossible to make any critical estimate of pictures painted 
 with celestial pigments, but he begged his friend to procure, 
 
 if possible, a sample verse or two of W 's new poem. 
 
 Surely W , who on earth had really bored his friends by 
 
 constant recitation of his own poems, would be willing to 
 oblige an honest seeker after truth. And if this new poem 
 were finer than any he had written on earth, what a gospel 
 it w^ould prove to millions ! The lady replied rather tartly 
 
 that W was not permitted to transmit his best. Adrian 
 
 smiled derisively. It is hard to believe that the worthless, 
 the base, and the counterfeit are the only coins current be- 
 tween the quick and the dead ! 
 
 He published the second story in the next issue of the 
 magazine. It attracted more attention than the first. The 
 elect became excited. Why, it was asked, had these post- 
 humous works been withheld so long from publication? 
 Were more to be expected ? And so forth. 
 
 Meantime, it had become plain to Adrian that he loved 
 Messiter's sister, with a love differing from anything of the 
 
 lOI 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 kind experienced before. One measures adequately the 
 strength of this attachment by the statement that this 
 shrewd, cool-headed man was willing to marry, on her own 
 terms, a girl he had met only twice. If she imposed silence, 
 he would ask no questions. He wrote a letter entreating 
 permission to pay her his addresses. She sent one line in 
 reply : 
 
 *'Not till you can swear that you believe what I told you." 
 
 About four months later she called at the office for the 
 third time. Adrian was so shocked at her appearance, the 
 attenuation of her features, the pallor of her skin, that he 
 exclaimed instantly: ''What have you been doing?" She 
 displayed an irritation which he rightly attributed to physical 
 weakness. 
 
 "I didn't come here to talk of myself." 
 
 "You have brought another manuscript?" he asked, with 
 carefully-studied courtesy. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Will you sit down?" 
 
 She refused the chair he offered. Her large, clear eyes 
 lingered on his face. 
 
 "You are in trouble, Mr. Steele." 
 
 He betrayed his astonishment by a sharp intake of breath 
 and the too quick "How did you know? I've not told a 
 soul." 
 
 "And it is serious — very serious." 
 
 "Oh ! you read minds, too ? Yes, it is very serious." 
 
 The look of bewilderment on his clean-cut face provoked 
 a smile from Messiter's sister — a smile which puzzled Ad- 
 rian more than anything that had gone before, for it was the 
 smile of superior knowledge, yet tender, pitying, and mag- 
 nanimous. The smile provoked him to unconsidered speech, 
 to almost brutal frankness. That he, who had grasped all he 
 w^anted with a sure, tenacious clutch, should find this fragile 
 
 I02 
 
Messiter's Sister 
 
 woman so elusive, so intangible, became an insupportable ex- 
 asperation. His calm, authoritative manner, his easy ges- 
 tures, his courteous bearing, were suddenly exchanged for 
 a boyish petulance and roughness. 
 
 ''You try me too high !" he exclaimed. "I tell you that 
 you are partly responsible for a misfortune which has over- 
 taken me. I have been obsessed by your mysteries. I have 
 neglected my work. And I must pay for such neglect. Well, 
 I'll pay, if you'll own that for some inscrutable purpose 
 you've tried to make a fool of me. You have the satisfac- 
 tion of knowing that you have succeeded." 
 
 ''Oh!" she said faintly. 
 
 At once he felt ashamed of his outburst. She looked so 
 pitifully small and weak. 
 
 "It's all right," he said confusedly. "I take it back. I 
 don't beHeve that you — you — could have deliberately de- 
 ceived me." 
 
 "And this misfortune of yours? Will you tell me what 
 it is?" 
 
 Adrian nodded. Her eyes seemed to diffuse a strange 
 power of perception. He went on to say that he was the 
 sole trustee for a niece, whose small fortune of some ten 
 thousand pounds he held in trust. Certain securities had 
 been taken by him from his bankers to look over with a 
 view of reinvestment. Adrian recalled bringing the package 
 from the bank, carrying it to his office, and thence to his 
 chambers. He could swear that no one save himself and the 
 manager of the bank knew of its removal from the bank's 
 strong-room. And yet, within forty-eight hours, some of 
 the negotiable securities, amounting in value to two thou- 
 sand pounds, had been stolen, or at least had mysteriously 
 disappeared. 
 
 "I've turned my chambers and this office upside down," 
 
 103 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 said Adrian in conclusion. ''Well — I've been inconceivably 
 careless, and I must pay the penalty." 
 
 **You mean " 
 
 ''That the money must be made good." He laughed 
 bitterly. "Luckily I have scraped together a little more 
 than the amount missing. It might have been a little less. 
 Wright always told me I was a fool to save. If I hadn't 
 saved, some very awkward questions would have been 
 asked. But — why have I bothered you with my troubles?" 
 
 He stopped, confused, remembering that she had divined 
 these troubles before he had declared them. Then he burst 
 out: ''How did you know?" 
 
 She did not answer. Again it struck him that she was 
 horribly ill. Her next words arrested his attention. 
 
 "If I could help you ! If I had the strength " 
 
 "The strength?" 
 
 "If I could ask— John!" 
 
 It was a supreme moment for both of them. Her 
 brother's name quivered from her lips, a mere sigh. Yet it 
 smote Adrian with inconceivable violence. He was trem- 
 bling when he said : 
 
 "Have you heard from John lately?" 
 
 He could not keep an ironical inflection out of his voice. 
 
 This cursed John, this spirit raised by a weak woman's 
 fancy to stand between her and her happiness and his hap- 
 piness ! She replied meekly : 
 
 "No; I did not dare. I have not asked him, but if 
 
 you " She faltered, blushing, irresolute, turning aside 
 
 her graceful head. 
 
 "I — I ask you to ask him? Never !" 
 
 His hatred of this imaginary brother was written plain 
 upon his face. She understood instantly. 
 
 "How hard you are !" she exclaimed. "And how in- 
 104 
 
Messiter's Sister 
 
 credulous of everything which you can't see and feel and 
 hear ! Good-bye 1" 
 
 Their hands met; he noticed how her fingers vibrated at 
 his touch. A voice within struggled for utterance. He 
 wished to say: ''Christine, I love you with all my heart and 
 soul. Be my wife!" The same voice whispered that he 
 must speak now or never, that it was not yet — too late. 
 
 They parted. After the door had closed behind her, he 
 sprang forward, irresolute, his features twisted by indeci- 
 sion. And then the habit of a life-time seized him. His face 
 grew imppssive, his relaxed muscles became rigid; he re- 
 turned ponderously to his desk, once more the obedient 
 slave of that tyrant, his reason. 
 
 For some hours he worked feverishly, making up the time 
 he had squandered, imposing upon himself a penance of un- 
 remitting labour, of undivided attention to tlie innumerable 
 duties of an editor. The pile of letters to be answered 
 dwindled to small proportions. He heard Wright leave the 
 office ; the boy, first to come and last to go, ran off whistling. 
 Doors were slamming all over the big building as men 
 stopped work for the day. Soon, Adrian, was sensible that 
 he and the hall porter were left alone. Still, he wrote on 
 and on, trying to blot out the pathetic face of Christine 
 with ink. 
 
 And then suddenly his telephone bell rang. He picked 
 up the instrument, astonished and perplexed. Who was 
 ringing him up at seven in the evening ? And how did they 
 know that he was in his office at such an hour ? 
 
 ''Who is it ?" he asked. 'T am Adrian Steele." 
 
 'T am Christine Messiter." 
 
 Adrian recognised her voice at once. The tone of it 
 seemed stronger, clearer, more vital. Yet he asked arjx- 
 iously : 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 ''Are you ill?" 
 
 **I am quite well," came the reply. ''You are alone. Will 
 you go at once to Mr. Wright's desk? In the middle drawer 
 you will find a small bunch of keys. One of them — a 
 Bramah key — unlocks the japanned box which you will find 
 in the third right-hand drawer. In the japanned box are 
 the missing securities. Will you look at once ?" 
 
 "Yes," said Adrian, confounded; "but " 
 
 A faint voice murmured: "Good-bye." 
 
 Adrian hesitated. The obvious questions — the how, and 
 why, and when — rushed to his lips, but never passed them. 
 
 "Christine," he said passionately, "Christine — are you 
 there ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I love you — do you hear? And I am coming to you. 
 Wait for me ! Christine, do you love me ?" 
 
 He strained his ears to catch her reply, but it came to him 
 so faintly that he supposed something must have gone wrong 
 with the instrument. 
 
 'T — love — you. I — shall — wait — for — you." 
 
 And then — silence ! 
 
 Adrian shut up his desk, and put on his hat and overcoat 
 before he remembered Christine's message. Great Heaven, 
 how had such knowledge come to her? He rushed into 
 Wright's room. His desk was locked, but the middle drawer 
 happened to be open. The small bunch of keys met his eye. 
 He pulled at the third right-hand drawer — that, surely, 
 would be locked. No. By some mischance the patent lock 
 of the fluted lid, which ought to have locked the desk and 
 all drawers in it, had failed to work properly. Adrian saw 
 the japanned box. 
 
 The securities were there. 
 
 With a trembling hand, with a beating heart and throb- 
 bing brain, he thrust them into his pocket, and replaced the 
 
 T06 
 
Messiter's Sister 
 
 box and bunch of keys. He had a strange look of awe 
 upon his face as he went down-stairs. 
 
 Passing through the hall he noticed the porter and a 
 couple of workmen, and paused to ask what they were 
 doing at such a late hour. The porter's answer was the 
 keystone to the arch of mystery through which he felt him- 
 self to be crawling. The telephone, he was told, needed ad- 
 justing. The job, however, was nearly done. 
 
 "Is it disconnected now?" Adrian asked. 
 
 "Yes, sir, and has been since six. You needn't worry, 
 Mr. Steele; it will be in good order before business hours 
 to-morrov/." 
 
 Adrian rushed up the street and into the Strand, whence 
 a hansom bore him swiftly to Bloomsbury. 
 
 The landlady — not the slattern he remembered so well — 
 opened the door. 
 
 "Where is Miss Messiter? She telephoned to me — not 
 half an hour ago." 
 
 He was pushing by, when she clutched at his sleeve. 
 Something in her stupid, kind face arrested him. 
 
 "We've no telephone in the 'ouse, sir. Miss Messiter come 
 'ome about four. I took her a cup of tea. I'm sure she's 
 not gone out again ; she's in the second floor front.'* 
 
 Adrian was half-way up the stairs before she finished 
 her sentence. He knocked at Christine's door, inclining his 
 head to hear her quiet : "Come in." There was no answer. 
 The landlady, breathing very heavily, joined him, and 
 opened the door. By the light of a reading lamp Adrian 
 could see Christine lying back in her chair, asleep and 
 smiling in her sleep. The landlady and he approached 
 silently. The landlady touched the hand which lay upon the 
 arm of the chair. Then she screamed out : 
 
 "O my God ! She's not asleep. She's — she's dead !" 
 
 107 
 
VII 
 
 THE SUPREME EVENT 
 
 TOHN learned the terrifying truth after his engagement. 
 •^ Indeed, the young lady kept it as a surprise. Man and 
 maid met at Miirren during a wet week. Each was rea- 
 sonably keen about skating, and each played piquet. They 
 fell in love at first sight, and the affair ran smoothly and 
 swiftly up to a certain moment. 
 
 They were sitting together, and quite alone. Mabel put 
 her pretty lips close to his ear and whispered : 
 
 "I have something to tell you." 
 
 Armitage smiled. Foolish man ! He was presumptuous 
 enough to believe that the something had been told before, 
 and would be told again and again with cumulative sweet- 
 ness. 
 
 "Yes, Mabr 
 
 "I am the Miss Simpson!" 
 
 The accent upon the definite article was startlingly em- 
 phatic. No man — least of all a lover — could doubt that 
 this information, so carefully suppressed, was of tremen- 
 dous importance to the speaker. Happily, John was a man 
 of sensibility and tact. Instantly he dissembled, for it was 
 quite unthinkable that he should reply : 
 
 "My darling, never, never have I heard of the Miss Simp- 
 son." 
 
 Afterwards he came to the conclusion that the truth be- 
 io8 
 
The Supreme Event 
 
 tween lovers, however stark it may appear, should prevail. 
 Such wisdom comes to most men and nearly all women too 
 late. John pressed her hand which happened to lie in his. 
 
 "The Miss Simpson?" he repeated. There was an accent 
 of awe in his voice. 
 
 "Yes," she murmured. ''Dearest, do you mind marrying 
 a celebrity?" 
 
 A celebrity ! His blood curdled. He racked his unhappy 
 brains. Why had he never heard of the Miss Simpson? 
 He divined, poor wretch ! that anything even approximating 
 to an admission of such ignorance would cost him dear. 
 Desperately, clutching at shadows of all celebrities, he 
 murmured as sweetly as she : 
 
 "Mind marrying — you! But, why have you kept this 
 from me ?" 
 
 Her answer was even more perplexing than what had 
 gone before. 
 
 "You see, John, we decided, mother and I, when we 
 chose Miirren, that it would be wiser, less boring, if I came 
 here incognita. Simpson, fortunately, is a common name. 
 And we agreed not to talk shop, my shop. I have never 
 talked shop to you, for instance, have I ?" 
 
 "Not that I can remember." 
 
 She laughed delightfully, showing her pretty teeth and 
 an enchanting pair of dimples. John kissed her to hide his 
 confusion and distress. At this moment the gods took pity 
 on him. Mrs. Simpson entered the small salon in which 
 they sat. Mabel jumped up. 
 
 "Mumsie, I have just told him." 
 
 John pulled himself together for a supreme effort. He 
 was no actor, but he felt at this moment histrionic powers 
 within. 
 
 "I am the proudest man on earth," he affirmed. 
 
 A minute later he escaped. Wiping the perspiration from 
 
 109 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 his brow, he sought out his friend, who had already prom- 
 ised to officiate as best man. 
 
 "Henry," he gasped. "I have some rather important 
 news for you. I am about to lead to the altar the Miss 
 Simpson!'' 
 
 Henry's face became absolutely blank. 
 
 ^'The Miss Simpson?" he repeated. 
 
 "Surely, my dear fellow, you must have heard of the 
 Miss Simpson. Mabel is a celebrity." 
 
 "Is she ? Forgive me, old man, I don't want to hurt your 
 feelings, but, honestly, I have never heard of the Miss 
 Simpson." 
 
 "Nor have I," said John miserably. 
 
 Then they both laughed. 
 
 John explained. It was vital, of course, that he should 
 find out at once everything that was to be known about the 
 celebrity, but — how? How? 
 
 "Leave that to me," said the kindly Henry. 
 
 "Hold hard! Let's talk this over. In what line could 
 Mab be a celebrity?" 
 
 Henry hazarded a wild guess. 
 
 "Novelist?" 
 
 John shook his head. 
 
 "Impossible. I know 'em all by name." 
 
 "Actress?" 
 
 "Try again. Between us we may arrive at something. I 
 know the names of actresses, singers, pianists, fiddlers, 
 painters, and sculptors. We have this clue, old man: she 
 has not talked shop to me. Now — wait! We've talked 
 over all the winter sports, and she doesn't shine at any of 
 them. We've discussed books, pictures, and plays. And 
 music." 
 
 "Be perfectly calm, John. I've got it." 
 
 "Speak, or for ever hold your peace !" 
 no 
 
The Supreme Event 
 
 "I'll bet you she's a suffragette. Cat and mouse — eh? 
 Escaped from starvation — what?" 
 
 ''Mab doesn't look like that. Suffragette — no! Suf- 
 fragist, well, it's just possible." 
 
 "I'll ask Dalton ; he knows everything. He's playing auc- 
 tion in the next room. You sit tight till I come back." 
 
 John smoked four cigarettes before Henry returned. 
 One glance at his friend's honest face was reassuring. He 
 knew, and the knowledge had not distressed him. 
 
 **It's all right. Dalton is a wonder. Miss Simpson is a 
 famous tennis player. She got into the semi-finals at Wim- 
 bledon last July, Dalton says she will be champion of the 
 world one day." 
 
 *'Lady champion ? How awful !" 
 
 "Might be worse," said Henry cheerfully. "She might 
 have been a lady doctor, or a lady whistler." 
 
 "I hate lawn-tennis." 
 
 "So do I, but it's a nice, clean, healthy game, although 
 ruinous to the complexion — in time." 
 
 They stared at each other with lack-lustre eyes. Then 
 Henry poured balm upon his friend's lacerated tissues. 
 
 "Let's face this like men of the world. You are engaged 
 to be married to a really charming girl. She's as fit as a 
 fiddle and hard as nails. You have a lot in common. The 
 thing is just right, barring this tennis, but fortunately you 
 have no profession and an ample income." 
 
 "I don't quite take you, Henry?" 
 
 "I mean this. You can trot about with her to tourna- 
 ments, and look after her.' 
 
 "Pick up the balls?" Deep despair thrilled his pleasant 
 voice. 
 
 "Cheer up! I repeat, you can afford in every sense of 
 the word to humour Mabel for a few months, to let her 
 
 play her own game in her own superlative way. Then " 
 
 III 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 "Please go on." 
 
 "As your best man I suppose that I have a claim to of- 
 ficiate later on, as godfather. Now, motherhood and lawn- 
 tennis championships don't trot in the same class. See?" 
 
 "I see. Yes ; there's something in that, but it's a delicate 
 subject, Henry, one that I can't discuss, even with you." 
 
 "Right ! But the odds now are against her winning cham- 
 pionships. Wait and see 1" 
 
 II 
 
 John waited patiently. 
 
 His charming Mabel began to talk shop. 
 
 So did her mother, who was not quite so charming. 
 
 The trio left Murren and travelled together to the Riviera, 
 where John was introduced to other tennis-playing celeb- 
 rities — Porson, the Irish champion; Macmurdo, the Ameri- 
 can smasher; Bott, and the mighty Windlesham. He ac- 
 quired the patter of his future wife's profession; and he sat 
 beside Mrs. Simpson, hour after hour, watching his Mabel, 
 attired in virgin white, as she drove ball after ball down the 
 side lines. 
 
 The "nuts" called her Venus Victrix ! 
 
 They were married at the end of April. Mrs. Simpson 
 confessed that she was apprehensive about May weddings. 
 John possessed an ancient Tudor manor-house in Dorset, 
 with a sunk garden which was the joy of his heart, but there 
 was no tennis lawn. A court was constructed, what is tech- 
 nically called an en tout cos, and a wall covered with con- 
 crete rose behind the stables. No less a person than Bott 
 superintended these important improvements. He had en- 
 tered with Mabel for the Mixed Doubles at Wimbledon and 
 elsewhere, and he told John that he regarded his playing 
 partner as the coming woman. 
 
 112 
 
The Supreme Event 
 
 John submitted meekly that Mabel had already "ar- 
 rived." 
 
 "She will win the All Comers'," said Bott fervently. 
 "Think of what she has won already!" He had black hair, 
 a yellow face, and the profile of a chimpanzee, but John 
 liked him, because the fellow was so keen, such an uphill 
 player, so cheery when off his game. 
 
 Poor John nodded gloomily. He had inherited some very 
 beautiful silver — porringers, salvers, tankards, and the like 
 . — which gleamed with mellow splendour upon a Queen Anne 
 •dresser in the dining-room. Mrs. Simpson had praised 
 the dresser. 
 
 "It's rather nice," John admitted modestly. 
 
 "But, John, dear, how splendid Mabel's pots will look on 
 it!" 
 
 Mabel's pots! There were dozens of them, culled from 
 every silversmith in the metropolitan area. 
 
 "Some people," continued Mrs. Simpson severely, "sell 
 their pots and their jewellery. Dear Mab has never de- 
 graded herself by doing that. Take Tom Slagg " 
 
 "If you'll excuse me, I'd rather not," murmured John. 
 "Enough is as good as a feast." 
 
 "Tom Slagg sells everything. He keeps a sort of jewel- 
 ler's shop. I call him a 'pro.' I am so proud of Mabel's 
 trophies 1" 
 
 They were spread upon that ancient dresser. They 
 remained there. The eyes of dead-and-gone Armiitages 
 glared down upon silver and silver-gilt with ever-deepen- 
 ing reproach and derision. John was sensible of their dis- 
 approval. He shared it, but what could he say? What 
 could he do ? He did the one thing possible and decent. He 
 locked up the tankards and porringers. 
 
 It was Bott who suggested the propriety of inviting Win- 
 dlesham and Mrs. Pragson to spend three weeks in Dorset. 
 
 113 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 *'I must practise with Mabel,'* he said. "You know 
 Windlesham ; and Mrs. Pragson is a corker. Forty-five — 
 I give you my word — and still the most formidable woman 
 in England — ^bar two." 
 
 John would have barred them all except Mabel, but 
 he said not a word. 
 
 Mrs. Pragson arrived with many racquets. She was 
 short, squat, black-avised, with a complexion that matched 
 the Queen Anne dresser. Windlesham accompanied her, 
 the ex-champion of the world. Photographs of the new 
 court and the old players appeared in half-a-dozen papers. 
 John read many paragraphs as follows : 
 
 "Armitage Court is now the centre of the liveliest inter- 
 est. The ancient manor has never, if we may say so, 
 sheltered at one time so many distinguished persons." 
 
 In the solitude of his own den John said : 
 
 ^'Confound it!" 
 
 Ill 
 
 The gallant fellow tried to play the game under his 
 wife's tutelage. He practised assiduously against the back- 
 wall ; he studied tactics. In a single Mabel could give him 
 fifteen and owe forty! She liked to play with him, but 
 Windlesham sternly forbade such altruism. John agreed. 
 Nothing must imperil Mabel's chances for the championship. 
 
 Occasionally he strayed into the nurseries and glanced at 
 his old toys. He busied himself with the management of his 
 small estate, and attended parochial and county councils. 
 His brother magistrates welcomed him on the bench. 
 
 During the pleasant weeks which preceded the Great 
 Event John made only one blunder. In a reactionary mo- 
 ment he invited Toomer to spend a week-end with the celeb- 
 rities. Toomer had been John's school-fellow and con- 
 114 
 
The Supreme Event 
 
 temporary at Winchester, and afterwards the two men had 
 been fellow-undergraduates at New. If Etonians, as a rule, 
 are pleasure-loving, while Harrovians are strenuous, so also, 
 without offence, one may describe Wykehamists as philo- 
 sophical. John was a fair type of Wykeham's sons. He had 
 easy manners, much general knowledge, a sense of humour, 
 and a disposition to travel agreeably along the lines of least 
 resistance. 
 
 Toomer was his antithesis. Toomer won scholarships. 
 Toomer took a high degree. By this time he was well 
 known as a capable and rising man of letters, but admittedly 
 a crank. 
 
 Toomer loathed what he called ball-games. That, pos- 
 sibly, may have been in John's mind when he invited him to 
 Armitage Court. Had John been more candid, Toomer 
 might have dechned the invitation. 
 
 Driving up from the station, which was a comfortable 
 four miles away, John said carelessly: 
 
 "By the way, the house is chock-a-block with tennis 
 sharps." 
 
 **Tennis sharps!" repeated Toomer. 
 
 "Bott, Mrs. Pragson, Windlesham." 
 
 "Never heard of 'em," said Toomer. 
 
 To John's immense surprise, he felt a certain irritation. 
 
 *'You must have heard of Windlesham. Hang it! He 
 was open lawn-tennis champion for three or four years in 
 succession." 
 
 "Was he ? Poor devil ! What does he do now ? An ex- 
 champion is a pitiable object." 
 
 John considered the question. His face brightened. 
 
 "The truth is, old man, that Windlesham is the best of the 
 lot. He's keen about other things. Golf, for instance." 
 
 "Golf! Heaven help him!" 
 
 *'And dry fly-fishing." 
 
 115 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 "That's much better. I fish myself. A successful fisher* 
 man must be an intelligent man. Great opportunities, too, 
 for introspection and observation. How are you getting on, 
 John, with your microscopical work?" 
 
 ''Down and out," replied John, unconsciously quoting 
 Bott. *lt was only pat-ball. I'm shaping nicely at the 
 wall-game." 
 
 "Wall-game? You play football in June?" 
 
 John explained. Toomer opened a capacious mouth to 
 reply, glanced at John's amiable face, and remained for 
 the first time in his Hfe absolutely silent. 
 
 At dinner that night Toomer sat next to Mrs. Pragson, 
 who was in wonderful form. She could do just two things 
 better than any woman of her advanced years — play tennis 
 and talk about it afterwards. Said she to Toomer : 
 
 "Extraordinary, isn't it, what adulation a champion re- 
 ceives nowadays?" 
 
 "You are speaking of Jack Johnson ?" 
 
 "Jack— Johnson?" 
 
 "The coloured prize-fighter." 
 
 "I never heard of him. I was speaking of the lawif 
 tennis champion." 
 
 Toomer was quite honest with her. 
 
 "Who is he?" he asked. 
 
 Mrs. Pragson turned purple. That was her only available 
 tint in moments of excitement. Then she addressed the 
 assembled company in tones of scathing scorn. 
 
 "Mr. Toomer," she announced, "does not know the name 
 of the present champion. I positively refuse to enlighten 
 him." 
 
 "It doesn't matter," said Toomer grimly. "I asked the 
 question out of mere politeness. Let us call him X? Does 
 X receive much adulation ?" 
 
 "Tons and tons ! More than anybody else." 
 ii6 
 
The Supreme Event 
 
 "Oh, come! More than, let us say, Madame Melba?" 
 
 "I hope so. Our enthusiasm about music and all that sort 
 of thing is rather a pose. If you had said — Jessop?'' 
 
 "And who is Jessop?" asked Toomer. 
 
 Bott's prominent eyes nearly popped out of his head. He 
 asked solemnly : 
 
 "Is it possible that you have never seen Jessop bat?" 
 
 "Oh ! a cricketer. Yes, yes, I have heard of Jessop." 
 
 "It is quite obvious," remarked Mrs. Pragson, "that you 
 don't care about games, Mr. Toomer." 
 
 "I don't," said Toomer. "I have never shattered my 
 jelf-respect by hitting at, or kicking, a ball. Well, well, I 
 
 had no intention of astonishing you" (Oh, Toomer !), 
 
 "but short sight and varicose veins have constrained me to 
 give my attention and interest to literature and art." He 
 continued pleasantly: "All of you play games, but you 
 must admit that one can't talk about them, not, I mean, in- 
 telligently, for more than five minutes at a time." 
 
 "I beg your pardon." 
 
 "Pray, don't misunderstand me. It is possible, of course, 
 to prattle on for ever and ever about golf. For my sins I 
 have overheard such futile twaddle, but I was immensely 
 struck by one thing." 
 
 "May I ask you to explain?" 
 
 "I was about to do so. What applies to golf applies 
 equally to all chatter about games. Tom allows Dick to 
 buck about his confounded round, because it is mutually 
 agreed between them that Dick is to have his innings later 
 on. But Tom doesn't listen to Dick, and Dick doesn't listen 
 to Tom. That, I submit, is not intelligent conversation. It's 
 a singularly British and foolish sort of compromise between 
 two bores." 
 
 John, at the head of his hospitable board, smiled nerv- 
 
 117 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 ously. Everybody else stared, open-mouthed, at Toomer. 
 He went on : 
 
 "Conversation, to-day, has become atrophied by disuse." 
 
 Mrs. Pragson perceived an opportunity to score and 
 seized it. 
 
 "We all believe in practice," she said. "Please go on, Mr. 
 Toomer. Will you deign to converse with usf" 
 
 Toomer accepted the challenge. During the rest of din- 
 ner he held forth amazingly. Never had he talked better. 
 John kept him going. But he left early upon Monday 
 morning, and he said to John, when he took leave : 
 
 "My dear old man, you are going to seed. You've got the 
 wrong crowd about you. Why, dash it ! that ass, Bott, 
 patronises you. Henry and I were speaking about you the 
 other day at the club. You've married a dear little girl, but, 
 good Lord ! you haven't married her gang, have you ?" 
 
 "The fact is," said John, "I'm marking time. I'm looking 
 on for the moment, sort of umpire. Don't you worry !" 
 
 "I do worry," said the honest Toomer. 
 
 With that parting shot he went his way. Bott expressed 
 the general sense of John's other guests, when he remarked : 
 
 "That fellow Toomer is un-English !" 
 
 IV 
 
 At Wimbledon, in July, Mabel triumphed gloriously. She 
 fought her way, smilingly, on the top of the tennis tree. She 
 won the semi-final of the All Comers' Ladies' Singles. Bott 
 and she were only barely defeated in the final of the Mixed 
 Doubles. 
 
 The great match for the All Comers' followed. It took 
 place, of course, in the centre court, and attracted an im- 
 mense crowd. John watched the sets from his seat in the 
 ii8 
 
The Supreme Event 
 
 competitors' gallery. Mabel's name shed a reflected lustre 
 upon him. Everybody talked tennis to him. Maidens, with 
 the complexion and the stride of an Indian chief, entreated 
 his advice. One or two demanded his autograph! When 
 an eminent jurist asked him suddenly what he thought of 
 the political situation, he replied: 
 
 " 'Vantage, I think, to server 1" 
 
 Outwardly he was calm. But civil war waged within. 
 He was more in love with his pretty v/ife than ever, and 
 her conduct throughout the long tournament evoked his 
 sincere respect and admiration. For her dear sake he 
 prayed for victory ; for his own, he dared to adumbrate de- 
 feat. Victory meant a prolongation of purgatory for him, 
 but it would exalt her to the highest heaven. Defeated, 
 Mabel might give a thought to the empty nursery. John 
 ground his teeth with rage when he thought of Armitage 
 Court passing to his next of Tcin, whom he detested. Mabel 
 — God bless her — would make the most delightful mother. 
 She had good sense, good temper, good health. What at- 
 tributes for a potential matron ! 
 
 Her antagonist provoked comparisons and uneasy specu- 
 lations. Mrs. Higginbotham was an ex-champion, one of 
 the old Wimbledon Guard. Her face was as terrifying as 
 her overhand service. Mabel, alas ! served underhand, and, 
 therefore, was manifestly at a disadvantage. The ex-cham- 
 pion was famous for her all-round stroke equipment, and 
 — as the reporters said — the "fine generalship which di- 
 rected it." Mabel, on the other hand, was much younger, 
 more active, and a finer back-line player. 
 
 The experts predicted a tremendous match, a fight to the 
 closest finish. More, it was whispered that the winner of 
 the All Comers' would be Open Champion. The holder was 
 said to be out of form. 
 
 During the first two games Mabel scored but one point. 
 
 119 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 Mrs. Higginbotham ''rushed" her. The redoubtable lady 
 *'ran in" on her judiciously placed service, and smashed 
 Mabel's returns. Bott whispered to John: 
 
 ''Old Higgs can't keep that up. It tires even me." 
 Mabel smiled confidently. Again Bott whispered to John : 
 "Mabel's smile warms the cockles of my heart. She 
 has the temperament. Old Higgs hasn't. If Mabel gets the 
 best of her presently, hair will be flying about the court!" 
 "Mrs. Higginbotham looks ferocious." 
 "Yes ; early in life she got the tennis face." 
 John sighed. Would his Mabel acquire those deep fur- 
 rows between her pretty brows, that grim expression, those 
 massive shoulders and hips? 
 Biff! Bang! 
 
 Old Higgs was driving terrifically, sending the balls to 
 Mabel's back hand. Mabel returned them, smiling. The 
 crowd howled itself hoarse when she captured the third 
 game after deuce had been called nine times. Bott was 
 trembling with excitement and enthusiasm. John became 
 acutely sensible that this man beside him was keener than 
 himself. He heard Bott saying: 
 
 "Popular opinion counts in these contests. The will of 
 the crowd. Ninety-nine out of every hundred here want 
 Mabel to win. That's an asset !" 
 
 "Shush-h-h!" murmured Porson, who was just behind. 
 John realised that this match ought to be played in breath- 
 less silence. 
 
 The result went up on the great scoring-board. The 
 voice of the umpire drifted across the ground : 
 
 "Three games to one. Mrs. Higginbotham leads." 
 John felt that his satisfaction was indecent. He mut- 
 tered to himself : "My Mab must win. I really want her 
 to win. She deserves to win." 
 
 The stand rocked when Mabel took the fifth game. She 
 
 120 
 
The Supreme Event 
 
 had begfun to pass her antagonist down the side lines. Again 
 and again her balls pitched within a few inches of them. 
 
 ''What a lovely length !'' said Bott. 
 
 Old Higgs won the sixth game on her service, but she 
 moved less swiftly to the centre of the court. Then a 
 very demon of energy and determination seemed to possess 
 her. Bott had to admit that she was irresistible. She had 
 grasped the vital necessity of overwhelming a younger and 
 more active player. 
 
 First set to Mrs. Higginbotham ! Six games to two! 
 
 The two women met near the umpire's chair. John could 
 see that Mabel was saying something pleasant to the ex- 
 champion. What a darling! What a sportswoman! 
 Toomer ought to have seen that. 
 
 Old Higgs smiled grimly as she listened to Mabel's con- 
 gratulations. Mabel had not turned a hair. John's heart 
 bounded within him. Bott, however, was grinding his 
 teeth and making inarticulate noises. His face brightened 
 when he saw Mrs. Higginbotham's hand go to her mouth. 
 
 "Thank the Lord !" he exclaimed. 
 
 "What's up ?" inquired John. By this time any mean wish 
 that his beloved might be defeated had passed from him. 
 He would have melted down the porringers and tankards 
 and turned his famous Gainsborough face to the wall had 
 such sacrifices been exacted by the gods. 
 
 "Old Higgs has indigestion." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "She's just stuffed a bismuth lozenge into her mouth. 
 There goes another. Yes, the poor old girl is a wonder, but 
 that running up on her service has been too much for her 
 little Mary." 
 
 Mabel won the first two games of the second set, after a 
 terrific and memorable duel a oiitrance. 
 
 Her steady returns down the side lines, her self-posses- 
 
 121 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 sion, and above all her lobbing, defeated the more brilliant 
 veteran. The crowd became delirious. The gift of 
 prophecy descended upon Bott. He gripped John's arm 
 fiercely as he whispered : 
 
 "Mabel will take this set fairly easily. Then we shall see 
 the most interesting game of the year. Old Higgs will pull 
 herself together. She'll play canny. Mabel will be over- 
 confident. I can hardly look on !" 
 
 And John saw that his face was white and drawn. He 
 asked himself the abomhiable question: **Ought Mab to 
 have married Bott?" 
 
 Mabel took the second set, but not easily — fourteen games 
 were played. The Higginbotham revealed discouragement 
 by little gestures of annoyance. Twice she was within a 
 point of winning the set. And then occurred an incident 
 which will be repeated for ever and ever when champions 
 and ex-champions gather together. The umpire had just de- 
 clared *'Deuce!" The Higginbotham served a fault. Her 
 second service struck the top of the net. Bott was confident 
 of this ; so was John. But the umpire — umpires are not 
 infallible — declared otherwise. Mabel's clear voice was 
 heard in protest : 
 
 "It was a let." 
 
 The umpire frowned. Mabel had returned the service. 
 In a portentous tone he delivered his ultimatum : 
 
 "'Vantage to striker," 
 
 The Higginbotham served another fault. Obviously the 
 wrong decision of the umpire had disturbed her. Her sec- 
 ond service was lamentably weak. It pitched short, bound- 
 ing high. Mabel never failed to punish such weak deliv- 
 eries. This, indeed, was her famous push shot, taught to 
 her by Bott — a crisp, low return across the court. She 
 raised her racquet — and let the ball go by ! 
 
 The shout that ascended from the spectators will never 
 
 122 
 
The Supreme Event 
 
 be forgotten by those who heard it. DeHberately, after her 
 own graceful fashion, Mabel had righted a wrong, giving 
 back the lost point to her antagonist with a smile which cap- 
 tivated the multitude. 
 
 '1 couldn't have done that," said Bott. "What a girl! 
 What a woman!" 
 
 "What a wife !" thought John. 
 
 The third and final set began in impressive silence. From 
 a technical point of view it was not so interesting as those 
 which had preceded it. Neither player dared to be brilliant. 
 The Higginbotham remained on the back line, the ball 
 travelled from one end to the other with a precision that 
 became monotonous. Throughout this set the elder woman, 
 although betraying signs of distress, played w^ith increas- 
 ing judgment and steadiness. 
 
 "She'll just pull it off," said Bott. "The fire is going out 
 of Mabel's drive ; her back hand is getting weaker." 
 
 The veteran was well aware of this. 
 
 Five games all! 
 
 The excitement was beginning to tell upon John. He 
 experienced odd thrills chasing themselves up and down 
 his spinal column. He shoved his hands deep into his 
 pockets, because they were trembling. Twice tears came 
 into his eyes. He reflected : 
 
 "This is only a game." 
 
 But he knew it was much more than that. It seemed to 
 him, as he stared at his wife, that this "game," the game 
 which he secretly detested, was revealing to him a new 
 Mabel. He began to understand what games have done for 
 England, what the winning and the losing may mean in 
 their ultimate effect upon character. And he knew in- 
 stinctively that defeat, not victory, would reveal his young 
 wife to him, so that he would see her with clear vision. If 
 her courage failed, if her smile vanished, then he would have 
 
 123 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 to acknowledge that this game was indeed too big a thing in 
 her eyes, that winning it meant the loss of a sense of propor- 
 tion, a monstrous inflation of heart and head. 
 
 The Higginbotham won the sixth game easily. 
 
 John gazed at Mabel as she crossed into the other court. 
 For an instant their eyes met. Her glance was not reassur- 
 ing. He beheld a tennis face in its first phase of manufac- 
 ure. Mabel still smiled, but the smile was set and hard. 
 Faint lines showed themselves upon her smooth forehead. 
 There was an unmistakable likeness between her and the 
 Higginbotham. 
 
 She began to serve. 
 
 The ex-champion returned the ball into the net. The 
 crowd remained chivalrously silent. 
 
 "Fifteen — love," proclaimed the umpire. 
 
 The next service skimmed over the net, and twisted away 
 from the Higginbotham's left hand. It was only possible 
 to return such a ball into a place where Mabel rushed in to 
 receive it. She smashed it on to the back line, and the 
 chalk flew. Nevertheless the linesman gave it "out." 
 
 "Fifteen all," announced the umpire. 
 
 There was a groan from the crowd who had just seen the 
 chalk fly. A memorable rally followed. It seemed to John 
 that the players had turned into machines. The ball was 
 driven from back line to back line with astounding velocity. 
 John put up his glasses, powerful binoculars. Mabel was 
 still smiling, as if tennis were the best fun in the world, 
 but John noticed that just as she hit the ball with that up- 
 ward lift which distinguished her drive, she winced as if in 
 pain. It never occurred to him that it might be physical 
 pain. 
 
 Fifteen — thirty ! 
 
 Mab served a short one. The ex-champion banged it 
 124 
 
The Supreme Event 
 
 violently down the right side line. It was difficult to de- 
 termine whether the ball was just in or just out. 
 
 "Fifteen — forty," declared the umpire. 
 
 Everybody howled with delight when Mabel won the next 
 two points. 
 
 "Deuce." 
 
 And then Luck — that diabolical factor in all games — took 
 a hand in this game. Mabel served from the right court. 
 The ball was well placed. Mrs. Higginbotham returned it 
 fast and low. Mabel waited for it upon the back line. But 
 it touched the top of the net and fell dead ! 
 
 "Curse it !" cried Bott, in an agonised voice. 
 
 Mabel served again. Once more began a long rally, each 
 woman standing a couple of yards behind the back line. 
 And again, with his glasses upon his wife's face, John no- 
 ticed the odd little wince as Mabel drove the ball, the pres- 
 sure of her white teeth upon her lower lip. 
 
 An angry roar rose from the crowd, followed by shouts 
 of applause. Luck for the last time favoured Mrs. Higgin- 
 botham. A fierce drive topped the net, and fell dead. 
 
 The players approached each other; and the vast differ- 
 ence between them was tremendously impressive. Mabel 
 showed no signs of the battle ; the elder woman was haggard 
 and gasping. Mabel held out her hand, smiling. Mrs. Hig- 
 ginbotham saw the fresh young face close to hers, saw the 
 generous beam in the eyes, heard the generous words of 
 congratulation. During her strenuous life she had scorned 
 sentiment, or any display of feeling in public. Always she 
 had fought hard for victory, neither ashamed of showing 
 keenness, nor disappointment when she lost. To the amaze- 
 ment of friends and enemies, the winner of the All Comers' 
 bent down and kissed Mabel. Bott shouted. Then he 
 turned to the silent husband. 
 
 125 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 "By Jove! old man, if the crowd could get at her, she 
 would be kissed to death !'' 
 
 V 
 
 V 
 
 The Press said that Mabel's defeat had been a greater 
 achievement than the ex-champion's victory. After din- 
 ner that night, when Mabel's health was drunk, John made 
 a short speech. 
 
 "I have a little present for my wife," he said. "A sur- 
 prise. The country tournaments are ahead of us, and I 
 mean to buy for her a motor caravan. She has chosen the 
 Southern circuit, and we shall have a glorious time travel- 
 ling leisurely from place to place." 
 
 "It will be a triumphal, almost a royal, progress," af- 
 firmed Bott. 
 
 "I think not," said Mabel quietly. 
 
 All eyes were turned upon her. She stood up, and those 
 present remarked afterwards that she looked at nobody ex- 
 cept her husband. 
 
 "I shall not play in public again." 
 
 The announcement, made so emphatically, so convinc- 
 ingly, aroused a storm of protest and interrogation. 
 
 When silence was established, Mabel continued: 
 
 "I have a bad tennis-elbow. I showed it to a surgeon 
 yesterday. He warned me that if I played to-day, I might 
 never play again, but I did play. Please don't pity me. In 
 my opinion tennis is the grandest and j oiliest game there 
 is, but it is not everything in life." Her voice softened 
 oddly, and a quaver in it held everybody mute. "I am go- 
 ing back to my home. I am going alone with John. We 
 shall begin our real honeymoon to-morrow." 
 
 126 
 
VIII 
 
 fenella's bounder ' 
 
 THE Bounder was a millionaire (the money had been 
 made by his father from the sale of some simple de- 
 vice for curling the hair) ; he was young, he was good-look- 
 ing. But his claim to the consideration of London society 
 was the amazing fact that the Marquess of Melthorpe's only 
 sister had promised to become his wife; not — as the gossips 
 pointed out — not because the Bounder was rich beyond the 
 dreams of avarice, nor for other, so to speak, secondary 
 reasons, but because in a primal and elemental fashion the 
 maid loved the man. None, not even the Bounder's female 
 relations, questioned the quality or the quantity indeed of 
 Fenella's love, which she wore on her sleeve, on her lips, 
 and on her eyes — the prettiest eyes in town. This public 
 exhibition of a passion too great to be concealed was as a 
 scourge of scorpions to Fenella's people, who made 
 confession that the family had never understood Fenella, 
 and implied that any attempt to do so on the part of out- 
 siders would be fatuous, and, indeed, an impertinence. 
 Where such a family had failed, what person could expect 
 to succeed? 
 
 Fenella broke the news of her engagement to her brother, 
 a gentleman known at Eton as 'Tetronius." 
 
 *'My dear Fin," he said slowly, "you cannot possibly 
 marry this " 
 
 ''Call him a man," suggested the sister. *'Yes, I can — 
 and I shall marry him." 
 
 127 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 "He is a bounder," said the marquess, with an air of 
 finality. 
 
 "He isn't," said Fenella indignantly; "and I shall never 
 speak to you again if you are not nice to him." 
 
 The marquess, under protest, promised to be "nice" 
 to the man his sister had chosen. He travelled on the line 
 of least resistance; and he consoled himself by reflecting 
 that if he accepted the Bounder the world would laugh with 
 him ; if, on the other hand, he refused to accord a blessing, 
 which in a degenerate age had really no social or commercial 
 value, the world would laugh at him! Moreover, he was 
 deeply attached to his sister. 
 
 Many men were deeply attached to Fenella, for the girl 
 had charm; and some, including a duke, were suitors; but 
 she refused His Grace most handsomely, and gave herself 
 to the Bounder. 
 
 The Bounder's friends said that he was dazed at his good 
 fortune. Certainly abstraction dimmed his eyes. He saw a 
 glorified world lying in the palm of his hand, and the vision 
 splendid gave him pause. He had often told himself that 
 the world was an oyster which a rich man could open with 
 his pen; but the oyster, he feared, would not contain a 
 pearl, a perfect pearl, such as young men, even bounders, 
 fashion in their dreams; that, the greatest thing, would 
 be denied to him, because he had so much. To do him jus- 
 tice, it must be added that Fenella, had she been a milkmaid, 
 would have inspired in him the same irresistible passion; 
 and Fenella herself had confessed that her interest in the 
 Bounder was kindled at first sight. The other men of 
 whom mention has been made professed a passion which 
 paled when compared with the Bounder's, because it was in- 
 termittent. His Grace, for instance, was a politician, a 
 sportsman, and a dilettante. Fenella was sensible that in 
 becoming a duchess she would own a one-fifth interest in a 
 128 
 
Fenella's Bounder 
 
 duke, and she wanted more. "She wants," said the mar- 
 quess, "the whole hog, and, by the Lord, she has got him." 
 The allusion to the unclean beast was brutal, but the mar- 
 quess made his meaning clear. 
 
 **The young man is certainly very devoted," an aunt re- 
 plied, not w^ithout a sniff, "and he is rich." 
 
 The marquess sighed. He was not rich; and because 
 gold at times seemed so desirable to him, he had trained 
 himself to despise it. He felt now that the Bounder's gold 
 would discolour his ancient silver. *T wish he were less 
 rich," he said thoughtfully. 
 
 The Bounder sent wonderful presents to his beloved — 
 gems of great price, and daily offerings of milk-white blos- 
 soms. The engagement ring was a lovely emerald, square 
 and flawless (there are few flawless emeralds), surrounded 
 by small brilliants. The marquess admired it immensely. 
 
 "But you call the man who chose it a bounder," she 
 pouted. Her brother was silent. "And I heard you say," 
 she continued, "that a bounder remains a bounder." 
 
 "He is a good fellow. Fin," replied the head of the house. 
 
 "As if I did not knov/ that. He is one of the very best: 
 honest, loyal, strong — all that becomes a man." 
 
 "His ties " 
 
 "You object to his ties! Good heavens! That one he 
 was wearing to-day I — / knitted." 
 
 "I was speaking of his relations," said the brother. "They 
 are " 
 
 "Don't say it! I know they are what they are — poor 
 dears ! You needn't speak of them at all." 
 
 "But you must speak to them," said the marquess. "You 
 are making a blunder, Fin. It is kinder to say so now than 
 later. Between you and this man lies the barrier of a thou- 
 sand-and-one nameless differences !" 
 
 "Molehills !" 
 
 129 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 "Mountains, Fin !" 
 
 "Because you think as you think, you must be extra nice 
 to. him when he comes down to Melthorpe." 
 
 "Of course. I do — er — respect him." 
 
 "I should like to box your ears," said Fenella. 
 
 But when she was alone, especially at night, her mind 
 brooded unpleasantly upon the ties which were not of her 
 knitting : some loud-voiced cousins, an obese uncle who lived 
 at Oapham, some prim evangelical spinsters of aunts, who 
 at the first meeting addressed her as "my lady." The Boun- 
 der had such sterling affection for these relations! He 
 seemed actually proud of the uncle, who had been Lord 
 Mayor of London. Well, she liked him the better because 
 
 he was loyal to his own people; and yet — and yet 
 
 Was he really and truly a bounder ? She could not answer 
 the question. The marquess, of course, was an authority on 
 -the subject, in himself a sort of supreme court of appeal. 
 Still, he was not the Pope of Rome. Then she found herself 
 blushing because she suddenly remembered an entry in her 
 diary made some months before. "I have met a most in- 
 teresting man" (she had written) ; "he has head, heart, and 
 a fine lean body : but he is — alas ! a bounder !" 
 
 The horrible word was underscored. Yes ; that had been 
 her first impression, and as such not without value. A 
 bounder ! Now that she knew him and loved him, it seemed 
 incredible that she should have written him down — a boun- 
 der ! Was love blind ? Could certain great qualities obscure 
 small defects? Possibly. 
 
 Another problem presented itself. Did he suspect that 
 he was regarded by some hypercritics as a bounder? This 
 nice question could not be determined. The marquess was 
 of opinion that a bounder was no more conscious of his 
 bounds than a kangaroo. According to this most noble and 
 130 
 
Fenelia's Bounder 
 
 puissant prince a bounder ceased to be a bounder when he 
 was dead — and not till then. 
 
 After Goodwood, the Bounder travelled to Melthorpe 
 Royal, which lies in the Wessex country^, not far from the 
 ancient town of Sherborne. As he was taking his ticket he 
 noticed a very smart young woman, who, catching his eye, 
 nodded and smiled in a friendly fashion. The Bounder lifted 
 his hat, well assured that he had met her before, but unable 
 to give her a name. At the same moment she came forward, 
 holding out her hand. '*How delightful! You will take 
 care of poor little me — won't you?" 
 
 The Bounder did not dare to ask for her name, and per- 
 haps a sense that he ought to know this radiant maiden 
 infused his answer with a shade too much warmth. The 
 girl was so pretty, and evidently so accustomed to lip-serv- 
 ice, that the Bounder had not the heart to be distant. 
 
 Accordingly it came to pass that within a few minutes 
 they found themselves alone in a carriage, where a discreet 
 guard, with a wife and a large family dependent upon his 
 discretion, took care that they should not be disturbed. 
 The maiden was anxious to talk, the man willing to listen, 
 hoping that chance would furnish him with a clue to her 
 name. For half an hour they discussed subjects of current 
 interest ; then — without warning — a bolt fell from the blue. 
 
 "Have you met," she asked sweetly, ''this awful Bounder 
 whom the Melthorpe girl insists on marrying?" 
 
 "Undoubtedly the Bounder ought to have replied instant- 
 ly, "I am he" ; but he didn't. His tongue clave to his mouth, 
 and he said nothing. He could not even think articulately. 
 The girl was so obviously a lady, her opinion on the subject 
 was as obviously of value. 
 
 "You must have met him," she continued. 
 
 "Yes ; I h-h-have m-m-met him," stammered he. 
 
 131 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 "So have I," she continued. "I met him at HurHngham 
 last year, and for my Hfe I can't recall his face or anything 
 about him. He must have been very commonplace, other- 
 wise I should not have forgotten him so easily, because I do, 
 as a rule, remember faces. I," she added sweetly, "recog- 
 nised yours at once." 
 
 "I am commonplace," said the Bounder nervously. He 
 felt that this was an idiotic remark, but the girl did not 
 seem to think so. 
 
 "Oh no," she murmured, "you are not." She eyed him 
 frankly. "You have a strong face." She paused, and her 
 cheek was tinged with a faint colour. "A face," she added, 
 "that no woman would forget, and that every woman would 
 instinctively trust — that is why I spoke to you, because — 
 now don't be very angry with me — when I first spoke to 
 you I could not fit a name to your face. It was not till we 
 had talked for a quarter of an hour that I recalled who you 
 really are." 
 
 "You know who I am — now?" 
 
 "Of course. You look incredulous. You are Lord Ven. 
 And now tell me about the Bounder ! What is he like ?" 
 
 "He is not very unlike me." 
 
 "I can't believe that." 
 
 "It is a fact. I am often called by his name." 
 
 "Such a dreadful name !" sighed the young lady. *Toor 
 Fin !" 
 
 "She is a friend of yours?" 
 
 "We are cousins. We used to be great friends, but I've 
 not seen her for an age. She must have changed, because 
 the Melthorpe people do give themselves airs — don't they? 
 Melthorpe has a sort of I-am-the-potter-ye-are-the-clay look 
 about him." 
 
 "Ye-es," assented the Bounder, smiling, for he knew that 
 expression. 
 132 
 
Fenella's Bounder 
 
 *'And they have always been so particular," continued the 
 maiden reflectively. "Of course the man is offensively rich, 
 but Fenella, they tell me, is really in love. And she is 
 such a dear that Melthorpe has not had the moral courage 
 to forbid the banns." 
 
 "You would forbid such banns?" 
 
 ''Certainly. A marriage between Fenella and a bounder 
 must prove disastrous. Surely you agree with me ?" 
 
 ''From what I know of the man — and I may say I know 
 him fairly well — I should have thought he could have made 
 her happy. You call him a bounder — why ? He was at Eton 
 and Christ Church." 
 
 "Veneer! There must be common deal underneath. I 
 am told that his house is furnished in the most outrageous 
 taste." 
 
 "His houses were furnished by his mother ; and I can con- 
 ceive" — he hesitated — "that a man of feeling would not like 
 to pitch his mother's belongings into the street merely be- 
 cause they were not exactly what he would have chosen him- 
 self." 
 
 "How nice of you to put it that way !" said the girl. "A 
 bounder would never look at the matter from that point of 
 view." 
 
 "This bounder does." 
 
 "You are his friend, evidently." 
 
 "I dare say I am too lenient to his failings.'* 
 
 "Ah, you admit that he has failings." 
 
 "But I have never regarded him as a bounder !" 
 
 "The world, our world, says he is. And he is; he mtist 
 be! If he were sitting where you are, opposite me, I would 
 bet you sixpence that I could pick out a dozen flaws — the 
 marks of the beast, in fact." 
 
 "You could possibly pick out as many in me. Is my 
 
 133 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 coat to your fancy? Is this ring tco gay? Your eyes 
 have betrayed censure." 
 
 She laughed gaily. "But don't you see that you can wear 
 anything, or do anything, or say anything. A bounder must 
 never offend. Your coat is not to my fancy; and a man 
 should wear no jewellery, but you might be, like Esterhazy, 
 'all jools from his jasey to his di'mond boots,' and people 
 would only call you eccentric. Now Fenella's young man 
 never seems to have grasped the fact that he cannot lightly 
 indulge his fancy even in checks. Do you see ?" 
 
 "I think I take you. He may draw big cheques, but he 
 must not wear them. It must be very easy to be a peer 
 and very hard to be a bounder when — when you know you 
 are a bounder." 
 
 ''Exactly. Now, if you were this particular Bounder and 
 I were my cousin Fenella, I am sure that I should worry — 
 mind you, you would not know it — about your wearing that 
 ring and being careless about your clothes, and" — she 
 laughed so mirthfully that her words were quite void of of- 
 fence — "and your boots. You really ought to wear smarter 
 boots." 
 
 "They are very comfortable," said the Bounder, looking 
 thoughtfully at his square toes. 
 
 "You can afford to be comfortable." 
 
 "Lady Fenella's Bounder has, I fear, been always rather 
 careless about appearances." 
 
 "That plainly proves him a bounder, doesn't it? A 
 bounder, anxious to become a gentleman, must consider the 
 feelings of others ; he ought to be sensible of the necessity 
 of being very careful." 
 
 "There are two distinct standards, then: for the gentle- 
 man, and tlie would-be gentleman?" 
 
 "Of course. How funny that you should not know that! 
 That is just where the shoe will pinch my poor cousin. 
 
 134 
 
Fenella's Bounder 
 
 She is blind now, but when the scales fall from- her eyes 
 she will mark the blemishes in her husband. She will be 
 always looking for them. Oh yes, she is making a dreadful 
 blunder. I can put myself in her place, because I was once 
 tempted to marry a sort of golden calf, really a nice domes- 
 tic beast, but ill-bred. And we are all paupers, as you know. 
 But I thought it out — fairly and squarely — and I concluded 
 that I would sooner marry a poor gentleman than a rich 
 bounder." 
 
 "You love the poor gentleman?" he suggested. 
 
 "I am whole-hearted," she confessed. *'And therefore 
 without bias. Fenella is making a hideous blunder." 
 
 At parting (she left the train at Salisbury) the Bounder 
 asked for her name. 
 
 "You wretch !" she cried. "What an actor you are ! I 
 am indeed hoist with my own petard. However, it is nice 
 of you to ask for my name, for it proves plainly that I 
 have made an impression. I am Dorothy Dacre. Au 
 revoir!" 
 
 As the train sped smoothly on through the green pastures 
 of Wiltshire the Bounder lay back in his luxurious seat ab- 
 jectly miserable and uncomfortable, for, astride the camel 
 Fancy, he was bumping across a Sahara, a burning, blinding 
 desert of sand, which an alluring mirage had obscured. He 
 saw himself as others saw him. Yes, it was true ; he had 
 never grasped what Miss Dacre called a fact : he had never 
 questioned his right as an Englishman to please himself. 
 In a crass, crude fashion he had pleased himself in keeping 
 inviolate his mother's blue satin curtains and gilt cornices. 
 He wore a diamond ring — not that he cared a ha'penny 
 for jewellery, but because it was hers. He accepted mis- 
 fits, because he had never given his clothes any attention at 
 all. Taking, so to speak, stock of himself, he became dis- 
 
 135 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 gusted. "1 am a bounder," he confessed. "Measured by 
 the yardstick of the world I Uve in I am certainly a bounder. 
 I talk and laugh too loudly. I take a plebeian pleasure in 
 life. I have at heart the sane and healthy instincts of the 
 — tripper. I could be perfectly happy — if Fenella were with 
 me — at Margate! I could enjoy — with her — bread-and-but- 
 ter and shrimps !" 
 
 Fenella met him at the small station which practically 
 belonged to Lord Melthorpe, and kissed him quite unaffect- 
 edly under the grinning gaze of the only porter. For a 
 reason obvious to the reader the Bounder blushed ; and Fe- 
 nella resented the blush. Indeed, the sight of it discoioured 
 her own milk-white thoughts. She walked off the platform 
 with her nose high in the air, and her chin cocked at an 
 aristocratic angle. The unhappy Bounder followed humbly 
 and meekly. He felt like a bounder, and perhaps — the truth 
 will never be known — he looked to Fenella like a bounder. 
 When he offered to drive, she refused him sharply, and, 
 picking up the ribands, said abruptly, "Where is your moth- 
 er's ring?" 
 
 "It's in my pocket," he muttered sheepishly. 
 
 "In your pocket ? Good gracious ! Why did you take it 
 off?" 
 
 The Bounder said that the stone was rather large ; he did 
 not care to wear jewellery — in the morning; he had not sup- 
 posed that such things mattered, but — but they did. 
 
 "Put it on at once," commanded the maiden. As they 
 drove through the delightful lanes, she eyed him almost fur- 
 tively ; and the Bounder, conscious of this sly scrutiny, grew 
 more and more uneasy. 
 
 "You don't like them?" he said at last. 
 
 "Them?" 
 
 "My clothes. They are not as well cut, perhaps, as one 
 could wish." 
 136 
 
Fenella's Bounder 
 
 ^'Rubbish! As if I cared. Has anything gone wrong ?" 
 
 He hesitated, and his hesitation appealed strongly to Fe- 
 nella, because she knew that he was a man to shoulder his 
 burdens in silence. 
 
 Her voice was very kind, when she whispered : "Tell me, 
 dear. Any trouble of yours will surely be cut in half, if 
 you share it with me." 
 
 But he could not give his trouble words, and yet with- 
 holding the truth from the woman who had loved him 
 added to his burdens. He tried, lamely, to blunt the fine 
 edge of the situation with a jest. 
 
 "Coming down," he said, with a guilty laugh, "I had an 
 accounting — struck a balance, in short ; and — and it was not 
 quite satisfactory." 
 
 "Oh !" 
 
 "You see, Fenella, I have learned what the world says 
 about you and me." 
 
 "And you care?" 
 
 He marked the note of surprise dying away in a diminu- 
 endo of disappointment. Her profile seemed to him even 
 more cleanly cut than usual. If a profile indicates charac- 
 ter, the qualities most conspicuous in Fenella v/ere strength, 
 delicacy, generosity, and honour. The slight emphasis on 
 the pronoun was certainly disdainful. H she, a daughter of 
 the ancient house of Melthorpe, did not care, why should 
 he? 
 
 "I suppose, dearest, one cannot quite ignore the opinion 
 of the world." 
 
 His humility annoyed her. She had loved in him the 
 primal man, standing erect, confronting the world and the 
 flesh and the devil with keen, honest eyes. It seemed in- 
 credible that her lover should bend his neck in pitiful in- 
 terrogation. With an effort she changed the current of talk 
 into another channel. 
 
 137 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 During the week that followed, the unhappy Bounder 
 made a sustained effort to dress and walk and talk and 
 laugh in imitation of the marquess. He faithfully under- 
 studied that distinguished ornament of the peerage, who 
 was kind enough to observe that George ''meant well." In- 
 deed, the peer, lacking a sense of humour, was much flat- 
 tered by the Bounder's deference — the more so, perhaps, be- 
 cause heretofore his future brother-in-law had not treated 
 his (my lord's) opinions with that respect which a nobleman 
 is still able to inspire in a commoner. 
 
 "George is appreciative," he remarked to Fenella. 
 
 The young lady frowned. 
 
 '*We shall make something of George," continued the 
 brother pleasantly ; "he is most extraordinarily intelligent." 
 
 If extraordinary intelligence be a synonym for a lick- 
 penny awe of rank, George, assuredly, was entitled to the 
 superlative. For love of a woman this unhappy milUonaire 
 was constrained to play the part of parasite and pander. 
 As he had always walked upright, it may be beHeved that 
 he made a sorry worm. 
 
 At the end of the week something happened. The day 
 had been sultry: one of those steaming dog-days which 
 leave the body inert and invertebrate, whilst stimulating the 
 mind to intermittent fits of nervous irritability. Lying at 
 his ease in a hammock, reviewing the events of the past 
 week, the Bounder was sensible that he had been weaving 
 ropes out of sand. *T am a bounder," he groaned, "and 
 I shall never, never, never be a perfect gentleman ; and if I 
 were," he added sotto voce, thinking of the marquess's lim- 
 ited capacity for enjoyment, "I suppose I should wish to be 
 a bounder again." 
 
 In this tempestuous mood he was summoned to the tea- 
 table, spread with delicate fare beneath a glorious chestnut- 
 
 138 
 
Fenella's Bounder 
 
 tree. Crossing the velvety lawn, he idly marked the inscrip- 
 tion upon the ancient sundial: 
 
 "iL EST l'hEURE DE FAIRE BIEN" 
 
 To do good. Not to he good. He reflected that in such a 
 pleasant, sweet-smelling garden as this it was easy to be 
 good, and to feel good. He approached the marquess. 
 "Look here, Melthorpe," he began abruptly — and Fenella, 
 had she been present, would have marked the old, clear 
 ring in his voice, the voice which comes from the heart, not 
 from the head — ''would you sooner be a fine gentleman, as 
 you are, of course, which in your case is a more or less in- 
 active condition? or would you rather do fine, gentle 
 things ?" 
 
 The marquess raised his deHcate brows. "A gentleman 
 does gentle things," he said, in his suave, languid tones. 
 
 "Does he? I am not speaking of a gentleman as he ought 
 to be, but of a modern gentleman as he is. If Shakespeare, 
 for instance, were to revisit this planet and go into London 
 society, he would be considered a — bounder." 
 
 "My dear George " 
 
 "I have put an extreme case. You and I know that the 
 fellow who never offends, who always does the correct 
 thing, and says the correct thing, and wears the correct 
 thing, is an — ape." 
 
 The peer's face grew cold. 
 
 "The world," continued the Bounder, "is full of apes. 
 It took countless generations to turn apes into men, and I 
 suppose it has taken nearly as many more to turn men into 
 apes. It cannot," he laughed bitterly, "it cannot be done 
 in a week." 
 
 "The heat has — er — affected you, George," said the mar- 
 quess, sipping his iced tea ; "and, speaking personally, I 
 would rather not discuss such topics in August." 
 
 139 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 " 'II est I'heure de faire bien/ " quoted the Bounder, and 
 he went away to his room. That night he wrote the follow- 
 ing letter, which was delivered to Fenella at breakfast, after 
 the Bounder had left Melthorpe : 
 
 "I cannot marry you," he began abruptly ; "and I am sure 
 that you do not wish to marry me. For some obscure rea- 
 son we fell in love with each other. That, at least, is un- 
 questionable. To me the dawn of our love was the divinest 
 revelation. And believe me now that the day is dun the 
 glow still lingers, and will linger with me to the end. From 
 my heart I say that it is better to have loved and lost you, 
 than to have loved and won any other woman. And yet 
 we cannot marry, because I am I and you are you." 
 
 Fenella did not appear at luncheon, but after dinner she 
 told her brother, very quietly, that the engagement between 
 herself and the Bounder was at an end. Lord Melthorpe 
 stroked his moustache to conceal a gratified smile. 
 
 "You released him?" he whispered. 
 
 "He released himself." 
 
 "He is a cad — a cad !" 
 
 And the world, when the truth leaked out, echoed the 
 brother's words. The Bounder had proved himself a 
 bounder by jilting the sweetest girl in England. 
 
 About the middle of September, Admiral Dacre and his 
 daughter, Dorothy, came to Dorset. Since her mother's 
 death Fenella had played the part of chatelaine at Mel- 
 thorpe : a valuable experience, for the mistress of a great 
 estabHshment holds keys which unlock doors other than 
 those of linen closets. Moreover, she had taken pride and 
 pleasure in the performance of her duties, working to such 
 good purposes that more than one maiden was heard to 
 140 
 
Fenella's Bounder 
 
 declare that the marquess was likely to remain a bachelor, 
 because he had the comforts of marriage with none of its 
 pains and penalties. Since the breaking of her engagement, 
 however, interest in her household had steadily waned, and 
 the marquess, who could view with calm eyes and un- 
 wrinkled brows plagues and famines and wars, began to 
 grow cross. It being a substantial part of his creed that a 
 wise man should never do for himself what another may 
 do for him, he courteously entreated his cousin to read the 
 Riot Act to Fenella. 
 
 "You have not been here for some time," he observed, 
 "and you must mark a great change for the worse. The oil 
 of personal attention is lacking. Say a word in season, 
 like a dear good girl." 
 
 Dorothy shrugged her shoulders, pouted, and promised to 
 obey. As a matter of fact she had already made up a mind 
 much stronger than her pretty body that Fenella was in need 
 of advice ; but she took pains to prove to her kinsman that 
 she was undertaking a difficult and delicate task. 
 
 The marquess nodded and smiled. 'Tf you can exorcise 
 the spectre of that confounded bounder, I'll — well, you'll 
 see what I'll do." 
 
 Dorothy confessed to herself that she was a wee bit afraid 
 of that haunted room, Fenella's mind — a room, as she knew, 
 kept locked night and day. Having plenty of pluck, and 
 only the modern maiden's modicum of reverence, she re- 
 solved to burst in, breaking the lock, if necessary, and shat- 
 tering the bolts. Violence is the favourite weapon of the 
 young. 
 
 "Fenella," she said that same night, as soon as they were 
 alone together, "you are a fool." 
 
 "Suffer me gladly, then." 
 
 "I won't. Look here: I like to go fast and straight 
 at my fences. There is a big fence between us, and I'm 
 
 141 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 going to jump it — now. You are eating your heart out for 
 a man not fit to marry your maid. There — I feel much 
 better." 
 
 *'Have you seen this man?" 
 
 "I met him once." 
 
 "How — how did he impress you?" 
 
 The words came slowly. Dorothy's quick wits appre- 
 hended their virtue. She had jumped her big fence cleanly, 
 landing without "pecking" on firm ground. 
 
 "He did not impress me at all, which is against him." 
 
 "Or against . . . you." 
 
 "True, but I flatter myself that I know a good face when 
 I see it. There is a man — well, never mind. What is the 
 matter?" 
 
 Fenella had left her chair, and was crossing the room. 
 She unlocked a desk, and took from a drawer a photograph 
 which she placed in Dorothy's hand. "Is not that a good 
 face?" she asked quietly. 
 
 Had she looked at Dorothy, Fenella would have marked 
 a blush, a flaming crimson wave which flowed and ebbed 
 upon Miss Dacre's cheeks. 
 
 "Is not that a good face?" she repeated. 
 
 "Yes," rephed Dorothy quickly: "an admirable face — a 
 face one could never forget. Did — did Lord Ven give it 
 to you, dear?" 
 
 "Lord Ven?" 
 
 "I met him a few weeks ago ; we travelled together from 
 Waterloo to Salisbury, on a Saturday, seven weeks ago." 
 Fenella smiled: dates are not always remembered. "This" 
 —Dorothy looked very tenderly at the portrait — "does not 
 flatter him a bit; he has a better face. ... Eh? What? 
 Not Lord Ven at all ! Who — who is it ?" 
 
 The girls were standing facing each other. 
 "The man," replied Fenella, "for whom you say I am 
 142 
 
Fehella's Bounder 
 
 eating my heart out; the man to whom I was engaged: 
 George " 
 
 "No, no ; it can't be. It is the man I travelled with." 
 
 "Lord Ven has been shooting in Somaliland for the last 
 ten months. He is small, dark, almost bald, and stam- 
 mers." 
 
 " *Small, dark, bald, and stammers,' " repeated Miss 
 
 Dacre. "Why, you have described exactly your own 
 
 Good heavens ! I see it all. The two men were introduced 
 to me at the same time and place and I confounded their 
 names. Then I did travel with your " 
 
 "With George," said Fenella coldly. "He came here just 
 seven weeks ago last Saturday." 
 
 "Then he is a bounder," cried Dorothy fiercely; "he 
 passed himself off to me as Lord Ven. Only a rank out- 
 sider would have done that." 
 
 *T don't believe it," said Fenella. 
 
 Dorothy sat down. She was innately and by careful 
 training an honest girl. How had this blunder arisen? 
 Word by word the truth came home to her, bringing shame, 
 perplexity, and remorse. 
 
 "Is it true," she demanded, "that he broke the engage- 
 ment ? It is ? Do you think he learned to care — for some- 
 body else?" 
 
 "I will show you his letter to me," said Fenella. 
 
 Dorothy read it and re-read it, sighing. 
 
 "You called me a fool just now," said Fenella. "Per- 
 haps I am a fool, but I have always been greatly affected 
 by certain things — my — my ideals, in short. I fell in love 
 with George because of all the men I had met he was the 
 most honest and unselfish. I was tired — tired of the men 
 cut to pattern — the men like, yes, Hke poor Melthorpe. We 
 are brother and sister, we have lived together ; but I do not 
 know him, he does not know me. He is a marquess, not 
 
 143 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 a man. I cannot tell you what the man thinks upon any 
 subject of current interest. On everything, around every- 
 thing, is his coronet. You understand? Even I, his sister, 
 cannot say what he is, only what he represents; and he is 
 representative of much that I hold dear. Now Melthorpe 
 and his friends are always computing, at compound inter- 
 est, how much the world owes them, and how much they 
 owe themselves; it does not enter into their heads to try 
 and compute what they owe others. Melthorpe is a good 
 landlord. Yes; vv^hy? Because it is a tradition of our 
 house. Does he concern himself with the welfare of one 
 single soul off his estates ? Not he ! He is strictly honour- 
 able, refined, cultured, polite, — why shouldn't he be? And 
 his friends are like him — Laodiceans, all of them. Hot — 
 yes; for the pleasures of Hfe, but lukewarm in regard to its 
 pains. Now, George was utterly different: he was keen 
 about sport, far keener than Melthorpe, but he was always 
 sacrificing his hunting and shooting because — because others 
 had claims upon his time and money. And he did uncon- 
 ventional things, not caring a farthing for appearances. 
 He did cut a poor figure before our world, but I should 
 like to have the recording angel's opinion of him. And 
 then — and then " 
 
 "Yes, Fin." 
 
 **He changed," she continued; and the pathetic droop in 
 her tender voice brought tears to Dorothy's eyes. "He 
 changed. He came here after Goodwood, and I could see 
 that he was beginning to think of himself. He took Mel- 
 thorpe as his model — Melthorpe, who is the child of the 
 centuries ! He proved himself to be what Melthorpe had 
 called him — a bounder. He made it plain to me — me, the 
 woman who loved him — think of it! — that I had chosen an 
 ape. And when he realised what he had done, he wrote 
 that letter and went away. I let him go without a word." 
 144 
 
Fenella's Bounder 
 
 She covered her face, so that the other might not see her 
 quivering lips and wet eyes. And as she sat in silence, 
 hopeless and forlorn, a great temptation came to the woman 
 at her side. Dorothy had listened eagerly to the descrip- 
 tion of the man whose portrait lay in her hand. Every 
 spoken word echoed in her own heart. She had told none 
 of that too brief journey from Waterloo to Salisbury; the 
 name of the man had not passed her lips. But his face, 
 the tones of his voice, his virile gestures, his kind laugh, 
 had Hngered in her memory. She had plunged a knife into 
 him, and he had not winced. And who knew better than 
 she what salve to apply to the wound she had made? 
 Sooner or later they must meet. And if she kept her coun- 
 sel now, then she might speak. If she spoke now, silence 
 must be her portion hereafter. 
 
 "I am glad you rode fast and straight at your fence," she 
 heard Fenella say. *'It is a comfort to me that you are 
 on my side of it." 
 
 Fast and straight! 
 
 "It is easy to ride straight," said poor Dorothy, with a 
 sob in her throat. "Listen, Fin. I am responsible for this 
 trouble. I poured henbane into his ears. Yes, dear, you 
 are a fool; only the unloved are wise. Why, don't you 
 see that he went away because he tried to perform a miracle, 
 and failed? He became an ape to please, not himself, but 
 you. And he read and misinterpreted the disgust in your 
 eyes. The poor fellow thought you were angry because 
 he had failed ; you were heartsick because you thought he 
 had succeeded. And I — I, do you hear? — told him that 
 you would like him cut to pattern. I told him to his face 
 that he was a bounder. I told him, thinking of course that 
 he was Lord Ven, that you were making a hideous blunder. 
 And all the time I was making the blunder. I changed his 
 point of view, you see, or rather obscured it, and that 
 
 145 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 changed his character. And when he found out that I was 
 your cousin, I've no doubt that he jumped to the conclusion 
 that you felt as I did. And you don't ; and nor do I now. 
 You want him as he is. Well, you must write to him to- 
 morrow." 
 
 Fenella laughed. 
 
 "To-night," she said. 
 
 Dorothy kissed her. As she was crossing the corridor 
 which led to her room, she met the marquess, candlestick in 
 hand, interrogation on his brow. 
 
 ''You have been speaking to Fin ?" he observed ; then he 
 marked her heightened colour and the shadows in her eyes. 
 *1 fear," he added politely, ''that the result has not — er — 
 justified our expectations." 
 
 "It has surpassed mine. She is writing to her lover." 
 
 "What?. The Bounder?" 
 
 "Yes," she sighed, "the Bounder. I wish, Melthorpe, that 
 Heaven would send me just such another — bounder." 
 
 146 
 
IX 
 
 A CUTLET FOR A CUTLET 
 
 THE Major lived with Mrs. Bowser at Dinard in the 
 charming Villa Miraflores, which overlooks the Bay of 
 Saint Malo. Everybody and his wife — particularly the 
 wife — knew that the Villa and all it contained belonged 
 to Mrs. Bowser, for she made a point of imparting this in- 
 formation to them. The wags at the club said that Euphro- 
 nia allowed her Digby a glass of port after dinner and a 
 shilling a day for menus plaisirs! 
 
 Some seasons ago, a shocking story circulated, the Major, 
 it was whispered, eked out his meagre allowance by looting 
 the offertory bag which he was privileged to carry round 
 each Sunday in the English church. This of course, was 
 a canard, greedily gobbled up at the time, because Dinard 
 is a place where appetite for such fare never fails nor flags. 
 Moreover, the Major's personal appearance lent a pinch 
 of salt to the dish. He had an air — a subdued air — of, let 
 us say, a middle-aged Claude Duval. At the club he told 
 stories — not intended for the young. These encarmined 
 tales and a florid complexion justified his nickname — The 
 Pink 'Un! And yet, let the truth be told in the words of 
 Dinard's greatest lady : *'Digby Bowser," said the dame, "is 
 a domestic fowl, but he would describe himself as a bit of a 
 bird." He had served in the Crashers, he had owned a use- 
 ful ''plater" or two, he had been aide-de-camp to a Prince 
 of the Blood. 
 
 "I have lived my life," he would murmur modestly. 
 
 147 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 *'Why, the Duke himself once said to me: 'Digby, my boy, 
 you've had your innings !' And he knew/' Here the Major 
 would wink wickedly and drink the whisky-and-potass 
 which a sympathetic listener would be sure to offer him. 
 He numbered amongst his acquaintance many personages, 
 but he had the wit to keep these trump cards, so to speak, 
 up his sleeve. A man at the club reading his Galignani 
 would suddenly look up and say : ''The Marquess of Drum- 
 tochty is dead. Did you know him, Major?" Then the 
 Major would dash down his paper, as if he had not seen 
 the paragraph — the sly old sinner ! — and exclaim : "Bless 
 my soul ! You don't say so. Dear old Shortbread ! One 
 of the very best. Why, years and years ago, when I was 
 stalking with him at Sauchiehall, he and I — no, no, I can't 
 tell you fellows that story. Gone, is he? And I'm here! 
 Thanks, no — not a drop. I'll take a turn outside." Then 
 the young gentlemen of the club would shake their heads 
 and murmur to each other : "The Pink 'Un is really cut 
 up, isn't he? I say, you know, the Villa Miraflores is a 
 snug little box, but after Sauchiehall — eh? Poor old 
 chap !" 
 
 It must be mentioned here that Mrs. Bowser was the only 
 daughter and heiress of an evangelical distiller of spirits. 
 The Major, shortly after his retirement from the Crashers, 
 wooed and won her, but it must not be rashly inferred that 
 the gallant warrior, although susceptible to beauty, had 
 married for love alone. His Euphronia had been a belle at 
 Northsea and was still a fine woman. None the less, a 
 Bowser would have sought his mate in county rather than 
 urban or suburban society had he been financially able to do 
 so. The Bowsers of Topping-Bowser (the Major's near 
 relations) knew nobody in Northsea, although Topping- 
 Bowser is within a drive of that much-advertised water- 
 ing-place ; and they were not "nice" to Euphronia after she 
 148 
 
A Cutlet for a Cutlet 
 
 married poor Digby. It was partly on account of this, part- 
 ly also because she had a troublesome asthma, and partly 
 because a franc at Dinard goes farther than a shilling at 
 Northsea, that the Bowsers settled in Brittany. Again, 
 at Dinard, Mrs. Digby Bowser became a personage, and 
 the ex-major of cavalry a mere appanage, which plainly 
 proves that the strong (the Major was a fine, handsome fel- 
 low) do not always retain the spoil, and that virtue may not 
 only bring, but keep, its own reward ! 
 
 One pleasant morning, at the beginning of July, the Ma- 
 jor sauntered into the club. A suppressed murmur of ex- 
 citement swelled into articulate speech as the hall-porter 
 handed him his letters. Conspicuous on the top of the pile 
 was a square white envelope with a cipher, surmounted by 
 a small crown, plainly engraved upon its flap. 
 
 ''Billet doux from Her Royal Highness !" said one of 
 the wags. 
 
 The Major opened his letter and adjusted his eyeglass. 
 
 "By Jove !" he exclaimed. 
 
 "What's up?" burst from a dozen lips. 
 
 "The Duke," replied the Major, with dignity, "is think- 
 ing of spending a fortnight here — incog. The Duchess and 
 the children will accompany him. I am asked to find a 
 suitable house. Hang it! — I don't know of one. Dear, 
 dear!" 
 
 "Let him have yours," suggested a friend. "I dare say 
 Mrs. Bowser who is the most loyal lady of my acquain- 
 tance, would be glad of the privilege of serving one who 
 is of near kin to her Sovereign. She might pay a visit or 
 two. You, old chap, would stay here, of course, and be- 
 come extra aide. It might lead to another appointment." 
 
 The Major stroked his smoothly shaven pink chin and 
 smiled enigmatically. 
 
 Half an hour later he was asking Justine, his wife's maid, 
 
 149 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 to take his compliments to Madame. He wished to see her 
 at once on a matter of importance. While he waited for his 
 wife, he reflected without bitterness that she would be sure 
 to finish some trivial task before she answered his sum- 
 mons. In this, however, he was mistaken. His Euphronia 
 appeared at once, simmering with interrogation. The Ma- 
 jor handed her his letter. 
 
 "And you've come up here to show me this," she said 
 contemptuously. *'What have I to do with your fine friends, 
 who were always too fine to know me?" 
 
 The Major winced slightly. 
 
 "I thought," he said mildly, "that we might offer them 
 this house. It would be worth while." 
 
 "What do you mean by that?" 
 
 He shrugged his shapely shoulders, reflecting that his 
 Euphronia wanted things explained. 
 
 "There would be a cheque," he replied slowly, "a substan- 
 tial cheque." 
 
 "As if I was thinking of that," said Euphronia loftily. 
 
 "And next June we might shoot our cards at Middlesex 
 House. You're such a loyal woman." 
 
 Euphronia's features slightly relaxed. 
 
 "But where should we go to, Digby?" 
 
 "You have not seen your Uncle Fowler for some time." 
 
 "Ah ! you want to get rid of me. The Duke will be glad 
 to see you, but will the Duchess pay me any attention if I 
 stay here?" 
 
 "She will be civil," said the Major vaguely. "You might 
 go to Dinan — Charlotte Duffy would be delighted to put 
 you up." 
 
 She eyed him maliciously. 
 
 "Charlotte Duffy will be delighted to put us both up. 
 That is a capital suggestion of yours, Digby. We will go 
 to Dinan. No, don't say a word ! I'm not going to twiddle 
 
 150 
 
A Cutlet for a Cutlet 
 
 my thumbs alone while you're hobnobbing with princes and 
 princesses. As for my loyalty, I hope the Duke will realise 
 that it is not everybody who would give up such a house 
 as this to go and stay with Charlotte Duffy. Make it plain 
 that we offer the villa — freely. Only where I go, you go 
 too. I'm too busy to stand chattering here any longer." 
 
 The Major lit a cigarette and returned to the club — de- 
 feated. 
 
 Within a few days all Dinard knew that the Digby Bow- 
 sers had given up the Miraflores to His Royal Highness, 
 who would be known, during the fortnight he spent in Brit- 
 tany, as the Earl of Middlesex. In the general excitement 
 the fact that the Bowsers were going to Dinan escaped 
 comment. When they had gone, the more knowing ones 
 at the club expressed their pity for the Major. 
 
 'This must be a pill for him," said they. "He'll be 
 wretched at Dinan. It's deuced hard lines on him — and 
 on us" 
 
 From this it may be inferred that these gentlemen were 
 counting upon the kind services of one who had been aide- 
 de-camp and friend to the illustrious visitor. 
 
 But how wretched the Major was — an exile from club 
 and Casino when those gardens of (to him) inexhaustible 
 delight were in full bloom, none knew save himself, and 
 he was too proud to tell ! 
 
 And at the end of the fortnight the Bowsers returned to 
 Dinard. We have Euphronia's word for it that the Villa 
 was in an unclean condition. As is frequently the case, 
 such matters were left to the people in attendance, who con- 
 tented themselves with giving to the servants instructions 
 deliberately ignored by them. There was damage, too, done 
 to the furniture. The Major, returning depressed from the 
 club — where, you may be sure, he had listened patiently to 
 a long recital of what had taken place during his absence 
 
 151 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 — found his Euphronia very red in the face, with a silk 
 bandanna tightly twisted round her head — a tournure al- 
 ways associated (and not agreebly) in the Major's mind 
 with spring cleanings. 
 
 "While you've been enjoying yourself, Digby," she be- 
 gan, "I've been going over this house. The top of the piano 
 looks as if hens had been scratching on it, a castor is off 
 your arm-chair " 
 
 "It has been off for three months, my love." 
 
 ''Don't call me your love. I detest hypocrisy. You know 
 well, Digby Bowser, that such love as you had to give was 
 squandered, like everything else you possessed, before we 
 met. Two of the dessert-plates are chipped, a dozen wine- 
 glasses are broken, and the jug in the spare room — the wil- 
 low pattern one, which belonged to poor grandma — has lost 
 its handle. The silver photograph-frame with Uncle Fow- 
 ler in it is missing altogether." 
 
 'T dare say they locked it up," suggested the Major. 
 ''Your uncle, Euphronia, is not — er — decorative." 
 
 'T thought you would insult me. This is what comes 
 of trying to be kind and obliging to your friends." 
 
 "The cheque, my dear, will cover these trifling losses." 
 
 "There you go again ! You talk as if I cared for nothing 
 but money. Is there a cheque ?" 
 
 "It has not come yet," replied her husband. 
 
 "When will it come?" 
 
 "Within a week, probably." 
 
 A week passed. Meantime, Mrs. Bowser had sipped the 
 nectar of popularity. She found herself an honoured guest 
 at luncheons, dinners, and teas ; and wherever she went she 
 took with her an autograph letter from the Duchess, which 
 was duly read aloud to a select few. Observant persons 
 remarked that Mrs. Bowser was understudying the great 
 lady who had played hostess at Miraflor^es. Some young 
 152 
 
A Cutlet for a Cutlet 
 
 American girls entreated her to give them a few feathers 
 from the pillow upon which the daughter of an emperor had 
 laid her august head. A gentleman connected with the 
 Press, camera in hand, sought an interview with Lady 
 Bowser — and was not sent empty away. It was rumoured 
 that a phial of nitro-glycerine, enough to blow Dinard all 
 the way to Dinan, was found in the cellar side by side with 
 the sparkling Moselle which Euphronia said was much more 
 wholesome and nice than champagne. 
 
 *'I think they were comfortable," Mrs. Bowser observed 
 to the ladies who came to the Miraflores as if it were some 
 sacred shrine. "And I was so happy to oblige the dear 
 Duchess. One naturally is, you know. And her letter quite 
 compensated me for any little damage that was done. So 
 very — ky — ind ! Really, if that absurd story about the nitro- 
 glycerine had proved true, one wouldn't have minded much. 
 I can quite understand now how the cavaliers felt when 
 they went to the block? Eh? I beg your pardon. Just 
 between ourselves, you say? Well, I give you my word 
 there was no mention of such a thing. We offered the villa 
 freely, and I trust it was taken in the same spirit. . . ." 
 
 "And yet, each day, after the English mail was in, Eu- 
 phronia would ask the Major: "Has the cheque come, 
 Digby?" And each day the Major would reply: "I have 
 no cheque for you, my dear." 
 
 At the end of the month it seemed certain that the cheque 
 would not come at all. Mrs. Bowser suggested to her Dig- 
 by the propriety of writing a line to one of the equerries. 
 This the Major flatly refused to do. 
 
 "After all," said he, ''you have been paid indirectly. You 
 are the uncrowned queen of Dinard." 
 
 ''Fiddlesticks !" said Mrs. Bowser. 
 
 **And that reminds me," he continued rather nervously; 
 "don't you think we ought to make some return for all these 
 
 153 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 entertainments? A dinner, or a dance, or — er — both. A 
 cutlet for a cutlet, you know." 
 
 **A dinner ! A dance ! You have such extravagant ideas, 
 Digby. If that cheque comes, I may give a — tea. You told 
 me there would be a cheque, a substantial cheque. The 
 truth is, we've been most outrageously " 
 
 ''Shush— h—h !" said the Major. 'T'm hanged if I'll ask 
 for money in payment for what you offered freely as a gift! 
 And that autograph letter — and Middlesex House next June 
 — and — er " 
 
 ''Stop! I am going to tear up that hateful letter, and 
 I shall throw the pieces," she continued violently, "into the 
 waste-paper basket, where I found poor Uncle Fowler. 
 And as for princes and princesses, I shall never put my 
 trust in them again. You needn't speak, Digby. In my 
 own house I may surely be allowed once in a while to get 
 in a word edgeways. We have been outrageously swindled 
 — there! And don't you ever ask me to call at Middlesex 
 House. You'll be ordering me, some day, I suppose, to 
 leave my cards upon forgers and murderers at Newgate !" 
 
 The Major retreated to his club. 
 
 Next day, however, he said a last word : "My dear, you 
 will be careful, I'm sure, not to mention this matter of the 
 cheque to any of our friends. They would be sure to laugh 
 at us and make remarks. It is not necessary to say this to 
 you, but " 
 
 "Then why do you say it?" snapped the lady. "I shall 
 certainly not give our friends the pleasure of making un- 
 kind remarks about me, and I only hope and pray that 
 you'll be as careful at the club." 
 
 "Mum's the word for both of us," said the Major, as he 
 went his way. 
 
 That particular season at Dinard set in a sunset blaze 
 of entertainments. The Major said that he had never known 
 154 
 
A Cutlet for a Cutlet 
 
 a livelier September, and almost forgot that he had lost 
 two precious weeks in July. At all the picnics, breakfasts, 
 dinners, and suppers the good fellow worked as hard as 
 the youngest and strongest, using the same tools — a knife 
 and fork. Mrs. Bowser, however, remained at home. It 
 seemed to her un-Christian that people should eat and 
 drink and make merry when she had been defrauded of a 
 hundred pounds. She had learned that her late tenants had 
 paid this sum the year before for somewhat similar accom- 
 modation at Trouville. Dinard managed to enjoy itself 
 without her, and agreed that the ]\Iajor was the hfe and 
 soul of every party — one of the first to come, one of the 
 last to leave, and always gay and debonair. None the less, 
 it was whispered behind his back that the Bowsers ought 
 to do something. Since the return from Dinan no hospital- 
 ity had been dispensed at the ^liraflores. The sparkling 
 Moselle sparkled in the darkness of the cellar. Not a single 
 bottle was uncorked ! Judge, then, with what surprise Din- 
 ard received invitations from Major and Mrs. Bowser to 
 dine and dance with them — at the club. 
 
 "Why at the club?" asked a pal of the Major. 
 
 "Because," said the -Major, ''this time, my boy, you are 
 dining with me, not with ^Madame." 
 
 Those who know their Dinard will predict that within 
 three hours most of the men and all of the women were 
 telling each other that the Major had come into Topping- 
 Bowser and seven thousand a year. But none received a 
 card of invitation with greater amazement than ]\Irs. 
 Bowser. 
 
 ''What is the meaning of this, Digby?" she asked. '"You 
 have included my name, I see ; but you are not such a ninny 
 as to think that I am going to pay the bill !" 
 
 "I am not such an — er — optimist as that," the Major re- 
 plied blandly. 
 
 155 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 'Then where does the money come from?" 
 
 "My dear/' the Major repHed with dignity, "when you 
 see fit to honour me with your confidence in regard to your 
 financial arrangements, I shall be happy to bestow the same 
 confidence upon you in return. For the moment, let me say 
 that this little entertainment will be paid for by me, and that 
 for once in my life I hope to have the pleasure of seeing 
 you at the head of my own table." 
 
 "I shall certainly be there," she hastened to assure him. 
 "If, Digby — if, my dear, you have come into a — fortune, I 
 hope you will pay me that hundred pounds which I lost 
 through your criminally careless business habits." 
 
 The Major laughed heartily 
 
 *'My dear Euphronia' A fortune! I have been paid 
 a few pounds — unexpectedly. A debt of honour." 
 
 *'And you waste them on a dinner?" 
 
 "Let us say rather that I am paying my debt of honour 
 in — er — doing as I have been done. Uncommonly well have 
 my friends done me this season. Well I shall oifer them 
 next Tuesday a little dinner which they will appreciate and 
 remember." 
 
 "You are not giving supper as well?" 
 
 **A sandwich or two. my dear, and a glass of champagne. 
 I must really be allowed to have my own way." 
 
 When the Tuesday came, the dining-room of the club 
 was transformed into a sort of bower of roses and palms. 
 The young and romantic sat two and two at small tables 
 lighted by candles in pink petticoat shades ; the Olympians 
 were gathered together round the main table. Of the din- 
 ner, let us admit frankly that it was the crowning glory 
 of the best season Dinard had ever known. A mousse au 
 jambon made old Chutney break an inviolate rule never to 
 speak till the savoury was handed. The surprise a la Bow- 
 ser (an almond ice served with a hot sauce of brandy cher- 
 156 
 
A Cutlet for a Cutlet 
 
 ries dropped into melted currant jelly) moved the greatest 
 lady in Dinard to tears, because her doctor (who was pres- 
 ent) peremptorily forbade her to touch it ! And, of course, 
 the Major as host surpassed all records he had established 
 as guest. He saw that Gill was sent in with Jack; he lis- 
 tened politely to the garrulous ; he prattled gaily to the mute ; 
 he told three new stories ; and he inspired old and young 
 alike with his own amazing and inexhaustible spirits! 
 
 At the head of the big table was Euphronia; and at her 
 side sat Captain Saladin, R.N., better known as ''The Old 
 Curiosity Shop." As he was the brother and heir pre- 
 sumptive of an earl, good Christians were charitable enough 
 to overlook his defects, and to dwell rather upon his virtues, 
 amongst which might be numbered fortitude in hearing of 
 the misfortunes of others and a love of retailing the truth, 
 and even more than the truth, concerning them. This gentle- 
 man had not finished his sole a la Normande before he be- 
 came aware that his hostess was ill at ease. She had, in- 
 deed, just made a careful study of the menu, and had learned 
 from the young fellow on her right that the supper was to 
 be quite as soigne as the dinner, and that the Casino band 
 had been engaged. 
 
 "The Major is doin' us tip-top," said Saladin, gobbling 
 up the last morsel of his fish. "Eh — what? Chateau 
 Yquemf Certainly. Noble wine, my dear Mrs. Bowser, 
 particularly after the Graves which some of our friends 
 give us — eh? The Major I hear, has not come into Top- 
 ping-Bowser, but he's bin backin' a winner or two — 
 wha-a-at?" 
 
 "Digby never races — now," said Mrs. Bowser sharply. 
 
 "Um ! Egad ! I have it ! He's spendin* what you saved 
 at Dinan. Not bad, that — wha-a-at?" 
 
 "I didn't save anything at Dinan, Captain Saladin." 
 
 ^S7 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 The sub-tinkle of irritability in her voice set his curiosity 
 a- jangling. 
 
 '*Goin' to let the Villa next year?" he demanded, after a 
 moment's pause. 
 
 *'It wasn't let this," she replied with asperity. 
 
 Captain Saladin stared open-mouthed. From his knowl- 
 edge of the lady, this statement simply howled for explana- 
 tion. 
 
 **You offered it, I know," he said. "But surely they did 
 the square thing — eh?" 
 
 At this moment such resolutions as Mrs. Bowser had 
 made concerning the propriety of holding her tongue were 
 despatched to their ultimate destination. She knew per- 
 fectly well that what she was about to say would be repeat- 
 ed, yet she spoke because she hoped that the speaking would 
 distress that extravagant wretch opposite, the man who 
 owed everything to his wife, and who repudiated those debts 
 when Fortune gave him an opportunity of discharging one 
 or two of them. 
 
 "The square thing was not done. Captain Saladin. Of 
 course, all my friends know that I care nothing for the sor- 
 did part of it. Still — it is rather extraordinary." 
 
 "Quite amazin'," assented the Captain. "Beastly sell, in 
 fact." 
 
 "Pray don't mention it!" 
 
 "You've bin treated shockin' bad, Mrs. Bowser, but, 
 hang it! there must be a mistake somewhere. Digby must 
 drop a line to one of the fellers in waitin' — wha-a-at? He 
 won't? Then write yourself, dear lady. It's the straight 
 tip I'm givin' you." 
 
 "I will write," she said viciously. 
 
 Meanwhile, the Major was having his golden hour, and 
 he made the most of it. Afterwards, too, in the ballroom, 
 he danced with the pretty girls and cracked jokes with the 
 
 158 
 
A Cutlet for a Cutlet 
 
 plain ones. Captain Saladin did not valse, but he circulated, 
 and wherever he went eyebrows were raised and voices low- 
 ered. Presently he approached some one who is known to 
 the Dinardois as the Universal Provider, because if you 
 want a partner for a dance, or a dozen of wine, or a word 
 of sound advice, or a house, or a yacht, or a pound of tea, 
 he's your man. The Captain whispered a few sentences, 
 and the other started. 
 
 *'Why, I ca-c-cash " He stopped abruptly and then 
 
 said quietly: 'There must be a mistake." 
 
 "Mistake be hanged !" said the Captain warmly. "I say, 
 if you know — anything " 
 
 "I know nothing. Capital show, this ?" 
 
 "RippinM The bill '11 be a corker — what-a-at? I say a 
 hundred, at least. And where the doose the Pink 'Un got 
 the oof from beats me. Not from his missus, I'll swear." 
 
 He moved away; and soon after the Universal Provider 
 sought and found an opportunity to lead his host aside. The 
 Major was pink as usual when his companion began to 
 speak ; he was scarlet before he had finished. 
 
 ''Saladin has told everybody in the room, you say?" 
 
 "I should be doing him a gross injustice if I doubted it." 
 
 "And he took my wife in to dinner. Just so. My dear 
 fellow, will you do me a favour? — Propose my health — 
 and my wife's — at supper, and call on me for a speech." 
 
 "Right !" 
 
 Accordingly at supper — a scrumptious supper — the health 
 of host and hostess was drunk with all honour, and 
 the Major duly rose to reply. 
 
 "My dear friends," he said, "I thank you warmly, and 
 my wife thanks you as warmly, for your good wishes. 
 We have been delightfully entertained this season by many 
 present, and we venture to hope that these guests in par- 
 ticular have had a good time to-night." (Shouts of "Yes!" 
 
 159 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 "You bet!" "Well played, Pink 'Un!" and so forth.) The 
 Major smiled cheerily and continued: "Speaking for my 
 wife, I may say frankly that she thoroughly appreciated 
 your kindness to her after our return from Dinan. We 
 had both missed a great deal of fun, but, as my wife put 
 it, we were honoured, inasmuch as we had been able to 
 serve a near kinsman of our gracious Sovereign. We 
 offered our home freely, and freely it was accepted. In 
 return, my wife received a very precious reward — an 
 autograph letter, which some of you have had the privi- 
 lege of reading. I was sent a — cheque. That cheque I 
 did not quite know what to do with ! My wife, I was as- 
 sured, would deem it churlish to return it, yet she had re- 
 ceived herself, as she has told you, more than payment in 
 full for what inconvenience she suffered. But I had noth- 
 ing. And so, after mature thought, I made up my mind to 
 cash the cheque, and in my wife's name and my own to de- 
 vote the proceeds to — er — the purposes for which we have 
 assembled together this evening. I venture to hope that 
 what I have done has been a pleasant surprise to you — 
 and to my wife." 
 
 The Major sat down as some convivial spirited started 
 the song, "For he's a jolly good fellow!" After supper, 
 Mrs. Bowser pleaded indisposition and withdrew. The 
 Major remained, gay and genial, till the last guest had 
 departed. Then he returned to the Villa Miraflores, smil- 
 ing blandly; but he was heard to whistle nervously as he 
 ascended the stairs which led to the room where his 
 Euphronia was awaiting him. 
 
 i6o 
 
X 
 
 THE WAITRESS AT SANTY 
 
 THE land boom struck Santy like a ninety-mile-an-hour 
 cyclone. It came; it went. What had been a tiny 
 hamlet with a long unpronounceable Spanish name — 
 shortened into Santy by the cattlemen — became a collection 
 of the worst-looking board-and-batten shacks between 
 Shasta and San Biego. Magnolia Avenue, with never a 
 Magnolia on it, exhibited a ridiculous schoolhouse, cold 
 in winter and hot in summer, a church, a parsonage, two 
 hotels, and half a dozen saloons. After the epidemic, 
 when values fell headlong, most of these buildings were 
 empty. One hotel, the Grand, kept open, because the fine 
 white dust of the foothills makes cattlemen and sheepmen 
 abnormally thirsty. 
 
 The Grand was run by an ex-faro dealer and general 
 all-round sport. I have forgotten his patronymic, but we 
 called him Nosey, not without reason. He mixed amazing 
 cocktails out of whisky which was judiciously blended by 
 himself down cellar. Nosey tended his own bar, played 
 cards, cut hair, and was the tallest talker in the county. 
 
 "I'm a liar, and proud of it," he would say. 
 
 We sat at the feet of this Gamaliel and absorbed his 
 cocktails and conversation. The odds were ten to one — 
 and no takers — that Nosey could out-talk any man in our 
 crowd. We admitted frankly that he had ideas. The 
 particular idea of advertising for a waitress was his. 
 
 i6i 
 
, Some Happenings 
 
 "I'm going behind," he told us. "Vm losin' big money, 
 boys." 
 
 "Where you steal it?" asked Bud Norcross. 
 
 Nosey sighed. 
 
 "I stole it right enough. I mind me when I held up 
 single-handed the San Clemente stage, and got away with 
 fifty thousand in Treasury Bills." 
 
 Nobody believed this. So far as our limited experience 
 went Nosey was reasonably honest. Nosey continued: 
 
 "I bought a pearl necklace with that bunch o' bills — a 
 necklace, boys, which one o' the star-spangled Queens o' 
 Song wears night and day." 
 
 ''You must ha' made a hit with Her Majesty?" 
 
 *'I did. But I hed ter give her the cold chuck. No man 
 gits so fed up with wimmenfolk as I do. The best of 'em 
 kinder sour on me. But wimmen, boys, has their uses. 
 Slingin' hash now !" 
 
 We waited expectantly. Nosey pulled a paper from 
 behind the bar. 
 
 "You seen this advertisement? It's a danty." 
 
 "Yours, Nosey?" 
 
 "Mine, my son. Listen : "Wanted immediate, a young, 
 spry, good-looking Waitress for first-class hotel in the 
 country.' Wal, boys, I hate to stick a surprise into ye, but 
 she's doo ter-day." 
 
 Bud breasted the bar. 
 
 "This is mine. We'll drink the lady's health right now. 
 Come on up, all of ye." 
 
 The San Lorenzo stage rolled into Santy about an hour 
 later. By that time the health of the young-spry-good- 
 looking waitress had been drunk with enthusiasm thrice. 
 None of us, however, believed in the adjectives; but we 
 were thrilled at the advent of any stranger in petticoats. 
 Santy boasted a schoolma'am of years as uncertain as her 
 162 
 
The Waitress at Santy 
 
 temper. She handled her scholars masterfully and was a 
 solid pillar of the County Temperance Association. Our 
 cattle ponies shied at the sight of her. Some of the land 
 boom settlers had brought wives and daughters to the 
 foothills. Call them poor white trash, and have done 
 with it. As Bud put it, the Santy stage was set for a star, 
 and the question obtruded itself — did it carry one? 
 
 A column of dust appeared in the south-east, and half a 
 dozen of us lit cigarettes as we ranged up in front of the 
 hotel. 
 
 "Anything fer me?" asked Nosey of the stage-driver. 
 
 *'Inside passenger," replied the stage-driver. 
 
 A tall, slim young woman got out, carrying a large 
 satchel. She wore a dust-proof veil and a long whitey- 
 grey cloak. She addressed Nosey in a clear calm voice: 
 
 'Is this the Grand Hotel?" 
 
 Nosey replied in the affirmative. But said hastily: 
 
 *'Lemme take yer grip?" 
 
 Hank Parkinson whispered to me: "One up on Bud." 
 
 "Wait," said I. 
 
 Bud's offer was ignored. Nosey led the way into the 
 hotel, and the young woman followed in silence. Bud 
 laughed. Hank murmured reflectively : 
 
 "Whar did the chicken git the axe?" 
 
 We went back to the bar. Presently Nosey appeared. 
 His face indicated surprise and uneasiness. And his voice, 
 a thought too loud for genteel society, sank to a whisper. 
 
 "Boys," he said solemnly. "She's a peach, a winner." 
 
 "What's she won. Nosey? Your 
 
 "Boys, I'm a liar if she ain't a lady — quality! Wimmen 
 is, and allers will be, puzzles to me, but why she answered 
 my lettle 'ad' bangs Banagher. Mebbe I worded it too 
 slick. Wal, ye'U see her to-morrer." 
 
 We did 
 
 163 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 In honour of the stranger we took dinner at the Grand. 
 Mame — we were instructed to so address her — waited upon 
 us. She was certainly very attractive and graceful. And 
 her brown hair, so I noticed, was beautifully done. Obvi- 
 ously, also, she took care of her hands. To all our ques- 
 tions — we didn't ask many — she replied in monosyllables. 
 She surveyed us calmly and derisively. It was a dull meal. 
 Bud, the most enterprising of the company, made a bad 
 break. 
 
 "What price Santy?" he asked our handmaiden. 
 
 ''It's quiet," she replied demurely. 
 
 Bud winked at her. 
 
 "We kin whoop things up, if you say so," he assured 
 her. 
 
 Mame's face remained impassive. Her eyes rested for 
 a moment upon Bud's ingenuous countenance. To our 
 delight he blushed. Then she passed on, blandly indiffer- 
 ent. Hank, who had not read his Chauteaubriand, gave us 
 to understand that the discomfiture of his friend was not 
 altogether displeasing to him. 
 
 After dinner Nosey commended our table manners. 
 
 "Barrin' Bud," he was kind enough to say, "ye behaved 
 like perfect gen'lemen. Mame is high-toned. This ain't 
 her stampin'-ground. But, by Jing! I reckon she means 
 to take aholt and stay on. I suspicioned some that she'd 
 pull stakes this morning. But I was mistook. Mebbe she's 
 here for her health." 
 
 Bud hazarded another conjecture. 
 
 "Mebbe she's after a pearl necklace." 
 
 Nosey replied happily: 
 
 "She's a pearl is Mame, and it's up to me that she don't 
 fall amongst swine. Hank, the parlour tricks you do with 
 yer knife didn't amuse her any. When I seen Joe tuck 
 164. 
 
The Waitress at Santy 
 
 his serviette into his pocket, I surmised that she winced. 
 Hand it over, son!" 
 
 Joe produced the napkin and "set up" the drinks. Mame 
 was toasted once again. Bud, who was my smartest cow- 
 boy, rode back to the ranch with me. He put adequately 
 into words the question that was biting me : 
 
 "Say — what the hell's she doin' here?" 
 
 II 
 
 A fortnight passed. Being a slack time on the ranch we 
 spent some agreeable hours in Santy at the Grand Hotel. 
 One thing was certain. Mame, as waitress, developed into 
 a stellar attraction of the first magnitude. She treated all 
 and sundry alike with demure courtesy. She took the air 
 in the company of the hotel cook, a melancholy and aged 
 female. She refused pleasantly invitations to go "buggy- 
 riding." But her reserve, when waiting upon us, gradually 
 thawed. Let it be recorded, also, that imperceptibly she 
 raised the tone of table talk. Under much provocation 
 she corrected grammatical blunders with a smile that took 
 the sting out of her admonitions. Hank and Bud became 
 promising pupils. Each confided in me that he was the 
 writhing victim of the grand passion. Bud broke out into 
 poetry. Hank bought a Prince Albert coat, satin-lined. 
 I do not affirm that Mame encouraged the boys, but she 
 did not discourage them. Watching her closely, I cherished 
 the conviction that they amused her. Moreover, they kept 
 other aspirants at a distance. 
 
 About a week later. Nosey led me apart, and after 
 exacting a pledge of secrecy made an astounding announce- 
 ment. 
 
 *'Mame ain't what she appears ter be. For two years 
 
 165 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 I run a barber shop in Petaluma. I hold the quick-shavin' 
 record ; shaved sixty-three men under the hour, by Jing ! 
 Yes, sir, what I don't know about the barber business 
 could be set down on a dime. Mame wears a wig." 
 
 "A wig?" 
 
 "A wig — one of the best, too. Good wigs run into big 
 money. I reckon she must hev two. Yes'day I took a 
 squint at her washin'. No frills, ye understand, but fine 
 linen — a dead give-away." 
 
 ''Meaning?" 
 
 "Mame is no waitress. She's in hidin' — sure!" 
 
 "None of our business." 
 
 "Yer dead right. That's why I told ye. I've bin in 
 hidin', more'n onct. Thar's bin big rewards offered fer 
 me. Yes, sir, I've bin wanted by half a dozen sheriffs — 
 damn 'em! The pint is — air they wantin' Mame?" 
 
 "Your 'pint,' Nosey, is as big as a barrel. Two men, I 
 know, are wanting Mame — Bud Norcross and Hank Park- 
 inson. They want her so badly that there may be trouble." 
 
 "Pshaw! Is Mame wanted by the perlice?" 
 
 "Search me !" 
 
 "It'd tickle me plum ter death ter fool the police. I've 
 half a notion to give Mame a hint that a way." 
 
 "Don't ! If she is hiding, she's chosen a snug place. A 
 hint from you might scare her out of it." 
 
 "Mebbe yer right." 
 
 After this confidential talk with Nosey I looked with 
 ever-increasing interest and curiosity at our waitress. Her 
 singular detachment had become explicable upon a 
 hypothesis which in itself seemed incredible. The girl's eyes 
 were so honest. She carried a high head. Her laugh had 
 the sterling ring to it. Nosey, when I casually men- 
 tioned these things to him, pitied my ignorance and inex- 
 perience. 
 i66 
 
The Waitress at Santy 
 
 ''When I played cards fer a livin', and I was a Jim 
 Dandy at it, a down-and-outer, what made the suckers 
 play with me? My honest face, by Jing! Mary's little 
 lamb an' me might ha' bin twins. Mame's face is her 
 fortin, and I'm lookin' for her photygraph in the Police 
 Gazette. If I was twenty years younger, I'd want the 
 purty sinner myself." 
 
 **Bud and Hank would make it lively for you." 
 
 'I'd eat them two galoots fer breakfast and be hungry 
 agin by dinner-time." 
 
 I returned to the ranch a much-worried man. During 
 two years Hank and Bud had been devoted friends; now 
 Mame stood between them. Santy was not big enough 
 to hold my two best cowboys. They behaved like dogs 
 growling over a bone. On the range they went different 
 ways. About the barn and in the house they glared fiercely 
 at each other. Each mocked the other, and yet each — 
 with the colossal conceit which characterises your true 
 Native Son of the Golden West— believed that Mame was 
 his for the asking. 
 
 But they didn't ask. 
 
 I wondered whether I could breathe a warning word into 
 Mame's ear. In Santy, she had been the only person, 
 male or female, who had treated me consistently with a 
 rather chilling deference. I felt sure that my position 
 as the owner of a large ranch had nothing to do with her 
 attitude towards me. Her deference, if it could be really 
 called that, was much more subtle. It involved the recog- 
 nition of class distinctions. Had she been an English- 
 woman I should have understood her perfectly. Always 
 there was the difficulty of getting her alone. 
 
 Next day, I seized my first opportunity. 
 
 Nosey told me that the ancient cook was out for the 
 afternoon, paying visits in Santy. Mame, I learned, was 
 
 167 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 in the kitchen. I found her reading a book which she 
 closed as I entered. I saluted her gravely, and then 
 plunged headlong. 
 
 "Mame, there's trouble at the ranch-house, and you're 
 at the bottom of it." 
 
 "Am I?" 
 
 "Yes. Hank and Bud, good boys, are crazy about you. 
 Loco ! Bud writes poetry, and Hank hides himself in a 
 Prince Albert coat, satin-lined." 
 
 "I'll fix them. You leave it to me. They're nice boys. 
 I'd hate to make trouble between them. Can't they keep 
 the peace for a bit longer?" 
 
 "I don't know. That sort of trouble gets acute mighty 
 quick." 
 
 "I'll watch out. Don't you worry!" 
 
 She looked at me pensively, with a faint smile curving 
 her red lips. I was near enough to glance carelessly at her 
 nice brown hair, always exquisitely arranged. If she wore 
 a wig, it was certainly one of the best, I took my leave 
 more puzzled than ever. Nosey was waiting for me in 
 the bar. 
 
 "Any luck?" 
 
 I repeated the conversation. Nosey nodded. 
 
 "Playin' fer time, is she? Wal — that's a heap better'n 
 doin' it. Say — I've a notion to give a ball. We'll hev a 
 hog-killin' celebration." 
 
 "Are you a dancer, Nosey?" / 
 
 "A dancer — me?" I won the world's championship, 
 when I was a kid. I danced fer seventeen hours. I quit 
 dancin' after that." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Wal, sir, after I'd downed the other competitors, I 
 noticed that my pardner was kinder limp and listless. I 
 hed to carry her to her seat, and a doctor got to work on 
 i68 
 
The Waitress at Santy 
 
 her. He said that she'd bin dead two hours. That's what 
 made me quit. Now, about this yere ball; we'll dance in 
 the dining-room, and hev supper in the bar. You scare 
 up a big crowd." 
 
 "I wonder if Mame dances?" 
 
 ''Does a cat eat sardines?" 
 
 Ill 
 
 The ball was a memorable affair. Apart from what may 
 be described as the crowning surprise at the end of it, to be 
 related in due time, there was the gathering together of a 
 very remarkable crowd. Our foothills harboured some 
 desperate characters, cattle-thieves and the like, to whom 
 the lure of a fiesta was irresistible. Tickets for one gentle- 
 man and his lady friend were sold at a dollar apiece. Nosey 
 was not optimist enough to expect to make money out 
 of the ball proper. A profit commensurate with the 
 trouble taken would be gleaned at the bar. 
 
 Hank appeared in his Prince Albert. Bud wore a black 
 morning coat of mine. In the Wtsi there is an inviolate 
 law: no trouble before women. Cowboys left their "guns" 
 at home. AVe averaged three cavaliers to one lady, but 
 that made things livelier for the girls. A local fiddler, a 
 sheep-herder, was instructed to do his best. 
 
 Mame, of course, was the Belle of the Ball. She wore 
 a frock fashioned by herself out of cheese cloth. I never 
 wish to take the floor with a lighter or better performer. 
 She was kind enough to give me the first waltz. As we 
 finished a young man entered the room, stood for an in- 
 stant in the doorway, glanced round him, and then smiled. 
 I thought he was smiling at me. Out of the corner of my 
 eye I saw Mame's face. She was very pale, and her eyes 
 
 169 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 held an odd furtive expression. This vanished immedi- 
 ately, so quickly indeed that I thought I had been mis- 
 taken. The young man approached. 
 
 "Hello, Mary." 
 
 "Hello, Gene." 
 
 He put out his hand and grasped hers. I bowed and 
 left them. As I did so I saw Bud staring hard at the 
 stranger. Hank, just across the room, stared also. I 
 turned to glance at our waitress. She was whispering to 
 the stranger, as he stood smiling at her. They edged back 
 out of the crowd. Bud came up to me and said hoarsely: 
 
 "Say, you know that guy?" 
 
 "I never saw him before." 
 
 "Same here. I reckon to cut him outer the herd — 
 pronto." 
 
 He approached Mame, and I had curiosity enough to 
 follow him at a discreet distance. He claimed the next 
 dance, and carried off Mame triumphantly. Hank looked 
 disappointed. The stranger smiled, surveying the crowd 
 with a somewhat derisive lift of his eyebrows. He might 
 have come out of the hills, but he was not of them. I 
 sized him up as a city clerk. By all odds he was the hand- 
 somest man in the room. 
 
 During the next two hours I was trying to determine 
 whether a comedy or a tragedy was being played under 
 my nose. Mame danced with many men, but after each 
 dance she returned to the stranger. Nobody was surprised 
 to see them supping together. Obviously, too, Bud and 
 Hank had joined issues in the common desire to "out" a 
 dangerous rival. I found them together, drinking Nosey's 
 inflammatory cocktails. No supper for them! The boys 
 were on the friendliest terms. Nosey was busy behind his 
 bar. The supper-tables were spread at the other end of 
 the room, with a curtain discreetly hiding the bar from fair 
 170 
 
The Waitress at Santy 
 
 and censorious eyes. After supper the curtain would be 
 taken down and the room given over to the men. Then, 
 and not till then, those making or hunting trouble could 
 count themselves free agents. At supper, each man waited 
 upon himself and partner. 
 
 I heard Bud say to Hank: 
 
 "I've a notion to borry a gun from Nosey. This yere 
 stranger may be heeled." 
 
 Hank replied mournfully: 
 
 ''Nosey ain't the sport he useter be." 
 
 When they saw me, each affected a too boisterous hilarity. 
 Somehow I felt sorry for the stranger. 
 
 After supper we had a treat. Mame and the stranger 
 took the floor together. In those days, the two-step was 
 almost unknown. One two-step only figured upon the 
 programme hung upon the wall behind the fiddler. He 
 struck up a Sousa march. At once I knew that "Gene" 
 was a professional dancer, as graceful as "Adonis" Dixey, 
 and much of the same build. I knew also that this two- 
 step had been promised to Bud when the programme was 
 drawn up. Bud fancied himself as a dancer and had told 
 all the boys to be "around" when the two-step was played. 
 Bud watched the gyrating pair, conscious of grins upon 
 the faces of the "boys." Hank, however, was quite as 
 angry as Bud. Mame had promised to eat supper with him. 
 Under the circumstances, I thought it prudent to have a 
 word with Nosey. I found him below, taking down the 
 curtain. When I recited the facts, he whistled. I added 
 carelessly : 
 
 "You were bragging about your dancing. You ought to 
 see this fellow at it." 
 
 "I will," said Nosey. "You wait till I take a squint 
 at him." 
 
 He hurried into the dancing-room, and was back in a 
 
 171 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 jiffy with an unmistakable expression upon his face. In 
 moments of excitement the man's nose would twitch. 
 Hence, possibly, his nickname. It was twitching now. He 
 took my arm. 
 
 "This thing is serious," he said hoarsely. "Do you know 
 who Mame's huggin'?" 
 
 *'I don't. They're old friends. This isn't the first time 
 they've two-stepped together." 
 
 "It may be the last," replied Nosey. 
 
 "Oh, rot," I replied. "You and I can talk to the boys. 
 Mame has let them down hard, but that clears the air 
 between two old friends. It's our job to see that they 
 don't pick a quarrel with this stranger." 
 
 Nosey's answer surprised me : 
 
 "I ain't worryin' about that. I've a notion to get a 
 whiff o' fresh air. We'll leave that curtain up a mite 
 longer." 
 
 He went outside, where all the horses were hitched to a 
 double row of rails. When he came back his nose was still 
 twitching. 
 
 "Go, git Hank and Bud — quick. Thar ain't a moment 
 to lose." 
 
 I obeyed — wondering. Bud and Hank asked no ques- 
 tions. I fancy that they counted me in as a third party. 
 Nosey had found an understudy to serve drinks. He beck- 
 oned us into the kitchen. 
 
 "Boys," he said to Hank and Bud, "Mame has double- 
 crossed ye, ain't she?" 
 
 Bud answered grimly : 
 
 "The fun ain't over yet." 
 
 "Now, you two boys are sports. D'ye want to heap red 
 hot coals on Mame's head? She ain't for either of ye. 
 This is a big chance to git even with her in a big way." 
 
 "I ain't guessin' no riddles ter-night, old socks." 
 172 
 
The Waitress at Santy 
 
 Nosey *s voice sank to a melodramatic whisper. I can't 
 remember whether or not he had been a world-famous 
 actor. 
 
 *'Boys, outside, under the big live oak, air the sheriff 
 o' this yere county and two depities." 
 
 *'Gee!" 
 
 "They're waitin' for them two-steppers. It's my idee 
 that we kin fool 'em. The Lord jined husband an' wife, 
 let not man put 'em asunder." 
 
 "Husband an' wife!" 
 
 "Counterfeiters, both of 'em. I was in the green goods 
 business onct. These two air champions." 
 
 "Suffering Mike!" 
 
 "The San Antone Kid and his wife. They was both 
 dancers. I'd hate to think that my dance landed 'em in 
 the penitentiary." 
 
 We were stupefied into silence. I had read the story 
 in the papers. Romance had tinctured an otherwise sordid 
 tale. The police had made sure of capturing the criminals, 
 because they escaped together and were known to be de- 
 voted to each other. The wife was red-headed. 
 
 "What kin we do?" murmured Bud. 
 
 Nosey chuckled. 
 
 "That's big money in the way of reward. You boys kin 
 git even that a way." 
 
 "You go to blazes." 
 
 "Nosey has a plan," I suggested. 
 
 "Yes, boys, I hev. Mame has two wigs. The Kid ain't 
 overly big, and his face is as smooth as hers. The officers 
 tracked him here. They don't know about Mame. Any- 
 way, we must take that chance. If you two boys escorted 
 two ladies down Magnolia Avenoo, with the moon full 
 on yer faces, I'd bet what's in the till ye'd fool that crowd 
 under the live oak. They'll be watchin' the Kid's broncho. 
 
 ^7Z 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 And," he looked hard at me, "the ranch-house ain't a mile 
 away." 
 
 We nodded solemnly. 
 
 Nosey managed the details with consummate art. We 
 three were as wax in his hands. The unwritten law helped 
 us. The sheriff and his deputies had to consider popular 
 opinion. To break up a pleasant party was against all 
 precedent. They were content to wait till the guests dis- 
 persed. The Kid changed into the working kit of a waitress 
 in his wife's room. Several couples, after supper, went for 
 a stroll au clair de la lune. Nosey and I engaged the 
 Sheriff in conversation, assuming jocularly that they were 
 after some of our cattle-lifting friends. I saw Bud and 
 Hank come out of the hotel, each with an arm encircling 
 his companion. Bud broke into song as he passed us : 
 
 "I want yer, ma honey, yes, I do." 
 
 The ladies were discreetly veiled. 
 
 Next day, when the Kid and his wife were over the 
 hills and far away, I said to Bud and Hank : 
 
 "Which of you two boys walked with Mame ?" 
 
 *T did," said Bud. "We spun a dollar about it. I 
 squeezed Mame good and hard." 
 
 Hank snickered: 
 
 *'Mame kissed me when I told her good-bye." 
 
 Nosey didn't advertise for another waitress. 
 
 174 
 
XI 
 
 THE DEATH MASK 
 
 A PLASTER cast, the head of a young girl, used to hang 
 upon the wall of a small room adjoining Burge's studio 
 in Holland Park Road. It provoked innumerable ques- 
 tions, for the face had a curious fascination; a subtlety of 
 expression which few interpreted alike. In certain lights 
 the sadness of it clutched at the heart. One could swear 
 that the girl had suffered cruelly. And yet, dominating 
 the anguish and even obHterating it, glowed a joy. Some- 
 times Burge would say abruptly: *'Well, what do you 
 make of that smile ?" and as likely as not a stranger would 
 reply: "I see no smile." Then Burge always displayed 
 nervousness and anxiety. As a rule he would take down 
 the cast, turning it this way and that, and murmuring: 
 **Now, now you have it — you must see it. Why, man, it's 
 radiant." And always, mind you, the stranger did see the 
 smile, which once seen never vanished, although intermin- 
 able debates arose concerning the quality of it: some main- 
 taining that it expressed peace, patience, or serenity; 
 others — perhaps these had more imagination — detecting 
 satisfaction, complacency — triumph ! What triumph, was 
 asked? That of the quick or the dead. And then Burge 
 would inflame curiosity by the statement that the cast was 
 a death mask. It seemed incredible, because the cold 
 plaster palpitated with life. 
 
 175 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 Burge liked to talk about the cast, but he resented ques- 
 tions about the woman. His old friends, fellow-students 
 in Paris, Florence, and Dusseldorf, recalled no such face 
 amongst the models of their day, but they generally added 
 that Burge was a queer fish who had swum in many seas. 
 The indiscreet: "I say, Burge, did you know this girl?" 
 always provoked the slow drawling reply: "Not I, but I 
 know her now." 
 
 Burge was dying of some mysterious disease which de- 
 fied diagnosis. He had achieved fame as a painter of men. 
 He never painted women. In his student days great things 
 had been predicted of him as a painter of the nude. Con- 
 noisseurs raved about his flesh tints, his modelling, his 
 amazing technique. Great ladies asked him to paint their 
 portraits. Always he refused, abruptly and emphatically. 
 
 I called upon him only a few days before he died. He 
 was sitting in an armchair staring at the cast. When I 
 asked him how he did, he answered absently: "Do you 
 see forgiveness in her face?" I was able to reply honestly 
 enough that forgiveness shone out of it; and it seemed 
 amazing to me that this particular interpretation of the 
 general expression had escaped our notice. "I have looked 
 for it for more than ten years," he muttered. Then he 
 added slowly: "Some day I may tell you the story of this 
 cast, but not now." 
 
 A week afterwards I learned that he was dead, and later 
 his executors gave me notice that his pictures and furniture 
 would be sold at auction. I attended the sale with the in- 
 tention of buying the mask, but others, it seemed, were as 
 anxious to possess it as I. When it was put up, the bidding 
 became brisk, running from five shillings to five pounds 
 within as many minutes. 
 
 "Any advance on five ?" said the auctioneer. 
 176 
 
The Death Mask 
 
 "Six," said I, hoping that the extra pound would make 
 the cast my property. 
 
 ''Seven," said a stranger. 
 
 I stared at a shrivelled, brown-faced, white-haired man, 
 of middle age, obviously a Frenchman, who sat on a chair 
 facing the auctioneer. He took no notice of me ; his eyes, 
 of an inscrutable opaque blue, were fixed upon the plastei 
 cast. Looking into those dull orbs, one felt that the light 
 of the man's life had been turned out — for ever. I had 
 an impression that I had seen him somewhere before ; whert 
 I could not remember. 
 
 "Eight pounds," I said sharply. 
 
 "Ten." 
 
 Then he looked at me — piteously, mutely beseeching me 
 not to outbid him. I was sensible that he would go no 
 further, that the cast was mine for an extra pound, and 
 the desire to possess it became irresistible. But with the 
 stranger's eyes upon me, I hesitated. The auctioneer asked 
 if I would advance the latest bid. I muttered confusedly : 
 "Eleven." Silence followed, broken by the thud of the 
 falling hammer. The mask was mine. 
 
 I left the studio, half an hour later, with the cast under 
 my arm. Outside, a short November day was drawing to 
 a forlorn close. No rain fell, but a fog impended, and the 
 lamps already lit shone palely out of a thickening mist. 
 I thought of my comfortable rooms and quickened my 
 pace. 
 
 "Monsieur!" 
 
 I clutched my cast. The Frenchman was waiting for me, 
 and in his opaque eyes which rested upon the parcel under 
 my arm I read something which caused me, involuntarily, 
 to glance round in search of a policeman. He made a 
 gesture of apology, and continued quickly: "I beg pardon, 
 but Monsieur is the gentleman who bought the cast. Will 
 
 ^77 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 Monsieur accord me one minute of his valuable time?" 
 
 "We can talk as we walk," said I. This man, I told 
 myself, might have a story to tell, and I was a story-teller. 
 I had bought the cast with the intention of writing a story 
 about it. The Frenchman began volubly: 
 
 ''Monsieur has paid a great sum of money for a cast 
 worth a couple of francs? Monsieur is a man of heart. 
 Without doubt he wished to procure — at any price — a 
 souvenir of a friend. At the same time, money is money. 
 Monsieur will pardon the indiscretion, but he has not the 
 air of a Rothschild, par exemple . . ." 
 
 I cut him short. ''Have I met you before?" 
 
 "No, Monsieur, but " 
 
 "What do you want?" 
 
 "A bagatelle, for which I am willing to pay half the sum 
 Monsieur has paid. I am an artist, moi, and I am en- 
 chanted, ravished with the cast, which is unique. If Mon- 
 sieur would allow a copy to be made " 
 
 I hesitated. My lodging was near at hand. I felt un- 
 able to say yes or no in a hurry. But I had paid a sum 
 greater than I could afford, and the prospect of splitting 
 it in two was not disagreeable. The Frenchman accepted 
 an invitation to climb my stairs with alacrity. 
 
 "You are well installed. Monsieur," said he, as we 
 reached the first floor. 
 
 "Yes," I replied carelessly. "I have a couple of rooms 
 for myself, and another for an occasional guest." I indi- 
 cated the door of my guest-chamber with a gesture, as we 
 passed into my sitting-room. At once my visitor begged 
 to be allowed to see the cast. When the face with its 
 subtle smile was revealed, he began to murmur extravagant 
 phrases of admiration. 
 
 "It is adorable, but adorable. Monsieur feels the charm 
 — heinf Monsieur is artiste? Is it not so?" 
 178 
 
The Death Mask 
 
 'Yes," said I. "And if one could reproduce the colour- 
 
 ing 
 
 "But that is easy, Monsieur." He paused, half shutting 
 his eyes. "I can see her — the angel. Hair of pale gold, 
 of the fineness of silk, floss silk, with a ripple — and of a 
 length ! And the skin — pale comme un beau soir d'automne! 
 And of a texture! Dieu de Dieu! And the lips — coral, 
 showing small white teeth set wide. And her eyes !" 
 
 **Blue, no doubt," I hazarded. 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 ''Blue is cold. Monsieur. Picture to yourself the colour 
 of the shadow which falls on a white road, when the sun 
 is hot and high. Bon! I will tell you how to make that 
 colour, so elusive, so tender. Mix the gold of the hair 
 with the coral of the lip — so, and then add a bleu 
 celeste . . ." 
 
 He fell into a reverie. 
 
 "And the figure," said I, gently touching him. 
 
 *'Ah — the figure! Had Monsieur seen a nymph in the 
 Louvre: a masterpiece: Amove Cieco. She had the same 
 limbs " 
 
 He stopped suddenly, and I saw that his thin fingers, 
 trembled and twitched. 
 
 "You knew her?" said I. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 I had the feeling that I was constraining him to tell the 
 truth against his will. 
 
 "And Burge knew her?" 
 
 "Ah — Burge !" In an instant his face changed : and a 
 sinister light glowed in his opaque eyes ; in a sort of inar- 
 ticulate fury he began to stammer out abuse of Burge 
 
 "Burge is dead," I said coldly. 
 
 "Yes — he escaped." 
 
 Burge had been twice my visitor's weight and size ; yet for 
 
 I7Q 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 the moment, so invincible is the strength of human hate, 
 I felt a relief that Burge had escaped. But beyond and 
 above this singular relief was the conviction that the word 
 '"escaped" set forth the expression of complacency upon 
 the fact of the cast, one of the many expressions which 
 challenged curiosity. 
 
 ''And she escaped?" said I tentatively. 
 
 "Did she?" 
 
 I append a note of interrogation, but the note was ad- 
 dressed by the speaker to himself, not to me. 
 
 "Certainly," I replied. "She wanted to escape from 
 some one — and she did escape — from some one. Was it 
 you?" 
 
 At last I had aroused his indignation. He turned on me 
 furiously : 
 
 "You — you — you dare to ask such questions? By what 
 right? This is infamous — an outrage!" 
 
 "True. I beg pardon. Good-night." 
 
 He glared at me, confounded by the simple word of dis- 
 missal. Then his glance softened as it fell upon the cast. 
 In the gathering shadows I seemed to note a new expres- 
 sion upon the lips ; the smile had become derisive. This 
 discovery so absorbed me that I failed to notice the de- 
 parture of my visitor. A door slammed violently, before 
 I realised that I was alone. 
 
 Contrary to custom I dined at home that night. My 
 landlady, an excellent creature whom I had supposed to 
 be absolutely lacking in imagination, brought up my tray. 
 I was staring at the cast as she entered the room. Immedi- 
 ately curiosity flamed upon her dull florid face. The state- 
 ment that I held a death mask provoked a gurgle of dis- 
 may. I asked her what she made of it, as she approached 
 the table with a decanter of claret in her hand. 
 1 80 
 
The Death Mask 
 
 "The pore thing looks as if she'd been murdered." 
 
 "Good God !" said I. 
 
 The light from a hanging lamp passing through the de- 
 canter of claret had flung a crimson stain upon the white 
 neck. It vanished as the woman moved, but the horrible 
 significance of it remained. More, I noticed, something 
 which till then had escaped observation. The base of the 
 throat was encircled by what hitherto I had taken to be 
 the band of a dress. Now it struck me with a crushing 
 violence of conviction that the band was a — bandage! 
 
 The landlady bustled away with a backward glance of 
 horror at the mask. I ate my dinner with feeble appetite, 
 and lit a cigar. Then I hung the cast upon a nail on the 
 wall, and sitting opposite to it tried to wring from it the 
 secret behind the smile. I had listened to extravagant 
 speculations concerning the fate of the dead girl, but none 
 had included the suggestion of a violent end. The smoke 
 from my cigar curled upwards in thickening spirals, ob- 
 scuring the plaster, revealing the flesh and blood. By 
 Heaven ! the landlady had hit the mark. This sweet creature 
 had been done to death. Suicide I rejected: confronted 
 by the serenity and sanity of her expression. She had 
 been murdered. And yet — the face was so gentle, so ten- 
 der, it suffused such an atmosphere of peace that I shrank 
 appalled from what seemed a monstrous, abominable viola- 
 tion. The white purity of the plaster was defiled, 
 deflowered by the atrocious word : — murder ! 
 
 I went to bed early and tried to compose myself to sleep. 
 But soon I became aware that I was helplessly wide awake, 
 and likely to remain so. Finding it impossible to wean my 
 thoughts from the mask, I gave myself up to speculation 
 in regard to it. I began to regret the premature dismissal 
 of the Frenchman. If I had granted his request, if I had 
 permitted him to make a copy, I might at least have learned 
 
 i8i 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 his name — false or assumed — and his address. But he 
 had inspired a repugnance of such intensity, that at the 
 moment when I bade him good-bye, I could have violently 
 thrust him out of the room, had he not gone away of his 
 own accord. Why? I am not a morbid man. As a 
 journalist I have met and talked with noted criminals. I 
 can remember perfectly the impression made upon me by 
 such monsters as Peace and Lefroy; an impression com- 
 pounded of horror, curiosity, and interest, but not fear. 
 
 Why had this Frenchman so affected me? 
 
 Inexorably, I determined that something more than 
 coincidence had brought us together, that the man had 
 come into my life, and that he and I would meet again. 
 One thing was certain: he had loved the girl whose death 
 mask was in my possession. 
 
 Finally, I fell asleep, to wake in a rigour of terror quite 
 indescribable. I had dreamed that I had seen the girl lying 
 in bed. I my dream I watched her, fascinated by the beauty 
 of her face. But as I gazed, spell-bound, and unable to 
 conjecture how or why I came to be there, the conviction 
 stole upon me that the girl was not asleep but dead; and 
 this conviction paralysed my energies, so that I dared not 
 move to satisfy myself of the truth of it. I could only 
 stare at the lips which smiled delicately, derisively — and 
 yet happily. 
 
 Not till I perceived the happiness of the smile was I able 
 to move. I touched her cheek, it was cool not cold; I laid 
 my ear to her lips. Alas! She was dead. Or — hope 
 quickened my pulses — in a trance. Perhaps her heart still 
 beat, but so faintly that its vibrations could not pass 
 through the thick bed clothes tucked tightly round her and 
 up to her chin. With a certain hesitation, I thrust my 
 hand beneath the sheet and laid it trembling on her bosom. 
 182 
 
The Death Mask 
 
 I withdrew it instantly. My fingers, the whole hand in- 
 deed, were dripping wet and — hideously red. 
 
 The horror of it woke me. 
 
 Within a minute, however, I was able to laugh at the 
 nightmare, to reconstruct it, adjusting fact and fancy. 
 Later, I began to regard it as material out of which I might 
 weave a story. The dream had been so vivid that I de- 
 termined to write down what I could still see and feel, 
 before the mirage faded and the thrill passed. 
 
 I did not strike a match, because a full moon was shining 
 through the window ; and I remember wondering whether 
 its beams had touched my brain. Then I crossed to the 
 door and passed through it and into the room beyond. 
 Upon my desk lay notebook and pencil ; upon the wall hung 
 the cast. At that moment it was a piece of plaster — nothing 
 more. Staring at it, my imagination cooled. To warm it 
 I decided to try an experiment. I took the mask from its 
 nail, returned to my bedroom, and laid the girl's face upon 
 my pillow. With the aid of other pillows and cushions I 
 simulated a woman's form, covering all with the bed- 
 clothes and tucking them tight under the chin. The moon- 
 light, however, was too strong. I pulled down one blind 
 and then another. Finally I was satisfied. By some happy 
 chance I had succeeded beyond expectation. A stranger 
 would have sworn that a young girl lay sleeping in the 
 shadows. 
 
 I was about to fetch my pencil and notebook, when I 
 noted an effect for which I was unprepared. The bosom 
 of the figure on my bed was rising and falling. At once 
 I guessed the cause: one of the blinds, silently moved by 
 a draught, had produced an optical delusion, so perfect 
 that I strained my ears to catch the sound of the sleeper's 
 breathing. And I heard — breathing; a low, gasping sigh, 
 
 183 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 which came, assuredly, from a living creature moving in 
 my sitting-room! 
 
 And now the same paralysis which overtook me in my 
 dream came upon me in reality. I could not move hand 
 or foot, although my brain became incredibly active. I 
 clutched the truth instantly. The stranger with the un- 
 canny eyes was in my sitting-room, looking for the cast, 
 with the intention, doubtless, of stealing it; I recalled his 
 sudden exit, the slam of the door, the silence that suc- 
 ceeded. He had not gone downstairs, but had slipped 
 into my spare room, the room I had told him was seldom 
 used. 
 
 My ears warned pie of his stealthy approach ; the door 
 behind stood ajar; I could tell to an inch where he stood 
 and what he was doing; I could follow him in fancy as he 
 glided slowly from table to chimney-piece, from chimney- 
 piece to desk, inevitably nearing me, me, the impotent, 
 panic-stricken fool ! 
 
 His fingers encircled the handle of the door between us 
 as power returned to my muscles ; but freedom had been 
 restored too late. If I moved, he would be upon me; and 
 if he were armed what chance would be mine? The door 
 opened inwards. I crouched behind it. 
 
 I suppose that when he entered his eye fell upon the bed, 
 and the figure lying on it. And it may be conceived thai 
 the shock of what he saw was overpowering. He staggered 
 forward, exclaiming: **Claire — Claire!" and fell senseless 
 at the foot of the bed. When he recovered consciousness, 
 he found himself sitting on the carpet, pinioned to the 
 stout bedpost, and staring vacantly into my face. 
 
 "Claire," he repeated, "Claire." 
 
 I made him understand what had taken place. 
 
 "I wanted the cast," he said simply. 'T had no thought 
 of injuring you, Monsieur." 
 184 
 
The Death Mask 
 
 As he carried no weapon, a fact I had taken pains to 
 find out, I was inclined to believe him. 
 
 "All the same you have committed a felony." 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. Then he said derisively: 
 ''You can send me to one of your prisons. Enfin, I shall 
 find it a pleasant change after New Caledonia." 
 
 ''You have been in a French penal settlement?" 
 
 "Do I look as if I had been spending my life in the 
 Faubourg Saint Germain?" 
 
 "Why were you sent to New Caledonia?" 
 
 "Monsieur likes to ask questions." 
 
 "And if you answer them, I may let you go. For what 
 crime were you sent to New Caledonia?" 
 
 "I was convicted of — murder." 
 
 The ferocity in the man's face had melted out of it, 
 leaving behind a pathetic despair. I tried to take from the 
 thin and twisted features the lines which abominable hard- 
 ships had inflicted; and then I perceived that once this 
 poor wretch had been young and handsome. Now he was 
 so broken, so crippled by suffering, that I could hardly 
 realise that he had inspired in me any feeling save that of 
 pity. In silence I removed the strap and assisted him to 
 rise. He refused food, but accepted a small glass of 
 brandy. 
 
 "You ask no more questions. Monsieur." 
 
 I felt hot, because my curiosity, mordant as ever, seemed 
 shameful, vulgar, cruel. In a crude fashion I explained this 
 to him, and begged his pardon. He eyed me curiously, 
 as he asked if I understood French. Upon my replying 
 in the affirmative, he said in his own tongue that he would 
 tell me his story, because he felt sure that I would believe 
 it. In a year or two, he added, he would be dead, and then, 
 if I so pleased, I could repeat the tale to others. 
 
 I gave him a chair. Holding the cast between his scarred 
 
 185 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 trembling hands, staring at it with a fierce yet piteous inter- 
 rogation, as if he were asking a question which never 
 could be answered, he began to speak with a listless intona- 
 tion, whose monotony became more and more impressive. 
 Frequently he paused, and his intermittences of silence 
 moved me profoundly. I may describe the impression they 
 made on me by comparing them to the interstellar spaces. 
 His words, like the stars on a dark night, illumined without 
 revealing the universe of darkness and mystery which en- 
 compassed them. 
 
 II 
 
 "Burge and I," he began, "were fellow students at the 
 Ecole des Beaux Arts, pupils of the famous Saphir. We 
 were also friends, and lodged together in the rue de Soleil 
 d'or, which runs into the Quai des Grands Augustins. In 
 the summer of '86 we went to Brittany, to Port Navalo, 
 a hamlet of fisher-folk situated on a small island in the 
 bay of Morbihan. All the able-bodied men had sailed away 
 to Iceland, a la grande peche. . . . 
 
 *'Here, we found a rude lodging in the house of a widow. 
 Picture to yourself a long, low building of grey granite 
 with a yard behind surrounded by stables and a granary. 
 The lower front windows looked out upon the, bay, upon 
 that terrible race. La Jument, which, at each turn of the 
 tide, boils between Port Navalo and Locmariaker. In this 
 whirlpool, the husband of the widow had disappeared. She 
 told us that he was one of the few peasant proprietors of 
 the island, and we learned from others that he had squan- 
 dered his substance in the wineshops of Vannes. No sober 
 man would have tried to steer a boat through that raging 
 rapid. When he died nothing was left to the widow — 
 Mere le Benz — but the old homestead and one child — 
 Claire. 
 
 i86 
 
The Death Mask 
 
 "Monsieur, I cannot speak of the child's charm. But it 
 lives in this plaster cast. Burge and I were mad to paint 
 her. It was that at first, nothing more. We had found a 
 model. . . . 
 
 **The mother, you must understand, was Bretonne 
 hretonnante, a peasant of Morbihan, pious, superstitious, 
 illiterate, and a grasper of centimes. But Claire had been 
 educated at a small convent whose Mother Superior was 
 the sister of her father. She spoke French, and had 
 pretty manners. The aunt had wished her to take the veil, 
 but she preferred to help her mother, who was crippled by 
 rheumatism. When we came to Port Navalo, she had just 
 turned seventeen. She was too good. Monsieur, so kind, 
 so tender to the unfortunate, that the people of the island 
 adored her. To many she seemed to be a true daughter 
 of the Holy Mother. I have seen children cross themselves 
 when she went by. . . . 
 
 "We asked her to pose. She refused. Meantime we 
 had made a studio out of an attic above the granary. Here 
 we worked when the weather was bad, and smoked, and 
 talked. We talked of art, Monsieur. We never wearied of 
 describing the great pictures which we meant to paint. 
 When the weather was fine we worked en plein air. Each 
 day I asked Claire to pose, each day she refused. . . . 
 
 **And then, one evening, Burge said to me abruptly, T 
 begin a study of Claire's head to-morrow.' 
 
 *' 'You have persuaded her?' said I. 
 
 '* T have persuaded the mother. They are pious souls. 
 It seems that the father died in mortal sin. Many masses 
 must be paid for the repose of his soul. For the rest, 
 everything comes to him who knows how to wait.' 
 
 ''Next morning. Monsieur, the poor child carried wet 
 eyes to the studio. I was furious, because Burge had 
 succeeded, furious because he, my friend, was not willing 
 
 187 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 to share his good fortune with me. Naturally I laughed 
 at Claire's scruples. . . . 
 
 "But her instinct had warned her. The day came too 
 soon, when she ran, laughing and singing, to the studio; 
 she came away sighing. Monsieur, those sighs pierced my 
 heart, for I guessed how it was with her, and by that time 
 I knew well enough how it was with me. . . . 
 
 "Burge made two studies of her head, but he was not 
 satisfied. He entreated her to take off her coiffe. You 
 know, Monsieur, that a Bretonne maiden never uncovers 
 her head to a stranger. But Burge insisted. And she 
 consented. . . . 
 
 **You will guess what followed. Burge was insatiable. 
 He wanted her for the figure. He had told me that he 
 wished to paint her as Blandina, the martyr. And he 
 had dared to tell her, the simple child, that she ought to 
 feel honoured, that the Holy Mother would approve, that 
 her scruples were sinful. . . . 
 
 "Monsieur, I swear to you that if he had loved her, I 
 could have forgive him, but he cared for nothing save his 
 art. When he discovered that she loved him, he used her 
 love as a lever to warp her will to his. I told him that he 
 was doing an evil thing. *I have respected her,' said he. I 
 laughed in his face and left him. He had respected her, 
 this cold-blooded Englishman. He had respected her. 
 
 "About this time, gossip touched her with its poisonous 
 tongue. The children, whom she loved, jeered when she 
 went by, the women flouted her — the pure angel ! 
 
 "She must have suffered horribly; but her beauty in- 
 creased. She had steadily refused to pose for the figure, 
 but Burge felt confident that she would yield in the end. 
 And I knew the strength of his will. *I do not regret this 
 delay,' he said to me, ^because she is getting the exact 
 1 88 
 
The Death Mask 
 
 expression I want. I tell you that my picture, Blandina, 
 Virgin and Martyr, will make me famous !' 
 
 " 'You had better make haste,' I replied. 'When the men 
 return from Iceland, Jan Taric may have something to 
 say.' 
 
 "Jan Taric, we had been told, was mad for love of Claire. 
 She used to talk of him when we first came to Navalo. 
 Of late, she had not mentioned Jan's name, and when I 
 spoke of him to her, she seemed nervous and distressed. 
 
 "Next day, Burge told me that he wanted the studio to 
 himself, during certain hours. Then I knew that Claire 
 had yielded, that the big picture was to be begun. 
 
 "Three weeks passed. Each morning, each evening, I 
 saw the huge canvas leaning face to the wall. Burge said 
 that he would not show it to me till it was done. He 
 worked in a frenzy of excitement, in a fever which seemed 
 to consume not him, the strong man, but Claire. And 
 Burge, the animal! must have known it. For me, I could 
 not touch a brush. I spent my time on the beach, staring 
 at La Jument, that terrible monster which had swallowed 
 up Claire's father. And it seemed to me less ruthless, less 
 cruel, than the man, my friend, who was devouring Claire. 
 La Jument slays swiftly! 
 
 "Sitting by the sea, I watched the boats come home from 
 the north. One by one they sailed into the bay, and the 
 hoarse voices of the men were heard on the quay and 
 smiles lay on the faces of the women. . . . 
 
 "I am certain that Claire knew that, save as a model, she 
 was less to Burge than a tube of paint. The knowledge 
 gave her a resignation, a pathos, a dignity, which Burge 
 transferred to his canvas. . . . 
 
 "And then, one afternoon, La Cigale, Jan's boat, sailed 
 into the bay. Jan came ashore: a giant with huge shoul- 
 ders, and fierce smouldering eyes, an unsmiling man, Mon- 
 
 189 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 sieur, with the sadness of those northern seas on his face 
 and in his blood. I saw him look at Claire only once, but 
 that was enough. Already he had heard the gossip; he 
 knew that the girl he adored spent hours alone in the 
 studio of the tall, handsome Englishman. When he met 
 Claire upon the quay, he turned his back upon her, saying 
 a word in Breton which I did not understand. 
 
 ^'Monsieur, not till then did I realise what Burge 
 had done. Claire stood stupefied, staring at Jan. The 
 other women laughed, as she turned and went slowly 
 up the hill to her mother's house. I followed her. 
 When we were out of sight, I caught her up. She was 
 weeping in a despairing silence terrible to witness. I took 
 her hand and asked her to become my wife. She refused — 
 smiling through her tears, the tender creature — and begged 
 me to leave her. I ran on to the house, where I found 
 Burge in his room. I told him that Jan Taric had insulted 
 Claire; he looked uneasy, nothing more. Then he said 
 slowly : Terhaps we had better pack our traps and go.' 
 
 " * Your picture is finished ?' I cried. 
 
 ** 'Yes,' he replied gravely. 'Come and look at it.' 
 
 *'We walked in silence to the attic. Burge turned roimd 
 the big canvas, and laughed triumphantly. . . . 
 
 "He had painted a — masterpiece. One always knows 
 what is really great, Monsieur — is it not so? Saphir had 
 said that Burge would go far, and now he had gone, at a 
 jump, so far that the distance between us seemed immeasur- 
 able. For the moment, you see, I could think of nothing 
 but the picture which he had boasted would make him 
 famous: Blandina, Virgin and Martyr. . . . 
 
 "I swear to you. Monsieur, that my eyes were wet for 
 
 Blandina, not Claire. And then I remembered. After all, 
 
 this man had only painted what he saw, a virgin and a 
 
 martyr: a martyr to a cruel and insatiable ambition. . . . 
 
 190 
 
The Death Mask 
 
 He would pack his traps, as he said, and depart; Claire 
 would remain — naked and ashamed! 
 
 "A sort of fury possessed me, and then, as I was strug- 
 gling to control myself, I heard him say: Tell me frankly, 
 what is in your mind.' 
 
 " 'You have painted a great picture,' I said vehemently, 
 *and you have painted it with the blood of a martyr.' 
 
 "He asked for an explanation. I told him what he had 
 done, and then for her sake I entreated him to marry her. 
 It was the only expiation possible. She was pure, beautiful, 
 intelligent. A peasant, if you will, but he, Burge, was of the 
 people, a bourgeois, the son, I believe, of a small farmer. 
 He listened patiently enough ; then he said derisively : 
 *Why do you not marry her yourself?' I told him that I 
 had offered her marriage. He shrugged his shoulders. 
 'You are a madman,' he said contemptuously; 'in a month 
 this girl will have forgotten both of us. She will marry 
 her Jan before All Saints' Day. I shall tell her to do so.' 
 
 ''Monsieur, the rage of La Jument possessed me. I do 
 not remember what I said. The words boiled out of my 
 mouth, as the strong tide of love rushed to meet an incom- 
 ing ocean of hate. . . . 
 
 ''When I paused, spent by passion, he laughed ! Then 
 I struck him; and he struck back, giving me a dozen blows 
 for my one. Finally, he thrust me from the studio, and 
 flung me, half senseless, down the steps into the court- 
 yard. . . . 
 
 "I went to my own room and locked the door. 
 
 "Monsieur, murder was in my heart. I had been beaten 
 by a man infinitely stronger than myself. And his blows, 
 had fallen on my head and heart, crushing everything 
 within me save the instinct of revenge. I lay on my bed 
 for hours, thinking how, when, where, I should kill him. 
 Presently, I heard him enter his room, which was next to 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 mine. He hummed some song — a chanson d'atelier — as he 
 leisurely undressed. . . . 
 
 *'That was the last straw. He could sing, when Claire 
 and I had suffered so atrociously at his hands. 
 
 "I rose from my bed and looked out of the window. Be- 
 low, to the right, I could hear La Jument roaring, tossing 
 her white mane, as the waters of the great bay met the 
 irresistible tide of the Atlantic; and then, suddenly, above 
 the roar, a lamentable cry, an importunate wail, pierced 
 my ears. I told myself it was the escape of a sea bird, the 
 mournful note of a plover or curlew, but in a vague 
 mysterious fear I connected it with Claire. It seemed as if 
 she were protesting against what I was about to do. . . . 
 
 "For my plan was matured. On the morrow I would 
 make my peace with Burge. Then I would propose a sail 
 on the bay. We had sailed together many a time, and 
 always I, and not Burge, handled the boat. He would sit 
 in the bows, absorbed in thought, gazing out over the 
 waters. How easy it would be to delay our return to Port 
 Navalo upon some obvious pretext of wind or tide. And 
 then, how easy to drift into the fierce current of La 
 Jument. Next day our bodies would drift ashore on the 
 sands of Locmariaker. . . . And at the last, when we 
 were doomed, I would rouse him from his reverie, and tell 
 him what I had done. . . . 
 
 "Presently, I was seized with an irresistible desire to look 
 again upon the picture Burge had painted. I slipped out 
 of the window, and walked round the house to the back 
 yard. 
 
 "Claire and her mother slept in two attics above the 
 kitchen, which were reached by an outside staircase often 
 seen in Breton houses. I paused as I passed the staircase, 
 gazing up at the old woman's window, filled with an intense 
 resentment against her piety and greed. 
 192 
 
The Death Mask 
 
 ''I crossed the yard and ascended the steps down which 
 I had been flung. The key of the studio lay in a place 
 only known to Burge and myself, but, to my dismay, I dis- 
 covered that Burge had removed it. Almost at the same 
 moment I saw that the door had been burst open. Obvi- 
 ously, great violence had been used, for the lock, a stout 
 one, was shattered and the wood about it splintered. I 
 went in. The moon was shining as it shines now. And the 
 light from the window in the roof fell upon Burge's picture. 
 Monsieur — it was slashed and mutilated beyond descrip- 
 tion. . . . 
 
 "Of course, this was the work of Jan. And, believe 
 me, Monsieur, his hideous violence, his devil of destruction, 
 drove the fiend out of me. I realised instantly that Jan, 
 ignorant, stupid, primitive, had divined a revenge sweeter 
 than mine. I had not lived with Burge for three years 
 without finding out that his art was dearer to him than 
 life. Jan, I reflected, had done me a service for which I 
 must thank him. . . . 
 
 ''And then — ah, my God! — that lamentable cry sufifused 
 my thoughts with a dolorous suspicion which ripened almost 
 instantly into certainty. The savage who thrust a knife 
 into the incomparable beauty of the picture had not stayed 
 his hand tiiere. . . . 
 
 "I ran back to the foot of the staircase leading to Claire's 
 room. Here, upon the first step I found a shred of canvas. 
 I ascended the stairs, distracted with horror. The door at 
 the top, like the door of the studio, had been burst open. 
 I entered a small passage and paused before Claire's 
 door. ... 
 
 'T cannot tell how long I stood there, the sv/eat pouring 
 from my skin, not daring to cross the threshold, yet 
 sensible that I must. . . . 
 
 "When I pushed open the door, all was quiet and peace- 
 
 193 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 ful. At the other end of the room was a lit clos, and on it 
 lay Claire — seemingly asleep. I could just see her face in 
 profile, her brow, nose and chin white against the shadows. 
 
 "Monsieur," his voice sank to a hoarse whisper, *'as I was 
 thanking God that all was well with her, I saw the handle 
 of a knife above her bosom ! And I recognised it for mine : 
 a misericorde I had bought at Vannes. 
 
 "There comes a moment in the lives of all unfortunates, 
 when mind and body part company. I cannot tell you 
 what happened next, for at the moment when I recognised 
 that knife, something seemed to snap in my brain. I awoke 
 to find myself in a padded cell. . . . 
 
 *'And then followed my trial for the murder of Claire. 
 Monsieur knows that in my country the innocent must prove 
 their innocence. And I could prove nothing. Burge, of 
 course, believed me guilty. He made certain that I had 
 destroyed first his picture, and then Claire. He testified 
 against me. And his evidence sent me to the heat, the flies, 
 the fever of New Caledonia. . . . 
 
 "It was easy for Jan Taric to prove an alibi. His brother 
 — they stand by each other, the Bretons — swore that Jan had 
 spent the early part of the night in his company at a wine- 
 shop. After midnight, they had sailed together in a senagot 
 to some fishing-grounds, whence they returned next morn- 
 ing with a big catch of mullet. Last year, Jan died of pneu- 
 monia, and dying confessed his crime. I was released. . . . 
 
 "Monsieur, I had never doubted that I would be released. 
 That conviction had sustained me when men stronger than 
 I — died. I would be released sooner or later, and then I 
 would kill Burge. I came home to kill him. I traced him 
 to London, I found him famous — and " . 
 
 "And dead," said L 
 
 "Monsieur, he was aHve a year ago. Well, it was cer- 
 tain that he would not recognise me. But, Monsieur, I 
 194 
 
The Death Mask 
 
 never thought it possible that I should fail to recognise him. 
 He had changed as I had changed; the wreck of what he 
 had been. The Burge that I had sworn I would kill was 
 not. None the less, my purpose remained inflexible. I went 
 to his studio, and offered myself as a model. Ah — you re- 
 member now. You never met me, but you have seen my 
 face in one of Burge's pictures. I posed to him for a fort- 
 night. I bided my time, knowing that it would come. It 
 came, of course. One afternoon, he was tired. He went 
 into the room next the studio to lie down. I was told to 
 wait. Presently, I heard him breathing heavily in his sleep. 
 I crept into the room. Burge lay upon a couch — at my 
 mercy. . . . 
 
 *'At that moment. Monsieur, I saw the cast, hanging above 
 his head, looking down upon him, pleading for him, pro- 
 tecting him. For the moment I thought Claire had come to 
 life. Then I knew that Burge must have taken it from her 
 dead face. Monsieur, I hated him then, and I hate him 
 now, but I could not kill him. I turned from the couch 
 and walked to the door. At the last I glanced at the head 
 upon the wall. And then I saw the smile, the smile which 
 had triumphed over death. . . . 
 
 "Monsieur, there is nothing more to tell . . ." 
 
 When he had finished, the supreme disaster of his life 
 struck me dumb. He repeated the last phrase: "There is 
 nothing more to tell." 
 
 ''Burge is dead and you are alive," I said slowly. Then, 
 as he stared at me, not understanding, I added : "The doc- 
 tors were unable to say what killed him. He suffered from 
 no organic disease, he never married; he never painted a 
 woman. What is implied? Can you doubt, can any man 
 doubt, that remorse killed him, inch by inch, ruthlessly, in- 
 exorably ? I found the cast in his hands a few hours before 
 
 195 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 he died. He held it as you hold it, tenderly yet firmly, as if 
 loath to let it go. The dead entered the heart which had 
 closed itself against the living. Take the cast. It is yours. 
 In time, if not now, you will interpret, as Burge did, its true 
 message." 
 
 The poor fellow stared at the mask; then he stammered 
 out: *'What did it mean to Burge?" 
 
 ^'Forgiveness," I answered. 
 
 196 
 
XII 
 
 THE LACQUER CABINET 
 
 OUINNEY chuckled as he reread the letter which of- 
 fered him a thousand pounds for his cherished lacquer 
 cabinet, and he kept on rubbing his yellow, wrinkled hands 
 and muttering: 'Tike to have it, wouldn't you? But you 
 won't, my man. No, by gum, not if you offered double the 
 money !" 
 
 He was alone in the sanctuary of his best things. The 
 heavy shutters were up, a wood fire glowed as if with pleas- 
 ure upon a steel fender of the best Adam's period. The 
 electric lights in amber-coloured globes shone softly, 
 caressing the Chippendale furniture and throwing delicate 
 shadows upon the Aubusson carpet. Only the elect entered 
 this famous room, and every article in it was known and 
 beloved by the great collectors who dealt with Quinney. 
 The passion for beautiful things was in his blood. His 
 father had started a small curiosity shop in Salisbury, and 
 Quinney himself, as a boy of ten, used to gloat over the 
 Ming figures, and touch them furtively in flagrant disobedi- 
 ence of rules. After his father's death he had moved to 
 London and bought a fine Georgian house in Soho, which he 
 had gradually filled with masterpieces. He was never tired 
 of gazing at them with enraptured eyes. And he refused, as 
 he grew older and richer, to part with the gems of his col- 
 lection. Nobody, not even Quinney, knew what the con- 
 tents of this particular room were worth. Beside himself, 
 only two persons entered it — his daughter, Posy, and his 
 principal assistant, James Migott, a young man with a nose 
 
 197 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 almost as keen as Quinney's for beauty, and a fine pair of 
 eyes which, in contrast to Quinney's, dwelt lovingly upon 
 what was animate as well as inanimate. 
 
 Quinney, from being much by himself, had acquired the 
 habit of thinking aloud; and, although his surroundings 
 were Attic, his speech remained rudely Doric. As he tore 
 up the millionaire's letter he muttered: "Wonderful man 
 I am! To think that I should live to refuse an offer of a 
 thousand pounds for that cabinet ! Sometimes I'm surprised 
 at myself. By gum, I am!" 
 
 He approached the lacquer cabinet, a superb example of 
 the best Japanese art of the eighteenth century, black and 
 gold, with gold storks exquisitely delineated flying amongst 
 golden flowers. The petals of the flowers were made of 
 thin sheets of pure gold let into the lacquer. The stand 
 upon which it stood was English, with curved ball and claw 
 legs, also a miracle of craftsmanship. Nothing stood upon 
 the cabinet except a large jar of the rare Kang-shi famille 
 noire porcelain. The inside of the cabinet was as lavishly 
 decorated as the outside, and it was signed with the name 
 of the greatest of Japanese artists. The American mil- 
 lionaire had asked for a copy of this signature. 
 
 Quinney gloated over the decoration for at least five min- 
 utes ; and then he noticed that the key was missing. Nothing 
 was kept in the cabinet, and the lock, possibly, was the 
 only part of it which could be criticised, for a child could 
 have picked it with a hairpin. Quinney's eyes wandered 
 to the Kang-shi jar, and presently he took it lovingly into 
 his hands, stroking it, enjoying voluptuously the texture of 
 the paste. He put his tongue to it, an infallible test; and 
 from long practice he could have told you, had he been 
 blind, that the temperature of the porcelain and its texture 
 were confirmation stronger than any marks of quality and 
 198 
 
The Lacquer Cabinet 
 
 date. Then he thrust his hand into the interior to satisfy 
 himself for the thousandth time of its amazing finish. 
 
 Inside the jar was the key of the cabinet ! 
 
 This astonished him, because he was living in a world 
 from which the surprising had been rigorously eliminated. 
 Why was the key of the cabinet hidden in the jar? Who 
 had placed it there? Posy — or James Migott? 
 
 He sat down upon the finest Chippendale settee in the 
 world to reflect upon this incident. Oddly enough, it dis- 
 turbed him, although it was reasonable to suppose that his 
 daughter intended to tell him where she had put the key, 
 which certainly fitted the lock too loosely and had been 
 known to fall out of it. 
 
 Finally, he decided that Posy, good girl, had chosen an 
 excellent place for the key ; but she ought to have told him. 
 He would speak to her on the morrow. 
 
 He put the key back into the jar, and as he did so a clock 
 began to chime the hour of midnight. Ouinney listened to 
 the silvery bells with the same enraptured expression which 
 the gold petals upon the cabinet evoked. He reflected that 
 time passed too nimbly when a man was perfectly happy. 
 As a rule, he went to bed at half-past eleven, but the Amer- 
 ican's letter had engrossed his attention unduly. The man 
 wanted the cabinet so tremendously, and this lust for an- 
 other's possession was well understood by Quinney, for he 
 sufifered cruelly from it himself. There were bits in the 
 Museums which he would have stolen without compunc- 
 tion, could he have "lifted" them without fear of detection. 
 
 He switched off the electric light, and by the faint glow 
 of the fire turned to mount the stairs leading to his bed- 
 room. But he paused on the threshold of his room, for a 
 last glance at the sanctuary. Some of the things he would 
 have liked to kiss, and this sentiment seemed to wax 
 stronger with advancing years. He never left his wonderful 
 
 199 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 room without reflecting sadly that the day would inevitably 
 come when he would have to leave it forever. 
 
 At this moment he heard approaching footsteps — soft, 
 stealthy footsteps, which might be those of a midnight rob- 
 ber! 
 
 Quinney was no coward, and he was comfortably aware 
 that his precious things would not be likely to tempt the 
 ordinary burglar, because of the difficulty in disposing of 
 them. Noiselessly he withdrew to the outer room, which 
 held the furniture and china that could be bought. From 
 the darkness of this outer room he could see without being 
 seen. 
 
 He nearly betrayed his presence when Posy entered the 
 sanctuary, clothed in a silk dressing-gown, with her pretty 
 hair in two long plaits. What on earth was the girl up to? 
 She glided across the Aubusson carpet, upon which great 
 ladies of the French pre-Revolution period had stood, and 
 approached the lacquer cabinet. She thrust a white, slender 
 arm into the great jar, took from it the key, unlocked the 
 cabinet, opened it, waited a moment, with her back to her 
 father, who was not able to see what she was doing, closed 
 and locked the cabinet, replaced the key in the jar, and 
 flitted away as silently as she had come ! 
 
 Quinney wiped the dew of bewilderment from his high 
 but narrow brow. 
 
 The girl must be crazy ! 
 
 He waited till he heard the closing of her door upstairs ; 
 then he turned on the light and went to the cabinet. In the« 
 second drawer he found a letter, which he read. 
 
 My Own Blue Bird! 
 
 Quinney paused. He had not seen Maeterlinck's famous 
 play, but Posy had raved about it — with absurd enthusiasm, 
 200 
 
The Lacquer Cabinet 
 
 so he had thought at the time — and he remembered that 
 the Blue Bird represented happiness. 
 
 "My Own Blue Bird, 
 
 "It was splendidly clever of you to think of using 
 that stupid old cabinet as a pillar-box, and the fact that 
 we are corresponding under the very nose of father makes 
 the whole affair deliriously exciting and romantic. I should 
 like to see his funny old face, if he could read this. . . ." 
 
 "You shall, my girl," thought Quinney, grimly. He knew 
 that the "Blue Bird" must be James Migott, drat him ! It 
 could be nobody else. Quinney had guarded Posy very 
 jealously. James was not permitted to speak to her ex- 
 cept in his presence. And no letter to her, coming in the 
 ordinary way, would have escaped his notice. So ! this 
 young man, whom he had trained to be a faithful servant, 
 was carrying on a clandestine love affair with his only 
 child and using the lacquer cabinet as a pillar-box? He 
 wiped his mouth with the silk handkerchief which he used 
 to remove dust from his china, and his fingers trembled, for 
 he was quivering with rage. Then he finished the letter: — 
 
 "We have got to be most awfully careful, because if he 
 saw me talking to you, except about his ridiculous business, 
 he would simply chatter with rage. And, make no mistake, 
 my feeHngs wouldn't count. I'm not nearly so dear to him 
 as that Chelsea figure by Roubiliac. He only cares for 
 things, not a brass farthing for persons. But, oh, Jim, I 
 care more for you than all the things in the world, and I 
 have had no love since mother died. Think of what I 
 have to make up ! 
 
 20 1 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 "I shall get your answer to this when father is having 
 his cigar after lunch. 
 
 "Your loving, 
 
 "Posy." 
 
 Quinney put the billet back in the drawer, muttering to 
 himself, "I shall get the dog's answer before lunch. He 
 sha'n't complain that I gave him no opportunity." Grind- 
 ing his teeth, he consigned James Migott to the nethermost 
 Hades; and at the same moment he decided that the Yan- 
 kee — confound him also! — should have the cabinet. For 
 evermore he would hate the sight of it. As for James 
 Migott, the Blue Bird, he'd be blue indeed within twenty- 
 four hours. Blue Bird, indeed! A serpent! A crawling 
 snake ! 
 
 He went to bed, but sleep refused to soothe him, al- 
 though he dismissed James Migott from his thoughts, which 
 dwelt with concentration upon Posy. Had he not given the 
 best of everything to the ungrateful baggage? And in re- 
 turn — this! She dared to speak of his business as "ridicu- 
 lous." The adjective bit deep into his mind. Ridiculous? 
 What the devil did she mean? When his father died the 
 business was worth at most eight thousand pounds. To-day 
 the contents of the sanctuary alone would fetch at Christie's 
 a round fifty thousand, if the right people were bidding. 
 And they would be bidding. From the four quarters of 
 the earth they would come, to bid against each other for 
 the famous Quinney collection. Ridiculous! Suppose he 
 left everything to the nation, thereby immortalising himself ? 
 The Quinney Gallery! That sounded well. Suppose he 
 offered the gift during his lifetime? Would his gracious 
 Sovereign speak of his business as ridiculous? All right. 
 If this idiot of a girl cared for James Migott more than 
 for his collections, she might have him — and be hanged 
 
 202 
 
The Lacquer Cabinet 
 
 to her! Would the dog want her without the collections? 
 He smiled grimly at the thought. 
 
 Next day he rose at the usual time and breakfasted alone 
 with Posy, who smiled deceitfully, as if she were the best 
 daughter in the kingdom. He looked at her sourly, contrast- 
 ing her with the Chelsea shepherdess, modelled by the illus- 
 trious Frenchman. She was nearly as pretty, but common 
 pottery, not porcelain, not the pate tendre beloved by con- 
 noisseurs. He remarked a melting, luscious glaze about her 
 eyes. She was thinking of her Blue Bird, the shameless 
 baggage. At nine James Migott appeared, punctual to the 
 minute. Quinney said to him, curtly : — 
 
 "I am going out. You had better overhaul those Chip- 
 pendale chairs in my room. I am thinking of having that 
 old needlework cleaned. Get it off the chairs. very care- 
 fully." 
 
 ''Right you are !" exclaimed James. 
 
 There was the same shining glaze in his blue eyes as he 
 met frankly the gaze of his employer. It would not be easy 
 to replace James. He could be trusted with things, but 
 not with persons. His exclamation, ''Right you are !" tickled 
 agreeably Quinney's vanity. He was nearly always right, 
 everybody admitted that. No big dealer had made fewer 
 mistakes. That Germ.an fellow, who had made such an 
 ass of himself about that wax figure, he was ridiculous, if 
 you like. How Quinney had laughed at his egregious 
 blunder ! 
 
 At half-past twelve he returned. James Migott had re- 
 moved the precious needlework without breaking a thread. 
 His employer grunted approval. "You love this business ?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "I like it," said James. 
 
 He left the house to get his midday meal at a neigh- 
 bouring restaurant in Dean Street. Upstairs Posy was play- 
 
 203 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 ing Thalberg's "Home, Sweet Home" with a firmness of 
 touch and brilliancy of technique which indicated that the 
 money lavished upon her musical education had not been 
 wasted. With the arpeggios rippling through his mind, 
 Quinney opened the lacquer cabinet. Yes ; James had taken 
 Posy's letter, and another — written upon the business note- 
 paper — lay in its place. The lovers had not troubled to close 
 the envelopes, so secure did they fancy themselves in their 
 fool's paradise. 
 
 Quinney read as follows : — 
 
 "My Sweetest Posy, 
 
 "I believe that your father does really love you, al- 
 though he may not show it. He's a true lover of beauty in 
 any form, and it's hardly possible that he doesn't prize you 
 as the most beautiful of all his beautiful possessions. I am 
 doing my best to please him and to win his confidence. As 
 you say, we must be very careful and very patient, but he's 
 taught me how to wait for the things worth having. I know 
 that I must wait and work for you. 
 
 "Your faithful, 
 
 "Jim." 
 
 Quinney read the letter twice and then replaced it in the 
 cabinet. Throughout luncheon he said little, but stared fur- 
 tively at his daughter, wondering whether James Migott 
 — no mean judge — was right in affirming that of all his pos- 
 sessions she was the most beautiful. He had intended to 
 speak to Posy and James after luncheon; he had planned 
 a little dramatic scene, during which he would appear at 
 the moment when Posy was taking the letter from the cabi- 
 net. Then, before she had time to collect her wits, he 
 would summon the Blue Bird and deal trenchantly with 
 the guilty pair. 
 
 Presently he said, quietly : — 
 
 2CJ. 
 
The Lacquer Cabinet 
 
 "Fve had an offer of a thousand pounds for the lacquer 
 cabinet from Dupont Jordan." 
 
 She answered, composedly, ''Are you going to sell it?" 
 
 ^Terhaps." 
 
 Lord ! What an actress she was ! And not yet twenty ! 
 When and where and how did she learn to wear this mask ? 
 He eyed her with wrinkled interrogation, asking himself 
 dozens of questions. Had she always pretended with him? 
 What was she really like — inside? As a collector of pre- 
 cious things, he had acquired the habit of examining me- 
 ticulously every article of vertu, searching for the inimitable 
 marks, the patine, not to be reproduced by the most cunning 
 craftsman, the indelible handwriting of genius and time. 
 But he had never searched for such marks in his daughter. 
 When he lit his cigar, she went out of the room and he sat 
 silent, not enjoying his cigar, wondering what her face 
 looked like as she read the letter from her own Blue Bird. 
 What James Migott had written gave him pause. He de- 
 cided to read more of the correspondence before he pro- 
 nounced judgment. 
 
 That afternoon he made a list of the "gems" which might 
 be offered to the nation or left to it as the Quinney bequest. 
 At midnight Posy would descend from her room and place 
 another billet in the pillar-box. The pillar-box! To what 
 base uses might a gold lacquer cabinet degenerate ! 
 
 He left the door of his bedroom ajar, and at midnight 
 he heard the faint rustling of her dressing-gown as she stole 
 downstairs and up again. At one, when he made certain 
 .that she was asleep, he descended to his room and read the 
 second letter : — 
 
 *'Darling Jim, 
 
 'Tather never cared for me. If I died to-morrow he 
 would forget me in a week. Luckily I have you, but he will 
 
 205 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 expect me to choose between him and you. The great over- 
 whelming surprise of his Hfe will be when he discovers that 
 I have chosen you, because, incredible as it may seem, he 
 believes that he has done his duty by me just as he believed 
 that he did his duty by my dear mother. He will never, 
 never know how he appears to others. 
 
 "Your ever-loving, 
 "Posy." 
 
 Quinney replaced the letter, went into the dining-room, 
 and drank a glass of brown sherry. He preferred brown 
 sherry because it exhibited the exact tint of faded mahog- 
 any, the tint so baffling to fakers of old furniture. As he 
 sipped his wine he told himself that the girl was a liar. He 
 had done his duty by her and by his dead wife. He had 
 denied them nothing, gratified their whims, exalted each 
 high above the station in which they had been born. Then 
 he went to bed, to pass another wretched night, comparing 
 himself to Lear and other fathers who had begotten thank- 
 less children. 
 
 Posy expressed concern at his appearance next morning. 
 He was yellow as a guinea, and his eyes were congested. 
 
 "There's nothing the matter with me," he growled. 
 
 His emphasis on the personal pronoun reminded Posy 
 that her father had made no claims upon her as ministering 
 angel. He had never been ill, never **sorry for himself," 
 to use that familiar expression in a new and significant 
 sense. To-day he looked very sorry for himself. She said 
 SQ, tentatively. 
 
 "I am sorry for myself," he declared. 
 
 He went out and walked in the Park, smoking his pipe 
 and muttering to himself: "I'll dish the dog. Before sun- 
 set he*ll be wishing he'd never been born. Good as I've 
 been to both of 'em! Best father as ever lived, I do be- 
 206 
 
The Lacquer Cabinet 
 
 lieve." Half an hour passed in computing what Posy had 
 cost him. Fifteen hundred pounds in hard cash. The same 
 sum invested, say, in old Irish glass would have trebled 
 itself. Yes, by gum! Posy represented a snug five-thou- 
 sand, the baggage ! 
 
 When he returned to his house he was ripe for battle, 
 thirsting for it. Three clients were waiting impatiently. 
 He "socked" it to them. Asked big prices and got them, 
 a salve to abraded pride. James Migott was much im- 
 pressed. 
 
 "Nobody like you, sir, to sell stuff," he ventured to re- 
 mark. 
 
 Quinney snarled back: — 
 
 *'Yes, my lad, even if I do say it, there ain't my equal in 
 London — that means the world. Best o' fathers I been, 
 ain't I?" 
 
 James nodded. 
 
 "Done my duty. That's a thought to stick to one's ribs 
 —hay?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Never can remember the day when I couldn't say that. 
 Square, too, I've been within reasonable bounds, though I 
 have made ignorance — as just now — pay for my knowledge. 
 I know a lot, my lad — more'n you think for." 
 
 "Yes, sir," said James. 
 
 That morning the staff had a sultry time of it. Everybody 
 agreed that the governor's tongue had an edge to it keener 
 than the east wind, which happened to be blowing bitterly. 
 Posy, at the piano, was surprised to find her sire standing 
 beside her, with a malicious grin upon his thin face. 
 
 "Can you cook?" he asked. 
 
 "Cook? Me? You know I can't cook, father." 
 
 "Not much of a hand with your needle either, are ye?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 207 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 "Um! They tell me that our Royal Princesses have to 
 learn such things, willy-nilly, because revolutions do hap- 
 pen — sometimes." 
 
 Posy stared at him, thinking to herself: *'His liver is 
 out of whack, and no mistake." 
 
 Quinney returned to his sanctuary, feeling that he was 
 in form. The affair should be handled to rights. 
 
 *T'll fix 'em," he growled. "I'll sweep the cobwebs out o' 
 their silly noddles, by gum I will !" 
 
 At lunch he harped back to the primitive duties of wom- 
 en, rubbing in his words and salting them properly. 
 
 "Look ye here, my girl. It's just struck me that Fve been 
 to blame in makin' you so bloomin' ornamental." 
 
 "Come, father, I didn't get my good looks from you." 
 
 "Handsome is as handsome does. Ever heard that ?" 
 
 "Once or twice." 
 
 Quinney grinned as he drank his second glass of brown 
 sherry. Very rarely did he exceed one glass of wine in the 
 middle of the day. Then he lit his cigar and settled himself 
 in an easy-chair near the fire. Posy went upstairs, singing 
 softly as she went. 
 
 "Chock-full o' deceit that girl is ! Oozin' from every pore. 
 Stamps upstairs singin' like a lark ; crawls down like a viper. 
 Oh, my Lord !" 
 
 He looked at his watch. By his reckoning Posy was 
 nearly due in the sanctuary. James was whistling in the 
 basement. 
 
 "Whistle away, you dog!" he muttered. "I'm agoing to 
 call the next tune." 
 
 He had not long to wait. Posy came downstairs, entered 
 the sanctuary, opened the lacquer cabinet, and was grasping 
 Jim's letter, when Quinney, who had approached noiselessly 
 from behind, tapped her on the shoulder. 
 
 "What are you up to, my girl ?" 
 208 
 
The Lacquer Cabinet 
 
 "I was just having a look at the inside of the cabinet. 
 Thought of rubbing it over." 
 
 "Did you? What you got in your hand there? Paper?" 
 
 "It's something b-belonging to m-me," stammered the un- 
 happy maid. 
 
 "What's in that cabinet belongs to me, my girl. Hand it 
 over." 
 
 Posy slipped the letter into the bosom of her gown, and 
 stared defiantly at her father. 
 
 "Sure it's yours?" he asked. 
 
 "Quite sure ; a private affair." 
 
 "Keep your private papers in my cabinet — hay?" 
 
 "Sometimes." 
 
 Posy was now more at her ease, much to Quinney's de- 
 light. The higher the baggage mounted the farther she 
 would have to fall. 
 
 "Wait a moment, my girl." 
 
 He walked to the foot of the staircase and called out: 
 "James Migott !" 
 
 A distant voice replied: — 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Come you up here, my lad. Quick!" 
 
 James appeared, rather flushed. His colour deepened 
 when he saw Posy standing close to the pillar-box. 
 
 "Like to take it sittin' or standin'?" inquired Quinney, 
 with marked politeness. 
 
 "Take what?" inquired Posy. 
 
 "The dose Pm goin' to give ye. I prefer to stand. You 
 ain't fit, not by a long chalk, to sit on such chairs, but 
 I've always been a considerate man." 
 
 James and Posy stood where they were. Posy was very 
 pale, and her pretty fingers trembled. 
 
 Quinney glared at them, and the peroration he had pre- 
 
 209 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 pared vanished to the limbo of unspoken speeches. He 
 said, savagely: — 
 
 '^Fallen in love with each other — hay?" 
 
 "Yes/' replied Posy, without a moment's hesitation. 
 James said, with commendable promptness : "Same here." 
 
 "A pretty couple you make, by gum! Intentions hon- 
 ourable ?" he hissed at James. 
 
 Posy tossed her head. James answered, politely: — 
 
 "Quite." 
 
 "Arranged the happy day yet?" sneered the enraged 
 Quinney. 
 
 "Not yet, sir." 
 
 "Ah ! Waitin', maybe, for my blessing ?" 
 
 Posy burst out impetuously: — 
 
 "Father, I love him." 
 
 "That dog!" 
 
 "Easy, sir. I've served you like a dog because I love 
 her." 
 
 At this the brazen pair smiled at each other. Quinney's 
 rage, so long restrained, rose to boiling point. 
 
 "Ain't I been a good father to you?" he asked Posy. 
 "No quibblin'; let's have the God's truth! Ain't I been a 
 good father to you ?" 
 
 "No," said Posy. 
 
 "What you say?" 
 
 "I said 'No.' » 
 
 "Well, I'm blest! Ain't I given you everything a girl 
 wants ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "That puts the lid on. Of all the shameless, ungrate- 
 ful hussies! Five thousand pounds you've cost me, miss. 
 Not a penny less, by gum ! Now, you answer straight. It'd 
 take you a month o' Sundays to tell what I have given you ; 
 but you tell me what I've not given you?" 
 
 2IO 
 
The Lacquer Cabinet 
 
 "Love." 
 
 "Eh?" 
 
 **You don't love me ; you never have loved me. You love 
 things." She waved an all-embracing arm. "Old chairs, 
 faded tapestries, cracked china. You don't love, you can't 
 love, persons." 
 
 "Say that again. I want it to soak in." 
 
 She said it again, with amazing calmness. Quinney, too 
 confounded to deal adequately with her, turned to James. 
 
 "Do you love persons too ?" 
 
 "That's right." 
 
 "Things worth their weight in gold don't interest you — 
 hayr 
 
 "They interest me, but I don't love them." 
 
 "Never occurred to you, did it, that these things would 
 belong to my girl some day ?" 
 
 "It may have occurred to me, but I didn't fall in love 
 with Posy because she was your daughter." 
 
 "Oh, really? You'd take her as she stands — hay?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "How do you propose to support her ?" 
 
 "That's easy answered. Old Cohen wants me. You pay 
 me three pounds a week. I'm worth ten pounds, and Cohen 
 is willing to give six pounds, not to mention a small com- 
 mission on sales and purchases." 
 
 Quinney sat down, gasping. He, the most acute /aluer 
 of his generation, had never appraised these two. He had 
 always considered that James was overpaid. Old Cohen 
 must be mad. Trembling and perspiring, he played his 
 trump card. 
 
 "Yr.u can have her," he shouted. "Take her now — and 
 go!" 
 
 Posy faltered: "Father, you don't mean it?" 
 
 211 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 "Yes, I do. Let him take you away if he wants you as 
 you are." 
 
 He was certain that James would "back down," and 
 that a great victory was impending. But James repHed, 
 without hesitation : — 
 
 "Come, Posy! My mother will be delighted to see you. 
 I'll get a special licence this afternoon." 
 
 The girl held up her head proudly. It is barely possible 
 that till this moment she had never been absolutely sure of 
 James. She beamed upon him. 
 
 "Oh, Jim," she exclaimed, fervently, "you are a darling !" 
 
 She flung herself into his outstretched arms, and they 
 kissed each other, quite regardless of Mr. Quinney. He 
 stared about him, bewildered. Then he said, gaspingly : — 
 
 "What would your pore mother have said?" 
 
 Posy released herself and approached her father. Pity 
 shone softly in her eyes as she asked, gently : — 
 
 "Do you vv^ant to know what mother would have said?" 
 
 "I'm glad she was spared this, pore soul!" ejaculated the 
 bereaved man. "God, in His mercy, took her in time." 
 
 "Do you want to know what mother would have said ?" 
 
 She repeated the question in a deeper, more impressive 
 tone. 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "Wait!" 
 
 She fled upstairs. During her absence Quinney wondered 
 how he would replace James Migott, whom he had trained 
 so diligently from tender years. The dog knew so much that 
 only time and patience and experience could impart. He 
 had always intended to offer James a very small share in 
 the business. 
 
 Posy appeared breathless, and carrying a sheet of paper 
 in her hand. 
 
 212 
 
The Lacquer Cabinet 
 
 "Read that, father." As he fumbled for his spectacles, 
 she said, softly, "May I read it aloud?" 
 
 "I don't care what you do." 
 
 But in his heart he knew that this was a lie. He did 
 care. The conviction stole upon him that they had 
 ''bested" him. He wanted Posy with something of the 
 hunger which seized him when he went to the Gold Room 
 of the British Museum and beheld the incomparable Port- 
 land Vase, priceless though broken. Then he heard Posy's 
 voice, and it struck him for the first time that it was 
 like her mother's. The similarity of form and feature also 
 was startling. He grew pale and tremulous, for it seemed 
 as if his wife had come back from the dead. When he 
 closed his eyes he could imagine that she was speaking. 
 
 "My Darling Little Girl, 
 
 "When you read this I shall be dead. I want to tell 
 
 you before I go something about your father, which may 
 
 save you much unhappiness. He loved me dearly once, and 
 
 he used to tell me so. And then he grew more and more 
 
 absorbed in his business, and now he is so wrapped up in it 
 
 that I greatly fear he may infect you, and that, like 
 
 him, you may come to believe that the beauty of the world 
 
 is to be found in sticks and stones. To me they are just 
 
 that — sticks and stones. And so, when the time comes for 
 
 you to marry, be sure that you choose a man who loves you 
 
 for yourself and whom you love for himself. I was so 
 
 happy with your father when we lived in a cottage in 
 
 Salisbury; I have been so unhappy in this great house 
 
 filled with the things that have come between him and me. 
 
 "My old servant will deliver this letter to you when 
 
 you are seventeen. Read it sometimes, and keep it safe, 
 
 for it is all that I have to leave you. ,,.^ , . 
 
 Your lovmg 
 
 "Mother." 
 
 213 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 Before she had reached the end Quinney had covered his 
 face with his hands. When Posy's soft voi^ce died away 
 he made no sign. She beHeved then that his heart was dead 
 indeed. James signed to her to come with him, but she 
 gazed sorrowfully at her father, with the tears rolling down 
 her cheeks. 
 
 "Good-bye," she faltered. "You don't want me, and 
 James does." 
 
 Quinney lifted his head and sprang to his feet. The 
 force of character which had made him pre-eminent in his 
 business thrilled in his voice as he said, authoritatively: — 
 
 "I do want you. And I want James. I — I — I've always 
 held on tight to the best, and I shall hold on to you." Then 
 his voice failed as they stared at him, hardly realising what 
 he meant. 
 
 "Give me your mother's letter and leave me.'* 
 
 They went out, closing the door. Quinney read the let- 
 ter through and gazed at the things which had come be- 
 tween him and the writer. Then he placed the letter in the 
 lacquer cabinet, locked it, and slipped the key into his pocket. 
 His face worked strangely as he tried to keep back the tears 
 which were softening his heart. 
 
 He muttered brokenly : — 
 
 "I wonder whether the pore dear soul knows?" 
 
 214 
 
XIII 
 
 A Breton Love- Story 
 
 PHILOMENE CARVENNEC entered the church of 
 Notre-Dame des Bonnes Nouvelles at Rosporden, fol- 
 lowed by a man clad in the costume of- the province — the 
 bras bragous, the high-frilled collar, the stout felt hat, and 
 the short black jacket brilliant with embroidery and rows 
 of silver buttons. Leaning against the wall, the man fixed 
 his eyes upon the maid. 
 
 The ancient building, grey without and within, was 
 crowded with women standing erect and motionless. Their 
 dark dresses, heavy with velvet bands, accentuated the sil- 
 ence and the gloom. Suddenly the pilgrims sank to their 
 knees, and nothing was visible save a sea of coifs and col- 
 lars upon which the light, filtering through stained glass, 
 threw opalescent tints. 
 
 **She is the prettiest of all," murmured Leon. 
 
 After the ceremony, as Philomene passed beneath the 
 archway, Leon addressed her: "Has Philomene Carvennec 
 no word of welcome for an old friend?" 
 
 "Leon!" 
 
 *Tt is I. My days of slavery are over. Come, walk with 
 me till the procession forms." 
 
 But the maiden drew back, blushing and irresolute. At. 
 pardons the maidens sit together. Leon frowned and 
 strolled on alone. As he pushed through the crowd many 
 pressed forward to greet him, to shake his hand; upon all 
 sides Philomene heard his name. 
 
 215 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 "Leon Bellec carries himself like a hero." 
 
 "Leon has fought and bled for Brittany." 
 
 "The President — name of a name! — has saluted our 
 Leon." 
 
 "Leon saved Frangois Goaper at the risk of his own life 
 when the bullets were falling — pif, pafT 
 
 "Aie, aie," cried the women, "he is a brave man." 
 
 Philomene sighed as she seated herself with the other 
 girls upon the green slope to the north of the church. Be- 
 low was the high road, gay with booths and crowded with 
 foot-passengers. Sounds of revelry floated up from the 
 liquor-shops. Not a dozen yards distant a couple of 
 drunken peasants mocked a ballad-monger, who was scream- 
 ing out the chorus of a popular folk-song. Hard-by a beg- 
 gar exposed loathsome sores to curious and pitiful eyes. 
 Farther down the road two sailors were fighting. 
 
 Philomene, accustomed to these sights and sounds, sat 
 still, her toil-hardened hands crossed upon her lap. She 
 regretted the lost pleasure of a walk and a talk with the 
 hero. 
 
 "Look, Philo ! There is Mere Bellec. Ah ! she is a proud 
 woman to-day." 
 
 The mother of Leon, the famous marieuse of Nizon, was 
 held in high repute as a matchmaker of tact, ability and 
 honesty — one who selected her pairs with a prescient eye to 
 the community of material interests — her own not ex- 
 cepted, for the marriage feasts of her clients were always 
 held at the dame's roadside tavern. Not infrequently 
 many hundreds of guests assisted, and each paid a round 
 five-franc piece for his entertainment. The margin of 
 profit may not seem large, but the matchmaker was ac- 
 counted, albeit wrongly, a rich woman. Tall like her only 
 son, grey-haired but keen-eyed, she made a large impres- 
 sion of power — a maitresse femme who had carried bur- 
 216 
 
A Breton Love-Story 
 
 dens in her time and carried them bravely, uncomplain- 
 ingly. Leon's father, long dead, had proved a drunken, dis- 
 solute ne'er-do-well; Leon himself, as a youth, had given 
 his mother sore anxiety, 
 
 ^'Qk — la — la! See, Philo! Mere Bellec has stopped to 
 talk with thy father and old Goaper." 
 
 The others laughed shrilly, bantering the future bride. 
 It was known that Frangois Goaper, the cripple, whose par- 
 ents owned fat acres around Pont-Aven, adored her. 
 Frangois had received a bullet in his leg and another in his 
 hip while Leon was carrying him out of action. 
 
 "Frangois Goaper," said a girl from Riec. *Svill never run 
 away from thee, Philo. That leg of his will assure his 
 fidelity." 
 
 "Rozenn," retorted Philomene, "is jealous. She would 
 like to get married herself. It is time." 
 
 "When I marry," retorted the other, scornfully, " 'twill be 
 a man like Leon Bellec, not a cripple." 
 
 Philomene turned. She was very pale, for of yore gos- 
 sip had linked the name of Bellec to this red-maned, loud- 
 voiced slattern. 
 
 "Frangois Goaper," she said slowly, "is one among ten 
 thousand, and the girl who marries him will be lucky. He 
 will not go to Riec for a wife — nor will Leon Bellec." 
 
 Rozenn bit her lips. Her birthplace had an unsavoury 
 reputation. 
 
 ''Merci, ma belle/' she retorted, quietly. "I'll not forget 
 your kind words." 
 
 II 
 
 A week later Bellec came afoot to Nizon through the 
 pretty bois d'amour, along the winding path that skirts the 
 Aven, and past the windmills which inspired the poet ; 
 
 Pont-Aven, ville de renom; 
 Quatorse moulins et cinq maisons ! 
 
 217 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 It was September ist, le mois de la paille blanche, and 
 the air was heavy with the odours of harvest. Ripeness 
 rested drowsily upon the woods and the fields. Nature 
 seemed to be napping after travail, preparing for the long 
 sleep of winter. But Bellec was a Gallio in regard to these 
 things. Peasants he despised, and peasant's work. He had 
 a corps de fer pour le plaisir, and the pleasures of life he 
 took seriously — its duties, lightly. As he walked he 
 whistled an air of Botrel's that he had heard in a cafe 
 chantant at Brest : ''On m' attend au pays Breton.^* He 
 knew of more than one who had waited for his return, and 
 this knowledge pleased him. 
 
 His mother, the matchmaker, embraced him warmly, for 
 she had not seen this well-beloved son for three days. Leon 
 sat down on the ancient oak table, glanced at the massive 
 armoire where his mother kept her money, and called for a 
 c ho pine of cider. 
 
 "Ma mere," said he presently, "when does this mar- 
 riage thou hast just arranged between Philomene Carvennec 
 and her cripple take place ?" 
 
 ''Next month, mon His," replied the dame. 
 
 ''A sorry wedding! The Goapers are not popular." 
 
 ''Francois is a good man. He will make Philomene 
 happy." 
 
 "He? Ma Done! That was a life hardly worth the sav- 
 ing." 
 
 The matchmaker shrugged a shapely pair of shoulders. 
 "Frangois will be kind and loyal, my son. Wives learn to 
 love a big heart, even if it beats in a small body. A propos, 
 I must find a wife for thee: one, too, with more than a 
 well-turned leg in her stocking." 
 
 'T am here this morning to speak of that," said Leon. 
 "What can be put in my stocking, ma mere?" He glanced 
 at the massive armoire 
 218 
 
A Breton Love-Story 
 
 The matchmaker frowned, biting her Hps, but gazing with 
 affection at her handsome son. "There is not much left/' 
 she replied slowly. ''My son, I do not reproach thee. The 
 past is — past. If thou hast been weak and foolish, so have 
 I. It is strange that 1 who find it easy to say no to others 
 have never been able to say no to thee. For the rest, I can- 
 not give thee more than five thousand francs. It is all I 
 have." 
 
 Leon nodded. His mother never lied to him. "All the 
 same, ma mere, a good income is thine : the matchmaker of 
 Nizon will never come to want. Returning to my affairs — 
 I have seen the girl I wish to make my wife." 
 
 *'Not— not Rozenn of Riec?" 
 
 "Rozenn is well enough, but " He paused, then said 
 
 abruptly, "I want Philomene Carvennec." 
 
 "Philomene!" screamed the dame, rising in her excite- 
 ment. "Ah, Jesus! He is mad, this poor son of mine — 
 but crazy ! He wants a girl who is about to be betrothed to 
 his own friend. Farceur!" 
 
 Leon rose also, confronting his mother. "See here ! If 
 I lift my little finger — so! Philo will come to me.'^ 
 
 "And the scandal ? And the dowry ?" 
 
 "Persuade Pere Carvennec. That will be easy, because he 
 is mean. The Goapers demand twenty-five thousand francs. 
 I will be satisfied with fifteen." 
 
 "It is impossible," said the matchmaker hoarsely. 
 
 "Impossible? Bah!" 
 
 "A shameful thing to do — a shameful thing to ask." 
 
 "Then there remains — Rozenn." 
 
 The mother gasped. 
 
 "One must marry some one, and beggars can't be 
 choosers. Rozenn has ten thousand francs — she told me 
 
 so." 
 
 219 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 The matchmaker's wrath burst into scorching flames. 
 Ah! if he had not been so extravagant, if he had not de- 
 voured her economies — the animal ! — she could have found 
 him a richer bride than Philomene Carvennec. As for 
 Rozenn, it went without saying that such a hussy should 
 never darken her doors. 
 
 The son listened sullenly. Presently he said coldly, *Then 
 it is — good-bye." 
 
 Something in his voice arrested her attention — a note of 
 recklessness, of finality. ''What! My" — the emphasis on 
 the pronoun was pathetic — ''my son goes to that red- 
 headed wanton?" 
 
 'To her, or to the devil. It is the same thing." 
 
 "My son leaves me like this after — after " She cov- 
 ered her trembling features, too proud to recite the sacri- 
 fices made on his behalf. 
 
 Leon took her hand. When he spoke his voice was singu- 
 larly soft and pleasing. Hearing it, a stranger would un- 
 derstand why women found it hard to say no to the speaker. 
 "Ma mere, let us be reasonable ! What do I ask ? A baga- 
 telle ! For a good Catholic it is a matter of conscience. A 
 match between Philomene and that poor cripple is an in- 
 famy." 
 
 "Go," she said fiercely. '*I must be alone. But never 
 talk to me again of — conscience. Go — go !" 
 
 When he had gone she cleaned and put away her son's 
 glass, muttering to herself, "They will say that I am no bet- 
 ter than Jan Corfec, the tailor." 
 
 Jan, a tailor of Pont-Aven, holding many years pre- 
 viously the sacred office of matchmaker, had trifled, as 
 she was tempted to trifle, with honour and the traditions of 
 the province. He had lost fame, fortune, and occupation. 
 
 220 
 
A Breton Love-Story 
 III 
 
 Leon, meantime, walked to Riec, where he met Philo- 
 mene's father at the tavern kept by Rozenn's mother. 
 "They tell me,'* said the hero, ''that your crops are heavy." 
 
 *'And I'm shorthanded," growled Carvennec. 
 
 Leon placed his strong arms at an old friend's service. 
 ■ Carvennec swore his thanks, offering brandy. 
 
 "You are the brave son of a good mother," said he, as the 
 cognac warmed his gratitude. "She has found a husband 
 for la petite, as you know. It is a pity that he limps so con- 
 foundedly. He won't help much on the farm. Well, the 
 wedding won't take place till after harvest — no clashing 
 with honest work." 
 
 And they drank solemnly, clinking their glasses and re- 
 filling them. 
 
 "Enough," said Bellec, aftter the third bumper. "I drink 
 no more." 
 
 "Eh?" said the other in amazement. ''Sapristi, we've 
 only just begun." 
 
 Leon rose from his chair. "I drink," said he, "but I do 
 not get drunk." He left the tavern. 
 
 "It's droll," remarked Carvennec to Rozenn, who waited 
 upon the customers, "but one would say that our Leon 
 shirked his liquor. For what did the good God send us 
 cognac ?" 
 
 "A fig for Leon Bellec," cried a sailor from Concarneau. 
 "I do not like him. And I know why he does not drink. 
 That for your hero !" 
 
 He snapped his fingers and scowled at the company. 
 
 "You are brave," sneered the girl, showing her teeth. 
 "You snap your fingers at an unseen enemy. So did 
 Leon Bellec — at death.'* 
 
 "I'll snap my fingers in the animal's face. See." 
 
 221 
 
Some Happenings v 
 
 He staggered across the broad white road and approached 
 Leon, who was talking with a friend. The others followed. 
 
 "Bellec," said the sailor, "thou art a lazy pig of a poser. 
 Thou knowest me. I served with thee, animal, on board 
 La Siiperhe!* 
 
 He snapped his fingers twice beneath the nose of the 
 hero. Those present stared aghast. Bellec looked down 
 into the twitching face of his old shipmate. 
 
 "Yes," he replied, "I know thee well, Jacques Morvezen. 
 In the past nothing would silence thy lying tongue but blows. 
 Take that !" 
 
 He struck the sailor between the eyes, felling him to the 
 ground, where he lay, a huddled heap; the others moved 
 away. Rozenn brought brandy. 
 
 "Is he gone — that coward who dares not drink?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Morvezen began to mutter, and Rozenn, bending her 
 flaming head, listened. Presently she smiled, and gave the 
 man more liquor. With her assistance he regained his feet, 
 and re-entered the tavern, talking and cursing. The girl 
 waited upon him till he sank into a drunken stupor. Then 
 she left him. 
 
 "Sober men lie," she murmured to herself, "but children 
 and drunkards tell the truth. Leon Bellec is wise to keep 
 sober." 
 
 IV 
 
 Frangois Goaper assisted at Carvennec's threshing, and it 
 chanced that he and Leon worked side by side, the strong 
 contrasted with the weak. Philomene, tripping backwards 
 and forwards between house and barn, muttered again and 
 again: "There is Leon, and beside him poor Frangois." 
 
 Upon the morning of the third day the main cog- 
 
 222 
 
A Breton Love-Story 
 
 wheel of the crude oxen- worked threshing machine was 
 deflected from a horizontal position. No man, save Bellec, 
 was powerful enough to adjust it; and he handled the im- 
 mense mass with so little effort that the stolid peasants were 
 thrilled to applause. Then Leon explained to Carvennec 
 that the wheel would certainly again shift its position un- 
 less some heavy weight were placed upon it. 
 
 Carvennec summoned Philomene. "Thou knowest where 
 the pig-iron lies, in the shed yonder. Take Leon with thee 
 and show it to him." 
 
 She glanced nervously at her father. "The iron," she 
 stammered, "1-lies b-beneath the fourth truss of hay, count- 
 ing from the d-d-door." 
 
 "Worn d'un chien!" said her father impatiently. "Don't 
 chatter like a magpie, but do as I bid thee." 
 
 She obeyed, blushing. As soon as they were out of ear- 
 shot the man spoke : 
 
 "Thou art unwilling, Philo, to trust thyself with me. I 
 know the reason." 
 
 He said no more till they were alone in the shed. The 
 girl was trembling. 
 
 Leon smiled complacently. "Thou lovest me, my sweet 
 little hen." 
 
 She hid a scarlet face in her apron. 
 
 "Thou lovest me," he repeated. "Embrace me, ma belle, 
 for I also love thee." He seized her in his immense arms, 
 and kissed her hair, her small ears, but not her face, which 
 she kept covered. He felt her slight body trembling in his 
 clasp. 
 
 When he released her he looked up and saw Frangois 
 Goaper standing just outside the shed. Francois' face 
 was as twisted as his body. Leon remembered that he had 
 looked just so after the bullets had struck him. Then 
 
 223 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 Philomene saw him, and turning, fled. The men were 
 alone. 
 
 "She loves me, not thee," said Leon sullenly. As the other 
 made no reply, he continued with greater fluency and 
 audacity, "For the rest, it is only natural; thou canst not 
 blame tlie little one." 
 
 "Have I said that I blamed her?" demanded Frangois. 
 
 *'See now, matters can be arranged. The formal be- 
 trothal has not yet taken place. Carvennec needs a strong 
 son-in-law." 
 
 "Why did you not leave me to die on the dunes ?" 
 
 Leon shrugged his broad shoulders. 
 
 **You saved my life," continued Frangois vehemently, 
 "but you have taken away what I value more than life." 
 
 "It is nature," growled Bellec, unable to meet the eyes of 
 his old comrade. "Art thou a fit mate for her?" 
 
 Then Frangois spoke with a curious dignity. "I have 
 asked myself that question, Leon Bellec ; I did not wait for 
 another to put it to me. I am a cripple, true, but otherwise 
 I am strong " 
 
 "Strong! Thou?" 
 
 ''^There is a strength other than that of muscle. No girl 
 in Brittany would have been more tenderly loved and 
 cherished." 
 
 "But if she prefers — me?" 
 
 "What has happened? Have you not found the iron? 
 The work is at a standstill." 
 
 Carvennec spoke peevishly, addressing both men — sensible 
 that something which affected him had come to pass. 
 
 Leon answered with assurance : "Mon pere, the truth 
 is always best. Frangois caught me kissing the little one. 
 Wait! She loves me, as a wife should love her husband. 
 And you? Don't you need a strong son, who can work 
 hard and long ? Yes. Let us all be reasonable. Only fools 
 224 
 
A Breton Love-Story 
 
 quarrel. And there is another thing. Money is scarce 
 these times. Well, I will take Philo gladly with little more 
 than half the dowry the Goapers want. I am not 
 mercenary." 
 
 ''You have the impudence of the devil," spluttered Car- 
 vennec. 
 
 "He is right," said Frangois coldly. 
 
 "Right or wrong, she is yours," said Carvennec. "I stick 
 to my bargains, and so shall she !" 
 
 'Teon saved my life, I give him Philomene. We are 
 quits." 
 
 V 
 
 A small crowd was beginning to gather in the court- 
 yard behind the farmhouse which belonged to Carvennec. 
 Truly, as Leon had boasted to his mother, the hero of Nizon 
 had many friends, and those who were not taking part in 
 the bridegroom's procession were now awaiting his arrival. 
 In the room to the right of the ancient kitchen Philomene 
 was being arrayed for her wedding in the heavy dress and 
 petticoats of the Bretonne bride. The women said that 
 these weighed no less than fifteen pounds, and in them 
 Philomene would be expected to dance more or less con- 
 tinuously for eight hours ! Some artists spending the au- 
 tumn at Pont-Aven were attempting, sketch-book in hand, 
 to catch the elusive lights and shadows, the colour and 
 movement, the intimate charm of the scene. 
 
 Frangois Goaper leaned against a huge granite drinking- 
 trough which had been taken from the ruined chateau of 
 Rustephan. The horses of crusaders may have drunk out 
 of it; yet it remained, symbolical of the Breton race, in- 
 destructible, defying the elements, worn and scarred by the 
 centuries, but still serviceable and to the imaginative mind 
 beautiful. 
 
 225 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 Frangois, who had imagination, gazed into the water and 
 saw his own troubled features, and behind them fancies even 
 more troubled. Public opinion condemned his presence at 
 this wedding. He had been scurvily treated by his friend, 
 the giant who had saved his life, and pride ought to have 
 kept him within his own house. Why had he come ? 
 
 He was asking himself the same question. Why had he 
 obeyed the voice of Rozenn? She had asked him, had 
 entreated him, to meet her here at this hour, for Philo- 
 mene's sake. And for Philomene's sake he had consented. 
 But she, that red-headed wanton, was capable of a cruel jest 
 at his expense. 
 
 He looked up and saw an old woman, a great-aunt of the 
 bride's, regarding him with dim, misty eyes. She had 
 reputation as a teller of tales, une conteuse de legende, and 
 some of the children had whispered that she was a witch. 
 She greeted Frangois in quavering Breton. When he re- 
 plied gently to her salutation, she muttered, "My son, the 
 cloud will pass." 
 
 "Never," he replied, with a gust of passion. "The sun 
 is for them, for me the shadow." 
 
 "The sun will shine on you. I say it." 
 
 She hobbled away, shaking her head, and mumbling to 
 herself, as Rozenn approached. 
 
 "Well," said Frangois impatiently, "I am here, as you see, 
 a scarecrow for real crows to mock at," He indicated the 
 young men in their black costumes. 
 
 "Philomene is crying in there." 
 
 "What do you say?" 
 
 She is crying, the bride ! Bah ! What you can see in her, 
 the poor white chicken, beats me. Let me finish. She is 
 crying, and well she may, little fool, for it is shameful to 
 marry one man, loving another." 
 
 "She loves Leon." 
 226 
 
A Breton Love-Story 
 
 "Does she ? How blind men are ! She did love him for 
 a moment. Or shall I say that she loved what he seemed 
 to be — the hero, the great man covered with glory. So she 
 was dazzled, not the first nor the only one. But in her 
 heart she loves somebody else " 
 
 **Be careful what you say!" 
 
 "Pouf-f-f ! Also, she has a conscience ; she is good hi her 
 feeble way. She adores, too, what is fine. And now " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "What you have done is finer in her eyes than what 
 Leon did in Tonquin." 
 
 Frangois gazed at her steadily, trying to divine her pur- 
 pose. "Why do you say these things to me? If they are 
 true, and for my part I do not think them true, it is too 
 late." 
 
 "Too late!" The girl laughed derisively. "Why, if I 
 were you, Vd have her yet. I'd dry her tears, I'd " 
 
 "Hold your tongue !" Frangois commanded sternly, "and 
 go! 
 
 She held up her hand. "Hark !" she exclaimed. 
 
 The note of the pipe was heard in the distance. The 
 bridegroom's procession was approaching, headed by the 
 binious. A moment later it came into sight, the huge figure 
 of Leon towering above the others. 
 
 "They have been drinking already," murmured Rozenn. 
 
 "And what of that ? If a man may not drink a cup or two 
 of cider on his wedding morn " 
 
 "Don't go, Frangois !" 
 
 "Why not? Why should I stay?" 
 
 "Because you must. To slink away now would be 
 cowardly. It is fitting you should be here. Leon risked his 
 life for you, and in return you sacrificed your happiness for 
 him. You must walk to the church in his. procession, if " 
 
 "If " 
 
 227 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 "Never mind! Be guided by me. I have good brains, 
 believe me ! Stay here. Don't move !" 
 
 She flitted from him swiftly, with a backward glance of 
 mingled pity, liking and contempt. Frangois, dominated 
 by her intense vitality and determination, shrugged his 
 shoulders and stood still. After all, the wench was right. It 
 would be shameful to sHnk away now. Then his heart 
 and brain turned to Philomene, sobbing as the women placed 
 the orange-blossoms upon her ! 
 
 Carvennec came out of his house to greet the bridegroom. 
 For half an hour, according to custom, much cider would 
 be drunk; then the two processions, bride's and groom's, 
 would be formed, and each would set forth for the Maine, 
 where the civil ceremony would take place. After that 
 again would follow the impressive ceremony at the church, 
 and lastly the festivities, the endless eating and drinking 
 and dancing at the tavern of Mere Bellec — festivities to 
 which each invited guest would contribute his share of the 
 entertainment. 
 
 Carvennec carried in his hand a long-necked bottle, which 
 he held delicately as if it were a precious relic. One or two 
 of his kinsmen licked their lips. 
 
 "It is -fine champagne/' they murmured. "He has kept 
 it for this." 
 
 Then, once more, a curious thing happened. Leon re- 
 fused to drink brandy, although it was obvious from his 
 slightly flushed face that he, not to mention his friends 
 and supporters, had taken plenty of cider. 
 
 "Nonsense," said Carvennec roughly. He filled the glass, 
 and held it out. "I insist. Drink, my son ! It is forty-year- 
 old cognac, and mild as milk. Yerr matt!" 
 
 ''Yerr mattT replied Leon, draining the glass. "Yes, 
 yes; that is good, mon pere, you are right — and mild as 
 milk." 
 
 228 
 
A Breton Love-Story 
 
 Carvennec filled his own glass again. "There is enough 
 for one more round," he said. 
 
 The others filled their glasses. Leon hesitated. "Brandy 
 affects me/' he said heavily. "Ever since my sunstroke out 
 there" — he indicated with a sweep of his massive arm the 
 Far East — "I have had to be careful ; but still, it is old and 
 
 mild " He laughed and filled his glass, clinking it 
 
 against that of his prospective father-in-law. "Yerr matt!" 
 
 The sun shone down upon their brown, flushed faces — 
 upon the snowy coifs and collars of the women, anxiously 
 awaiting the bride, about to leave her father's house. 
 
 "Where is Philomene ?" said Leon. 
 
 "You must have patience," said Rozenn, hastening by. 
 
 The hinious struck up a stirring chant. Inside the house 
 one could get a glimpse of the bride and her companions; 
 one could hear their laughter. 
 
 "There is plenty of time," said Carv^ennec. 
 
 Rozenn stared impudently into the face of the bride- 
 groom. "Tell us of your exploits, mon brave," she cried 
 shrilly. 
 
 The crowd applauded. Mere Bellec gazed fondly at her 
 son. Frangois, unnoticed, raised his head; but he looked 
 at the grey house, not at the speaker. Of all the crowd, 
 he was the first to see the bride, as she looked out of the 
 window upon the hero, not half a dozen yards away. 
 
 "War is a terrible thing," said Rozenn. "W^ho can paint 
 its horrors save those who have been in the thick of the 
 fight, like our brave Leon." 
 
 Acclamations followed. The men cheered the hero: 
 "Bravo, Leon! bravo, bravo!" 
 
 A faint flush kindled upon Philomene's pale face. 
 
 "This is no time to speak of war," said Leon thickly. 
 "Let me be, Rozenn ! Let me be, I say." 
 
 229 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 "How modest he is!" she exclaimed. ''Brave men are 
 always modest." 
 
 "And modest women hold their tongues," retorted Bellec. 
 More than one noticed how oddly he spoke ; and yet at this 
 early hour he could not surely be fuddled. 
 
 "I will tell the story," said Rozenn, "while he waits for his 
 bride. It is fitting." 
 
 "Yes, yes," assented the crowd. "Tell it!— tell it!" 
 
 "Why not?" murmured the proud mother. 
 
 "The marines of La Siiperhe," began Rozenn, "were or- 
 dered ashore. Our Leon and Francois Goaper — where is 
 Frangois? Ah, there! He will correct me if I make a 
 mistake. Well, our Leon and Frangois were in the ranks. 
 The enemy lay — there !" She pointed dramatically at the 
 blank wall, and many turned their heads, so convincing 
 were the accents of the speaker. "There, entrenched behind 
 a line of sand-dunes. As our brave Bretons advanced to the 
 attack the bullets were singing over their heads — pst, pst, pst 
 — like that ! Leon will tell you that he laughed, but not for 
 long; for soon," her voice sank, "very soon his comrades 
 began to fall by twos and threes, and those glancing back 
 saw the white sand hideously stained !" 
 
 Sl^e paused, surveying her audience. Mere Bellec held 
 high her head ; Leon was grinning in a most foolish and as- 
 tonishing fashion; Philomene stared at him with frowning 
 brows and heaving bosom ; Frangois Goaper had edged 
 nearer to the crowd. 
 
 "And just then," continued Rozenn, changing the pitch of 
 her voice, "our brave Leon began to think of his precious 
 body, and the vast mark it presented." 
 
 A murmur of amazement trickled through the crowd. 
 
 "Yes, my friends, he was thinking of his precious body; 
 and so it came to pass that when the ridge was gained, Leon 
 Bellec was lying behind a sand-dune, out of sight and out 
 230 
 
A Breton Love-Story 
 
 of danger ! Who missed him ? Who saw him ? One man, 
 Jacques Morvezen, who is here." 
 
 "Thou Rest," said Mere Bellec fiercely. 
 
 ''We have read in the papers what happened next. Our 
 soldiers, unable to hold the ridge, were forced to return 
 to the boats through a hell-storm of bullets. And we have 
 read, also, that when they reached the boats and were put- 
 ting off to the ship, Leon was seen staggering down the 
 slopes with Frangois Goaper upon his back. And for this 
 act he w^as decorated by the admiral and complimented by 
 Monsieur le President ! But, my friends, you do not know 
 what motive inspired that act of valour. Oh — la — la! 
 Jacques IMorvezen will tell you. Jacques, come here!" 
 
 The sailor from Concarneau shambled forward, sober 
 and savage. 
 
 "That fellow," said Morvezen, raising a lean forefinger 
 and pointing at Bellec, *'is a coward, and I am a coward 
 to have kept his secret; but I feared his blows, which are 
 heavy, as those weaker than himself know. Yes, I caught 
 him sneaking behind the dunes; and the truth about the 
 rescue of Goaper leaked out of him when he was full of 
 brandy. Since, he has feared to drink like an honest 
 Breton. Yes ; he boasted to me, his messmate, that he had 
 picked up a senseless wounded comrade and flung him across 
 his back — to save his own carcase from the bullets of the 
 enemy'/' 
 
 A groan burst from the peasants. The matchmaker 
 turned and confronted her son. ''Leon Bellec," she cried, 
 in a terrible voice, "is this true or false?" 
 
 Leon laughed the fatuous laugh of the drunkard. "Well," 
 he blustered, "and if it were true, what of that?" 
 
 "Oh, my God !" said his mother. 
 
 The crowd stared at Leon, speechless with horror and 
 contempt. Then out of the house walked Philomene. Coif 
 
 231 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 and collar were no whiter than her face, but her eyes were 
 like pools of blue water when the sun sparkles on them. 
 She came swiftly forward till she met Bellec. Her apron, 
 exquisitely embroidered with silver, flashed in the sun. 
 Then in her soft gentle voice she repeated the question put 
 by Leon's mother. "Is this true, Leon ?" 
 
 The tone of her voice may have misled him, or perhaps 
 he was too self-assured of his power. In a brutal tone he 
 replied thickly, "Why should I lie ? Any one of you would 
 have done the same. I am not ashamed of it — no. And I 
 fooled all of you, including Monsieur le President. A fine 
 jest, that! Come, Philomene, embrace a man who is not 
 afraid of adniitting the truth." 
 
 "He is drunk," said his mother hoarsely. 
 
 Rozenn laughed. "True, ma tante; that is why he tells 
 the truth." 
 
 The others gazed at Philomene and Bellec. The man's 
 too-thick lips had parted in a foolish grin; the girl was 
 smiHng also. Frangois Goaper had crept up, so close that 
 he could almost touch her. 
 
 "You cur! You coward!" 
 
 The words fell like snowflakes out of her mouth, so 
 quietly were they spoken. Bellec regarded her in stupefac- 
 tion as the crowd re-echoed her words : "Cur ! — coward !" 
 Half turning from the disdain in her face, he encountered 
 Frangois, half his size, the cripple. In a hoarse voice, and 
 with a savage gesture of the arm, he demanded, "And you ? 
 Do you call me coward and cur?" 
 
 Frangois met his glance without wincing, regardless of 
 the huge fist impending above his head. "Yes," he an- 
 swered deliberately. "Cur you are, and coward, and — 
 thief." 
 
 The heavy fist fell, smiting the weakling to the earth. 
 At the same moment a hoarse, savage cry of indignation 
 232 
 
A Breton Love-Story 
 
 broke from the crowd — the ominous growl of an incensed 
 people. 
 
 "Go !" shrieked the mother. *'Run !" 
 
 He had sense enough left to obey. He ran swiftly, fol- 
 lowed by most of the men, pelted with sharp words and 
 sharper flints. 
 
 Philomene knelt by Frangois, laying her hand upon his 
 forehead where the fist had struck him. At her touch he 
 opened his eyes. 
 
 "Frangois, I am so sorry," she faltered. 
 
 **Sorry ?" He smiled faintly. "Are you sorry on my 
 account ? Why, Philomene, how ridiculous that is ! for I, 
 look you, was never so glad or so happy before." 
 
 "Your head is crushed." 
 
 "Better my head than my heart," he whispered. 
 
 Raising himself up, as others approached, he saw that 
 the girl was blushing. The tenderness in her eyes was not 
 to be misinterpreted. 
 
 "And better my head than your heart," he added. 
 
 233 
 
XIV 
 
 jimmy's rest cure 
 
 I HAVE heard Jimmy admit, more than once, that hiis 
 marriage with Mrs. Jimmy was the mistake of his life. 
 
 "All the Boltons are fools," he said to me in confidence, 
 "and Kitty has the family failing. It's awfully tough on 
 me; wearing, you know, and exhausting. I'm losing flesh, 
 by gad, from the constant irritation of seeing the face and 
 hearing the voice of a fool. Kitty is quite as big a fool as 
 her brother Tom, and you know what an arch-fool he is." 
 
 "Tom Bolton a fool !" I cried. "My dear Jimmy, I've 
 always considered him one of the shrewdest men in San 
 Francisco. Pray explain yourself." 
 
 Jimmy elevated his handsome eyebrows and smiled. We 
 had dined together at a down-town restaurant, and were 
 now alone in the smaller reading-room of the Pegasus 
 Club. The big clock ticked discreetly in its corner, and a 
 wood fire crackled cheerily on the hearth. Under such con- 
 ditions a married man may be pardoned if he tells the 
 truth. 
 
 My friend lighted a fresh cigar and sucked at it reflec- 
 tively for a few moments before he answered me. 
 
 "Tom," he began slowly, "is certainly an exasperating 
 rustler. I concede that. He is well educated and well mean- 
 ing — a common quality with fools ; but — ahem — what do 
 you suppose he does with his enormous income?" 
 
 "Being a fool — as you affirm — he probably pays your 
 debts." 
 
 234 
 
Jimmy's Rest Cure 
 
 Jimmy's fine blue eyes gazed reproachfully into mine. 
 
 "He reinvests it," he said disdainfully — "every d d 
 
 cent of it! What further proof do you want of his folly? 
 Here is a fellow worth at least a couple of millions; and 
 v.'hat does he do? Does he sit down, as any sane man 
 should, and soberly consider how best he can spend his 
 income so as to procure for himself and his dowdy wife the 
 maximum of pleasure and the minimum of discomfort? 
 Not a bit of it ! He works instead at his confounded office 
 from nine to five each blessed day. He drinks cheap 
 Zinfandel, which must kill him eventually. He smokes Key- 
 \\'est cigars at three f(>r a quarter. He pays his cook, his 
 cook, mark you, thirty dollars a month, and boasts of the 
 fact." 
 
 'This is a terrible indictment, Jimmy." 
 
 "Gad! I should say so. That is not all, however. He 
 takes the historic fool's privilege and presumes to lecture 
 me, me, upon what he is pleased to call the folly of my ways. 
 He took me severely to task yesterday, and I told him — 
 pleasantly, of course — to go and consult a physician, and 
 that I was really worried about his mental condition. He 
 swore at me, the idiot (a fool never controls himself), and 
 then tackled his sister. That is why," he added, incon- 
 sequently, "1 dined out with you this evening. Kitty is in 
 the sulks." 
 
 *'Your wife shares her brother's views?". 
 
 "Naturally. She's a Bolton. It's in the blood, I tell you. 
 Old Bolton — you never dined with him, did you? Lucky 
 fellow! — died of drinking too much ice water. Gad! how 
 those dinners do stick in my memory! Family style — you 
 know it : soup turbid as the Bolton wit ; gigantic turkeys and 
 roasts; Vanilla ice cream! Bah! ! ! 
 
 "Poor Jimmy!" I murmured sympathetically. 
 
 "Poor indeed," he echoed. "Poor as a church m.ouse. 
 
 235 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 You see, with my tastes I had no choice. I was compelled to 
 marry an heiress or blow my brains out ; and Kitty — I give 
 her her due — was a nice little girl, very spooney, and plastic, 
 so I fancied, as clay in the hands of a potter. Great Scott ! 
 how I deceived myself! The truth is, a stream can't rise 
 higher than its source ; and Kitty still likes Vanilla ice 
 cream, and pumpkin pie, and the primitive ideas which go 
 with them. I" — he paused and made a deprecating ges- 
 ture — ''I simply can't digest them : the ideas, I mean ; and 
 I feel myself failing. I shall die, confound it, of mental 
 indigestion." 
 
 "This is really serious, Jimmy. What do you propose ?" 
 
 "I'll tell you," he said, visibly brightening. "I've made 
 up my mind to take a rest cure. Not the bed and milk busi- 
 ness, but a rest cure on a novel plan." 
 
 He rubbed his hands together as gleefully as a school- 
 boy. Certainly Jimmy was a handsome man, a charming 
 personality, as every one, except the Boltons, agreed. He 
 had hosts of friends, and an aristocratic nose, slightly aqui- 
 line, which might precede a man into any society. Jimmy, 
 in fact, had dined more than once with royalty, and sunned 
 himself in the smiles of an arch-duchess. He never men- 
 tioned these trifles, which obtained none the less for him 
 a certain vogue, because he knew that the friends aforesaid 
 might be trusted to exploit them, not to mention the society 
 papers and the Associated Press dispatches. 
 
 "But I need your assistance," he was kind enough to add, 
 "and your sympathy. You must give me credit for having 
 honestly overworked myself in the laudable endeavour to 
 make bricks without straw out of Bolton adobe. A little 
 more effort would result in collapse : collapse followed by a 
 gradual sinking in the Bolton mire — a quite unthinkable 
 state of affairs. You see the law of self-preservation will 
 assert itself." 
 236 
 
Jimmy's Rest Cure 
 
 "Apropos, Jimmy : your wife needs the rest cure as badly 
 as you do. She looks anaemic." 
 
 "She is anaemic," he assented. "She worries over trifles — 
 another proof of folly. Of course you know she is still 
 absurdly fond of me." 
 
 "Certainly," I remarked; "she is a foolish woman." 
 
 "The children," continued Jimmy, ignoring my inter- 
 ruption, "are a link between us. On that account divorce 
 — presuming I could obtain a decree — is out of the question. 
 There is nothing left but temporary separation, and you 
 must compass it." 
 
 "Why should I interfere between man and wife?" 
 
 "Because you are my friend and Kitty's friend. You 
 have stood in with both of us. She respects you. Ah! 
 that reminds me of a dig in the ribs she gave me at luncheon 
 to-day. 'George,' she said — meaning you — 'is a good in- 
 fluence in your life, Jimmy. I wish your other friends' — she 
 was making a centre shot at the Kosmos boys — 'were as nice 
 as he.' Now, you must admit that no self-respecting man 
 can stomach such malodorous comparisons. I made up my 
 mind then and there to 'git/ " 
 
 "Where will you 'git' to?" 
 
 "I first thought of Burlingame, and then a shoot in 
 British Columbia ; but polo and climbing mountains are not 
 rest, and need rest. Besides, change of scene is not enough. 
 I crave — er — the anodyne of congenial companionship with 
 — er — with " 
 
 "With Mrs. McVickar," I suggested. 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 '*Why not ? she is in the same boat with me. That brute 
 McVickar bullies her from morning till night. She is fail- 
 ing too." 
 
 "Failing! — I haven't noticed it." 
 
 "My dear old man, you never notice anything larger than 
 
 237 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 a comma bacillus. Your undivided attention is given to 
 bacteria and high-priced objectives. You don't deign to look 
 at an object so absurdly large as a human being. However, 
 you have stumbled blindly on to my tracks. Mrs. Mac. and 
 I propose to go to the Islands together." 
 
 The audacity of this proposition amazed me. 
 
 "The devil you do? And vv^hat will McVickar say, and 
 Tom Bolton, and the rest of your friends?" 
 
 "I hope they all know me to be an honourable man," 
 said Jimmy, in an offended tone. *'My attachment to Mrs. 
 Mac. is purely platonic. She will take all her children and 
 that Gorgon of a German governess. The proprieties will 
 be observed; but we shall have a glorious time, a glorious 
 time ! Mentally we were made for each other. We will sit 
 together in the palm groves and listen to the waves break- 
 ink upon the coral reefs. We shall interchange ideas di- 
 vested of the dross of commonplace. It will be rest — rest 
 intellectually, morally and physically — rest perfect and 
 complete. An idyll!" 
 
 "It is the nature of idylls, Jimmy, to come sooner or 
 later (generally sooner) to an end. What then?" 
 
 "I hope," he replied warmly, "that I am not a man to 
 evade my responsibilities. I have my limitations, but selfish- 
 ness, thank Heaven, is not a failing of mine. I intend, when 
 the cure is accomplished, to devote myself to my family. 
 But to do effective work, lasting v/ork, I must build myself 
 up; I must recuperate my shattered energies. I shall re- 
 turn to San Francisco, to Kitty and Tom — I do not wholly 
 despair of Tom — prepared to sacrifice myself, if need be, 
 upon the altar of duty. I have failed hitherto, I confess it 
 — failed ignominiously, but I shall try again. Give me 
 credit, George, for a spirit of altruism which is rarely met 
 with in these Hn-du-siecle days." 
 
 And what role do you ask me to play in this comedy?" 
 238 
 
Jimmy's Rest Cure 
 
 *'You must persuade Kitty that this trip to Honolulu is 
 a necessity. Tell her what you please — anything — every- 
 thing !" 
 
 "You propose to leave the matter entirely in my hands." 
 
 "I do." 
 
 ''Very good. I'll do what I can." 
 
 Five minutes later he left me (for a game of poker), and 
 I sat by the fire — September evenings are chilly in San 
 Francisco — thinking not of Jimmy but of his wife. Poor 
 little woman ! Poor lonely little woman ! My heart ached 
 for her. A fool ? Yes ; inasmuch as she had laid her heart 
 and her fortune at the feet of Jimmy : Jimmy the altruist, 
 Jimmy, whose mission in life was to mould mankind — and 
 in particular that tough Bolton adobe — after his own 
 aesthetic pattern ! 
 
 Presently my thoughts turned to Mrs. Mac. Failing, too ! 
 Ah me ! what a loss to society ! A really amazing woman ; 
 so dainty, so mondaine, so freshly and crisply up to date. 
 Yes, she and Jimmy had surely much in common. It would 
 be an act of charity to throw them together for three months 
 or so: an intellectual rest — as Jimmy said — perfect and 
 complete. 
 
 I saw his wife the following morning at her own home, 
 a delightful house on Pacific Heights. The butler, a round, 
 red-faced, beef-eating Briton, detained me in the hall and 
 v^hispered a dozen words. 
 
 "Mr. George, I'm glad you've called. My mistress is 
 horful low; 'ipped, so to speak, and hunder the weather 
 
 as never was." 
 
 I found kitty in a wrapper, lying supinely upon a sofa! 
 It must be understood that the Boltons disapproved dis- 
 tinctly of wrappers and sofas. Tailor-made gowns and un- 
 limited exercise were their strong points. 
 
 239 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 "Why, Kitty," I cried, "what is the meaning of this ?" 
 
 She languidly held up her hand and welcomed me with a 
 feeble smile. 
 
 "I'm petered out," she answered, with a hysterical at- 
 tempt at a laugh. Then, to my dismay, she burst out cry- 
 ing. 
 
 Now, I had known Kitty Bolton intimately for many 
 years. Once upon a time I had hoped to . . . Well, no mat- 
 ter, that was before Jimmy appeared on the scene: I re- 
 peat, I had known her very intimately, but had never seen 
 her in tears. A cheerful, bustling, energetic little soul, she 
 carried with her sunshine, not showers, wherever she went. 
 At a loss to find a suitable phrase, I waited patiently for a 
 minute or two and held my peace. 
 
 "Perhaps," I suggested, as her sobs subsided, "it might 
 help you, Kitty, to have an old-time talk with me. Give 
 your trouble words, my dear." 
 
 "It's Jimmy," she faltered. "He doesn't love me any 
 more. That's all. I'm a fool, as he says, to cry about it, 
 but the sudden sight of your kind face, George, reminded 
 me of happier days." 
 
 "You have been married five years — eh ?" 
 
 "Yes, five years. Jimmy has been awfully good to me. 
 He has nice ways, you know, with women — never rough, 
 never rude. He says himself that he's the easiest person in 
 the world to get along with ; and so he is. It is all my fault. 
 I'm beginning to think that we Boltons are different from 
 Jimmy, and Mrs. McVickar, and all of that set. We are 
 archaic. Jimmy is up to date, and much too clever for me. 
 He laughs at my crudities. I ought to have married a dear 
 old simple Simon like you, George; but I fell in love with 
 Jimmy. Now he wants to leave me, and I can't bear it " 
 
 "But, Kitty, as a good wife you should consider your hus- 
 band. He needs rest — so he says: well, give him rest. If 
 240 
 
Jimmy's Rest Cure 
 
 he wishes to go to Jericho, let him go ! Urge him to go and 
 stay away from you as long as he likes. Give him rope." 
 
 Her eyes brightened, and the colour began to return 
 slowly to her cheeks. 
 
 "I think I understand," she replied softly. "But, George 
 — oh, how can I tell you ! — he wishes to go to the Islands ; 
 and I know the reason: that — that woman is going there 
 too." 
 
 "What of it?" I said lightly. "I know Jimmy well. He 
 is to be trusted. So is Mrs. Mac. Neither will injure them- 
 selves in the eyes of Mrs. Grundy. You can gamble on 
 that." 
 
 **I don't care," she answered obstinately: *'I won't have 
 my Jimmy sailing over summer seas with that false, smirk- 
 ing, scented wretch. I'm surprised, George, at you ; I 
 thought you were my friend." 
 
 "Suppose, Kitty, that I went with Jimmy? I need a 
 rest, too; we all need rest. Would my being along make 
 any difference?" 
 
 "Yes, it would. I can trust him with you, George. But 
 how can you leave your profession? and you are getting 
 along so capitally; we are all so proud of you. No, no, no 
 — you cannot leave California." 
 
 "None the less," I replied, "1 have made up my mind to 
 go to the Islands, whether Jimmy goes or not. I am in- 
 terested in — er — the sugar industry. It will be a business 
 proposition for me." 
 
 We argued at length ; but I gained my point, and when I 
 left the house found myself practically pledged to accom- 
 pany Jimmy, as watch-dog, to Honolulu, and return. Mi- 
 croscopically considered, I was glad of the opportunity of 
 examining the protozoa of Hawaii ; but I knew that a rising 
 lawyer has no business lotos eating on coral strands, and a 
 
 241 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 three-months' absence from the office meant a serious fall- 
 ing off of clients. 
 
 A fortnight later we sailed, and half San Francisco — so 
 it seemed to me — came down to the wharf to bid us God- 
 speed. Mrs. McVickar and Jimmy were assuredly social 
 stars of the first magnitude. Jimmy, with his intimate 
 knowledge of grand-ducal courts, and Mrs. Mac, with her 
 Doucet dresses and sweet, indefinable, mysterious smile, — 
 like the breaking of dawn through a mist, as Jimmy once 
 said, — could not fail to command both respect and admira- 
 tion from rich and poor alike. In five minutes they had 
 taken undisputed possession of the ship. The whole crew, 
 from captain to cabin-boy, were ready to swear that Jimmy 
 was one of Nature's noblemen, and that Mrs. Mac. must 
 have fallen full grown from Heaven, stopping en route at 
 Paris merely to clothe herself! To these two the German 
 governess and myself acted as excellent foils. 
 
 *T love ugly people," Mrs. Mac. had once said to me at 
 a Friday night german, "because nine times out of ten 
 they're so kind and unselfish." These words of wisdom I 
 repeated to the Fraulein Pilsener. She looked at me, and a 
 smile rippled across her stolid, putty-coloured German 
 features. From that moment we were fast friends. 
 
 For the first two days both Jimmy and Mrs. McVickar en- 
 joyed rest, perfect and complete intellectually and morally, 
 but not physically. From both these superior beings Father 
 Neptune exacted the most rigorous tribute. His humbler 
 subjects, Fraulein Pilsener and myself — hail, blessed doc- 
 trine of compensation ! — were happily exempted. However, 
 toward the close of the third day our handsome pair ap- 
 peared on deck, and with the assistance of the captain, the 
 first officer, myself, the Fraulein, a maid, and Jimmy's valet, 
 succeeded in installing themselves side by side in two im- 
 mense Bombay chairs. An hour later, seeing Jimmy hasten 
 242 
 
Jimmy's Rest Cure 
 
 below, I took his vacant seat. Mrs. Mac. smiled up at me 
 wanly, but graciously. 
 
 "Jimmy," she said, ''has a distinctly precious person- 
 ality, but at present he is not himself. He was quite rude to 
 me just now." 
 
 "Sea-sick," I said curtly. 
 
 "I know. But a man of breeding should never forget 
 himself. He should rise superior even to sea-sickness." 
 
 "But he did rise," I said, thinking of Jimmy's rapid flight. 
 
 "I asked him to pick up my vinaigrette — thank you so 
 much ! yes, that's it — and he coolly told me that my want of 
 consideration shocked him. Fancy that from Jimmy!" 
 
 I sympathised, and we talked upon indifferent topics for 
 twenty minutes. Then I went below. I found my hero in 
 his cabin, and asked him how he did. 
 
 "I'm almost sorry I started," he answered ruefully. "What 
 
 fool christened this d d ocean the Pacific? . . . By-the- 
 
 bye, George, Mrs. Mac. showed me the cloven foot just now. 
 She was positively snarky because I refused to pick up her 
 cursed scent-bottle. You don't mind my swearing, do you? 
 It braces me up. She knows my unfortunate condition, and 
 the unreason of the request quite staggered me. It argued, 
 so I told myself, a surprising intellectual weakness." 
 
 "Temporary aberration, doubtless." 
 
 "I suppose so. — Now, Kitty, with all her faults, would 
 have shown more regard for a poor stomach-twisted devil." 
 
 "But Kitty, according to you, is a fool." 
 
 "Don't be brutal, George. I never called my wife a fool. 
 That would be bad form. Foolish — yes : a fool — no. Poor 
 little girl ! She cried bitterly when she kissed me good- 
 bye. — Gad ! there goes the dinner bell. Tell my man to 
 bring me a quail, broiled, and a pint of Piper Heidsieck, 
 brut. After dinner you can come and read to me if you 
 like. I have Bourget's last novel, but I don't know that I 
 
 243 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 could stand your French accent. The least thing upsets my 
 confounded inside." 
 
 I shall not attempt to describe in detail the enchanting 
 days of the voyage out. Nor may I inflict upon a patient 
 reader the rhapsodies of Mrs. MacVickar and Jimmy. One 
 sample will suffice. 
 
 "I could sail on like this," I overheard her murmur, "for 
 ever! This, Jimmy, is rest indeed." 
 
 "Rest, my dear Mabel," he replied, "but not stagnation. 
 New processes are at work within us. I can feel the 
 quickening throes of thought. I am pregnant with po- 
 tentialities. I could face that dunce Tom Bolton, and 
 brave his platitudes with impunity. A week ago the mere 
 sight of the fellow provoked an attack of nervous prostra- 
 tion. Yes, Mabel, this is repose, and recuperation." 
 
 The two-headed nightingale was no more inseparable than 
 they; but the brazen effrontery of their everlasting tete-a- 
 tete evoked no scandal, not even gossip. It was tacitly 
 taken for granted that these were privileged characters, 
 chartered flirts, so to speak, above and beyond criticism. 
 The captain, who sat between them at meals, explained mat- 
 ters to the Fraulein and myself. 
 
 "They're too deep for our soundings," said the honest 
 old salt, significantly tapping his weather-beaten forehead. 
 "Intellectual, I mean. Bless you, I don't know half the time 
 what they're talkin about. But they're the prettiest pair 
 and the politest pair I ever sailed with, and — good as gold. 
 I understand" (he turned to me, and lowered his gruff 
 tones) "that Major MacVickar drinks!" 
 
 "Like a fish." 
 
 "You don't say so ! What drove him to it ?" 
 
 "A woman, I believe." 
 
 Fraulein Pilsener, worthy creature, waddled away cough- 
 ing violently. I had touched, I think, her funny spot. Her 
 244 
 
Jimmy's Rest Cure 
 
 eyes are small, but she knows how to use them, and I had in- 
 ferred from a few disjointed phrases that she Hked the 
 Major and was sorry for him. The captain, however, 
 condemned him roundly, in language impossible to repeat. 
 
 Upon arrival at the hotel at Honolulu something worthy 
 of record transpired. Mrs. MacVickar required four of 
 the very best rooms for herself and children. One of these 
 — only one, as he piteously observed at the time — Jimmy 
 wanted for himself ; but Mrs. Mac. would not let him have 
 it. 
 
 "Can Mabel be selfish?" he asked me earnestly. ''Can 
 a woman with a face like an angel's be selfish? If so, my 
 faith in the sex is shattered. Selfishness," he concluded 
 emphatically, *'is the unpardonable sin." 
 
 We met many very pleasant people in the Islands, and 
 were entertained handsomely. Mrs. Mac. had provided her- 
 self with what she called a "stunning frock or two." It is 
 to be regretted that our San Francisco climate does not lend 
 itself to the wearing of diaphanous apparel. Tulle, baptiste, 
 gauze are positively indecent in connection with fogs, dust, 
 and trade winds. But beneath the Tropic of Cancer — that 
 is another afifair! Now, Jimmy, for a man of brain, set 
 an extravagant value upon chiffons. Exquisite forms of 
 marine algas provoked his ridicule, but a Virot hat stimu- 
 lated all that was best in him; and the sight of Mrs. ^lac, 
 her slender figure and delicate features tenderly outlined 
 against a background of tropical vegetation, stirred his 
 pulses to ecstasy. 
 
 "Gad !" he said to me : "it's an inspiration to look at her — 
 a privilege to see her smile. Men have died for less. She 
 isn't flesh and blood, George. She's a Greek lyric set to 
 Mascagni's music." 
 
 I thought of the Greek lyric's appetite (an amazing 
 one for a lady of her weight), and was stricken dumb. 
 
 245 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 To tell the truth, I was seriously alarmed. In a sense I was 
 responsible for Jimmy. Had I undertaken a task beyond 
 my strength? 
 
 We dined that night at the British consul's, and met there 
 an Englishman, the Honourable Bertie FitzUrse, a superb 
 animal, with Plantagenet blood coursing through his veins, 
 and a four-inch-high collar around his noble throat. This 
 gentleman was immensely struck with Mrs. Mac. During 
 dinner — I remember Jimmy was exceptionally brilliant — he 
 gave his undivided attention to the menu, but on the veran- 
 dah afterwards he had his innings. Somebody mentioned 
 Sandow and feats of strength. The Hon. Bertie opened his 
 mouth and began to talk. Respect for the peerage kept 
 most of us silent, and, besides, we were interested. From 
 words the mighty FitzUrse passed to deeds. He picked up 
 Jimmy with one hand and held him aloft ! Mrs. Mac. 
 gasped, and a peculiar light shone in her velvety eyes ; her 
 perfect lips parted ; her bosom heaved. Then the Briton 
 bared his good right arm and gave us an instructive object- 
 lesson upon the physiology of bodily exercise. We were 
 charmed : Mrs. Mac. most of all. When FitzUrse had fin- 
 ished he modestly withdrew from the centre of our circle; 
 and Mrs. Mac. — who always took the initiative with men — 
 beckoned him to her side. 
 
 Jimmy was cut out! 
 
 *1 shouldn't care a rush," he confessed to me, some forty- 
 eight hours later, ''but this fellow is a clown, a Tony Lump- 
 kin. His brain — d — n him — is in inverse ratio to his muscle. 
 Oh Lord! oh Lord!" 
 
 "Never mind," L replied soothingly: "you can give your- 
 self up completely to the rest cure. The female everywhere 
 introduces the element of strife. Let us eliminate her. Rest 
 for you, with Mrs. Mac. around, is unthinkable." 
 
 "Heaven knows," he moaned, "that the Bolton intellig^ence 
 246 
 
Jimmy's Rest Cure 
 
 is below the average ; but do you suppose Kitty would prefer 
 that muscular monstrosity to me?" 
 
 I assured him gravely that in my opinion Kitty would be 
 loyal to him through thick and thin — even if he lost his 
 nose and bought his cravats ready made. 
 
 Several days passed, and the flirtation between Mrs. Mc- 
 Vlckar and the big Englishman became the talk of the town. 
 Jimmy w^as abjectly miserable, and complained of insomnia. 
 The rest cure, he admitted, was a failure. Finally Fitz- 
 Urse invited Mrs. Mac. and a select party to witness the 
 hida-hida in all its original glory. He took infinite pains to 
 procure the very best dancers, and the performance took 
 place by moonlight in a secluded grove. I am not squeam- 
 ish, but long before the close of this most remarkable enter- 
 tainment Jimmy and I left — disgusted! 
 
 "I can stand a good deal, George," he muttered, "but 
 this is horrible." 
 
 Mrs. Mac, however, sat the dance out, and described it 
 afterwards as a m^ost luminous experience ! Jimmy, meet- 
 ing FitzUrse the next morning, cut him dead in the pres- 
 ence of several persons. The Englishman bit his lip, and 
 steadily confronted him. 
 
 "What is the meaning of this, sir?" he asked savagely. 
 
 *lt means," replied Jimmy, looking him straight in the 
 eye, ''that I decline the honour of your acquaintance. 
 You're a blackguard, sir; a disgrace to your family and 
 your country." 
 
 The Honourable Bertie raised his mighty arm — and let it 
 
 fall. 
 
 'T shall not thrash you," he said huskily, "for obvious 
 reasons; but we are in the Sandwich Islands, and unless 
 you give me satisfaction in the old-fashioned way, I shall 
 pull your nose publicly and post you at the club as a 
 
 coward." 
 
 247 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 "I shall meet you," said Jimmy, smiling, "with infinite 
 pleasure; when and where you please." 
 
 Of course duelling is absurd and indefensible from the 
 American point of view. And yet I took a certain delight 
 in arranging the preliminaries of this now historic combat. 
 I hoped for the best. Jimmy was an excellent shot with a 
 pistol, and the Britisher presented an enormous mark. Nev- 
 ertheless, Jimmy received a bullet in his thigh which nearly 
 severed the femoral artery, and FitzUrse retired from the 
 field of honour without a scratch. Public opinion, however, 
 set dead against him, and he sailed for Tahiti. Mrs. Mac. 
 returned to San Francisco by the next boat. I did not 
 wish her hon voyage. 
 
 So Jimmy and I were left alone in Honolulu, and at one 
 time I feared that he — poor fellow — would remain there for 
 ever. But a capital constitution and a clever surgeon pulled 
 him through the crisis, and, as soon as it was practicable, we 
 moved up to the mountains. There the rest cure proper 
 commenced. 
 
 One lovely night we were sitting side by side, and Jimmy 
 was talking hopefully of a return to California. He had 
 received that morning a letter from his wife, which he read 
 carefully, I noted, and reread. 
 
 ''George," he said seriously, ''these months here must 
 have played the deuce with your business." 
 
 "That's all right, Jimmy : don't mention it. I have pre- 
 pared a capital paper for the Microscopical Society." 
 
 "You are a trump !" he continued. "Tell me : did you 
 come to the Islands with me merely to fuss with a micro- 
 scope ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "You came, then, on my account ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 He pulled nervously at his blonde moustache. 
 248 
 
Jimmy's Rest Cure 
 
 **I came, Jimmy, on Kitty's account. You may as well 
 know that your wife was, once, the one woman in the world 
 for me. I know her possibly better than you do. She is 
 one in ten thousand. She is sound to the core. Patriotic, 
 honest, artless, and true as steel. She and her brother pre- 
 fer to spend their money where it was made — in California. 
 They think, both of them, more of others than of them- 
 selves. This is the woman you have called a fool !" 
 
 I spoke hotly, torn by conflicting emotions. 
 
 "How you despise me !" he murmured hoarsely. "How 
 you must hate me !" 
 
 "Not at all," I replied sharply. "On the contrary, Jimmy, 
 I have a sincere regard for you ; otherwise I should not 
 have spoken to-night. You have made a blunder, an almost 
 unpardonable blunder for a man of your intelligence, but 
 you may live to retrieve it." 
 
 "I can retrieve it," cried Jimmy, "and, by Heaven, I 
 will." 
 
 249 
 
XV 
 
 BEANFEASTERS 
 
 T ONG ago I was seized with a desire to visit Epping 
 -■--' Forest as a beanfeaster. Sally Martin arranged the 
 affair for me. Sally had helped me before. She sold hats 
 in a milliner's shop in the Mile End Road, and my thirst 
 for knowledge in regard to many things connected with 
 hats was slaked by her, although at first she obviously con- 
 sidered my questions indiscreet, if not impudent. How- 
 ever, when she learned that I worked for my living, as she 
 did, and that my business was to ask questions and record 
 the answers, her suspicions melted into sympathy and 
 pity. 
 
 "Yer must 'ear a lot o' lies," she remarked. 
 
 "In my line," said I, "lies fetch as much as — and some- 
 times more than — truth." 
 
 "Yer line?" 
 
 "Penny-a-line, Sally. It comes to more than that now, 
 but the writing of fancy articles is not much better paid 
 than the making of them," and I glanced at the hat in her 
 hand. 
 
 "Lor!" said Sally, with an appreciative grin, "I'd like ter 
 'ear of a tryde that was overpydt, I would." 
 
 Thus our friendship began. 
 
 After that I often dropped in to see Sally. I knew and 
 
 liked the man who owned the shop, and he told me that 
 
 although Sally was a handful, he counted her a good sort, 
 
 and straight. One day, by mere chance, I was able to do 
 
 250 
 
Beanfeasters 
 
 the girl a service, and the gratitude in her nice brown eyes 
 was pleasant to see. Being the kind of young person who 
 fidgets under a sense of obligation, she asked me promptly 
 if there were anything she could do for me. 
 
 ''I want to go to a beanfeast," said I — "a jolly beanfeast, 
 from which your sex, Sally, is not excluded." 
 
 "Gam! You?" 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 Sally reflected, a frown between her eyes. She had the 
 wit to perceive what I wanted, and also the difficulties of 
 the enterprise. Then she smiled, and soon the smile became 
 a grin, and the grin a laugh. 
 
 "It would be a lark," she exclaimed; and I knew that 
 the thing was done. 
 
 I met her that same day at the corner of Brick Lane, 
 after business hours, to clinch the matter. Sally was sim- 
 ply bubbling over with the humour of the adventure. 
 
 "I surpose," said she, rather shyly, "that yer know I've 
 got a young man?" 
 
 "Only one?" said I. 
 
 "One's enough fer me. Too much. I'll give it to yer 
 — stright. 'E's too cock-a-'oop ter please me. And I told 
 'im so, only las' Sunday. Per-raps I spoke shawp-like — 
 anywy, he got short in 'is temper, and I'd like ter teach 
 'im that he ain't the only pebble on the shore. Now, 'im 
 and me was goin' to a beanfeast next Toosday week, and 
 if yer like ter come with me instid of 'im, why, just sy 
 so." 
 
 I foresaw complications, but with Sally's eye on me I 
 was not going to mention them. "I shall be delighted," 
 said I. 
 
 She looked me over carefully. " 'E's an orful jealous 
 chap." 
 
 "I don't blame him, Sally." 
 
 251 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 "But lor! yer know how ter tike care o' yerself, and if 
 the mug should 'it yer, why, 'it 'im back — it'll do 'im good." 
 
 "I shall certainly defend myself," said I. After that we 
 fell to discussion of the details. I was to pass as an Ameri- 
 can, a sort of cousin from California, a role I was well able 
 to assume, having spent many years in the Golden State. 
 I begged Sally not to worry about my appearance, and she 
 told me frankly that she was only worrying about her own. 
 From what she added I inferred that I might expect a 
 toilette quite out of the ordinary. "As fer yer togs," she 
 concluded, "I'd like yer ter do the swell. I sy — what shall 
 I call yer?" 
 
 "All Americans are colonels," said I, remembering Paul 
 Bloiiet's remarks on the subject. "You might call me — 
 Colonel— eh?" 
 
 "Yus — that's prime. Lor ! yer'll be a credit to me. Kur- 
 nel! Oh, I sy! James Parker'll 'ave a fit. Yus: Kur- 
 nel " 
 
 "Colonel Washington Bludyer." 
 
 "Wash — fer short, comin' 'ome, when yer arm " she 
 
 stopped short. 
 
 "Is where it ought to be," I observed carelessly. Sally 
 laughed so immoderately that a bobby eyed us suspiciously. 
 
 "From Cuba," said I. "Colonel Washington Bludyer 
 from Cuba and California, visiting his mother's relations in 
 the old country." 
 
 "Wot a gyme!" said Sally. 
 
 When the Tuesday came, I arrayed myself in black, which 
 in East End circles always bespeaks the man of substance. 
 I was careful to wear a diamond collar stud, and a white 
 satin tie carefully pulled down so as to Swow the stud. A 
 large diamond ring, a splendid gold chain, and a big wide- 
 awake hat completed a costume which — I flattered myself 
 — would challenge attention and admiration. The ring and 
 252 
 
Beanfeasters 
 
 the stud were wonderful value for the money I paid for 
 them: three and ninepence half-penny at a shop near Lud- 
 gate Circus. Sally was waiting for me about a quarter of 
 a mile from the tavern from which our brake was to 
 start, and when she saw me her eyes sparkled, with appre- 
 ciation. She herself was dressed entirely in white — white 
 "Gainsborough" hat, white shoes, white belt, white thread 
 gloves, and a white parasol. I had a nosegay of flowers 
 for her, which I pinned into her belt. In doing so, Sally 
 caught sight of the splendid gem upon my little finger. 
 
 "Is that reel?" 
 
 *'Sally, this is the best that can be bought — for the money. 
 Have you seen Mr. James Parker ?" 
 
 "Yus — ^Jymes is coming. And 'e's got comp'ny too. A 
 young lidy from Poplar. He interdooced me to 'er, just 
 now. I tole 'im I'd return the compliment, and when he 
 arst oo was comin' with me, I sez 'the curick.' I wouldn't 
 miss 'is fyce for anythink when I say yer nyme: Colonel 
 Washington Bludyer." 
 
 "Wash.," said I, "when " 
 
 "Yus;Iknow." 
 
 We walked on in silence, attracting much attention — 
 and some chaflP — from the foot-passengers. Sally, I noted, 
 was smiling, but pensive. 
 
 Presently she said softly : "Jymes thinks 'e knows every- 
 think — so — if you know somethink 'e don't know — why, let 
 'im 'ave it." 
 
 At the tavern we found the company assembled and wait- 
 ing for us — the last to arrive. This being a subscription 
 affair, and not the ordinary beanfeast, introductions were 
 necessary and in order. Sally presented Mr. James Parker, 
 a good-looking young fellow with heavy jaws and shoulders, 
 who eyed me with suspicion tempered by surprise. 
 
 253 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 "Never knowed you 'ad American relations," he observed. 
 ''Kurnel— eh?" 
 
 "Just back from the wars," said Sally. 
 
 Mr. Parker sniffed incredulously, and begged to intro- 
 duce Miss Amelia Huggins, in a brand-new shepherd's plaid 
 costume, crowned with a stunning red velvet toque. She 
 was not nearly so pretty as Sally, and seemed to be much 
 in awe of Mr. Parker. After many "after you, sir's," and 
 "now then, miss," we packed ourselves into the brake and 
 drove gaily off. 
 
 Sally sat next to me, and on the other side, but lower 
 down, was Mr. Parker and Miss Huggins. At first the 
 company politely confined itself to banalities. The fact 
 that we had only two horses instead of four obscured for 
 a season the prospect of a delightful day ; but at The Ram, 
 where we descended, and where Hquid refreshment was of- 
 fered to, and accepted by, the ladies, the talk began to 
 bubble into personalities. I said little (somewhat to Sally's 
 annoyance). Mr. Parker, however, talked at score and with 
 ease upon all subjects within (and without) his ken. He 
 displayed carefully cultivated gifts of repartee, exchanging 
 pleasantries with the ladies of the party, and inciting to 
 wrath and abuse the drivers of vehicles and riders of bi- 
 cycles whom we encountered upon the road. Miss Huggins 
 sat beside him, sweetly appreciative and quivering with gig- 
 gles. Finally, encouraged by my silence (as I had hoped 
 he would be), Mr. Parker began to single me out for more 
 particular attention. It was "Kurnel" here, and "Kumel" 
 there, till Miss Huggins became hysterical, and Sally was 
 biting her pretty lips with annoyance. I bided my time, 
 replying in monosyllables to Mr. Parker's facetious ques- 
 tions. 
 
 "I suppose, Kurnel, yerVe killed yer man— eh?" 
 "Yes." 
 254 
 
Beanfeasters 
 
 "Reely! Now, Kurnel, to oblige the lidies, won't yer 
 tell us all abaht it. 'Ow did yer do it? Sword, dagger, 
 pistol, rifle — catterpult?" 
 
 I shook my head mournfully. 
 
 ''Come, Kurnel, the lidies is wyting. Did yer sly 'im with 
 yer humberella ?" 
 
 I caught the eyes of the fair, and answered in a Mark 
 Twain drawl, "I talked him to death." 
 
 Mr. Parker perceptibly winced, and the colour flowed 
 back into Sally's cheeks. 
 
 *'Did yer? I am surprised." 
 
 "Since that day," I continued, 'Tve been scared of shoot- 
 ing off — my mouth. How many men, or women, have you 
 killed, Mr.— er— Barker?" 
 
 *'My nyme is Parker." 
 
 "A relation of the famous preacher? He was a talker — 
 too/* Mr. Parker shuffled his foot and glared at Sally. 
 
 "Don't mike luvin' eyes at me, Jymes," said that young 
 lady. "Ain't yer goin' ter answer Cousin Washington's 
 question? 'Ow many men and women 'ave yer torked ter 
 death?" 
 
 "I ain't killed a man — yet," said Mr. Parker darkly, re- 
 lapsing into moody silence, which was not broken till we 
 pledged each other health and happiness and "another five 
 bob a week" at the next stopping-place, in Walthamstow. 
 After Walthamstow we began to catch glimpses of the 
 country. Some fine elms bordered the road, and beyond 
 these were green fields wherein sleek cows comfortably 
 grazed. The houses too seemed less grimy. Pink bricks, 
 white stone facings, lavender-coloured tiles challenged the 
 admiration of the beanfeasters. 
 
 "Lor !" exclaimed Sally. " 'Ow I should like ter five in 
 one o' them cottages, with the right person," she added, cast- 
 ing a coquettish glance at me. 
 
 255 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 "Oh, yus," sighed little Miss Huggins. "It would be 
 'evving." 
 
 "It might be 'ell for the wrong person," said Mr. Parker, 
 doubling an enormous fist. 
 
 "Jymes !" observed Sally severely. 
 
 "I don't pick my words," said Mr. Parker. 
 
 "Pick 'em? I shouldn't think yer did. I 'ope, Cousin 
 Washington '11 excuse yer ignerunce, Jymes. I told 'im yer 
 bark was wuss than yer bite — and mentioning bites, I'm 
 getting peckish. Oo ordered dinner?" 
 
 A cheery little man, who carried a comet, replied prompt- 
 ly, "I ordered a cold cullation." 
 
 Then he mentioned beef, ham, chicken, and tartlets, con- 
 cluding with a suggestion : "We shall 'ave time f er a mouch 
 round in the forest before " 
 
 "And after," said Sally, nudging me. 
 
 Everybody smiled in joyful anticipation, except Mr. 
 Parker. 
 
 "Yer don't look yerself, Jymes," pursued the relentless 
 Sally. "Per-raps that lawst 'awf-an'-'awf was too much fer 
 yer. Yer ain't accustomed ter liquor — are yer?" 
 
 To this quip Mr. Parker vouchsafed no reply, but began 
 to pay belated attention to Miss Huggins, insisting upon 
 holding her hand, because — he said — the forest was full of 
 wild beasts. Miss Huggins murmured that she feared noth- 
 ing in Mr. Parker's company, and thereupon blushed so 
 prettily that Sally was moved to remark that there were 
 beasts and beasts, and that the most to be feared were two- 
 legged ones. Upon this Mr. Parker redoubled his kind at- 
 tentions. 
 
 By this time we had reached our destination, a tavern in 
 the heart of the forest ; and finding that the cold collation 
 would not be ready for three-quarters of an hour, the cor- 
 net-player's suggestion of a "mouch" round the forest met 
 256 
 
Beanfeasters 
 
 with general approval. Mr. Parker and his Amelia were 
 amongst the first to disappear, and Sally's eyes were spar- 
 kling when she proposed that we should "mouch" in the 
 opposite direction. So we set forth nimbly, but our pace 
 slackened as we walked; and presently, finding a mossy 
 bank and a sheltering oak, Sally sat down and (reading 
 sympathy in ray face) burst into tears. 
 
 ''I 'ate 'im! / 'ate 'im! I ate 'im !" she exclaimed. 
 
 "But he loves you," I ventured to remark. 
 
 **Yer reely think so ! No kid ?" 
 
 "I am absolutely convinced of it." 
 
 " 'E ought ter be ashymed of 'isself ter treat a lidy the 
 wy 'e's treating " 
 
 ''Miss Huggins?" I remarked. 
 
 "Oh, 'er? I wasn't thinkin' of 'er." 
 
 "I am very sorry for Miss Huggins," said I. '*Your 
 friend, Mr. Parker, is raising hopes which " 
 
 "Wot is 'e doin'^ I'd like ter know?" 
 
 "She's very pretty, Sally." 
 
 "She ain't. A silly slink — she is : a giggley thing out of 
 a sweet-factory !" 
 
 "Play the game, Sally, and dry your eyes. If James 
 Parker saw you now " 
 
 Sally dabbed at her eyes with a wonderful lace handker- 
 chief ; then she began to laugh, and I laughed with her. 
 
 "I'm the silly," she confessed, as we wended our steps 
 towards the tavern; "but 'e needn't 'ave squeezed 'er 'and 
 so 'ard, need 'e?" 
 
 I said that excuses might be found for Mr. Parker, and 
 that such engineers as he might be hoist with their own 
 petard. Sally took the hint. During the dinner which 
 followed I found myself actually blushing beneath the ar- 
 dent glances of my companion; we drank beer out of the 
 same glass (for luck — so said Sally) ; we shared our salad; 
 
 ^S7 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 we pulled a merry-thought ; we whispered together and 
 laughed. It was not wise, but who is wise — at a bean- 
 feast? Mr. Parker scowled at me, but I smiled sweetly in 
 return, and Amelia Huggins consoled herself with the 
 tartlets. 
 
 "I'm just dyin' ter get back into the forest," said naughty 
 Sally. "It's too 'evvingly there — ain't it, Cousin Washing- 
 ton?" 
 
 "Carding of Heden — snike and all," sneered Mr. Parker. 
 
 The company perceived that Mr. Parker was not happy, 
 but an abundance of food and drink made the fact of no 
 consequence. When the cornet-player gave us the Absent- 
 minded Beggar^ with variations, everybody — except Mr. 
 Parker — broke into song, and the ''cullation" was pro- 
 nounced a tearing success. 
 
 "Lost yer voice, Jymes?" demanded Sally, across the nar- 
 row table. 
 
 "I know wot I've lost, and I sez a good riddance." 
 
 "If you and Miss 'Uggins lost it in the forest, per-raps 
 yer'd better go back and look fer it." 
 
 I feared that Sally was about to betray herself; but for- 
 tunately Mr. Parker was in no mood for subtlety of anal- 
 ysis. Indeed, he refused to budge from the tavern, and 
 accepted with alacrity a challenge to a game of quoits. Miss 
 Huggins sat down, very disconsolate, to watch the game. 
 Sally and I wandered away — arm-in-arm. 
 
 "Lor !" she murmured, when we were out of earshot, but 
 not out of sight: "wot a gyme this is — Wash!" 
 
 I slipped my arm round her waist, and the "Cainsbor- 
 ough" hat dropped over my shoulder. Whatever qualms 
 I may have had vanished when I reflected that Mr. Parker's 
 case called for drastic treatment. We wandered on very 
 slowly, and then Sally, who had peeped back, whispered: 
 "Oh my ! Jymes is f ollerin' us." 
 258 
 
Beanfeasters 
 
 I did not remove my arm from Sally's trim waist, and 
 the big white feather continued to tickle my left ear. Some 
 two hundred yards farther on we were overtaken by Mr. 
 Parker. Sally's surprise at seeing him was incomparable. 
 
 "You, Jymes?" 
 
 "Yus — me. I wish ter speak private with this — this — 
 gen'leman." 
 
 ''Sally/' said I, ''will you be good enough to return to 
 Miss Huggins: I'm sure she's feeling lonesome." 
 
 Sally eyed us nervously. I confess that the fire in ^Ir. 
 Parker's eye was not likely to cool her apprehensions — or 
 mine. However, at a nod from me, she slowly moved 
 away. 
 
 "I don't allow no liberties ter be tiken with that young 
 lidy," observed ^Ir. Parker. '1 suppose that's pline — as 
 pline," he added insultingly, "as yer hugly fyce." 
 
 I began to remove my coat. 
 
 " 'Old 'ard." said Mr. Parker : "we'll find a more sercluded 
 spawt, wheer we can 'ave the fun to ourselves." 
 
 "Fun? Do you call it fun to have your head punched?" 
 
 "It'll be fun punching yours, Kurnel. I dessay it won't 
 be an easy job, but I mean ter do it." 
 
 Accordingly we sought and found a sequestered glade, 
 where — save for the soot upon the ancient trunks of the 
 beeches — we might have believed ourselves to be in the. 
 heart of a virgin forest. Here we stripped and fought. Pro- 
 test, I had perceived, would be wasted and misapprehended. 
 Indeed, from the first, I was sensible that the matter was 
 serious. I had no wish to hurt Mr. Parker, but he had the 
 most strenuous determination to hurt me ; and because of 
 this, although I had the advantage in height, skill, and even 
 strength, it seemed probable that if I continued to act on 
 the defensive a mistake on my part would end in my igno- 
 minious defeat. His rushes became wilder and fiercer as the 
 
 259 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 seconds passed. Twice he almost had me ; the third time I 
 countered him full on the point of the jaw, and he went 
 back and down as if he had been shot by a Dum-dum bul- 
 let. While I eyed him somewhat sheepishly, I heard a 
 rustle of skirts, and a woman's scream. 
 
 "You b-b-b-rute !" said Sally, falling on her knees beside 
 the unconscious Parker. 
 
 Then she bent down and kissed him. I saw the flicker of 
 Parker's eyelids, and withdrew quickly, snatching my coat 
 and waistcoat from the ground. From behind the trunk 
 of one of the beeches, I looked back. Sally was sitting 
 on the ground, and Mr. Parker's head was in her lap! 
 
 Halfway to the tavern I met Miss Huggins. She glanced 
 curiously from my face to my hand. 
 
 *'Yer 'and is bleeding," said she. 
 
 *'A bleeding hand is nothing," said I, "but a bleeding heart. 
 Miss Huggins " 
 
 She laughed scornfully. 'T guessed 'ow it was," she ob- 
 served ; "and I don't keer fer Mr. Jymes Parker. I like you 
 much better," she continued frankly. " 'E torks too much, 
 'e does. I despise a torker." 
 
 There was only the obvious thing to say. "Miss Hug- 
 gins," I murmured, "if silence pleases you, let us take a 
 little walk together — before tea." 
 
 260 
 
XVI 
 
 THE GRAND SLAM 
 
 JOCK FFRENCH was the only child of an Irish father 
 and a Scotch mother. The father, Rory Ff rench — every- 
 body called him Rory — broke his neck in a steeplechase 
 when Jock was seven years old; and after this sad event 
 Mrs. Ffrench left Ireland and settled in Edinburgh amongst 
 her own kinsfolk. These good people declared that Jock 
 was Scotch through and through: an assumption fortified 
 by freckles, high cheek-bones, hair the colour of Dundee 
 marmalade, and a canniness beyond his years. But the 
 laddie's eyes were undeniably Irish — an impudent blue en- 
 circled by short thick black lashes : the devil-may-care, leap- 
 before-you-look article, as much out of place in a north-of- 
 Tweed countenance as a Kilkenny cat at a curling match. 
 
 After leaving Cambridge, where he distinguished him- 
 self in the Natural Science Schools, Jock entered a London 
 firm of Scotch merchants as clerk. The work in and about 
 Mincing Lane was not to his taste, but he stuck to it dog- 
 gedly. For the rest he played golf and cards, and read 
 every line written on the two subjects which most inter- 
 ested him — bridge, and hematite ores. 
 
 When Jock was thirty years old he met the Skibbereens. 
 Lord Skib had parted with everything he possessed except 
 a rich brogue and a half-interest in as handsome a daughter 
 as ever came out of Kildare. On Diana's account the Skib- 
 
 261 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 bereens moved to London, where Lady Skib, who had a 
 little money of her own, took a small house in Chester 
 Square for the season. Lord Skib happened to be a second 
 cousin of the late Rory Ffrench, and he sought out Jock 
 at, Lady Skib's request, because Amy Bagot, her ladyship's 
 great friend, had said that dear Mr. Ffrench was worth his 
 half-million. As a matter of fact, Jock had saved about 
 two thousand pounds, and was earning only five hundred a 
 year; the John French, also of Mincing Lane, whom Mrs. 
 Bagot knew, spelt his name with one "f." Jock was asked 
 to dine en famille. 
 
 "Your poor father," said his host, ''was a square peg in 
 a round hole with no bottom to it. Ye take me? He lost 
 life and fortune where I lost mine — at Punchestown. It's 
 no bull I'm making, me boy. Faith ! when a man loses his 
 money, he's in a hole which it's no stretch of the imagination 
 to call a grave. He's dead. By the same token, they tell 
 me you're very much alive." 
 
 This allusion to the wealth that was not his puzzled Jock. 
 
 After dinner bridge was played. During the second rub- 
 ber Jock revoked for the first time in his life. He had just 
 come to the conclusion that Diana was the most delightful 
 girl he had ever met. When he returned to his modest 
 chambers he told his man to bring him Burns. 
 /'Burns, sir?" 
 
 "Yes— Burns." 
 
 The man brought him three books, with a deprecating 
 expression. "Here's Foster, sir, and Doe, and Dalton ; but 
 I can't find Burns. Is it just out, sir?" 
 
 "You're a perfect fool. I want Burns: Robert Burns, 
 the poet. He lives on — yes — on the top shelf of the big 
 bookcase, in three volumes bound in pale green cloth." 
 
 "Shall I bring all three, sir?" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 262 
 
The Grand Slam 
 II 
 
 After Ascot Lady Skib told her husband and Diana that 
 Jock Ffrench was an impostor. Jock had been in and out 
 of the house in Chester Square a score of times at least. 
 
 ''An impostor," repeated Lord Skib. 'Taith, and he is 
 that! He ought to be half Irish, but he's all Scotch. I 
 asked him for a timporary loan of a thousand, and he re- 
 fused me — I give ye my word." 
 
 "An impostor !" exclaimed Diana. 
 
 "He's a poor man," said Lady Skib viciously. 
 
 "Oh— poor Jock !" 
 
 "You call him Jock, Diana?" 
 
 "It would be impossible to call him John. Has he lost 
 his half-million?" 
 
 "He never had it. He's a clerk— a pauper." 
 
 "^^^^y, he gave me ten pounds yesterday." 
 
 "What are you saying?" 
 
 "For our bazaar." She laughed pleasantly. "He must 
 be a good sort of — impostor. And I hardly thanked him. 
 I'm not sure that I didn't accuse him of being rather stingy. 
 Pook Jock !" 
 
 She rose from the breakfast-table, and moved slowly 
 
 away. 
 
 Lady Skib looked at her lord. "Why did you ask that 
 young man to my house, Terence?" 
 
 "You asked me to ask him, Amalia." 
 
 *'l hope no mischief has been done. But I fear that Diana 
 is interested in this very commonplace cousin of yours." 
 
 "She's interested in no man — yet. She's me own daugh- 
 ter, the sweet modest creature." 
 
 "I can't afford to take a house in London next season," 
 said Lady Skib tartly, 
 
 "Rest easy, Amalia. The child '11 marry before ye can 
 
 263 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 wink your eye. And she'll pick a winner too. Jock Ff rench 
 is too canny for the darlin'. Faith, it comes out in his 
 bridge. Di was furious with him last night. He declared 
 spades, holding a Yarborough, and Di, his partner, held 
 the prettiest no-trumper I ever saw. Jock made it plain 
 afterwards that they'd have lost the odd thrick, but she 
 told him to his freckled face that he'd no dash. And divil a 
 bit o' dash has he. Now, Pyndrem has dash, if you like. 
 And Pyndrem's the boy I'm backing." 
 
 Sir Titus Pyndrem, the millionaire ironmaster, had shown 
 Diana much attention in the enclosure at Ascot and else- 
 where. It was said of him that he had accumulated a large 
 fortune by using other folks' brains, which plainly proves 
 that he had plenty of his own. 
 
 Lady Skib's handsome face brightened. "Your boy is 
 past forty," she murmured; "but I'm told that he always 
 gets what he wants. Certainly he wants Diana. And he 
 has good looks and good manners. A propos, we dine with 
 him to-night at Claridge's." 
 
 "And I'll drink his health, Amalia, in his own wine. Long 
 life to him — and to our blessed chyild !" 
 
 The Skibbereens dined with Sir Titus, went on with him 
 to the opera, and thence to a ball in Park Lane, where Diana 
 found Jock awaiting her. She saw that he was nervous and 
 excited. Presently, when they were alone, she asked if any- 
 thing had happened. 
 
 "Well," he said slowly, "I've something on my mind, 
 something of tremendous importance to — me. Something 
 which has kept me awake ever since I met you." 
 
 "Oh !" 
 
 "And now I must m-m-make a declaration. The — what 
 do you call it? — the psychological moment — has come." 
 
 "Has it?" Diana played nervously with her fan. 
 264 
 
The Grand Slam 
 
 "Yes. It's not easy to make this — er — declaration, you 
 understand, because — because " 
 
 "Because you're poor," whispered Diana. 
 
 "That's it. I've saved a couple of thou., and I'm mak- 
 ing five hundred a year. And, if I stick to my last, I 
 may be offered, some day, a junior partnership. Now then, 
 between ourselves, I loathe the business. I've plodded on 
 and on, like a slave ; but I wanted to be a chemist." 
 
 "A chemist ! Good gracious !" 
 
 "An experimental chemist. For years, you know, on the 
 quiet I've been giving my undivided attention to hematite 
 
 ores." 
 
 "To Emma — who?" 
 
 "Hematite ores : anhydrous iron sesquioxide, the most 
 valuable of all the iron ores, and the most refractory. Then, 
 about a month ago" — Diana smiled : she had met Jock for 
 the first time just one month ago — "on the 14th of May -" 
 
 "The 15th, Jock." 
 
 "I think it was the 14th — no matter! On or about that 
 date I was struck all of a heap, as you might say." 
 
 "Certainly I should not use such a vulgar expression." 
 
 "It came like a bolt from the blue. I'm thirty, Diana : no 
 chicken — eh ? And suddenly I found what I'd been looking 
 for for years." • 
 
 "Ye— es." 
 
 "I wasn't certain at first that I had found it." 
 
 "That is the Scotch in you." 
 
 "Perhaps. Anyway, I know now. And that brings me 
 to the point where I started : my declaration, on which de- 
 pends my whole future. Am 1 to stake everything or not? 
 Shall I go no trumps — or spades?" 
 
 "No trumps, if — if " 
 
 "I know what you would say. No trumps, if I am rea- 
 sonably sure of my cards. Diana — I am cocksure." 
 
 265 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 ''Oh! you are, are you?" She blushed furiously, but 
 Jock was staring at the pattern of the carpet. 
 
 '*Yes," he answered. ''Years ago, I remember attending 
 a lecture given by Professor Sandeman. He concluded with 
 these words: 'The man who will discover a cheap process 
 for reducing hematite ores will prove a benefactor of man- 
 kind and make an immense fortune !' Those words have 
 buzzed in my head ever since. And I tell you, only you, 
 that I'm cocksure I've got it." 
 
 "Got what?" 
 
 "I've discovered this process. I took out a provisional 
 patent to-day." 
 
 Diana was no longer red, but white. So this, this was 
 what had kept him awake at night ! With an effort she ac- 
 claimed the wonderful discovery: "Oh, Jock, how clever 
 of you !" 
 
 "It was luck, Diana. Now you see where I am. I be- 
 lieve in my process so firmly that I'm tempted to chuck 
 Mincing Lane and to use my time and money — it will take 
 both — to make the necessary models." 
 
 "But some one else with money could be persuaded to 
 do that?" 
 
 "I've no sort of pull. The thing is on paper. I don't 
 know a soul to whom I'd dare trust my drawings. I tell 
 you it's no trumps or spades ; freedom, and all that makes 
 life worth living — or slavery." 
 
 He looked at her ardently, but she could not interpret his 
 thoughts. Did the future, the golden future, include her?" 
 
 '*Jock," she said earnestly, "don't chuck the office — yet! 
 Trust me with your drawings !" 
 
 "You, Diana?" 
 
 "I shall ask Sir Titus Pyndrem — he's an iron-master, and 
 a great friend of ours — to look them over." 
 
 "Pyndrem ! The king-pin ! Diana, this is an inspiration 
 266 
 
The Grand Slam 
 
 of yours. Pyndrem! What a head you've got! Why, if 
 he says the thing'll go, go it will, like a toboggan down an 
 ice-run. Trust my drawings to you? Rather! Why, 
 
 Diana " 
 
 "I believe this is our dance, Miss vSkibbereen ?" 
 They looked up: Sir Titus, tall, bland, imposing, was, 
 standing in front of them, smoothing his carefully trained 
 moustache. Beneath it, a keen eye might have marked his 
 lips, cleanly cut, but thin, pressed together in a faintly de- 
 risive smile. A vertical wrinkle lay between his handsome 
 brows. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Exactly what Diana said to Sir Titus must be conjec- 
 tured, but it is certain she said too much. The ironmaster 
 was a man of intuitions, an interpreter of the unspoken 
 word, a reader of character: too shrewd not to perceive 
 that the passion the Irish beauty inspired in him had en- 
 gendered in her nothing more ardent than admiration, re- 
 spect, and — shall it be added ? — fear : the fear which power 
 always inspires, the fear strangely compounded of attrac- 
 tion and repulsion, the fear so easily transformed into fasci- 
 nation. 
 
 Sir Titus promised to look over Jock's drawings and spec- 
 ifications, but his manner subtly conveyed to Diana the 
 impression that valuable time would be wasted — a matter of 
 no consequence where she was concerned. Never had she 
 liked him so well as when he said suavely : *T've made it a 
 rule to pass this sort of thing on to my subordinates, but 
 your cousin's drawings shall have my careful consideration. 
 I hope I shall be able to report favourably on them." 
 
 A large roll of papers and a long letter reached him next 
 day. He glanced at them at once, for he knew that he 
 
 267 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 would meet Diana at Ranelagh the same afternoon. It hap- 
 pened that other matters, very important matters, were 
 clamouring for attention ; and Jock's calculations and draw- 
 ings, when spread out, covered about fifteen square yards ! 
 When he met Diana, Sir Titus said regretfully : "I wish I 
 had good news for you, but your cousin's process is, I fear, 
 impracticable." 
 
 **Oh, oh ! He will be terribly cut up. He has put heart 
 and soul into it." 
 
 "No doubt. It is very sad. I am quite sure, reading be- 
 tween the Hnes of the letter he wrote to me, that he thinks 
 of nothing else." 
 
 Diana blushed and bit her pretty lip. 
 
 Sir Titus continued : 'T am not infallible. I shall have 
 pleasure in submitting these papers to an expert." 
 
 "Thank you, thank you," said Diana absently. "You have 
 been very kind, Sir Titus — very kind indeed. But surely 
 your opinion is final — I mean that it might be kinder to 
 tell my cousin the brutal truth. Then, then, you know, he 
 might — er — turn his attention to something else." 
 
 Sir Titus smiled, but the tiny wrinkle between his' eyes 
 showed itself for a minute. When he spoke again, his fine 
 brow was quite smooth. 
 
 "Will you trust me, my dear Miss Skibbereen? Believe 
 me, I feel for your cousin very deeply. I cannot doubt that 
 he has been wasting his time. I receive about twenty tons 
 of drawings a year from poor men who have discovered 
 nothing more or less than mares' nests." 
 
 "I shall tell Jock that." 
 
 "Tell him nothing ! Leave the matter in my hands ! For 
 his sake — you say he is poor — no, no : I must be frank with 
 you — for your sake I'll give the matter a second thought. 
 Not a word, I beg, not a word ! I am delighted to serve 
 you." 
 
 268 
 
The Grand Slam 
 
 Diana smiled graciously and allowed him to press her 
 hand. 
 
 Within the week Sir Titus wrote to Jock, offering him 
 five hundred pounds for his "process." He knew that Jock 
 would tell his cousin of the offer, and that she would put 
 the construction he wished on it. 
 
 Jock did tell his cousin. The poor fellow — had Sir Titus 
 foreseen this also? — was furious. 
 
 "He offers me five hundred — the leech! And if the 
 thing's worth a penny it's worth half a million. Five hun- 
 dred ! Great Scott !" 
 
 "You do Sir Titus a grave injustice," said Diana warmly. 
 "He has behaved with extraordinary dehcacy." 
 
 "He's putting on the screw: if ever I get a turn at 
 him " 
 
 "Sir Titus is my friend," said Diana coldly. 
 
 Jock went away very sorrowful. He was certain that 
 Diana meant to marry Sir Titus, and the hideous thought 
 oppressed him that Sir Titus might have offered the cheque 
 out of charity. "What's a monkey to him?" he reflected. 
 "He's cages full of 'em, confound him!" None the less, 
 he answered Sir Titus's letter by asking for an interview, 
 which was granted. 
 
 Sir Titus was at his country place, Pyndrem Park, and 
 thither Jock betook himself in the afternoon of the next 
 Saturday. He had to walk from the station, a dusty journey 
 of two miles and a half, and Sir Titus kept him waiting in 
 the library for three-quarters of an hour. When he came 
 in, tall, cool, dignified, Jock read pity on every fine of his 
 face. 
 
 "Am I to write a cheque?" asked the ironmaster. 
 
 "No," said Jock. "My process is either worthless or very 
 yaluable. Sir Titus, I feel from the bottom of my soul that 
 
 269 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 I have dropped on to something which will turn the iron 
 trade upside down." 
 
 Sir Titus shrugged his shapely shoulders. Perhaps he 
 had heard the words before. 
 
 "You are a rich man," said Jock desperately ; "and a thou- 
 sand more or less is nothing to you. Let me offer you a 
 half-interest in this thing. You will have to build the 
 models, and so forth — finance it, in short, through the ex- 
 perimental stage. At the outside this ought not to cost 
 more than two thousand. What do you say?" 
 
 "With infinite regret, my dear Ff rench, I must say — No." 
 
 "Why did you offer me five hundred, then?" 
 
 Again Sir Titus shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "I had reasons: they ought to be sufficiently obvious to 
 the cousin of Miss Skibbereen." 
 
 "Give me my papers," said Jock, "and let me say thank 
 you and good-bye. Miss Skibbereen's cousin can worry 
 along without pity or charity." 
 
 "Your drawings? Certainly. They shall be sent to your 
 chambers, when I get them. I have — er — submitted them 
 to an expert. Good-bye." 
 
 Jock returned to town humble as Uriah Heep; and his 
 humility kept him out of Chester Square. Six miserable 
 weeks passed. Then he received his drawings without a 
 word of apology for keeping them, and without the ex- 
 pert's written report, which possibly Sir Titus had withheld. 
 Coincident with this, Jock read in his paper the announce- 
 ment of an engagement between the Honourable Diana 
 Skibbereen and Sir Titus Pyndrem, Bart. 
 
 The double event made a full-blooded Irishman of him. 
 He looked over his drawings, and it seemed to him that they 
 had hardly been touched. That was odd, because experts in 
 such matters as hematite ores have not the cleanest fingers 
 in the world ! Just then he conceived the happy idea of 
 270 
 
The Grand Slam 
 
 consulting the great chemist, Professor Sandeman, whose 
 lecture, years before, had inspired him. He asked for an 
 appointment, which was duly made and kept. 
 
 "I can give you five minutes," said the illustrious investi- 
 gator. 
 
 Jock reminded him of the concluding words of his lecture. 
 
 *'And you've got it — hey?" 
 
 "I believe so. The essential principle is this, sir " He 
 
 smoothed out a drawing and began to talk. The Professor 
 listened, poring over the drawings, nodding his massive 
 head, growling inarticulate sounds. Presently he com- 
 manded silence. Jock watched him as he tore the heart out 
 of the elaborate calculations. Obviously the great man was 
 interested, excited. Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed. 
 
 "Bless my soul! I believe you have got it. Now, look 
 here, my boy, Pyndrem ought to see these," — he tapped the 
 drawings. 
 
 *'He has §een them. He offers — five hundred pounds." 
 
 "Five hundred pounds ! These ironmasters are made of 
 — brass. Five hundred pounds !'' He scratched his chin, 
 screwing up one eye in comical perplexity. "My boy, FU 
 be frank with you. I haven't a penny. Still, I know the 
 fellows with the shekels. But you don't want Tom and 
 Dick poking their beaks into this — do you ? And your pro- 
 visional patent will expire soon. Why did Pyndrem keep 
 your drawings so long?" 
 
 "I think I can guess why," said Jock, clenching his fist. 
 
 The Professor nodded absently, and continued, "I could 
 sell these drawings for more than five hundred, but you 
 know how it is — a pig in a poke — hey? And if you find a 
 financier he'll gobble the profits. They always do," said 
 the great man ruefully. "That's why F'm a pauper." 
 
 "I have two thousand pounds," said Jock solemnly. 
 
 "To risk?" 
 
 271 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 "Fm risking more than that." Jock explained the position 
 in Mincing Lane. 
 
 "Phew-w-w !" exclaimed the Professor. " Ton my soul, 
 I can't advise you, my boy. This sort of thing is heart- 
 breaking. The best-laid plans of inventors gang agley. The 
 sulphur in those confounded ores might play havoc with 
 your models, and then — what then? No, no, you mustn't 
 abandon substance for shadow. Sell these outright. I'll 
 take it upon myself to advise Pyndrem to offer you five 
 thousand for them." 
 
 'T'd sooner give them to you, sir." 
 
 "Oh— ho !" 
 
 Jock blushed to the roots of his marmalade-coloured hair, 
 for the great man had — winked. Certainly his eyes were 
 diabolically keen: they could see to the bottom of vessels 
 other than test-tubes and crucibles. 
 
 "If you'll steer me, sir, I'll risk my two thousand." 
 
 "My boy, your name is Ffrench, so, of course, you're 
 Irish." 
 
 "Half Scotch," said Jock. 
 
 "The Scotch is on the surface," said the other, staring 
 at the freckles. "Well, I can steer you, and I will steer you, 
 because I like you and admire your pluck. Dine with me 
 to-night Good gracious ! is that confounded clock striking 
 four? Right-about-face, sir! March!" 
 
 IV 
 
 Models, whether animate or inanimate, take time in the 
 making. Nearly three months passed before Jock and the 
 Professor were able to put anticipation to the proof. Finally 
 the day came, the wonderful day, the day of days when 
 they knew that time and labour had not been wasted, that 
 272 
 
The Grand Slam 
 
 the new process was infinitely better than the old, that it 
 must be adopted by every ironmaster in the wide world. 
 
 Meantime patents had been applied for in the United 
 States and foreign countries. The Professor steered his 
 young friend through the snags and shoals which have 
 wrecked so many inventors with the skill and patience of a 
 Mississippi pilot. 
 
 Then a company was formed ; and Jock, as managing di- 
 rector, wrote letters to every ironmaster in the United King- 
 dom, asking each to attend a private lecture. One man only, 
 Sir Titus Pyndrem, received no invitation. 
 
 All the big men came, hard-featured, keen-eyed, massive 
 fellows, with uneasiness writ plain upon their shrewd faces. 
 Jock recited the facts. Outside, in a shed, were the models. 
 When he had finished his speech, Jock led the way into the 
 sheds. 
 
 "These," said he, "talk more convincingly than I can." 
 
 The furnaces were red-hot ; so were the faces of the iron- 
 masters, as they stood silent and dismayed, their eyes bulg- 
 ing out of their heads with amazement. Jock smiled 
 blandly. 
 
 'Tt's an extraordinary thing— isn't it?— that you, gentle- 
 men, never discovered this." 
 
 Several men, who had paid large bills for new machinery, 
 wiped their foreheads. These asked the most questions. 
 When they returned to the house, Jock offered his guests 
 refreshments : tea, or whisky, if they preferred it. All of 
 them, with the exception of a total abstainer from South 
 Wales, preferred whisky. The total abstainer drank five 
 cups of tea ! 
 
 A group of four men, the biggest in the trade, approached 
 Jock. "What are your terms?" they asked. The others in 
 the room stopped talking. 
 
 "Our terms," said Jock, "for the privilege of using the 
 
 273 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 Ffrench process are ten thousand pounds down, and a roy- 
 alty of 15 per cent, upon the net profits." 
 
 The crowd groaned. 
 
 ''Your terms are outrageous, sir," said a well-known peer. 
 
 Jock smiled. "Sir Titus Pyndrem," said he, "offered five 
 hundred pounds for all rights, English and foreign, in my 
 process. Opinions may differ upon what is or is not — out- 
 rageous. The Board, gentlemen, is ready to receive your ap- 
 plications. I may say, between ourselves, that Messrs. Slag, 
 of Pittsburg, Ohio, whose representative is now in London, 
 the Carl Hoffmeyers, and the great French firm of Delo- 
 belle, have already accepted these terms which you, my lord, 
 deem so outrageous." 
 
 "Good morning, Mr. Ffrench." 
 
 ^'Au revoir, my lord," said Jock, grinning. 
 
 V 
 
 The iron trade soon discovered that the position of the 
 new company was impregnable. Many of the smaller men 
 consolidated their interests; but each firm, new or old, was 
 constrained to apply for permission to use the Ffrench 
 process. Amongst these applications came one from Sir 
 Titus Pyndrem. Jock laid it before the Board (which sat 
 every day), and said a few words. 
 
 "I have a favour to ask you, gentlemen. You know the 
 facts, so I need not repeat them. Sir Titus applies for 
 permission to use our process. Well, ten thousand pounds 
 plus the royalties on the biggest output in the kingdom is a 
 large sum to sacrifice ; but Sir Titus nearly broke my heart, 
 and I want to go to him, and I want to say: 'Sir Titus, 
 your application is — refused. Our patent will run for four- 
 teen years. Then we hope to get a renewal of it, and when 
 274 
 
The Grand Slam 
 
 that expires, and not till then, yon will be able to use the 
 John Ffrench process.' " 
 
 The chairman glanced at his colleagues, interpreting 
 aright the expression upon their faces. Then he chuckled 
 and rubbed his hands. 
 
 "Gentlemen," said he, "you have heard what Mr. Ffrench 
 says; and, speaking personally, I am of opinion, and I be- 
 lieve you are of opinion, that in this matter our managing 
 director, who is also our largest shareholder, ought to have 
 a free hand. This is irregular, but those in accord with 
 me say 'aye.' Ah ! I thought so. The Board is united, Mr. 
 Ffrench. Pray tell Sir Titus, with our compliments, that 
 he may go to — er — Jericho." 
 
 Next day Jock wired to Sir Titus that he wished to see 
 him at any convenient time and place. Sir Titus wired 
 back: "Come to Pyndrem by 11.40 to-morrow. Will send 
 carriage to station." 
 
 Jock bought a first-class ticket and the Marnhig Post. 
 But he did not read his paper. Nor did he look out of the 
 window at the pleasant fields and woods of Surrey. Instead, 
 he leaned back and closed his eyes, reviewing the events of 
 the past year, counting his gains and losses. He had lost 
 Diana. Ah, well, Fortune came to few men with both hands 
 full. He must live his life — and it promised to be a full 
 life — without her. Hang it all I What a muff he was, to be 
 sure ! His eyes were wet. Truly, she had bewitched him — 
 the siren ! Why had they met — to be parted by inexorable 
 destiny? Why? The answer was obvious. To Diana he 
 owed everything. She had fired him to supreme endeavour ; 
 she had quickened the clay. He could not doubt that. 
 Alone, he would have plodded on in the same old path: 
 dreary work from ten to four, golf, if the season permit- 
 ted, bridge at the club — ad infinitum! 
 
 Jock picked up his paper. Retrospection, he decided, was 
 
 275 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 fatuous. The present and the future alone should engross 
 his attention. The world had become his oyster — and what 
 was the world doing? 
 
 Suddenly he ejaculated, "By Jove !" 
 
 He had just read that Sir Titus Pyndrem was entertain- 
 ing a number of friends at Pyndrem Park, amongst them 
 Lord and Lady Skibbereen and Miss Skibbereen. 
 
 *T ought to have foreseen this," said Jock ruefully. 
 
 He had half a mind to return to town without seeing Sir 
 Titus; but the other half, the Scotch half, protested obsti- 
 nately. After all, it was extremely unlikely that Diana and 
 he would meet. He came to see Sir Titus. He would see 
 Sir Titus alone in his library. All in all he need not spend 
 more than a quarter of an hour within the palings of Pyn- 
 drem Park. 
 
 At the station a victoria, drawn by a splendid pair of 
 blood bays, was awaiting him. 
 
 "I had to foot it last time," said Jock, with a grin, as 
 he drew a sealskin rug over his knees. 
 
 As he entered the park he reflected that this lovely place 
 would be Diana's future home. She would pass in and out 
 of the magnificent iron gates; she would use, daily per- 
 haps, this finely appointed carriage. Thinking of these 
 things, Jock ground his teeth. 
 
 At the house he was received by the butler and a couple 
 of tall footmen. The butler ushered him into the library, 
 where Sir Titus was standing, ready to welcome an hon- 
 oured guest. 
 
 *Tfrench, my dear fellow, I'm delighted to see you." 
 
 Sir Titus grasped Jock's hand and held it firmly, as if 
 loath to let it go. Words poured from his mouth. Jock 
 would stop to luncheon — of course? If he had no better 
 engagement, would he join the house-party? Let him wire 
 for his servant and his things — and so forth. 
 276 
 
The Grand Slam 
 
 Jock listened, unable to stem this torrent of courtesy. 
 
 *'I should like to show you what I've done here/' Sir Titus 
 continued : "the model farm, my hackneys, the herd of 
 Jerseys. You'll be going in for these tu'penny-ha'penny 
 distractions yourself. Ah — Diana !" 
 
 Diana had come in, pausing irresolutely upon the 
 threshold when she saw Jock. Then she advanced, faintly 
 smiling, holding out her slim hand. 
 
 *T'm trying to persuade your cousin — he is your cousin, 
 isn't he? — to spend a few days with us." 
 
 "That would be — delightful," said Diana, glancing inter- 
 rogatively at Jock. 
 
 *T m-m-must return t-t-to t-t-town at once," he stam- 
 mered. 
 
 Sir Titus raised his handsome brows. "My dear Ffrench, 
 my dear fellow, that is simply impossible. Business of 
 such magnitude can't be settled in a minute — or an hour." 
 
 *T think it c-c-can," said Jock. 
 
 Sir Titus divined instantly that Jock had travelled down 
 into Surrey to tell him to his face that his application was 
 refused — a little bit of revenge after his (Sir Titus's) own 
 heart. He divined also that Jock would not find it easy to 
 deliver himself in Diana's presence. When Jock had wired 
 asking for an interview. Sir Titus had jumped to the con- 
 clusion that Jock had terms of his own to propose. Setting 
 an extravagant value on money, it had not occurred to him 
 that Jock and his Board would dare to defy the man who 
 owned more hematite ores than any three others in the 
 trade. He made up his mind what to do and say as Diana 
 was turning to leave the room. 
 
 "Don't go, Diana," he said suavely. "The business which 
 has brought your cousin here will interest you." 
 
 "Oh!" said Diana. 
 
 "It is connected with that invention of his, which you, if 
 
 277 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 I remember rightly, introduced to my notice last June, I 
 thought there was nothing in it; but it seems I was mis- 
 taken. Well," he laughed genially, "all of us make mistakes 
 — sometimes/' 
 
 "Sometimes," said Diana, looking at Jock. 
 
 "Sometimes," repeated Jock, trying to interpret the ex- 
 pression upon the girl's face. 
 
 Sir Titus, too occupied with his own thoughts to notice 
 what was passing in the minds of others, continued blandly : 
 "I made a mistake which will cost me dear. The process, 
 no doubt vastly improved since I saw it " 
 
 ^'Just the same," said Jock sharply. 
 
 "Has proved of — er — superlative value. We — all of us 
 in the trade — must adopt it. And your cousin, my dear, 
 has come down here to — er — turn the screw. I don't blame 
 him. Impose your penalty, my dear Ffrench — and then 
 let us drink your health in some Marcobrunner, which I 
 think you will admit is incomparable." 
 
 Jock smiled faintly. Certainly Sir Titus had a "way" with 
 him. He had wriggled out of a very tight place. Jock told 
 himself that Diana had chosen a man whose body and 
 brains were immeasurably superior to his own. He said 
 heavily : "It's all right, Sir Titus. I shan't turn the screw. 
 Your application is accepted — on the same terms as the 
 others. And now, I m-must get back to t-t-town." 
 
 "If you must, my dear fellow " Sir Titus held out 
 
 his hand. 
 
 "Wait a moment," said Diana. She turned to Jock, hold- 
 ing his eyes. "I am puzzled. I — I feel that in some way I 
 have forced your hand. You — you did not come down 
 here to tell Sir Titus something which could have been 
 told in half a dozen words on a postcard ? You" — her voice 
 became firmer, clearer, as she began to grasp what had 
 eluded her — "you intended to say something entirely dif- 
 278 
 
The Grand Slam 
 
 ferent. I believe — yes, I know that you came here to play 
 some card which you have not played. Why?" 
 
 The w^ord, slightly aspirated, seemed to whistle through 
 the silence that followed. 
 
 "'Why?" she repeated impatiently. *'Will you tell me — 
 or shall I guess?" 
 
 Jock was stricken dumb with confusion. Flight suggested 
 itself as the one thing possible. Fortunately, Diana stood 
 between himself and the door. 
 
 ''It seems I must guess," said Diana, with a hard laugh. 
 
 "My dearest," interposed Sir Titus, in his admirable man- 
 ner, ''is it — er — discreet to interfere in a business matter 
 which " 
 
 "You said yourself a moment ago concerned me. I was 
 so interested in this very business that I took upon myself 
 to beg you to give it attention. You told me the next day 
 there was nothing in it." 
 
 "The next day ?" repeated Jock ; "and I got my drawings 
 back at the end of the Cowes week." 
 
 "At the end of the Cowes week?" Diana's eyes were 
 flashing interrogation. 
 
 Sir Titus betrayed signs of temper. "I must protest," 
 he said. "This cross-examination in my own house " 
 
 "Here or elsewhere," interrupted Diana, "Fm going to 
 the bottom of this." 
 
 "You dare to insinuate " 
 
 "I dare to demand the truth from the man I've promised 
 to marry." 
 
 "Go on," said Sir Titus, with a gesture indicating resig- 
 nation : the inevitable surrender of the courteous male to 
 the indiscreet female. 
 
 "You kept these drawings for six weeks. Ah — I have 
 it! You came down here" — she looked at Jock — "to enjoy 
 the pleasure of telling the man who had kept you frizzling 
 
 279 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 on a gridiron of suspense for forty days and nights that his 
 application was — refused." She brought out the last word 
 triumphantly. "Deny it, if you can. Now, Titus, please 
 tell me why you kept those drawings so long." 
 
 "I — er — sent them to an expert." 
 
 ''An expert ! He can't know his business. Who is he — 
 your expert?" 
 
 Sir Titus hesitated, but only for a moment. Then he 
 said coldly, 'T sent them to — er — Professor Sanderaan." 
 
 "Sandeman !" repeated Jock, stupefied. "Why, Sandeman 
 is my man. I showed them to him after you had returned 
 them to me. He recognised their merit at once. Why " 
 
 Sir Titus held up his hand. 
 
 "I surrender," said he. *T admit that I am beaten. All 
 is fair in love and war. Your drawings were not sent to 
 anybody. I glanced at them myself, and failed to see the 
 value of them. The rest — you can guess." 
 
 He bowed politely and left the room. An awkward 
 silence followed, broken by Diana. 
 
 "So you went no trumps after all ?" 
 
 "Yes," said Jock; "but the game is not over yet." He 
 drew nearer, staring hard into her eyes, reading the writing 
 on her cheeks. 
 
 ''The tricks are all yours, Jock." 
 
 "All mine?" He bent down till his lips touched her ear. 
 Then he murmured a question to which she nodded assent, 
 being unable to speak. 
 
 "What will you tell your mother?" said Jock. He had 
 actually forgotten that he was rich, eligible. 
 
 "I shall tell her," said Diana, half crying, half laughing, 
 "that I made a mistake, and that Sir Titus made a mis- 
 take, and that you have made — the Grand Slam." 
 
 280 
 
XVII 
 
 BINGO S FLUTTER 
 
 BINGHAM MASTERMAN, known to his friends as 
 Bingo, was the only son of a Liverpool merchant who 
 had accumulated a vast fortune by the exercise of patience, 
 thrift, caution, and a habit of mind constraining him to 
 buy when others wished to sell, and to sell when his neigh- 
 bours were unduly anxious to buy. Not ungenerous to him- 
 self or to his family, it may be said of him — as Junius 
 said of the Duke of Bedford — that his charity ended where 
 it began — at home. 
 
 Bingoes father married late in life the daughter of an 
 Irish peer. This nobleman died in '85, but his memory was 
 kept green by old Alasterman. Before Bingo was breeched 
 he understood that his maternal grandfather had been a 
 miserable sinner and a scandalous spendthrift. 
 
 Bingo was sent to Eton and Christ Church, where he 
 made many friends, being an amiable fellow, and recog- 
 nised as the son of a millionaire. He did not shine either 
 in the schools or in the playing-fields, but he rode, not to, 
 but after (a long way after) hounds, and bought sporting 
 prints. Knowing men said that Bingo was likely to own 
 a Derby winner some day. He had looked at a set of 
 plans of model racing-stables, and it was generally under- 
 stood that when it pleased Providence to remove his father, 
 
 281 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 something would happen. "The governor," Bingo would 
 say, "is one of the best, but he had to fork out thirty thou, 
 to pay the racing debts of my grandfather, Punchestown. 
 Bless you, that little affair nearly killed both of 'em. Poor 
 old Punch worried himself to death thinking that my 
 father would not pay up, and my father barely escaped a 
 fit knowing that he must. Bar chaff, i'f I had a little flutter 
 now, he would cut me off with a shilling." 
 
 When, in the fullness of time, Masterman pere was laid 
 in the marble mausoleum to which his wife had preceded 
 him. Bingo found himself sole possessor of more than 
 i 1, 000,000 sterling. 
 
 ''Bingo, me boy, ye'll have your flutter now," said an 
 Irish second cousin ; but Bingo shook his head austerely, 
 and said, very properly, that for a season his sire's prejudice 
 against what he (Bingo) admitted to be one of the finest of 
 British institutions must be respected. 
 
 ''Me cousin is not buying — yet," reported the Irishman, 
 "and divil a bet will he make, good son that he is, till he 
 wears pink again ! Me only fear is that some match- 
 making mamma will break his spirit, before his first race." 
 
 Many of Bingo's friends shared this son of Erin's appre- 
 hensions : sensible that Bingo was susceptible to female 
 beauty, and — being of plastic clay — might be moulded by 
 the wrong sort of wife into something quite unthinkable 
 from a racing point of view. But, if he married the right 
 sort! The conjunction, it will be admitted, introduced 
 possibilities. 
 
 Amongst the right sort (in a good sportsman's eyes) 
 Lady Margie Yester shone pre-eminent. Her mother, 
 old Lady Stockbridge, knew Bingo, and approved his per- 
 sonalty, if not his personality. *T believe," she told her 
 sister, "that his great-grandfather was transported for 
 sheep-stealing, but I have always made a point of denying 
 282 
 
Bingo's Flutter 
 
 the story, because the dear man himself says that he never 
 had a great-grandfather on his father's side. He can give 
 Margie a tiara, and a tiara Margie must have. The child 
 understands that perfectly. Yes ; his means, my dear, are 
 very large." 
 
 "As large as his ends," suggested the sister, whose mar- 
 ried daughters wore no tiaras. She was referring to Bingo's 
 extremities — hands and feet of generous proportions. 
 
 "Quite so," said Lady Stockbridge, blandly. "Is it true, 
 dear, that your darling Ethel is engaged to a minor canon ?" 
 
 "An infamous lie!" affirmed the other lady of quality. 
 "Why, a bishop, nowadays, is hardly eligible!" 
 
 Bingo dined quietly (en famille, my dear Mr. Master- 
 man) at Stockbridge House; and Lord Stockbridge pro- 
 posed him at Black's and found a duke as seconder. Margie 
 Yester told young Bicester that he was not to speak to her 
 unless it was certain that no one was looking; and Bingo 
 told his pals that the world was a better place than he had 
 supposed. 
 
 "I believe your governor only allowed you seven hun- 
 dred a year," said Jack Ainsworth. 
 
 "And I never exceeded my allowance," replied Bingo 
 proudly. "By Jove, Jack, what a splendid woman Margie 
 Yester is! You know her, of course!" 
 
 "She does not know me." 
 
 "I'll introduce you any day," said the enthusiastic Bingo ; 
 but Ainsworth drily declined the honour. 
 
 Bingo did not go to Ascot, but he promised to join Lady 
 Stockbridge's party for the July meeting at Newmarket. 
 Margie talked of Sandown and Goodwood and Doncaster, 
 and said that she counted upon Bingo as a companion at 
 the big autumn handicaps. 
 
 "You mean to play the game ?" she asked sweetly. 
 
 "Not — alone," said Bingo. 
 
 283 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 Margie smiled behind her fan. Bingo was warming up! 
 Young Bicester had warned her that he was rather a 
 ''cautious cove"; and her brother, Stockbridge, had said 
 that Bingo would have to be shaken up at his fences — a bit 
 of a slug! 
 
 ''Bless your innocent heart," said Margie, "you won't be 
 left alone, Bingo. Don't fret !" 
 
 "You — and y — y — your people," added the careful young 
 man, "are going to stand by me?" 
 
 "To the death," said Margie gaily. "AH the same, don't, 
 lend money to Stockie : that's my tip." 
 
 "He hasn't asked for any," said Bingo, grinning. 
 
 "Hasn't he?" said Margie. "Well, really," her voice 
 softened delightfully, "that is very considerate of Stocky. 
 And mamma — has — has she invited you to invest a few 
 hundreds in the Kaffir market? She hasn't? Not yet. If 
 she does — don't !" 
 
 "I won't/' said Bingo firmly. "I say. Lady Margaret — I 
 say, Margie, you've been awfully decent to me." 
 
 "I have/' said Margie, truthfully, with a faint tinge of 
 colour in her cheeks. "I like you. Bingo. I feel like 
 Pharaoh's daughter when I look at you." 
 
 Poor Bingo blushed. Divinity not being his strong point, 
 he confounded Pharaoh's daughter with Potiphar's wife. 
 
 "You are, so to speak, still in the bulrushes," continued 
 the young lady. "May I adopt you. Bingo dear?" 
 
 "You can do what you like with me," said the enchanted 
 Bingo. "I am yours, and all I have is yours. Can I say 
 more?" 
 
 "You might perhaps say it differently," replied Margie, 
 thinking of Bicester; "but I shan't pretend to misunder- 
 stand you, my honest old Bingo, because, whatever those 
 cats, my aunts, may say or think, I am — straight. If we 
 enter into partnership, I — I am older than you. Bingo — / 
 284 
 
Bingo's Flutter 
 
 must be head partner — at any rate at first. You, I take it, 
 want to do what I want to do." She held up a slender hand 
 and began to count upon the tips of her fingers. "I want to 
 race, I want to hunt, I want to yacht. I want one of the 
 best chefs in London, a house in Carlton House Terrace, 
 and two months' holiday — not a day less." 
 
 ''And where shall we spend the holiday?" said the en- 
 raptured Bingo. 
 
 '*We? My dear Bingo, the object of the holiday will be 
 singular so far as we are concerned. Don't look so un- 
 happy! You will have your little lark and I shall have 
 mine. And now, if you like, you may kiss me." 
 
 Margie wrote that night to young Bicester : — 
 
 ''L'homme propose, and, when he has a million, what 
 daughter of Eve will say him nay? Stocky gave Bingo a 
 bottle of '84, and it is wonderful stuff! I am to race and 
 hunt and yacht and to have two months' holiday. Nous 
 verrons. I trust you will see the propriety of marrying the 
 jam-maker's daughter. She is a nice little thing, and nearly 
 as innocent as my dearest Bingo. What a partie carree we 
 shall make! Apropos — why not make a double event of 
 it? Then we can meet. I'm sure Bingo will hit it off with 
 your — what is her name? — something vernal — oh yes — 
 your Violet. It is a pity that the other name is Potts, but 
 she will need the less persuading to change it. . . ." 
 
 II 
 
 Two days later Margie received a wire from young 
 Bicester: ''Congratulations given and received. V. is 
 mine. Include us, if possible, in Newmarket houseparty." 
 
 And so it came to pass that Lady Stockbridge's house- 
 party for the July meeting included Bingo and Miss Potts. 
 
 285 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 More, by what seemed at the time a coincidence, these two 
 persons travelled down to Newmarket by the same train, 
 and were alone together for two hours in a first-class car- 
 riage. Young Bicester was in attendance at St. Pancras, 
 and 'twas he who introduced his fiancee to Bingo and 
 begged that gentleman to take care of her during the 
 journey. Bicester said that business engagements would 
 keep him in town that night, but he hoped to join the party 
 on the heath next day about luncheon time. 
 
 "You are going to marry Lady Margaret?" said Miss 
 Potts, very shyly, as the train rolled out of the great station. 
 
 "And you are engaged to Lord Bicester?" 
 
 "Ye— es." 
 
 For a time conversation languished. In a second-class 
 compartment Bingo's man and Miss Potts* maid were 
 already upon confidential terms ; but between the master and 
 mistress hung an impediment of speech which both regarded 
 as a dreadful obstacle. Finally Bingo burst into praise of 
 young Bicester, whom he had known and admired at Eton 
 and Oxford. "What a chap he was, to be sure ! So good- 
 looking, so cheery, such a sportsman, and so forth," until 
 Miss Potts was covered with confusion. 
 
 "Lady Margaret is one of the loveliest women in Eng- 
 land," murmured Miss Potts, offering her Roland demurely. 
 
 "Beautiful and — straight," said Bingo. 
 
 "She has a splendid figure," admitted Miss Potts. 
 
 "I meant beautiful and good," explained Bingo. "So 
 many women one meets in society are beautiful but not — 
 er — good." 
 
 "I don't like to think that a beautiful face" (Miss Potts 
 blushed, thinking of her George) "may mask a false and 
 
 evil soul." 
 
 "It has been proved," said Bingo, with the air of a New- 
 ton revealing the law of gravitation. 
 2d6 
 
Bingo's Flutter 
 
 "Lord Bicester and Lady Margaret are friends, I think," 
 observed Violet, after another embarrassing pause. 
 
 "And that," said Bingo briskly, "is a reason why we 
 should be friends too. You know, I felt quite nervous at 
 having to travel with you, but it has worn off. I no longer 
 feel shy — do you?" 
 
 "Not quite so shy, Mr. Masterman." 
 
 "Shyness is — is a beastly bore, but — when I get over 
 mine I'm quite, you know — quite " 
 
 "Sportive," suggested Miss Potts, playing up to the gay 
 and genial Bingo. 
 
 "I was going to say — bold, Miss Potts. Not brazen, 
 like some men, but bold. When I am in my bold mood 
 I f — f — f — feel like Alexander. All that I desire seems 
 within my grasp " 
 
 Miss Potts glanced furtively at the button above the win- 
 dow. Bingo was extending his arms as if 
 
 "Mr. Masterman," she said nervously, "would you mind 
 opening the other window? It is sultry — isn't it?" 
 
 "Sultry?" echoed Bingo, with a laugh. "Well, when 
 you think of some of the people in this train who are going 
 down to Newmarket, I am surprised that the weather isn't 
 — er — warmer. Miss Potts, I feel that you are my friend ! 
 
 I can say things to you that I Good gracious ! for 
 
 heaven's sake don't touch that button ! — You would stop 
 the train and also this delightful talk. Let me see ; I was 
 about to observe that I wish we could have racing, which 
 is a great national sport, without racing people. I do not 
 like racing people. Their ways are not my ways, Miss 
 Potts — nor your ways, I feel assured." 
 
 "I don't understand a word they say," the young lady 
 admitted. She smiled happily, sensible that she had escaped 
 a dreadful blunder. Her companion was really very nice, 
 very nice indeed. He had nice ideas. She wished that 
 
 287 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 George were here to listen to them: George, who said that 
 he had promised his mother not to read a Hne of Shake- 
 speare till he had mastered the Racing Calendar. 
 
 Next day Bingo rode on to the heath. It was piping 
 hot, and the shade-trees bordering the inclosure wooed 
 our hero seductively; but his Margie, like Gilpin's wife, 
 although on pleasure bent, was fully alive to business 
 opportunities. Not for Bingo were cool shadows and the 
 tinkle of ice in long tumblers. No, no ! He must trot to 
 and from that Pandemonium on the other side of the 
 course, the betting-ring; then he must jump on to his hack 
 and gallop down to see the start, returning, as a true lover 
 should, in melting mood; and then there were messages 
 to trainers and jockeys, and the inevitable stroll up and 
 down the paddock before and after each race. Still he 
 felt that he was "in it,'' whereas poor little Miss Potts sat 
 disconsolate beside Lady Stockbridge, who talked pleasantly 
 to everybody except her guest. George IBicester gave her 
 luncheon and a smile ; but he too, like Bingo's Margie, was 
 in the embrace of opportunity. 
 
 *lt's my day," said young Bicester, when Margie and he 
 met for a moment under the trees. 
 
 "And mine," said Margie, radiantly. 
 
 " 'Pon my soul, Margie, if " 
 
 "Don't, George. Ifs and ands " 
 
 "Remind me of Potts," said the young fellow gloomily. 
 "How about this selling race, Margie? I saw you talking 
 to old Kempton. What's his tip ? Phe-e-e-w ! Pyramus ! 
 Is that really sound? Eh — you have backed the colt for a 
 win and a place? Then I shall get on at once." 
 
 "George!" she called him back. A slight blush encar- 
 mined her cheeks; her eyes were suffused with soft light. 
 "George — dear, put on another pony for me. You and I 
 can't go wrong to-day — can we ?" 
 288 
 
Bingo's Flutter 
 
 Young Bicester nodded and smiled grimly. 
 
 'There is to-morrow," he said significantly. "A pony 
 on Pyramus, then. All right." 
 
 Bingo came up, and the trio watched Pyramus win his 
 race. Bingo had not made a single bet, because, as he said, 
 he was in mourning; but he rejoiced at Margie's success. 
 Pyramus was a wonderful colt, a rare shaped 'un, a galloper 
 and a stayer — and no mistake! 
 
 ''Buy him," said Margie. "He is to be sold with all his 
 engagements this afternoon. Buy him, Bingo ! You can't 
 start your stud with a better." 
 
 "They'll all want him now," said Bingo cautiously. "The 
 price will be stiff, Margie. And my poor dear father, you 
 know " 
 
 She coaxed in vain : Bingo was not to be budged from 
 the unassailable position of chief mourner for one who 
 held racing to be an abomination. After Doncaster, when 
 a decent twelve months had elapsed, Margie and he would 
 get together such a stud as was never seen on or off New- 
 market Heath; meantime — patience! 
 
 Later, finding himself alone, for his Margie and young 
 Bicester had mysteriously disappeared, Bingo thought he 
 would see Pyramus sold. He had never attended a sale in 
 his life, and it might be well to see how the thing was 
 done. He sauntered up to Tattersall's ring, smoking a 
 cigarette; and the men outside, knowing him by sight, 
 made way for him. This pleased Bingo vastly well, for in 
 his sire's Hfetime he had not quite realised his own im- 
 portance. Glancing round, he saw many faces familiar to 
 the racing world. Hard and shrewd faces these ! Cut-and- 
 thrust fellows. Ah i there was young Bicester, and Margie 
 beside him. Who was this? Why, one of the stewards 
 of the Jockey Club, to be sure, and nodding in the most 
 
 289 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 encouraging manner to him, Bingo. Others nodded too. 
 Bingo returned these nods, keeping one eye on Pyramus. 
 
 "Seven hundred guineas, I'm bid. Any advance on that ? 
 And fifty? Thank you, my lord. And seventy-five? 
 Really, gentlemen, this magnificent colt is dirt cheap at a 
 thousand " 
 
 Bingo looked round the ring. The voice of the auctioneer 
 was very familiar. Where had he heard those bland tones 
 before? By Jove! In his dame's house at Eton. He 
 caught the eye of the auctioneer and recognised an old 
 fag-master. Then he nodded cheerily, and the other 
 nodded back. 
 
 ''Eight hundred guineas. Sold — for eight hundred 
 guineas." 
 
 "A damn fine colt!" said Bingo loudly. 
 
 "You evidently think so," said a man at his side; and 
 while Bingo was wondering what he meant, young Bicester 
 and Margie came up. 
 
 "Oh, Bingo!" cried Margie: "you are a dear!" 
 
 "Eh— what?" 
 
 "It was meant as a surprise for me, wasn't it?'* 
 
 Bingo stared apprehensively at his Margie. 
 
 Young Bicester said solemnly : "You paid a stiffish price, 
 Bingo, but the colt, if he wins to-morrow, will be worth 
 double the money. By Gad, you behaved like a veteran." 
 
 "What tommy-rot are you talking?" said Bingo uneasily. 
 
 Young Bicester began to laugh. "Why, man, you've not 
 forgotten already that you bought Pyramus five minutes 
 ago?" 
 
 "I ?" 
 
 "Saw you do it. What? You never meant it? Oh, 
 Lord — what a game ! Well, the colt's yours, and his trainer 
 is shoving through the crowd at this moment to speak to 
 you." 
 
 290 
 
Bingo's Flutter 
 
 'But- 
 
 *'Bingo," whispered Margie, ''don't write yourself down 
 an ass before the multitude. Pyramus is yours." 
 
 "But my poor dear father, Margie " 
 
 "Your poor dear father never came to Newmarket in 
 his lifetime, and you insult his memory by presuming to 
 think that he is here now. Hush !'' 
 
 "You have bought a nice colt, Mr. Masterman," said the 
 trainer. 
 
 "Ye-es," said Bingo. 
 
 Ill 
 
 A very cheery dinner followed, and Bingo's health was 
 drunk in the Lanson '84. After dinner the men made much 
 of Bingo, filling his glass several times with the famous 
 Stockbridge port, laid down — as connoisseurs know — by 
 the grandfather of the present peer. When they went 
 into the hall, where a roulette table had been set out, Bingo 
 was firmly of the opinion that he had bought Pyramus of 
 his own free will; he had promised young Bicester to rise 
 with the lark on the morrow to see his horse at exercise 
 on the Lime Kilns ; he had selected his colours ; he had 
 spoken of his set of plans for racing-stables. And he was 
 listened to with attention and courtesy, for, as young Bices- 
 ter observed, the words of the rich are as pearls of price 
 in the ears of the poor. 
 
 Young Bicester, always practical in money matters, sug- 
 gested that the richest man present should take the bank. 
 
 "That will be dear Bingham," purred Lady Stockbridge. 
 
 "You will win. Bingo dear," said Margie. "The bank 
 always wins." 
 
 Some men from the rooms dropped in, and the ball 
 began to roll. Bingo raked up innumerable threepenny-bits 
 
 291 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 and sixpences. The only winner, indeed, was Miss Potts, 
 who declared her intention of giving her winnings to the 
 poor. At midnight Lady Stockbridge retired, having lost 
 seventeen shillings and ninepence, and her temper; the 
 other ladies were constrained to follow her. Then young 
 Bicester proposed that the men should go on playing. 
 Bingo, gazing at the pile of loose silver in front of his 
 chair, made no objections; and, as he lit Margie's candle, 
 suggested Monte Carlo as a pleasant spot for a honeymoon. 
 
 "Give you my word," he added, 'T*d no idea roulette was 
 such an amusin' game." 
 
 *T love you when you talk like that !" replied his Margie. 
 
 However, in the course of the next two hours Bingo 
 lost his little pile of silver and five thousand pounds. It 
 was young Bicester's night as well as day, and he backed 
 his luck. He said afterwards that he felt in his bones 
 that he must win, because Fortune had taken from him 
 Margie and given her to Bingo. Those present who knew 
 Bingo's inherited reluctance "to part" were amazed at that 
 young man's coolness and good temper, although Stocky 
 observed that if anything could work miracles nowadays 
 it was surely the port his grandfather had laid down, not 
 to mention the Lanson. 
 
 "You'll never miss it, old chap," said young Bicester, as 
 he pocketed Bingo's I.O.U. "And besides, you'll get all 
 of it back to-morrow. Tell your man to call you at five 
 sharp." 
 
 "Yes, I'll get it back to-morrow," said Bingo, with a gay 
 laugh. "Py ramus can carry five, ten, fifteen thousand 
 pounds !" 
 
 "There is no doubt about it," said - Stocky to young 
 Bicester: "Bingo means to have a flutter." 
 
 None the less Bingo was not feeling quite himself when 
 he was shaken into consciousness the following morning 
 292 
 
Bingo's Flutter 
 
 at five, although his face brightened when he met Margie 
 booted and habited in the hall. She kissed him before 
 young Bicester and the third footman. 
 
 "That is because you lost your money like a dear little 
 man," she said fondly. 
 
 After that the trio talked of Pyramus till the Lime Kilns 
 were reached. Here many noble quadrupeds galloped past 
 them; here the trainer of Pyramus swore that the colt was 
 fit to run for a man's life or fortune ; here Bingo declared, 
 for the forty-first time, that he meant to back his colt to 
 win him twenty thousand pounds. Young Bicester thought 
 it might be done if Bingo's money was carefully divided 
 amongst the gentlemen of the ring. 
 
 "You mustn't be too bold, my pet," said Margie reprov- 
 ingly. "Remember Jubilee Juggins. And besides, I don't 
 want you to break the ring till I am paid yesterday's win- 
 nings." 
 
 "What did you win?" said Bingo. 
 
 "Yes: what did you win?" repeated young Bicester. 
 "Including last night, I cleaned up about seven thou." 
 
 "I never tell what I win, or lose," said wise Margie. 
 
 But when Bingo moved off for a few words in private 
 with his trainer, young Bicester asked the question again: 
 "Did it run into four figures?" He knew that she had 
 been amazingly lucky, that she always was amazingly 
 bold. 
 
 "I'll tell you/' murmured Margie. "I won eighteen hun- 
 dred pounds. Almost am I persuaded to " 
 
 "Look here," interrupted young Bicester eagerly. "I've 
 a plan which I think is sound. Pyramus will start with 
 odds on him. I know this Newmarket crowd — and so do 
 you. When they find out that somebody is backing the colt 
 to win a corking big stake, they'll plunge: and that's our 
 opportunity, for honestly I don't think he can beat two 
 
 293 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 others whom I can name. We'll lay twelve thousand againsj; 
 the colt. If he wins, there is Bingo for you, richer than 
 ever. If he loses, there is true love and a nice working 
 capital for two who know the ropes. Now then — choose !" 
 
 She looked hard into his laughing, debonair face, at his 
 fine seat on his cob, at his brown slender hands; then her 
 eyes roved reluctantly to the somewhat pulpy figure of 
 Bingo. 
 
 "If Pyramus loses," she said, with decision, "Bingo may 
 go to Jericho." 
 
 "And the fair Potts may go with him," added young 
 Bicester. 
 
 IV 
 
 "By Jove!" said Bingo> at a quarter-past four, "I stand 
 to win a goodish stake." 
 
 *'Andto lose, what?" 
 
 ''Or to lose " corrected Bingo. "Who ever heard of 
 winning and losing?" 
 
 "I have," said Margie, enigmatically. 
 
 "You are too excited," said Bingo critically, not ill 
 pleased at his own self-possession. 
 
 *Tyramus may lose." 
 
 "Not he," said Bingo confidently. "Look at him," he 
 cried, as the horses cantered past, — "what a stride !" 
 
 "Why, little Johnny is up!" said Margie, in a tone of 
 voice which raised Bingo's eyebrows. 
 
 "I got him at the last moment — wonderful luck! These 
 Yankee beggars can ride. Hullo ! is this heat too much 
 for you, Margie?" 
 
 "Don't fuss!" she said sharply. 
 
 He stared at her stupidly, stolidly — so she was thinking. 
 But if love blinds some, it is as euphrasy and rue to clear 
 294 
 
Bingo's Flutter 
 
 the vision of others. Bingo bHnked at his Margie's white 
 cheeks and dilated eyes. Was it possible that she, his 
 beloved, could be so affected by a mere horserace? 
 
 'This sort of thing is bad for you," he said, in a tone 
 she had never heard from him before. Now it was her 
 turn to stare at a new Bingo. For a moment each peered 
 into the soul of the other, and then each, as if animated 
 by a common sense of repulsion, turned aside their eyes. 
 Bingo had seen a reckless, desperate demon of hazard; 
 Margie glimpsed the cold, cautious merchant appraising 
 goods he had purchased. 
 
 Margie closed her eyes for an instant and prayed. She 
 had long ago lost the habit of prayer and its form. Only 
 the most elementary phrase escaped from her heart: ''O 
 God— give me George, not this man!" She repeated this 
 again and again, as she gazed through her glasses at the 
 jumble of colour and motion far down the course which 
 indicated that the horses were about to start. 
 
 ''They're oif !" 
 
 Her hands were trembling, and the man at her side had 
 his cold eyes on them. Why had this pitiful feminine 
 weakness assailed her at such a moment? With a desperate 
 effort she regained control of her muscles. Her cheek had 
 begun to twitch: she was possessed of a palsy. Ah! her 
 prayers had been answered. She could see now. Pyramus 
 was neither first, nor second, nor third. Across the broad 
 riband of turf came the hoarse growl of the ring, deepen- 
 ing into an angry bellow as the second sped by. Pyramus! 
 The hateful name smote her. Pyramus— Pyramus! Margie 
 closed her eyes, unable to look as the horses thundered by. 
 She heard the man next Bingo say in a quiet drawl : ''Near 
 thing that." Then the roar of the ring sounded like the 
 murmur of a summer sea, a sea upon whose placid tides 
 she must embark. 
 
 295 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 When she recovered consciousness, her eyes met those 
 of young Bicester, who was bending over her. She could 
 see Bingo too, looking very uneasy, and her mother with a 
 face aflame with interrogation. Her faculties quickened 
 at once. Pyramus had lost. Good heavens ! It had indeed 
 been a near thing for her. She smiled faintly at young 
 Bicester, wondering why he looked so impassive. Then 
 her lips parted, and the word she had heard as she fainted 
 quivered from them. 
 
 "Pyramus?" 
 
 *'Has won by a short head," said young Bicester, coolly. 
 
 V 
 
 Lady Stockbridge always assures the country cousins 
 whom she has cut dead in Town that she is short-sighted, 
 but her sister maintains that nothing escapes her keen grey 
 eyes. Ulpon this occasion she sent Bingo to the paddock, 
 where little Johnnie was about to step into the scales, and 
 asked young Bicester to find the carriage. Bingo hesitated 
 for a brief moment, and then went his way. Later, as he 
 passed the small stand in the enclosure where sit the mem- 
 bers of the Jockey Club, a portly man joined him. 
 
 ''Congr — r — ratulate you," he said, slightly rolHng the 
 **r." ''You are Fortune's son, mon cher." 
 
 Bingo never smiled, but he accepted the cigar the other 
 offered with a "Thank you, Count." 
 
 The Austrian eyed him shrewdly. Then he spoke 
 quickly: 'T am told you bought the colt under a misap- 
 prehension — heinf Do you intend to keep him?" 
 
 The son of old Masterman scented a buyer. One of his 
 sire's business maxims floated into his mind : "Buy on the 
 slumps; sell on the bumps." The Austrian was known to 
 296 
 
Bingo's Flutter 
 
 * 
 
 be a buyer who paid any price for a horse which took his 
 fancy. 
 
 "Pyramus is for sale," said Bingo, slowly, and he named 
 a price which represented a profit such as would have 
 warmed the heart of old Masterman. 
 
 "I take him," said the Austrian. 
 
 That night, at dinner, Stocky uncorked the last of the 
 Lanson '84, and once more the health of Pyramus was 
 drunk and that of his owner. Margie had quite recovered 
 from the effects of what her mother called an "indispo- 
 sition"; she was wearing her prettiest frock and a radiant 
 smile. She sat by Bingo, and young Bicester sat opposite, 
 beside the jam-maker's only daughter. 
 
 ''Speech, speech. Bingo!" cried young Bicester, as he 
 emptied his glass. 
 
 The others repeated the words. Bingo stood up. 
 
 'Tyramus," said the hero of the hour, "is a niceish colt, 
 but he is mine no longer. I sold him this afternoon. I — I 
 shall not race any more. I — er — have had my little flutter." 
 
 He sat down in a silence which manifested the stupefac- 
 tion of the company. Lady Stockbridge was the first to 
 recover the use of her tongue. 
 
 "I am glad, Bingham," she said blandly, "that you have 
 made this resolution. I am an old woman, although I hope 
 that I do not look one, and I've been on almost every race- 
 course in Europe; but, knowing what I know, I say again 
 that I applaud your resolution. In the evening of my life 
 it will be a consolation to reflect that one who is near and 
 dear to me does — not — race." 
 
 'The old hypocrite!" said young Bicester, quite audibly. 
 
 ''Mother backed the wrong 'uns this afternoon," ex- 
 plained Stocky. 
 
 After dinner no one suggested roulette; and young 
 Bicester, rather ostentatiously, begged Miss Potts to teach 
 
 297 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 him Patience, which he admitted he had never learned, and 
 which, he added, might prove of service to beguile *'the 
 evening of his life." Margie proposed to Bingo that they 
 should walk on the lawn — au clair de la lune. Lady Stock- 
 bridge composed herself for a well-earned nap. 
 
 "Well," said Margie, sharply, when she found herself 
 alone with her lover, "what have you got to say? How — 
 how dared you sell Pyramus?" 
 
 "You told me you were straight, and '* 
 
 "And what?" 
 
 "And I believed you," said Bingo, coldly. "You pro- 
 posed to enter into partnership with me. We — er — sealed 
 the articles in the usual way. I am talking business now. 
 But this afternoon the partnership was dissolved." 
 
 "By you," said Margie vehemently. 
 
 "By you — first," Bingo retorted. "Your prayer, Lady 
 Margaret, was heard not by Him to whom it was addressed, 
 but by me. You prayed as children pray — perhaps you 
 have not prayed since you were a child — and children pray 
 aloud." 
 
 "I prayed aloud !" she repeated in amazement, for the 
 words of her prayer had escaped memory. 
 
 "You said, not once, but three times, *0 God, give me 
 George — not this man.' " 
 
 Margie was silent. 
 
 "1 am not quite such a fool as I look," continued Bingo. 
 "After the race I went into the ring, and I found out one 
 or two things. Bicester laid an immense sum against 
 Pyramus, and I guessed the rest." 
 
 Bingo went back to the drawing-room alone; and pres- 
 ently young Bicester left his Violet with a muttered excuse 
 to the effect that he was stifling for lack of air. Bingo 
 took his place at the card-table. 
 298 
 
Bingo's Flutter 
 
 "Doesn't it come out?" he asked, after looking at the 
 row of cards. 
 
 "No — it doesn't," replied Miss Potts, very crossly. 
 "And I don't think," she added, naively, "that Lord Bicester 
 will ever learn Patience." 
 
 "Perhaps not," replied Bingo thoughtfully. "I should 
 be so much obliged. Miss Potts, if you would try to teach 
 me. 
 
 Young Bicester did not come back to the card-table ; 
 and Bingo lighted Miss Potts' candle. 
 
 "It began badly," said the girl, referring to the game 
 known to Patience players as Job, "but it worked out 
 beautifully in the end, Mr. Masterman?" 
 
 "It began badly," assented Bingo, thinking of another 
 game; "but it is most curious, Miss Potts, that so many 
 things in real life which begin badly do turn out well, and 
 for the best, in the end." 
 
 Before she said her prayers that night, Miss Potts made 
 an entry in her diary : 
 
 "George is very cold to me. He complained to-night of 
 the heat of the room. Lady Margaret was on the lawn. 
 Mr. Bingham Masterman seems to be an understanding 
 person." 
 
 29Q 
 
XVIII 
 
 BULWINKLE & CO. 
 
 SIMON CHEERS was the Co. He had worked for 
 Bulwinkle diligently during twenty years, becoming in 
 due time head clerk to that great man, and, as head clerk, 
 approximating to perfection. He had little initiative, it is 
 true; none of that "push" which distinguished Bulwinkle. 
 On the other hand, he had no bad habits. He was punctual, 
 accurate, healthy, and pleasing in appearance, a rosy little 
 man with a disarming smile, cheerful at all times, and 
 astoundingly contented with his position in life, fiulwinkle 
 made him junior partner (Simon received ten per cent, of 
 the profits) because he was terrified of losing so faithful and 
 competent a servant. 
 
 Simon lived with his wife in a pretty cottage just outside 
 Easthampton, wherein Bulwinkle had achieved fame and 
 fortune. Some men wondered why Bulwinkle had re- 
 mained in a provincial town when he might have soared 
 to heights in London. He was a stockbroker, doing a fine 
 business with men who knew him and trusted his judgment. 
 No London for him ! He, too, had begun married life in a 
 cottage near Simon's. But now he occupied a castellated 
 villa surrounded by park-like grounds. He owned a six- 
 cylinder car. His wife wore many diamonds, sporting, in 
 and out of season, a mufif and stole of sable, not mink. In 
 300 
 
Bulwinkle & Co. 
 
 fine, prosperity exuded from every pore of Bulwinkle's 
 skin. 
 
 Simon never envied his chief. The difference between 
 sable and mink seemed to him negHgible. He affirmed that 
 he and "the wife" got more fun out of their tri-car than 
 did Bulwinkle out of the limousine. When he made these 
 and similar statements, Mrs. Cheers never contradicted 
 him. She smiled subtly. Simon adored her. They had no 
 children, and therefore were interdependent. Let us say 
 that they were as happy as mortals can be, and have done 
 with it. 
 
 Behold Simon sitting in his private room, receiving those 
 clients whose small interests could be safely entrusted to a 
 jimior partner! Upon his massive desk you will perceive 
 a bunch of Parma violets freshly gathered by Mrs. Cheers 
 — a sweet oblation ! To him is ushered in, by a slightly 
 supercilious clerk, a seedy gentleman of middle age, Mr. 
 Thomas Shafto, acclaimed with enthusiasm by Simon as 
 "My dear old Tom !" 
 
 The two had been chums at school. 
 
 Shafto accepted a mild cigar, and sat down. He was 
 the antithesis of Simon, tall, thin, excitable, with big, dark 
 eyes burning feverishly in a white face. He had not seen 
 Simon for more than ten years, but he addressed him as 
 familiarly as if they had parted the day before. 
 
 "Partner, hay?" 
 
 ''Yes," said Simon, beaming artlessly. 
 
 "Money to burn, old man?" 
 
 "Lord bless you, no." 
 
 "I want to interest you in a scheme of mine." 
 
 "Tom, if it's yours I am interested." 
 
 "Knew you'd say that! Not changed a bit. Know any- 
 thing about engines?" 
 
 "I've a tri-car." 
 
 301 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 Shafto unrolled some papers and handed them to Simon. 
 who adjusted his pince-nez. After reading the specifica- 
 tions and glancing over the drawings, Simon said, help- 
 lessly : 
 
 "Can't make head or tail of 'em." 
 
 'Til explain." 
 
 He explained at length. Simon listened attentively, no 
 wiser than he was before. Presently he admitted as much, 
 adding: "What do you want?" 
 
 "Cash," replied Shafto. "I want a couple of hundred, 
 old man, to patent this turbine in England, Germany, 
 France, and the United States. Two hundred will do the 
 trick. It's a dead cert." 
 
 Simon smiled feebly. So many dead certs remained 
 dead; and yet he had faith in Shafto, regarded at school 
 as a star of the first magnitude. Shafto continued: 
 
 "It's like this, old man. I daren't show these drawings 
 to experts because they'd steal my thunder. The principle 
 simply roars at 'em. I must patent the thing and secure 
 my rights. After that it will be shelling peas to get all the 
 capital we want, because my turbine is going to revolutionize 
 traction throughout the world. Sim, this is the chance of a 
 lifetime; I'll let you in share and share alike, see? A half 
 interest in these," he flicked the papers, "for a couple of 
 hundred." 
 
 Simon smiled nervously ; then he cleared his throat. 
 
 "I'm much obliged, Tom." 
 
 "Not at all. There's no man I'd sooner make rich than 
 you." 
 
 "But I don't want to be made rich." 
 
 "Wha-a-at? Come off it!" 
 
 "It's the solemn truth. I've more than I need already." 
 
 Shafto swooped on this admission. 
 
 "Then you've a bit to spare for an old friend?" 
 302 
 
Bulwinkle & Co. 
 
 "And — and I'm not interested in engines." 
 
 "You can take my word that the turbine is all right." 
 
 Simon looked unhappy. Two hundred pounds was a 
 vast sum, but he had it to spare. Had his old friend said : 
 *'Sim, Fm in a hole ; I must have two hundred, or perish," 
 why, then he would have written a cheque for that amount. 
 But his tri-car had filled him with a loathing for machinery. 
 Also, he mistrusted business dealings with friends. Then, 
 suddenly, his benignant brow cleared, as inspiration struck 
 him. Bulwinkle was knowledgeable about machinery. Bul- 
 winkle boasted that he could snap up any good thing at 
 sight. Bulwinkle had an inordinate appetite for more 
 wealth. After dinner, over a glass of port, he would 
 prattle of steam yachts and other toys only to be bought 
 by millionaires. So Simon said : 
 
 "My chief is your man. Like to see him?" 
 
 Shafto hesitated. "Is he an expert?" 
 
 "He says he is. But, Tom, he's square. He won't try 
 to rob you. And, later, when you've secured the patents, 
 Bulwinkle could finance the enterprise. Has money, and 
 knows men with money. You see him." 
 
 "Right," said Shafto. 
 
 Half an hour later the man of many inventions emerged 
 from the inner office. He carried a high head, but rage 
 burned in his fine eyes ; contempt curled his sensitive upper 
 lip. Hardly had the door closed behind him when he 
 exploded. 
 
 "Sim, this Bulwinkle \ a bull frog, blown out with gas 
 and conceit. He knows nothing about engines. I could 
 hardly keep my hands ofif the fellow." 
 
 "Teh, tch !" murmured Simon. "I'm sorry." 
 
 Shafto seized his hat, a dilapidated bowler, and rammed 
 it on to his head, cocking it at an aggressive angle with a 
 bang of his hand. 
 
 303 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 "Fm off," he declared. 
 
 "Where to?" demanded Simon, anxiously. His friend's 
 air terrified him. 
 
 "Don't say that as if you cared." 
 
 *'I do care. The wife would like to see you. Stay with 
 us." 
 
 ''You're a good old Sim, but I haven't a minute to waste. 
 I must get hold of that cash. The sight of Bulwinkle 
 infuriated me. I'm in a hurry to be richer than he is. 
 I'd like to fill his mean soul with envy and jealousy." 
 
 ''Not you, Tom." 
 
 "Lord, I'd love it! Ten years I've worked on this, and 
 that thick-headed ignoramus condemns it in ten minutes." 
 
 Simon stared uncomfortably at his friend's thin cheeks, 
 at his shabby clothes, at his bowed shoulders Shafto 
 coughed. Simon winced. Then he plunged. 
 
 "Tom, you can have the two hundred." 
 
 "What? No. no, no! I'm hanged if I'll take it against 
 your judgment, out of charity." 
 
 "I believe in you," said Simon, very earnestly. "I want 
 to prove my faith in you." 
 
 "You always were a rum 'un." 
 
 Eventually the man of inventions yielded to kindness 
 and obstinacy, a combination difficult to resist. The cheque 
 was drawn, and also an agreement in duplicate. Then 
 Simon said, hesitatingly: 
 
 "Tom, I don't want the wife to know of this." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 Now Simon was blessed — or cursed — ^with a perfervid 
 imagination never applied to business except in a negative 
 and subjective sense. He loathed wild-cat speculation, be- 
 cause he could visualise its efiPects. He could oroject his 
 mind into the future, but rarely did so, because the present 
 was so pleasant. 
 304 
 
Bulwinkle & Co. 
 
 "It might unsettle her," he murmured. 
 
 "Unsettle her? How?" 
 
 "We're both satisfied with things as they are. No com- 
 plaints at Wistaria Cottage, I can assure you. If you began 
 talking of millions, Mrs. Cheers might — I don't say she 
 would — but she might think too much of Mrs. Bulwinkle." 
 
 "Why Mrs. Bulwinkle?" 
 
 Simon fidgeted. He was loyal even to Mrs. Bulwinkle, 
 because she was his chief's wife. But in his heart he both 
 hated and feared the august lady, trembling beneath her 
 nod. Bulwinkle had exalted his wife above all other wom- 
 en in Easthampton. She looked down upon them from the 
 castellated heights of her mansion, even as the ladies of 
 the county at county balls looked down upon her. 
 
 Simon unburdened his soul. 
 
 "Mrs. Bulwinkle," said he, pensively, "is ambitious. You 
 are not quite fair to Bulwinkle, my dear Tom. You took 
 him just now at a disadvantage. My fault. I am quite 
 sure that he does not know a great deal about machinery." 
 
 "Nothing at all, Sim." 
 
 "You exposed his ignorance, and aroused in consequence 
 his — er — hostility. He can be — rude." 
 
 "A perfect ass !" 
 
 "No, no ; I cannot permit that. A capital fellow, I assure 
 you. Louisa Bulwinkle is — er — dififerent." 
 
 He paused, slightly blushing. 
 
 "Go straight on," commanded Tom Shafto. 
 
 "Louisa Bulwinkle," continued Simon, slowly, "is all 
 that my dear wife is not, but then my wife has not been 
 exposed to her temptations." 
 
 "Temptations ?" 
 
 "Gold," said Simon, making a grimace. 
 
 "A snob— hay?" 
 
 "Not quite that, but what she has — Bulwinkle is very 
 
 305 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 generous to her — seems to have a devastating effect, not 
 upon her, but upon other women. She sets the pace in 
 Easthampton. The v^ife, fortunately, hke myself, prefers 
 to jog-trot along in our pleasant groove, but there are 
 moments, Tom, when Mrs. Bulwinkle's diamonds do scratch 
 our glass." 
 
 '*! understand perfectly. Mum's the word!" 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 II 
 
 What followed is part of the commercial history of Eng- 
 land, and may be summed up in a sentence. Tom Shafto 
 had not laboured in vain for ten years. His turbine was, 
 as he affirmed, mighty enough to revolutionise traction. 
 After the patents had been secured a syndicate was formed, 
 and of this syndicate Shafto became managing director, 
 with a half interest in all profits. 
 
 Simon might have sold his share of this half interest for 
 a large sum, but he expressed no wish to sell, and Shafto 
 entreated him not to sell. 
 
 Nobody knew, not even Bulwinkle, that Simon Cheers 
 had become rich beyond the dreams of avarice, for when 
 the merits of the Shafto turbine were universally ad- 
 mitted, Simon, had he chosen to sell his shares, would have 
 become a richer man than Bulwinkle, and Bulwinkle was 
 miserably aware that he might have doubled his ample for- 
 tune had he known a wee bit more about machinery. 
 
 One morning he said to his junior partner: 
 
 "That Shafto turbine was offered to me." 
 
 "Yes; I sent Shafto to you." 
 
 "So you did. I had forgotten. The fellow rubbed my 
 fur the wrong way. And his confounded specifications 
 were vilely expressed, not even typed. He offered me a 
 half interest for three hundred pounds." 
 306 
 
Bulwinkle & Co. 
 
 Simon smiled. It pleased him to learn that Tom had 
 raised the original price to Bulwinkle. 
 
 ''That half interest," continued Bulwinkle, mournfully, 
 *'is worth to-day about two hundred thousand — at least." 
 
 *Ts it possible?" murmured Simon, 
 
 It seems incredible, but the little man had never com- 
 puted what this half interest was worth. There had been 
 dividends, but these had been used to buy more shares, on 
 Shafto's urgent advice. Not a penny, so far, had gone to 
 swell Simon's small private account in the Easthampton 
 Bank. Yet he knew that Bulwinkle had calculated aright, 
 for such knowledge was meat and drink to him — poison 
 in this particular case. The senior partner concluded, 
 abruptly : 
 
 ''Promise me, Sim, that you will never mention this re- 
 grettable affair to Mrs. Bulwinkle?'' 
 
 "With pleasure." 
 
 "Nor to Mrs. Cheers, because " 
 
 Simon replied formally : 
 
 *T promise never to tell the wife that you refused Shafto's 
 offer." 
 
 "I am much obliged." 
 
 Meanwhile no changes had taken place at Wistaria Cot- 
 tage, because Mrs. Cheers remained in ignorance of what 
 had come to pass. And, as day succeeded day, it became 
 increasingly difficult for Simon to confess to his beloved 
 Emmeline that he had hidden from her such a colossal 
 piece of news. 
 
 And then, at the psychological moment when Bulwinkle 
 was moving out of the castellated villa into what was euphe- 
 mistically termed "a country seat," Tom Shafto descended 
 upon Wistaria Cottage. 
 
 He came in his own car, wearing a superb fur coat and 
 smoking an immense cigar. The mere sight of such a car 
 
 307 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 purring melodiously in front of Wistaria Cottage challenged 
 the attention of everybody in Montmorency Road. Being 
 Sunday, the cottagers were at home. Simon, looking out 
 of the window, gasped his surprise: 
 
 "It's Tom Shafto !'' 
 
 We pause to explain that Emmeline had heard and read 
 of Shafto's good fortune. Simon, of course, confirmed it. 
 Let us add that Simon had not told Tom of the deception 
 he still practised upon the wife. Tom, however, was well 
 aware that his old friend drew no money out of the busi- 
 ness, nor had sold a single share. It was high time, in 
 his opinion, that Simon should retire from a wretched junior 
 partnership and enjoy the fruits of Fortune and Leisure. 
 
 Simon hastened to greet his friend and to give him a 
 necessary hint, but the wife was too quick for him, follow- 
 ing hot- foot upon his track. 
 
 "Same old pitch," said Shafto, after salutations had been 
 exchanged. 
 
 "Same old welcome for you," said Simon. 
 
 Shafto had not visited them since the day when Simon 
 handed him the cheque, but he noted no changes. The 
 cottage inside and out was spick and span, but it had been 
 so for many years. 
 
 "You'll stay with us?" asked Mrs. Qieers. 
 
 "Delighted." 
 
 The chauffeur carried into the tiny hall a fine suitcase, 
 and was instructed to drive the car to a garage. 
 
 "It's a lovely car," said Mrs. Cheers. 
 
 "What's yours, Mrs. Cheers?" 
 
 "We haven't got one yet. The tri-car is still going." 
 
 Shafto stared at her in stupefaction. 
 
 "Not got a car?" 
 
 "We can't quite afford a good car, and Simon won't have 
 a cheap one." 
 308 
 
Bulwinkle & Co. 
 
 Suddenly he saw that Simon was winking both eyes at 
 him. Shafto asked no more questions till he found himself 
 alone with his host. Then he said, sharply: 
 
 "Why can't you afford a car?" 
 
 "Emmeline doesn't know.'* 
 
 "Great Scot!" 
 
 "She ought to know, of course ; but I funked telling her. 
 It meant — changes." 
 
 "I should just think it did!" 
 
 "I told you that we were very happy, that we didn't 
 want changes." 
 
 Shafto laughed ironically. 
 
 "Why say 'we' ? My good fellow, if you are cocksure 
 that your wife really shares your views, there is even less 
 sense in hiding this thing from her. But you aren't sure. 
 I see that in your eye. Own up !" 
 
 "I am sure that she is happy as we are; that any 
 change would make her less happy, particularly a very big 
 change." 
 
 "You know her better, I expect, than she knows herself ?" 
 
 "Perhaps I do." 
 
 "She'll give you beans, old man, when she does find out 
 the truth. Lordy! But what a game! Do you sit there 
 and tell me that nobody knows?" 
 
 "Not a living soul in Easthampton except you." 
 
 "Not Bulwinkle?" 
 
 "Why should I tell him?" 
 
 "Because it would annoy him, humble him, deflate him." 
 
 "Three excellent reasons for holding my tongue." 
 ■"But — hang it all! Sooner or later " 
 
 "Better later than sooner." 
 
 Shafto perceived that argument would be wasted. He 
 stared at Simon, whistling a Httle tune, but thinking of 
 Mrs. Cheers, now busily engaged in adding something to 
 
 309 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 the Sunday bill of fare. He thought also of Bulwinkle as 
 he hoped to see him one day — deflated. It was exasperat- 
 ing to reflect that such deflation might never take place. 
 
 Ill 
 
 At the midday dinner the talk touched lightly upon many 
 topics before it settled on that massive subject of the King, 
 Mrs. Bulwinkle. Shafto heard of the country seat, and a 
 garden which exacted four gardeners and a boy. 
 
 "Hunting trouble," remarked Simon. 
 
 He hoped that the w4fe would endorse this draft upon 
 her confidence. To his chagrin she dishonoured it on pres- 
 entation, murmuring guilelessly : 
 
 **I have always longed for a larger garden." 
 
 "And — anything else?" inquired Tom. The table was so 
 small and cosy that he managed to kick Simon under it. 
 Mrs. Cheers did not answer, so Tom continued: 
 
 "A large garden, Mrs. Cheers, generally includes a large 
 house." 
 
 "And a lot of lazy servants eating their ugly heads 
 off," said Simon, almost viciously. 
 
 "It must be nice to have a big, airy dining-room," mur- 
 mured Emmeline. "Small dining-rooms get so smelly." 
 
 Tom, the hardened sinner, chuckled. 
 
 "Mrs. Bulwinkle says " Emmeline went on. 
 
 "Bother Mrs. Bulwinkle !" cried Simon. 
 
 "By all means," said Shafto ; "but let us hear what she 
 says." He turned politely to his hostess. 
 
 "Mrs. Bulwinkle says that wealth enlarges one's circle, 
 whereas poverty diminishes it. Sim and I live in rather a 
 small circle." 
 
 Tom said, carelessly: 
 310 
 
Bulwinkle & Co. 
 
 "Is Mrs. Bulwinkle a great friend of yours?" 
 
 "She never dropped me, Mr. Shafto." 
 
 "As she did others," snapped Simon. 
 
 "Oh, Sim!" 
 
 "She comes here," said Simon, giving rein to his irri- 
 tation, "to flaunt her money in Emmeline's face. Every- 
 thing she buys she shows to Emmeline. Pah !" 
 
 "Sim, dear, I have never seen you so ruffled." 
 
 Simon pulled himself together, and became at once the 
 smiling, genial host. Presently Emmeline retired, leaving 
 the men with a decanter of port, and some cigars which 
 belonged to Shafto. As soon as they were alone, Shafto 
 said, curtly — 
 
 "It's a monstrous shame." 
 
 "What is, Tom?" 
 
 "Denying your dear wife the satisfaction of soaring 
 above Mrs. Bulwinkle." 
 
 Simon sipped his wine, but did not enjoy it. His rosy 
 face became clouded. Tom continued, fluently: 
 
 "I made my will the other day, Sim." 
 
 "Did you ?" 
 
 "I've left every bob to you, old man." 
 
 "You're joking." 
 
 "Not I. I've no kin to care about. I told you once that 
 I wanted to make you rich ; and I meant it. You are rich, 
 and when I turn up my toes you'll be richer than half a 
 dozen Bulwinkles, but you ain't grateful. Not a bit." 
 
 "Hope you'll outlive me," said Simon. 
 
 "I may or I may not. In any case, it's mighty plain that 
 your wife does not quite share your quixotic views about 
 money. She could do with a bit more." 
 
 Simon nodded helplessly. 
 
 "Be a man, and give her what she wants." 
 
 "But I can't bring myself to tell her." 
 
 311 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 "Let me tell her," said Shafto, eagerly. "It would give 
 me the sincerest pleasure to do so. I'll choose the right 
 moment, and I'll cover you v^ith glory." 
 
 "All right," said Simon, gloomily. 
 
 "I'd like to tell Bulwinkle, too." 
 
 "You can." 
 
 "Done !" 
 
 IV 
 
 Opinions may differ as to whether Tom Shafto was jus- 
 tified in choosing the moment that he did to enlighten Mrs. 
 Cheers and Mr. Bulwinkle. He said afterwards, with an 
 unregenerate chuckle, that his hand had been forced. Ad- 
 mittedly, he had a sense of the dramatic. Also, he had 
 drunk three glasses of port, and was feeling, as he put it, 
 full of beans. By the luck of things, moreover, Mr. and 
 Mrs. Bulwinkle dropped in to tea, looking aggressively 
 prosperous. Bulwinkle had forgotten his shabby visitor, or 
 shall we say that he was unable to identify him with the 
 smiling, well-dressed managing director of a booming busi- 
 ness? 
 
 His heavy jaw fell at least two inches when Simon pre- 
 sented Mr. Thomas Shafto. A furtive glance at his wife 
 was not lost upon the astute Tom, who divined that Mrs. 
 Bulwinkle had never been informed of the vast fortune 
 which her husband had let slip between his thick fingers. 
 Said Tom, pleasantly : 
 
 "We've met before, Mr. Bulwinkle." 
 
 He looked at Mrs. Bulwinkle and smiled. The august 
 lady smiled in return, much impressed by Tom's easy man- 
 ner. She decided that he must be "county." 
 
 "Yes, yes," she purred; "at Sir Orlando Dampney's, I 
 think?" 
 
 312 
 
Bulwinkle & Co. 
 
 Sir Orlando was a county magnate. Not till very re- 
 cently had Mrs. Bulwinkle been deemed worthy of an in- 
 vitation to a garden party at Dampney Park. 
 
 ''No," said Tom, sweetly. "Mr. Bulwinkle and I met 
 in his office. I offered him a half interest in the Shafto 
 turbine for three hundred pounds. He glanced at my draw- 
 ings and saw nothing in them, but they would have been 
 worth to him to-day a trifle over two hundred thousand 
 pounds." 
 
 He laughed. Mr. Bulwinkle's complexion deepened in 
 tint. Mrs. Bulwinkle said, icily: 
 
 "Indeed !" 
 
 Skilfully, Tom changed the talk to gardens. 
 
 "I ought to have a first-class gardener. Do you know 
 of one, Mrs. Bulwinkle?" 
 
 Simon gasped. Tom, he knew, lived in a London flat. 
 
 Mrs. Bulwinkle nodded majestically. 
 
 "We have an excellent man, a Scotchman. He came from 
 the Marquess of Mel, with the highest character. He may 
 know of somebody. It's such a comfort to feel assured that 
 one's grapes will not disgrace one. And carnations! Our 
 last man was so unlucky with his carnations. Emmeline, 
 dear, don't be tempted to try carnations !" 
 
 Simon said, derisively : 
 
 "Emily prefers carrots. We had some young ones for 
 dinner to-day. Delicious !" 
 
 "Dinner?" Mrs. Bulwinkle raised her handsome brows. 
 "Of course ! How stupid of me ! It is so nice of you two 
 dears to dine on Sunday in the middle of the day." 
 
 "We can't do otherwise with only two servants." 
 
 "Quite — quite. I had forgotten." 
 
 In a voice which surprised everybody except Tom Shaf- 
 to, Simon said, sharply: 
 
 "Do you want more than two, Emmy? Would you like 
 
 3^3 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 a butler and a brace of footmen, and three in the kitchen, 
 and four housemaids, and a lady's-maid ? Would you ?" 
 
 Emmeline appeared slightly disconcerted. 
 
 "I— d-d-don't know." 
 
 "Emmy likes housekeeping," affirmed Simon ; "don't you, 
 dear?" 
 
 "Sometimes," she replied, guardedly. 
 
 "Nobody likes it," rumbled Bulwinkle. "Women do it 
 because they have to. The right sort, like Mrs. Cheers, do 
 it well, and make no complaints. The missis and I pigged 
 it once. Small house, half the size of this. And we made 
 the best of it, too. But she loathed it." 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Bulwinkle, viciously. She was angry 
 with her husband for alluding to that ignoble past. Simon 
 jumped up, glaring at Mrs. Bulwinkle. 
 
 "Perhaps you did," he jerked out; "but my wife is dif- 
 ferent. She loves the home I've made for her." 
 
 "Yes," said Emmeline. 
 
 Bulwinkle laughed scornfully. Everybody, except Tom 
 Shafto, was more or less on edge. 
 
 "Let's have the truth," he snorted. "Let's face the facts. 
 I hate humbug. You're an honest woman, Mrs. Cheers, and 
 we're old friends. Sim here has only one fault that I 
 know of. He lacks ginger. I've often wondered whether 
 you really thought as he did. Now, do you? If old Sim 
 were rich, wouldn't you like it ?" 
 
 "No, she wouldn't," said Simon. 
 
 "You shut up, Sim ! I'm addressing your wife." 
 
 Mrs. Cheers blushed, meeting the pitying glance of the 
 rich woman, the cold eyes that challenged her to speak the 
 truth if she dared. 
 
 She answered : 
 
 "Dear Sim, I— I think I should like it." 
 
 "Good !" exclaimed Tom Shafto. 
 314 
 
Bulwinkle & Co. 
 
 He rose up, tall and gaunt, dominating the others with 
 his eyes, his thin hands, and his deep voice. 
 
 "Sim is rich!" he declared. 
 
 Simon glanced at Emmeline, but she was staring at Tom 
 Shafto with an odd, dilated expression about her kind eyes 
 which he had never remarked before. Bulwinkle and his 
 Louisa were staring also at Tom, open-eyed and open- 
 mouthed, unable for the moment to apprehend this amazing 
 declaration, although tremendously impressed by it. 
 
 Tom added an effective touch. 
 
 ''Old Sim," he repeated, ''is very rich !" 
 
 Now Tom ought to have concentrated his attention upon 
 the Bulwinkles, because we know that he wished to score 
 heavily at the stockbroker's expense. But he forgot their 
 existence for the moment, being fascinated by what he read 
 upon the artless face gazing so strangely into his. Tom had 
 suffered during his life from ill-health, from poverty, and 
 from what, perhaps, inflicts the greatest pain of all — cumu- 
 lative disappointments. None of the many inventions of 
 this clever man had been successful except his wonderful 
 turbine. Because he had suffered, he was able to detect 
 the signs of suffering in others. In a flash it was revealed 
 to him that Sim's wife, gentle creature, had been tormented 
 by this vulgar, purse-proud, blatant woman. And Emmy 
 had endured ten thousand odious comparisons for the sake 
 of Simon, who remained guilelessly insensible of her humili- 
 ations. A well-worn Latin tag came into his mind: Gutta 
 cavat lapidem non vi, sed saepe cadendo ! Yes ; her fond 
 heart had been worn away by this interminable trickle of 
 pity and patronage. 
 
 "Very rich?" repeated Bulwinkle, hoarsely. 
 
 Tom turned to him. 
 
 "A millionaire in the possession of his wife, Mr. Bul- 
 winkle." 
 
 315 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 Bulwinkle's congested face expressed momentary relief. 
 He nodded ponderously, and broke into a laugh. 
 
 *'Yes, yes; very neat. Couldn't have put it better my- 
 self." 
 
 "Sim is rich, also," continued Tom, addressing Bulwinkle, 
 "in a sense which you can more easily understand and ap- 
 preciate. He owns what I do, a one-quarter interest in the 
 Shafto turbine, the interest which I offered to you, Mr. 
 Bulwinkle. At my request" — Tom was an accomplished liar 
 — "Sim has allowed me to break this news to all of you, 
 and especially to his wife. He has hidden, at what cost 
 to himself you can guess, this secret from Mrs. Cheers, be- 
 cause he was afraid to raise false hopes in her tender bosom. 
 Not till quite recently was the commercial success of my 
 turbine assured. Sim felt, perhaps, that he owed this to me, 
 this gratification, this immense gratification of being able to 
 tell his wife, and his partner, and his wife's friend, of the 
 good fortune which has come to him so suddenly. He is 
 rich, and he will be much richer, for I have left to him 
 my fortune also, and I shall not make old bones. Let us 
 congratulate these two dear people." 
 
 "Is this true?" gasped Bulwinkle. 
 
 "Yes," replied Sim. 
 
 But Simon Cheers was right. Riches brought many things 
 to him and his wife, but the simple happiness born of 
 contentment and freedom from care was left behind in 
 Wistaria Cottage. 
 
 316 
 
XIX 
 
 DOG-LEG RAPIDS 
 
 YOUNG JOE was a trapper. His father, Old Joe, whose 
 memory is still green up and down the river, was a 
 trapper before him. Father and son were accounted 
 'lucky." But Old Joe spent his money, whereas Young 
 Joe saved nearly every dollar he made. Old Joe had been 
 "one of the boys"; Young Joe wore the blue ribbon of a 
 stainless and abstemious life. 
 
 From this brief statement of fact it may be inferred that 
 Young Joe's solemn declaration that he meant to "quit the 
 woods and git married" aroused more excitement amongst 
 the girls than it did amongst the boys of Dog-leg. 
 
 "He won't git no girl," said one of the boys. 
 
 A sage answered the rash prophet: — 
 
 "That is whar you show yer cussed ignerunce of fe- 
 males. They prefer these quiet, mealy-mouthed fellers 
 every time. I reckon it ter be the motherin' instinct. Some 
 mighty nice purty girl'll up an' marry Young Joe, jest be- 
 cause he looks an' acts as if he was Mary's little lamb." 
 
 "Wal, mebbe some peaky-faced, cow-hocked, flat-chested 
 schoolmarm'U take pity on him." 
 
 "My son — yer way off agen. Young Joe'll pick a peach." 
 
 Very soon it became known that Young Joe was courting 
 Euphemia Biddle, only child of Josiah Biddle, ex-timber 
 cruiser and proprietor of the Biddle House, Dog-leg, Ore- 
 gon. 
 
 The audacity of this courtship simply confounded the stal- 
 wart lumbermen of Dog-leg. Matrimonially considered, 
 
 317 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 Pheenie was the prize-packet of the township — pretty, 
 petite, and pert. Mr. Biddle regarded her, very properly, 
 as the apple of his eye. And, in the fulness of time, the 
 Biddle House and other valuable property would belong to 
 Pheenie. 
 
 She had many suitors, but we are concerned in this nar- 
 rative with two : Young Joe and Shorty Sissons, called 
 "Shorty" because he was six foot two in his stockings 
 and a big bull of a man. Young Joe may be envisaged as 
 his antithesis in all things. 
 
 At first Shorty treated the affair from a humorous point 
 of view. 
 
 "Young Joe," he remarked, "is after a fine pelt. I'd jest 
 as lief he did monkey around Pheenie, because he'll keep 
 likelier fellers off the grass. If he gets het up any, Fll hev 
 to talk to Young Joe." 
 
 "He ain't no talker, anyway," said a friend. 
 
 This was true. Young Joe, like most trappers, had the 
 great gift of silence. For many months each year he 
 tended his traps alone. When he paddled down river into 
 the haunts of men, with his pelts piled high in the stern 
 of the canoe, he would nod his head in passing and smile. 
 After the sale of his pelts, when accosted cheerily in the 
 market-place by would-be burners of another's oil, he would 
 smile as before and go his way — to the local bank. Speak- 
 ing ornithologically, with a flying reference to migrating 
 birds, he may be said to have had a sense of direction. He 
 held warily aloof from crowds. 
 
 His wonderful gift of silence may have attracted Phee- 
 nie, who could wag a lively tongue. She became aware 
 of his long, penetrating glances. When she asked, coquet- 
 tishly, "What you think about all the time?" he replied, 
 curtly, "You." 
 
 The monosyllable sank deep into Pheenie's heart. She 
 
 318 
 
Dog-Leg Rapids 
 
 divined somehow that Shorty's thoughts were concentrated 
 upon Mr. Sissons. As much, and more, could be said of 
 his talk. Shorty, according to himself, had done great deeds 
 on a score of rivers, and was now boss of the biggest 
 logging camp in the county. He assured her that he could 
 lick his weight in wild cats, and Pheenie never doubted it. 
 Whenever she looked at this big, black mountain of a man 
 she felt absurdly small and frail. She was aware that he 
 dominated her, that he regarded her as his for the asking, 
 and that her father — just such another giant — approved the 
 match. Mr. Biddle spoke derisively of Young Joe. 
 
 "Why docs he come around ?" he asked Pheenie. 
 
 "You ask him," suggested Pheenie. 
 
 "Is he huntin' trouble with Shorty?" 
 
 "I reckon you mean that Mr. Sissons'll make trouble with 
 a man half his size." 
 
 "Young Joe ain't a man — not what I call a man." 
 
 "He don't act like some men. He ain't everlastin'ly 
 braggin' 'bout what he kin do; he ain't the rip-roaringest 
 male in creation. I'll own up that what he doesn't say in- 
 terests me more'n Mr. Sissons' remarks. He's gittin' the 
 habit o' repeating himself." 
 
 "Meanin' ?" 
 
 "Jest that. I'm tired o' hearin' the same old tune." 
 
 Mr. Biddle stared hard at his daughter. When he spoke 
 he was almost inarticulate with surprise. 
 
 "Say, Pheenie, you ain't gone back on Shorty, her ye?" 
 
 "He fatigues me awful, that's all." 
 
 "You don't want him around?" 
 
 "I do not." 
 
 At this moment business summoned Mr. Biddle to his 
 bar. He was so dazed that he handed out his own particular 
 bottle of whisky instead of the special brand provided for 
 ordinary customers. 
 
 319 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 He noticed Shorty sitting in a corner of the room chew- 
 ing and smoking a ten-cent cigar. Presently he joined them. 
 Shorty began to eat his cigar faster than usual; otherwise 
 he made no sign. Mr. Biddle said, pleasantly: 
 
 "How you makin' it, Shorty?" 
 
 Shorty removed what was left of the cigar from his large 
 mouth and expectorated freely. 
 
 "I'm snowed in," he replied. Then he added, with in- 
 vincible optimism, "Temporarily." 
 
 Mr. Biddle remarked, casually: 
 
 "A bold game pays." 
 
 "Not always. Not with all females. Some on 'em hates 
 nice fresh meat and has an onnateral hankerin' fer ice- 
 cream. They kin be made to see the fullishness o' sech 
 tastes, but it takes time to train 'em, and what worries me 
 is — hev I the time ter spare?" 
 
 He gazed sorrowfully at Mr. Biddle, who said, firmly: 
 
 "I allow that ye hev." 
 
 Shorty murmured, gloomily : 
 
 "I ain't huntin' trouble with Young Joe. I look over his 
 head, an' to the right an' left of the leetle cuss when we 
 happen together, but he's too small fer me to man-handle. 
 Anyways, that's how I feel about Young Joe." 
 
 "Sech feelin's does you credit." 
 
 Shorty continued : 
 
 "It's up to you, as Pheenie's father, to try out Young 
 Joe." 
 
 "Up to mer 
 
 "In Pheenie's eyes, he's — IT, the biggest thing in Dog- 
 leg. She sees him with the patent magnifyers o' female 
 affection. If you could make Pheenie see Young Joe as he 
 is, if you could hang him up ter dry on yer clothes-line as 
 a warnin' to all chicken-livered dwarfs an' dudes ter keep 
 outer yer home-pasture, I should be obligated some." 
 320 
 
Dog-Leg Rapids 
 
 "Chicken-livered?" 
 
 ''You wasn't on to that? Yes, sir, Young Joe ain't got 
 no sand. He's a river-man, but you ask him to run yer 
 rapids." 
 
 "I will," said Mr. Biddle. 
 
 The Dog-leg Rapids began just below Mr. Biddle's hotel, 
 and might be adequately described in toboggan terms as the 
 Cresta Run of the river. The broad stream flowing placidly 
 above the town here narrowed between high banks and then 
 boiled downwards in a succession of cascades beautiful to 
 behold but dangerous to navigate, because the river twisted 
 like a writhing snake. A nasty, ugly bit of water, where 
 in earlier days many a man had met his death. 
 
 Mr. Biddle spoke to Young Joe that same evening. He 
 found the trapper alone with Pheenie in the parlour, and the 
 lights were burning low. The father, however, could see 
 plainly that his daughter's eyes were shining, and upon the 
 impassive face of the trapper lurked the ghost of a smile. 
 Young Joe said, quietly : 
 
 "Mr. Biddle, Pheenie and I have fixed things to git 
 married, if you've no objection." 
 
 **You calcilate to take Pheenie on yer trips?" 
 "I calcilate to buy a half-interest in a small store that's 
 likely to grow bigger." 
 "Here in Dog-leg?" 
 "Yep." 
 
 Mr. Biddle looked unhappy. Pheenie, so to speak, was 
 more than a daughter. Outside of the bar, she "ran" the 
 hotel, reigning supreme in kitchen and dining-room. She 
 earned good money that her father kept in his own posses- 
 sion. He would have affirmed — to do him justice — that he 
 was "saving" many dollars for his only child. Under the 
 softening influence of his own brand of whisky he had said 
 
 321 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 as much many times. He could hardly envisage life with- 
 out Pheenie. He remarked, not too discreetly: 
 
 "Thar's others wants Pheenie, beside you." 
 
 "I know it. But Pheenie wants me." 
 
 "Yes," murmured Pheenie. 
 
 Mr. Biddle then said, solemnly: 
 
 "This yere is a wild country, and it takes a man as is 
 a man to look after a woman." 
 
 Young Joe remained silent; Pheenie glanced at him, 
 and took up the cudgels. 
 
 "Air you hintin' that my Joe ain't a man?" 
 
 "He ain't bin tried, Pheenie." 
 
 "Mr. Shorty Sissons has, an' convicted too !" 
 
 This was the unhappy truth, and Mr. Biddle knew it. 
 Shorty, in a too hot youth, had served a term in the State 
 penitentiary for manslaughter. But the fact that he was 
 quick with his gun was not reckoned a disability in lumber- 
 camps. Mr. Biddle knew, moreover, that Young Joe walked 
 the green earth unarmed and defenceless. To draw a pistol 
 on him and use it meant murder — in the first degree. The 
 blustering Shorty was well aware of this. Young Joe said, 
 hesitatingly : 
 
 "Do you want ter try me, Mr. Biddle?" 
 
 "Yes, young man, I do. You've bin up an' down our 
 river considerable, but Pve yet to learn that you've run 
 Dog-leg Rapids. It takes sand ter do that." 
 
 Young Joe answered, politely : 
 
 "I aim ter take no unnecessary chances. My father used 
 to run Dog-leg because he had to. 'Twasn't a portage in 
 his days." 
 
 "Thet's so. But the boys around these parts run Dog- 
 leg fer fun." 
 
 "I see. You want me to risk my life — fer fun?" 
 
 222 
 
Dog-Leg Rapids 
 
 "]stq — fgj. pheenie. I ain't stuck on yer shape, but 
 Pheenie is." 
 
 "If I run Dog-leg, you give me Pheenie?" 
 
 "1 ain't his ter give, Joe. Don't you be flim-flammed into 
 this foolishness. Shorty Sissons put father on to this low- 
 down play. It's jest like him. It'd tickle him plum to 
 death ter see you drownding before his eyes. Now, don't 
 you give that mountain o' flesh the devilish satisfaction of 
 attendin' yer funeral." 
 
 Young Joe smiled at her, nodding his head. Then his 
 mild blue eyes met the congested orbs of Mr. Biddle. 
 
 "I'm scared of Dog-leg," he admitted ingenuously. 
 
 Mr. Biddle snorted. 
 
 "But I want Pheenie," continued Young Joe. "And 
 I want her to be married accordin' to Hoyle, from her 
 father's house and with his blessin'. I ain't askin' fer 
 more'n that." 
 
 "Wal, young feller, if you want the girl, you know 
 what ter do." 
 
 "Yep— and I'll do it." 
 
 Mr. Biddle frowned. 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "To-morrer." 
 
 Pheenie jumped up. Her eyes were sparkling ; her cheeks 
 glowed. Young Joe gazed at her in speechless admiration. 
 She spoke curtly to her sire. 
 
 "You mean this?" Mr. Biddle nodded, portentously. 
 "Yer a party to this put-up job?" He made no reply. The 
 girl waited a moment; then she said, grimly: 
 
 "I take a hand in this game. If Joe runs Dog-leg he must 
 take me with him. Kin you swim, Jodie ?" 
 
 "Yep." 
 
 "That's fine! I never learnt swimmin'. Mebbe, you'll 
 save my life. I'd love to hev you do it." 
 
 323 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 Let it be stated here that Mr. Biddle, according to his 
 lights, loved Pheenie. Let it be added that he had run 
 Dog-leg — once. More, he knew that Pheenie was quite as 
 obstinate as himself. These reflections passed swiftly 
 through his brain as he stared and glared at his daughter's 
 pretty face. Looking at that face, he remembered that two 
 years before he had helped to drag ashore what was left 
 of a young man who had tried to run Dog-leg — and failed. 
 He said, thickly : 
 
 "1 forbid that, child!" 
 
 Pheenie laughed derisively. 
 
 "You forbid your daughter to run risks which you ask 
 another man's son ter do — f er fun ?" 
 
 "Yer a woman ; he's a man." 
 
 "Yes, I'm a woman, and proud of it, because he's my 
 man. You'd better back down, father; mebbe a harder job 
 fer you than runnin' Dog-leg, but — if ye don't, if you stand 
 in with this big, blasphemin', murderin' scallywag, whom I 
 hate and despise, I stand in, too, with my Joe." 
 
 Mr. Biddle rose to his feet. It will never be known 
 whether or not he believed his daughter to be bluffing. He 
 said, with finality : 
 
 "You stand in — and be hanged to ye !" 
 
 Having played what he deemed to be a trump card, Mr. 
 Biddle retired majestically to bed. 
 
 Pheenie took tactical advantage of her sire's retreat by 
 occupying a frontal position on Young Joe's knee. With 
 her arms about his neck and her cheek against his, she mur- 
 mured, persuasively : 
 
 '7oe, dear, let's skin outer this. We kin be married to- 
 morrer morning." 
 
 Joe squeezed her to him. For a small man he had a very 
 satisfying grip. But he remained, as usual, almost exas- 
 peratingly silent. 
 324 
 
Dog-Leg Rapids 
 
 "What you say, Jodie?" 
 
 At that Young Joe laughed, and his laugh was pleasant 
 to hear. Pheenie, pondering many things in her heart, noted 
 the genuine mirth of her lover's laughter. Cowards, she 
 decided instantly, do not laugh at such moments. 
 
 "I tole a whoppin' lie jest now," said Joe. 
 
 "Mercy!" 
 
 "I ain't scared any of Dog-leg." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "I run Dog-leg — fer fun — two seasons back." 
 
 "You never told me." 
 
 "Pheenie, it was this way. I hated to brag about it, even 
 to you. And with the boys it was more so. See ?" 
 
 "I see. Oh, Joe, I do love you! You're my own little 
 man!" 
 
 Young Joe continued, thoughtfully : 
 
 "Dog-leg, to a river-man as knows his business, ain't what 
 it's cracked up ter be. That young feller yer dad snaked 
 out o' the rocks was plum full o' whisky afore he started. 
 I kin take you down, Pheenie, and I aim ter do it with the 
 hull town a-lookin' on. Then we'll be married in style, ac- 
 cordin' to Hoyle." 
 
 "I ain't scared," declared Pheenie. 
 
 "Honest! I'd be scared stiff if I thought you was. Phee- 
 nie, thar's another thing. Shorty brags that he's run Dog- 
 leg, but he's a liar, too." 
 
 "Sakes ! How you know that ?" 
 
 "Wal — I heard him tell how he done it. That was enough 
 fer me. He was just repeatin' what some other feller had 
 told him, and he got mixed in the details. When me and 
 you's run Dog-leg, I calcilate to hev some fun with Mister 
 Shorty Sissons." 
 
 Pheenie giggled. 
 
 Next morning the town heard part of the truth, enough 
 
 325 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 to excite the citizens of each sex. Pheenie's resolution to 
 share risks with the man of her choice brought many thirsty 
 souls to Mr. Biddle's bar. To all and sundry Mr. Biddle 
 imparted the gilt-edged information that, in his opinion, 
 Young Joe would back down at the last minute. Shorty 
 offered to bet many dollars upon this issue. His bets were 
 taken by a quiet trapper who knew Young Joe, and may 
 have been acting for him. Young Joe was seen on the 
 river in his own canoe, testing the toughness of a new pole. 
 The event — if it took place — was publicly announced as a 
 midday entertainment. At noon punctually Young Joe and 
 Pheenie would embark in the canoe. 
 
 At half-past eleven Mr. Biddle weakened. Love for an 
 only child triumphed over the coagulated obstinacy of a 
 lifetime. He took Pheenie aside and said, testily: 
 
 "You want Young Joe and, by Jing ! you kin hev him." 
 
 "I want more'n Joe." 
 
 "Meanin'?" 
 
 "I'm marryin' a man, and I want the hull world ter 
 know it." 
 
 "You'll git drownded — sure!" 
 
 "Mebbe. It's this a-way, father. I'd sooner drown with 
 Joe than live with any other man." 
 
 "Includin' me?" 
 
 "Yes — includin' you." 
 
 "You prefer that peaky- faced leetle runt to— me?" 
 
 "I do — for a stone-cold fact." 
 
 "He'll back down." 
 
 "If you was dead sure o' that, you'd feel a heap better'n 
 ye're lookin'. To make yer mind easier I'll tell ye this. 
 Joe kin do it, and he will do it, and I want to do it with 
 him. Seein' as business is so brisk this morning, I reckon 
 you'd better go back to the bar. One more pointer. Mr. 
 Z26 
 
Dog-Leg Rapids 
 
 Sissons is a particular friend of yours. See to it that he 
 don't swaller too much whisky before noon." 
 
 *'Why?" 
 
 "Fer reasons which I'm not at Uberty ter state." 
 
 Mr. Biddle returned to the bar, stupefied and quite in- 
 capable of putting his thoughts into words. But he be- 
 lieved (and hoped) with an ever-increasing conviction that 
 Young Joe's liver would be publicly displayed white as its 
 owner's blameless life. 
 
 At noon Pheenie and Joe stepped into the canoe. Phee- 
 nie, smiling pleasantly, sat down in the stern with her lover's 
 earnest injunction "not to budge." They slid out into the 
 stream. The crowd had collected farther down at the 
 worst Dog-leg turn. To compare once more these rapids 
 with the famous Cresta Run at St. Moritz, it will be eluci- 
 dating to speak of this particular twist in the river as "Shut- 
 tlecock." "Battledore," an easier turn, was higher up. 
 Below both lay a narrow passage, with fanged rocks on each 
 side. Below the passage again, in another bend of the river, 
 was the whirlpool with its dangerous undertow. From the 
 coign of vantage selected by the crowd a good view of these 
 four danger-spots could be obtained. 
 
 But those who had assembled in the expectation of wit- 
 nessing either a ridiculous fiasco or a bad accident were 
 sadly disappointed. Young Joe gave a flawless perform- 
 ance. When he stepped ashore, to be acclaimed with ring- 
 ing cheers, there may have been three pints of water in 
 his canoe — not more. Indeed, the feat seemed so easy that 
 the many onlookers who were not river-men decided hastily 
 that the perils of Dog-leg had been grossly overrated. Mr. 
 Biddle shook hands with Young Joe, and said, pontifically : 
 
 "She's yours, my son." 
 
 At this moment Shorty approached Young Joe, and ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 327 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 "I couldn't hev done it slicker myself." 
 
 Young Joe, had he been as ingenuous and innocent as he 
 appeared, might have acclaimed in this speech some sports- 
 manlike feeling. He recognised, instead, what is called in 
 the West a ''gallery play." He knew, in every fibre of his 
 small, neat body, that this giant had deliberately plotted to 
 kill him. But he smiled as he repHed, not loudly, but very 
 clearly : 
 
 "Will you do it, Shorty?*' ^ 
 
 "How's that?" 
 
 "Will you run Dog-leg?" 
 
 Pheenie answered for the big fellow : 
 
 '*No— he won't!" 
 
 The crowd formed a circle round these three. For a 
 moment the silence became tense. Then Pheenie laughed. 
 
 Shorty may have been half -drunk, but he grasped the 
 sense of the situation. To refuse this challenge after Phee- 
 nie's laugh meant a headlong fall from a pinnacle of conceit 
 and self-advertisement. 
 
 He said, hoarsely, "O' course I'll do it." 
 
 "When?" asked Pheenie. 
 
 "Right now." 
 
 The fickle crowd applauded. The tension relaxed. To 
 anybody with Shorty's experience the running of Dog-leg 
 was a ha'penny matter. The river-men began to chaff the 
 big fellow. What girl would he ask to share his joy-ride? 
 And so forth. Young Joe, however, with the keen eye of a 
 trapper, marked signs which escaped the crowd — the shifty 
 glance, the pendulous lower lip, the "hunted" expression. 
 He said, quietly: 
 
 "Do it to-morrer, Shorty." 
 
 "Right now," repeated Mr. Sissons. 
 
 He strode off, followed by half a dozen friends. The 
 crowd moved slowly back to the bluff crowning the rapids. 
 328 
 
Dog-Leg Rapids 
 
 But Pheenie and Joe remained near the landing-place, just 
 below the whirlpool. 
 
 *'Vm kinder sorry," said Joe. 
 
 "I ain't," said Pheenie, fiercely. 
 
 Those on the bluff described more or less adequately what 
 followed. A canoe glided swiftly into "Battledore." Mere 
 gravitation carried it safely to the edge of ''Shuttlecock." 
 But here, where the river turned sharply, one — only one — 
 firm shove of the pole was necessary, where a rock starkly 
 rose out of mid-channel. And here — according to the testi- 
 mony of experts — Shorty made his first blunder. He pushed 
 too hard against the rock. The canoe raced into "Shuttle- 
 cock" slightly aslant, instead of straight. Mere balance, 
 bred by long experience, averted disaster, for the canoe was 
 rocking badly as it sped towards the narrow passage. Shorty, 
 stabbing with his pole, tried to steady his frail craft. The 
 canoe plunged, like a runaway horse. A synchronised gasp 
 of dismay came from the spectators. Mr. Biddle remarked, 
 oracularly : 
 
 "He's a goner." 
 
 It was obvious, even to the children present, that Shorty 
 had lost his head. Mere luck, toper's luck, carried him 
 through the narrows. The canoe must have grazed the 
 rocks a dozen times, but the volume of water held it on its 
 course. 
 
 The skirting of the whirlpool remained. 
 
 By this time the canoe was in sight of Young Joe and 
 Pheenie. It no longer floated like a dogwood petal upon the 
 maddened stream. Much water had been shipped, buoyancy 
 had gone. Young Joe shouted : 
 
 "Push for all yer worth!" 
 
 The roar of the falls was in Shorty's ears. If he heard, 
 he was too palsied by terror to act. He pushed feebly ; his 
 pole slipped; to the amazement of the beholders he fell 
 
 329 
 
Some Happenings 
 
 overboard, and the canoe, relieved of his weight, danced 
 blithely on upon a steadier keel. To use a phrase of the 
 hunting-field the boss of a big lumber-camp had "cut a 
 voluntary." But friends and enemies knew that he was a 
 powerful swimmer, well able to strike out boldly for the 
 shore. 
 
 Shorty made no such attempt. In falling overboard his 
 head must have struck a rock. His huge body rose to the 
 surface with no more initiative about it than a log. Young 
 Joe slipped off his coat. 
 
 "No — ye don't!" screamed Pheenie, clutching at him. 
 
 He said, sharply: 
 
 "We done it." 
 
 Then he tore himself loose and plunged into the river. 
 
 If the crowd thirsted for excitement, that lust was likely 
 to be gratified. Time became the essense of the situation. 
 Could Young Joe reach Shorty before he was sucked into 
 the whirlpool? No human being could escape alive from 
 the clutch of that. Joe shot across the stream, using the 
 side-stroke. Shorty sank. Was he sucked under? Joe 
 dived for him. 
 
 And then a great shout went up from the bluff. Joe 
 appeared with his quarry. He turned upon his back, grasp- 
 ing Shorty's huge head with his hands, holding him be- 
 tween his knees. Inch by inch, skill and courage prevailed. 
 Another shout, louder than the first, died away amongst the 
 tops of the spruces. Pheenie discovered that she was shed- 
 ding the gladdest tears of her life. 
 
 But later, when she whispered proudly, "Oh, Jodie, I'm 
 ever so glad you saved him!" Young Joe said, with a hu- 
 mour wasted upon his future wife, "Why, Pheenie, if I 
 hadn't, could I hev collected them bets?" 
 
 330 
 
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