UC SOUl 
 
 << 
 
 
 — s 
 
 
 
 0=1 
 
 1 — S 
 
 
 
 4^1 
 
 
 ? ^ 
 
 
 
 9 ^^? 
 
 
 — ^— ■> 
 
 
 8 5 
 
 
 
 FACILI 
 (MO) 
 
 
 L 
 
 ■ 
 
 ■ . =^ 
 
 ■ 
 
 ^ItU
 
 Jin
 
 MERE SENTIMENT
 
 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 BY A. J. DAWSON 
 
 JOHN LANE: THE BODLEY HEAD 
 LONDON AND NEW YORK, 1897
 
 Edinburgh : T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty
 
 THE AUTHOR SENDS GREETINGS TO 
 A CHILD, AND TO A FEW MEN AND 
 WOMEN NOW ON CERTAIN OF THE 
 world's BEACHES, AND ELSEWHERE; 
 EPISODES IN WHOSE LIVES ARE HEREIN 
 TOUCHED UPON
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 WATTLE- WORSHIP, 
 
 IN THK CLEAR PATCH, 
 
 THE IDEALIST GLUT. . 
 
 QUEEN GUINIVIERE, . 
 
 THE QUEEN OF AJASSA SIDF, 
 
 MADGE, .... 
 
 A POET OK THE BUSH, 
 
 NARITA, .... 
 
 MAGDALEN WILMORE's LOVE-STORY, 
 
 WHERE THE SEA IS DEAD, 
 
 MOTHER Carey's chickens 
 
 THE THRESHOLD, 
 
 
 PACE 
 
 • 
 
 I 
 
 
 13 
 
 
 35 
 
 
 45 
 
 
 . 64 
 
 
 ■ 7S 
 
 
 119 
 
 
 128 
 
 ORY, 
 
 • 143 
 
 
 • 153 
 
 
 • 159 
 
 
 . 215
 
 WATTLE-WORSH IP 
 
 ' Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees 
 (If our loves remain), 
 In an English lane, 
 
 By a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies, 
 Hark, those two in the hazel coppice — 
 A boy and a girl, if the good fates please, 
 Making love, say, — 
 The happier they I 
 
 Draw yourself up from the light of the moon, 
 And let them pass, as they will too soon, 
 With the bean-flowers' boon, 
 And the blackbird's tune, 
 And May, and June ! ' 
 
 Robert Browning. 
 
 Men who liked Hatton Valyard at Oxford, said 
 he was eccentric. Men who disliked him, then 
 and when he left the university, affirmed that he 
 was mad, Valyard was not liked by many people, 
 and his own family — the Catholic Valyards of 
 Shropshire, not the Cumberland family — positively 
 hated him. They objected, for one thing, to his 
 calling himself a Buddhist ; but that about the 
 man which they most disliked, was his obvious 
 and utter indifference as to whether they liked 
 him or not. 
 
 Complete as was apparently this indifference, it 
 A
 
 2 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 was, notwithstanding, an affectation, assumed by 
 Valyard to hide his real feeling, which was active 
 dislike of his own people. Yet there were people 
 who were more than attached to Hatton Valyard 
 — people of whom he was devotedly fond ; and 
 to no person, and to no thing, was the man really 
 indifferent. 
 
 He spent a year in London after leaving the 
 university, and then, one Saturday morning, his 
 mother in Shropshire received a telegram which 
 read thus : ' Am sailing to-day in steamer Rondo 
 for Ceylon and the South, Good-bye ! Hatton,' 
 
 For a year he flitted about amongst Buddhist 
 temples in the East, But, though the scented 
 brilliancy of Asia appealed strongly to the 
 romantic side of the man's nature, he was yet 
 unsatisfied, and found no rest. Then, after some 
 months spent in the Samoan group, Valyard 
 wandered on to Australia ; and in Brisbane, 
 shortly after his arrival there, I met him. 
 
 Old Vivian, the millionaire squatter of Tumal, 
 was in town then, and knowing that he was a 
 man of old Shropshire Catholic family, I intro- 
 duced him to Valyard at the club. The two 
 strangely different men seemed rather drawn 
 towards each other, and before the end of that 
 week Valyard had accepted old Vivian's invita- 
 tion to run down with him to the southern 
 border-line, and spend a week or so at ' Cootra,' 
 his Tumal cattle-station. The Oxford man left 
 Brisbane with Vivian, and of what happened him 
 in the South I learned partly from what I saw,
 
 WATTLE- WORSHIP 3 
 
 partly from old Vivian, and partly from Vivian's 
 beautiful daughter, Jasmine. 
 
 Hatton Valyard loved beauty, as some men 
 are said to love goodness ; but his love was some- 
 thing he breathed and felt. He worshipped 
 Nature as some men worship women ; but into 
 his worship there crept no reactionary intervals 
 of blasphemy. So when, early on a spring-time 
 evening, he arrived at Cootra by the Tumal 
 coach, he was fascinated, and his ecstasy of Bush 
 love began. 
 
 The Tumal country is not really the Bush, but 
 a delicate tracery of that great, grey wilderness ; 
 set in a jewelled frame, and tinted, in his most 
 voluptuous moments, by Nature's art instructor. 
 Swaying creepers, bearing brilliant blossoms, take 
 the place in Tumal of the grey, hanging bark of 
 the Bush ; thick, luscious grasses strangle each 
 other in Tumal, where dead twigs and crackling 
 leaves carpet the Bush ; the dreamy hum of lazy 
 insects, and the love-bird's throbbing cry, fill the 
 place of the sad hush of the wilderness ; and 
 what the scraggy gum and the sombre black-butt 
 are to the Bush, the vivid cactus and the tender 
 wattle are to the Tumal district. So Valyard 
 bared his head in loving reverence, and was faint 
 with the sweetness of it all before he reached the 
 Cootra homestead. 
 
 Rain had been falling all through the afternoon 
 of that day, and only had ceased during the last 
 half-hour of daylight, when all the country's face 
 lay flushed in blushes, under the lusty kisses of
 
 4 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 the setting sun. The bark of the great, whisper- 
 ing cedars was sodden, and threw out rich perfume 
 into air already heavy with the fragrance of 
 kyok-blossom, wattle-clusters, and the soft black- 
 ness of the Bush night. The very body of Mother 
 Earth, yielding springily to iron-shod heels, seemed 
 to proclaim its gratitude for the loveliness of life ; 
 and, as Hatton Valyard rode across the Cootra 
 home-paddock by the side of his host, a soft 
 breeze caressed idly the hair which lay upon his 
 forehead, whilst all the mental sensuality of the 
 man throbbed its response to the rich, vivid 
 beauty of his surroundings. 
 
 And then he met Jasmine Vivian, the beautiful 
 daughter of his host. 
 
 Jasmine's hair was not blue-black, but gleam- 
 ingly black, like the dark stripes of a Bengal tiger. 
 Her skin had the damp freshness of a custard- 
 apple that has been plucked soon after dawn. 
 Her eyes, though changing in different lights, 
 were really the colour of beaten gold, and mar- 
 vellously expressive. Her figure was a poem of 
 sensuousness, and, in its movements, lithe as a 
 carpet-snake's. 
 
 The hand she held out in greeting to her 
 father's friend, as she met him on the homestead 
 verandah, was warm and moist ; and Hatton 
 Valyard, looking at her through a mist of Nature- 
 worship, was positively frightened by Jasmine's 
 exquisite animalism. The lush, yet tender beauty 
 of the idyl of Bush scenery through which he 
 had been riding was, to the man, Nature ethereal-
 
 W A T T L E - W O R S H i P 5 
 
 ised, and something before which he reverently 
 bared his head. The girl whose hand he now took, 
 seemed to represent beauty that was more per- 
 fect, and yet was that of the animal against that 
 of the spirit. So Valyard, fascinated, trembled, as 
 much in fear as an antelope might be, trembling 
 in the bright light of a rattlesnake's eyes. And 
 the girl felt drawn towards her father's friend, 
 first, because he was remarkably handsome, and 
 again, because she saw in the moment during 
 which their eyes met for the first time, that 
 Valyard realised the full extent of her beauty as 
 men she had been brought up amongst did not 
 realise it. 
 
 During the two days which followed this meet- 
 ing, Jasmine was annoyed to find that she would 
 be unable to see anything of Hatton Valyard. 
 Her father had arranged some time before that 
 she should spend these two days at the homestead 
 of a neighbour, some twenty-odd miles away. So 
 she drove away from Cootra on the morning after 
 her father's return home, and before the visitor 
 left his room. She told herself that on her return 
 she would learn to know Hatton Valyard the 
 more quickly for this. 
 
 Beautiful Jasmine was wrong in telling herself 
 this, for she was leaving a man already dazed 
 in the fascination of the Tumal Bush — leaving 
 him to strengthen the clinging tendrils of his own 
 thraldom. She did not recognise then, that there 
 were two high altars in the temple in which 
 Valyard's nature worshipped, in which Valyard
 
 6 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 was a fanatic. Both altars represented beauty ; 
 but one was of the spiritual and ideal, and the 
 other was of the animal and actual — one of scents, 
 and shades, and misty outlines ; the other of 
 breath, and colour, and rounded curves. Jasmine 
 was the embodied realisation of one ; the Tumal 
 Bush was the heightened, perfected representa- 
 tion of the other. 
 
 And Jasmine was obliged to go away. 
 
 Chance directed that old Vivian should be a 
 good deal occupied with the erection of new 
 wool-sheds on his run ; and so Valyard, with a 
 couple of native boys and half a dozen horses at 
 his command, was left to amuse himself. At 
 another time the man would have been annoyed 
 by the suggestion of Kismet in these things, and 
 would have taken a pleasure in working out his 
 life in a contrary direction. Now, he saw nothing 
 but the sweet, luscious greenness of the Bush ; 
 heard nothing save the languid rustling of the 
 golden wattle-clusters, in the great privacy of 
 the Bush ; felt nothing save the worshipping mad- 
 ness, the trance-like fascination, which all this 
 moist tangle of wild tenderness drew from him 
 and flung over him. 
 
 He rode out in the morning with a black boy 
 at his side, and revelled all through the hot, 
 throbbing day, in the beauty of the country 
 round Cootra. He returned in the evening be- 
 cause the native boy led him to the homestead ; 
 and afterwards, when Vivian dozed on the big 
 verandah, Valyard rode out again into the per-
 
 WATTLE-WORSHIP 7 
 
 fumed night, drinking in the hushed and silent 
 charm of a sleeping forest drenched in moon- 
 Ht dew. The day enthralled him. The night 
 made him drunk — drunk as the maddest Hindu 
 aesthete in all Asia. Old Vivian was too busy to 
 see, and would not have realised what the fana- 
 ticism meant, if his every waking moment had 
 been devoted to watching his friend. 
 
 Then, on the third evening, Jasmine, the beau- 
 tiful, golden-eyed panther, returned to Cootra, 
 wafting before her sprays of dainty femininity. 
 Valyard trembled when she touched him, and 
 drew the mantle of his Bush fanaticism closer 
 round him. In courtesy he could not leave her, 
 to take his evening ride ; but afterwards, alone, he 
 took a midnight walk, which saturated the very 
 fibre of his heart-strings with the intoxication of 
 half-peeled, dripping wattle-stems, cushioned cedar 
 bark, tremulous kyok-blossom, and the great, wet 
 leaves of the sassafras scrub. So, in the morning, 
 he listened with half-closed eyes to the subtle 
 music of Jasmine's voice. And the incense from 
 his other altar floating round him in a cloud, he 
 hardly saw the softly rounded curves, the caress- 
 ing lissomness, nor yet the sunrise splendour of 
 the golden eyes. 
 
 This disappointed Jasmine, and all the beautiful 
 panther in her swore to wake longing in his eyes. 
 But Valyard rode out after breakfast, whilst 
 Jasmine, in another room, sat planning out a day 
 they two should spend together. It was during 
 that morning's ride that Valyard met Vena ; and
 
 8 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 his fanaticism then made him drunk by dayh'ght 
 Any of the bullock-drivers camped round Cootra 
 could have told him, had he asked them, of the 
 queer, wild girl who lived alone in a humpy, 
 where, five years before, her father had died. 
 But nothing had led Valyard to ask, and so he 
 found Vena out himself — happened upon her in 
 the Bush, of which she had become a part. 
 
 Hatton Valyard rode that morning along the 
 rutty bullock-track which crosses the creek below 
 Cootra homestead, and leads away inward from 
 the coach-road to the last point from which timber 
 has been taken. Past this point the Englishman 
 rode on between tall, straight tree-trunks, noticing 
 at last that the bullock-track was gradually be- 
 coming a narrow bridle-path. Then, on a little 
 stony ridge, the foot of which was hidden by 
 young wattles, Valyard saw a small humpy, built 
 gunyah-wise, with slab sides, and a roof of stringy- 
 bark. 
 
 At the door of the humpy stood Vena, the 
 strangest-looking girl, rich in the weirdest kind 
 of beauty, and clad in the quaintest garb of semi- 
 savagedom, that Valyard's eyes had ever seen. 
 Ostensibly with a view to ascertaining his where- 
 abouts, he reined in his horse that he might look 
 at this human spirit of the Bush, with her long, 
 straight hair of the same golden yellow colour as 
 the wattle-clusters, her dark, hollow eyes wild as 
 a dingo's, and her thin, half-clad limbs, delicately 
 formed and graceful as a deer's. 
 
 As he forced his horse up the side of the ridge,
 
 WATTLE- WORSHIP 9 
 
 the girl lowered the small hand which had rested 
 on the door of her hut, and drew more closely 
 round her the wild-cat and 'possum skins of 
 which her garments seemed chiefly formed. 
 
 And when one of Vivian's men rode past the 
 ridge three hours later, driving stray bullocks, 
 he saw this strange couple seated together on a 
 fallen log, talking. 
 
 Valyard was late in returning to the homestead 
 that evening, and as he sat at dinner with his 
 host and his host's daughter, it seemed to Jasmine 
 that nothing she could do would pierce the cloud 
 of dreamy abstraction which hung about the man 
 like a pall. Later in the evening, after playing 
 German music to him in the big, dimly lighted 
 drawing-room, with its heavy cedar- beamed ceiling, 
 she sat beside him on the wide verandah, listen- 
 ing to the innumerable faint noises which make 
 one notice the silence of the night at Cootra. 
 Then she broke through Valyard's abstraction, 
 and his eyes glistened when her soft hand touched 
 his arm, to call his attention to some movement 
 in the scrub below the rails of the home paddock. 
 
 He talked to her of the Bush, and she sym- 
 pathised, till, leaning over her chair to emphasise 
 his words of love for the creepers and the wattles, 
 the sweetness of it all, blended with the perfume 
 rising from her hair ; and Valyard almost felt that 
 it was love of Jasmine he was telling. Later, the 
 Bush became something unreal and far away, 
 whilst the warm, soft something at his side, and 
 the fire in the golden eyes, was something very
 
 lo MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 real and near. And Valyard promised to ride 
 with Jasmine next day to a neighbouring station. 
 
 When morning came, however, the man woke 
 shortly after sunrise, and leaned far out of his bed- 
 room window, to touch with his finger-tips the 
 dripping, sparkling grass outside. Then he dressed 
 and wandered out with a bridle in his hand, down 
 across the dew-soaked paddock, to where three 
 horses grazed near the creek. One of these horses 
 he caught and bridled ; and then, without thinking 
 of saddle or spurs, he galloped off bareback, down 
 the sodden bullock-track to the humpy on the 
 little stony ridge, his Bush madness stronger on 
 him than ever. 
 
 Vena was not there, and Valyard shivered with 
 disappointment and dread, as he mounted his 
 pony again, and galloped on past where the 
 bullock-track became a bridle-path. Further and 
 further he galloped along into the Bush, until the 
 bridle-path gradually merged into a narrow 
 sheep-track. And then he found Vena, sitting 
 under a shelter of stringy-bark, at the foot of a 
 black-butt tree. The fresh dew of the morning 
 glittered in her wattle-coloured hair, and the deep, 
 passionless eyes were cool and wild as those of a 
 rock wallaby. 
 
 She said ' people had come ' to the other place, 
 and she would stay there no longer. Valyard 
 sighed, remembering that he was of the ' people.' 
 But he did not speak of love, because, though the 
 beauty of the Tumal Bush, and still more of the 
 Bush beyond, which Valyard did not know, was in
 
 WATTLE- WORSHIP n 
 
 Vena's thin, straight limbs, and wild, lonely face ; 
 there was no woman in her. Later in the day he 
 forgot, and voiced his madness, as he might have 
 done to Jasmine. Vena sprang away from him 
 like a startled deer when he kissed her bare arm. 
 Then, gazing through him to the great, silent Bush 
 beyond, she told the man to leave her. 
 
 So Valyard rode away to Cootra, and, sick with 
 his madness, and faint for want of food, he met 
 Jasmine at the homestead. The beautiful girl 
 soothed him, being far too wise to ask questions. 
 The reaction seemed to strengthen him, and in 
 the evening he was all a man. On the verandah, 
 in the moonlight, the panther purred responsive 
 to his waking worship of reality ; and, at ten 
 o'clock that night, Hatton Valyard told beautiful 
 Jasmine Vivian that he loved her. 
 
 That much is certain ; and with her soft arms 
 on his neck, he fainting under the weight of her 
 beauty, she promised to be his wife. It is 
 certain, too, that at three o'clock in the morning, 
 when one of Vivian's boundary-riders walked past 
 the open bedroom windows on the south side of 
 Cootra homestead, Valyard was lying sleeping on 
 his bed, with a light burning at his side and a 
 spray of wattle-blossom on his pillow. 
 
 When Vivian came into the sunny breakfast- 
 room after his morning walk to the stock-yard, 
 and golden-eyed Jasmine sat on the verandah 
 waiting for her lover, Valyard was nowhere to 
 be found. The saddle he had used was in its 
 place, but his bridle was not, and a wild black
 
 12 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 gelding he had ridden once was missing from 
 the home-paddock. Beautiful Jasmine sat wait- 
 ing, and her golden eyes were wet ; but Hatton 
 Valyard was seen no more at Cootra. 
 
 A timber-getter who came to the homestead 
 next day, said that shortly after sunrise on the 
 previous morning, he had been riding in from the 
 Yando hills, intending to make the bridle-path 
 which leads into the bullock-track below Cootra. 
 
 It's only a sheep-track out yonder,' said the 
 man ; ' and where I was crossing, it falls into a 
 gully, and then it's only a brumby-trail. After 
 that — God knows ! Well, climbing the far side 
 of that gully, riding a black gelding, with a white 
 blaze forehead, I saw a man. He was riding 
 bareback, and before him on the gelding's withers 
 he was holding that queer, wild girl, who used to 
 live in a humpy where the bullock-track ends. 
 When they saw me, they put the gelding to a 
 
 gallop along the brumby-trail ; and Well, I 
 
 don't know the country out beyond that, so — I let 
 them rip ! '
 
 IN THE CLEAR PATCH 
 
 ' One, glad becnuse of the light, snith, " Shall not 
 The righteous judge of all the earth do right, 
 For behold the sparrows on the house-tops fall not 
 Save as seemeth to him good in his sight ?" 
 And this man's joy shall have no abiding, 
 Through lights departing and lives dividing, 
 He is soon as one in the darkness hiding. 
 One loving darkness rather than light. 
 
 A little season of love and laughter, 
 Of light and life, and pleasure and pain, 
 And a horror of outer darkness after. 
 And dust returneth to dust again. 
 Then the lesser life shall be as the greater, 
 And the lover of life shall join the hater. 
 And the one thing cometh sooner or later. 
 And no one knoweth the loss or gain. 
 
 Love of my life ! We had lights in season — 
 Hard to part from, harder to keep — 
 We had strength to labour and souls to reason, 
 And seeds to scatter and fruits to reap. 
 Though time estranges and fate disperses, 
 We have had our loves and our loving mercies ; 
 Though the gifts of the light in the end are curses. 
 Yet bides the gift of the darkness — sleep ! ' 
 
 Adam Lindsay Gordon. 
 
 My one objection to Carre in the old days in 
 Sydney, was that he was so intensely and aggres- 
 sively cynical. There was so much of his cynicism,
 
 14 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 and it stuck out all over him, like politics on a 
 newly elected member of Legislative Council. 
 
 He came out from England because he knew he 
 could make a better living in Australia than in 
 the old country ; yet he expressed the most utter 
 and serene contempt for the Colonies and for all 
 things Colonial. He had always made his living 
 as a surveyor ; yet if there was one thing on earth 
 more than another, about which he spoke with 
 uniform bitterness and altogether unnecessary 
 cynicism, it was the profession of surveying with 
 all its kindred institutions and surroundings. 
 
 His pet subjects for satirical raillery outside the 
 above, were women and religion. It was not that 
 Carre talked caddishly or was a snob. On the 
 contrary, he was unmistakably a gentleman, and 
 a man who loathed bad form of any kind. But 
 whenever he was in the society of men and the 
 conversation turned to women, he spoke bitterly, 
 and expressed entire unbelief in the possibility of 
 virtue as an institution with the sex. Whenever 
 he knew he could speak without particularly 
 hurting any one's feelings, he treated religion of 
 all kinds as a ridiculous old fable, and religious 
 bodies as arrant humbug. Yet he was a man 
 always popular at garden-parties, and was sought 
 after by givers of evenings, and social functions 
 of every kind. 
 
 It happened that when Arnold Carre arrived 
 in Sydney, things in connection with his pro- 
 fession were very quiet ; arrd after a stay of some 
 months in the metropolis, he was glad to accept
 
 IN THE CLEAR PATCH 15 
 
 the superintendence of a large surveying contract 
 in the northern district. There was every pro- 
 spect that this piece of work would occupy a good 
 many months, and before Carre started for Stroud 
 — the little old township which forms the centre 
 of the Clarence river district — his friends in 
 Sydney gave him a little farewell banquet. 
 Without being in the least rude to his hosts, 
 Carre managed to work into his little speech a 
 good deal of raillery against banquets in par- 
 ticular, and the all-round insincerity of things 
 in general, whilst speaking of ' the brilliancy of 
 the prospects ' before him, in ' the busy whirl of 
 Australian provincial society.' However, we 
 should have felt it unnatural if he had not 
 talked in this way, and so everything was taken 
 in perfectly good part. 
 
 Then he went to Stroud ; and of what followed 
 I learned partly from his own lips, and partly from 
 what residents of the district told me. 
 
 Carre went straight into his work on arrival at 
 Stroud, did not use the two or three letters of 
 introduction he carried with him, and took very 
 little notice of the squatters, solicitors, doctors, 
 and bank-managers, who represented society in 
 that district. He could not, however, well help 
 becoming known to many of the younger men 
 in and around Stroud. And in this set he was 
 fairly popular. 
 
 He was not a man who had ever been much 
 interested in sport or recreation of any kind ; 
 but the unconventional, reckless style of hunting
 
 i6 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 the brumby, or wild horse, in the north, appealed 
 strongly to the excitement-loving side of his 
 nature, and he became very fond of Bush riding. 
 Horses, in this naturally rich but socially poor 
 district, were very cheap, and stables, grooms, 
 and fodder were quite superfluous adjuncts 
 to the owning of horse-flesh. Carre kept two 
 very decent ponies, and, like every one else in 
 that part of the country, turned them out in 
 the wide, rolling paddocks, with bells on their 
 necks, when he was not using them. 
 
 There is something about Bush riding and 
 hunting which has a wonderful fascination for 
 most clean-run men. The mad excitement of 
 a gallop down a mountain-side after a flying, 
 snorting mob of brumbies, is a thing hard to 
 beat ; and the exhilarating effect of flying along 
 neck-and-neck with the stallion leader of a mob, 
 to wheel him through thick timber to the wing of 
 a Bush yard, was a new and delicious sensation to 
 the cynical surveyor. He, with four other men, 
 was in the thick of a hunt of this description on 
 one particular afternoon, while rain was coming 
 down with that solid, persistent force often notice- 
 able between the Clarence and Stephens rivers ; 
 when a gold presentation watch flew out of his 
 pocket, snapped its chain, and fell. Carre just 
 twitched his horse's mouth in hesitation for an 
 instant, and then spurred on again with the rest. 
 The loss of the watch was not sufficient to check 
 the mad excitement of that furious gallop. 
 
 He did not speak to any one of his loss, but on
 
 IN THE CLEAR PATCH 17 
 
 the next morning, as he was riding over the same 
 tract of bush with two or three friends, he dis- 
 mounted on the mountain-side where the accident 
 had occurred, and muttering something about 
 having lost a pipe, told his friends to ride on. 
 His search occupied him rather longer than he 
 had anticipated, but at last he found the watch, 
 safe and sound, lying by the side of a little ant- 
 hill. He mounted his horse and cantered off 
 sideways down the hillside to join his com- 
 panions. He could not find them. 
 
 Now, to one not brought up in its midst, the 
 Australian Bush is a strangely bewildering place 
 to wander in, alone. Before an hour had passed, 
 Carre had demonstrated to himself the truth of 
 this ; and within two hours he had, whilst under 
 the impression that he was riding in a bee-line for 
 Stroud, twice revisited the spot at which he found 
 the watch. This was disconcerting, and the cynic 
 began to make nasty remarks to himself, about a 
 country where civilisation had not advanced far 
 enough for the ' production of bally bridle-paths.' 
 
 He was walking his horse, and looking about 
 him in all directions between the trunks of the 
 tall, grey gum-trees, when suddenly his eye caught 
 a thin column of blue smoke rising slowly in the 
 still atmosphere, and not more than a couple of 
 hundred yards ahead of him. Starting off at a 
 fast amble, a few seconds brought him into a 
 small, clear patch of ground, surrounded by 
 wattle-scrub and gum-trees, and having in its 
 centre a tiny slab house. Standing on the 
 
 £
 
 i8 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 roughly constructed verandah in front of this 
 cottage, was a young girl — a girl of apparently 
 twenty or twenty-one years of age. 
 
 Now, from his own limited experience, Carre 
 knew that the daughters of the average settler, or 
 Bush timber-getter, were prosaic and uninteresting 
 to a degree. True, they most of them could ride ; 
 but they were generally slipshod as to dress, 
 commonplace as to features, and not over clean. 
 Yet the girl who looked out at Carre from under 
 the verandah of this desolate little Bush shanty, 
 was beautiful ; she was beautiful beyond the 
 surveyor's ken of loveliness in women. 
 
 As he drew rein, the memory flashed across his 
 mind of a wonderful oil-painting he had once 
 seen in the gallery of a nobleman's mansion in 
 the West of Ireland. The picture was a portrait of 
 the Irish peer's daughter, dressed for a masquerade 
 ball in the fanciful garb of gipsy queen. The girl 
 on the verandah reminded him more of this than 
 of anything else he had ever seen. Her hair, 
 blue-black, was very soft and wavy, and hung 
 upon her shoulders and white neck, in a disorder 
 which was not untidiness. Set in this glorious 
 natural frame was a face of the perfect type 
 of Irish beauty. Skin of lustrous clearness and 
 wonderful bloom ; rich, perfectly shaped lips ; 
 small, straight nose ; tiny, pink ears ; and great, 
 liquid brown eyes veiled by lashes of almost 
 unnatural length. 
 
 The cynic paid his tribute to beauty by jump- 
 ing from his horse, and raising his hat as he
 
 IN THE CLEAR PATCH 19 
 
 reached the front of the verandah. In the or- 
 dinary course of events, he would have thrown 
 one leg over the pommel of his saddle, and, 
 remaining in his seat, would have addressed the 
 girl from that elevation ; for though always 
 courteous, Carre had been long enough in the 
 Bush to have adopted some of the free-and-easy 
 customs of that vast Liberty Hall. 
 
 * Good morning ! Pray excuse my trespass, 
 but I have lost my way, and I thought you might 
 set me right for a track or road leading to — 
 somewhere ! ' 
 
 The young girl laughed in the most natural 
 way in the world, and somewhat to the relief of 
 Carre, who was beginning to ask himself if he 
 might not be addressing some modernised nut- 
 brown mayde, some Antipodean Lady of the 
 Forest. 
 
 ' You are within cooey of the coach-road,' she 
 said ; ' it is just the other side of those wattles 
 in front.' 
 
 Carre thanked the Bush beauty, and stretched 
 out one hand to his horse's withers, as he said, 
 ' Can you tell me how far I am from Stroud ? ' 
 
 ' Stroud is nearly five miles ahead of us on this 
 road,' said the girl. And then, after a moment's 
 hesitation, she added, ' But won't you hitch your 
 horse up, and have some dinner before you 
 start ? ' 
 
 Carre thought for a moment. He knew that 
 this was quite in accordance with Bush customs. 
 The sun told him that his usual lunch-hour was
 
 20 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 past ; and he felt strangely curious about the 
 beautiful girl he had, as it were, unearthed in this 
 wild wattle-scrub. 
 
 * Thank you very much ! ' he said at last ; ' I 
 should like nothing better, if it will not be incon- 
 venient for you.' 
 
 The girl's great hazel eyes turned to him with 
 bewildering directness, as she said seriously, ' No, 
 indeed ; it could not inconvenience me, because I 
 have just made dinner ready for myself. But 
 there is not very much of anything to eat, because, 
 you know, I expected to be alone.' 
 
 Carre smiled inwardly. ' Oho ! ' thought he ; 
 ' then the husband or the father — I wonder 
 which it is — is " dining out " ! ' 
 
 As the surveyor followed his hostess across the 
 smooth, redwood planks of the verandah, he 
 noticed, with some surprise, that her white, daintily 
 formed feet and ankles were bare and uncovered. 
 By the side of the door lay a small, strongly made 
 pair of shoes, one of which Carre kicked as he 
 stepped, marvelling greatly, into the little house. 
 The furniture of the room in which he found 
 himself was that of an ordinary Bush cottage, with 
 one or two notable exceptions. The table was a 
 rough one of cedar. There were two ordinary 
 cane-seated chairs ; but in one corner stood a 
 good, though very old, morocco-bound easy-chair. 
 The walls were of bare wood ; but on one of them 
 hung a portrait in oils of a fine-looking man, 
 apparently in the prime of life, who was dressed 
 in the uniform of a captain in the Royal Irish
 
 IN THE CLEAR PATCH 21 
 
 Rifles. Almost everything else in the room was 
 in the ordinary Bush style, save that in one corner 
 stood a large bookcase crammed to overflowing 
 with old, but well bound, books. 
 
 Carre sat down mechanically, and looked — as 
 he felt — pure and unmixed astonishment. 
 
 ' What is there that surprises you ? ' asked the 
 girl seriously, and as though with a desire for 
 information. ' Do you wonder at my living all 
 alone here ? ' 
 
 'No! — yes! That is, do you live all alone?' 
 said Carre awkwardly. 
 
 ' Oh yes ! I have lived alone ever since my 
 husband left me, five months ago ! ' 
 
 Carre cleared his throat. ' Ever since — Did 
 you ' 
 
 ' Yes. My husband left me after we had been 
 married a year.' The girl lowered her eyes, and 
 the bloom on her cheeks turned a shade richer 
 and darker. 
 
 By this time Carre was beyond ordinary feelings 
 of surprise, and hardly wondered when he noticed 
 that the spoon and fork in front of his plate were 
 of an old pattern, and silver. Then he found 
 himself eating thinly sliced and deliciously 
 cooked corned beef, with carrots and dumplings — 
 quite the Bush fare, but daintily served and per- 
 fectly prepared. When they had finished eating, 
 the girl rose, and, going to the fire, returned after 
 a few minutes, with two small cups of correctly 
 made black coffee. In spite of what had gone 
 before, Carre was not proof against this. His
 
 22 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 usual nonchalance could not but be upset by the 
 serving of genuine black coffee, after dinner, in a 
 slab shanty in the Australian Bush — and that by 
 a barefooted hostess. 
 
 ' Well ! ' he said ; ' this is too — Please excuse 
 my impertinence, but would you mind telling me 
 — all about yourself, and why you are here ? ' 
 
 The girl smiled, and having said, ' I don't quite 
 understand you — I am here because, when my 
 husband left me, I had nowhere else to go ! My 
 father died before ! ' — she paused. 
 
 Carre mechanically took a cigarette from his 
 case. ' Will you allow me — er — My name is 
 Carre — Arnold Carre. Would you mind telling 
 me ' 
 
 ' My name is Aileen,' said the girl, looking 
 straight into Carre's eyes. ' My father's name 
 was Featherston, but I have always been called 
 Aileen.' 
 
 The surveyor lit his cigarette. ' Perhaps you 
 will think me rude — Miss — Aileen ; but I 
 assure you I don't mean to be. It seems so 
 extraordinary to my narrow English mind to find 
 a — to find a lady living like this in the Bush. 
 And, of course, I 've no right to ask it ; but I 
 thought, perhaps, you would not mind telling me 
 how it all began.' 
 
 The girl looked serious, but in no way disturbed 
 or annoyed. ' I see ! ' she said ; ' I understand 
 you now; but it seems quite natural for me to live 
 in the Bush, and I rather like being alone. You 
 see, my mother died, when I was a baby, in Ireland ;
 
 IN THE CLEAR PATCH 23 
 
 and when I was seven years old, my father — 
 That is my father,' pointing to the portrait 
 on the wall — ' my father was ruined, and we 
 came out here. We went to Sydney ; but I don't 
 think my father was very good at office work — 
 he had been too long a soldier — so we went up 
 to Singleton. Father had a little money, and 
 he bought a small farm ; but I don't think he knew 
 anything about farming, because we always 
 seemed to be losing something. Father would 
 not let me go to school, so he taught me on the 
 farm. Then, when I was eighteen, he died. Poor 
 father ! He was very unfortunate. He told me 
 when he was dying that I should have nothing 
 when he was gone, because his creditors would 
 take the farm. He told me to keep the bookcase 
 and his portrait, and — to marry some one. He 
 said, " It won't matter, dear ; you will have the 
 books, and you need not take much notice of the 
 man ; but he will provide you with a home and 
 take care of you." Afterwards, when I was 
 staying with some people in the township, a 
 teamster came to the house, and stayed there. 
 He said he owned a lot of cattle near the Clarence 
 river, and in a little time he asked me if I would 
 marry him. I remembered what father had told 
 me, and said " Yes ! " Then he brought me here 
 with the few things I kept.' 
 
 She paused in her strange recital. ' And then ? ' 
 said Carre, who had allowed his cigarette to 
 go out, and seemed to be much interested. Aileen 
 coloured a little. ' I did not like my husband
 
 24 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 after we were married. He was rather a stupid 
 man ; and, when he came home after bullock- 
 driving all day, he was rude sometimes, and 
 drank too much. Then he met some woman 
 whom he liked, in Booral ; and one day he drove 
 all his bullocks away, except one small team, and 
 left a letter saying that he was sorry he had 
 married me.' 
 
 Again she coloured slightly. * The letter said 
 that I was not a good wife, and was always *' in 
 the dumps, and talking nonsense." It said, too, 
 that he was going to live in Victoria with the 
 woman from Booral, and was never coming back. 
 I was glad to be alone, and — I have stopped 
 here ever since.' 
 
 Carre sat gazing at the girl's calm, seriously 
 beautiful face for several minutes. He fancied he 
 could see all the weird beauty, all the strange 
 silence and wonderful depth of the Bush, in those 
 great, humid brown eyes. 
 
 ' And tell me,' he said at length ; ' tell me, 
 
 Miss ' 
 
 She broke in with, ' Please don't call me 
 " Miss "; I don't like it ! No one has ever called me 
 that except my husband, before he married me ! ' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon ! ' said Carre ; ' but will you 
 tell me how you manage, now that you are all 
 alone — I mean financially?' 
 
 ' Oh, there is the team of bullocks, you know ! 
 I hired them to a timber-getter, who sends me all 
 the food and other things that I need, in exchange 
 for the use of the fourteen bullocks. And then I
 
 IN THE CLEAR PATCH 25 
 
 sometimes make little things in the way of cloth- 
 ing for the children of a few settlers who live 
 between here and Booral ! ' 
 
 ' And when the bullocks die ? ' ejaculated Carre 
 questioningly, and yet half to himself. 
 
 ' I don't know,' said the girl ; ' but perhaps 
 they will live as long as I do.' 
 
 Then they began to talk of other things; and as 
 the shadows of the early Australian evening began 
 to lengthen, Carre discovered that his companion 
 knew quite as much of standard English literature 
 as he did, rather more of poetry, and a great deal 
 more of French and German works of a certain 
 school. Suddenly he started to his feet, noticing 
 for the first time how late in the afternoon it was. 
 
 ' I must go ! ' he said, half-regretfully. ' Thank 
 you so much for your hospitality, and the delight- 
 ful chat we have had ! And ' 
 
 ' Why do you speak so strangely, so differ- 
 ently ? ' said the girl, turning her great eyes upon 
 him in almost childish wonder. ' And why do you 
 thank me for talking? We both talked, and it 
 was pleasant to me.' 
 
 ' I am very glad of that,' said Carre ; ' I did 
 not mean to speak strangely. May I — Will you 
 allow me to come and see you again, Aileen ? ' 
 
 ' Why, of course. I shall watch for you. I 
 should like to talk to you every day.' 
 
 She said this quite seriously and naturally. 
 Then she walked on to the verandah with him, 
 and frankly held out her hand to say ' Good-bye ! ' 
 
 ' What a glorious creature ! ' muttered Carre,
 
 26 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 as he turned in his saddle to take a final look at 
 the girl, before reaching the thick wattle-scrub 
 which skirted the highroad. She was standing^ 
 bathed in all the red-gold splendour of the setting 
 sun ; one shapely hand resting on the verandah 
 post, the other shading those soft hazel eyes, as 
 she watched her departing guest disappear amongst 
 the leafy wattles. 
 
 Two days afterwards, a large square case was 
 left for her by the Raymond Terrace coach, and 
 this was marked, ' Dymock, Bookseller, Sydney.' 
 Inside, and on the top of the books, was a little 
 note from Carre, saying that he hoped Aileen 
 would accept this little reminder of what he hoped 
 would be only the first of many subsequent chats 
 about books. The books contained in the case 
 were all modern, and nearly all works of the better 
 class of fiction. 
 
 On the following day Carre was again fortunate 
 enough to dine in the slab cottage, and he thought 
 Aileen looked more marvellously beautiful than 
 before. She thanked him warmly and unaffectedly 
 for his little present ; and later on, he asked per- 
 mission to send her periodically from Stroud a 
 few odds and ends which might be useful. In the 
 same perfectly natural and serious manner in 
 which she had given him permission to visit her 
 again, she thanked the surveyor for his kindness, 
 and said she should like the things very much. 
 This resulted in a Stroud storekeeper visiting the 
 house twice a week, bringing with him a thousand 
 and one useful little commodities, and asking for
 
 IN THE CLEAR PATCH 27 
 
 orders. This was done under instructions from 
 Carre, who had bound the tradesman to secrecy, 
 and who paid all the bills. 
 
 Then began a strange, happy life for Arnold 
 Carre, and one that was equally strange, and even 
 more happy, for the girl. He accepted his happi- 
 ness without self-questioning ; she hers, with 
 marvelling gratitude. Carre frequently wrote his 
 business letters, drew up specifications and so on, 
 in the little cottage in the wattle-scrub. He was 
 sometimes missed from the town of Stroud for 
 two, and even three days. He was never seen in 
 the evenings, and during a great part of the day 
 he was supposed to be occupied in the country, as 
 indeed he was. He told the young men who 
 missed him from their hunting parties that he 
 was labouring under a pressure of additional work 
 which kept him always busy. He carefully 
 observed the conventionalities in the matter of 
 calling on the few families he knew, and often 
 smiled quietly as he pictured to himself what the 
 astonishment of these good people, and the pro- 
 fessional and business men of the town, would 
 be, if they but guessed anything as to that other 
 life of his — that strangely romantic, and ideally 
 natural life — which occupied so large a share of 
 his thoughts, and would always be connected in 
 his mind with sweet-scented wattle-blossom, and 
 the great, brown eyes that had in them so won- 
 derful an expression of childish purity and sweet, 
 tender love. 
 
 He taught her to play picquet and euchre; and
 
 28 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 they would sit together late at night, playing and 
 chatting in the little cottage, whilst he smoked 
 innumerable cigarettes, and tenderly watched the 
 beautiful girl. At other times they would sit out 
 on the verandah in cane lounges of Carre's 
 importation, and talk far into the beautiful 
 Southern night ; he telling her again and again, 
 in different ways, the old story of his passionate 
 love — the story she loved so well ; — she listening 
 happily, and murmuring tenderly of her first and 
 only love ; the love that made her yield her pure 
 heart so entirely to this woman-hater amongst 
 surveyors. 
 
 She had been always beautiful, but her inner 
 nature seemed to blossom, and her whole self to 
 become transcendently lovely, under the influence 
 of this first love of her life — as rich a gift, 
 surely, as a man ever gained. This child of the 
 Bush, with her hereditary and instinctive refine- 
 ment, and the real cultivation that the artistic, 
 lonely mind of her father had been able to bestow 
 upon her ; with all this she was absolutely natural, 
 and her pure mind had conceived in its short life 
 no single particle of affectation. Carre, with his 
 various peculiarities, was a gentleman in every 
 sense of the word, clean and artistic by nature, 
 and a man of more than the average amount of 
 the truest kind of cultivation. Small wonder, then, 
 that these two lived for each other ; that they 
 were ideally happy ; and that their lives were 
 almost apart from the world, in their independent, 
 self-contained delight.
 
 IN THE CLEAR PATCH 29 
 
 Men noticed that Carre had dropped his sneer- 
 ing tone and cynical sayings. They noticed, too, 
 that his temper could not be ruffled, and that he 
 seemed ready to do good turns to all the world. 
 But he guarded his happiness carefully, and none 
 of the associates of that conventional life of his 
 — the life that now seemed the unreal and 
 temporary one — ever dreamed or guessed of 
 anything at all in connection with the life of the 
 clear patch, with the rippling creek on one side, 
 the wattles on the other, and the dim, weird Bush 
 behind. So the happy months went by, and 
 Carre almost ceased to remember that he had ever 
 been otherwise than in this dream of perfect love 
 and ideal completeness. 
 
 Then, as he and Aileen sat watching the moon 
 rising in silvery mystery over the tops of the tall, 
 gaunt gum-trees one night, he had to impart an 
 unpleasant piece of information. 
 
 'Little one, I have to go to Sydney to-morrow!' 
 he said abruptly, and as though he hated the 
 words. 
 
 ' Oh, Love of mine ! When — it is so near ! ' 
 
 ' Sweetheart, 1 shall be here again in three days, 
 and I must go, unless I am content to lose my 
 only means of making a living for my Queen and 
 — and for the little one ! ' 
 
 Aileen sighed as Carre stroked her wavy hair. 
 ' Must you, Dear ? Then of course I must bear it. 
 But, oh my Heart ! I had felt happy in knowing 
 that you would be in my sight from now till — 
 it was over ! '
 
 30 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 Her beautiful head sank upon his shoulder, and, 
 for the first time for ten very happy months, her 
 great eyes filled with tears other than those of pure 
 happiness. But she brushed them away, and, smil- 
 ing quiveringly, like the sun's light after a spring 
 shower, said, ' We have been too happy, Dear ! 
 God thinks we should have waited — till after- 
 wards, for such perfect happiness. He will try 
 us by a little parting, and then let us be happier.' 
 
 Carre looked long and very tenderly at her. 
 He talked to her of their future, of the new and 
 added interest that was soon to come into their 
 lives. He soothed her for hours, till she beamed 
 tender happiness, before he rose to ride into 
 Stroud, where he was to catch the early morning 
 coach. 
 
 ' Only three days. Heart of my heart, and I 
 will count the seventy-two hours ! ' he said, as he 
 held her in his arms before mounting his horse. 
 Then he leaned over the pommel of his saddle, 
 taking her head between his hands to look once 
 more into that lovely face before he turned and 
 galloped off towards the town. 
 
 He telegraphed to me to meet him In Sydney, 
 and I hardly left his side during his brief stay in 
 the capital. It was then that he told me of the 
 wonderful happiness of his life, and I, as his 
 closest friend, was the only man to whom he did 
 speak of it. He was in a perfect fever to get 
 away to the country again, and rushed through 
 his business, careless almost of sleeping or eating. 
 But the marvellous change which had come over
 
 IN THE CLEAR PATCH 31 
 
 the man impressed every one who knew him, and 
 many curious guesses were made as to its cause. 
 I was enjoying a period of idleness at the time of 
 his visit, and so interested was I in all that he 
 had told me, and in his changed character, that I 
 begged to be allowed to run down to Stroud with 
 him and spend a few days there. 
 
 He readily agreed to this, but said with some 
 hesitation, ' I don't think I can take you to her, 
 old man — under the circumstances.' 
 
 I assured him that I expected nothing of the 
 kind ; and we started together from Sydney by 
 a night train for Newcastle. When we arrived 
 next afternoon in the rooms he occupied at Stroud, 
 he ordered his black horse to be brought round, 
 and, rushing into a change of clothing, prepared 
 to ride out to the cottage. 
 
 When, after begging me to excuse him, he had 
 cantered off down the quiet main street, I strolled 
 out in the same direction, intending to ramble 
 about till dinner-time. 
 
 Barely three-quarters of an hour afterwards, as 
 I was leaning idly over the little bridge which led 
 out of the town in the direction of Booral, I was 
 startled by the steps of a galloping horse thunder- 
 ing down the hill behind me. I had hardly time 
 to raise my head when the animal had rounded 
 the bend at the foot of the little hill, and, scatter- 
 ing dust in my face with its flying heels, had 
 crossed the bridge and was into the town. 
 
 It was Carre's black horse, flaked with foam, 
 and dripping blood as it galloped, from under the
 
 32 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 spurs Carre held to its heaving sides. The sur- 
 veyor himself was hatless, and sat bent in the 
 saddle like a man who rides for his life. From 
 where I stood, gazing after this vision in real 
 amazement, I could see the powerful brute thrown 
 almost on to its haunches outside the green 
 palings of Dr. Cartwright's neat little house, as 
 Carre sprang from the saddle and struck furiously 
 at the doctor's door with his whip. The horse 
 simply stretched out its dripping neck and gasped, 
 as it stood in the middle of the road. Then I ran 
 into the town after my friend. 
 
 Carre was utterly indifferent now to what any 
 one might think ; and as I reached the doctor's 
 house he swung the door open, and shouted to a 
 boy on the other side of the road, to bring the two 
 fastest horses down from the hotel ; ' Quick, for 
 your life ! ' 
 
 Five minutes afterwards, he and the doctor 
 had galloped over the bridge together on the road 
 to Booral. Carre had only spoken three words to 
 me, and I do not think he knew then to whom he 
 was speaking. His face was white and set, with 
 an awful fear written on it ; such fear as one sees 
 on the face of a convict before the white cap is 
 drawn on by the hangman. He had looked 
 straight through me as he said, ' She is ill ! ' 
 And then he had turned to spring on to his horse, 
 never glancing at the panting black brute he had 
 almost killed in the fury of his five-mile gallop 
 from the cottage. 
 
 I sent this horse over to the hotel stables, and
 
 IN THE CLEAR PATCH 33 
 
 having secured a mount for myself, started off in 
 the direction taken by Carre and the doctor, after 
 leaving an order with the local chemist for a 
 woman to follow me in a cart, with any articles 
 that the chemist thought it advisable to send. 
 
 Poor Carre ! The doctor whispered to me as I 
 entered the little cottage, that the girl could not 
 live a dozen hours. She had been bitten by a 
 snake, though that was not fatal. She had lain 
 helpless and alone for nearly thirty hours when 
 Carre arrived. And by her side lay a little, still, 
 dead form. 
 
 A man might fairly pray that he should never 
 have to witness a scene so piteous ; so beyond 
 the reach of all help, and heartbreaking in its 
 horror. Carre was crouched on his hands and 
 knees at her side, and his position never changed 
 till she regained consciousness, three hours after- 
 wards, and died within fifteen minutes of the 
 time she opened her glorious eyes, and murmured, 
 ' Arnold ! ' 
 
 That was the only word she uttered. But her 
 great love for the numbed man at her side beamed 
 out from her eyes up to the last moment of her 
 life. The doctor and I almost carried him outside 
 the cottage half an hour afterwards ; and poor 
 dead Aileen was left in the hands of the woman 
 who had followed me from Stroud. Carre sat on 
 the verandah till daylight came, and he could not 
 be induced to move. Then he went into the 
 cottage and sat by the side of his dead love for 
 an hour, after which he came outside to me with 
 
 C
 
 34 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 a stony and absolutely unearthly glare on his 
 face. He asked me for a horse, and his voice 
 was like the rattle in a dying man's throat. 
 
 Together, and without a word, we rode into the 
 township. He would accept but little help, and 
 himself gave the orders for Aileen's burial, which 
 he said was to take place outside the cottage. 
 He was gently remonstrated with on this point, 
 and simply bowed his head and consented to the 
 doctor's request that Aileen might be buried in 
 the cemetery. 
 
 He attended the funeral, and stood by the 
 grave till the last spadeful of earth had been 
 thrown upon it. And not a muscle of his face 
 moved. Then he rode with me out to the cottage. 
 He was perfectly calm and collected, and even 
 assured me of this, speaking in the same grating, 
 tuneless voice as before. He asked me to return 
 to Stroud, as he wanted to spend one night in the 
 cottage, and to be alone, before he left the place. 
 I shook his hand with a painful feeling of dread 
 in my heart, as I mounted my horse and rode 
 slowly back to Stroud. 
 
 Now the most peculiar part of this episode in a 
 man's life, is the fact that from that moment up 
 to the present day, no man, woman, nor child has 
 seen or heard of, or been able to discover, the 
 slightest trace of the existence, or the death, of 
 Arnold Carre the surveyor.
 
 THE IDEALIST CLUB 
 
 ' Each pilgrim strong, who joins our throng, 
 Most eager to achieve, is 
 Foredoom'd ere long to swell the song, 
 " Ars longa, vita brevis." ' 
 
 Ars Loii^a. 
 
 It was my good fortune, not very long ago, to 
 snatch a grey-headed Bohemian from before the 
 wheels of a Charing Cross omnibus, the carelessly 
 driven horses of which had knocked him down in 
 Fleet Street. I happened to be just on the spot 
 at the right moment, and so, with hardly an 
 effort, saved this man's life. 
 
 ' I am a great deal obliged to you,' said the 
 grey-headed man, as we pulled ourselves together 
 on the curbstone ; ' because I happen to be in the 
 middle of the best story I ever wrote. Now tell 
 me, my friend, what can I do to show you that I 
 am grateful ? ' 
 
 Something about this apparently prematurely 
 aged Bohemian interested me strongly, and I felt 
 that I should like to talk to him and know him. 
 So I said, 'There is really nothing to thank me 
 for ; but since you give me the right to ask some- 
 thing of you, I would say, let me go with you this 
 evening, talk with you, and — stay with you ! ' 
 
 36
 
 Z6 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 My new friend, whom instinct told me was an 
 artist of some kind, paused, thoughtfully scratch- 
 ing the back of his head with the roll of manu- 
 script to which he had held tightly when knocked 
 down by the 'bus horses. ' Well,' he said slowly, 
 ' I was going down to the Idealist Club, and I 
 never heard of a visitor being taken there. How- 
 ever ' — and here the man waved airily the roll of 
 manuscript before referred to — ' I do not see why 
 it should not be done. Come, my friend, anyhow, 
 and let us see ! ' 
 
 Turning hurriedly into one of the oldest of the 
 many lanes off Fleet Street, the grey-headed man 
 led me into a queer little court, which seemed to 
 be walled in by all the concentrated back pre- 
 mises of Whitefriars, We passed through an iron 
 gateway, by the side of which we left, caked in 
 rust, and uncertain as to means of support, two of 
 the huge extinguishers into wnich link-boys were 
 at one time wont to jam their flaming torches. 
 Walking down a mouldy-smelling passage-way, 
 we came to a closed door, upon which I was just 
 able to make out the legend, ' J. Flail and Co. 
 (In liquidation.)' My elderly friend produced a 
 key, measuring, perhaps, four inches in length, 
 which he carried in his spectacle-case. Then he 
 opened the door, and, followed by myself, entered 
 the room beyond. 
 
 It was a large room, full of queer corners and 
 oddly shaped abrasures. Eleven men were sitting 
 there on high-backed chairs, and in various posi- 
 tions, all of which suggested some relation to a
 
 THE IDEALIST CLUB 37 
 
 long deal table, which was strewn with glasses, 
 bottles, long pipes, and scattered piles of manu- 
 script. Six candles and a big, ecclesiastical-looking 
 lamp were burning in different parts of the room ; 
 and the ages of the eleven men seated there 
 varied, I should say, from three-and-twenty to 
 seventy-five. The man whom I considered over 
 seventy years of age, rose to his feet as my friend 
 and myself entered ; and, stroking his ragged, 
 white beard with one hand, said : ' You are late. 
 Professor ! Good evening ! And — who is this 
 with you ? ' 
 
 ' I have taken the liberty of bringing a friend to 
 the Idealist Club,' said my friend, replacing the 
 big key in his spectacle-case as he spoke, ' because 
 he wanted to come, and because he has just saved 
 my life. Have you any objection. President ? ' 
 
 ' Well,' said the old man, who had risen to his 
 feet, reflectively, * 1 don't know ! I think it is a 
 piece of infernal impudence, certainly. But, on 
 the other hand, I don't see why you should not 
 be infernally impudent if you choose. Professor. 
 What do you think, my friends ? ' 
 
 ' I don't see anv reason to bother,' said a young 
 man who was wearing a wide-brimmed soft hat. 
 
 ' That 's all right ! ' said my friend, abstractedly 
 wiping his forehead with the roll of manuscript he 
 carried. 
 
 * Will the Professor's friend take a chair then, 
 please?' said the President, resuming his own seat. 
 ' He will be dreadfully bored, but that is his own 
 look-out, and he may sleep if he likes, of course.
 
 38 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 For the rest, the friend of the Professor is not a 
 man, I am sure, who will talk outside of names he 
 hears mentioned here.' I bowed and sat down. 
 * Now, Professor ! See to pipes and tobacco, 
 please ; and as we are all present, you might, if 
 you feel inclined, let us know why you asked for 
 a special meeting.' 
 
 My friend, addressed as Professor, handed me a 
 huge box of wooden matches and a long pipe ; 
 and then, having evidently forgotten that tobacco 
 is a useful ingredient in the sum-total of comfort- 
 able smoking, he rose to his feet to speak. 
 
 ' Gentlemen,' he said, ' you know that for many 
 years I have been a hard worker in the art we all 
 follow. I wanted to see you to-night because, at 
 last, I have achieved something — not to entitle 
 me to the far higher honour which an Idealist 
 Club man may aspire to and reach, but yet — 
 something. Something which I believe will be a 
 great success in the world outside, and which will 
 bring to me that fame which does not necessarily 
 disgrace a member of this Club in the eyes of his 
 brother members, and which, for reasons you 
 know of, I have spent much of my life in trying 
 to attain.' 
 
 ' Professor, we congratulate you,' said the 
 President. And ten voices echoed his remark with 
 considerable warmth. ' Are you inclined to let us 
 know what the screed is, Professor ? ' 
 
 ' I have come here to submit it to you, my 
 friends, in the hope, though that hope may sound 
 presumptuous, of its earning your approval. My
 
 THE IDEALIST CLUB 39 
 
 story is in two parts, and the first I have here in 
 my hand, completed. It will take fully two hours 
 to read, but of course I shall be stopped if it tires 
 any of my friends.' 
 
 ' We are waiting, Professor,' said the President. 
 And then my friend began to read his manuscript, 
 whilst the members of the Idealist Club sat round 
 him, in different attitudes, smoking and listening. 
 As the Professor read on, he changed his position 
 once or twice. And the perspiration trickled down 
 his forehead, and sometimes filled his eyes, mak- 
 ing his spectacles opaque. Then the Idealist 
 Club members filled their glasses, whilst my friend 
 wiped his. 
 
 I thmk this story was the sweetest and most 
 tenderly pathetic thing I had ever heard or 
 dreamed of; and when it was finished, I heard 
 snuffly whispers of congratulation all round the 
 long deal table. 
 
 ' When will the other half be finished, Pro- 
 fessor ? ' said the President, mopping his great 
 wrinkled forehead as he spoke. 
 
 ' It is half done now,' replied my friend, ' and I 
 am working straight on. It will be finished on 
 Tuesday.' 
 
 ' Then I take it, my friends, the Club meets 
 again on Tuesday evening ; and since the Pro- 
 fessor's friend was here to-night, it is only fair to 
 ask him to come on Tuesday.' 
 
 The Club nodded, thoughtfully, like one man. 
 
 * Will the Professor's friend, then, if he feels 
 inclined, join us on Tuesday evening?'
 
 40 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 I bowed, and, having accepted the invitation 
 with thanks, left the room with the Professor. 
 
 ' If you would really care to come,' said the 
 Professor, as together we walked into Fleet Street, 
 ' you had better meet me on Tuesday, and come 
 down with me. If you do not, then come and 
 see me at another time. Here is my address, 
 and — yes ! there is my 'bus ! Good night ! Don't 
 forget to come and see me ! ' 
 
 My grey-headed friend had torn a corner from 
 his roll of manuscript, and scribbled on it in 
 pencil his address. Then he scrambled on to the 
 top of his 'bus ; and I stood on the curbstone, 
 watching his quaint figure, as he disappeared in a 
 westerly direction. 
 
 On the following Tuesday evening, at seven 
 o'clock, a hansom put me down at No. 1 1 Grath 
 Road, Chelsea, the address the old man had 
 scribbled for me on the scrap of paper, which then 
 reposed in my waistcoat pocket. It was a curious 
 room in which I found my friend — my pre- 
 maturely aged friend — and apparently served its 
 proprietor as sleeping, living, smoking, and work- 
 ing den, with a curtained-off suggestion of cook- 
 ing and bathing in one corner. The Professor's 
 attire seemed to consist chiefly of a dressing-gown, 
 and he was literally surrounded by sheets of 
 loosely written manuscript. Everything in the 
 room, from the uncovered, ink-splashed table, to 
 the small, rug-covered bed, was exceedingly plain, 
 and showed no desire whatever for adornment ;
 
 THE IDEALIST CLUB 41 
 
 but on the narrow mantelshelf there stood, on a 
 quaintly moulded bronze easel, a beautiful minia- 
 ture in oils of a very beautiful girl. 
 
 At the end of a quarter of an hour, the Pro- 
 fessor gathered together all his loose MSS., and, 
 after a few minutes spent in the privacy of the 
 curtained-off corner, he emerged equipped for 
 travel. 
 
 Then we proceeded together to the dimly 
 lighted passage-way in the court off Fleet Street, 
 at the end of which one sees painted on a door 
 the words, 'J. Flail and Co. (In liquidation.)' 
 
 The Professor drew the big key from his 
 spectacle-case as before ; and in another minute 
 we were in the meeting-room of the Idealist Club. 
 My friend was late again, as seemed perfectly 
 natural ; and so when we arrived the eleven other 
 members of the Club were all sitting, waiting, in 
 different positions near the long deal table, as on 
 the occasion of my first visit. 
 
 ' Good evening. Professor ! You are late,' said 
 the President. ' The Club is glad to see that the 
 Professor's friend is here on this occasion ; and 
 wishes him " Good evening." ' 
 
 I bowed in answer to the murmured greetings 
 of the other members ; and, accepting the seat 
 pointed out to me by the President, I filled my 
 pipe, and watched the Professor unrolling his 
 manuscript. 
 
 ' Is the story finished. Professor ? ' asked the 
 young member who wore the wide-brimmed hat. 
 
 The Professor nodded in his absent-minded
 
 42 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 way ; and two minutes afterwards he had begun 
 to read, standing, barrister fashion, with one 
 foot resting on a chair, and facing all his brother 
 members, who lay back in their seats, smoking 
 and listening. 
 
 If the first part of the Professor's work had 
 been sad and sweet, this second half was a poem 
 in prose of clinging tenderness — the artist's ideal 
 of perfect, unstrained pathos — delicately veiled in 
 maiden purity, and drawn on a background of 
 sadness that made one's very heart ache. 
 
 The Club sat drinking in the sweetness of it, 
 with bated breath and misty eyes ; unsmoked 
 pipes being held the while neglected in mid-air. 
 Then the Professor sat down, and began nervously 
 to fill the glass at his side from a decanter. 
 
 The story had been told ; the achievement 
 was laid before the Club ; and for a few minutes 
 a whispered conversation was carried on, whilst 
 the Professor sat, with shaking hands, filling his 
 long pipe. Then the President rose to his feet. 
 
 ' Professor, the Club congratulates you, and is 
 indebted to you. In your modesty, you claim 
 for your work merely that it will achieve in the 
 world out yonder great success, and bring to you 
 that fame which, for reasons we know of, part of 
 your life has been spent in endeavouring to attain. 
 You claim nothing more. Professor, because, being 
 a workman, you are modest. But the Club con- 
 siders that your work merits something higher 
 and greater than this. And so we have decided 
 to offer to you, Professor, the highest honour
 
 THE IDEALIST CLUB 43 
 
 which the Club has in its power to bestow upon a 
 member and a worker.' 
 
 The Professor's hand shook so at this moment, 
 that he overturned his glass on the long deal 
 table beside him, and its contents streamed down 
 on to the dusty floor of the room. 
 
 * Having regard ' — continued the President, 
 twisting his fingers in his long beard — ' to the 
 glorious tradition of the Club, which, recognising 
 the impossibility of the world's appreciation of 
 the Ideal, has formed a plan by which the Ideal, 
 when achieved by a brother member, may yet be 
 fittingly acknowledged ; we have decided to place 
 this story of yours on the plane last occupied by 
 Eric Vanburgh's wonderful Spotted Fairy, fifteen 
 years ago — to confer upon you. Professor, the 
 knighthood of the Club, for which so many of us 
 strive unavailingly — to here, in solemn conclave 
 of appreciation, burn in the Club brazier your 
 accomplishment of the Ideal ; placing then its 
 ashes, beyond the reach of the world's ignorant 
 misapprehension, in the vase which holds the 
 splendid relics of a century's achievements of the 
 Idealists ! ' 
 
 The Professor rose in his chair, a ragged lock of 
 iron-grey hair falling in moist tangle across his 
 dripping forehead. 
 
 ' But, gentlemen, my — oh, my half a life — I — 
 Gentlemen, I thank you ! ' 
 
 Then he sat down with a gasp. And I, my 
 eyes distended in amazement, watched the solemn 
 burning, in a curiously wrought iron brazier, by
 
 44 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 the Idealist Club, of that most perfect of all prose 
 poems of tender pathos. 
 
 And when it was over, the Professor, pale and 
 shaking as one in an ague, tottered out into Fleet 
 Street, and the ' world out yonder,' on the arm of 
 the white-bearded President ; and my last visit to 
 the Idealist Club was ended.
 
 QUEEN GUINIVIERE 
 
 ' It were enough to feel, to see 
 Thy soft eyes gazing tenderly, 
 And dream the rest — and burn and be 
 The secret food of fires unseen, 
 Couldst thou but be as thou hast been. 
 
 ' After the slumber of the year 
 The woodland violets reappear, 
 All things revive in field or grove. 
 And sky and sea, but two, which move. 
 And for all others, life and love.' 
 
 Shelley. 
 
 Howard Kerr told me all about this, when we 
 were sitting behind the green blinds of the 
 balcony that you reach if you climb the half- 
 round flight of stone steps on the right of the 
 wharf-end at Port Louis, in Mauritius. Howard 
 Kerr is the man who saw bunyips somewhere 
 near Tenterfield ; and he knows almost every- 
 thing that ever happened in Australia. We 
 were talking about an Irish doctor who had 
 just married a beautiful Creole girl, aged sixteen ; 
 and Kerr said, ' Everything in the way of life 
 grows more quickly south of the line than north. 
 
 Why ' And then he told me about Cal 
 
 Ronaldson, whom, by the way, I remembered 
 having once met at the ' Metropole,' in Sydney.
 
 46 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 It appears Ronaldson could not help being 
 called Cal. His name was Clare, but during his 
 infancy his nurse, a woman of unassuming tastes, 
 had altered it. Kindly relatives in England 
 used to say of him, that ' there is a great deal 
 more in Cal than will ever come out ! ' Cal's 
 father, however, loved that which is tangible, 
 and said his son would ' never do anything in 
 the world.' So he was given a small sheep- 
 run in New South Wales, and told to make a 
 success of that, with the help of a good working 
 overseer. This in itself was quaint, when one 
 remembers all a man must be and do to succeed 
 nowadays as a squatter. But what added 
 piquancy to the situation was the fact that all 
 young Ronaldson's tendencies were towards a 
 literary life, and that, in a furtive way, he. had 
 written a good deal, and dreamed far more. 
 He had his ideals too, this young man, and 
 afforded a good deal of quiet amusement to 
 his overseer when he first took up his abode 
 at Burriwa, the station out back from Narran- 
 dera, which had been purchased for him by a 
 Sydney agent. 
 
 When he had spent six months in studying 
 sheep under M'Gowan, his overseer, Cal Ronald- 
 son received from his father in England a letter 
 of introduction to Mr. Arnold Matthews, the 
 owner of Meadowlands. Meadowlands is one of 
 the prettiest, and also one of the best paying, 
 stations in New South Wales, and it is within 
 two or three hours' ride of Narrandera. Cal
 
 QUEEN GUINIVIERE 47 
 
 found the distance between Burriwa and Meadow- 
 lands to be just a hundred and sixty miles by 
 road, and a hundred and thirty by bush track. 
 That probably meant the greater part of three 
 days' driving, or a big hole in two days' riding, 
 with a good horse, and a night spent at Milpa. 
 Ronaldson had never placed a very high value 
 upon time, however, and M'Gowan having no 
 serious objection to raise, the nominal master of 
 Burriwa started one morning in a light tray 
 buggy with two sterling little ponies, to drive in 
 to Meadowlands. 
 
 The original hostess of Meadowlands had never 
 been strong, and the summer months of the long 
 drought of eight years before Ronaldson's arrival 
 in Australia had proved too much for her. There- 
 fore there was at that time no Mrs. Matthews. 
 But the young Englishman did not feel her 
 absence, for he had never seen the beautiful girl 
 Arnold Matthews had courted five-and-twenty 
 years ago, in Hampshire ; and he now saw 
 beautiful Hettie Matthews, the first child of the 
 union that had followed that courtship. 
 
 She was just twenty-one years old, and when 
 she put on a hat she robbed Meadowlands of 
 half its sunshine, by covering a glinting mass 
 of pale gold hair, such as Scandinavian artists 
 love to dream of, and to play at painting. A 
 wonderful picture was Hettie Matthews, stand- 
 ing in the wide hall of her father's homestead, 
 with heavy cedar cross-beams for a background 
 to her slim figure, and the pure profile with its
 
 48 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 wavy setting of spring sunlight. Cal Ronaldson, 
 with a head full of Shelley and Goethe, stared 
 in fascinated wonder when he first saw Hettie 
 in that hall. And then came blushing sunset 
 glories up and down the fruit-shaped cheeks, 
 and on to the creamy throat of her, as she 
 turned to bring forward her little sister Guini- 
 viere. 
 
 ' My sister, Guiniviere, Mr. Ronaldson.' 
 She was twelve years of age, this little sister 
 of beautiful Hettie Matthews ; and Guiniviere — 
 despite the hesitancy of want of use with which 
 her sister uttered it — was the name by which 
 she had been christened. The name had become 
 Gwynnie, then Gwynn, and finally. Queen, It 
 seemed natural and right that this little sister 
 of Hettie should be Queen. She was so gracious, 
 and so graceful. She had never played with 
 dolls, but with fairy children by the score. Her 
 speech had never been a childish lisp, but by 
 a quaint playing upon, and combining of, words, 
 she had spoken almost in a little language of 
 her own. So Arnold Matthews' little daughter 
 remained Queen, and every soul on the big 
 station paid her willing court. 
 
 Cal Ronaldson stayed, in accordance with his 
 first arrangement, for three days at Meadowlands. 
 After this he wrote a longish letter to M'Gowan, 
 and stayed another eighteen days with Mr. 
 Matthews. Then, in the early morning fragrance 
 of a day that came after three weeks of dreamy 
 ecstasy, he took a long breath, such as a man
 
 QUEEN GUINIVIERE 49 
 
 takes on the end of a spring-board, and bidding 
 good-bye to the Matthews household, started 
 on his hundred and sixty miles drive home to 
 Burriwa. 
 
 For a man who would never do anything in 
 the world, he certainly worked most phenomen- 
 ally hard during the months which followed 
 that morning ; and with a result that was some- 
 thing suspiciously like promise of success. Then 
 he accepted a friendly invitation from Arnold 
 Matthews to spend a week or so at Meadowlands 
 after the shearing. Instead of driving he rode 
 by the bush track on this occasion, and covered 
 the hundred and thirty miles by the early after- 
 noon of the day after leaving Burriwa. 
 
 Queen, with her big greyhound, was standing 
 looking dreamily over the top of the slip-panel 
 in the home paddock fence, when Ronaldson 
 cantered gaily across the culvert of the little 
 creek, and dismounted to lift the rail which 
 Queen's small hands could not move. 
 
 ' I thought you would come early,' she said, 
 gazing at him with pretty dignity from out her 
 great brown eyes. 
 
 If Hettie's hair was like spring sunrise, then 
 Queen's was like the fleecy upper edge of a 
 dark cloud-bank, behind which the moon is 
 rising, and splashing sepia tenderness. 
 
 ' Is your father at home ? ' asked Ronaldson. 
 
 ' No ! ' replied the child ; * I don't think father 
 expected you till later. He has been away all 
 day in Narrandera.' 
 
 D
 
 50 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 ' And your sister ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, Hettie 's at home. There, you can see 
 her now on the verandah with Mr. Courtney.' 
 And Cal Ronaldson, looking along the gently 
 rising ground of the home paddock, saw the 
 sunlight glinting on the pale gold hair, and 
 Hettie Matthews, standing beside the tall figure 
 of a man half-hidden by one of the great ver- 
 andah posts. 
 
 It was a strange week that followed — strange 
 to Hettie ; perplexing to Courtney, the handsome 
 young Englishman who, with a vague notion 
 of taking up land, was just then doing the 
 Colonies ; unsatisfying and bewildering . to Cal 
 Ronaldson ; and most wonderful of all to Queen, 
 who, with her great dog Beauty, seemed to 
 Ronaldson to be hovering in and out his range 
 of vision during those seven days, like the fairy 
 spirit of some other life. Arnold Matthews saw 
 nothing, and Queen told only the big greyhound 
 what she saw, and her soft brown eyes filled 
 with tears in the telling. 
 
 Then came an evening when Cal Ronaldson was 
 so sad that his very heart seemed to be weeping ; 
 and its tears were the more bitter because he 
 could not tell himself exactly why he was so sad. 
 He was a dreamer, with a mind full of poetic 
 fancies. Courtney was a man of the world, with 
 a mind full of masterful superficiality. Therefore, 
 on that evening when Cal Ronaldson, in his sad- 
 ness, sat out on the verandah in the soft darkness 
 which had come after a sunset shower ; Courtney
 
 QUEEN GUINIVIERE 51 
 
 stood by Hettie's side in the drawing-room, 
 talking of songs he had been singing to her 
 accompaniment. 
 
 Then Queen, walking round the house with 
 her dog, stepped in from the moist, sweet-smelling 
 night of the Bush, and sat down on a low chair 
 near Ronaldson. The owner of Burriwa could 
 not see Queen's face, but her eyes, glistening in 
 the darkness, were just visible to him, and he 
 could hear the little jingle of the silver bangles 
 on her wrists. 
 
 ' Why are you so sad, Mr. Ronaldson ? ' 
 
 Beauty stretched out his fore-paws on the ver- 
 andah, and raised his pointed muzzle, as one who 
 would say, ' The Queen, my mistress, speaks ! 
 Let everybody listen ! ' The Englishman tried to 
 smile in the darkness; And that was unnecessary, 
 because Queen could not see his face. 
 
 ' I don't think I am sad, Queen,' he said. And 
 that also was unnecessary, because untrue. 
 
 ' Oh yes ! indeed you are very sad, and I am 
 so sorry! Please tell me why it is you are so 
 sad.' 
 
 Beauty touched Ronaldson's foot with one paw. 
 Dogs will do these things, but the touch seemed 
 to say, ' Do you hear the Queen's question ? ' 
 
 ' If I am sad. Queen, I cannot tell you why, 
 because I don't know.' 
 
 * Shall I tell you why ? ' said little Queen, 
 very softly. 
 
 * You cannot. Queen ; but — do if you can ! ' 
 ' It is because — of Mr. Courtney ! '
 
 52 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 The dreamer's hand gave a little shiver, and 
 brushed Queen's wrist. 
 
 * Why because of Mr. Courtney ? ' 
 
 ' Because — oh, because of Hettie ! ' Queen's 
 voice was a whisper. ' And please, Mr. Ronald- 
 son, you mustn't, because Hettie doesn't like any 
 one at all, but — you ; and ' 
 
 The queenly little head bent at last, and two 
 big tears dropped on to the muzzle of the dog, 
 Cal Ronaldson, hearing the sob, started in surprise. 
 
 ' Dear little Queen ! you mustn't cry,' he said ; 
 * if I am sad, that is my own fault ; and — and 
 what makes you say your sister likes me. Queen ? ' 
 
 ' I know,' said the child simply. ' And oh, 
 please, don't be sad, because I — it hurts me ! ' 
 
 ' You dear little Queen, I won't be sad ! I will 
 be very happy, because I love her. Queen ; and 
 you have made me happy ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, I know ! ' The child's voice trembled. 
 She had risen to her feet, and stood with one tiny 
 hand resting on the dog's collar. Cal Ronaldson 
 rose too, and then he stooped down and kissed 
 the child's forehead. 
 
 * Oh, don't do that ! ' she said, with a sob in 
 her voice. And then, turning abruptly in the 
 darkness, she walked away — having taught Cal 
 Ronaldson something he had not before been 
 able to tell himself 
 
 On the following day Courtney, the other guest 
 at Meadowlands, was to leave the station on a trip 
 to Barmedman and the country beyond the 
 Lachlan. So during the evening he hardly left
 
 QUEEN GUINIVIERE 53 
 
 the side of Hettie Matthews. But if Courtney 
 were at her left hand, Cal Ronaldson was at her 
 right ; and Arnold Matthews' eyes closed after 
 a long day's riding ; and Queen's big, wistful eyes 
 followed her sister and the two Englishmen, till 
 her bedtime came. 
 
 Three days afterwards the owner of Burriwa 
 station told beautiful Hettie he loved her. The 
 man woke from his dreams and poured out all the 
 poetry in him at the feet of this girl. There 
 was passion in every word he spoke, and a strong 
 man's love in his tones as they rose and fell, 
 dropping at last to quivering tenderness, like an 
 organ's dying notes, to the ears of the girl who 
 listened. The slender white neck was curved, and 
 her beautiful head bent till its frame of pale gold 
 brushed the Englishman's coat. His manhood 
 had won her the more easily because it came to 
 her in all the strength of the first rush with which 
 it surged up in him, from out the vagueness of 
 his dreams. 
 
 Arnold Matthews had nothing to say against 
 the son of his old friend as a husband for his 
 daughter ; and so, after a week's happiness to- 
 gether, Hettie said good-bye to her lover, as a 
 lover, and he rode away on his return journey to 
 his own station. The young squatter himself may 
 have noticed it, but no one else saw, that when 
 Queen held out her little hand with childish 
 dignity to say good-bye to Hettie's lover, her 
 brown eyes were filled with tears. ' You will not 
 be sad any more ! ' she murmured ; and Cal
 
 54 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 Ronaldson would have bent down to kiss his 
 good-bye, but something caused him to refrain.. 
 And so he rode away. 
 
 Twice a week came letters by the coach, and a 
 month passed quickly. Then Queen was sent on 
 a visit to some friends of her father's, who lived 
 at Wentworth, on the Blue Mountains. She had 
 been growing very pale and languid, and Arnold 
 Matthews said the change of air would do her 
 good. She had always been quiet and inclined to 
 dreaminess, but now she hardly spoke save to 
 Hettie, whose hair she would stroke sometimes as 
 she said, ' Beautiful Hettie,' or at other times, 
 ' Queen loves you, too, Hettie.' And the older 
 sister would kiss her, half-wondering at the wistful, 
 loving look of admiration in the child's eyes. 
 
 While Queen was away at Wentworth, Courtney, 
 looking handsomer than ever after six weeks' 
 riding in the sunshine, returned to hospitable 
 Meadowlands, and was made much of by Arnold 
 Matthews. Then came a letter from Wentworth 
 saying that, so far, the change of air seemed to 
 have been the reverse of beneficial in its effect 
 upon little Queen. ' We are quite uneasy about 
 her,' wrote the good lady to whose care Arnold 
 Matthews had intrusted his little daughter ; ' she 
 is so wan and listless, poor little soul, and eats 
 next to nothing ! ' 
 
 So the host of Meadowlands, to whom this 
 little girl was very dear, travelled post-haste to 
 Wentworth, and brought Queen home again. 
 When Mr. Matthews returned to the homestead,
 
 QUEEN GUINIVIERE 55 
 
 his courtly little daughter sitting by his side on 
 the cushions of the big buggy, with one tiny hand 
 resting on her father's arm ; Hettie was standing 
 on the verandah, with Courtney, to welcome them. 
 During that evening, pale little Queen, whose 
 languid air, whilst in itself wholly sad and 
 pathetic, yet harmonised very sweetly with her 
 miniature dignity and baby stateliness, grew 
 noticeably more sad and abstracted. 
 
 It was late when Cal Ronaldson's betrothed 
 retired for the night, and almost immediately 
 after closing the door of her room she was 
 surprised to hear a gentle tapping upon it from 
 outside. She opened the door, expecting to see a 
 servant, and found her little sister standing on the 
 black rug outside. There stood Queen, like a 
 sculptor's dream of perfect purity embodied in 
 white marble. A stray moonbeam, shining 
 through a great skylight in the roof of the hall, 
 kissed softly the long dark curls that fell over 
 her draped shoulders ; and her little feet, with 
 their delicate blue vein tracery, looked cold and 
 in some way not earthly, as they peered from 
 under the hem of her white gown. 
 
 ' Queen ! ' ejaculated Hettie, in real astonish- 
 ment ; ' what are you doing out of bed ? You 
 ought to have been asleep hours ago, dear ! ' 
 
 ' Hettie ! Hettie ! How can you bear to do it ? ' 
 
 The girl, whose hair was sunrise glory, shivered, 
 though she was fully dressed. ' Do what, child ? ' 
 she said. 
 
 ' Oh, Hettie 1 How can you ? It is wicked ! '
 
 56 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 Little Queen trembled and would have fallen, but 
 her sister, bending forward, caught the little white 
 draped form in her two arms, and carried the 
 child back to the bed she had left. 
 
 ' Oh, Hettie ! when he loves you so ! Oh, 
 please, beautiful Hettie, don't hurt him ! Mr. 
 Courtney is a bad man ; and — please, Hettie 
 dear ! ' 
 
 Queen was sitting in the bed, and great tears 
 were rolling down her pale cheeks. ' My dear 
 little Queen, you are ill ! ' said Hettie ; ' you are 
 fancying things. I have not — I am not — you are 
 fancying things, dear, and you must forget them 
 and go to sleep.' 
 
 For almost an hour Cal Ronaldson's betrothed 
 sat trying to soothe her sister ; and at last the 
 little form lay quiet and still. The long wet 
 eyelashes were lowered, and the weary little 
 breast rose and fell in even, gentle breathing. 
 Nature, the mother, had done what Hettie, the 
 sister, could not do ; and Queen slept from 
 sheer exhaustion. Then the older sister crept 
 softly from the side of that whitest of beds, to 
 her own room; and, during the early morning, 
 beautiful Hettie Matthews slept also. 
 
 Everything went on as usual next day, and 
 Hettie only once caught her little sister's glance — 
 a curious look of blended entreaty and reproach — 
 when Mr. Courtney proposed a ride in the after- 
 noon. 
 
 In the early evening, and before the moon 
 rose to soften, with its pale purity, the darkness of
 
 QUEEN GUINIVIERE 57 
 
 the Bush, Queen sat with her big greyhound on 
 the verandah, as she had sat on the night of Cal 
 Ronaldson's awakening from his dreams. As 
 the child sat there, golden-haired Hettie, with 
 Courtney at her side, walked out from the draw- 
 ing-room into the cool night air which filled the 
 verandah with its sweetness. Little Queen, 
 sitting in the darkest patch of all the evening's 
 darkness, was not seen and could not see, more 
 than the creamy waves of lace round Hettie's 
 neck, and the white line of Courtney's collar. 
 
 Hettie and Courtney walked down the verandah 
 as far as the windows of the breakfast-room, and 
 as they paused, Queen, in her dark corner, 
 shuddered so that the bangles on her thin wrists 
 made little faint noises. The white collar had 
 almost touched the cloud of lace, and the child 
 heard Hettie say nervously, * Oh, you must not, 
 you must not ! ' 
 
 ' And why, sweet Hettie ? ' The man's voice 
 was less clearly audible because more gruff 
 
 ' You forget ' 
 
 ' Hettie, I forget nothing ; but ' 
 
 The little figure of the child rose from the low 
 chair, and, Beauty by her side. Queen walked 
 firmly down the middle of the verandah, in 
 through the open hall-door, and straight to her 
 own bedroom. Falling on her knees beside the 
 white bed, burying her head in the mosquito- 
 curtain's gauzy folds. Queen called on Heaven to 
 stay the flood of tears which, rushing up from her 
 child's heart, made the brown eyes sightless.
 
 58 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 ' Please, God, make him go away, and keep 
 
 beautiful Hettie for Oh, please, God ! ' This 
 
 was the refrain of her prayer, but much of it was 
 less coherent and more sad. 
 
 Hours afterwards, still fully dressed. Queen sat 
 on the side of her bed, thinking and wondering, 
 and sometimes murmuring parts of her childish 
 thoughts aloud. Once she whispered, ' Oh, he 
 must come ! He said he could not live without 
 
 Hettie — beautiful Hettie ; he said Please, God, 
 
 you will let him come ! He must not die ! It 
 took him less than two days — a hundred and 
 forty miles ! Please, God, make Blossom very 
 strong ; and — oh, won't it ever be daytime ? ' 
 
 By and by the sky grew slaty grey, with a few 
 faint lines of purple in it. Then Queen gave a 
 weary little sigh of relief that was half a sob of 
 pain ; and, carrying her big straw hat in one hand, 
 she walked on tip-toe silently out of the room, 
 down the shadowy hall, and out into the greyness 
 of the early morning. Down through the rich 
 grass, a few steps in which turned her little brown 
 boots almost black, so heavily laden was it with 
 dew, Queen walked to the hollow where the creek 
 ran under the home paddock fence. 
 
 ' Oh, Blossom dear ! ' she murmured, looking 
 anxiously round the familiar place ; ' surely you 
 haven't gone away ? ' A few minutes afterwards 
 she found the wiry little pony, which represented 
 her father's last birthday present, and, with one 
 tiny hand on the animal's withers, she led her 
 favourite to the first of the innumerable outhouses
 
 QUEEN GUINIVIERE 59 
 
 of the sleeping homestead. Staggering under the 
 light weight of her elaborately worked little side- 
 saddle ; bruising her tender fingers with its girth 
 buckles, and pleading prettily for Blossom's assist- 
 ance with the bit and bridle ; Queen at last finished 
 the harnessing of her pony. A little hesitating, 
 downward look of disapproval told the child that 
 she was not dressed for riding, and, her love of fit- 
 ness triumphing, she left Blossom standing at the 
 outhouse door and crept back to her bedroom, to 
 return a few minutes later, when a little dark brown 
 riding-habit had taken the place of her frock. 
 
 Ten minutes afterwards she and Blossom and 
 the greyhound were outside the home paddock, 
 and, crossing the culvert over the creek, had 
 entered the Bush beyond, by the track down 
 which Cal Ronaldson had cantered on the after- 
 noon of his last visit to Meadowlands. Queen's 
 face was white and set, with a little spot of bright 
 colour in each cheek, and dark hollows under the 
 tender brown eyes. 
 
 Cal Ronaldson had not been very happy during 
 the past fortnight, because he had only received 
 two letters from beautiful Hettie Matthews, instead 
 of four. But he was pleased with the progress he 
 had made in his work at Burriwa ; and on this 
 evening, when he was riding towards Meadow- 
 lands to see the lady of his love, with her hair of 
 sunrise gold, and the sweet, pure profile he saw 
 always in his dreams, Ronaldson laughed to him- 
 self, mocking his little fears, and singing to let
 
 60 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 out the happiness of his lover's heart. Suddenly, 
 and as he rounded a sharp bend in the track, he 
 stopped singing, for his eye had caught the out- 
 line of a horse standing in the middle of the path, 
 some twenty or thirty yards in front of him. 
 
 He reined in his own mount, and a little 
 muttered exclamation of surprise fell from his 
 lips as he noticed that the horse standing before 
 him was saddled, and standing with its head 
 drooping over a small dark figure on the ground. 
 Then he noticed a greyhound stretched beside 
 the dark form with head upraised, and a question- 
 ing look in its expressive eyes. 
 
 Recognition coming in a flash, the young 
 squatter dropped the bridle of his tired horse, and 
 fell on one knee beside the little figure. ' My 
 God, Beauty ! ' he exclaimed, with a tremor in 
 his voice. And then with tender care he lifted 
 the dark form from the ground, knowing without 
 looking at the white face, that he had found 
 Beauty's child-mistress, there in the Bush, sixty 
 miles and more from Meadowlands. 
 
 Queen was insensible, but Ronaldson saw no 
 mark of any kind of wound upon her, as he gently 
 drew out the dead leaves and little twigs which 
 had clung to her dark curls. Then, very carefully, 
 he mounted his horse, still holding the little form 
 in his arms, and, driving Blossom before him as 
 he chafed Queen's little hands between his own, 
 he rode slowly on to Milpa. 
 
 Queen regained consciousness at Milpa, under 
 the care of the postmaster's wife ; but she only
 
 QUEEN GUINIVIERE 61 
 
 smiled faintly as her sister's lover bent over the 
 bed upon which she lay, and for some time the 
 weak little body would not let even the few words 
 the brave heart wanted to say, escape her quiver- 
 ing lips. 
 
 Some little time elapsed, and then, bending low 
 over the child's head, Cal Ronaldson was able to 
 catch the words, ' Please go to Meadowlands.' 
 Then came a break, and afterwards, more weakly 
 still — * Because Hettie wants you.' 
 
 The Englishman's eyes filled with tears as he 
 nodded in reply, ' Yes, yes, dear little Queen ! I 
 will go.' And then he left the room for a while 
 to walk up and down in the cool air outside, till 
 the doctor should arrive from Tumal, twenty-five 
 miles away. 
 
 ' You have sent for her father ? ' was what the 
 medical man said, questioningly, after a quarter 
 of an hour spent in the room where Queen lay, 
 with one thin hand resting on the muzzle of the 
 dog Beauty, raised to the bedside. 
 
 * At eight in the evening,' said Ronaldson ; ' so 
 he ought to be here by ten or eleven this morning, 
 anyhow.' 
 
 ' Ah, no later, I hope ! no later than that. And 
 I am half afraid ' 
 
 ' Oh, for God's sake, doctor, try and save her ! ' 
 said the Englishman imploringly. 
 
 At nine o'clock in the morning, as Cal Ronald- 
 son, with a haggard, frightened look on his face, 
 sat at her bedside. Queen's voice came to her, and 
 she began to speak in faint, broken whispers.
 
 62 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 * You will go soon ? ' she said, touching the man's 
 cold hand with her thin fingers. 
 
 ' Yes, Queen dear, I will go very soon ; but 
 — why would you hurry me, Queen ? ' 
 
 ' Because — oh, because Hettie wants you, and I 
 want you to be with her ! ' 
 
 The man could hardly keep from groaning as 
 he thought of the price the child had paid to 
 gratify her loving wish. ' But, Queen — dear little 
 Queen ! ' he said, with a moaning sob in his voice : 
 ' what made you ride out here all alone, for my 
 sake, to bring me to Hettie ? What made you do 
 so much for me ? ' 
 
 The child moved slightly in the bed, and 
 raised her queenly little head with its frame of 
 dark curls. The great brown eyes seemed to 
 look calmly, trustingly, right down into Ronald- 
 son's soul ; and the man by the side of the bed 
 shook from head to foot as the little sister of 
 his betrothed said, ' Oh, you must know ! It 
 was because — because I love you ! ' 
 
 And then, as the Englishman raised the blue- 
 veined fingers to his lips, Queen's dark head 
 fell back on the pillow. The child had told the 
 secret of her woman's heart, and little Queen 
 said nothing more. 
 
 When Howard Kerr had told me this, behind 
 the green blinds of the little balcony, near the end 
 of the Port Louis wharf, he jumped to his feet 
 and coughed as he walked to the winding stone 
 stairs. Half a minute afterwards I heard him
 
 QUEEN GUINIVIERE 63 
 
 swearing violently at two coolies outside ; and, 
 leaning over the balcony rail, I said, ' Kerr ! 
 what about the girl with pale gold hair ? ' 
 
 Kerr looked up in the bright sunlight, and 
 his eyes were very red. ' Good heavens ! didn't 
 you hear of the Courtney marriage? I — I will 
 tell you another time ! ' 
 
 I have not seen Kerr since.
 
 THE QUEEN OF AJASSA SIDE 
 
 ' " When I last saw Waring " 
 
 (How all turned to him who spoke !) 
 " You saw Waring ? Truth or joke ? 
 In land travel, or seafaring ? " ' 
 
 Robert Browning. 
 
 It was J. L. Powell who told me all about the 
 affair of Dr. Keith Boswell, when he (Powell) 
 was leaving Lagos. Powell is not an imagina- 
 tive man — he is too rich to be imaginative — and 
 what he told me was truth. 
 
 No one knew exactly why Keith Boswell lived 
 in West Africa, but every one was glad to have 
 him there. He had a large private income, and, 
 though it is true he practised as a doctor, yet 
 he generally refused his fees, and every one saw 
 that he made next to nothing out of his profes- 
 sion. Still he remained on the Coast, and went 
 through periodical little attacks of fever in the 
 most good-humoured way imaginable. This 
 was peculiar, because West Africa is not a 
 pleasing place in any single sense. However, 
 Boswell knew pretty well every white man from 
 Sierre Leone to the Congo, and used to dodge 
 up and down from port to port, spending a 
 week with one man and a month with another, 
 
 04
 
 THE QUEEN OF AJASSA SIDE 65 
 
 in a sociable and altogether charming and in- 
 definite manner. 
 
 He was young, too — not more than thirty 
 years of age — and the kind of man who would 
 be popular and well known anywhere. He was 
 a born Bohemian, was Dr. Boswell, and he loved 
 to lead a strange, adventurous kind of life. Any 
 whimsicality, any odd experience, or unusual 
 way of doing things, pleased his fancy ; and, 
 amongst other peculiarities, he was addicted to 
 mixing himself up in native life. There were 
 times when he had been seen and recognised 
 in the garb of a river chief, and he made no 
 secret of his habit of attending native feasts and 
 ceremonies of various kinds. Then he could 
 converse fluently in half a dozen different African 
 dialects, from Fantee to ' Benin side,' and he 
 could eat palm-oil chop with any darkey breath- 
 ing. These things are all very well in the way 
 of amusements to be occasionally indulged in. 
 But as a habit they are as bad as opium-smoking 
 — for a white man. Men who know nothing of 
 such matters may, and will, continue to rant about 
 their coloured brethren, and racial equality, till 
 all 's blue — or whitey-brown ; but the man who, 
 in practice, ignores the laws of colour, makes a 
 mistake. And he generally suffers for it. 
 
 Now, all went well with Dr. Keith Boswell, 
 and he was probably the most contented man 
 on the Coast, till he attended the ceremony of 
 the installation into office of young King Munyar. 
 The old king had died of over-eating and want 
 
 E
 
 66 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 of exercise, and his son Munyar was to be 
 formally installed in his place at the age of 
 about seventeen or eighteen. Munyar was a 
 splendid barbarian, and at that age — the early 
 prime of tropical manhood — was about as fine 
 a specimen of the African savage as one could 
 wish to see. He had never been allowed to 
 attend a mission school, or to receive any edu- 
 cation, and it is probable that in his short life he 
 had never known what a thwarted desire or an 
 unrealised wish meant. 
 
 Keith Boswell arrayed himself in all his most 
 gorgeous African paraphernalia, and went up to 
 Ajassa to join in the three days' feasting and riot- 
 ing which were to precede Munyar's coronation. 
 
 On the evening of the first day of the 
 feasting, he took a stroll through the village, 
 and on his way back he paused outside Chief 
 Karelah's camp. That was in the full light 
 of day, when the rays of the sinking sun were 
 sending a warm red glow over all the thatched 
 roofs, and beautifying even the bodies of the 
 drunken natives, who were lying round about 
 on the ground. The reason of the doctor's 
 stopping by Karelah's camp was that, standing 
 in the doorway of its main hut, he saw the 
 most beautiful girl in West Africa, 
 
 Keith Boswell liked native beauty, and he 
 was simply stupefied by this vision of loveliness 
 in burnished gold. Any man would have 
 admired her, for when an Ajassa woman is 
 pretty she is a beautiful object. And, further.
 
 THE QUEEN OF AJASSA SIDE 67 
 
 though it was not every one who recognised the 
 fact, Karelah's daughter Sadra was the finest- 
 looking girl on the Coast. Her skin was the 
 colour of very fine and highly polished copper, 
 and in the light of the setting sun it was golden. 
 Her hair was very long, and had a wavy ripple, 
 but not a sign of woolliness in it. Her hands 
 and feet were tiny, soft, and dimpled ; her 
 figure was a dream of graceful curves and 
 lissom undulations ; and her delicate features 
 were far more like those of a highly bred Arab 
 than a West African. Karelah, her father, was 
 an ugly enough man, in all conscience, though 
 of exceptionally fine physique, but her mother 
 was an Accra woman, and the child of genera- 
 tions of savage kings. 
 
 The doctor gazed in fascinated wonder at her, 
 till she raised her wonderful black eyes and 
 looked at him. And then he stammeringly wished 
 her good evening, speaking in her native dialect. 
 The girl smiled, for she at once recognised his 
 nationality, and answered him in very good 
 English, though in the sense of her own lan- 
 guage. Her accent was good, and her pro- 
 nunciation correct, but she used the forms of 
 speech, and the peculiar, picturesque grouping 
 of words, of the Ajassa vernacular. ' May the 
 night be pleasant to you, son of white men,' 
 was what she said, and this struck pleasingly 
 on Boswell's ear ; for, as a rule, when the native 
 learns the language of the North, he speaks it 
 with prosaic correctness, if well educated, or with
 
 68 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 almost unintelligible incorrectness if only partially 
 schooled. 
 
 The doctor stood there, leaning on the roughly 
 constructed fence and talking to the beautiful 
 girl, till the darkness of the tropical night made 
 her invisible, and the singing and shouting of 
 the men who had before been sleeping rendered 
 her musical voice almost inaudible. She had 
 dropped into the vernacular, which Boswell spoke 
 with perfect ease, and, as she turned in the 
 doorway and wished him ' Good night,' she 
 called him ' friend.' He could hear the jingle 
 of her bracelets and neck ornaments as she 
 moved, and he felt a strong desire to walk into 
 the inclosure, to touch her little hand — the hand 
 which, in the darkness, he could not see. But 
 he was still fairly cool, and so, having bid her 
 ' Good night,' he turned and walked towards the 
 king's camp. 
 
 He charmed the heart of Karelah with flattery 
 that night, and told the chief that he would 
 like to meet his wives and family. In Western 
 Africa there is very little of that secrecy and 
 reserve which characterise the domestic life of 
 an Eastern potentate ; and Karelah readily pro- 
 mised to make the white ' medicine man,' who 
 was always so friendly and liberal with advice, 
 known to his women-kind. He went further, and 
 asked Boswell to come with him, after Munyar 
 had been made king, and spend some time in his 
 permanent camp in the centre of his own dis- 
 trict, fifteen or twenty miles away. The doctor
 
 THE QUEEN OF AJASSA SIDE 69 
 
 thought of the beautiful girl who had told him 
 her name was Sadra, and all the adventurer 
 and Bohemian in him made him eagerly accept 
 the invitation. Now, this was unwise, because 
 Sadra was not of his colour. And, further, though 
 he did not at the time know this, she was 
 intended as a wife for the young king in whose 
 honour Boswell was feasting. 
 
 King Munyar admired the white doctor im- 
 mensely, and was pleased to have him as a 
 guest during the feasting and ceremonies of the 
 royal installation. He used to copy Boswell's 
 dress and manner, and was proud to have the 
 man as a friend. The doctor, on his side, ad- 
 mired Munyar as a picturesque young savage, 
 and liked him as a good-natured fellow, and as 
 a power amongst the natives. Beyond this, there 
 was nothing between them, and they had not 
 known each other very long. 
 
 During the three days' revelry which preceded 
 the final ceremony of coronation, Boswell spent 
 several hours in Karelah's camp, and, before 
 the week was over, he and Sadra were very 
 good friends. Then came a general exodus of 
 visitors from the settlement — Munyar having 
 been duly proclaimed king — and Keith Boswell 
 proceeded in Karelah's big war-canoe to the 
 chief's home in the interior. Sadra's father 
 had an extensive camp in his own village, and 
 was able to entertain the doctor in very good 
 style. His slaves and subjects traded away 
 for him, every year, a large amount of palm-oil
 
 70 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 and kernels ; and all the luxuries that were im- 
 ported by the white merchants on the Coast, 
 Karelah enjoyed possession of. During the day 
 he was generally out and about in his canoe, 
 or being carried by his slaves, and Boswell 
 was free to sit with, and talk to, the chief's 
 beautiful daughter for hours together. Sadra's 
 mother was faded, and long past her prime. 
 Karelah rarely spoke to her. But his depend- 
 ents always showed every respect to the mother 
 of the ' Queen of Ajassa Side,' as Sadra was 
 called. She earned this name partly by reason 
 of her wonderful fairness and beauty, and 
 partly because every one considered that, when 
 she married, she would be Munyar's favourite 
 wife. 
 
 It was a strange life that Boswell led in that 
 wild jungle home, where no white skin, save his 
 own, was ever seen. And the strangeness and 
 oddity of it fascinated him, apart altogether from 
 the influence which Sadra exerted over him. So 
 little was known of white men in that district that 
 the doctor was treated with almost reverential 
 deference, and his slightest wish, though only half- 
 expressed, was promptly carried out by willing 
 hands. Sadra's mother liked him for the courtesy 
 with which he always treated her. She was 
 flattered by the attentions which this white friend 
 of the king paid to her daughter and herself She 
 rather encouraged than otherwise his friendliness 
 with Sadra, and, when it was discovered that the 
 ' medicine man ' liked to sit talking with Karelah's
 
 THE QUEEN OF AJASSA SIDE 71 
 
 lovely daughter through the long, hot mornings, 
 and in the early nights, when the chief was away — 
 then instructions were given that no man nor 
 woman should disturb him. No wonder that 
 romantic and adventure-loving Boswell grew pas- 
 sionately fond of the black-eyed beauty. No 
 wonder that, as he lay for hours at her feet, talking 
 tenderly to her in the vernacular, and watching 
 the sunlight dancing on her polished skin, he lost 
 sight of the danger of his position. 
 
 He was living among savages, very few of 
 whom had even learned to speak his language, 
 and he was many miles away from the haunts of 
 the white residents of the Coast. Still, he lived a 
 life of ease and luxury, and day by day he was 
 left basking in the sunshine of Sadra's tropical 
 beauty. 
 
 Weeks passed by, and the doctor half-forgot his 
 real life and the associations of civilisation. Time 
 is nothing to the native of West Africa. Year 
 in and year out, twelve hours' sunshine is followed 
 by twelve hours' darkness, and the savage life 
 goes on with nothing to mark its progress save 
 the wrinkling of once glossy skins, and the 
 stiffening of limbs that have been lissom as the 
 panther's. This is all the native knows of time, 
 and he hardly thinks of even these things till the 
 end of his strong life approaches. 
 
 Karelah grew accustomed to having the white 
 man in his camp, and liked to see him there. It 
 was a fine thing to have a white ' medicine man ' 
 residing in one's camp. Whether his visitor had
 
 72 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 been, or was to be, with him a week, or a month, 
 or a year, was nothing to the chief, and he never 
 thought of it. Boswell himself soon ceased to 
 count the days ; and as Sadra, with native readi- 
 ness, fell into his ways of talking and thinking, 
 he learned to live solely in and for this strange 
 infatuation of his. 
 
 It was easy for the cultivated white man, who 
 spoke her language with more fluency, if less 
 correctness, than she herself — it was easy for this 
 man, who taught her so many strange and 
 beautiful things, to teach her also to love him. 
 He did so. And, with all the force of her half- 
 savage and wholly beautiful nature, she loved and 
 worshipped this visitor from an outer world. He 
 had no intentions, but his vague and dreamy ideas 
 about the girl were all perfectly honourable. So, 
 when Karelah, warned by a tale-bearing slave, 
 came suddenly upon them seated lovingly to- 
 gether, Dr. Keith Boswell said that he wanted to 
 marry Sadra, the chiefs daughter. They were 
 sitting together in a small room, during the 
 intense heat of the morning, as they had become 
 accustomed to do. The doctor was telling her 
 over again the old story, of how he had felt his 
 heart go out towards her when he had first seen 
 her in Ajassa, as she had stood in her father's 
 camp with the evening sunshine glowing over her. 
 He had one arm thrown round the beautiful girl's 
 slim waist, and was in the act of kissing her sun- 
 coloured forehead, when Karelah burst into the 
 room. Keith Boswell learned what it was to deal
 
 THE QUEEN OF AJASSA SIDE 73 
 
 with the bare savage, with the veneer scraped off, 
 when he rose to face the chiefs first mad wrath. 
 He began by saying that it was his wish to marry 
 Sadra, as white men married the women of their 
 love. 
 
 ' You, marry Sadra ! ' screamed Karelah in the 
 vernacular. ' Sadra is the bride of a king, not of 
 a white monkey — not of a medicine man who 
 knows not the mangrove from the bread-fruit 
 tree ! You, white ape from the North ! You may 
 go marry some weak-limbed slave in a mission 
 station ! You, snake from fever-stricken swamps ! 
 I received you as a guest, and the king's friend. 
 And you, child of a catfish ! would rob me of my 
 daughter, the chosen of a king ! ' 
 
 Now, to Keith Boswell, the idea that even 
 Karelah could consider him less than the equal 
 of black King Munyar, seemed absurd. And he 
 said as much. 
 
 ' Oh, treacherous jungle - cat ! ' bellowed the 
 chief ; ' dog that would " chop " at my table, and 
 sleep on my bed, whilst robbing me, stealing 
 from me my flesh and blood ! But you shall go 
 — Yes, out into the swamp before my slaves cut 
 you down here at my feet I As for you, bush- 
 rat ! ' — here he turned, blazing, to his daughter — 
 ' you, I will sell to the Mohammedans, who will 
 carry you as a slave through the desert to their 
 sandy home in the far-away North ! You, worm, 
 shall not marry a king ; and may Ju-ju choke me 
 if you shall marry a dog of a white medicine 
 man ! Go ! '
 
 74 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 He thundered out the last word with such 
 prodigious fury, that instinct made the girl drop 
 her lover's arm and walk slowly towards her 
 mother's rooms. Then Keith Boswell, the white 
 doctor, tried to conciliate Karelah, the savage 
 chief, and gain permission to marry his daughter, 
 Karelah spat on the ground in his contemptuous 
 rage. 
 
 ' Go, slave ! go, dog ! go, snake ! Out of my 
 sight, monkey, before you die ! And, when you 
 are gone, cheer yourself, and remember that to- 
 morrow I take Sadra to the Coast, I will show 
 you and her how the chief rules his people ! I 
 will sell her to the Mohammedans, and she shall 
 be a slave, and a carrier to the half-breeds ! ' 
 
 Boswell was forced to go. He could gain 
 nothing but death by remaining. And, as he 
 walked out into the glaring sunshine, his heart 
 ached within him ; for he knew full well that it 
 was no unusual nor impossible thing for a native 
 to sell his children to the Mohammedan pilgrims, 
 who, combining ' pork and beans with the gospel,' 
 traverse the trackless Sahara on foot, and, having 
 got through their trade and their religious rites of 
 the Coast, return, by the way they came, to Algiers 
 and Moorish Africa, As he walked blindly on 
 through the plane-trees, and over the trailing 
 roots of yams and mangroves, he realised for the 
 first time what an absorbing passion his love for 
 Sadra had become. In the dreamy happiness of 
 his life during the past six or seven weeks he had 
 never seriously contemplated his position, far less
 
 THE QUEEN OF AJASSA SIDE 75 
 
 paused to analyse the qualities of that feeling 
 which had made him content to sit for hours at 
 the feet of this perfect beauty of the tropics. 
 Now he realised it all, and he swore, in his own 
 mind, as he stumbled over the swampy ground, 
 that he could not and would not live without her. 
 
 He wandered on through the jungle till he came 
 to the river-bank. Then he began to look about 
 him under the overhanging mangrove branches, 
 and to think. Sadra was going to the coast. 
 Ah ! He crept quietly about until he found a 
 light, slender canoe that he knew would answer 
 his purpose, and then, using the grotesquely 
 carved paddle with the ease of habit, he shot out 
 into the dazzling brightness of the sunshine, and 
 started on his way down the river towards the 
 Coast. 
 
 For a white man, alone, to paddle a canoe down 
 the Ajassa river in the heat of the day, and in the 
 teeth of mangrove flies, miasma, and mosquitoes, 
 is — well, Boswell reached the Coast, because 
 Powell saw him when he arrived, and bought 
 from him the little property he had there, pay- 
 ing him cash for it. The doctor said he was 
 going to leave the Coast, but gave no further 
 particulars. 
 
 The next day but one, a large Mohammedan 
 caravan of pilgrims started for the far North ; and 
 it was said that Chief Karelah had sold his lovely 
 daughter to the leader of the tribe. When the 
 wanderers were winding their way out of the 
 settlement, Powell saw a man walking in the rear
 
 76 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 of the procession, and dressed as an Arab trader. 
 Powell considered the man wonderfully like Dr. 
 Keith Boswell, and hailed him by that name. 
 The Arab trader turned, and held up a brown 
 finger of warning, on which there glittered an 
 unmistakably English ring. 
 
 J. L. Powell was a man who never interfered 
 with other folks' affairs, and he stood silent whilst 
 the long procession passed slowly out of sight. 
 Dr. Keith Boswell was never seen in West Africa 
 again, and only one man who knew him in those 
 days has ever seen him since. 
 
 When J. L. Powell was wintering in Morocco 
 last year, he wandered somewhat out of the 
 beaten track, and reached an inland village called 
 Tehemut. This place consisted almost entirely 
 of dingy and dilapidated-looking residences, tiny 
 bazaars, and squalid huts. On a stretch of rising 
 ground at the back of the settlement, however, 
 stood a spacious, rambling, one-story building of 
 Moorish architecture, surrounded by tall palm- 
 trees, and all the beauties of sub-tropical vege- 
 tation. 
 
 ' Whose place is that ? ' asked Powell of his 
 Arab servant. 
 
 The man made inquiries, and learned that the 
 building was ' the palace of the Great White Caid 
 from the South, Ben Keitha,' who lived with his 
 queen — ' a beautiful goddess, whose skin shines 
 like the sun.' 
 
 J. L. Powell smiled, and rode up the hill to 
 the gates of the palace grounds. There he was
 
 THE QUEEN OF AJASSA SIDE yy 
 
 stopped by two Fantee slaves from the Coast. He 
 took out a card, and scribbled on the back of it 
 these words : ' J. L. Powell, of the West Coast, 
 would like to see Doctor " Ben Keitha," and talk 
 of old times.' 
 
 He was admitted, and escorted to the main 
 hall of that gorgeous white house ; but what 
 he saw^ and heard inside is something he has 
 solemnly sworn never to divulge.
 
 MADGE 
 
 ' A TIGER, A WOMAN, A HANDFUL OF DUST, AND 
 A DEAD SEA APPLE ' 
 
 (A garbled quotation.') 
 
 ' 'Tis a fair world : if dark, indeed, with woe, 
 Yet having hope and hint of such a joy. 
 That a man, winning, well might turn aside. 
 Careless of Heaven. . . . 
 
 O enough ; I turn 
 From the sun's light, or haply I shall hope. 
 I have hoped enough ; I would not hope again : 
 'Tis hope that is most cruel.' 
 
 A Minor Pokt. 
 
 ' That moment she was mine, mine fair. 
 Perfectly pure and good : I found 
 A thing to do, and all her hair 
 In one long yellow string I wound 
 Three times her little throat around, 
 And strangled her. No pain felt she ; 
 I am quite sure she felt no pain.' 
 
 Porphyria' 5 Lover. 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 A GOOD deal of it I myself saw ; and she told me 
 everything. It is the woman's own story, and if 
 she does not mind it being told, surely no one else 
 has any right to object. Anyhow, I choose to tell 
 it, if only because, the other day, I heard the man 
 referred to as 'an utterly unprincipled rake.' 
 Mind, I do not say he acted very wisely. Perhaps 
 
 78
 
 MADGE 79 
 
 he acted very foolishly. But the best men in the 
 world are not always the wisest, and the worst are 
 not necessarily those who act unwisely. In the 
 end, perhaps, it is better to have given new lamps 
 for old, than to have given old lamps and taken 
 new — obituary notices to the contrary notwith- 
 standing. We who are men really begin by 
 owing the world a good many new lamps — 
 because we are men. Some recognise it and try 
 to give ; others do not see it, and gather to them- 
 selves new lamps and an obituary notice. Per- 
 haps Hugh Marsden thought this way. 
 
 Marsden did not step into a ready-made 
 practice when he became a fully fledged solicitor, 
 and during his first year or two in London he had 
 to fight fairly hard, to make any way in his pro- 
 fession at all. True, there was a small annuity 
 standing between himself and actual want ; but 
 he had ambitions, and a measure of success which 
 justified these ambitions. 
 
 He had no relatives, or certainly none who knew 
 anything of him ; he had been brought up alone, 
 by a father whose religion had been something he 
 called ' Natural Philosophy ' ; and the principles 
 upon which he guided his own life were his own 
 ideals. He did not go into society, and reached 
 the age of thirty without knowing what a woman's 
 love meant. There had been phases in his life, 
 as in the lives of all men, and he had necessarily 
 been brought into contact with women in general. 
 He had never, however, realised the actual exist- 
 ence of woman in particular.
 
 8o MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 Late one night in the mid-winter of the thirtieth 
 year in his life, Hugh Marsden was obliged to 
 visit a dying client. In the early hours of the 
 morning, when a light sleet was falling, he left his 
 client's house in Bloomsbury, to walk to his own 
 residence in Jermyn Street. Two or three night 
 cabmen wondered why he chose to walk through 
 the sleet, but Marsden himself did not notice it. 
 He had just witnessed the neglected end of an old 
 man's lonely life ; and the solitude of it all had 
 impressed and oppressed him. 
 
 Approaching Jermyn Street, in Regent Street, 
 Marsden paused in the middle of the pavement to 
 listen to a moaning sound which seemed to pro- 
 ceed from the porch of a church he was passing. 
 He walked then to the front of the church and 
 saw the figure of a woman lying on the steps. 
 The solicitor bent down over this figure and asked 
 if he could be of any assistance. The woman's 
 face turned towards him as she muttered a reply, 
 the words of which he could not catch ; and the 
 man saw that she was very young, very ill, and 
 very pretty. But she appealed to him then, simply 
 and solely as some one — an individual — in distress. 
 A man would have appealed to him in the same 
 way. He had never known woman in particular. 
 
 ' Will you try and walk with me,' he said, as 
 he bent over her, ' to some place where I can get 
 help for you ? ' 
 
 The woman gazed at him ; murmured one word, 
 and then fainted. The one word she uttered was 
 'No!'
 
 MADGE 8i 
 
 Marsden stood a minute looking down some- 
 what abstractedly at the figure prostrate on the 
 wet, slippery steps. No one passed by while he 
 stood there ; and his mind casually absorbed the 
 fact that the woman was well and tastefully 
 dressed, despite her present forlorn condition. 
 Then an unusually cold gust of wind caused him 
 to realise that help was needed here, and, stooping 
 without further reflection, he lifted the insensible 
 figure in his arms and walked to the corner of 
 Jermyn Street. 
 
 No cab was there, and Marsden walked on with 
 his burden as calmly as though he had been carry- 
 ing a brief- bag instead of a woman. A few minutes 
 afterwards he saw, through the driving sleet, a han- 
 som, approaching him at a foot pace. He hailed the 
 cabman, and as he did so the woman, regaining 
 consciousness for a moment, said, ' No, I won't ' ; 
 and again became insensible. The solicitor looked 
 round then, and saw that he was standing outside 
 his own door. For a few moments he stood ponder- 
 ing, in hesitancy which had nothing whatever to do 
 with the sex of the figure he supported in his arms. 
 
 ' Well, I don't know,' he muttered ; whilst the 
 cabman sat gazing at him impatiently. ' I don't 
 know where else to take her. Yes, I think I will.' 
 He raised his voice, as, disengaging one wet hand 
 from his companion, he gave a shilling to the cab- 
 man. ' All right, cabby ! I won't bother you to- 
 night.' 
 
 Then, propping the unconscious girl against the 
 iron railings with one arm, he opened the door 
 
 F
 
 82 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 with his latch-key, closing it behind him after 
 carrying the girl into the hall within. The house 
 was a small one, and, with the exception of a 
 basement office, Marsden rented the whole of it, 
 using one floor for his offices and one for his living 
 purposes, whilst the third was occupied by his 
 housekeeper, a middle-aged woman with two 
 obvious and exaggerated peculiarities — ugliness 
 and kindliness. 
 
 A fire was burning in the solicitor's inner office, 
 and on the hearthrug before it he laid the woman 
 he had carried in his arms from Regent Street. 
 He carefully adjusted a cushion under her head, 
 and then, walking quietly out of the room, pro- 
 ceeded to the upper floor of the building and 
 roused his housekeeper. 
 
 Mrs. Roberts showed no bad temper at having 
 been roused at that hour, and within five minutes 
 of the time of her arrival in the downstairs office, 
 her employer's patient had regained consciousness. 
 The housekeeper asked no questions, and moved 
 about with the air of one who knows what is 
 wanted, and how to supply those wants. Her 
 look and every movement seemed to say, ' For 
 the present there are things to be done. Time 
 enough afterwards to ascertain particulars.' 
 
 In half an hour a fire was lighted in the spare 
 room on the floor occupied by the housekeeper, 
 and everything was prepared for its immediate 
 use. Then good-hearted, ugly Mrs. Roberts 
 walked to the office couch, on which the patient, 
 who had not yet spoken, was lying, and said
 
 MADGE 83 
 
 quietly, ' Now, miss, do you think you can manage 
 to get upstairs ? Come, let me help you,' 
 
 The girl on the couch raised herself weakly 
 on one elbow, and looked round the room with 
 dazed, wondering eyes, of liquid, childish blue. 
 Mrs. Roberts had loosed the neck of the girl's 
 gown, and now her long, silky hair, glistening still 
 with the cold moisture of the outer night, tumbled 
 in heavy waves round the slim, white throat. At 
 that moment, Marsden, who stood by the fire 
 watching, suddenly realised the situation ; recog- 
 nised for the first time woman in particular — this 
 woman whom he had picked up from the steps of 
 a Regent Street church and carried into his house. 
 The man felt all through him the contact of a 
 feminine individuality, and for the moment he 
 could say nothing. 
 
 The girl stared at the housekeeper, and then 
 at the man. 
 
 'You helped me,' said she to Marsden. * I told 
 you not to. Where is this ? Where have you 
 taken me ? I don't know you — do I ? ' 
 
 In these two last words, the girl opened the 
 covers of her life and showed the title-page of her 
 history ; and she knew that the man read and 
 realised, though the housekeeper did not. 
 
 ' This is my house,' said the solicitor, ' and I 
 brought you here because I didn't know where 
 else to take you. I couldn't leave you outside in 
 the sleet, and you — were very ill.' 
 
 ' And now — now you know better, and would 
 like me to go ? Well, I '11 go.' The girl rose to
 
 84 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 her feet and would have fallen, but Mrs. Roberts 
 was in the way, with open arms and clumsy, kindly 
 hands. 
 
 ' There, there, don't you try your strength too 
 much, pretty.' 
 
 Marsden's face flushed at this, and stepping 
 forward he said : 
 
 ' Believe me, I don't want you to go. Mrs. 
 Roberts has made a room ready for you upstairs, 
 and you — you 're not fit to go out, you know. 
 You had better stay, and I — er — and let Mrs. 
 Roberts look after you.' 
 
 The childish blue eyes slowly filled with tears, 
 but weary resistance was in the girl's tone as she 
 said, ' I don't want to be looked after. I am — 
 
 oh ! ' The tired little spirit gave out at last, 
 
 and the relapse of utter languor seemed to spread 
 over the girl's form as she rested her weight in the 
 arms of the housekeeper. She became simply 
 passive weakness, and in another few minutes was 
 alone with Mrs. Roberts in the room upstairs. 
 
 Marsden sat smoking and listening, till all was 
 silent in the little house. Then he sighed and 
 walked softly to his own room. Then he smiled 
 and went to bed ; having left a note outside his 
 door instructing Mrs. Roberts to send for a doctor 
 as soon as she came down. 
 
 Marsden was sitting at breakfast when the 
 doctor arrived, and, calling the medical man into 
 his own room, he explained his manner of meet- 
 ing with the patient upstairs. 
 
 ' You may think it odd, doctor,' he said ; ' but I
 
 MADGE 85 
 
 want my housekeeper to take care of the girl, 
 until she 's fit to take care of herself, and ' 
 
 ' Quite so,' said the doctor sententiously. He 
 was a young man of small practice and expensive 
 tastes. He permitted himself to smile tentatively 
 and very slightly. Marsden ooked cold serious- 
 ness, and the doctor was escorted upstairs by Mrs. 
 Roberts. 
 
 ' The — er — girl is suffering from no specific com- 
 plaint,' he said to Marsden on his way downstairs. 
 ' She is simply worn out and exhausted. I should 
 say she has been living — er — very carelessly, and 
 taking next to no nourishment. She wants care- 
 ful nursing, perfect rest, and plenty of nutriment 
 — er — that 's all.' 
 
 ' Ah, thank you, doctor.' Marsden held out his 
 hand with a fee in it, and said he would send a 
 message if another visit seemed necessary. So 
 the doctor left, smiling to himself as he walked 
 down the street. 
 
 During the day Marsden attended to his affairs 
 as usual, making several inquiries of Mrs. Roberts 
 as to the progress of the girl upstairs. At four 
 o'clock in the afternoon he sent up to ask per- 
 mission to come and see her. 
 
 The girl opened her blue eyes very widely and 
 said, ' Tell him to come.' 
 
 So Mrs. Roberts brought her master into the 
 room, placed a chair for him by the bedside, and 
 went about her duties elsewhere. 
 
 ' How are you to-day ? ' began the solicitor 
 somewhat formally. Then, without waiting for an
 
 86 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 answer, he said, ' By the way, my name is Marsden 
 — Hugh Marsden. Will you tell me what I may 
 call you ? ' 
 
 The girl smiled, and looked half-banteringly at 
 Marsden. As she looked, the quiet courtesy in 
 the man's face seemed to strike her, and her smile 
 dying away, left only wonder in the fair face, with 
 its strange blended look of childish freshness and 
 weary womanhood. 
 
 ' You may call me Madge,' she said. ' At least 
 that 's my name, but you may call me — anything. 
 I 've been called " Baby " and " Sweetheart," and 
 half a dozen names.' She smiled again, and 
 Marsden made a mental note to the effect 
 that the smile was weary, whilst the serious 
 wonder was only wonder. As such, he preferred 
 it to the smile. 
 
 ' Why did you bring me here ? ' she asked, after 
 a pause. 
 
 ' I believe I brought you here because it was the 
 only place I could think of, and you were ill.' 
 ' And why do you keep me here ? Don't you 
 
 see that I ' 
 
 Marsden interrupted hurriedly : ' I shall keep 
 you, if you let me, because you are not fit to 
 go about, and take care of yourself; and you — 
 in fact, that, I think, is why I keep you here.' 
 
 The girl Madge began a little laugh, and catch- 
 ing her breath midway turned the laugh into a 
 sigh. Marsden's head was bent, and they re- 
 mained silent for a while, both wondering. The 
 girl wondered as to the man's aims, reasons, and
 
 MADGE 87 
 
 motives. And it was about these same things that 
 Marsden wondered. 
 
 THE GIRL 
 
 Day succeeded day, and the ordinary life of 
 the little house in Jermyn Street was unchanged 
 and undisturbed. The young doctor was not 
 again called in, because perfect rest and careful 
 nursing were doing for Madge all that her con- 
 dition required. Every day her blue eyes grew a 
 little softer and more sunny ; each morning her 
 skin seemed more fresh and more velvety. On 
 the tenth day Marsden heard her laugh, and 
 decided mentally that the sound of her laugh was 
 very musical. Her smile, too, ceased to be weary, 
 and became a sweeter thing to see than was her 
 look of serious wonder, 
 
 ' She is getting better,' said Mrs. Roberts 
 meaningly. ' What are you going to do, sir ? ' 
 
 Marsden sent Madge out for a drive with Mrs. 
 Roberts in his private hansom. Then he sat 
 down to think. Now, the solicitor's housekeeper 
 was a native of Aberdeen, and her early training 
 and life's beliefs in matters moral and religious 
 had been, and were, severe. Days before this first 
 outing of the patient, Marsden had learned her 
 story piece by piece. So, with reservations, had 
 Mrs. Roberts. He knew that four months pre- 
 viously, when Madge had lived with her mother 
 in a little south-coast village, she had run away 
 from home with a youth of the type yclept
 
 88 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 ' gilded.' He had shown his gold by marrying 
 her, and his gilding by leaving her a week after- 
 wards without a shilling in the world. This was 
 strange, but it was true, and the gilded youth 
 was in India with his regiment when Marsden 
 found Madge. The girl showed Marsden as much 
 of her marriage lines as was possible without dis- 
 closing the name of the irresponsible idiot who 
 had married her. That also was strange, thought 
 the solicitor, and for this he almost loved the girl 
 with baby eyes ; though he saw, without her 
 telling him, what her life had been since the week 
 of wifehood. But this was his first contact with 
 woman in particular, and he had nursed Madge. 
 
 By the time Mrs. Roberts and her charge re- 
 turned from their drive, the solicitor had decided 
 upon a definite course of action. He decided to 
 do nothing, and the carrying out of this decision 
 puzzled and troubled his housekeeper, who looked 
 stern and severe when sitting alone in her room, 
 and loving and pitiful whilst tending the girl whose 
 eyes were like two windows to a pure child's heart. 
 
 Marsden read Shelley and Browning^ to Madge ; 
 and when he stroked her white forehead in his 
 thoughtful, serious way, before leaving her, she 
 would walk to the mirror by the window of her 
 room, and smile prettily at her own face reflected 
 there. Once he kissed this smooth forehead of 
 hers. And that night she would not let the house- 
 
 ' I had it from Marsden, that, in this particular connection, the 
 girl's favourite poems were * In a Gondola,' and ' A Toccata of 
 Galuppi's. '
 
 MADGE 89 
 
 keeper come into her room. She dropped off to 
 sleep with the book he had been reading, lying 
 on her white breast. 
 
 Then Marsden was called to Manchester on 
 business, and was obliged to tell Madge that he 
 would be away for two days. 
 
 ' Oh, then I am to go now,' she said, smiling 
 quietly. And the sunny brightness faded out of her 
 eyes, whilst they seemed to look inwards wearily. 
 
 When Marsden said, ' Why, no, child ! Wait till 
 I come back,' she sighed happily, and the baby 
 eyes grew sunny again. 
 
 Marsden went to Manchester, and in course of 
 conversation with his client there, addressed that 
 gentleman as ' Little one ! ' 
 
 On the third afternoon he returned to the 
 house in Jermyn Street ; and Mrs. Roberts told 
 him that Madge had gone out on the previous 
 evening and had not returned. 
 
 ' Oh ! ' said the solicitor. ' I see — she has not 
 come back ? Very well, Mrs. Roberts, I — you 
 can bring me some coffee, if you please.' 
 
 And Marsden sat down before the fire in his inner 
 office and filled his pipe. Some time afterwards 
 the solicitor walked into his sitting-room, and 
 found Mrs. Roberts laying dinner there for him. 
 
 ' Why did — she go, Mrs. Roberts ? ' 
 
 Marsden wheeled round from the place he had 
 taken by the window, and faced his housekeeper, 
 whose uneven face was very stern, its sadness 
 showing only in the keen grey eyes. 
 
 ' I cannot rightly understand, sir,' she said
 
 90 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 slowly, smoothing creases out of the white table- 
 cloth as she spoke. 
 
 ' Did she leave no message ? ' asked the man, 
 turning again to the window, which overlooked 
 a mews. 
 
 ' No, sir — not to say exactly any message,' 
 
 ' Well ? ' 
 
 ' Well, sir, last evening I laid a nice dinner for 
 us both in my sitting-room, as you told me to. 
 Then I went downstairs for a few minutes to see 
 to locking up and lighting the hall.' Mrs. Roberts 
 spoke jerkily, arranging her master's knives the 
 while, and as though under protest. ' When I went 
 upstairs again, Miss Madge was hurrying about 
 her room, dressing herself in the things she sent 
 for last week.' 
 
 ' " I am going out, Mrs. Roberts," she said. I 
 asked why she would go out at that time, and she 
 still weak and shaky, 
 
 ' " I 'm hungry, Mrs. Roberts," she said, " and I 
 must go." ' 
 
 '"Well, but dear bless you," said I, "there's 
 our dinner laid in the next room. To be sure 
 you 're hungry, and you 're going to enjoy your 
 dinner." ' 
 
 ' " No, no," says Miss Madge, and she put her 
 hands on my shoulders. " I don't mean dinner. 
 I know you won't understand, Mrs. Roberts — I 
 don't myself — but I 'm hungry for the lights, and 
 
 music, and — perhaps if he There, I must go, 
 
 Mrs. Roberts." ' 
 
 The housekeeper paused, and again Marsden,
 
 MADGE 91 
 
 this time without turning from the window, said, 
 'Well?' 
 
 ' Well, sir, I talked and persuaded, and I might 
 have saved my breath. When she 'd her light 
 cloak on, she walked downstairs, and I followed 
 her. Her eyes was like two diamonds, sir, and 
 her cheeks was like the cheeks of the girls who 
 carry fish up yonder at my home. She listened 
 to all I said about her illness, and she looked as 
 though she thought it all true ; but she only said, 
 " Mrs. Roberts, I 'm hungry. You won't under- 
 stand ; but I must go, or I shall choke." ' 
 
 ' And then ? ' said the man by the window, 
 questioningly, but without turning round. 
 ' Then she — she went outside, sir.' 
 ' Oh, she — went outside ! ' Marsden stood silent 
 for a few minutes, whilst his housekeeper moved 
 slowly about the dinner-table, smoothing and 
 arranging. At last Marsden turned round, and 
 his face seemed to say that his mind was 
 made up. 
 
 ' You might bring me my ulster, Mrs. Roberts : 
 I see there 's snow outside.' 
 
 ' But you 're never going out, sir — such a night 
 as it is, and dinner ready too ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, you needn't keep dinner, Mrs. Roberts. 
 I 'm not hungry, and — I must go out.' 
 
 It was four days afterwards that Marsden's 
 Manchester client came up to town ; and on the 
 following evening the two men arranged to dine 
 together and go to a theatre. Marsden knew 
 rather less about the evening life of the metropolis
 
 92 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 than did his provincial guest; and when supper was 
 proposed after the theatre, the solicitor suggested 
 his own home as the best place for that purpose. 
 
 ' No, come with me to the Regency Rooms,' 
 said Marsden's friend. And the solicitor, feeling 
 very cold indifference, agreed readily, whilst con- 
 fessing ignorance as to the whereabouts of the 
 famous supper-hall. The night life of London 
 was really almost a sealed book to him, and he 
 gazed curiously about as his friend walked before 
 him down the brilliantly lighted corridor leading 
 into the Regency supper-rooms. A waiter opened 
 the swinging doors of the main hall, and the two 
 men stepped into an atmosphere of wine and 
 laughter, perfumed silks, bright lights, and music. 
 
 Marsden's friend saw a big, richly coloured 
 picture, familiar to him by recollection and asso- 
 ciation — a sea of faces, some flushed and bright, 
 some cold and weary, some strange, and some 
 known to him. Marsden saw one square table, 
 three figures, and one woman. This little table 
 was in the middle of the big room ; it was occu- 
 pied by two men and two women ; and it was 
 the centre of attraction by reason of the sound 
 of their laughter, which drowned the music, and 
 of the fairness of one of the two women. When 
 Marsden entered, this woman had risen to her 
 feet, and stood leaning over the little table, 
 her champagne-glass poised in mid-air, as she 
 laughingly demanded a clink of the glass of her 
 vis-a-vis. Her fair face was flushed, and her big, 
 baby eyes sparkled and danced with excitement.
 
 MADGE 93 
 
 This was Madge ; and as Marsden entered the 
 room, their eyes met over the heads of a score of 
 men and women, in an instant flash of recogni- 
 tion. On the first night of their meeting weeks 
 before, Madge had in two simple words uninten- 
 tionally shown the man the title-page of her history. 
 Now, in one unexpected instant, she laid before 
 him the open pages of her frailty's private diary. 
 
 Marsden laid a cold hand on his friend's 
 shoulder, and, turning without speaking, walked 
 out of the great hall and down the long corridor 
 leading to the street. Passing between two great 
 mirrors, he stepped aside to make way for a 
 haggard-looking man, who, with set features and 
 head bent low, was approaching him. He was 
 not thinking, but a flash of pity and no shadow 
 of recognition passed through the man's mind, 
 as in this way he met his own reflection. 
 
 Curious meetings, episodes, and incidents are 
 the rule at the Regency supper-rooms ; and no 
 one noticed this queer little comedy. 
 
 As Marsden left the room, Madge's brimming 
 wine-glass shivered and snapped in mid-air, fall- 
 ing with a crash on the little square table. A 
 deft-handed waiter whisked the debris out of 
 sight. Those whose faces were flushed laughed 
 aloud ; the cold ones smiled knowingly ; and no 
 one noticed, when Madge's fair head was raised 
 after bending over the table, either the tears 
 standing in her eyes or the spots of blood which 
 fell from her fingers on to the white cloth. Such 
 things do not count at the Regency.
 
 94 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 Marsden's friend supped alone that night, and 
 in the morning, while the solicitor sat in his inner 
 office at Jermyn Street, a boy knocked at the 
 door and handed him two telegrams. One was 
 from the Manchester client, and said, ' Please 
 meet me two o'clock at club. Hinton.' The 
 other read thus : ' Marsden, Jermyn Street. 
 " Come to me. Beloved, or I die." Madge.' 
 Marsden had read poetry to the girl with baby 
 eyes, and she had her favourite lines. 
 
 The solicitor had quaint ideas regarding the 
 responsibilities of men as men, and the debt to 
 the world and to women, which they handed on 
 from generation to generation. And then this 
 episode had been his first actual contact with 
 woman in particular. That portion of what he 
 had seen in the Regency Rooms which caused 
 him regret was something for which he con- 
 sidered himself, by virtue of his sex, more or less 
 personally responsible. He would certainly go 
 to the girl with sunny eyes since she sent for him. 
 Then, picking up the telegram a second time, he 
 saw that no address of sender was given, beyond 
 the name of a metropolitan telegraph office. So 
 he promptly wrote out and despatched a message 
 to that office, in which he said, ' Come to me, or 
 tell me where to find you, and I will come at 
 once.' 
 
 Later came a reply telegram, * Caf^ Ronda — 
 five o'clock.' So Marsden was able to keep his 
 appointment with the Manchester client ; and 
 when, at half-past four, he was leaving Jermyn
 
 MADGE 95 
 
 Street on his way to the Caf^ Ronda, he said to 
 Mrs. Roberts : 
 
 ' I think — Miss Madge will come — will have 
 to return here this evening. She — is ill again. 
 See that there are fires ready in your rooms 
 upstairs, will you, please ? ' 
 
 The housekeeper's thin, uncompromising lips 
 moved as though she were about to speak. Then 
 the grey eyes grew moist, seeming to set a seal 
 of tenderness upon her lips, as the woman in her 
 peered into the solicitor's weary face. So her 
 head bent and she said nothing. 
 
 Marsden met Madge in the vestibule of the 
 Cafe Ronda ; and as he took her little hand in 
 his she shivered from head to foot. 
 
 ' Don't take me in here,' she murmured, glancing 
 towards the glass doors of the cafe. ' Take me some- 
 where where I can sit down — away from people — 
 and — forgive me. Talk to me like you did before.' 
 
 The girl was very weak and trembled violently, 
 so that Marsden was half-afraid of her fainting, 
 there in the public lobby. His own hansom was 
 waiting outside, and so, very carefully, he led the 
 girl to it and helped her in. Then he told his 
 man to drive through the park. He did not ask 
 the girl why she had left his house, but he looked 
 sadly and regretfully at the white face in the 
 corner of the cab. 
 
 Her great childish eyes turned towards him full 
 of tears and pleading. ' Please — please don't look 
 at me like that ! Indeed I could not help it ; and 
 — it hurts so now.
 
 96 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 Marsden passed his hand caressingly over her 
 forehead. She was very ill and weak, and she 
 seemed dearer to him a good deal because of 
 that — this girl who was wife, widow, child, and 
 woman ; and yet none of these. 
 
 ' Child,' he said, ' I am only sorry because it 
 hurts, and you are ill.' 
 
 Then he looked out of the cab windows into 
 the sleet and mud of the London winter evening, 
 
 ' Little one, will you let me drive you to my 
 house and try to make you well again ? ' 
 
 The woman, utterly exhausted, in pain and 
 sadness, gave way ; and the child clung to 
 Marsden's shoulder with both her little hot hands. 
 
 ' Will you ? ' she murmured, half-incredulous. 
 ' Oh, Dear, Dear — but I know you must think — 
 you don't know really. I could not help it' 
 
 Then the little head, with its halo of soft gold 
 hair, sank down on to the man's shoulder, and 
 weak weariness sighed itself away into uncon- 
 sciousness. So it happened that when, for the 
 second time, Marsden brought Madge to the 
 little house in Jermyn Street, he had a second 
 time to carry her upstairs and leave her to his 
 housekeeper, whose arms were stretched out 
 yearningly towards the child, whilst her plain face 
 was set in unforgiving sternness. 
 
 The doctor was sent for again that night, but 
 his report was as before. 
 
 ' Simply and purely a case of overtaxed strength, 
 Mr. Marsden. I should say the patient's life was 
 one of — er — phases. A period of intense strain.
 
 MADGE 97 
 
 nervous and — er — physical, followed by a re- 
 actionary relapse. I can only advise rest and 
 nourishment, and — er — if I may say so, careful 
 watching in about, say, three weeks from now. 
 The patient seems to me to be — er — an abnor- 
 mally nervous and emotional subject.' 
 
 Mrs. Roberts did not leave her charge till late 
 that evening, when Madge was sleeping restfully 
 in childish oblivion to all her surroundings. Then 
 the Scotchwoman, choking down all the Puritan 
 in herself, bade her master come upstairs to see 
 the patient. Together they crept on tip-toe into 
 the little room where Madge lay, with one white, 
 rounded arm half-buried in her golden curls, her 
 little lips just parted like a child's, and her breast 
 rising and falling in even, restful breathing, 
 Marsden looked very tenderly at the sleeping girl ; 
 and, as he looked, the drawn, haggard lines which 
 had crept over his face during the last week 
 seemed to smooth themselves out, leaving calm 
 and content in their place. The housekeeper 
 was watching him, and she nodded and sighed 
 quietly to herself as she noticed the change. 
 
 Then the solicitor went down to his own rooms 
 to write a little, and think more, before lying 
 down to sleep — as he had not slept for a week. 
 The man felt a sense of rest and relief so soothing 
 as to greatly surprise himself A dozen times he 
 smiled confidentially over his pipe, and muttered 
 to himself as men who live alone are apt to do. 
 
 At last he walked quietly to his bedroom, and 
 standing there before his dressing-table he said, 
 
 G
 
 98 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 ' She 's not a wife, and she 's not a widow ' ; — then 
 he smiled a little bitterly — ' the world would say 
 she 's certainly not a maid, and cannot marry. I 
 don't think the world is anything to me, and I do 
 think she is a maid to me. Little Madge, I think 
 I love you, — Regency and the world notwithstand- 
 ing. Good night, little girl ! ' 
 
 And the man of law looked meditatively up at 
 the ceiling above him, beyond which he knew 
 the girl lay sleeping. Then, slowly, he undressed 
 and went to bed. 
 
 For a week Madge did not stir out of the little 
 house in Jermyn Street ; and the housekeeper was 
 all motherhood and quiet solicitude. 
 
 Madge sat by the fire, or lay in the little white 
 bed, breathing rest ; drawing into herself great 
 draughts of sweetness ; and exuding girlish pathos, 
 which melted and softened Mrs. Roberts, some- 
 times filling her grey eyes with tears. Then, 
 as the girl's lips grew more like twin rosebuds, 
 she purred tenderness, half a child's and half a 
 woman's, in place of simple pathos. 
 
 At Marsden's request, Mrs. Roberts drove out 
 with her in the afternoons. Madge would return 
 to the Jermyn Street house softly flushed, and 
 sighing happy anticipation of the evening, when 
 Marsden read and talked to her. Then the house- 
 keeper's face grew harder and more stern, and she 
 would quietly force away the soft arms which at 
 times were laid on her neck in childish fondness. 
 At this, the girl's eyes would open wide in pained 
 astonishment, and as they filled with tears, the 
 housekeeper's thin lips would twitch, and her
 
 MADGE 99 
 
 two bony hands would draw the child tenderly 
 towards her, whilst her own head was turned 
 away. 
 
 ' Child, child,' she would say half-querulously, *do 
 you never want to go to your own mother again ? ' 
 
 And Madge would answer that she could not 
 — that her mother would not have her, now. 
 
 THE MADNESS 
 
 Almost a month had passed since Madge had 
 left the house on the night of Marsden's absence 
 in Manchester. She had been out with Mrs. 
 Roberts all the afternoon ; and half an hour after 
 her return, Marsden, sitting in his den downstairs, 
 heard a knock at his door. 
 
 ' Come in, Jordan,' said the solicitor, expecting 
 to see his office-boy. 
 
 There was a little rustling sound, and, looking 
 up suddenly, Marsden found Madge standing at 
 his side. 
 
 'Why, little one, what 's the matter?' he said. 
 And as he rose, taking her hands in his own, he 
 saw that her fair face was flushed, her eyes spark- 
 ling, and her breast heaving as though she were 
 on the point of sobbing. It was all childish, and 
 yet — something in Madge's face made Marsden's 
 very heart turn cold with dread. 
 
 ' Child, you 're not well. Sit down,' he said, 
 stepping past her to close the door of his den. 
 
 The girl turned sharply round and faced him as 
 she said, * How did you know ? No, no, I am 
 well, but '
 
 lOO MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 She paused, catching her breath uneasily in 
 nervous excitement. Marsden, gazing fixedly 
 into the blue eyes, saw all their glitter, but 
 thought the sunny light had gone from them. 
 He walked to her side and raised one hand 
 caressingly to her shoulder. The man's whole 
 heart was in his finger-tips then, and in his voice 
 there seemed more of a mother's love than a man's 
 passion, as he said, ' Madge, dear, what is wrong ? ' 
 
 The girl's breast rose and fell in sobbing breaths, 
 but no tears came to her eyes. 
 
 * Oh, you dear Hugh ' — she seemed to throw the 
 words from her with pain in each — ' I love you, 
 I love you, but I am You will never under- 
 stand. I am not fit to love you. I am going out — 
 away — and you must forget me. I cannot help it.' 
 
 ' There, little girl ! Hush ! ' He was stroking 
 her soft hair with one not very steady hand. 
 ' Don't talk about going away. Something has 
 upset you — something Mrs. Roberts has said, 
 perhaps.' 
 
 ' Oh, no, no, no ! ' Madge interrupted, drawing 
 herself away from Marsden. ' She is too good — 
 like you. I cannot tell why, only I must go. I 
 — I am hungry. I want the lights and the clatter, 
 and — oh, I must go ! ' 
 
 There was that about these last three words 
 which absolutely forbade persuasion, admitted of 
 no question, and made the bare idea of remon- 
 strance indecent. Madge, breathless, panting, and 
 flushed, stood facing the man who loved her, and 
 whom she had said she loved. The moment was
 
 MADGE loi 
 
 psychological. The woman knew it. The man 
 did not. And the next move was the man's. 
 
 Marsden was chilled from head to foot by 
 something which made him shiver as he stood 
 thinking. Then he raised his head, and there was 
 purpose in his white face, and a good deal of love. 
 
 ' Very well, dear, if you must go — outside ; if 
 you are hungry, — then you shall go. But not 
 alone — not alone, little girl ! ' 
 
 The girl's two arms fell limply at her side. 
 Woman and child, angel and devil, purity and 
 madness ; all seemed to be fighting in her breast ; 
 whilst she herself — aside, relapsed — was waiting. 
 
 Marsden drew a long breath of relief, feeling 
 himself and his happiness being weighed in the 
 scale against her hunger, and believing that the 
 hunger would be found wanting. The girl's arms 
 straightened rigidly, and she tried to speak. She 
 only panted, gazing full into Marsden's face. But 
 he did not even raise his head, fearing almost to 
 breathe, lest his breathing should be on the wrong 
 side of the balance. It was the man's first con- 
 tact with woman in particular. 
 
 Madge breathed heavily, but without speaking. 
 Then her arms fell limply again, and her voice 
 rather than herself said, ' Come, then !' The voice 
 grew stronger. ' Come with me, for — I must go.' 
 
 Marsden turned from her, and his heart, throb- 
 bing nervously, seemed to send great waves of 
 coldness all through him — still coldness, which 
 made his whole frame stiff and numbed. 
 
 An hour afterwards Mrs. Roberts stood stern
 
 102 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 and dry-eyed, in the room where Madge had 
 slept. It was night, but the woman, moving 
 about the while with the same set, forbidding look 
 on her face, swept the room, took the bed to 
 pieces, opened the windows, and placed all the 
 little oddments, which told of a woman's occupa- 
 pation, together in one box. Afterwards she 
 closed the windows, locked the door, and, sitting 
 in her own room, knitted furiously till her eyes 
 ached and smarted. Then she sat stiff and up- 
 right gazing into the fire, her thin hands lying 
 palms uppermost in her lap. 
 
 Madge and the solicitor dined at a fashion- 
 able restaurant, driving together afterwards to a 
 theatre. For an hour, Madge, who in her changed 
 state seemed to the solicitor taller and larger, sat 
 watching a great actress personating Shake- 
 speare's Juliet. The actress personated, but the 
 artist in her was, Juliet — the Italian girl budding 
 at Love's bidding into womanhood. Marsden was 
 enthralled, and for a little while Madge leaned 
 back in her chair soothed and enchanted. 
 
 Then the spell seemed to yield, and Marsden 
 saw the girl's breast rising and her face flushing. 
 Her hands moved restlessly, and when the curtain 
 fell at the end of the second act, Madge begged 
 for change and a move. Marsden could not 
 bear to see the nervous hunger in her eyes, and, 
 when they took seats in a great music-hall, he 
 thought the noise and glitter of the place might 
 content her for a while. Of the ballet Madge 
 soon tired, and yet another move was made.
 
 MADGE 103 
 
 The furious tenseness of a great dancer's singing 
 and dancing at this latter place won much 
 applause from the girl whose baby eyes had made 
 Marsden wish he had led a stricter life. And 
 after this : ' The Regency Rooms/ ejaculated 
 Madge gleefully, as the solicitor helped her into a 
 hansom outside. 
 
 The man thought of his last visit to the 
 Regency and shivered, whilst the girl's clear 
 laughter still rang in his ears. Waiting longingly, 
 chilled and watchful, the man tried to laugh with 
 her ; and her excitement closed her ears to the 
 cold flatness of his voice. 
 
 Bows and laughing acknowledgments of bows; 
 music and clattering applause ; dazzling lights ; 
 clinking glasses constantly replenished ; scented 
 tapers twinkling ; glancing shoulders, bright eyes, 
 wet lips, hot hands, and every nerve tinkling at 
 concert pitch. Then a hurried break ; a momentary 
 pause for breathing and the putting on of cloaks ; 
 and Marsden took his seat with Madge in a 
 hansom outside the Regency Rooms. 
 
 ' And now ? ' whispered the man, looking in vain 
 for a sign of weariness in Madge's flushed face 
 and sparkling eyes. 
 
 * Now ? ' she replied, laughing as she spoke — 
 ' Oh, tell him to drive to The Troubadours in 
 Varney Square ; we can dance there.' 
 
 Everywhere men and women smiled on the fair 
 girl, anxious to renew or make her acquaintance. 
 Everywhere men and women, but more especially 
 the latter, gazed curiously at the cold, reserved
 
 I04 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 man who danced with Madge, and drank with 
 her, and sat with her ; growing colder and more 
 weary with every glass of wine he drank ; waiting 
 and watching anxiously whilst his companion's 
 eyes grew brighter. 
 
 Place after place they visited, and at the door 
 of each the porter's obsequious recognition of 
 Madge's girlish beauty seemed to add lines and a 
 year to the solicitor's haggard face. In the supper- 
 room of one establishment, a splendid-looking 
 Spanish woman, in the prime of her matured 
 beauty, paused in front of Marsden, who for the 
 moment was standing alone, and bowed with 
 bantering deference as she raised a wine-glass 
 to her lips. 
 
 Her eyes were very glassy, and her voice a 
 little hoarse as she said, ' Well, senor, you look 
 lonely. Now, what 's your opinion of it all ? ' 
 
 Marsden looked wearily round the crowded 
 room. ' It makes me very tired,' he said ; with 
 half a laugh, and half a groan. 
 
 ' Ah ! Well, I confess I think it 's rather too 
 ridiculous, myself; but you — why don't you go 
 away ? ' 
 
 Marsden caught a glimpse of Madge's golden 
 hair, as she passed into the ballroom hanging on 
 the arm of a very emasculated specimen of the 
 gilded youth. He sighed, and replied simply, ' I 
 am waiting.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' The Southern woman glanced mean- 
 ingly towards the ballroom, and her full red lips 
 curled scornfully, and yet a little pityingly. ' I
 
 MADGE 105 
 
 thought you were wiser than that. Caballero, 
 you may wait. Holy Mother help you ! But, 
 believe me, you will die first. Ah, Bertie, here 
 at last ! Come along. Good night, Caballero ! ' 
 
 For a moment the woman's black eyes flashed 
 clear and brilliant, as she looked over the straw- 
 coloured head of the youth she called Bertie, and 
 wished the man ' Good night.' 
 
 The solicitor plunged his cold hands into his 
 pockets and smiled bitterly, as he turned to look 
 for Madge. She had finished her dance, and 
 almost fell into Marsden's arms as he led her 
 to a settee. 
 
 * Oh, let 's go away from here,' she said breath- 
 lessly. ' Take me to the Carte Blanche ; it 's 
 splendid fun there, and I Come along 1 ' 
 
 Hardly waiting to take her cloak from an 
 attendant, Madge hurried feverishly down the 
 wide staircase and into the entrance-hall, where 
 Marsden saw standing the Spanish woman with 
 the straw-coloured youth. 
 
 ' Still waiting,' murmured the Southern beauty, 
 as she passed Marsden. ' Poor Caballero ! ' And 
 then she laughed aloud as she despatched her 
 admirer upstairs to look for her fan. 
 
 Ten seconds afterwards, panting still with 
 nervous excitement, Madge, followed by the 
 solicitor, reached the entrance at the end of the 
 hall. The porter bowed low as he swung the big 
 door open ; and a flood of cold, morning greyness 
 rose up before the girl's bright eyes. She had 
 not thought of the approach of daylight, and
 
 io6 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 Marsden saw her whole frame shiver as she drew 
 back for an instant in the doorway. Then she 
 took the solicitor's arm, and clung heavily to him 
 as he helped her into a cab. 
 
 ' Where is it ? ' asked Marsden, his voice start- 
 ling himself, so hollow and weary it sounded. 
 
 ' The Carte Blanche. He will know,' said 
 Madge faintly. A drizzling rain was falling, and 
 as they turned out of the narrow street of the 
 house they had just left, another wave of ghostly 
 grey light, clearer and colder than the first, 
 seemed to fill the cab with its pitiless, grim reality. 
 
 * Oh, oh ! ' Madge put her two gloved hands 
 over her face, the flush on which had given place 
 to paleness now. A look of longing expectancy 
 flashed out of Marsden's eyes, and even brought 
 a little colour to his drawn face, as he leaned 
 towards the girl. 
 
 ' What is it, little Madge ? ' he asked her eagerly. 
 
 ' Oh, it is horrible ! ' The fair head bent and 
 bent, and rested at last on Marsden's shoulder. 
 ' Please — oh, take me away, out of all this ! Take 
 me back to the quiet, clean life ! Please — Hugh — 
 quickly ! ' 
 
 ' My Madge ! Of course I will. You are ill, 
 little one ; now you will come to me again.' 
 
 Her grey hour had come ; and the man who 
 all through the weary night had watched and 
 waited, cold, aching, and wretched — the time of 
 his waiting was ended now. The madness had 
 gone from Madge, and she had come back to him. 
 He gave a great sigh of relief and exhaustion, and
 
 MADGE !o7 
 
 when he turned his head after giving new 
 directions to the cabman, he found Nature had 
 begun to demand her penalty for excessive ten- 
 sion. Madge was icy cold and insensible. 
 
 Marsden folded his ulster round her slight form, 
 and afterwards lifted her from the cab to the hall 
 of the house in Jermyn Street. She recovered 
 consciousness in the solicitor's little sitting-room ; 
 and the man crept upstairs then, and softly opened 
 the door of the room Madge had occupied. He 
 frowned when he saw its condition, and looked 
 half-hesitatingly towards the door of the room in 
 which he thought his housekeeper was sleeping. 
 As a matter of fact, Mrs. Roberts was sitting 
 upright and fast asleep at that moment, before 
 her sitting-room fire, where she had waited and 
 watched all through the night. Even now her 
 face was set and more severe than ever, though 
 for almost an hour she had been sleeping. 
 
 Marsden walked quietly downstairs again, and, 
 glancing into his own bedroom, saw that a bright 
 fire was burning there. For a moment he hesi- 
 tated. And then he went into his den, where 
 Madge sat. 
 
 ' Come, little one,' he said very gently, and 
 helping her to rise. 
 
 Madge looked steadily at him for a moment, and 
 then lowered her eyes as he stroked her hair 
 tenderly. Bending forward he said quietly, ' Poor 
 little girl ! Poor little tired, lonely girl ! ' 
 
 Not very long afterwards Mrs. Roberts was astir 
 about the house. But she found that her master
 
 io8 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 was before her. She saw that he had had his 
 bath, and was sitting in his den writing letters. 
 Later on, she found that the room next her own 
 had been opened since she locked it up. Then she 
 saw that the solicitor's own room was occupied by 
 Madge. She crept on tip-toe to the bedside, and 
 looked down sternly at the sleeping girl. Then, 
 gradually, she saw the change that had come over 
 Madge's face — how pale it was, and how utterly 
 worn-out the girl appeared. She turned and 
 walked out of the room, muttering to herself as 
 she closed the door : 
 
 'That's what I 've done ; and what am I but 
 a stuck-up, interfering old woman that ought to 
 have known better ? I took the bed away from 
 her, poor motherless bairn that she is. God for- 
 give me ; it '11 serve me well right when the master 
 sends me about my business. And he gives up his 
 own room to her ; and — I wonder what I 've done ! ' 
 
 An hour afterwards, Marsden knocked softly 
 at the door of his bedroom, and, hearing no sound, 
 walked in to see if Madge was still sleeping. He 
 found the bed smooth and unoccupied, and the 
 room tidied for the day. Hearing Mrs. Roberts 
 moving about in the room above, he walked 
 upstairs in time to see his housekeeper closing 
 the door of the room which had been Madge's. 
 
 ' You can use your own room now, sir,' said 
 Mrs. Roberts. ' And you '11 forgive me, sir ' — she 
 touched his arm with one hand — ' I did it for the 
 best. Poor child, she 's sleeping and comfortable 
 in her own room now, and a nice fire burning there.'
 
 MADGE 109 
 
 Marsden, astonished, stared for a moment as he 
 reahsed all that this meant. Then he nodded and 
 walked downstairs to resume his letter-writing. 
 
 ' Hanged if I didn't think the dear old Puritan 
 would have given me notice this morning,' he 
 muttered, as he closed the door of his den. 
 
 Hugh Marsden wrote a great deal during the 
 day, and interviewed several clients ; for he was 
 a hard worker at that time. Still, he found time 
 to think even more than he worked, and his 
 thoughts were of the girl lying upstairs in the 
 room next the housekeeper's. 
 
 All day long he seemed to see her blue eyes 
 gazing at him ; sometimes with laughing, baby 
 innocence, sometimes with the feverish brightness 
 of the previous evening, and sometimes with the 
 frightened look of horror of that morning's grey 
 hour. He did not attempt now to disguise from 
 himself the fact that he loved the girl, and this 
 made him ponder the more anxiously over all the 
 strange phases of her complex nature, and her 
 stranger position in the world as a woman. The 
 ethics of conventionality were simply nothing to 
 the man, but that which for himself he did not 
 value highly — the world's respect — he yet wanted 
 for this child-woman with her phases of demi- 
 monde hunger. He loved her ; and she was his 
 first experience of woman in particular. The 
 more he thought of the madness which came over 
 her, the more puzzled was he, and the more deter- 
 mined, whether she hated or loved him for it, to 
 save her from herself.
 
 no MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 ' I can,' he muttered, between puffs of his brier 
 pipe, as he contrasted the hunger which had 
 come upon her while he was in Manchester with 
 that of the previous evening. * One day brought 
 the end this time, and she had lived through a 
 week of it before I met her at the Cafe Ronda.' 
 
 So he reasoned to himself; and rugged, ugly Mrs. 
 Roberts, battling bravely with the instincts of 
 Puritanism which set her face in such hard lines, 
 vowed in her heart she would help him, or at least 
 remain staunch to him in success or failure. With 
 tears streaming down her face this woman kneeled 
 at her bedside, and prayed to the God of her 
 forebears to pardon her if she did wrong ; for the 
 effect upon her of one glance from the eyes of 
 baby blue, was stronger than were the instincts 
 of centuries and the beliefs of a lifetime. Mrs. 
 Roberts had no notion of what the previous 
 evening had been to Madge and Marsden. 
 
 Days passed, and Marsden gradually thought 
 less and less of the night of Madge's hunger. In a 
 week that night was to the girl herself a thing of 
 the buried past — the other life — and her sweetness, 
 as she budded and blossomed tenderly in the life 
 Marsden made her love, was a thing beautiful and 
 enthralling. There was no happier man in Eng- 
 land than Hugh Marsden ; and into the sunshine 
 of the girl's life there crept no sign of shadow. 
 
 Then came a day when her fair face was 
 clouded, and the whole house seemed charged 
 with an atmosphere of restless trouble. The 
 housekeeper's face grew more stern and her eyes
 
 MADGE III 
 
 more red, as the day wore on. Twice in the 
 morning she boxed the ears of the boy who did 
 her errands ; and a dozen times in the day she 
 knelt down in her room and prayed with passion- 
 ate fervour. 
 
 Just before six in the evening Marsden came 
 home after a long day in a provincial court. He 
 brought some flowers for Madge, and called to 
 her to come and see them. 
 
 ' Here, little girl,' he said ; ' here 's violets bluer 
 
 than your big eyes, and lilies whiter than Oh, 
 
 my little Madge, what 's the matter ? ' 
 
 He knew without asking ; and half an hour 
 afterwards, he had to choose between going out 
 with her or allowing her to leave the house alone. 
 All the madness of the hunger for lurid lights 
 was upon her, and there was no choice for him. 
 
 Mrs. Roberts dressed Madge, moving about her 
 with red eyes made sightless by the tears which 
 ran from them. There was a grotesque pathos 
 about that ceremony, which to the Scotchwoman 
 had all the real tragedy of the decking-out of a 
 human sacrifice to a heathen deity. 
 
 Marsden smiled more sadly than a man sighs, 
 as he muttered whilst looking from his bedroom 
 window at the new moon rising : 
 
 * Almost a month, and the same time before. 
 God ! are the sailors' stories of moon-change mad- 
 ness true, I wonder ! ' 
 
 They did not return to the house in Jermyn 
 Street by the grey light of dawning, but in the 
 cold sunshine of late afternoon ; and Marsden's
 
 112 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 face was then a study, in neutral tints, of haggard 
 suffering. 
 
 THE SURVIVAL 
 
 The history of the next year in the soHcitor's 
 Hfe can never be clearly understood, and I am no 
 historian, though all that happened is known to 
 me. He could not forget, but he hoped and 
 hoped, remembering only occasionally what the 
 Spanish woman had said, and thinking always of 
 his own resolve. Madge could forget and become 
 absolutely oblivious. Three days brought baby 
 innocence and dancing sunlight back to her blue 
 eyes ; and a week of the Jermyn Street life 
 brought rosy freshness fragrant as dew-splashed 
 heliotrope. 
 
 Mrs. Roberts grew sadder and sterner to the 
 world ; more rigorous and unforgiving to herself; 
 more tender and patient to the girl who seemed 
 never a woman, save in the sweetness of her love 
 for Marsden. Marsden grew worn and haggard- 
 looking, even in his happiness. Madge grew more 
 lovable and dainty with every day that passed. 
 Yet so surely as the moon changed every month 
 that year, so did Madge's madness come to her ; 
 and so did Hugh Marsden turn to cold stone in 
 sharing it with her. Yet Marsden hoped and 
 hoped, though each period of madness was longer 
 than the last — the grey hour was slower in coming 
 — the hunger harder to appease. Then came a 
 Christmas Eve in Marsden's life which every one 
 remembers.
 
 MADGE 113 
 
 For three wild nights and two achinc; days, 
 Madge had burned in a fever of neurotic madness, 
 and Marsden had frozen in a lethargy of waiting 
 misery. Friends had seen him and sighed, whilst 
 dishing up the scandal. Others had seen him 
 and smiled, whilst magnifying the ugliness of it 
 all. Then the grey hour had come suddenly to 
 Madge, in the afternoon of Christmas Eve, and 
 Marsden, with no hope left in his weary heart, 
 had driven her home to the house in Jermyn 
 Street. Mrs. Roberts came to the door of the 
 solicitor's den to know if she could bring or do 
 anything. 
 
 ' Thank you, Mrs. Roberts,' said the man quietly 
 ' Miss Madge will stay here for a little while, if you* 
 will come back in an hour, please. Thank you ! ' 
 
 And Marsden closed and locked the door, 
 turning then to the worn old couch by the fire, 
 where Madge sat, pale and chilled, but perfectly 
 calm. 
 
 ' Madge, dear,' he said slowly, ' are you well 
 enough to talk ? ' 
 
 The fair head was bent in silent assent, and 
 Marsden continued : 
 
 ' Dear Heart, it is foolish for me to say I love 
 you, even now in the greyness of everything ; 
 because, child, you know it so well, and I am so 
 — powerless. My love is so — useless. There is 
 something in you. Sweet, which is stronger than 
 either or both of us ; something we do not un- 
 derstand. A year ago I thought our love, and 
 you and I together, would kill that something 
 
 H
 
 114 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 and take it away from you. Well, Dear, we were 
 wrong. It will kill us ; and — it will kill me first. 
 Some one said that to me a long, long time ago, 
 but I did not believe it. I think you know me 
 too well, my Madge, to misunderstand me.' 
 
 Marsden gently stroked the little hand which 
 lay on his arm. 
 
 ' You know that I don't mind being ruined, or 
 dying either, for your sake. I would willingly 
 go on and ruin myself a dozen times over for 
 you, little girl, if I thought it could do anything 
 at all towards killing this thing which tries to 
 choke our love. But I don't. I think all I can 
 do makes the something we don't understand 
 only the stronger, and — Madge — it is agony to 
 me. I cannot even ask you to be my wife in 
 the eyes of churches and people, because of that 
 ceremony of a long time ago. And so, feeling 
 certain that all the pain, and all the ruin, cannot 
 help you, I want to — to end it. Won't you say 
 anything, little one ? ' 
 
 Madge slid from her seat beside him on to her 
 knees, and, clinging to his two hands, she tried to 
 speak. She could only sob out one word, ' For- 
 give.' And as she would not rise from her knees, 
 Marsden knelt down beside her. 
 
 ' Don't cry, little Madge,' he said softly. ' Don't 
 cry, Dear ; I can't bear it. You have done 
 no wrong. The thing is not you, and it is 
 stronger than both of us. Dear Heart, don't think 
 that I could reproach you. I would not have 
 taken from me the love you have given me
 
 MADGE 115 
 
 this year, if in return I could be allowed to live a 
 dozen successful lives, each longer than the last. 
 It is only because my ruin might mean pain to 
 you, and going on with it all might make the 
 something strong enough to kill our love before it 
 killed me ; only because of this, that I am going 
 to finish it. Tell me that you understand me, little 
 Love of mine, and that you know it is right.' 
 
 Madge's wide open eyes were dry, but her whole 
 frame shook, as she said, ' Yes, Dear ; I know.' 
 She paused then, and clung more tightly to the 
 man's hands, as she added, ' But, I finish with 
 you ; my — dear — Love.' 
 
 Marsden gazed thoughtfully at her. The whole 
 thing was so incomprehensible, so outside human 
 reckoning and reason, to the man, that he had 
 long ceased to think of it as he might have 
 thought of anything in any other life than theirs. 
 For them it seemed there was no ray of hope of 
 any kind in this life, and its very hopelessness, 
 from its cause, might kill their love. Why, then, 
 thought Marsden, should they continue in it? 
 Perhaps the cruel tension of the last few days 
 had been too much for the man ; certainly he 
 merely acted in accordance with his lights, sanely 
 or madly. 
 
 ' Do you mean that, beautiful little Madge ? ' 
 He looked into the blue baby eyes, as though 
 he would read the soul that seemed reflected 
 there. 
 
 Madge was calm and thoughtful when she 
 answered him : ' Yes, Dear ! I know all you say
 
 ii6 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 is true. It would kill me in time, and — Hugh, 
 dear, I will not live without your love.' 
 
 For a long time they sat there talking quietly. 
 At last the light of the winter's day had gone, 
 and Mrs. Roberts came to the door with lamps. 
 The housekeeper looked fully as sad as her 
 master, and her thin hands shook as she 
 handed a lamp to Marsden, and bowed in 
 response to his assurance that he wanted nothing 
 for another hour. 
 
 Then the solicitor drew a small white bottle 
 from a pocket of the ulster he had worn that 
 day, and emptied its contents carefully into 
 two wine-glasses. These he placed on a little 
 table beside the couch where he and Madge 
 were sitting. Very tenderly he kissed her fore- 
 head and cold lips. And they sat talking for 
 another full half-hour. 
 
 Then, together, they rose, and Marsden glanced 
 towards the little table where the wine-glasses 
 stood. He was sad, but quite calm and firm. 
 Tiny beads of cold perspiration covered Madge's 
 forehead, and her dainty, rosebud lips were grey 
 lines in a setting of dead white. These lips 
 she pressed convulsively to those of the man 
 she loved ; and then they drew apart, he hand- 
 ing one glass to her, and holding the other firmly 
 between his own fingers. 
 
 ' Good-bye, my wife ! ' 
 
 ' Good-bye, dear Love ! ' 
 
 Madge's words were a gasp ; but she raised 
 her glass to her lips, as he raised his. Marsden's 
 
 i
 
 MADGE 117 
 
 glass was drained at a gulp, and it fell from his 
 fingers to the floor, as he staggered, his eyes 
 becoming almost instantly glazed. 
 
 In that instant there flashed through the 
 child-woman's numbed brain, a glimmering, hazy 
 picture of a brilliantly lighted ballroom — the 
 room she had danced in on the previous night — 
 white and gold panels ; crimson hangings ; flash- 
 ing mirrors ; glancing shoulders ; the rhythm of 
 dance music ; the mad intoxication of the 
 gratifying of hunger which the thought-flash 
 told her would come again. The girl reeled 
 backwards. The glass was at her lips, and 
 Marsden's misty eyes were fixed on her, as 
 he staggered towards the couch. 
 
 ' Ah ! you will stay ! ' he gasped. ' Survival 
 of the fit — Spanish woman said so — My own 
 Madge— God ! ' 
 
 Marsden fell like a log across the couch ; and, 
 with a scream of agony and terror, Madge flung 
 her glass from one end of the room to the 
 other. 
 
 Then, still screaming, she flew from the 
 shabby little room, down the staircase, along 
 the narrow hall, and out into the night of the 
 London street ; her little white hands tearing 
 at the neck of her dress. 
 
 That was the real end of Hugh Marsden ; and 
 if, as has been said, he was ' an utterly unprin- 
 cipled rake,' then surely rakishness is a goodly 
 attribute, and virtue a lie. There is seldom truth 
 in extremes.
 
 ii8 
 
 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 Madge — survives. But the changing moons do 
 not bring changes to her now. Perhaps she 
 would not live, if it were not for the white- 
 haired Scotch Puritan woman, who takes care 
 of her.
 
 A POET OF THE BUSH 
 
 ' To sleep ! To sleep ! The long bright day is done, 
 And darkness rises from the fallen sun I 
 To sleep ! To sleep ! 
 
 Whatever thy griefs, they vanish with the day, 
 Whatever thy joys, in sleep they fade away ; 
 To sleep ! To sleep ! 
 
 Sleep, mournful heart, and let the past be past ! 
 Sleep, happy soul, all life must sleep at last ! 
 To sleep ! To sleep ! ' 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 I WAS sitting in my editorial den in the offices 
 of the Tenterfield Star, and Tenterfield — any 
 gazetteer will tell you that — is a small town on 
 the borderline between New South Wales and 
 Queensland. Speaking unofficially, I was at 
 my wits'-end for want of news ; as a provincial 
 journalist I was of course overcrowded, and was 
 obliged to ' hold over various important local 
 items till our next issue.' A boy from the 
 composing-room had just informed me that two 
 ' comps,' were idle for want of copy ; and I was 
 standing, scissors in hand, meditating a piratical 
 swoop on a pile of exchange papers, when some 
 one kicked the door of my room. 
 
 Throwing down the scissors — emblem of Bush 
 journalism — I picked up a pen, and ejaculated
 
 I20 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 the simple word, ' Come ! ' The door slowly 
 opened and an old man entered. I say an old 
 man, because he looked so very worn and 
 haggard ; but his long, matted beard was iron- 
 grey, not white, and his thin, angular body was 
 fairly erect. The weather-stained clothes he 
 wore were very tattered, and on his head he 
 carried the battered wreck of an old, broad- 
 brimmed ' sundowner.' 
 
 This gentleman, I thought, is an aged com- 
 positor of alcoholic tendencies. He will ask 
 me for a job, and, failing that, a drink. But as 
 the light from my dingy window fell upon the 
 old man's head, I noticed that he had a really 
 splendid face. It is true his eyes and shaky 
 lips betrayed the heavy drinker ; but what I 
 could see of a high, sloping forehead, an aquiline 
 nose, and high cheek-bones — these were features 
 of a scholar's face, and had a marvellously melan- 
 choly expression of saddened, blunted refinement. 
 
 The dilapidated old man did not speak at 
 first. He simply sat down in a cane chair, and 
 placing two bony elbows on my table, rested 
 his shaggy head on both hands as he stared 
 across at me from under the decaying brim of 
 his felt hat. 
 
 I said ' Good evening ! ' and mildly added that 
 the weather was warm. 
 
 He ignored this remark, and after continuing 
 to glare at me in his half-sad, half-ferocious 
 manner for two or three minutes, he said, with 
 fine irrelevance : ' You 're new, I suppose ! '
 
 A POET OF THE RUSH 121 
 
 I felt that, compared with my venerable 
 visitor, I was rather fresh, and I intimated that 
 I had only been in my then position for some 
 six months. 
 
 ' You 're not long out from England either ! ' 
 continued the gentleman with the beard. His 
 powers of divination were great, and who was I 
 to question his statements ? 
 
 ' Ah ! Then you don't know Phil Launceston ! 
 Did you ever hear of Adam Lindsay Gordon's 
 friend Launceston ? — the man who lived with 
 Gordon, and ought to have died with him ! ' 
 
 I said that I had heard of the great Australian 
 poet's friend, but that I had never met him. The 
 old man sighed, and his crazy hat rode further back 
 on his head, as he said : 
 
 * Well, that 's me — I 'm Phil Launceston — the 
 poet ! Give me some money for a drink, will you ?' 
 
 I gave him eighteenpence — my income was 
 not large — and without a word he walked away, 
 slamming my door behind him. Now, in Aus- 
 tralia a man may buy three glasses of whisky 
 or six glasses of beer for eighteenpence; and 
 therefore I was somewhat surprised when the 
 old wanderer returned to my room within half 
 an hour. I regret to say that I was clipping 
 paragraphs from a Sydney paper when he 
 kicked my door open, and sat down opposite 
 to me once more. 
 
 He took the scissors quietly from my hand 
 as he sat down. ' Don't do that ! ' he said, ' I '11 
 give you some copy ! '
 
 122 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 I slipped a little stack of copy-paper towards 
 him, blushing under his gentle rebuke, and sat 
 down to watch him at work. He pushed the 
 crumbling ' sundowner ' from his head on to the 
 floor, and running the long, yellow fingers of 
 one hand through his iron-grey mane, he began 
 to write. He wrote very fast, though shakily ; and 
 as he scribbled, he pushed the slips of paper over 
 the edge of his blotting pad, and in front of me. 
 
 ' Read it ! ' he said, as he began on the third 
 slip. 
 
 I read it, and what he wrote was living music 
 — not versifying, but poetry. He wrote like that, 
 pausing at times to bite a piece off his pen, 
 for more than an hour. Then he threw the 
 pen on the floor, and, leaning back in his chair, 
 gazed reflectively at the smoky ceiling of my 
 den. 
 
 I hardly dared to make the necessary punctua- 
 tion marks before handing the slips to a boy for 
 the compositors. It seemed desecration in any 
 way to interfere with poetry so true, and so sadly 
 sweet. It was far too long for reproduction here ; 
 but as we sat waiting for proofs, he told me 
 in his brief, jerky way, the story of what he had 
 written. 
 
 ' When Farnham the bushranger was hunted 
 to earth by police and black-trackers, in Iron- 
 bark Gully, they found Mary Cathgart was 
 riding with him. Mary was the girl whom some 
 folk said he married in Gunnedah church — I 
 don't know, but she was wonderfully beautiful,
 
 A POET OF THE BUSH 123 
 
 and she never forsook him. When his horse 
 broke down, and they stood at bay together in 
 front of the Iron-bark clump, Mary stood 
 before Farnham. The troopers had their revolv- 
 ers levelled on the pair, and Dingo, the black- 
 tracker, had a rifle pointed at the bushranger. 
 Then Farnham sang out to the troopers, and 
 he said, " If I give myself up quietly, will you 
 let Mary escape ? " But the troopers laughed — 
 they thought the game was so safe — and they 
 said " No," they would have the two. So Farn- 
 ham turned round to the beautiful girl, and he 
 said, " Good-bye, Mary dear ! " And then he 
 shot her through the heart with his revolver, 
 whilst she was kissing his left hand. 
 
 * The troopers shouted and rushed in, but 
 Farnham shot Sergeant Yorke in his saddle, 
 and blew his own brains out, before they could 
 lay a finger on him. That 's what you journal- 
 ists called the plucky capture of bushranger 
 Farnham ; and that is what my screed was 
 about ! ' 
 
 He told the story roughly, but the poem 
 brought tears to my eyes. And I had been a 
 newspaper man for several years. It was late 
 then, and when he had glanced at the proofs 
 of his verses, he stood up, and held out his 
 shaky old hand to me. 
 
 I said, ' Wait a minute, Mr. Launceston ! I '11 
 get you the money for your poem ! ' 
 
 ' Sit down,' said the old man, as he jammed 
 his ragged hat over his forehead ; ' I don't want
 
 124 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 any payment. Give me another shilling to 
 buy some tobacco and a drink. You 're not my 
 master. You 're a friend.' 
 
 Poor old fellow ! I emptied my tobacco- 
 pouch in a piece of paper, and put all the 
 money I had in my pocket — it was only a 
 few shillings — with it. A minute afterwards, the 
 old poet had wrung my hand and walked out 
 into the night. He had never been known to 
 sleep in a house since his master — Gordon, the 
 poet — had shot himself 
 
 Two years afterwards, I was sitting scribbling 
 in an office very similar to that of the Star, 
 but situated between five or six hundred miles 
 further south than Tenterfield — the office of a 
 Shoalhaven newspaper. I heard a slow, heavy 
 step on the verandah outside, and there came 
 a knock on the glass door facing me. I was 
 very busy, and did not raise my head as the 
 rickety door swung open. ' Some idiot who 
 wants a paragraph,' thought I, and continued 
 writing as the shadow of a man's body fell 
 across my paper. 
 
 The new-comer sank into a chair on the far 
 side of the table, and rested both arms before 
 him, as I, dropping my pen at the end of a 
 line, looked sharply up. It was old Phil Launce- 
 ston, and if I dared I would say that he still 
 v/ore that same fearful wreck of a felt hat. His 
 clothes were as tattered as ever, his beard was 
 several shades greyer and longer than before,
 
 A POET OF THE BUSH 125 
 
 and the thin, bony figure was not so erect as 
 when I had last seen it. 
 
 The man looked older, and greatly worn ; 
 but perhaps he had not changed as much as I, 
 for he did not recognise me at first. 
 
 ' I am Phil Launceston ! ' he said. ' Give me 
 some money, young man, for I have been walking 
 all day and I want a drink ! Perhaps you don't 
 know me ; but — Hullo ! Why, it 's the man from 
 Tenterfield ! How are you ? ' And he held out 
 his shaky hand and shook mine. 
 
 I called in a boy and sent him into the town- 
 ship for a bottle of whisky. Then I gave the 
 ragged old poet some tobacco, and we sat talk- 
 ing till after the whisky had arrived, and my 
 old friend had drunk two glasses of it. He 
 told me how for years he had walked back- 
 ward and forward, throughout the length and 
 breadth of New South Wales and Victoria. He 
 told me in language, rough yet beautiful, of dewy 
 mornings on the tops of New England mountains. 
 He told me of wanderings in the mallee scrub ; 
 of camping with blacks in the wild Bush west 
 of the Snowy Mountains ; of the great plains 
 by the Darling ; and of the green wattle patches 
 and shaded apple scrub, where wallabies run 
 mad and death-adders bask on logs, near the 
 Duval Hills and Southern Queensland. 
 
 Then he laid his pipe down and pushed his 
 glass aside, as he pulled a sheaf of copy-paper 
 towards his seat. 
 
 ' You know how Lindsay Gordon died ? ' he
 
 126 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 said, looking at me with glistening eyes, and a 
 break in his deep voice. 
 
 I nodded, and he began to write. His poem told 
 of long days and nights spent with the since dead 
 poet in his saddest hours. It told, in words that 
 made the eyes moist and the throat husky, of 
 pathetic appeals to the poet from his friend and 
 follower. It told of the last melancholy hours of 
 sad Gordon's life, and showed in weird clearness 
 the endless grief of the writer who mourned him. 
 The very compositors who put it into type were 
 saddened ; and as I read the proof while the old 
 man sat before me, I could hardly see the words. 
 
 Then the wanderer rose to leave me. 
 
 ' Yes ! ' said he, as he took my hand ; once 
 more refusing proper payment for his work, but 
 accepting a few shillings and a pouch of tobacco 
 — ' Gordon was a good man, but only I knew 
 him ! The reviewers think they knew him, and 
 sportsmen think they knew him — No ! Only 
 the Bush knew him, and I — And now he's 
 gone, but I 've got the Bush — the Bush that he 
 loved — Good-bye ! ' 
 
 And the old poet passed out again into the 
 country beyond me. 
 
 It was long after that that I heard of him 
 again, and then I read this notice in a Sydney 
 paper : — 'The colony has just lost an old identity 
 in the person of Philip Launceston — one time 
 poet and bosom friend of Adam Lindsay Gordon, 
 but of late years an unknown wanderer in the 
 Bush. Within half a mile of the spot where
 
 A POET OF THE BUSH 127 
 
 Gordon is said to have written his first Australian 
 poem — the outskirts of Ballarat — the body of 
 Launceston was found on Friday last, lying in 
 the Bush. It is supposed that the deceased man 
 must have been overcome by weakness, and being 
 unable to walk into the town, laid himself down 
 to die in the Bush which has for so long been his 
 home.' 
 
 Poor lonely old poet ! Perhaps it was as well, 
 for in these hard later days he might have found 
 it difficult, even with his simple needs, and great 
 talent, to keep body and soul together in his 
 wanderings !
 
 N ARIT A 
 
 We were sailing by Triest 
 
 Where a day or two we harboured : 
 
 A sunset was in the West, 
 
 When, looking over the vessel's side. 
 
 One of our company espied 
 
 A sudden speck to larboard. . . . 
 
 "... Yet I caught one 
 Glance ere away the boat quite passed, 
 .\nd neither time nor toil could mar 
 Those features : so I saw the last 
 
 OfWaring!" You? " Oh, never star 
 
 Was lost here but it rose afar ! 
 
 Look East where whole new thousands are ! 
 
 In Vishnu-land, what Avatar?" ' 
 
 Waking. 
 
 The situation in which I first met Howard Kerr 
 was characteristic of his queer personality. Our 
 conversation on that occasion was very typical 
 of the conversations we have had in all the odd 
 corners of the earth in which I have since met the 
 man ; and I can no more say why Howard Kerr 
 was on board La Belle Aurore, than I can giye a 
 reason for his having been in Ascension Isle when 
 I arrived there last year, or tell why he is ever in 
 any of the places in which I have met him. 
 • I was in Tamatave, when La Belle Aurore was 
 
 128
 
 N A RITA 129 
 
 taking her general cargo for Mahe in the 
 Seychelle group ; and I engaged a berth aboard 
 her, knowing that the brig would load vanilla and 
 cocoa-nut oil at Mahe, and that I should have a 
 pleasant return voyage through the most beautiful 
 islands of the Indian Ocean. On our way back 
 to Madagascar we stopped for a day at St. Pierre, 
 and just before we sailed again in the evening, 
 Howard Kerr, with two coolies and a Gladstone 
 bag, came on board from a little dinghy as though 
 we had been lying up the Thames, instead of just 
 inside a coral reef bar in the far South. He paid his 
 coolies and dismissed them as a man might dis- 
 miss a Wapping waterman. Then he announced 
 himself as a passenger for Tamatave, and went 
 down below with the mate oi La Belle Aurore. 
 
 Three hours afterwards, the moon rose like a 
 huge globe of molten gold, and an ever-widening 
 track of rippling, silvery light came glistening all 
 across the Indian Ocean to where I stood, leaning 
 over the rail of the little brig's poop deck. 
 
 I had heard, some time before, the look-out 
 hand's cry of ' Light on the starboard quarter.' 
 But I had seen nothing, and so was startled when, 
 looking up suddenly, I caught sight of a fine 
 brigantine-rigged yacht under an immense spread 
 of canvas, overhauling us rapidly, and steering 
 apparently almost the same course as La Belle 
 Aurore. She was a poem — this queenly ocean racer 
 — an ode to the glorious beauty of the Southern 
 seas ; and I stood enthralled whilst watching her 
 skimming over the little phosphorescent waves, ' 
 
 I
 
 I30 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 as though bent on splitting La Belle Aurore from 
 starboard quarter to port bow. 
 
 Closer and closer the great yacht came, till her 
 long, white hull seemed to throw its graceful 
 shadow across the deck on which I stood, and I 
 fancied I could hear the hissing of the water 
 under her sharp bow. I certainly did hear, 
 faintly, the sound of an order given by one of the 
 dark figures on her aft deck. Then the captain of 
 La Belle Aurore, feeling, perhaps, that his dignity 
 required vindication, raised a speaking-trumpet to 
 his lips, and hailed the approaching yacht. 
 
 ' What ship is that ? ' 
 
 ' Narita — yacht ! Who are you ? ' 
 
 'La Belle Aurore — Seychelles to Tamatave. 
 All's well' 
 
 ' All 's well here ! Good night, La Belle Aurore ! 
 and — good luck ! ' 
 
 At the first sound of hailing I had heard steps 
 in the little companion-way behind me ; and, 
 turning, I saw Howard Kerr, standing with one 
 hand over his eyes, and gazing curiously at the 
 yacht speeding past us. When the words : 
 ' Narita — yacht. Who are you ? ' came from the 
 taller of the two dark figures on the yacht's 
 deck, I heard Kerr mutter : ' Gad, I thought so ! ' 
 As the sound of the last strangely unorthodox 
 message reached us from the yacht, Kerr sprang 
 on the poop rail beside me, and, with one arm 
 through the after shrouds of the brig's rigging, 
 and both hands raised to his mouth, he roared 
 out, in tones deep and strong enough to render a
 
 NARITA 131 
 
 speaking-trumpet quite unnecessary, ' Good night, 
 Caballero ! And — good luck ! ' 
 
 Then I saw one of the figures on the deck of 
 the yacht start suddenly forward, as though shot ; 
 and, through a speaking-trumpet, the words came 
 booming towards me, in a voice which seemed to 
 make the warm, soft air vibrate : ' Good night, 
 Howard Kerr ! Narita wishes you good luck ! ' 
 
 Half a minute afterwards, any word of mouth 
 message would have been impossible, for the 
 beautiful white yacht had forged ahead, and as 
 the wind freshened, she rapidly passed beyond 
 our ken to the southward. Then, for the first 
 time, I spoke to Howard Kerr ; and my remark 
 on that occasion was as commonplace as his were, 
 generally, out of the ordinary and interesting. 
 
 ' That was a beautiful vessel, was it not ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Kerr slowly. ' One of the ships that 
 pass in the night' 
 
 ' You seemed to know her ; and some one on 
 board evidently knew you.' 
 
 ' Yes, I think I know her, and, certainly, some 
 one on board knew me — once. Yes ! You are 
 a writer, they tell me. Did you ever meet Eric 
 Vanburgh ? ' 
 
 * No ! Is he the man who is said to have written 
 A Spotted Fairy, and who disappeared shortly 
 afterwards ? ' 
 
 ' That 's the man ; and he disappeared shortly 
 afterwards — from the lives of most.' 
 
 As Kerr spoke we drifted towards the seat by 
 the side of the brig's companion ; and without
 
 132 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 any consciousness on my part of what we were 
 doing, we sat down together, and Kerr began to 
 talk. 
 
 * In eighty ,' he began, ' Eric Vanburgh and 
 
 I were in Nice together. Perhaps you know 
 Nice?' 
 
 I nodded, and Kerr continued. ' Madame Arnay 
 was at the very height of her glory then. I 
 believe she had just made fortune number two at 
 Monte Carlo. Anyhow, she was entertaining like 
 a queen — if you can imagine a queen who was 
 also an artist and a Bohemian. She had the 
 Villa Croix, and she made of it a luxuriously 
 beautiful palace of pleasure. All European 
 Bohemia was at Madame's feet just then, and 
 Bohemia never had a better excuse for fanaticism. 
 A perfect artist, a perfect beauty, and a recklessly 
 hospitable hostess ; her Riviera palace was a very 
 fitting temple, and Madame a very fitting high 
 priestess to preside over the worship of pleasure. 
 
 ' She took rather a fancy to Eric, who, with the 
 style his wealth enabled him to keep up, was a 
 fascinating fellow — as I think he would have 
 been had he lived in a London slum. Following 
 in his train, I basked, as it were, vicariously, in 
 the sunshine of Madame's favour, and for a month 
 lived with my friend a life of splendid excitement, 
 in which the partaking of Madame's hospitality 
 was an almost daily feature. At last I began to 
 long for work again, and told Vanburgh I must 
 return to London. He asked me to remain a few 
 days longer in order that, with him, I might
 
 NARITA 133 
 
 attend a masked ball at the Villa Croix, which 
 was to be the crowning glory of Madame's 
 Riviera season. Then, he said, he would go to 
 England with me. So, willing enough to be 
 guided by him, I consented to remain ; and when 
 the night of the great ball arrived, I drove out to 
 the Arnay Palace with my friend.' 
 
 Kerr paused for a moment, holding his corn- 
 cob pipe reflectively poised in mid-air, as he 
 looked dreamily out to sea. Then he continued : 
 ' It was a wonderful fete — of its kind, the most 
 gorgeous function I ever witnessed — and when 
 the splendour of it was at its height, I grew 
 suddenly dizzy with the brilliancy and excite- 
 ment of the night. So, turning out of the great 
 saloon, where dancing was in full swing, I walked 
 into a little, darkened conservatory, and sat down 
 under a giant palm-tree fern, to think. " Oh, if I 
 could put this into black and white, what a poem 
 of fiction it would make ! " That was what I 
 thought as I sat in the shadow of the palm fern 
 and gazed, first, through the open window of 
 the conservatory, at the twinkling lights in the 
 grounds of the Villa Croix, and then, through 
 the door by which I had entered, to the brilliant 
 saloon where I had grown dizzy. 
 
 ' As I sat there, Eric Vanburgh walked in from 
 the ballroom ; and by his side was a tall, grace- 
 ful girl, dressed in the beautiful costume of a 
 gypsy queen. Madame had insisted that masks 
 should be worn on this occasion ; and so all the 
 plain women among her guests had hidden their
 
 134 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 faces behind satin, whilst the beauties — and they 
 were many — wore inch-wide strips of silk or 
 velvet, with eye-holes in them, which had the 
 effect of heightening, by suggestion, the charm of 
 faces in themselves sufficiently beautiful. The 
 girl hanging on Eric Vanburgh's arm wore one of 
 these narrow strips. They took not the slightest 
 notice of me ; and I could see that Eric was 
 either flirting outrageously or very much smitten 
 with his companion. They walked, in the dim 
 half-light of the little conservatory, to where a 
 piano stood, on the far side of the fern, in the 
 shadow of which I was hidden. Sitting down 
 before the instrument, my friend's beautiful 
 partner began softly to play the opening bars of 
 some plaintive, dreamy melody, I had never 
 before heard. Then, gradually, and as though 
 growing out of the piano's tender notes, the 
 tones of a voice that was indescribably sweet and 
 sad, came to me through the branches of the 
 palm-tree fern ; and I knew that the gypsy queen 
 was singing. I could not see the singer, but her 
 voice thrilled me through and through with its 
 strange, lingering pathos. I guessed that Eric 
 must be hopelessly enslaved. 
 
 ' Suddenly, I heard a piercing scream from the 
 far end of the great ballroom, and the notes of 
 the piano behind me died away, as a confused roar 
 of terror and tumult swept towards me, seeming 
 to shake the very floor of the room I sat in. 
 I cannot make you understand what followed. 
 Better men than I failed utterly in attempting to
 
 NARITA 135 
 
 describe that same scene ; and it was, in itself, 
 something felt rather than realised. All I know 
 is, that a great, surging crowd of terrified men 
 and women — a shapeless mass of brilliant colour- 
 ing — swayed through the doors of that little con- 
 servatory, overturning all before it, and carrying 
 me along, like a match-box on the crest of a 
 breaker ; out across the wide, white terrace, down 
 the sloping stone steps, and into the perfume- 
 laden atmosphere of the garden beyond. Eric 
 Vanburgh was close beside me ; and, when I 
 struggled to lay my hand upon his shoulder, I 
 heard above all the tumult his voice, as he shouted, 
 " Narita ! Narita ! Where are you ? " ' 
 
 Again Kerr paused, and I remained silent — 
 waiting. 
 
 ' Well,' he continued, ' the cause of all that, is 
 history in the Riviera, as perhaps you know. 
 The Villa Croix was burned into a huge, black 
 skeleton that night, and no one ever knew in 
 what way the fire originated, save that it was 
 marvellously sudden, and began in the ballroom. 
 Now, although Eric Vanburgh was by my side, 
 his beautiful companion, whose singing in the 
 little conservatory had thrilled me so, was no- 
 where to be seen. Hour after hour, till the sun 
 was high above us, and the crowd in the grounds 
 of the Villa Croix had gradually changed from a 
 throng of frightened masqueraders to a gaping 
 gathering of townsfolk in day attire, Eric and I 
 hunted to and fro in search of the sweet-voiced 
 gypsy queen. Two or three of Madame's guests
 
 136 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 lost their lives in that fire. But Eric did not even 
 know the name of his partner, beyond the title of 
 her character which she had assumed, as he had 
 assumed that of Caballero, as part of her costume 
 in the bal-masque. Therefore, the names of those 
 whose lives were lost gave him no clue. 
 
 * We spent a week in Nice, in the prosecution of 
 fruitless inquiries as to the identity and fate of the 
 beautiful girl who had sung to my friend ; and at 
 the end of that week, Eric started with me for 
 England, as deeply grieved and shocked as I ever 
 knew a man to be. We parted in London, and I 
 thought that in a few weeks the Villa Croix 
 incident would be nothing more than a sad and 
 tragic recollection to Eric. Nine months after- 
 wards, however, I met him in Berlin, and then I 
 found that the man had known no rest since the 
 night of that disastrous fire. He was wonderfully 
 aged and altered ; and I was more than a little 
 touched when I discovered that, since our last week 
 together in Nice, he had not paused for a day in 
 his nervous, restless search for the gypsy queen ; 
 two broken bars of whose sad, sweet song were 
 always ringing in his head. At that time I was 
 preparing for a trip to South America ; and after 
 two days spent in listening to my persuasions, 
 Vanburgh consented to leave the Continent and 
 travel with me.' 
 
 Kerr stopped speaking at this point, and walked 
 across the poop to look at his watch by the light 
 of one of the binnacle lamps. Continuing then, 
 he said: ' I must not stop to tell you all the details;
 
 N A R I T A 137 
 
 but, — after some months spent in Brazil and Buenos 
 Ayres, Eric Vanburgh and myself started on our 
 homeward voyage from Rio de Janeiro. Just as 
 evening was setting in, some two or three days 
 after our leaving Rio, we sighted a large, schooner- 
 rigged yacht, flying urgent signals of distress. 
 The steamer we were travelling in was immedi- 
 ately hove-to, and Vanburgh and I were allowed 
 to take places in one of the boats lowered for 
 despatch to the yacht. Our captain was an old 
 friend of mine, or this privilege would hardly have 
 been granted ; and — things might have happened 
 differently. As we drew near to the schooner- 
 rigged yacht, we saw a boat lowered from her 
 starboard davits, and almost immediately after- 
 wards a great tongue of flame shot up from her 
 mid-ship's deck in a column of black smoke. 
 Our men lay on their oars for a minute, gazing in 
 astonishment at the burning vessel, as its flames 
 lit up brilliantly an horizon out of which all trace 
 of the light of day had now faded. Then, as the 
 men started pulling again, the roar of an explosion 
 came from the yacht, and her hull was hidden 
 under a pall of dense, black smoke, through which 
 the darting flames could hardly penetrate. When 
 this lifted, we could see that the very masts and 
 yards of the yacht were blazing, and the sea all 
 round was strewn with wreckage. After a few 
 minutes, the boat we had seen lowered crossed the 
 bows of the cutter in which Vanburgh and I were 
 seated, and ranged alongside us. There were 
 only three men in this boat, and they said they
 
 138 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 feared that most of the yacht's crew must have 
 been on board when the explosion took place. 
 They added, however, that they had seen the 
 owner of the yacht, with his wife, in the act of 
 lowering a dinghy on the vessel's far side. 
 
 ' For some time our cutters cruised about with- 
 out finding a trace of any other boat ; and at 
 length, after a second loud explosion had taken 
 place on the yacht, the last of her burning timbers 
 were swallowed up in the black water, and our 
 men began to talk about getting back to their 
 own ship. Wreckage we found in plenty, but no 
 sign of anything else could be seen, and so the 
 order was given to return to the steamer, with a 
 view to possibly waiting for daylight. The boat 
 from the yacht, and the first of our ship's cutters, 
 forged quickly ahead ; and the one in which 
 Vanburgh and myself were seated, was pulled 
 slowly after them, too far in the rear for us to 
 see the others through the darkness. 
 
 ' Suddenly, our men stopped pulling ; and we 
 distinctly heard a cry coming across the sea astern 
 of us. Turning the boat's head, the officer in 
 charge, after answering the cry we had heard, 
 ordered the men to give way slowly. A few 
 minutes passed, and then, from out the warm 
 blackness of the night, a dinghy, with its little 
 mainsail half-hoisted, approached us ; and Eric 
 and I, from where we sat in the bows of the cutter, 
 could make out the figures of a man and a woman 
 standing in this little craft. As she ranged up to 
 us, the man, whom we supposed to be the owner
 
 NARITA 139 
 
 of the yacht, lit a blue light, and, holding it above 
 his head, showed to us, in the full glare of its 
 ghostly light, his own face and figure, and that of 
 his companion. Something in the beautiful face 
 of the woman seemed familiar to me ; and I felt 
 Eric's arm shiver by the side of my own. Before 
 I was conscious of anything else, he had sprung 
 in one bound, from the seat beside me, into the 
 black water which lay between our cutter and the 
 approaching dinghy; shouting, as he jumped, the 
 one word, " Narita ! " Half a minute afterwards, 
 whilst the dinghy still dipped up and down 
 within a few yards of us, Vanburgh had clam- 
 bered aboard her, and before the blue light gave 
 its final sputter, I saw him grasp the boat's 
 tiller. All this seemed to have passed in an 
 instant of time, and whilst we in our boat simply 
 watched. There was no sound save that made 
 by the little waves that slapped against the gun- 
 wale of our boat, and I distinctly heard, in a 
 woman's voice, the words, " Holy Virgin ! Cabal- 
 lero ! " ' 
 
 Again Kerr paused, but only for an instant ; and, 
 resuming, he said : ' Then the dinghy dipped so 
 close under our bow that I could have jumped 
 aboard her, and I caught a glimpse of Eric, with 
 the boat's teakwood tiller raised, like a sword, high 
 over his head, standing before the man who had 
 held the blue light. I heard the woman's tones 
 again, and recognised them as those to which I 
 had listened in Madame Arnay's conservatory at 
 the Villa Croix. This time they seemed to have
 
 I40 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 been raised, as half in supplication : " My husband, 
 Caballero ! " 
 
 ' Then Eric's voice boomed out from the dark- 
 ness, ringing as I had never heard it ring before. 
 And these were his words : " Your husband, 
 Narita ! Ah, but — God ! — Put up your revolver, 
 then ! Hands up, man ! " 
 
 ' The men in our cutter shivered, but no one 
 spoke, and I distinctly heard, or thought I heard, 
 the sound of a heavy blow, before the flash 
 which preceded the report of a pistol-shot gave 
 me a glimpse of a dark figure falling from the 
 dinghy's side into the water. Then I heard 
 the creaking of the dinghy's little mainsail being 
 hoisted, and the officer of our boat said, " Give 
 way, men ! " 
 
 ' By some oversight we had left our ship 
 without lights of any kind, and though we 
 pulled to and fro in the tropical darkness for 
 pretty well an hour, we found no trace of man 
 or boat. Our men were nervous and excited, 
 and I think the officer in charge was a little 
 unstrung, when at last he gave up the search, 
 and turned his boat's head towards the quarter 
 in which we could see the lights of our steamer. 
 Flare lights were being burned from her deck, 
 and it was almost midnight when we drew along- 
 side our ship, at the end of a long, weary pull 
 in the dark. As the landsman of the party, I 
 was the first to mount the ship's side ; and, as 
 I scrambled over the gunwale, the captain, 
 stepping forward with an anxious look on his
 
 NARITA 141 
 
 face to assist me ; said sharply, " Where 's the 
 other boat, Mr. Kerr ? " 
 
 ' " Heavens ! " I said ; " you don't mean to say 
 she has not returned ! " 
 
 ' It was so, however. Neither our first cutter, 
 nor the boat we had seen lowered from the 
 yacht, had been sighted by a soul on board the 
 steamer; and though we lay hove-to till day- 
 break, in a stiff breeze which sprang up after 
 midnight, and steamed backwards and forwards 
 over the scene of the night's disaster, till the 
 sun was well up in the sky overhead, yet we 
 found nothing but portions of the yacht's wreck- 
 age, and one cutter, floating bottom-upwards, with 
 the name, Valoise, painted in gold letters on its 
 stern. That was all we saw. So when, three 
 weeks afterwards, we arrived at Southampton, 
 our captain had to report — firstly, the loss 
 of a cutter, and a cutter's crew of four men 
 and an officer ; and secondly, the burning of a 
 schooner-rigged yacht, and the finding of a 
 yacht's cutter, with the name, Valoise, painted 
 on it. Also — he had to report the disappearance 
 of Eric Vanburgh.' 
 
 Kerr paused, and I looked up expectantly, as 
 he flicked the ash from the end of his cheroot — 
 he had finished smoking his corn-cob. 
 
 ' And you heard no more ? ' I asked. Kerr 
 rose and took a step towards the saloon entrance 
 oi La Belle Aurore. 
 
 ' Six months ago,' he said, pausing, with one 
 hand resting on the companion cover, ' I saw
 
 142 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 a white, brigantine-rigged yacht sailing out of 
 Sydney harbour. I was standing on the bridge 
 of an inter-colonial boat ; and with my glass 
 I made out the name of the yacht. It was 
 Narita. On her poop I saw standing, as plainly 
 almost as I see you now, Eric Vanburgh. This 
 evening I saw the same Narita again ; and the 
 voice you heard shouting, " Good night, Howard 
 Kerr," was Eric Vanburgh's. That 's all ; and — 
 I '11 go and turn in.' 
 
 'Good night, Howard Kerr!' said I, uncon- 
 sciously echoing his quotation. Kerr walked 
 slowly down the companion steps into the 
 saloon of La Belle Aiirore. And so my first 
 meeting with him ended.
 
 MAGDALEN WILMORE'S 
 LOVE-STORY 
 
 Horatio. ' O day and night, but this is wondrous strange ! ' 
 Hamlet. ' And therefore as a stranger give it welcome. 
 
 There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, 
 
 Than are dreamt of in our philosophy.' 
 
 Hamlet. 
 
 ' Though the pitcher that goes to the sparkling rill 
 
 Too oft gets broken at last, 
 There are scores of others its place to fill 
 
 When its earth to the earth is cast. 
 Keep that pitcher at home, let it never roam, 
 
 But lie like a useless clod ; 
 Yet sooner or later the hour will come 
 
 When its chips are thrown to the sod. 
 
 Take care of yourself, dull boorish elf, 
 
 Though prudent and safe you seem, 
 Your pitcher will break on the musty shelf, 
 
 And mine by the dazzling stream." 
 
 Potter's Clay. 
 
 Now the heart of the girl was pure and good — 
 though its range of vision was narrow. 
 
 And this was the whole of her love-story. 
 
 All through the long, hot, dazzling summer 
 months, when the sea was so blue, and the 
 crests of the breakers so white, that one could 
 hardly bear to look out at them from the sandy 
 
 143
 
 144 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 beach ; Magdalen Wilmore and the tall, fair man 
 had been together. 
 
 Hadyn Valyard. His very name frightened 
 her, when she whispered it to herself in the 
 night-time, sitting at the little open window, 
 through which, blended oddly, there came the 
 smell of the creamy breakers, and the faint 
 perfume of great, glossy magnolias. The name 
 seemed to Magdalen, like the man, so much 
 a thing of another world than hers. It seemed 
 suggestive of some life strangely different from 
 the quiet, decorous Puritanism in which she had 
 grown from babyhood to girlish beauty, and 
 from that to more beautiful, budding woman- 
 hood. 
 
 Even during this summer, which, for her 
 health's sake, she had spent so far from the 
 quiet New York home, and its even round 
 of unchanging insignificance ; even here, she had 
 been disinclined to allow any one to see that 
 portion of her life spent by the sea, which was 
 really all the summer had meant to her. She 
 had felt instinctively that the clear, white light, 
 which filled the little house of the friends with 
 whom she lived, was not the light to throw 
 upon Hadyn Valyard, or her friendship with 
 him — the friendship which had begun, she hardly 
 knew how, on the beach, and which had been 
 solely of the beach, and the sunshine. 
 
 In imagination she saw the raised eyebrows 
 and the frigid distrust with which these quiet, 
 one-minded friends of her quiet, one-minded
 
 MAGDALEN'S LOVE-STORY 145 
 
 family would receive Hadyn Valyard if she 
 brought him to their home. So always, when 
 she had entered the little house for the night, 
 she had spoken of the sandy beach, the sea, 
 the sunshine, and her day's enjoyment of them 
 all ; but of Hadyn Valyard she had said no- 
 thing. 
 
 But the beach and the sunshine would have 
 seemed very little things to Magdalen, without 
 this golden-bearded man, with his wild, blue eyes, 
 at which she dared not look. Yet with it all, she 
 was afraid of him, and had said ' No,' when, kneel- 
 ing at her feet under the wavy palms that fringed 
 the white beach, Ife had prayed her, with tears in 
 his strong voice, to be his wife. 
 
 His fascination she had strongly felt, but at this 
 question of marriage she had told herself that 
 there was something in him wanting, to make 
 him really of her life. And she had refused. 
 He had sworn that he would make himself of 
 her life — that he would remove that difference 
 — but she had sighed, incredulous, whilst, to 
 soothe him, promising to meet him on the 
 beach once more when a week had passed. 
 And now she sat there in the shade of the 
 great rock they had called *our rock,' waiting 
 for Hadyn Valyard. 
 
 Afterwards, she could never say whether, in 
 the shade of the rock, she had slept and dreamed, 
 or whether she had really lived it all ; but it 
 seemed to Magdalen, that the golden-bearded 
 man came and sat by her side under the surf- 
 
 K
 
 146 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 beaten rock. It seemed that as they sat there 
 she said, ' Hadyn, tell me a story ! ' 
 
 Then she thought she felt the blue eyes, with 
 their wild, untamed light, turn towards her, as 
 
 Hadyn Valyard said, ' There is a story, but 
 
 No, I dare not ! ' 
 
 And she said, ' Yes, please ! Please, Hadyn, 
 tell me that story ! ' 
 
 Then she thought Hadyn Valyard had raised 
 his elbow from the hollow it had made in the 
 sand, and, laying one of his strong hands on 
 her arm, had said : ' Child, there was once a 
 merman, living with other mermen and mer- 
 maids under the blue water out yonder, where 
 the sun catches the crest of the outside breaker,' 
 
 It seemed to Magdalen that the sun was 
 within an hour of setting. 
 
 ' The merman lived very happily, Magdalen 
 — very happily — as mermen and mermaidens 
 mostly do. They have no little laws of must 
 and must not ; and appearances count for nothing 
 under the sea. To be happy is to be good, out 
 yonder, Magdalen, so benighted are the children 
 of the sea ! And pleasure there is not counted 
 a sin. 
 
 ' On a foundation of love and happiness they 
 regulate their own lives, but they do not seek 
 to regulate each other's lives ; and if one does 
 not understand another, he regrets his own 
 want of wisdom, rather than the other's lack 
 of anything. The mermen and women have no 
 culture, you see.
 
 MAGDALEN'S LOVE-STORY 147 
 
 'Well, as I said, this merman lived very 
 happily, loved by and loving many, and hold- 
 ing that life was a thing to enjoy. One little 
 mermaid, Magdalen, he loved more than all 
 the rest ; and this little golden-haired sea-girl 
 loved him as she loved no other. There came 
 a morning when the surge of the green water 
 seemed to whisper some new story ; and the 
 rainbow light in the spray, that flies from 
 crest to crest on the surface, suggested to the 
 merman thoughts which had never before been 
 his, 
 
 ' The little golden-haired mermaid laughed 
 happily at him as they swam about together 
 beyond the breakers ; but he felt in some strange, 
 new way, removed from her, and the feeling hurt 
 him. So strongly did it grow upon him, that, as 
 the morning wore on, he drifted away from the 
 golden-haired mermaid, and his other friends, and 
 swam on and on till he was closer to the shore 
 than he had ever before ventured. 
 
 ' Then, as he lay idly floating in the surf, he 
 saw, standing on the white beach before him, a 
 girl — a beautiful girl of the world which was then 
 a closed book to him. He raised himself in the 
 water, and, gazing admiringly at the beautiful girl, 
 he realised for the first time in his life that — that 
 he was a merman. The girl seemed to him more 
 beautiful than anything his eyes had ever seen ; 
 and as he watched her from his place in the surf, 
 there came over him a great wave of desire — vague 
 longing — to be something better, nobler, higher
 
 148 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 than a merman. He longed vaguely to become 
 one of the same creation as this beautiful girl, 
 and, being of her order, to woo her, and win 
 her, for his love, his wife. 
 
 ' This was what he longed for ; and, as the girl 
 turned and walked away from the beach, he put 
 his vague longing to one side, establishing in place 
 of it determination. Acting on his determination, 
 he swam along the sea-front for some distance, 
 and then, stepping out of the creamy surf on to 
 the white beach, he became a man, and, in 
 appearance, of the same order of creation as the 
 beautiful girl, whose name — was Madeline ! ' 
 
 Magdalen Wilmore shivered in the shadow of 
 the great rock as Hadyn Valyard said this. 
 
 ' In a little while he found the beautiful girl 
 and became known to her, having first spent 
 some time in studying the ways of her world, in 
 order that it might not appear how strange to 
 him was her life. 
 
 ' Madeline, the beautiful girl, though she did 
 not understand it, yet saw the difference, the 
 something which made her life strange to 
 the merman ; and, lest others who were of her 
 life should see the same strangeness, she hid care- 
 fully this friendship she had formed, hardly 
 confessing, even to herself, that it was to her a 
 delight. 
 
 ' She found the merman, who was outwardly a 
 man of her life, full of knowledge of a world she 
 knew not of, and rich in strange lore of the great 
 white-crested sea, across which she looked long-
 
 MAGDALEN'S LOVE-STORY 149 
 
 ingly but unknowingly. She found his most 
 ordinary thoughts were of things with which she 
 was all unfamiliar. And this frightened her, she 
 fearing that she did not know. But the man 
 fascinated her, perhaps because he loved her so. 
 
 ' Then there came a day, when, in the warm 
 sunshine of the beach, the man suddenly felt that 
 he could no longer hide his heart, and, kneeling 
 at beautiful Madeline's feet, he told her of his 
 love and prayed her to be his wife. Madeline 
 trembled, for she loved the man, but all in her 
 that did not know rose in her heart, struggling 
 against love, and made her whisper, " No ; glamour 
 is evanescent, and love is eternal ! This is 
 glamour. He is not of my life, and so there must 
 be something in him lacking, or something that 
 should not be there. No ! " 
 
 * The man from the sea felt sick at heart, but 
 he said, " Madeline, I will be of your life ; and 
 there shall be in me, nothing that is strange to 
 you ! Madeline, let me see you again in a little 
 while, and ask of you something then ! " 
 
 ' For a moment love triumphed in Madeline's 
 heart, over that which did not know ; and, acced- 
 ing to the man's request, she bowed her head. 
 So they parted for a while, the merman vowing 
 to himself that he would crush into the narrow 
 limit of the life familiar to her, all the wide free- 
 dom, the spray-scented brightness, which had 
 made his life happy ; in order to obtain the some- 
 thing which made her different from him. 
 
 ' Day succeeded day, and the man found how
 
 I50 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 much the merman must lose — give up — to come 
 within the beautiful girl's compass. He shivered 
 sometimes, but he loved her, and he swore to pay 
 the price, no matter what, to woo her and win 
 her for his own. He pressed and cramped his 
 much into her all, and began to feel that he was 
 really losing that which had made him strange 
 to her. 
 
 * When the time of separation was nearly ended, 
 the merman sat in the evening at an open window 
 overlooking the surf that bubbles between the 
 inside breaker and the white beach. He was 
 watching the sun sink into the sea ; and he was 
 faint and weary with the effort he had made 
 to exchange his free mermanhood for a man's 
 superiority. As he sat there, resting, and dream- 
 ing of the beautiful Madeline he had sworn to 
 win for his own, certain sounds came softly float- 
 ing in at the window, and fell upon his resting 
 mind like sweet rain upon a parched green thing. 
 His eyelids fell, and he sat listening in a dream. 
 
 ' Other men of Madeline's world sat by him 
 there ; but they heard nothing, for the sounds 
 were of strange, sweet music, floating in from the 
 blue water out beyond the farthest breaker — the 
 music of a life unknown to them. The sweetness 
 of it made the merman faint, in his dream ; but 
 suddenly he started from his seat with eyes on 
 fire, and his two hands flew to his throat, as he 
 leaned, listening, through the window, breathing 
 the saltness of the spray. 
 
 ' Amonest the sounds that floated to him from
 
 MAGDALEN'S LOVE-STORY 151 
 
 over the surf was one sweeter and more far away 
 than the others ; and this, he told himself, was the 
 voice of the little, golden-haired mermaid who, in 
 that other life, had been all in all to him. She 
 had never gazed as though seeing in him strange- 
 ness, but only with happy, trusting eyes of sunny 
 blue ; and she had pleaded, never saying him nay, 
 and happy with him, always. 
 
 * As the merman leaned, listening, through the 
 window, and drawing deep breaths from the sea, 
 a little, flying, rainbow-tinted cloud of spray flew 
 up from the surf, through the rays of the sinking 
 sun, and splashed across his hot face, cooling, but 
 blinding him. Then, speaking no word, the 
 merman stepped out through the open window, 
 down across the smooth, white beach, and to the 
 edge of the creamy surf-line. There, as he paused, 
 the music floating to the shore was clearer and 
 sweeter in his ears than before ; and even the 
 fainter voice of the little, golden-haired mermaid, 
 with its plaintive ring of sadness, seemed closer 
 clinging round his heart, as it was actually nearer 
 to his body. 
 
 * He turned from the sea and looked towards 
 the place where he had sat with beautiful Made- 
 line. And then, in him, his first vague longing 
 took the place of his determination. When he 
 looked he saw only a little group, standing by the 
 open window he had left, of the men who were of 
 Madeline's world. And on their faces he seemed 
 to see little smiles, half of wonder at his strange- 
 ness, and half of conscious superiority. As he
 
 152 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 watched them the vague longing in the man gave 
 place to another, distinct longing in the merman — 
 for the sounds of music were more clear and 
 sweet — and so he turned again, and stepped into 
 the creamy surf. 
 
 ' Then he paused a moment, and as he paused, 
 it seemed to him that from the shore came softly 
 the sound of a sigh — a sigh from beautiful Made- 
 line. But the hesitating sound of the sigh died 
 doubtfully away in a pleading strain of sweetness 
 from beyond the breakers ; and the merman gave 
 a little cry of weariness and hunger as he plunged 
 headlong into the tide, which was running out — 
 out to the blue surface and the green depths from 
 which the music floated.' 
 
 Magdalen moved uneasily in her seat beside 
 the great rock, and her eyes wandered up and 
 down the white beach, as in search of something. 
 Then she started to her feet, listening, with her 
 golden head bent towards the sea. It seemed to 
 her that she could hear sounds of music, faintly 
 stealing in towards the shore ; and then — a little 
 cry of weariness. 
 
 Hadyn Valyard she could not see, and he did 
 not come again !
 
 WHERE THE SEA IS DEAD 
 
 ' Whereto answering, the sea, 
 Delaying not, huirying not, 
 
 Whispered me through the night, and very plainly before daybreak, 
 Lisp'd to me the low and delicious word death, 
 And again death, death, death, death. 
 Hissing melodious, neither like the bird nor like my arous'd child's 
 
 heart. 
 But edging near as privately for me, rustling at my feet. 
 Creeping thence steadily up to my ears and laving me softly all over. 
 Death, death, death, death, death.' 
 
 Walt Whitman. 
 
 We were about half-way across the great Indian 
 Ocean at the time, and Oscar Herrmann and I, 
 having arranged our bedding on top of the big 
 saloon skylight, were lying ilat on our respective 
 backs and gazing into space. The poop awning 
 had for some obscure reason been taken in that 
 evening, and so the spot where my Teutonic 
 friend and myself had slept for four nights in 
 succession was left bare and exposed. It was not 
 cool, however, even there — the air was too still 
 and oppressive for coolness. 
 
 There were two features in his character which 
 caused me to like Oscar Herrmann. One was his 
 never-failing faculty for telling queer stories of his 
 strange life ; and the other was his perfect taste 
 
 153
 
 154 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 in cheroots, and liberality in manner of treating 
 me in regard to them. 
 
 Whenever I met Herrmann, night or day, he 
 would say, ' Oh, good morning, my friend ! How 
 do you go ? Have a cigar ? ' Now, when a 
 man shows such undoubted intelligence and good 
 taste as that, he deserves encouragement. I 
 always encouraged Herrmann by accepting his 
 cheroots — which were particularly choice — and 
 listening to his queer stories, which were, to my 
 mind, equally good of their kind. The result was 
 that he was made happy in interesting me, and I 
 heard so large a number of weird, outlandish tales, 
 that one of these days I think I will make a book 
 of the uncorroborated experiences of Oscar Herr- 
 mann. I should be credited with possessing the 
 wildest and most fantastic of imaginations, and at 
 the same time need only describe a few of the 
 alleged genuine incidents of this man's life. In 
 addition to these, however, there were one or two 
 of his anecdotes that he was able to absolutely 
 prove, by documentary and other evidence ; and 
 what he told me on this particular night belonged 
 to that class of narrative. 
 
 It was one of those thick, black, moonless, and 
 starless nights, that make one feel choky, and 
 inclined to rashness in the matter of imbibing 
 lemon-squashes — amber-tinged. There was suffi- 
 cient swell in the oily-surfaced water to give 
 the ship an awkward, lurchy motion ; but apart 
 from that, everything was deathly still and 
 silent. Herrmann did not appear to be in a
 
 WHERE THE SEA IS DEAD 155 
 
 talkative mood, and for a long time we lay 
 smoking in silence. Then a fox-terrier that 
 always slept by the skylight, put its fore-feet 
 on my pillow and howled dismally, as though 
 suddenly reminded of the hollowness of things 
 in general. 
 
 ' What an intensely melancholy effect a night 
 like this at sea does have on one ! ' said I ; 
 turning on my elbow to drop a slipper on the 
 dog's head. 
 
 * Yes,' replied the German, between two puffs. 
 
 Then we were silent again, until the black 
 sadness of the outlook made me add : ' Really, 
 I don't think it 's possible to imagine anything 
 more dismal and saddening than this hot dark- 
 ness ! Just look at that one patch of phosphorus 
 away out there ; it looks like a witch's fire ! ' 
 
 Hermann grunted. He was certainly in a 
 peculiarly silent mood. At last he said : 
 
 ' There 's one place where you get nights more 
 melancholy — nights that make you think of the 
 Fatherland, and the girls you used to love, and 
 other foolishness.' 
 
 ' Where 's that ? ' said I, brightening at the 
 prospect of Herrmann's reminiscences. 
 
 ' The Cape,' he answered shortly. And then, 
 after a pause, he continued : ' When you are 
 homeward bound in a sailing-ship, and winds 
 are bad, you drive away and away down south, 
 where you feel as though you had no right to 
 be prying. You feel, down there, as though 
 you were in one of Nature's private places —
 
 IS6 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 a place that men are not supposed to see, and 
 in which even albatross are intruders. It blows 
 down there — Gott, how it blows ! And a great 
 sluggish sea runs in hills and valleys that never 
 break, but sway up and down like canons in 
 an earthquake. Then it is grey — everything is 
 grey — and there is no line between sea and sky. 
 But it is when a gale of wind drops, that your 
 sadness and melancholy comes. E' Gott, but 
 it 's awful ! The wet sails flap and flog the 
 masts, the sea still runs in grey, misty moun- 
 tains, and your ship rolls gunwales under, like a 
 log. First she dips one rail in the oily, solid 
 water, and takes a great grey wall of it aboard. 
 Then that falls in one mass to leeward, and the 
 other rail goes under.' 
 
 Herrmann sighed plaintively. 'When I was 
 down there in the barque Sch'dnhduser, we had 
 some of the worst weather in that way that I 
 ever saw, and we all grew so sad and wretched, 
 that the very men in the fo'c's'le gave up singing 
 chanties on the ropes. One of the hands told me 
 that he didn't think it seemed right to sing, down 
 there, where the sea and the sky were so miser- 
 able and the air seemed dead. We had a young 
 fellow on board as second mate, whose name was 
 Arlitz — Wilhelm Arlitz — and he came from Miin- 
 chen. When we were leaving Mauritius he had 
 a letter from Germany telling him that his 
 sweetheart was dead. Poor fellow ! I believe 
 he thought of nothing else. He used to sit on 
 the for'ard hen-coop at night and croon over
 
 WHERE THE SEA IS DEAD 157 
 
 his wild Miinchener songs, and murmur about 
 his liebchen, till one would have thought he 
 would have died of sheer grief. Well, one night 
 he was keeping the middle watch and walking 
 up and down the weather side of the poop, 
 while I was sitting at the lee side of the wheel. 
 It was a night like that I told you of, but 
 worse. Gott ! how she rolled, and staggered 
 like a drunken man ! There was no phosphor- 
 escent light there, and the sea was like black 
 oil moved by a volcano ! No spray. No white 
 crests. Only great peaks and caverns of black 
 water, all mixed up with the black sky, and 
 smelling clammy. All the sails were wet through, 
 and creaked and groaned like dying men with 
 every lurch of the ship. I heard Arlitz mut- 
 tering to himself, as he wandered about, for 
 half an hour. Then he leaned up against the 
 low rail at the break of the poop, and I thought 
 he was asleep. I was away for an hour, and 
 when I came back he was still there. He had 
 never moved ! I was surprised, because it was 
 nervous weather, and wanted watching. Then I 
 heard him muttering again, and humming a 
 Miinchener song that sounded like a mother's 
 wail at j her baby's grave. Ach ! it was sad; 
 and I knew he could not be dozing. It began 
 to rain then — a cold, greasy rain, without wind ; 
 and the sea was running as heavily as ever. 
 At last I thought I would go and speak to him, 
 he seemed so terribly sad. I took a couple of 
 steps across the deck, and I saw his shoulders
 
 158 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 droop. Through the patter of the rain I heard 
 him say : " Frieda, mein Liebchen ! " Then, in 
 the wet mist, I saw his body rise and fall. 
 There was no sound. He had dropped head 
 first over the low rail, into the black, oily 
 water, with his dead sweetheart's name on his 
 lips. 
 
 * Ach ! but it makes you sad — it makes you 
 mad, to stare into that black sea when it runs 
 in silent mountains in and out a black sky ! ' 
 
 ' And didn't you try to save him ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' Yes, we lowered a boat ; but it was dangerous 
 work, and we never saw him again.' 
 
 ' What made him do it ? ' I asked, as Herrmann 
 lit another cheroot. 
 
 The German answered me by instalments, 
 between the puffs : 
 
 ' Ach ! God knows ! — The Miinchener songs — 
 His dead Frieda — The black sea — Altogether — 
 Good night ! '
 
 MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKENS 
 
 ' O world as God hath made it ! All is beauty : 
 And knowing this is love, and love is duty, 
 What further may be sought for or declared ? ' 
 
 The Guardian Anqel. 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE MOTHERLESS CHICKS 
 
 ' Do you s'pose mother 's all the way up there 
 already, Sonny ? ' 
 
 ' How can I tell, child ? You 've been watching 
 just the same's me. And you mustn't make so 
 much noise. Els, 'cos it fwightens th' bull-fwogs,' 
 
 'But I'm so tired, Sonny. Do you think it's 
 any good watching any more ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know.' Sonny turned over on his 
 back and gazed away up into the starlit sky, 
 from where he lay, half-hidden in the grass beside 
 the creek. 
 
 He was wondering in his childish mind at 
 the deep, deep blueness of everything. The 
 early nights of summer in the South, when there 
 is no moon and the sky is cloudless, are very 
 wonderful in their soft, fathomless blue over 
 
 159
 
 i6o MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 indistinct, billowy blackness. The boy was only 
 six years old ; but he had been born in the great 
 Bush — so silent to strangers, so full of life and 
 sound to dwellers in it — and Nature spoke very 
 clearly, and in many ways, to his quaint mind 
 and heart. 
 
 * I don't know,' he repeated. ' But I think 
 pwaps if God knew we were watching, He 'd vewy 
 likely make mother divisible, like in the 'Wabian 
 Nights you know, before the angels took her 
 up there. Old Jacky told me a coffin man would 
 come to-mowow and take mother away ; so I 
 shall look in the coffin, and see what the angels 
 took. Then I '11 tell you, but — I think you 're too 
 young, you know, Els, weally.' 
 
 Elsie was not yet five years old, but, like her 
 brother, she had been born in the Bush, of parents 
 who were old in a sense which made it quite 
 impossible for them to ever understand these 
 two children of their life's autumn. And, like 
 Sonny, too, Elsie was not an ordinary type of 
 child, even as Bush children go. 
 
 ' What time is it now. Sonny ? ' 
 
 Sonny looked dreamily across the home- 
 paddock towards the Gulgong hills, over which 
 the moon would rise shortly. 
 
 ' 'Bout seven, I think ; and mother was killed 
 'bout half-past four. She must 've gone up 
 there long before this, Els.' 
 
 ' Yes,' assented Elsie sadly. ' I 'm 'fraid she 
 must, but I 'm sure we watched all the time. 
 What killed mother, Sonny ? '
 
 MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKENS i6i 
 
 ' 'Sumption, child. You wouldn't understand 
 if I twied to tell you. Evwybody beautiful has 
 it when they get old. I 'spect Vi '11 have it 
 just th' same, an' you when you gwow up ; 
 only you 're not so pwetty, so I don't s'pose you '11 
 have it so bad.' 
 
 * H'm ! Sonny ! I 'spose Vi 's our mother now, 
 isn't she ? ' 
 
 ' Good gracious, no, child ! Vi 's always our 
 sister. She can't be anybody's mother till she 's 
 been mawied, an' got a homestead of her own, 
 like this. I 'spect she'll look after me an' 
 father, and do things for us as if she was mother. 
 Then, bimeby, she '11 mawy Cousin Tom, an' 
 they '11 go 'way somewhere an' live by them- 
 selves.' 
 
 ' Oh— Sonny ! ' 
 
 'Yes!' 
 
 ' I heard father say, long time ago, before 
 Mother went to bed, that Vi was going to marry 
 Mr. Farley. He said so to mother, and he 
 said it would straighten something up, and — I 
 forgot to tell you, but I wondered, 'cos Vi hates 
 Mr. Farley. She told me so.' 
 
 'Yes, I know.' Sonny was sitting up now, 
 and thoughtfully stroking the grass at his side. 
 ' But that 's a mistake. Els. You see Cousin 
 Tom 's vewy poor. He 's hardly got any horses 
 or anything, and father wanted Vi to mawy 
 Mr. Farley 'cos Mr. Farley's wich. But she 
 won't all the same, 'cos Cousin Tom won't let 
 her, an' she doesn't want to. Besides, mother 
 
 L
 
 i62 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 said so, when I went to say good-bye to her, 
 this afternoon. She hated Mr, Farley too, only 
 she didn't like to say so ; but she was cwying, 
 and talking about it, so of course Father and 
 me said Vi should mawy Cousin Tom. I 
 pwomised mother myself 
 
 ' Oh, then I s'pose that 's what Vi was crying 
 about when we came out.' 
 
 ' No, child. She wants to mawy Cousin Tom. 
 She was cwying 'cos mother was killed. People 
 what 's gwown up always do that, to show they 're 
 so'wy.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Sonny, I 'm so tired ! It 's no use waiting 
 to see mother ; she must 've gone up now. Let 's 
 go back home, and see Vi.' 
 
 So, slowly, and hand in hand, the two children 
 trudged through the long grass, up the side of the 
 creek, across the rise of the home-paddock, to the 
 great back verandah of Coorimal, the homestead 
 of their father's sheep-run. 
 
 Violet Carey, John Carey's oldest daughter, and 
 
 sister to Elsie and Sonny, was sitting in the 
 
 shadow of the verandah. Her little brown hands 
 
 covered her face, and through the fingers of them 
 
 tears were trickling on to her wrists. Violet, aged 
 
 twenty years, had been practically mistress of 
 
 Coorimal for eighteen months or more, and for 
 
 weeks had known that her mother could not live 
 
 more than a very little while. But the end which 
 
 had come that afternoon seemed just as sad, and 
 
 made the girl feel just as lonely, as though she 
 
 had never dreamed of its coming. She loved her 
 
 1
 
 MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKENS 163 
 
 father, ' Near-enough-John-Carcy,' as some of the 
 district settlers called him ; and the two had 
 always been on happy terms enough. But good- 
 natured John Carey was little more than a much- 
 respected and loved friend. The woman who lay 
 dead in the house had been Violet's mother in 
 that word's fullest sense. 
 
 Only a month before, her father had intimated 
 to her in his easy-going way, that Herbert Farley, 
 the well-to-do owner of an adjoining station called 
 Farleydale, would sooner or later ask her to marry 
 him. 
 
 ' He 's one of the richest men this side of 
 Mudgee, Vi,' her father had said ; ' and will be a 
 splendid husband for you ; so mind you treat him 
 kindly. Besides which, I may tell you that if 
 Farley did not become my son-in-law he would 
 very quickly become my successor at Coorimal 
 here, for it 's mortgaged up to the hilt to him, and 
 there's been a sort of understanding between us 
 all along, that things would be straightened up 
 this way.' 
 
 Near-enough-John-Carey's relations with his 
 daughter had never been such as to make the 
 discussion of a matter of this kind possible ; and 
 beyond a few tears, and a murmured ' Father ! ' the 
 girl had said nothing to show her feeling regarding 
 her father's plan for the disposal of her heart and 
 hand. 
 
 ' Queer creatures girls are, to be sure,' the father 
 had said to himself, after having explained this 
 little matter to VioleL ' It 's all the same ; a death
 
 i64 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 a christening, a wedding, a handsome present, a 
 kiss, or a scolding — it all runs to tears. I suppose, 
 as a matter of fact, she 's as proud as ever she 
 knows how, at the notion of being mistress of 
 Farleydale. Anyhow, it '11 save me ; and, by gad, 
 it 's a blessing he took such a fancy to her.' 
 
 Now, Violet's thoughts flew straight to her 
 cousin, Tom Lindall, as soon as Farley's name was 
 mentioned by her father. But she could not put 
 her thoughts into words though her very life 
 depended on it, for Tom Lindall was nothing to 
 her but a cousin, * Nothing more,' she murmured 
 to herself insistingly. But Violet's mother had 
 known better ; and perhaps Lindall himself, fight- 
 ing the rabbit pest and the ti-tree scrub on a 
 selection out back from Farleydale, would have 
 placed a rather different estimate upon himself, 
 and his relation to his gold-haired cousin. 
 
 Mrs. Carey had never gone so far as to say she 
 wished her daughter to marry any man ; but in 
 her feverish desire that her husband's plan of 
 marrying Violet to Mr. Farley should not be 
 carried out, she had from her bed of sickness put 
 forward the claims of Tom Lindall. 
 
 ' An upright and honourable young fellow, 
 John,' she had said to her husband ; ' if he is poor. 
 Let him win the child if he can, and if she wants 
 him ; but promise me, John dear, you will never 
 try to force her to take that American. I am 
 
 certain he is Promise me, John dear ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, yes, dear. She shall marry her Cousin 
 Tom, if she likes, and go out back. The girl
 
 MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKENS 165 
 
 shall never be forced to anything. Of course 
 not. Certainly not' 
 
 ' No, mother. Don't you be afwaid ; Vi shall 
 mawy Cousin Tom. I '11 look after it myself; me 
 an* Els, you know.' 
 
 ' Bless the child ! I believe you will.' 
 ' Of course I shall — I 've pwomised.' 
 And not very long afterwards, the doctor had 
 told Sonny that his mother was dead ; and the 
 child having gravely communicated the tidings 
 to little Elsie, the two had wandered down to the 
 creek-side, to sit and watch for the coming of 
 the angels who were to take their mother. 
 
 CHAPTER n 
 
 LOSE A FRIEND 
 
 A MONTH had passed since the death of John 
 Carey's wife, and Sonny and Elsie were growing 
 accustomed to life at the homestead without their 
 mother. Like many another English farmer, who, 
 having proved himself financially a failure in the 
 old country, has taken up a sheep-run in Aus- 
 tralia, the owner of Coorimal was experiencing 
 the fatal consequence of over-borrowing, under- 
 working, and mismanaging a New South Wales 
 sheep-station. But for the assistance of his 
 moneyed American neighbour, Herbert Farley, 
 Coorimal would long since have passed out of 
 John Carey's hands and become the property of
 
 i66 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 the Commercial Banking Company. And now, 
 since Mrs. Carey's death, Farley had given the 
 Englishman very clearly to understand that the 
 next few months must bring to him, Farley, either 
 a financial settlement — a thing he knew to be 
 impossible ; the possession of Coorimal ; or — and 
 this seemed to both men by far the easiest and 
 most satisfactory alternative — Carey's daughter, 
 Violet. 
 
 Tom Lindall had ridden in from his out back 
 selection to spend a couple of days at Coorimal, 
 before making certain changes in his life ; and 
 on a sunshiny afternoon, just a month after her 
 mother's death, Violet stood on the homestead 
 verandah talking with her cousin. For some little 
 time Sonny and Elsie had been sitting close to 
 where Lindall and Violet stood, and now, at a 
 signal from the elder, the two children rose and 
 walked gravely out into the sunshine, and across 
 the paddock, towards their favourite haunt under 
 the bank of the creek. 
 
 ' You see, Els,' observed Sonny, in an explana- 
 tory tone, ' you 're such a vewy little girl, and it 
 bothers them to have childwen about now, when 
 Cousin Tom 's going away.' 
 
 * Why does it bother them. Sonny ? ' 
 
 * Because they want to talk, and gwowed-up 
 people never talk pwope'ly when there's other 
 people about. And Vi's not so likely to mawy 
 Cousin Tom if we don't let 'em talk, you know. 
 We 've got to look after that.' 
 
 * Yes. Sonny, what 's Cousin Tom want to go
 
 MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKENS 167 
 
 away for ? We like him, and if he 's going to 
 marry Vi, why can't he come and live here so 's to 
 see us every day? Lass likes him too, an' she 
 hates Mr. Farley's much as we do.' Lass was 
 a great, fawn-skin-dappled kangaroo-dog without 
 whom the children were never seen. 
 
 ' You wouldn't understand, child,' said Sonny, 
 as, their dog between, the two children stretched 
 themselves in the grass beside the creek. ' I told 
 you Cousin Tom is vewy poor, and he can't mawy 
 Vi till he 's got a homestead. Well, the wabbits 
 an' dingoes an' things are awful out back of Farley- 
 dale, so Cousin Tom 's going to leave there. Now, 
 he 's going to the diggings at Captain's Flat, and 
 when he 's been there a year nearly, he 's going to 
 come back in time for Chwismas, and mawy Vi. 
 You see he '11 get plenty of money at th' diggings.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Where 's Captain's Flat, Sonny ? ' 
 
 ' Captain's Flat ? Oh — er — I don't know. Out 
 Merriman's Creek way somewhere. I know it's 
 two hundred miles, 'cos I heard Cousin Tom telling 
 father 'bout it.' 
 
 Late that evening, when Sonny and Elsie were 
 sleeping quietly in their big bedroom at the back 
 of the homestead, Tom Lindall and Violet were 
 leaning in the moonlight over the verandah rail 
 outside the window of the children's room ; and 
 talking. From very different causes, Tom Lindall 
 had reached as awkward a position, in some 
 respects, as that of his uncle, John Carey. In one 
 particular he was better off, and that was in the 
 matter of being free from debts or obligations of
 
 i68 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 any kind. But after two years' hard fighting on 
 his lonely selection in the back country, he found 
 himself poorer in every way than when he began. 
 And now he had regretfully determined to throw 
 up his selection. And all' this while, he had been 
 working in the hope of winning a home which he 
 could have asked Violet to share. And now, he 
 was telling her that on the following day he was 
 to leave the district on a vague prospecting ex- 
 pedition, such as any Murrumbigee sundowner 
 might undertake. And singing in his head, and 
 forcing themselves every moment to his lips, were 
 the words, ' I love you ! I love you ! ' Yet he 
 must say nothing, for he had nothing but his heart 
 to lay at his lady-love's feet. So he smoked 
 instead ; out there where the sheen of the moon's 
 soft light fell over trailing passion-vines, the 
 stockyardfence, and the tall, gaunt trees beyond, 
 making everything alike pure and beautiful. He 
 smoked, and talked of the surfaces of things, save 
 when now and then the man burst through in a 
 sentence end, to retire awkwardly with a men- 
 tally whispered warning of, 'Skate fast, friend!' 
 
 * So you see, Vi, since waiting only made bad 
 worse, and the rabbits and dingoes had all the fun, 
 leaving me to pay the piper, I decided to leave 
 them to it, and try my luck at the diggings. I 
 had no capital, so I should have found it difficult 
 to do that even, but for Farley's help, I told him 
 about it, and he panned out very white indeed. 
 He took my selection off my hands, giving me 
 a good deal more than I had hoped to get for it,
 
 MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKENS 169 
 
 and he's helped me with all sorts of hints and 
 advice. He wanted me to go to West Australia, 
 but I thought Captain's Flat was good enough 
 for a first trial ; and, Vi, if hard work can win it, 
 I '11 force something out of the place. Anyhow, 
 Farley 's a really good fellow, and I shan't forget 
 what he 's done for me.' 
 
 * Yes, Tom. I 'm awfully glad he 's been so good 
 to you.' And then the girl paused, reviling herself 
 inwardly for having up to this time disliked the 
 American. 
 
 * Vi ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, Tom.' 
 
 ' Whatever happens, I shall be back at Coorimal 
 in time for next Christmas. And then — Oh ! I 
 want to tell you heaps of things.' 
 
 The girl's head bent lower. 
 
 ' You won't forget all about me when I 'm away, 
 Vi? You '11 — you '11 wait and listen to what I have 
 to tell when I come back? Now I must let you go in. 
 I know it's late.* Vi dear, you won't forget, will you?' 
 
 ' Good night, Tom ! No, I — won't forget.' 
 
 And a few hours afterwards, Tom Lindall rode 
 away with his two pack-horses towards Merriman's 
 Creek. He had said good-bye to Sonny and Elsie 
 early in the evening, for the full heat of summer 
 was upon the country, and Tom wanted to be well 
 on his way before sunrise, in order that he might 
 spare his horses during a good part of the day ; 
 when heavy clusters of wattle-blossom would 
 quiver and rustle breathlessly in the heat waves, 
 and the very sun-loving carpet-snakes would
 
 I70 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 wriggle under fallen logs to escape the dazzling 
 brightness of noonday. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 HEAR GOOD NEWS 
 
 Herbert Farley, the gentleman whom Tom 
 Lindall called 'white'; for disliking whom Violet 
 had reviled herself ; and in cordially hating whom 
 Sonny and Elsie had the whole-souled sympathy 
 of their friend Lass ; — Herbert Farley was a man 
 who rarely failed in anything. One might say of 
 him that he never lacked resource ; or one might 
 say he was never hampered by scruples or 
 principles. Whatever one said, the fact remained 
 that he very rarely failed. Two years before 
 Sonny's mother died, Farley made up his mind 
 that he would marry Sonny's sister, Violet. He 
 had been barely four years in the colony then, 
 but already he was a power to be reckoned with 
 from Merriman's Creek to Gulgong. And those 
 who reckoned with him found the American 
 generally courteous, always inflexible, a past 
 master in whatever tactics he adopted, and in all 
 transactions either an open winner, or a man who 
 gained by losing. And he made up his mind to 
 marry Violet Carey. 
 
 A very casual glance round had told him two 
 things : John Carey was drifting serenely towards 
 hopeless financial entanglement ; his daughter
 
 MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKENS 171 
 
 Violet was fond of, and loved by, one Tom 
 Lindall, an optimistic, open-hearted, iron-sinewed 
 young Englishman, who was about to court 
 inevitable failure on a way back selection, with 
 a view to winning by his own hands and without 
 capital, a home for Violet should she be willing 
 to share it with him. At the end of two years, 
 Farley held the father and Coorimal in the hollow 
 of his hand ; the lover he had enabled to proceed 
 to a goldfield two hundred miles away, with what 
 he, Farley, mentally called ' about enough capital 
 to comfortably starve on ' ; and now he prepared 
 himself to sound the girl's inclinations. Having 
 removed its defences, he proceeded to take posses- 
 sion of the fortress. 
 
 For a month or two before Mrs. Carey's death, 
 Farley had accustomed Violet to receiving from 
 him one or two calls in each week. Now, on 
 one pretext or another, he managed to ride 
 over to the Coorimal homestead almost every 
 day, and to become a serious affliction in the 
 lives of Sonny, Elsie, and the dog Lass. 'It's 
 widicklous,' said Sonny to his little sister, ' I 've 
 a good mind to tell him so, too. I pwomised 
 mother, you know. Els ! ' 
 
 'Yes.' The younger child stared solemnly 
 at her brother. ' But, Sonny ! People can't 
 marry other people if other people don't want 
 them to ; and Cousin Tom 's coming back in 
 time for Christmas.' 
 
 ' Of course. Yes. But till he does come back, 
 Els, we must take care of Vi.'
 
 172 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 And while these two small match-makers dis- 
 cussed the situation with all that unquestioning 
 confidence in their own ability to shape the ends 
 of destiny, which surely is childhood's choicest 
 gift, their sister Violet sat on the verandah of 
 the homestead, talking to the American, and 
 doing her best to be pleasant and hospitable 
 to her father's friend. Farley had ceased to 
 plead business with John Carey as an excuse 
 for calling at Coorimal, and now, when he rode 
 up to the house in the afternoon, he did not 
 ask if John Carey were at home or not. He 
 simply took his seat in the long, shaded 
 living room, or on the verandah, and paid steady 
 court to the girl whom he meant to make his 
 wife. 
 
 ' Sometimes, do you know,' he said, as he 
 leaned forward to take a cup of tea from Violet 
 Carey's hand, ' I feel half-afraid of boring you 
 when I ride over in the afternoon.' 
 
 The girl smiled a grave denial. 
 
 ' But yet I feel lost if I don't come. You see 
 — Well, it is lonely for me at Farleydale, and 
 I begin to think of how bright and pretty you 
 make a home ; and then it 's only four miles, 
 and — I 'm not right in thinking you are some- 
 times sorry to see me, am I ? ' 
 
 'Why, Mr. Farley, of course I shouldn't be 
 sorry to see any friend of father's.' 
 
 Their eyes met. Farley was watching the 
 girl closely, carefully. There was a bright flush 
 on her face as she spoke, and her hand shook
 
 MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKENS 173 
 
 slightly when, two minutes afterwards, she held 
 it out to wish her guest * Good-bye.' 
 
 As Farley's grey horse sidled out between 
 the slip-rails and into the apple-tree scrub 
 beyond, its rider muttered the single word, 
 * Damn ! ' Half an hour afterwards, in dismount- 
 ing at Farleydale, his thoughtful face set itself 
 in lines of decision, and he said quietly, ' Some- 
 thing must be done with that fool of a cousin, 
 and — at once.' 
 
 Though he had cleared his course of all 
 tangible obstacles, Farley's shrewdness told him 
 plainly that Tom Lindall's influence with Violet, 
 even in absence, was an item of opposition 
 which it would be better to undermine or remove, 
 before playing any of his trump cards. Still he 
 told himself that a little time, and a little more 
 failure in Tom's life, would do much towards 
 the removal of this little obstacle. So he waited, 
 and John Carey's sanguine mind almost ceased 
 to be occupied by thoughts of his precarious 
 financial position. 
 
 Two months of dry Australian autumn passed, 
 and news reached Coorimal from Captain's Flat, 
 of a stroke of fortune which had come to Tom 
 Lindall. He had struck a vein of what appeared 
 to be rather unusually richly yielding soil, and 
 already the sense of achievement had introduced 
 a certain change in his manner of addressing 
 Violet Carey ; a change which caused the girl 
 to blush and smile to herself, as she read the 
 letter in which he told of his find. Her eyes
 
 174 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 lighted up and a happy ring came into her 
 voice, when, in answer to friendly inquiries anent 
 her cousin's welfare, she imparted this good 
 news to Herbert Farley. As was usual when 
 in her presence, the American's keen grey 
 eyes were fixed on her face as she spoke ; and 
 whilst missing neither the enthusiasm in her 
 voice and look, nor its special significance to 
 him, he yet introduced considerable geniality 
 into his tones as he said : 
 
 ' H'm ! Well, now, I call that real good news, 
 and in so short a time too. He'll be buying 
 up all we poor squatters, Miss Carey, before 
 long.' Then lowering his voice slightly he added, 
 ' I hope gold-fever won't be as bad a thing all 
 round, for your cousin as — as it is for some men.' 
 
 * But, Mr. Farley, why should finding gold be 
 bad for Tom?' Feminine loyalty was glinting 
 through maidenly modesty. 
 
 ' I don't reckon it will ; but you see finding 
 gold sometimes means finding fever ; and that 
 occasionally causes — well, now, it causes a heap 
 of things. It makes a man forget most things 
 that don't show colour, and gold 's a more impor- 
 tant thing to him than ever his digestion was, 
 or his immortal soul. And you know. Miss 
 Carey, it 's real bad business to neglect your 
 digestion, and any parson will tell you the other 
 thing wants taking care of.' 
 
 The girl smiled brightly. ' Oh ! Tom isn't a 
 bit like that, Mr. Farley. He isn't a miser, and 
 I don't think he knows what his digestion is.'
 
 MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKENS 175 
 
 ' No ? Happy man ! And I don't suppose he 
 knows what a whisky cocktail is. Ah, well then, 
 there 's nothing to fear, Miss Carey.' The man 
 paused abruptly, and stroked the head of a 
 kangaroo-dog at his feet. ' Do you know, I 
 think I '11 ride over to Captain's Flat this week, 
 and have a look at your cousin's claim. I want 
 to do some business in Hill End, anyhow, and 
 who knows but I might find a little gold my- 
 self. We want it badly enough about here — 
 as you may have heard from your father.' 
 
 Farley's voice dropped over these last few 
 words, but his eyes were still fixed on the girl's 
 face. The chance shot, whether politic or not, 
 had told. Violet Carey's eyes grew moist, and 
 her voice had a little tremor in it when she 
 responded to the American's ' Au revoir ! ' At a 
 time when her mind had been full of gladness 
 about the poor man's good fortune, she was 
 suddenly reminded of her father's expressed 
 wishes regarding herself and the rich man. 
 
 ' Tom,' she murmured softly to herself, as, 
 when Farley had ridden away, she stood lean- 
 ing against the verandah rail where the passion- 
 vine climbed and nestled ; ' Tom, I wish you 
 could have stayed at Coorimal ; but — oh ! there 
 is no gold at Coorimal. He said gold made 
 people — forget.' Then she raised her eyes and 
 smiled gaily at the afternoon sunshine. ' But 
 not Tom. People are not Tom, are they ? 
 Why, what 's the matter, Sonny ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, nothing.' The child looked disconsolately
 
 176 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 up at his sister from the other end of the 
 verandah. * Only, I s'pose you know it 's vewy 
 wude to talk to yourself, pa'ticklaly if you 're 
 g wo wed up !' 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 IN THE CALM WHICH COMES, ETC. 
 
 Farley's decision to go to Captain's Flat was 
 formed and given expression to within the space 
 of about two minutes. It was acted upon within 
 twenty-four hours ; and when John Carey ven- 
 tured on a mild comment of surprise at his wealthy 
 neighbour's sudden curiosity, he was answered 
 by a cold stare, and a sharply worded reminder of 
 the fact that he had taken as yet no step towards 
 meeting his obligations to the American. 
 
 ' And your daughter, Carey,' added Farley, 
 ' seems more inclined to favour gold fossickers 
 than men of her father's business. But perhaps I 
 may look to your nephew, Lindall, for a settle- 
 ment of our little accounts.' 
 
 The good-humoured smile faded quickly from 
 the Englishman's face, giving place to very 
 apparent anxiety, as he said : ' Nonsense, Farley. 
 The girl doesn't know her own mind. They 're 
 all alike in that way. But Violet 's not a fool, 
 and she's an obedient daughter. She'll never 
 say No to you when the time comes.' 
 
 So Farley rode away to Captain's Flat, where
 
 MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKENS 177 
 
 Tom Lindall was working twelve hours a day 
 to win something to offer Violet Carey — Violet 
 Carey, a slip of a girl whom he, Farley, loved 
 and wanted for his wife. 
 
 ' And I '11 have her, too,' he muttered as he 
 rode along. 
 
 In his mind he called her ' a slip of a girl,' 
 but at that moment the man's face was set 
 very rigidly, and unalterable determination 
 showed in its every line. To him, at different 
 times, and in different places, had come already 
 more than the average variety of experiences 
 which come to men ; but he loved this big-eyed, 
 slim-figured English girl with all the strength 
 he possessed. It stirred him right through all 
 his coldness, the part of him which calculated 
 and succeeded, and it reached that part of him 
 which he would have called ' bed-rock ' — the 
 bare man, who was nearly all passion, and ab- 
 solutely all unscrupulous. It reached this, and 
 thrilled the man proper, through and through 
 and in and out, sneering at the diplomacy of 
 the man veneered, and insistingly telling him 
 that all else was nothing, and that this was 
 all. 
 
 Then he began to think of Tom Lindall, the 
 man he had helped and been a friend to ; and 
 as he thought, his set features became more set, 
 and the light in his cold eyes more pitiless. 
 His thoughts about Tom Lindall were punctu- 
 ated by spur marks on the sides of his grey 
 horse, and their final dismissal was indicated 
 
 M
 
 178 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 by a vicious cut across the animal's flank, and 
 a break into a hard-held gallop. 
 
 ' Somehow, my good Tom, somehow, you 've 
 got to go.' 
 
 The American's lips moved as he galloped 
 along on his way to his friend at Captain's Flat, 
 but his teeth remained clenched. 
 
 Before reaching Captain's Flat, Farley had 
 to ride through the township of Burrill, and at 
 the post-office of this latter place he wrote out 
 and despatched the following telegram : 
 
 'To Juan Gomez, 65 Park Street, Sydney. 
 Come to me at once at First Nugget Hotel, 
 Captain's Flat. Farley.' 
 
 Juan Gomez, a native of Argentina, and a 
 resident of Sydney, was described by the metro- 
 politan directory of New South Wales as a 
 ' Financial and Mining Agent.' By a certain 
 section of his acquaintance he was described as 
 * a devilish smart chap ' ; and others again had 
 been known to say of him that he was 'two 
 ends and the middle of an infernal scoundrel.' 
 To Herbert Farley this man was simply a keen- 
 edged and useful tool ; a thing he could break 
 up and fling away by a word to the police — a 
 word he was far too politic to have ever con- 
 templated pronouncing. 
 
 Tom Lindall was surprised and delighted to 
 see Mr. Farley when that gentleman rode up 
 to his humpy, just as he, Tom, was preparing 
 to enjoy an evening meal. He was surprised, 
 because he could not imagine what would bring
 
 MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKENS 179 
 
 the wealthy squatter into a mining camp ; and 
 delighted, because the squatter came from a place 
 blessed by Violet Carey's presence. 
 
 ' Now that I 've taken your selection out back 
 of my place, I feel as though I 'd a sort of lien 
 on your interests generally, d' ye see,' said the 
 American. ' So I thought I 'd ride over and 
 look you up on my way to Hill End. I was 
 given all sorts of kind messages for you at 
 Coorimal, and Carey hopes you won't forget us 
 all when you 've made your pile.' 
 
 Tom Lindall's heart warmed towards the 
 friendly American who had helped him, and 
 who had so recently seen and spoken with his 
 lady-love. 
 
 ' Well, I 'm awfully glad to see you, Farley,' 
 he said ; ' and now you 're here, of course you '11 
 camp with me, so you can have a look at the 
 claim to-morrow. I 've heard of your mining 
 experience, and shall be glad to have your 
 opinion of my patch. Perhaps you might give 
 me a hint about developing it. You see, want 
 of capital prevents my doing much beyond pick 
 and shovel work, and I feel certain the thing 's 
 worth more.' 
 
 'Ye — es. Well, we '11 have a look. You might take 
 me in as a financing partner yet, eh? Who knows?' 
 
 And then the men talked of other things. And 
 when the great Southern moon began to pour its 
 shimmering light over the tops of the black-butts 
 and into Lindall's rough bark gunyah, the Ameri- 
 can, a queer glint of satire in his grey eyes, was
 
 i8o MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 making his young friend happy with news of the 
 girl-woman at Coorimal, whom, in different ways, 
 they both loved ; and in his turn was listening 
 with attention to simple Tom's thinly disguised 
 panegyrics on the same person. 
 
 Before three hours of daylight had passed on 
 the morning after this strange conversation, Farley 
 had satisfied himself that the young Englishman's 
 find at Captain's Flat was a far richer and more 
 important one than most people, including the 
 finder, imagined. He decided in his own mind 
 that the outlay of a little capital in the simplest 
 kind of machinery would develop Tom's claim 
 into a payable mine. Of this he felt certain. 
 
 ' I don't see why it shouldn't be worth a little 
 experimenting on, anyhow,' was what he said to 
 Lindall. ' It won't want much capital, and, as I 
 said, I 've a sort of lien on your interests. You 
 had better make the title over to me nominally, so 
 that I can work the financing. I '11 do that with- 
 out interest, and draw a third with you. How 'd 
 that suit ? ' 
 
 In the course of the next day Farley became 
 nominal owner of the claim ; and every one at 
 Captain's Flat knew that Lindall's claim was 
 ' going to be worked for all it 's worth.' On the 
 evening of that day, too, Mr. Juan Gomez arrived 
 at the First Nugget Hotel from Sydney ; and in 
 his face was something of the expression of a 
 ticket-of-leave man, who, in obedience to orders, 
 has left his business to report himself to the police 
 authorities.
 
 MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKENS i8i 
 
 ' Curse you ! ' he muttered, when he saw Mr. 
 Farley striding down the main road of the town- 
 ship towards him. But he greeted that gentle- 
 man with respectful effusiveness when, a little 
 later, they met on the verandah of the weather- 
 board 'hotel.' He hardly allowed his thin 
 eyebrows to move when, after some private 
 conversation, the squatter said : 
 
 * And now as regards your business in this 
 place. There's a young fellow here, an English- 
 man and a fool. He 's just struck a pretty rich 
 claim which I 'm financing. The thing 's in my 
 hands, and he 's a harmless fool enough, but for 
 certain private reasons he 's got to vanish. Do 
 you follow me? Somehow he must disappear, 
 and he mustn't be heard of in this colony again. 
 Nothing like so difficult as that Paraguay affair of 
 yours, eh? No relatives, nor will-copying, and 
 enough hanging to it to make you, little Gomez 
 — to make you quite respectable. You shall have 
 a little gold-mine all to yourself, to play with. 
 But if there could be evidences of the sad event, 
 quite square and above-board, you know, I should 
 like it all the better.' 
 
 The half-breed Spaniard shrugged his shoulders, 
 and looked uncomfortable. ' I 'm not a wizard, 
 Mr. Farley, and this is not Paraguay.' 
 
 ' No, but it 's a mining camp, and you 're the 
 smartest man in it when I 'm not here. And by 
 the way, little Gomez, time is rather an object in 
 this matter. Make friends with the gentleman. 
 I '11 introduce you as a financial mining expert.
 
 i82 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 If you could get him to drink a little — er — or 
 anything of that sort. Make him neglect every- 
 thing as much as possible, particularly letter- 
 writing. And now I must go — or, wait ! Come 
 down with me at once to his gunyah. You 
 have met me to-day for the first time, of course.' 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 A 'WIDICKLOUS' STORY 
 
 In view of the fact that Tom Lindall had, whilst 
 ' fossicking ' in a deserted claim, made the find 
 which had so materially changed his prospects, 
 he was perhaps to be excused for afterwards 
 taking a somewhat exaggerated interest in those 
 patches of land round about Hill End and 
 Captain's Flat, which were regarded by miners 
 as ' worked out' Already, he had made up his 
 mind that there was another payable reef in a 
 claim situated on a spur of the Gulgong Hills, 
 where, ten years before, some Queenslanders had 
 sunk a shaft only to abandon it immediately after- 
 wards as hopeless. Lindall had happened across 
 this old shaft whilst prospecting a good deal off 
 the beaten track, and was laughed at for his pains 
 when he mentioned it in the camp. Its situation 
 was regarded as absurdly impossible; and probably 
 not more than half a dozen men had passed within 
 cooey of the claim, since its desertion by the 
 Queenslanders.
 
 MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKENS 183 
 
 Now, however, the Captain's Flat mine being 
 in good working order, Tom Lindall proposed to 
 ride over to the Gulgong Hills to again examine 
 the old shaft which had excited his interest. 
 Farley, who seemed to have conceived consider- 
 able respect and even affection for the young 
 Englishman, readily consented to accompany him 
 on this little expedition. And so, shortly after 
 sunrise one brilliant winter's morning, the two 
 rode out of the camp together, each carrying a 
 small coil of rope and a few accessories on his 
 saddle. 
 
 ' It 's a queer thing,' said Lindall, as they 
 passed through the still .sleeping camp ; * but 
 I 've an uncomfortable sort of feeling that some- 
 thing unpleasant 's going to happen me to-day. 
 Very absurd, of course, and I suppose presenti- 
 ments are all more or less a matter of liver. 
 I 'm pretty confident about this hill claim, too.' 
 
 The American smiled. ' Probably liver, as you 
 say, my friend ; or getting up too early. By 
 to-night, I prophesy you '11 be the owner of 
 another workable mine — part owner, that is. I 
 shall go nap on the partnership.' 
 
 Then they laughed, and the exhilaration of 
 riding over dew-laden grass, through the sun- 
 suffused morning air, which in Western New South 
 Wales makes bare living no bad occupation — 
 this served soon to brush out of Tom Lindall's 
 mind all traces of his evil presentiments. 
 
 Towards twelve o'clock that night, when all 
 Captain's Flat lay hushed and sleeping in the
 
 i84 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 uncertain, shadowy light of a winter moon, Herbert 
 Farley, alone and leading his horse behind him, 
 picked his way between the tents and humpies to 
 Lindall's gunyah. Arrived there he unsaddled 
 his horse, and, hanging a bell on its neck, turned 
 the animal out for the night. Then he walked 
 quietly up to the First Nugget, and, stepping 
 softly over the verandah, tapped at the window of 
 the room in which Mr. Juan Gomez lay sleeping 
 — peacefully and restfully as the man without a 
 conscience will. 
 
 Five minutes later, Gomez, with an overcoat 
 thrown over his pyjamas, was seated in the little 
 iron and weather-board office-bedroom, which the 
 American had erected for himself near Tom's 
 gunyah. Farley's face wore its usual inscrutable 
 expression, and there was nothing noticeable in 
 his appearance, unless, perhaps, that he had ridden 
 fast that night, and probably for a considerable 
 distance. 
 
 ' Ah ! Reach me that bottle of whisky, little 
 Gomez. Si ! The small one. Thanks ! Well, 
 you need exercise your 'cute brain no longer, 
 Amigo, in regard to our friend's disappearance. 
 He has disappeared. Um? Yes — gone of his 
 own free will, and won't return — not to any notice- 
 able extent, I think.' 
 
 ' Ah ! I wondered that you should have thought 
 it worth while to ask assistance of a picayune 
 like me.' 
 
 ' So ! Foolish little Gomez ! You feel some 
 regret over that little gold-mine you were to have
 
 MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKENS 185 
 
 earned to play with, eh ? Well, don't give up 
 hope. The disappearance is arranged, but there 's 
 still some work for you. The effects are mine 
 legally. I can show his signed papers to cover 
 that ; and besides, I don't say he has gone for 
 good. You follow me ? I don't say so. He retires 
 with the dollars. Gone to England, perhaps. 
 Likely ! Yes, I think England. Now this is 
 where you come in. That they should have 
 wanted to send you to prison over the other side 
 for forgery, was sinful. I always said there was 
 no art, nor appreciation of it either, in the Argen- 
 tine. See here. That 's a letter written by our 
 friend. I want another one — to a girl — and I '11 
 dictate it to you ; but I want it written by him. 
 He's gone. Well? — Just so. But mind, it must 
 be exact, Gomez. Girls' eyes are sharp.' 
 
 The South American nodded, and he of the 
 North continued : — 
 
 * Well, then, let me see. Who do you think he 
 knew best in this place? Yes. That man on the 
 next claim, I think — Morton. You shall write a 
 letter for him first, just to get your hand in for 
 the girl's ; and date it to-morrow, Mudgee. Con- 
 found it, that light 's going out ! I '11 slip down 
 to our friend's gunyah and get his lamp. Or, no 
 — little Gomez, you may do that, I think. You 
 know where it is,' 
 
 When a fresh light had been obtained, Gomez 
 began to write at Farley's dictation. Over and 
 over again the one short note and the other longer 
 letter were patiently written and re-written, until
 
 i86 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 at last, surveying the two sheets critically by the 
 side of Tom's own letter, Farley pronounced him- 
 self satisfied. 
 
 ' And now, little Gomez,' he said, ' it 's getting 
 near daylight, and I want you to start for Mudgee 
 at once to post those letters. Wait a moment ! 
 Did we say — er — where is it?' Farley quoted 
 from the letter to Morton, Tom's friend. ' Ah, 
 yes. Here it is. " I shall have a look at one or 
 two old claims in the hills, and then go on to 
 Sydney from here." Quite right. Well, now, 
 little Gomez, the sooner you get away the better. 
 I '11 do the necessary talking while you 're gone.' 
 
 Juan Gomez nodded, and walked out into the 
 before-dawn darkness to find his horse. Half an 
 hour afterwards Gomez was on his way to Mudgee, 
 and Herbert Farley was sleeping dreamlessly in 
 his own room. 
 
 During that day, Farley mentioned at the First 
 Nugget and elsewhere, that his young partner 
 was away prospecting near Mudgee ; and on the 
 following evening Morton, the miner on the claim 
 next to Lindall's, received a letter from Mudgee 
 to the same effect. Then Juan Gomez returned 
 to Captain's Flat, and had a little private conver- 
 sation with his principal. 
 
 ' Look here,' said the American ; ' what are you 
 doing in Sydney, Gomez ? ' 
 
 The man from Argentina shrugged his sloping 
 shoulders. ' The agency. It is still good — a good 
 agency.' 
 
 ' Ah ! And you have Fernand still ? A very 
 
 I
 
 MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKENS 187 
 
 useful and excellent young man is Fernand. 
 Well now, I think you 'd better stay where you 
 are, for the present at all events, and run this 
 little mine. You can go down to Sydney occa- 
 sionally ; but on a certain basis I think it will 
 be worth your while to stay and run the mine. 
 What? I must get back to my station. We 
 squatters are hard-working men, you know.' 
 
 The Spaniard's eyes brightened at mention of 
 the mine. Yes, he thought he would stay, since 
 he could thus oblige his good friend Senor 
 Farley. 
 
 'Just so, my disinterested little Gomez. Just 
 so. And since that's settled, we'll go into the 
 business of the thing this evening, and I '11 start 
 back for Farleydale to-morrow.' 
 
 The American did not remain long at his 
 homestead after arriving there from Captain's 
 Flat, but having got rid of his travel-stains, 
 started at once for Coorimal. There he was 
 welcomed on the verandah by John Carey, who 
 followed up his greeting by saying : ' Well, I 
 almost wonder you didn't bring Tom back to see 
 us before he began to talk of leaving the country.' 
 
 Farley's face, usually so hard to read, showed 
 obvious surprise at this. 
 
 ' Leaving the country ? Why, bless me, he 's 
 only gone prospecting round Mudgee.' 
 
 ' There, Vi, my dear ; I thought you must be 
 mistaken.' 
 
 Violet Carey had appeared at the open door- 
 way, and now stepped forward to shake hands
 
 i88 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 with her father's friend, who, watching her closely, 
 fancied he saw traces of tears about her big eyes. 
 Certainly her face was sad when, turning to her 
 father, she drew a letter from her pocket. 
 
 ' I think not, father. In this he simply says : 
 " I am going to have a look about the claims here 
 first, and then go on to Sydney. Now that I have 
 a little money to carry me on with, I think 
 
 England " ' Here the girl broke off, and looked 
 
 up with a brave little effort at composure. ' Then 
 he says he thinks he will go home to England or 
 to America, and he wishes us " Good-bye ! " ' 
 
 'Well, well!' The American spoke quietly 
 and in sympathetic tones. ' I felt certain it would 
 come when I saw how well he had done at the 
 Flat, but I certainly didn't think it would be so 
 sudden. And he's let me in for financing his 
 claim, according to this. But of course I don't 
 want to make a fuss about that. I suppose the 
 lawyer at Hill End will have instructions. Well, 
 I 'm real sorry you couldn't have seen him first. 
 Australia evidently hasn't much charm for 
 him.' 
 
 And shortly afterwards, Farley was whistling 
 softly to himself whilst riding back to Farleydale ; 
 John Carey was smoking lazily on the verandah 
 at Coorimal ; Violet, his daughter, was crying 
 quietly in her own room, her tears falling on to a 
 crumpled letter in her lap ; and beside the creek 
 in the home-paddock, Sonny was sitting with 
 Elsie, and assuring her that the story they had 
 heard that afternoon was ' widicklous.'
 
 MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKENS 189 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 IN BROKEN WATER 
 
 On the tenth day after Mr. Farley's return from 
 Captain's Flat, a letter bearing the Melbourne 
 postmark, and in Tom Lindall's handwriting, was 
 received at Coorimal. In it the writer wished his 
 relatives ' good-bye,' and spoke vaguely of diffi- 
 culties which had prevented his coming to see 
 them before leaving New South Wales. He was 
 going from Melbourne to California by way of 
 San Francisco, so the letter said, and did not 
 think of returning to Australia. Into Violet's 
 big eyes there crept now, the half- frightened, 
 altogether pained and painful look of disillusion. 
 
 During these ten days Herbert Farley had only 
 twice called at Coorimal, to see the girl whose 
 heart's horizon he had painted grey ; and during 
 the two weeks which followed he came only once 
 to the homestead which sheltered her and prac- 
 tically belonged to him. 
 
 ' He knows I shall keep my pwomise, you see, 
 Els,' said Sonny to his little sister. ' Of course 
 it's all a stowy about Cousin Tom. He'll be 
 here for certain sure before Chwismas, an' then he 
 shall mawy our Vi.' 
 
 * Yes,' assented the miniature woman by Sonny's 
 side, looking up into her brother's thoughtful 
 brown face in trusting admiration.
 
 I90 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 As time wore on, Sonny was, with many dubious 
 shakings of his curly head, induced to admit 
 that he feared Mr. Farley was forgetting this 
 * pwomise.' And, whilst absolutely unswerving in 
 their loyalty, the children were also forced to 
 admit that even Herbert Farley was not without 
 his redeeming features. On this one point their 
 friend Lass differed from Sonny and Elsie, and 
 persistently refused to submit to close contact 
 with the American, without continued growling. 
 If Farley threw the dog a half a scone. Lass 
 would gulp it without winking, and retire, still 
 growling. Sonny, on the other hand, could not 
 but express his gratitude when the American 
 presented him with a tiny dwarf of a brumby 
 stallion, carefully broken to the saddle. Elsie, 
 too, was gravely delighted when Farley gave her 
 a complete and commodious homestead in white 
 pine and walnut, for a doll's house. Also, the 
 man's attitude towards the children was studiously 
 kind and courteous, and so jarred less upon them 
 than of old. Yet they both mistrusted and dis- 
 liked the American, whilst maintaining towards 
 him an air of the most frigid politeness. 
 
 Violet Carey at first dreaded the appearance 
 on the verandah, of her father's friend, connecting 
 him, as in some vague way she did, with her 
 Cousin Tom's curious disappearance from out of 
 the range of her life. But the American was so 
 kind, so non-aggressive, considerate, and so un- 
 remittingly respectful, that this dread of hers soon 
 gave place to toleration. She seldom saw any
 
 MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKENS 191 
 
 one else. Her father entered hardly at all into 
 any but the purely domestic side of her life ; 
 whilst the American was full of quiet sympathy 
 on all points. So the girl ceased to dislike the 
 man's presence, and began to hope that her father 
 was mistaken in his prophecy as to Farley's in- 
 tentions regarding herself So week succeeded 
 week in the quiet station life, and John Carey 
 relapsed into careless good-humour with all men 
 and things. 
 
 Late one night, some two months after Tom 
 Lindall's last letter had been received at Coorimal, 
 Herbert Farley, after an evening spent with Violet 
 and her father, mounted his horse to return to 
 Farleydale. As he rode through the silent Bush, 
 and into the outlying portions of his own station, 
 where the country was made more ghostly by the 
 dead whiteness of timber long since ring-barked ; 
 he thought of the man who for a time had stood 
 between himself and the quiet, tender little 
 woman he had just left — the girl whom his whole 
 passionate nature was bent on winning for a 
 wife. He thought of enthusiastic, simple-minded 
 Tom Lindall, and he smiled, a little sneering 
 smile of conscious strength. Then a 'possum on 
 a dead grey-gum overhead coughed quietly and 
 dropped a twig on Farley's shoulder. The man 
 gave a little shiver ; and, as though to mock him, 
 a jackass in a tree close by burst into a peal of 
 cackling laughter. 
 
 'Damn!' 
 
 Farley's grey horse bounded forward under a
 
 192 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 sudden pressure of its rider's spurs, and in another 
 five minutes the American was walking the animal 
 slowly up one side of his home-paddock, in the 
 deep shadow cast by a line of wattle-scrub. A 
 queer fancy was in Farley's mind that he could 
 hear soft footsteps, close beside him in the shadow. 
 Once, on the rise of the paddock, he reined in the 
 grey horse and listened. 
 
 'Shol'he muttered scornfully. ' If I were on 
 the other side, I should begin to wonder if I 'd 
 
 been having too many cocktails, and Why, 
 
 hullo ! Who 's that ? ' 
 
 He had dismounted close to the outhouse in 
 which he kept his saddles, and, turning, saw the 
 figure of a man approaching him from out the line 
 of shadow he had left. 
 
 ' Great God above ! What — you ! What ' 
 
 The figure had reached the belt of silvery 
 moonlight in which Farley stood ; and Farley, 
 iron-nerved and steel-sinewed, was shaking like a 
 dead gum-leaf, as he stood with one hand on his 
 horse's withers. The man he saw in the moon- 
 light was clothed only in ribbons and rags of 
 cloth. He was thin as only a starved man is thin, 
 and his skin seemed shrivelled. His deep-sunk 
 eyes blazed with a curious light, and his scarred 
 right hand was raised, its blackened, crooked fore- 
 finger beckoning to the American. 
 
 Farley was gazing at Tom Lindall. And Tom 
 Lindall knew him, and called him by name. And 
 yet — this emaciated wreck of Tom Lindall, stand- 
 ing there in the moonlight, grinned, and beckoned
 
 MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKENS 193 
 
 to him — grinned at him, Farley. Then Farley 
 knew that the blazing eyes were those of a 
 madman, and that the grin was the awful smile 
 of a man demented. 
 
 Farley shuddered, and thought rapidly. There 
 was no one in the homestead but his old house- 
 keeper, and she, fortunately, was deaf and long 
 since asleep. Suddenly a flash of memory seemed 
 to pierce the clouded brain of the madman, and 
 with a strange little cry he drew back, springing 
 then upon Farley, like a tiger-cat at bay. 
 
 Such things will force screams from men, and 
 insensibility upon a woman. Farley's thin lips 
 opened convulsively, but he made no sound. 
 Only, every muscle, every fibre of his great frame, 
 was stretched in rigid resistance, as mechanically 
 he closed with his assailant — a sane athlete 
 pitting himself against a madman fleshless from 
 starvation. 
 
 Four minutes later, bound hand and foot, and 
 gagged tightly with a long handkerchief, the mad- 
 man lay motionless on the floor of the harness- 
 shed. And Farley, standing over him, drew a long 
 breath and shook down his sleeves. Then the 
 American walked out into the moonlight again, 
 and, having rolled and lighted a cigarette, sat 
 down to think. 
 
 The man's whole soul was burning with passion ; 
 passion which he believed to be love for the girl 
 who loved the poor starved madman then lying 
 exhausted and almost unconscious on the floor of 
 the little saddle-room ; passion softened by no 
 
 N
 
 194 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 glint of tenderness, and dominated by no chival- 
 rous impulse of respect for its object ; passion 
 which, whilst intense enough to make the strong 
 man sometimes tremble, yet left him coldly calcu- 
 lating now, and as utterly unscrupulous as ever. 
 
 * Curse the fool ! ' he muttered, pushing his 
 broad hat back to allow the night air to reach 
 his wet forehead. ' How has he done it ? Why 
 
 does he come in my way ? Mad too, mad as 
 
 By God ! Yes. I '11 do it' 
 
 He stood hesitating a moment, poising his 
 half-smoked cigarette a few inches from his lips. 
 Then, diving into one of his coat pockets, he drew 
 out a bunch of keys, and walked towards a long, 
 low stable, where two or three of the best horses 
 on the run were usually kept at night. Moving 
 quietly and without haste, he drew out a light tray 
 buggy from its shed behind the stable ; and, having 
 carefully harnessed a powerful-looking black mare 
 in its loose-box, he walked back to the saddle- 
 room where lay the man he had struggled with. 
 
 The madman's eyes were wide open and staring 
 straight above him. But he made no sign when 
 Farley bent down and lifted him into an upright 
 position. The ragged, shrivelled figure was a 
 light burden, and without any difficulty the 
 American laid it on the floor of the tray buggy. 
 Then, having glanced at his watch, Farley led 
 out the black mare and completed its harnessing. 
 
 Two minutes afterwards he was driving slowly 
 down the winding track, which led to the home- 
 paddock slip-rails.
 
 MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKENS 195 
 
 Once past the slip-rails, and on the smooth Bush 
 track beyond, Farley schooled his black mare into a 
 well-held, swinging trot, which he knew represented 
 a steady ten miles to the hour. Farleydale was 
 famous for its trotting mares, and the American 
 had not chosen his worst horse for this night's drive. 
 In less than an hour he was on the main Dubbo 
 coach-road, and there the light buggy span along 
 through the soft dust, with hardly a sign of varia- 
 tion in the distance covered each hour. 
 
 All through the silent Bush night the black 
 mare sped along ; and during that time not a 
 muscle in the American's set face relaxed for an 
 instant, save once, when he started from his seat 
 and turned half-round. A peal of thin, piping 
 laughter had come echoing up from the floor of 
 the buggy, where Farley's rival lay bound hand 
 and foot, but ungagged now. Farley's lips 
 twitched and his driving-hand shook slightly, so 
 that the black mare's hind legs flew faster under 
 the tray of the buggy. But the American did 
 not speak, and poor mad Tom Lindall made no 
 further sound. 
 
 At ten o'clock Farley crossed the bridge which 
 leads into the town of Dubbo. The sun was 
 pouring down its heat and brightness over all the 
 country's face then, and the black mare's skin 
 was streaked with thick dust, sweat-encrusted. 
 The creases of Farley's clothes were filled with 
 grey dust ; his lips were coated ; his hat, and hair, 
 and hands were streaked ; but his face remained 
 set and inscrutable as ever.
 
 196 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 He had driven a hundred miles in less than 
 eleven hours ; and when he pulled up in the court- 
 yard of Dubbo Courthouse, his mare stretched 
 out her long neck and gasped, while her stiff legs 
 trembled, and her sides heaved convulsively. 
 
 A quarter of an hour later the mare was being 
 rubbed down in the Royal Hotel stables, and Farley 
 was talking calmly and authoritatively to Sergeant 
 Lees and a Justice of the Peace, in the magistrates' 
 room at the Courthouse. He had been set upon 
 and attacked, he said, by the madman he had 
 brought with him, whilst resting his horse some 
 thirty miles from Dubbo, that morning. The poor 
 creature was evidently starved, and looked like a 
 swagman who had been bushed. 
 
 The whole matter was very simple. A good 
 deal of sympathy was expressed for Mr. Farley, 
 and the magistrate thanked him in open court 
 a little later on, for his humanity in bringing the 
 unfortunate madman to a place where he could be 
 taken care of There was nothing about the man 
 whereby his identity could be traced, and the local 
 officer of health was of opinion that he would not 
 live more than a few weeks. 
 
 So Tom Lindall was by order of the bench 
 removed to the Dubbo Asylum. And Herbert 
 Farley, having engaged a room at the Royal 
 Hotel, and telegraphed to Farleydale to explain 
 his absence, went to bed and slept till early 
 eveninef.
 
 MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKENS 197 
 CHAPTER VH 
 
 ON A LEE SIIORK 
 
 As September gave place to October, and the 
 Australian summer danced and throbbed its way 
 into existence that year, Herbert Farley lived a 
 life which grew more strangely at variance with 
 his character, with every day that passed. His 
 life was one of quiet devotion, unremitting atten- 
 tion, and thoughtful consideration towards the 
 girl-mistress of Coorimal. Saving perhaps when, 
 as he was riding alone in the Bush, a couple of 
 bitter, angry oaths would force themselves through 
 his clenched teeth, leaving a grey, emotionless face 
 unchanged ; all the hot passion of the strong man 
 who had lived his life for himself alone, was choked 
 down by calculations born of desire, and impene- 
 trably veiled by a cloak of unselfish devotion. 
 
 Perhaps deep down in his complex nature, some 
 chord responsive to its opposite was touched and 
 played upon by the perfect innocence and tender 
 purity of the girl who mourned as dead the man 
 who had never claimed her love — the man for 
 whom she had not even the right to mourn. 
 Perhaps — But the possibilities in the nature of 
 the man who has lived his life as best pleased him, 
 and in the world's outside places, are too vast. It 
 is certain that part of Farley's growing passion 
 was not only to win Violet Carey for his wife, but 
 to make her give herself to him of her own will.
 
 198 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 To the girl herself, the idea of loving any man 
 would have seemed beyond the pale of possibility. 
 She had yielded up her single heart to one who 
 did not want it ; to one who had simply gone 
 away, giving nothing, claiming nothing, leaving 
 her sitting in the greyness, like a bird with broken 
 wing, staring at Fate. But the woman in her 
 made her grateful for Farley's unobtrusive atten- 
 tion and kindness, and she grew to regard him as 
 a faithful friend ; almost, at last, to regret that she 
 could give so little in return for the much that he 
 gave. But all this while, he never once jarred on 
 her sensitiveness by speaking of love. 
 
 Then, in November, Herbert Farley made a 
 discovery. Nominally on business, but in reality 
 to satisfy a certain curiosity he felt, the American 
 drove over to Dubbo. There he made careless 
 inquiry as to the fate of the madman he had 
 brought to the town in the middle of that year. 
 
 ' He 's a curious case, rather,' said the visiting 
 doctor of the asylum, in answer to Farley's in- 
 quiries. ' We never found out who he is or any- 
 thing about him, and the man is still very weak. 
 Yet I am inclined to fancy a change will come 
 before long. I believe there 's some one idea that 
 fills the poor fellow's mind — something he has 
 done or left undone, that his honour was pledged 
 in regard to. He doesn't know what it is, but 
 I fancy it will come to him one day when he's 
 stronger, and then — he might become as sane as 
 you or I.' 
 
 On the evening following this talk with the
 
 MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKENS 199 
 
 doctor, John Carey dined at Farleydale in response 
 to an invitation from his neighbour, which, in view 
 of their financial relations, had caused him some 
 uneasiness. He was immensely relieved, however, 
 to find that the American was still more desirous 
 of a matrimonial than a financial settlement. 
 
 ' My dear Farley, the thing shall be entirely 
 as you wish, trust me,' he said. ' I believe the 
 child was a little cut up over young Lindall's 
 oflT-hand way of leaving the country ; but I will 
 speak seriously to her about you, and in a day 
 or so — er ' 
 
 * Quite so. Well, do so, Carey, and we shall see. 
 I don't want to seem unfriendly, but, frankly, I 
 don't care to wait much longer, and one way or 
 the other we must settle things up.' 
 
 * Exactly. I assure you, my dear fellow, there 
 need be no difficulty about it' And as he rode 
 home that evening, Near-enough-John-Carey 
 thanked his stars that his neighour was still pre- 
 pared to abide by so simple an arrangement. 
 
 * What difficulty can there be ? ' he muttered. 
 ' She has no prospects, and he 's the warmest man 
 in the district.' 
 
 The squatter was perfectly genuine in his 
 reasoning with himself, and when on the following 
 day he broached the subject to his daughter, he 
 was shocked and astonished by her bursting into 
 tears and imploring him to say no more in the 
 matter. He walked to the window of the bright, 
 sunny room in which they had been sitting, and 
 stood tapping the open sash with his stock-whip.
 
 200 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 ' But, my dear,' he said, without turning round, 
 ' what in the world can be your objections ? I 'm 
 sure he's the most gentlemanly, as well as the 
 richest, man in the district.' 
 
 The girl was gazing sadly out of another 
 window, to where Sonny sat perched in a ham- 
 mock on the verandah with Elsie. Tears were 
 trickling slowly down her cheeks, and the pale 
 little face looked a good deal older and thinner 
 than it had been six months before. 
 
 ' Father, I know Mr. Farley is all you say, but 
 I do not love him. I — I can't love any man, and 
 — Oh ! I cannot marry him, father.' 
 
 The handle of the stock-whip still drummed 
 disconsolately on the window-sash, and John 
 Carey made a little impatient movement with one 
 shoulder. 
 
 ' I don't suppose Farley would be afraid of your 
 not loving him, child. That would come later. 
 However, you know the position, or if you don't, 
 I shall say no more. If you are not Herbert 
 Farley's promised wife within a month, we shall 
 have no roof over our heads at Christmas, and 
 your father will be a beggar. But I suppose you 
 don't mind that, so ' 
 
 ' Father ! Please don't say such things. I — Oh 
 no, I cannot ! ' 
 
 'Very well, then, we must take the conse- 
 quences.' Carey moved slowly towards the door. 
 
 'Father! don't go away like that. If you ' 
 
 By this time the girl had reached her father's side 
 and laid one little hand on his shoulder. Then, as
 
 MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKENS 201 
 
 she stood there looking into his smooth, weak face, 
 her own expression changed. She brushed one 
 hand over her eyes hurriedly, and the soft light in 
 these eyes was all a woman's, as she said : 
 
 ' Don't trouble any more, father dear. It shall 
 be as you wish, and — you shan't lose Coorimal.' 
 
 The good-nature of the selfish man beamed all 
 over Carey's face, and his heart was full of fond- 
 ness for his daughter. 
 
 ' There, dear, I was sure you would take a 
 reasonable view of it, and — he is devoted to you. 
 You will not regret it, my dear.' 
 
 ' Father ! you 've forgetted your pwomise, an' 
 you've made Vi mis'able, I haven't forgetted 
 my pwomise, you know. Cousin ' 
 
 ' Sonny ! hold your tongue, sir ! ' 
 Sonny had crept down from his hammock and was 
 standing in the wide doorway, looking gravely, 
 reproachfully, at his father. John Carey took two 
 quick steps towards the boy, and a very angry 
 light was showing in his eyes. But Violet was 
 before him, and in a moment had flung her arms 
 round the child, with a little gesture half of caress, 
 half of protection. 
 
 ' Hush, Sonny dear,' she murmured. ' You 
 mustn't say that, because it 's very rude to father. 
 We 've none of us forgotten anything. Now, beg 
 father's pardon like a dear good Sonny.' 
 
 But John Carey had left the room by the 
 opposite door, and as he walked along the track 
 to the stockyard he muttered to himself: 
 
 ' H'm ! what nonsen.se it is ! God bless my soul,
 
 202 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 I don't want to force the girl to anything. I told 
 her so. Girls must be looked after — Damn the 
 dog ! what 's he sniffing at ? Go home, Lass ! ' 
 
 When Farley called at the homestead that after- 
 noon, he looked once steadily into Violet's face ; 
 and then, having chatted for half an hour on 
 a variety of subjects, left the house, as he said, to 
 inspect some sheep he was buying from a neigh- 
 bouring station. He had seen that in the girl's 
 face, which told him that he need not again seek 
 John Carey's assistance to his suit. But he also 
 thought he saw a light which indicated that one 
 word of love from his hot heart would at that 
 time freeze the sensitive girl into something like 
 hatred of him. So he rode away, not to a neigh- 
 bouring station but to his own ; thinking closely, 
 clearly, as a clever chess-player thinks. 
 
 For almost a week, the American, holding a 
 viciously heavy hand on the curb-rein of his own 
 passions, remained away from Coorimal. For 
 that superhuman piece of diplomacy, Violet, 
 attributing it to pure goodness and kindness, 
 felt almost affectionate towards him. Then, on a 
 brilliantly sunny afternoon in early December, he 
 rode up to the wide, shady verandah. Half an 
 hour afterwards, he had quietly, respectfully offered 
 his heart and hand to John Carey's child-woman 
 daughter, and had been accepted by her. 
 
 * Believe me, I do respect you and am very 
 grateful, Mr. Farley. I do not love you, but — 
 father says you will forgive me for that.' 
 
 ' Violet, I will teach you to love me.'
 
 MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKENS 203 
 
 The man's voice was perfectly modulated, and 
 in his tone and expression there was no faintest 
 hint of the turbid wave of passion which swept 
 over his heart. 
 
 ' And you will not ask me to — you will not ask 
 any more of me, at once. You will not ask me to 
 say any more till — till after Christmas, will you, 
 Mr. Farley ? ' 
 
 ' Till after Christmas ; and then ' 
 
 ' Yes. Everything as you wish.' 
 
 The girl's head was bent low, and a little while 
 afterwards Farley left her, after respectfully kissing 
 her little hand. Then Violet went to her own 
 room, and sat staring, dry-eyed, at a certain homely- 
 looking little belt made roughly from the skin of 
 a carpet-snake. She could not have told herself 
 why she had asked for respite till Christmas was 
 passed ; but had Sonny heard her request he 
 would have perfectly understood it. But he was a 
 child born in the Bush, And he was — Sonny. 
 
 CHAPTER VHI 
 
 CHICKS TO THE RESCUE 
 
 * Sonny, do you s'pose for certain, really and 
 truly, Cousin Tom '11 be home for Christmas ? ' 
 
 ' Why, of course, child. It 's widicklous the way 
 you keep on asking me. Els. Didn't he pwomise? 
 
 Well, when a man pwomises ' Here Sonny 
 
 paused, and a horrible dread entered his mind.
 
 204 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 ' Hadn't father pwomised, and — H'm ! ' That was 
 some mistake. Sonny lay silent, and gazed under 
 the brim of his hat at the sky. 
 
 The children were in their old place under the 
 shadow of the drooping wattle-clumps, on the 
 creek-bank below Coorimal. For a week past 
 these two had been growing hourly more nervous 
 and excited. Little, questioning doubts would 
 creep into their minds. Cousin Tom had not sent 
 word. It was very funny, but — And then they 
 would sound each other's confidences, and each in 
 turn would insistingly reassure the other, Sonny 
 always treating the slightest expression of doubt 
 as a new thing, and an absurdity not worth serious 
 attention. But as the days went by and no word 
 came, Sonny grew graver and more thoughtful. 
 And Elsie, as she followed her brother about the 
 home-paddock — generally near the slip-rails or 
 the creek — and in the house, became more serious 
 and anxious. And the nervousness of children — 
 such children — is pitiful. 
 
 Now, as they lay together on the bank of the 
 creek, both were reflecting that in two days and a 
 half Christmas would be upon them. And so far no 
 news of Cousin Tom had come. Both these quaint 
 little souls loved their sister very dearly. Perhaps 
 more dearly still they were devoted to their Cousin 
 Tom. And above and beyond all this, came what 
 Sonny regarded as a sacred trust, a matter in- 
 volving his honour and his very life. By reflection 
 this was Elsie's tru.st too, and if Sonny's big eyes 
 grew more solemn, her little face waxed more
 
 MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKENS 205 
 
 plaintive every day, till on this afternoon, nervous- 
 ness and wakefulness combined had produced 
 something like hysteria in both children. 
 
 After plucking the grass at his side in silence 
 for some moments, Sonny rose and walked to the 
 edge of the creek, followed by his little sister. 
 
 'Els!' he said, turning round sharply. 'If 
 Jacky bwings no letter fwom the coach this 
 evening, I shall start vewy early to-mowow morn- 
 ing, and go to Captain's Flat to find Cousin Tom. 
 I shall wide Possum, an' then if Cousin Tom 's got 
 no horse he can come back on my pony in time 
 for Chwismas.' 
 
 Elsie's face lighted up with admiration and 
 delight. 
 
 ' You '11 let me come too, Sonny, because Cousin 
 Tom loves me as well. And besides, you can't go 
 alone. I must come an' look after you.' 
 
 Sonny gazed thoughtfully at her. 
 
 ' You 're vewy young, you know, Els, an' I don't 
 know if a little girl ought to wide in the Bush ; 
 but — Yes, I think you can come.' 
 
 The evening passed, but no letter came from 
 Cousin Tom ; and, lying awake late that night in 
 their beds, the two children discussed their plan of 
 action. Very early in the morning and before 
 any purple had shot across the grey of the eastern 
 sky. Sonny stepped gravely out of bed, and, 
 moving noiselessly about the room, proceeded to 
 wash and dress himself Then, having waked 
 Elsie, he crept down the wide, shadowy hall of the 
 homestead, out across the verandah into the dew-
 
 2o6 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 soaked grass beyond, and down to where he knew 
 his pony fed, near a bend in the creek. He carried 
 his own little bridle with him, and, having caught 
 the pony, he rode it barebacked up to the shed 
 where his saddle was kept. 
 
 A few moments later, Elsie came out of the 
 house on tiptoe ; and then, holding his sister on 
 the saddle before him, and in his nervous anxiety 
 thinking nothing of such details as provisions for 
 his expedition, Sonny walked his pony down to 
 the slip-rails, and out into the great waking Bush 
 of the morning. 
 
 The story of their ride is history now, in the 
 country west of the Blue Mountains. But it is a 
 lengthy history — too lengthy to be told here, — 
 a story of the wandering in a country where are 
 neither sign-posts nor farmhouses, and in which 
 natives are lost and starved for want of a track ; 
 of two brave little children who feared nothing, 
 save that they might not have time to find and 
 bring back the man they loved, to the sister they 
 loved. 
 
 All through the long summer's day they pressed 
 on through the silent Bush ; and occasionally Sonny 
 would apologise to his game little pony for the 
 undue strain put upon it of a double load, plead- 
 ing the urgency of their mission as he did so. 
 
 ' You see, Possum,' he would say, while the pony 
 pricked up sharp, listening ears ; ' the day after 
 to-mowow's Chwistmas, an' there 's Cousin Tom's 
 pwomise, an' my pwomise too, you know.' 
 
 Then they would push on a little faster, Sonny
 
 MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKENS 207 
 
 never noticing that what had been a bullock-road 
 at first, had now become a bridle-track. Perhaps 
 instinct told him that his direction was right 
 whatever the road might be. 
 
 Always mysterious and suggestive of things 
 uncanny, the Bush of western New South Wales 
 becomes doubly weird and ghostly, when moon- 
 light flickers down between the tree-tops on to 
 dry, twig-covered earth, over which 'guanas crawl, 
 and bandicoots scamper silently. But all through 
 the night. Sonny and Elsie kept tirelessly on their 
 way, pausing only once or twice to quench their 
 thirst and that of the pony, in the rocky bed of 
 some creek. They had tasted no food for more 
 than thirty hours, and had been in the saddle for 
 twenty-four hours, when daylight came upon them 
 glimmeringly, and Sonny noticed, with a little 
 qualm of dread, that they were no longer on a 
 track of any kind. 
 
 Happened to them then, the strangest thing 
 which had come in their short lives. Excepting 
 only a few kangaroos and the smaller animal life 
 of the Bush, the children had set eyes on no living 
 thing since leaving Coorimal. Now, as the light 
 of another day came creeping through the trees, 
 clearing up shadowy mysteries as it grew in 
 strength, Sonny reined in his pony, and the two 
 sat listening in wondering amazement to the thin, 
 discordant notes of a man's voice singing, there in 
 the heart of the wilderness. Elsie shivered, and 
 Sonny tightened his little arms round her body, 
 murmuring consolation in her ear the while.
 
 2o8 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 ' It might be a man who knows where Cousin 
 Tom is, Els,' he whispered. 
 
 Nearer and nearer came the voice, and some- 
 thing in its tones made both the children 
 suddenly to turn pale from a cause other than 
 fear, and questioningly to look into each other's 
 faces. Then a figure came into view on the 
 crest of a little bare ridge before them. It 
 was the figure of a man, bareheaded, and very 
 ragged as to clothing. The man was thin to 
 emaciation, and as he walked down the ridge- 
 side he swung his arms loosely about him, rocking 
 his head to and fro to the time of the mono- 
 tonous tune he crooned. 
 
 Quite close he came to where the children sat 
 on their pony. Then Sonny gave a shrill shout 
 of pent-up nervousness and recognising excite- 
 ment. 
 
 * Cousin Tom ! Cousin Tom ! We 've come to 
 fetch you — Els and me ! ' 
 
 The ragged man swung round on his heel, and 
 stared in a dazed way at the children and their 
 pony. Then he slowly passed one thin, bruised 
 hand over his eyes, and, sitting down on a log 
 at his side, began to weep ; to sob till his whole 
 wasted frame shook and quivered, whilst glim- 
 mering reason struggled to regain its seat in his 
 clouded brain. 
 
 For one instant, only wonder showed in the 
 faces of the children. Tears rushed then to the 
 eyes of both as they clambered to the ground. 
 Sonny brushed his eyes in a shamefaced way
 
 MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKENS 209 
 
 on his sleeve, as he h'fted Elsie from the saddle ; 
 and then they both walked to the log where 
 Tom Lindall sat. 
 
 One on either side of the starved, hunted-look- 
 ing man they stood, and Elsie nestled her little 
 face against his beard, heeding not at all its 
 matted state, nor the network of scratches and 
 dried blood on the man's face. Sonny stood with 
 one hand on the madman's neck, murmuring : 
 
 ' Poor Cousin Tom ! Don't cwy ! You mustn't 
 cwy ; we shall get back to Vi in time for 
 Chwismas.' 
 
 ' Christmas ! I — I promised ' 
 
 The man had sprung to his feet so suddenly 
 as to throw little Elsie to the ground. Sonny 
 frowned — a very little frown. Another instant 
 and the man had bent low over the fallen child, 
 who smiled up into his face, as, raising her in his 
 weak arms, he muttered strange, incoherent words 
 of fondness. 
 
 ' Poor little Els ! Poor dear ! But it wasn't 
 his fault, you know — not Cousin Tom's. He 
 didn't mean to do it ; and — he promised to be 
 back for Christmas. Why, Violet — You see, the 
 doors were always locked, and he pulled the 
 rope up, so, of course. Cousin Tom died. A 
 pity ? Yes, because he promised — and she — But 
 mind, he didn't mean to hurt little Els. He 
 only hated the — Oh, my God ! I shall have no 
 time ! I must ' 
 
 In some intuitive way, Sonny realised, and 
 Elsie too, that Cousin Tom was not the same, 
 
 o
 
 210 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 He was ill, in trouble, and weak. He did not 
 rightly understand as they did, and must be 
 helped back to Violet because of his promise. 
 
 ' Cousin Tom,' said Sonny quietly ; ' you must 
 get on my pony, because you 're ill ; an' Els an' 
 me we '11 walk beside you, and then, if you 
 think th' isn't 'nufif time, you must wide on 
 quickly, 'cos to-mowow's Chwismas.' 
 
 But Cousin Tom's instincts were not dead by 
 any means. And so, with many strange caresses 
 and rambling snatches of endearment, he lifted 
 both children on to the pony again, and, resting 
 one thin arm behind them, started off through 
 the Bush at their side. Very tenderly the weak 
 man guided them through the scrub to the 
 track they had left ; very wonderfully and without 
 hesitation, his instincts seemed to lead him to the 
 Dubbo bridle-track, which is a shorter way to 
 Coorimal than is the coach-road ; and very sad, 
 though very beautiful, was the working out of 
 the clinging children's influence on his weary, 
 struggling mind. But that journey is history 
 too, now, and, like the other, a lengthy one, full of 
 strange, sweet pathos, and the curious workings of 
 nature acting through two loving children's hearts, 
 upon the mind of a man trembling between hope- 
 less madness and the return of reason. A doctor 
 would have been fatal, but these children, these 
 trusting, tender messages from the old love and 
 the old life — well, they were children born in the 
 Bush, and one of them was Sonny, and the other 
 was Elsie.
 
 MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKENS 211 
 
 When the turn off to Farleydale was reached, 
 in the very early hours of Christmas morning, 
 children, man, and pony were utterly exhausted. 
 But even then, the man, his eyes still showing 
 only vacancy, tenderly supported the two children 
 as they rode. Suddenly he stopped, and gazing 
 along the Farleydale track, passed one hand over 
 his eyes. Then, holding Sonny's two arms so 
 tightly in his bony hands as to leave blue marks on 
 them for days, he moved his aching head from side 
 to side, looking first towards Farleydale, and then 
 along the Coorimal track and back to Sonny. 
 
 ' No ! Come with us. Cousin Tom. Violet is 
 waiting. Never mind Mr. Farley.' 
 
 Telepathy? Possibly. At all events a very 
 pretty instinct. But — the child was Sonny. 
 
 Then they reached Ti-tree Ridge, from which 
 you can see the roofs of Coorimal homestead and 
 the outhouses. Again the man paused for a 
 minute, holding Sonny's arms, while on his own 
 forehead great drops of sweat broke out and 
 trickled down his face. But this time there was 
 a light of recognition and understanding in the 
 wild, deep-sunk eyes. 
 
 ' Sonny ! Brave little Sonny 1 ' he gasped. ' I 
 promised — for Christmas.' 
 
 On they went, the man staggering by the pony's 
 hanging head, still with a ready hand at Sonny's 
 side, till at last the slip-rails were reached and 
 passed. A saddle-horse was standing beside one 
 of the outhouses, and as the trio turned the bend 
 in the track, which brings one before the home-
 
 212 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 stead, they saw two figures standing on the 
 verandah — Violet Carey and Herbert Farley. 
 The latter had just returned from a search ex- 
 pedition for the missing children, Violet's father 
 being then away with another party. 
 ' Tom ! Tom ! Oh, Sonny ! ' 
 After a little scream, Violet stood there repeat- 
 ing her cousin's name. The children sat still on 
 their pony. The man beside them stood shaking 
 from head to foot, one blackened hand rising and 
 falling at his side. Then his two arms were 
 stretched out, and, for an instant, he swayed to 
 and fro with parted lips and staring eyes. 
 ' Violet ! ' 
 
 So a mountain stream bursts into a hollow 
 when the dam gives way. So, at last, the name 
 burst from him, and the girl flew to his side 
 just as the man's whole form seemed to relax. 
 As her hands touched him, Tom Lindall turned 
 half-round, and his figure became rigid again, 
 whilst his eyes flashed the intensity of sudden 
 understanding. His right arm rose slowly, and 
 his scarred forefinger pointed straight and rigidly 
 at Herbert Farley, who stood leaning against a 
 verandah-post, his grey, lined face showing no 
 sign of fear, but only disappointment and a little 
 weary curiosity. 
 
 ' You 're Herbert Farley.' Tom's voice rang 
 out on the morning air like that of a strong man. 
 Violet clung to his left arm. 
 
 ' You 're a scoundrel and a murderer ! When I 
 went down in the old Gulgong shaft, you hauled
 
 MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKENS 213 
 
 the rope up and left me to die. You laughed 
 when you went away and I shouted to you.' 
 Tom's left hand touched Violet's arm. ' You 've 
 tried to steal — my love, as, I suppose, you stole 
 my claim. You thought I should die, but I 
 only went mad. Then I got out of that shaft, 
 which you in your devil's mind thought was my 
 grave. Oh, God ! And I came to you. I know, 
 you see. You fought with me when I was dying ; 
 and you — you put me in that other place. Well, 
 you see, I 've escaped from that. But you would 
 have killed my mind, only these little children 
 saved that — and body too, perhaps. Do you hear, 
 murderer? These little children, they found me 
 and brought me here, that I could tell you what 
 a scoundrel you are, and — Oh, my Love ! My 
 Love ! ' 
 
 Tom's voice broke, and he turned from his 
 work of denunciation to the girl at his side. 
 
 ' Tom ! Tom dear, you are here ; what does it 
 matter ? ' 
 
 Then Tom knew — all that he wanted to know ; 
 and his poor, weak frame relapsed. He leaned 
 heavily with one hand on the pony and the other 
 on the arm of the girl at his side. 
 
 ' No,' he said. ' Nothing matters now. The 
 children saved my life. I kept my promise. 
 Violet ! ' 
 
 Then he turned again, and his eyes were full of 
 tears, as he said : 
 
 ' Go away from this place, Herbert Farley. I 
 forgive you.'
 
 214 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 The American shrugged his broad shoulders. 
 
 ' My friend, your forgiveness is little enough to 
 me. I 'm going away from this place because 
 there was only one thing in it I wanted, and that 's 
 yours now. The game is yours — that 's all ; and 
 I throw up my cards. Good-bye, Violet ! Good- 
 bye you, Sonny — and little Elsie ! ' 
 
 And the American strode off down the winding 
 track ; those he had left, gazing after him till his 
 tall figure was lost to view beyond the outhouses. 
 
 Then the tired-out children slid quietly down 
 from the pony's back, and as Violet led Tom 
 trembling into the house, Sonny whispered : 
 
 * We 've done it, Els. Now we '11 go away, 'cos 
 gwowed up people never can talk when other 
 people's about'
 
 THE THRESHOLD 
 
 ' You might have turned find tried a man, 
 Set him a space to weary and wear, 
 And prove which suited more your plan, 
 His best of hope or his worst despair, 
 Yet end as he began. 
 
 But you spared me this, like the heart you are, 
 And filled my empty heart at a word.' 
 
 Robert Browning. 
 
 ' And this is the very last time/ muttered the 
 man as the door opened. ' The very last time/ 
 he repeated, as he sat waiting in the pretty, glow- 
 ing drawing-room. 
 
 Then She came in, and the room became 
 beautiful, because prettiness was not of her. 
 
 They sat together and talked, and during a 
 little interval the man's heart jogged his elbow 
 in an irritating way, and murmured : 
 
 ' This is the very last time.' 
 
 ' Yes ! ' said the man, aloud ; and She, smiling, 
 asked to what his affirmative referred. 
 
 Then they talked again on various subjects 
 which related to the man ; for She knew all his 
 past and something of his future. 
 
 ' Why are you sad to-day ? ' She asked after a 
 while. The man hesitated.
 
 2i6 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 ' Because — I don't know why I am sad — at 
 least, I can't tell you.' 
 
 ' May I tell you a little story ? ' asked She. 
 
 • Please.' 
 
 ' Listen, then ; but remember, my stories are not 
 personal. There was once a man who never was 
 a boy, because he had been unable to spare the 
 time. Being a boy, or even a youth, uses up a 
 lot of time at the beginning, when time seems 
 short, and adds it on to the end ; but circum- 
 stances, and loneliness in strange places, made it 
 impossible for the man in my story to invest time 
 in this way. So he skipped boyhood and youth, 
 and went straight into manhood in a strange 
 country.' 
 
 * And what effect on him did that have ? ' asked 
 He in the drawing-room, who had become inter- 
 ested after the story's first sentence. She who 
 told the story smiled, and, continuing, said : 
 
 ' It had on him the effect of tropical sun upon 
 vegetable life. It made him premature in all 
 ways, but strong also, and glorying in his strength. 
 A great deal was shut out of his range of vision, 
 and his life's limits were narrow ; but in those 
 limits very intense. To him, the world was him- 
 self — he and his work — his aims — his strength. 
 Nothing else, you understand. Having missed 
 youth, enjoyment did not come into his scheme. 
 He did not look about him for life's soft lights or 
 its music ; and so never saw nor heard them. He 
 had no time.' 
 
 'Ah!'
 
 THE THRESHOLD 217 
 
 ' Yes, it was a pity. Well, then, one day, by 
 chance, he met Femininity — happened upon her, 
 munching cake and sipping tea. Femininity 
 smiled prettily at the man, and offered him cake 
 and tea, which he took with nerveless fingers, 
 gasping and staring the while, in pleased amaze- 
 ment. Then Femininity's rose-dimpled fingers 
 went tripping daintily up and down the keyboard 
 of a piano, and she sang to him ; every note in 
 her rippling little ballad twanging a response on 
 one of the man's heart-strings. And he asked 
 himself — Well, let me see. He asked himself ' 
 
 'Why,' interrupted He who listened in the draw- 
 ing-room ; ' why, he had never known before that 
 this was the world, and how he had been led to 
 think that his life was the real life of the world.' 
 
 ' Yes. That was what he asked himself. And 
 so, dainty little Femininity, smiling all the while, 
 drew aside the lace curtains which had hidden 
 from his range of vision the Byzantine alley 
 wherein she lived ; and he, looking down the 
 alley with her, decided that it was the real world 
 — that his world, so far, had been a dreary phantasy 
 of his own creation. The man's lights were not 
 wide nor deep, but very intense ; and, of course, 
 he laid his heart — new found — reverentially and 
 unreservedly, at Femininity's feet. Femininit}' 
 laughingly accepted the heart, and then ' 
 
 ' Meeting another man at the corner of her alley, 
 said the listener, 'threw the heart down, still 
 laughingly, and went back to the piano with her 
 new friend.' 
 
 P
 
 2i8 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 * Exactly. Well, now, the man was in a very 
 sorry plight, because he had lost his own world — 
 the self-created phantasy — and, being forsaken in 
 the new world by her to whom his heart had been 
 given, he could not find his way. Disillusion 
 blinded his eyes with tears, and, groping about in 
 the Byzantine alley, he ' 
 
 ' He met Frou-Frou — You must let me tell this 
 piece,' said the man in the drawing-room. ' He 
 met Frou-Frou, who happened to have wandered 
 carelessly from out her Moorish alley into Femi- 
 ninity's domain. He looked like a man, so Frou- 
 Frou welcomed him with fascinating, lower 
 Bohemian good-fellowship, and flung aside the 
 rich drapery and heavy perfumed curtains, which 
 had hid from his view the world of brighter, flash- 
 ing lights, and dancing music, in which she lived. 
 Looking into this world, the man drew a long 
 breath of satisfaction ; and as Frou-Frou chal- 
 lenged him with brimming champagne-glass up- 
 raised, he said : " This is undoubtedly reality — 
 the abandon of real life in the actual world — 
 unlike my previous fancies, which were absurd." 
 And when the very first greyness came, and the 
 flashing lights paled in the dawn hour, Frou- 
 Frou, being tired and sleepy, carelessly laid open 
 the pages of her frailty's private diary — and the 
 man read. Having read, he knew, and was 
 numbed. So, in the ghostly morning twilight, 
 he groped his way out into the no-man's-land 
 which lies between the alleys of extreme, and 
 realised that he had not found the real world
 
 THE THRESHOLD 219 
 
 after all. Still, he had lost his own, and when — 
 
 Well ' 
 
 * No,' said She who listened ; * you cannot tell 
 this part. I must ; because he did not go into 
 another alley, you know. He wandered into the 
 cloisters of a white Greek temple, because, in the 
 brightness of the sunlight which came after dawn, 
 he saw a pure presence — a Girl — standing on the 
 threshold. He approached the presence — so he 
 longed for rest — though after his two phases he 
 felt he had no right. She was so pure and white ; 
 the innocence of knowing nothing gleaming on 
 her forehead. She could not, like the others, 
 conduct him into her world, because she had not 
 herself yet crossed the threshold of the temple ; 
 and she knew nothing of that which he had lived 
 and seen. Still, she was a Girl, and his worship 
 pleased her. Very sweetly, though all unknow- 
 ingly, she helped him to take his stand beside 
 her on the threshold ; she understanding nothing, 
 and never dreaming but what he, too, had the 
 earliest phases to pass, and could enter her temple 
 with her. But when her innocence of ignorance 
 had spread itself round the man for a while, the 
 
 crude purity of it — the ' 
 
 ' The nothing knowing, nothing seeing, nothing 
 understanding spotlessness of it all, almost choked 
 him,' said the man in the drawing-room. 'And 
 he realised that since he had not at the beginning 
 found this world, he could not enter it now, or at 
 least not accompanied by the cold whiteness of 
 the " little maid who hath no breasts." So now,
 
 220 MERE SENTIMENT 
 
 in real despair, he turned away from the classic 
 temple, feeling not only that he had failed to find 
 the real world, but was unfit to be taken into it. 
 Then, as he walked miserably away, an angel 
 from Heaven came across his path, and laid her 
 cool hand on his forehead, so that ' 
 
 * No, Dear ! A Woman — only a Woman. But 
 she showed him that he was already in the real 
 world, and that she was, too ; but that he had been 
 gazing into little phases of life, and, thinking each 
 was life itself, was almost broken-hearted when he 
 found himself unfitted to live in a phase. He was 
 very happy with the Woman because he loved her ; 
 and yet, thinking he must be of some one of the 
 phases — the little phases — he had seen ; not know- 
 ing that they were of him merely ; — he fancied 
 the Woman must be apart from him — that ' 
 
 ' This must be the last time ? ' 
 
 * Exactly. But oh, the Woman understood. She 
 knew that he was really of the same life and 
 world as she. She thought — that he loved her ; 
 and ' 
 
 'She loved him ?' 
 ' Yes, Dear ! ' 
 
 Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty 
 at the Edinburgh University Press
 
 John Lane 
 
 VIGO STREET, LONDON, \V 
 
 THE KEYNOTES SERIES. 
 
 Each volume with Designed Title-page and Cover 
 Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 Seventh Edition. 
 
 KEYNOTES. By George Egerton. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. 
 net. 
 
 'This is a collection of eight of the prettiest short stories that have ap- 
 peared for many a day. They turn for the most part on feminine traits of 
 character ; in fact, the book is a little psychological study of woman under 
 various circumstances. The characters are so admirably drawn, and the 
 scenes and landscapes are described with so much and so rare vividness, 
 that one cannot help being almost spell-bound by their perusal.' — St. James's 
 Gazette. 
 
 ' A rich, passionate temperament vibrates through every line. . . . We 
 have met nothing so lovely in its tenderness since Mr. Kipling's " Without 
 Benefit of Clergy.'" — Daily Chronicle. 
 
 ' For any one who cares more for truth than for orthodox mummery, and 
 for the real flood of the human heart than for the tepid negus which stirs 
 the veins of respectability, this little book deserves a hearty welcome." 
 —Sketch. 
 
 ' These lovely sketches are informed by such throbbing feeling, such in- 
 sight into complex woman, that we with all speed and warmth advise those 
 who are in search of splendid literature to procure " Keynotes " without 
 delay.' — Literary World. 
 
 'The work of a woman who has lived every hour of her life, be she young 
 or old. . . . She allows us, like the great artists of old, Shakespeare and 
 Goethe, to draw our own moral from the stories she tells, and it is with no 
 uncertain touch or faltering hand that she pulls aside the curtain of con- 
 ventional hypocrisy which hundreds of women hang between the world aci 
 their own hearts. . . . The insight of the writer into the curious and com- 
 plicated nature of women is almost miraculous.' — Lady's Pictorial.
 
 THE KEYNOTES SERIES 
 
 THE DANCING FAUN. By Florence Farr. Crown 
 8vo, 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 ' There is a lurid power in the very unreality of the story. One does not 
 quite understand how Lady Geraldine worked herself up to shooting her 
 lover, but when she has done it, the description of what passes through her 
 mind is magnificent.' — Athetueuni. 
 
 ' As a work of art the book has the merit of brevity and smart writing ; 
 while the denouement is skilfully prepared, and comes as a surprise. If 
 the book had been intended as a satire on the "new woman" sort of litera- 
 ture, it would have been most brilliant ; but assuming it to be written in 
 earnest, we can heartily praise the form of its construction without 
 agreeing with the sentiments expressed.' — St. Jameses Gazette. 
 
 ' Written by an obviously clever woman.' — Black and White. 
 
 'Miss Farr has talent. " The Dancing Faun " contains writing that is 
 distinctively good. Doubtless it is only a prelude to something much 
 stronger. ' — A cademy. 
 
 ' The book is extremely clever and some of the situations very striking, 
 while there are sketches of character which really live. The final denoue- 
 ment might at first sight be thought impossible, but the effect on those who 
 take part in it is so free of exaggeration, that we can almost imagine that 
 such people are in our midst.' — Guardian. 
 
 POOR FOLK. Translated from the Russian of Fedor 
 Dostoievsky. By Lena Milman. With an Intro- 
 duction by George Moore. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 'A most impressive and characteristic specimen of Russian fiction. 
 Those to whom Russia is a sealed book will be duly grateful to the trans- 
 lator (who has acquitted herself excellently), to Mr. Moore, and to the 
 publisher for this presentment of Dostoievsky's remarkable novel.' — Times. 
 
 ' The book is cleverly translated. " Poor Folk " gains in reality and pathos 
 by the very means that in less skilful hands would be tedious and common- 
 place.' — Sped a tor. 
 
 'A charming story of the love of a Charles Lamb kind of old bachelor 
 for a young work -girl. Full of quiet humour and still more full of the 
 lachrymcE rerum.' — Star, 
 
 ' Scenes of poignant realism, described with so admirable a blending of 
 humour and pathos that they haunt the memory.' — Daily News. 
 
 ' The book is one of great pathos and absorbing interest. Miss Milman 
 has given us an admirable version of it which will commend itself to every 
 one who cares for good literature.' — Glasgow Herald. 
 
 'These things seem small, but in the hands of Dostoievsky they make 
 a work of genius. — Slack and IVhite.
 
 THE KEYNOTES SERIES 
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE. By Francis Adams. Crown 
 8vo, 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 ' The book is packed with vivid interests of all kinds, passages of noble 
 reflection and beautiful, passionate writing. It is rarely that a novelist is 
 able to suffuse his story with the first rosy purity of passion as Mr. Adams 
 has done in this book, the tragic end of which is one of the most moving 
 things to be found in recent fiction." — Realm. 
 
 'In "A Child of the Age" there is prevalent power, there is frequent 
 beauty, but its main charm lies in its revelation of a personality which, if 
 not always winning, is certainly always fascinating and impressive.' — 
 Daily Chronicle. 
 
 ' English or foreign, there is no work among those now before me which 
 is so original as that of the late Francis Adams. " A Child of the Age" is 
 original, moving, often fascinating.' — Academy. 
 
 ' It comes recognisably near to great excellence. There is a love episode 
 in this book which is certainly fine. Clearly conceived and expressed with 
 point.' — Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 ' The love incident is exquisite and exquisitely told. " Rosy " lives ; her 
 emotions stir us. Wonderfully suggested in several parts of the work is the 
 severe irony of nature before profound human suffering. But the charm of 
 the book is the analysis of mental torture, of interesting remorse, of the 
 despair of one to whom the future is without light. One is grateful for the 
 artistic revelation of the sweet wormwood of pain.' — Saturday Review. 
 
 Second Edition. 
 
 THE GREAT GOD PAN and THE INMOST LIGHT. 
 By Arthur Machen. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 'Since Mr. Stevenson played with the crucibles of science in "Dr. 
 Jekyll and Mr. Hyde" we have not encountered a more successful experi- 
 ment of the sort.' — Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 ' Nothing so appalling as these tales has been given to publicity within 
 our remembrance ; in which, nevertheless, such ghastly fictions as Poe's 
 "Telltale Heart," Bulwer's "The House and the Brain," and Le Fanu's 
 " In a Glass Darkly" still are vividly present. The supernatural element 
 is utilised with extraordinary power and effectiveness in both these blood- 
 chilling masterpieces.' — Daily Telegraph. 
 
 'Will arouse the sort of interest that was created by "Dr. Jekyll and 
 Mr. Hyde." The tales present a frankly impossible horror, which, never- 
 theless, kindles the imagination and excites a powerful curiosity. It is 
 almost a book of genius, and we are not sure that the safeguarding adverb 
 is not superfluous.' — Birmingham Post. 
 
 ' The coarser terrors of Edgar Allen Poe do not leave behind them the 
 shudder that one feels at the shadowed devil-mysteries of "The Great God 
 Pan." ' — Liverpool Mercury.
 
 THE KEYNOTES SERIES 
 
 Fifth Edition. 
 DISCORDS. By George Egerton. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. 
 net. 
 
 ' She has given, times without number, examples of her ripening power 
 that astonish us. Her themes astound ; her audacity is tremendous. In 
 the many great passages an advance is proved that is little short of amaz- 
 ing.' — Literary IVorld. 
 
 'A series of undoubtedly clever stories, told with a poetic dreaminess 
 which softens the rugged truths of which they treat. Mothers might benefit 
 themselves and convey help to young girls who are about to be married by 
 the perusal of its pages." — Liverpool Mercury. 
 
 ' The book is true to human nature, for the author has genius, and, let us 
 add, has heart. It is representative; it is, in the hackneyed phrase, a 
 human document.' — Speaker. 
 
 ' It is another note in the great chorus of revolt ... on the whole 
 clearer, more eloquent, and braver than almost any I have yet heard.' — 
 T. P. (' Book of the Week'), Weekly Sun, December 30. 
 
 ' What an absorbing, wonderful book it is : How absolutely sincere, and 
 how finely wrong ! George Egerton may be what the indefatigable Mr. 
 Zangwill calls a one- I'd person, but she is a literary artist of exceptional 
 endowment — probably a genius.' — Woman. 
 
 ' She has many fine qualities. Her work throbs with temperament, and 
 here and there we come upon touches that linger in the memory as of things 
 felt and seen, not read oi.'— Daily News. 
 
 PRINCE ZALESKL By M. P. Shiel. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. 
 
 net. 
 
 ' Mr. M. P. Shiel has in this volume produced something which is 
 always rare, and which is every year becoming a greater rarity — a work 
 of literary invention characterised by substantial novelty. We have 
 Poe's analysis and Foe's glamour, but they are no longer distinct ; they 
 are combined in a new synthesis which stamps a new imaginative impres- 
 sion. A finely-wrought structure in which no single line impairs the 
 symmetry and proportion. One of the most boldly-planned and strik- 
 ingly-executed stories of its kind which has appeared for many a long 
 day. We believe there is nothing in "Prince Zaleski " which that great 
 inventor and masterly manipulator of the spoils of invention (Poe) would 
 have disdained to father.' — Daily Chronicle. 
 
 'The Prince was a Sherlock Holmes, with this difference: that while 
 yielding nothing to Conan Doyle's hero in mere intellectual agility, he 
 had th.^t imaginative insight which makes poets more frequently than 
 detectives. Sherlock Holmes was a clever but essentially commonplace 
 man. Prince Zaleski was a great man, simply. Enthralling . . . once 
 begun they insist on being finished. Broadly and philosophically con- 
 ceived, and put together with rare narrative skill, and feeling for effect." 
 — Wo»ian. 
 
 ' He has imparted to the three tales in this volume something of that 
 atmosphere of eerie fantasy which Poe knew how to conjure, proceeding 
 by the analysis of a baflling intricacy of detail to an unforeseen conclusion. 
 The themes and their treatment are alike highly imaginative.' — Daily 
 News. 
 
 ' Manifestly written by one of Poe's true disciples. His analytical skill 
 is not that of the detective, even of so brilliant a detective as Mr. Sherlock 
 Holmes. Probably his exploits will interest the public far less than did 
 those of Mr. Doyle's famous character ; but the select few, who can 
 appreciate delicate work, will delight in them exceedingly." — Speaker.
 
 THE KEYNOTES SERIES 
 
 Twenty -second Edition. 
 
 THE WOMAN WHO DID. By Grant Allen. Crown 
 8vo, 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 ' Really impressive ; but unfortunately — or fortunately, as we think it — it 
 is a strong and impressive plea for what Mr. Grant Allen regards as the 
 effete, unintelligent, utterly wrong view of things.' — Spectator. 
 
 'There is not a sensual thought or suggestion throughout the whole 
 volume. Though I dislike and disbelieve in his gospel, I thoroughly 
 respect Mr. Grant Allen for having stated it so honourably and so bravely.' 
 — Academy. 
 
 'Even its bitterest enemies must surely feel some thrill of admiration for 
 its courage. It is, once more, one philosopher against the world. Not in 
 our day, perhaps, can it be decided which is right, Mr. Grant Allen, or the 
 world. Perhaps our children's children will some d.-iy be canonising Mr. 
 Grant Allen for the very book for which to-day he stands a much greater 
 cha7ice of being stoned, and happy lovers of the new era bless the name of 
 the man who, almost single-handed, fought the battle of Free Love. 
 Time alone can say. . . . None but the most foolish or malignant reader 
 of 'The Woman Who Did ' can fail to recognise the noble purpose which 
 animates its pages. . . Label it as one will, it remains a clever, stimu- 
 lating book. A real enthusiasm for humanity blazes through every page 
 of this, in many ways, remarkable and significant little book.' — Sketch. 
 
 ' Mr. Grant Allen has undoubtedly produced an epoch-making book, and 
 one which will be a living voice when most of the novels of this generation 
 have passed away into silence. It is epoch-making in the sense that 
 " Uncle Tom's Cabin" was ; — the literary merits of that work were by no 
 means great, but yet it rang like a tocsin through the land, arousing mankind 
 to a sense of the slavery under which a large portion of humanity suffered. 
 — Humanitarian. 
 
 WOMEN'S TRAGEDIES. By H. D. Lowry. Crown 8vo, 
 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 ' Written in a clear unaffected style, and with the re!<raint in handling 
 delicate subjects that marks the true artist.' — AtJienceum, 
 
 ' Of that best and finest kind of imaginative realism which presents not 
 only the object, but its surrounding atmosphere, there have of late been few 
 more arresting and impressive examples than these tales of lowly Cornish 
 life. ' — A cadetny, 
 
 ' He is the master of a style singularly strenuous and sensitive. What he 
 sees he can e.xpress with marvellous vividness. There is nothing more 
 terrible and perfect of its kind than his story, "The Man in the Room." 
 It is magnificently done, powerfully imagined, and convincingly presented.' 
 —Black and White. 
 
 'Mr. Lowry's "Women's Tragedies" are the most striking thumbnail 
 sketches since Mr. Quiller Couch idly ceased to write his wonderful 
 " Noughts and Crosses."' — Star. 
 
 ' A wide and critical section of the reading public will be ready to welcome 
 "Women's Tragedies." The author has not a little of the ancient mariner's 
 power. He creates a situation which holds the reader mentally spellbound, 
 and leaves an impression not readily effaced . . . sombre, even eerie, they 
 prove, and yet strong with the author's power to fascinate.' — Dundee 
 Advertiser.
 
 THE KEYNOTES SERIES 
 
 GREY ROSES. By Henry Harland. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. 
 net. 
 
 ' Exceedingly pleasant to read. You close the book with a feeling that 
 you have met a host of charming people. "Castles Near Spain" comes 
 near to being a perfect thing of its kind.' — Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 ' They are charming stories, simple, full of freshness, with a good deal of 
 delicate wit, both in the imagining and in the telling. The last story of 
 the book, in spite of improbabilities quite tremendous, is a delightful story. 
 He has realised better than any one else the specialised character of the 
 short story and how it should be written.' — Daily Chronicle, 
 
 'Really delightful. "Castles near Spain" is as near perfection as it 
 could well be.' — Spectator. 
 
 ' " Castles near Spain " as a fantastic love episode is simply inimitable, 
 and " Mercedes" is instinct with a pretty humour and child-like tenderness 
 that render it peculiarly — nay, uniquely — fascinating. "Grey Roses" are 
 entitled to rank among the choicest flowers of the realms of romance.' — 
 Daily Telegraph. 
 
 AT THE FIRST CORNER, and other Stories. By 
 H. B. Marriott Watson. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 •We willingly bear witness to Mr. Watson's brilliance, versatility, and 
 literary power. "An Ordeal of Three" is a fancy that is full of beauty and 
 delicate charm. When, again, Mr. Watson deals with the merely sordid and 
 real side of East-end London he justifies his choice by a certain convincing 
 realism which is never dull, and which is always inevitably true.' — Pall 
 Mall Gazette. 
 
 ' A collection of nine stories admirably told by a master who has been 
 much copied but never equalled. Mr. Marriott Watson has all the qualities 
 of strength, imagination, and style, combined with a very complete sense 
 of proportion.' — Vanity Fair. 
 
 ' Mr. Marriott Watson can write, and in these new stories he shows, more 
 manifestly than in any previous work, his capacity for dramatic realisation. 
 "An Ordeal of Three" has not only strength but charm.' — Daily Chronicle. 
 
 ' Admirably conceived and brilliantly finished ; the book will be read.' — 
 Saturday Review.
 
 THE KEYNOTES SERIES 
 
 MONOCHROMES. By Ella D'Arcy, Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. 
 net. 
 
 'If Miss D'Arcy can maintain this level, her future is secure. She h.is 
 produced one story which comes near to being a masterpiece.' — Daily 
 Chronicle. 
 
 •The cleverest volume of short stories that the year has given us.' — 
 Mr. Zangwill in the Pall Mall Magazine. 
 
 'We doubt if any other living woman-writer could have written quite so 
 \)f^\.' —Saturday Review. 
 
 ' It is rare indeed to meet, in English, with a number of short stories of 
 such distinction from an English pen.' — Graphic. 
 
 ' She expresses herself with remarkable force and point, whilst her 
 polished refinement of style gives literary value to these clever sketches. 
 "Monochromes" is distinctly clever, and so well written as to give us 
 strong hopes of its author's future.' — Speaker. 
 
 AT THE RELTON ARMS. By Evelyn Sharp. Crown 
 8vo, 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 ' Miss Evelyn Sharp is to be congratulated on having, through the mouth 
 of one of her characters, said one of the wisest words yet spoken on what is 
 rather absurdly called "The Marriage Question " (page 132). It is an in- 
 teresting and well-written story, with some smart characterisation and quite 
 a sufficiency of humour.' — Daily Chronicle. 
 
 ' A delightful story. The most genuine piece of humour in a book that 
 is nowhere devoid of it, is that scene in the inn parlour where Digby finds 
 himself engaged to two young women within five minutes; while the two 
 brief colloquies of the landlady and her cronies make one suspect that the 
 author could produce an admirable study of village humour.' — Aihenaum. 
 
 'A distinctly clever book, of a fresh conventionality.' — Academy. 
 
 'A brilliantly-written tale. . . . Teems with character sketches of ex- 
 traordinary force and delicacy.' — Daily Telegraph. 
 
 \i
 
 THE KEYNOTES SERIES 
 
 Second Edition. 
 
 THE GIRL FROM THE FARM. By Gertrude Dix. 
 Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 ' Miss Dix has a pleasant and graceful style. The dean is well and sym- 
 pathetically portrayed, and some of the scenes between him and Katherine 
 bear the stamp of truth.' — Daily Chronicle. 
 
 'The novel is exceptionally well written, the characters are admirably 
 drawn ; there is a vividness, too, about several of the descriptions and 
 scenes which is a great deal more than mere patient realism." — Glasgow 
 Herald. 
 
 ' A decidedly clever little book.' — Saturday Review. 
 
 ' The work of a writer with real gifts for fiction, gifts of characterisation 
 and story-telling.' — Star. 
 
 ' The story is cleverly constructed and well written.' — Weekly Scotsman. 
 
 ' A thoroughly wholesome book and very clever. Katherine is a charming 
 character. ' — Queen. 
 
 ' A powerful piece of writing. The dean and his daughter are drawn in 
 masterly fashion.' — Whitehall Review. 
 
 THE MIRROR OF MUSIC. By Stanley V. Makower. 
 Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 ' It is a new thing in literature. There Is a magnificent breadth, a 
 simple directness, about the conception of this diary, and the leading idea 
 is worked out with a resourceful ingenuity, a piercing insight, and an 
 unerring taste which betray the hand of some one very like a master.' — 
 Wo»ian. 
 
 ' A remarkably original and noteworthy book.' — Saturday Review. 
 
 ' A fantastic and original book, to which belongs that note of distinction 
 rare in the days of crude and rapid production.' — Daily News. 
 
 ' The volume is a very remarkable one, and will be valued most of all by 
 those who love music in its best and noblest forms.' — Western Morning 
 News.
 
 THE KEYNOTES SERIES 
 
 YELLOW AND WHITE. By W. Carlton Dawe. 
 Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 ' Stirring and admirably written stories. In " Fan-Tan " a superb word- 
 picture is painted of the Chinese national game, and of the gambling hells 
 in which it is continuously played. The stories abound in dramatic situa- 
 tions and palpitate with dramatic interest.' — Daily Telegraph. 
 
 'Are well written, and have about them a flavour of the shiny East, 
 which would seem to show that they are the work of "one who knows" 
 what he is talking about.' — Daily Chronicle. 
 
 'This thoroughly entertaining volume. Rich in local colour, and pre- 
 sented with considerable literary skill in a peculiarly vivid and impressive 
 manner. ' — Observer. 
 
 'Are as idyllic and charming as the heart could desire. Every page 
 gives sign that the book has been put together with fastidious and loving 
 care. Several of the tales are completely effective, and none fall short of 
 an entrancing picturesqueness." — Woman. 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN LOVERS. By Fiona Macleod. 
 Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 ' It is impossible to read her and not to feel that some magic in her touch 
 has made the sun seem brighter, the grass greener, the world more wonder- 
 ful.' — Mr. George Cottkrell in The Academy. 
 
 ' We eagerly devour page after page ; we are taken captive by the speed 
 and poetry of the book.' — Literary World. t 
 
 ' Primitive instincts and passions, primitive superstitions and faiths, are 
 depicted with a passionate sympathy that acts upon us as an irresistible 
 charm.' — National Observer. 
 
 'From Nial the Soulless, with his hopeless quest and wild songs and 
 incantations, to sweet Sorcha, who dies of the dream in her eyes, these 
 mountain folk have charm to set one musing. The book is altogether 
 fascinating.' — Saturday Review. 
 
 'The sadness of Kiona Macleod's " Mountain Lovers" is well redeemed 
 by the art with which the short and simple story is told.' — St. James's 
 Gazette.
 
 THE KEYNOTES SERIES 
 
 Third Edition. 
 
 THE WOMAN WHO DIDN'T. By Victoria Crosse. 
 Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 'No one who recollects "Theodora" will need to be told with what 
 acute perception the author reveals the hidden springs of human conduct. 
 In her the feminine gift of intuition seems to be developed with almost 
 uncanny strength, and what she sees she has the power of flashing upon 
 her readers with wonderful vividness and felicity of phrase. Readers will 
 find within its pages a strong and subtle study of feminine nature, biting 
 irony, restrained passion, and a style that is both forcible and polished.' — 
 Speaker. 
 
 ' A striking, well-told story, strong in character drawing, subtle in 
 observation, and fascinating in its hold of the reader.' — Realm. 
 
 ' Is undoubtedly effective. Told with singular force and naturalness, 
 which renders it by no means unworthy of the admirable series in which 
 it is included.' — Whitehall Review. 
 
 ' Is at least a proof that the " Keynotes Series " can touch the soft peda! 
 of resignation as well as the clarion of revolt.' — Sketch. 
 
 THE THREE IMPOSTORS. By Arthur Machen. 
 Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 ' With this new volume Mr. Machen boldly challenges comparison with 
 Mr. Stevenson's " Dynamiters." We enjoy his humour and marvel at his 
 ingenuity.' — Daily Chronicle. 
 
 ' We confess to having read the volume with entrancing interest. It has 
 power, it has grip, it holds the reader ; and if it leaves him in a decidedly 
 creepy condition, it likewise leaves him asking, like Oliver Twist, for more.' 
 — Whitehall Review. 
 
 'These different tales are ingeniously strung together, and lead up to a 
 fearful climax. The idea is gracefully and artistically worked out. Those 
 who enjoy a thrill of horror will find much entertainment in these weird and 
 uncanny stories.' — Scotsman. 
 
 ' Remarkably well done and remarkably thrilling. Mr. Machen has 
 constructed a book full of trepidations and unnamed terrors. It is not 
 Stevenson, of course, but it is a prodigiously clever counterfeit.' — Woman.
 
 THE KEYNOTES SERIES 
 
 Second Edition, 
 
 THE BRITISH BARBARIANS. By Grant Allen. 
 Crown 8vo, 3s. net. 
 
 ' Mr. Allen takes occasion to say a good many things that require saying, 
 and suggests a good many reforms that would, if adopted, bring our present 
 legnl code more into harmony with modern humanity and the exigencies of 
 its development.' — Saturday Review. 
 
 'A clever, trenchant satire on the petty conventionalities of modern life.' — 
 Vanity Fair. 
 
 ' All will acknowledge the skill and cleverness of the writing. Honest 
 convictions, honestly stated, always merit attention, especially when they 
 are presented in so clever and skilful a dress.' — Weslern Morning News. 
 
 ' We can warmly recommend it as an eminently readable and distinctly 
 clever piece of work.' — Publishers Circular. 
 
 ' Is not a book to be dismissed lightly. There can be no doubt that 
 Mr. Grant Allen is sincere in what he here expounds, and if for no other 
 reason, "The British Barbarians" at least deserves consideration.' — 
 Academy. 
 
 'It is a triumph of the advocate's art, so advanced, so honest, and so 
 fearless. ' — Queen. 
 
 NOBODY'S FAULT. By Netta Syrett. Crown 8vo, 
 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 ' An extremely careful and clever study ... a deeply interesting story. 
 — Daily Chronicle. 
 
 'The latest volume of the Keynotes Series is one of the pleasantest of the 
 lot. The "modern" ideas of all the characters are the ideas which reason- 
 able people are beginning to hold, and they are propounded not in a 
 scream, but in the level conversational tone* in which reasonable people 
 would speak them.' — Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 'Yet another success in Mr. Lane's "Keynotes" Series. "Nobody's 
 Fault" is an exceedingly clever novel, and we shall expect to hear of its 
 authoress again. It reads like a transcript from a personal experience. One 
 follows Bridget's career with almost breathless interest.' — Weekly Sun. 
 
 ' Bridget is alive to the finger tips ; a vivid, impulsive creature ; of as 
 many moods as there are hours in the day ; brave, beautiful, outspoken, with 
 something of temperament genius.' — Daily News,
 
 THE KEYNOTES SERIES 
 
 PLATONIC AFFECTIONS. By John Smith. Crown 
 8vo, 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 ' A remarkably powerful and original story.' — Daily Telegraph. 
 
 ' The reader will not feel inclined to quarrel with Mr. Smith for the light 
 and breezy way in which he deals with the problem : therein lies much of 
 the charm of " Platonic Affections." ' — Academy. 
 
 'An original and striking story, written in easy and pleasant style. 
 Original, since though there is nothing new in the fact that "platonic" 
 arrangements never stand the test of time, the inevitable denouement 
 of the impossible problem that two deliciously honest people try to solve, 
 is worked out so delicately, and with such subtle understanding of human, 
 especially feminine, nature, that the story is really a fascinating, as well as 
 an interesting study.' — Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 WHERE THE ATLANTIC MEETS THE LAND. By 
 Caldwell Lipsett. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 "'The Unforgiven Sin," a story of woman's dishonour judged in the 
 fierce light of Irish peasant opinion, is an exceedingly strong piece of work, 
 restrained, dignified, and imaginative.' — Sketch. 
 
 ' We shall look with expectant pleasure for so promising a writer's next 
 volume.' — Glasgow Herald. 
 
 ' It is quite a relief to meet with a teller of the short story to whom, 
 
 within the bounds he has set himself, one is justified in giving almost un- 
 stinted praise. ' — Morning Post. 
 
 IN HOMESPUN. By E. Nesbit. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 'Short as they are . . . they are really literature "In Homespun," and 
 hardly contain a line which does not add to the effect of the tale, which is 
 told with much simple and homely force.' — Spectator. 
 
 'Wherever we turn to in "In Homespun" we discover reasons for 
 applause, and we can safely recommend Mrs. Nesbit's contribution to the 
 " Keynotes Series" as one of the most refreshing.' — Literary World. 
 
 "'A Death-bed Confession" is one of the strongest, sternest stories 
 which have appeared in print for many a year past. "Coals of Fire" is 
 fine enough itself to make the fortune of the book.' — Daily Telegraph.
 
 THE KEYNOTES SERIES 
 
 NETS FOR THE WIND. By Una Taylor. Crown 8vo, 
 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 ' Miss Taylor is to be congratulated upon a very remarkable achieve- 
 ment. One thing is certain, that she can write very beautifully and 
 brilliantly.' — Glasgow Herald. 
 
 ' Full of fascination. The writer is an artist in words and the word 
 painting is always finished like a ^icixxxft.'— Scotsman. 
 
 ' Wild, fantastic, and full of dreamy sadness, are the sketches in this 
 volume.'— /"a// Mall Gazette. 
 
 ' Miss Taylor has imagination and also a picturesque and delicately 
 vivid style.' — Daily News. 
 
 IN SCARLET AND GREY: Stories of Soldiers and 
 Others. By Florence Henniker. With 'The Spectre 
 of the Real.' By Florence Henniker and Thomas 
 Hardy. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 ' The work of a keen and sympathetic observer of life endowed with a 
 simple and graphic literary style. They are realistic in the true sense of 
 the word, and are full of a deep though restrained pathos.' — Pall Mall 
 Gazette. 
 
 ' A collection of profoundly melancholy stories which nevertheless make 
 extremely agreeable reading.' — Graphic. 
 
 ' Each of these stories can be read with pleasure both for its literarj' 
 form and on account of its own intrinsic interest as a tale.' — Gentlewoman. 
 
 ' Written with quiet pathos, unerring insight, and conspicuous felicity of 
 expression.' — Leeds Mercury. 
 
 ' It is a real delight to read anything so delicately finished and so rich 
 in thoughtful insight as are these stories.' — Speaker. 
 
 DAY BOOKS. By Mabel E. Wotton. Crown 8vo, 
 3$. 6d. net. 
 
 ' The interest is considerable and well sustained.' — Whitehall Review. 
 
 ' Stamp her as a keen analyst of character and motive, and a writer who 
 can be graceful or powerful as the occasion requires.' — Scotsman. 
 
 '"Morison's Heir" is a really clever study of a shallow and selfish 
 woman. The irony of a delicate situation is skilfully developed.' — Glasgow 
 Herald.
 
 THE KEYNOTES SERIES 
 
 FORTHCOMING VOLUMES. 
 
 STELLA MARIS. By Marie Clothilde Balfour. 
 UGLY IDOL. By Claud Nicholson. 
 SHAPES IN THE FIRE. By M. P. Shiel. 
 IsLAKEMONOS. By W. Carlton Dawe. 
 GOD'S FAILURES. By J. S. Fletcher.
 
 mm JOHN LANE Jf^f 
 
 THE S3 
 BODLEY 
 HEADiS 
 
 Vices'" 
 
 BODLEIAN 
 LONDON' 
 
 CATALOGU Es^-P U BLICATIO N S 
 ^BELLES L,ETTRES'I?^E^£S!£^
 
 1 897 
 
 List of Books 
 
 IN 
 
 BELLES LErrRES 
 
 Published by John Lane 
 
 VIGO STREET, LONDON, W. 
 
 Adams (Francis). 
 Essays IN Modernity. Crown 8vo. 
 
 5S. net. [Shortly. 
 
 A Child of the Age. {See Key- 
 notes Series.) 
 A. E. 
 Homeward Songs bv the Way. 
 Sq. i6mo, wrappers, is. 6d. net. 
 Trans/erred to the present Pub- 
 lisher. [Seconi Edition. 
 Aldrich (T. B.) 
 
 Laikr Lyrics. Sm. Fcap. 8vo. 
 2S. 6d. net. 
 
 Allen (Grant). 
 
 The Lowfk Si-oif.s : A Volume of 
 Verse. With Title-page ami Cover 
 Design by J. Ili.ingwortii Kay. 
 Crown Svo. 5s. net. 
 
 The Woman Who Did. {See Key- 
 notes Series.) 
 
 The British Barbarians. [See 
 Kkvnotf.s Series.) 
 Arcady Library (The). 
 
 A Series of Open-Air Books. Edited 
 by J. S. Fleicher. With Cover 
 Designs by Patten Wilson. 
 Each volume crown Svo. 5s. net. 
 
 I. Round about a Brighton 
 
 Coach Office. By Maude 
 Egerton King. Vv'ith 
 over 30 Illustrations by 
 Lucy Kemh-Wflch. 
 
 II. Like IN Arcadia. ByJ.S. 
 
 Fletcher. With 20 Illus- 
 trations by Patten Wil- 
 son. 
 
 Arcady Library (The) — coitt. 
 
 III. Scholar Gipsies. By John 
 
 Buchan. With 7 fuU-paga 
 Etchingsby D.V. Camhro.v 
 
 IV. In the Garden of Peace. 
 
 By Hklen MiLMAN. With 
 24 Illustrations by EoMtJND 
 H. New. 
 
 V. The H.M'i'Y Exile. By H. 
 
 D. LowRY. With 6 Etch- 
 ings by E. Philip Pi.mlott. 
 [/« preparation. 
 
 Beeching (Rev. H. C). 
 
 In A Garden : Poems. With Title- 
 page designed by Roger Fry. 
 Crown Svo. 5s. net. 
 
 St. Augustine at Osti.\. Crown 
 Svo, wrappers, is. net. 
 
 Beerbohm (Max). 
 
 The Works of Max Beerbohm. 
 
 With a Bibliography by John 
 
 Lane. Sq. i6mo. 4s. 6d. net. 
 
 Benson (Arthur Christopher) 
 
 LvNics. Fcap. Svo, buckram. 5s. 
 
 net. 
 Lord Vyet and other Poems. 
 Fcap. Svo. 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 Bodley Head Anthologies 
 
 (The). 
 Edited by Robert H. Case. With 
 Title-page and Cover Designs by 
 Walter West. Each volume 
 crown Svo. 5s. net. 
 I. English Epithalamies. 
 By Rop.ert H. Case.
 
 THE PUBLICATIONS OF 
 
 Bodley Head Anthologies 
 
 (The) — font i lined. 
 
 ii. MusA PiscATRix. By John 
 BucHAN. With 6 Etchings 
 by E. Philip Pimlott. 
 
 III. English Elegies. By John 
 
 C. Bailev. 
 
 [In pyeparation. 
 
 IV. English Satires. ByCiiAS. 
 
 Hii.i, Dick. 
 
 [/« fireparatioii. 
 
 Bridges (Robert). 
 
 Sui'LRFSSKI) CHAI-TERS AND OTHER 
 
 Bookishness. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. 
 net. {Second Edition. 
 
 Brotherton (Mary). 
 
 Rosemary for Rememrrance. 
 With Title-pase and Cover Design 
 by Walter West. Kcap. 8vo. 
 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 Crackanthorpe (Hubert). 
 Vignettes. A Miniature Journal 
 cf Whim and Sentiment. B'cap. 
 8vo, boards. 2S. 6d. net. 
 
 Crane (Walter). 
 Toy Books. P.^':-issue, each with 
 
 newCover Design and End Papers 
 This Little Pig's Picture Book, 
 
 containing : 
 
 I. This Little Pig. 
 
 II. The Fairy Ship. 
 
 III. King Luckieboy's Party. 
 The three bound in one voliime with 
 a decorative cloth cover, end papers, 
 and a newly written and designed 
 preface and title-page. 3s. 6d. net ; 
 separately gd. net each. 
 
 Mother Hubbard's Picture 
 Book, containing : 
 I. Mother Hubbard's. 
 
 II. The Thkee Bears. 
 
 III. The Absurd A. B. C. 
 The three bound in one volume with 
 
 a decorative cloth cover, end papers, 
 and a newly written and designed 
 preface and title-page. 3s. 6d. net ; 
 separately gd. net each. 
 
 Custance (Olive). 
 Opals : Poems. Fcap. Svo. 3s. 6d. 
 net. 
 
 Dalmon (C. W.). 
 Song Favours. With a Title-page 
 
 by J. P. Donne. Sq. i6mo. 
 
 3s. 6d. net. 
 Davidson (John). 
 
 Plays : An Unhistorical Pastor. .1 ; 
 A Romantic Farce ; Bruce, a 
 Chronicle Play ; Smith, a Tragic 
 Farce ; Scaramouch in Naxos, a 
 Pantomime. With a Frontispiece 
 and Cover Design by Auhrkv 
 Beardsi.ev. Small 410. 7s. 6d. 
 net. 
 
 Fleet Street Eclogues. Fcap. 
 Svo, buckram. 4s. 6d. net. 
 
 [Third Edition. 
 
 Fleet Street Ecloc;ues. 2nd 
 Series. Fcap. Svo, buckram. 
 4s. 6d. net. [Second Edition. 
 
 A Random Itinerary and a 
 Ballad. With a Frontispiece and 
 Tit e-page by Laurbnce Hous- 
 man. Fcap. Svo, Irish Linen. 
 5s. net. 
 
 Ballads and Songs. With a Title- 
 page and Cover Design by Wal- 
 ter West. Fcap. Svo, buckram. 
 5-;. net. [Eourt/i Edition. 
 
 New Ballads. Fcap. Svo, buck 
 ram. 4s.6d.net. [Second Edition. 
 De Tabley (Lord). 
 
 Poems, Dramatic and Lyrical. 
 By John Leicester Warren 
 (Lord de Tabley). Illustrations 
 and Cover Design by C. S. 
 Ricketts. Crown Svo. 7s. 6d. 
 net. [ Third Edition. 
 
 Poems, Dramatic and Lyrical. 
 Second Series, uniform in binding 
 with the former volume. Crown 
 Svo. 5s. net. 
 
 Duer (Caroline, and Alice). 
 
 Poems. Fcap. Svo. 3s. fid. net. 
 Egerton (George) 
 
 Keynotes. (See Keynotes 
 Series.) 
 
 Discords. (5^^ Keynotes Series.) 
 
 VouxG Ofeg's Ditties. A transla- 
 tion from the Swedish of Ola 
 Hansson. With Title-page and 
 Cover Design by Aubrey Beards- 
 lev. Crown Svo. 3s. fid. net. 
 
 Symphonies. [In preparation.
 
 JOHN LANE 
 
 Eglinton (John). 
 
 'Iwo Essays on the Remnant. 
 Post Svo, wrappers, is. 6d net. 
 Transferred to the present Pub- 
 lisher , [Second Edition. 
 
 Eve's Library. 
 Each volume, crown Svo. 3s. 6d. 
 net. 
 I. Modern Wo.men. An Eng- 
 lish rendering of Laura 
 Marholm Hansson's 
 
 " Das Buck DER Frauen " 
 by Hekmione Ramsden. 
 Subjects:. Soni.T Kovalevsky, 
 George Egerton, Eleanora 
 Duse, AmalieSkram, Marie 
 Bashkirtseff, A. Ch. Edgren 
 Lefller. 
 II. The Ascent of Woman. 
 
 By Roy Devereux. 
 III. Marriage Questions in 
 Modern Fictio.n. By 
 Elizabeth Rachel Chap- 
 man. 
 
 Fea (Allan). 
 The Flight of the King : a full, 
 true, and particular account of the 
 escape of His Most .Sacred Ma- 
 jesty King Charles II. after the 
 Battle of Worcester, with Sixteen 
 Portraits in Photogravure and 
 nearly 100 other Illustrations. 
 Demy Svo. 21s. net. 
 
 Field (Eugene). 
 The Love Affaiijs of a Biblio- 
 maniac. Post Svo. 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 Fletcher (J. S.). 
 The Wonderful Wapentake. 
 
 By "A Son of the Soil." With 
 
 18 full-page Illustrations by J. A. 
 
 Symington. Crown Svo. 5s. fid. 
 
 net. 
 Life in Arcadia. (See Arcady 
 
 Library.) 
 God's Failures. <Jiee Keynotes 
 
 Series.) 
 Ballads of Revolt. Sq. 3aino. 
 
 2s, fid. net. 
 
 Ford (James L.). 
 The Literary Shop and Other 
 Tales. Fcap. Svo. 3s. fid. net. 
 
 Four-and-Sixpenny Novels. 
 
 Each volume wuh Tule-pMi^i; and 
 Cover Design by Pa 1 ien Wilson. 
 Crown Svo. 4s. fid. net. 
 
 C.ALLoriNc; Dick. By H. B. Mar- 
 riott Watson. 
 
 The Wood OF 1 HE Brambles. By 
 Frank Mathew. 
 
 The Sacrifice of Fools. By R. 
 .Manifold Ckaig. 
 
 A Lawyer's Wife. By.SirNEViLL 
 Geary, Bart. [Second Edition. 
 
 'J'he /ol/o7ving are in pref>aration : 
 
 Weighed in the Balance. By 
 Harry Lander. 
 
 Glamour. By Meta Orked. 
 
 Patience Sparhawk and her 
 Times. ByGERiRUOEATHERTON. 
 
 The Wise and the Wayward. 
 By G. S. Street. 
 
 Middle Gkevness. By A J. Daw- 
 son. 
 
 The Martyr's Biiu.e. By George 
 Fifth. 
 
 A Celibate's Wife. By Herbert 
 Flowerdew. 
 
 Max. By Julian Croskey. 
 
 The Making of a Prig. By 
 Evelyn Shanp. 
 
 The Trek of Life. By Nktta 
 Svrett. 
 
 Cecilia. By Stanley V. Mak- 
 ower. 
 Fuller (H. B.). 
 
 The Pui tict Booth. Twelve Plays. 
 Crown Svo. .)S. 6d. net. 
 
 Gale (Norman). 
 
 Orchard Sont.s. Witli Title-page 
 and Cover Design by J. Illin<;- 
 woRTH Kay. Fcap. Svo, Irish 
 Linen. 5s. net. 
 Also a Special Edition liiniteci in nimiber 
 on liand-macle paper bound in English 
 velluin. £\ is. net. 
 
 Garnett (Richard). 
 
 Poems. With Title-page by J. 
 Illingworth Kay. Crown Svo. 
 5s. net. 
 
 Dante, Petrarch, Camoens, 
 cxxiv Sonnets, rendered in Eng- 
 lish. With Title-page by Fatten 
 Wilson. Crown Svo. 5s. net. 
 Gibson (Charles Dana). 
 
 Pictures: Eighty-Five Large Car. 
 toonsi Oblong Folio. 15s. net.
 
 THE PUBLICATIONS OP 
 
 Gibson (Charles Dana) — 
 
 tontinued. 
 Pictures of People. Eighty-Five 
 
 Large Cartoons. Oblong folio. 
 
 15s. net. 
 Gosse (Edmund). 
 The I/Etters of Thomas Lovell 
 
 Beddoes. Now first edited. Pott 
 
 8vo. 5s. net. 
 
 Also 25 copies large paper. 12s. 6d. net 
 
 Grahame (Kenneth). 
 Pagan Paters. With Title-page 
 by Aubrey Beardsley. Fcap. 
 8vo. 5s. net. 
 
 [Out of Print at present. 
 The Golden Age. With Cover 
 Design by Charles Robinson. 
 Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 [Fifth Edition. 
 
 Greene (G. A.). 
 
 Italian Lyrists of To-day. 
 Translations in the original metres 
 from about thirty -five living Italian 
 poets, with bibliographical and 
 Ijiographical notes. Crown Svo. 
 5s. net. 
 Greenwood (Frederick). 
 
 Imagination in Dreams. Crown 
 Svo. ss. net. 
 
 Hake (T. Gordon). 
 
 A Selection from his Poems. 
 Edited by I\Irs. Meynelu With 
 a Portrait after D. G. Rossetti, 
 and a Cover Design by Gleeson 
 White. Crown Svo. 5s. net. 
 Hayes (Alfred). 
 
 The Vale of Arden and Other 
 Poems. With a Title-page and a 
 Cover designed by E. H. New. 
 Fcap. Svo. 3s. 6d. net. 
 Also 25 copies large paper, i^^s. net. 
 
 Hazlitt (William). 
 
 Liber Amoris ; or, The New 
 Pygmalion. Edited, with an 
 Introduction, by Richard Le 
 Gallienne. To which is added 
 an exact transcript of the original 
 MS., Mrs. Hazlitt's Diary in 
 Scotland, and letters never before 
 published. Portrait after Be- 
 wick, and facsimile letters. 400 
 Copies only. 4to, 364 pp., buck- 
 ram. 21S. not. 
 
 Heinemann (William). 
 
 The First Step ; A Dramatic 
 Moment. Small 410. 3s. 6d. net. 
 Hopper (Nora). 
 
 Ballad in Prose. With a Title- 
 page and Cover by Walter 
 West. Sq. i6mo. ss. net. 
 
 Under Quicken Boughs. With 
 Title-page designed by Patten 
 Wilson, and Cover designed by 
 Elizabeth Navlor, Crown 
 Svo. ss. net. 
 Housman (Clemence). 
 
 The Were Wolf. With 6 full- 
 page Illustrations, Title-p.-ige, 
 and Cover Design by Laurence 
 Housman. Sq. i6mo. 3s.6d.net. 
 Housman (Laurence). 
 
 Green Arras : Poems. With 6 
 Illustrations, Title-page, Cover 
 Design, and End Papers by the 
 Author. Crown Svo. 5s. net. 
 
 Gods and their Makers. Crown 
 Svo, 3s. 6d. net. [1 11 preparation. 
 
 Irving (Laurence). 
 Godefroi and Yoi.ande : A Play. 
 Sm. 4to. 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 [ In pref'a ra tioit, 
 
 James (W. P.) 
 
 Romantic Professions : A Volume 
 of Essays. With Title-page de- 
 signed by J. Illingworth Kay. 
 Crown Svo. 5s. net. 
 
 Johnson (Lionel). 
 
 The Art of Thomas Hardv : Si.x 
 Essays. With Etched Portrait by 
 Wm. Strang, and Bibliography 
 by John Lane. Crown Svo. 
 5s. 6d. net. [Second Edition. 
 Also 150 copies, large paper, with proofs 
 of the portrait. ;^i is. net. 
 
 Johnson (Pauline). 
 
 White Wampum : Poems. With a 
 Title-page and Cover Design by 
 E. H. New. Crown Svo. 5s. net. 
 Johnstone (C. E.). 
 
 Ballads of Boy and Beak. With 
 a Title-page by F. H. Townsend. 
 Sq. 32mo. 2S. net. 
 
 Kemble (E. W.) 
 
 Ke.mble's Coons. 30 Drawings of 
 Coloured Children and Southern 
 Scenes. Large 410. 5s. net.
 
 John lane 
 
 Keynotes Series. 
 
 Each volume with specially-desi)2rned 
 
 ']itle-page by Audrey Beards- 
 
 l;;y or Patten Wilson. Crown 
 
 8vo, cloth. 3-;. 6d. net. 
 
 I. Keynotes. By George 
 
 Egerton. 
 
 [Sezwnik Edition. 
 n. The Dancini; Faun. By 
 
 Florence Farr. 
 UL Poor Folk. Translated 
 from the Russian of F. Dos- 
 toievsky by Lena Milman. 
 With a Preface by George 
 Moore. 
 IV. A Child of the Age. By 
 
 Francis Adams. 
 V. The Great God Pan and 
 The Inmost Light. By 
 Arthur Machen 
 
 [Second Edition. 
 VI. Discords. By George 
 Egerton. 
 
 \Fi/th Edition. 
 VII. Prince Zaleski. By M. P. 
 
 Shiel. 
 VIII. The Woman who Did. By 
 Grant Allen. 
 [ T7i<enfy-second Edition. 
 IX. Women's Tragedies. By 
 
 H. D. Lovvrv. 
 X. Grev Roses. By Henry 
 
 Harl.^nd. 
 XI. At the First Corner and 
 Other Stories. By H. 
 B. Marriott Watson. 
 XII. Monochromes. By Ella 
 D'Arcy. 
 
 XIII. At the Relton Arms. By 
 
 Evelyn Sharp. 
 
 XIV. The Girl from the Farm- 
 
 By Gertrude Dix. 
 
 [Second Edition. 
 
 XV. The Mirror OF Music. By 
 
 Stanley V. Makower. 
 XVI. Yellow and White. By 
 
 W. Carlton Dawe. 
 
 XVII. The Mountain Lovers. 
 
 By Fiona Macleod. 
 
 XVIII. The Woman who Didn't. 
 
 By Victoria Crosse 
 
 [ Third Edition. 
 
 Keynotes Series— co/itinued. 
 
 XIX. The 'J'hi;ek Impostors. By 
 
 Arthur Machen. 
 
 XX. Nobody's Fault. By Netta 
 
 Svrett. 
 
 [Second Edition. 
 XXI. The British Barharians. 
 By Grant Allen. 
 
 [Second Edition. 
 XXII. In Homespun. By E. 
 Nesbit. 
 
 XXIII. Platonic Affections. By 
 
 John Smith. 
 
 XXIV. Nets for the Wind. By 
 
 Una Taylor. 
 XXV. Whf.re the Atlantic 
 Meets the Land. By 
 Caldwell Lipsett. 
 XXVI. In Scarlet and Grey 
 By Florence Hennikek. 
 (With The Spectre of the 
 Real by Florence Hen- 
 niker and Tho.mas Har- 
 dy.) [Second Edition. 
 XXVII. Maris Stella. By Marie 
 
 Clothilde Balfour. 
 xxviii. Day Books. By Mabel E. 
 
 WOTTON. 
 
 XXIX. Shapes in the Fire. By 
 
 M. P. Shiel. 
 XXX. Ugly Idol. By Claud 
 Nicholson. 
 Thcfollo-iving are in 7-apid 
 preparation : 
 XXXI Kakemonos. By W. Carl- 
 ton Dawe. 
 XXXII. God's Failures. By J. S. 
 
 Fletcher. 
 XXXIII. A Deliverance. By Allan 
 
 Monkhouse. 
 xxxiv. Mere Sentiment. By A. 
 J. Dawson. 
 
 Lane's Library. 
 
 Each volume crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. 
 net. 
 I. March Hares. By George 
 Forth. 
 
 [Second Edition. 
 II. The Sentimental Sex. By 
 
 Gertride Warden. 
 III. Gold. By Annie Linden
 
 THE PUBLICATIONS OF 
 
 Lane's Library — contimied. 
 
 The folloimng are in prcparaiion : 
 IV. Broken Away. By Bea- 
 trice Grimshaw. 
 V. A Man from the North. 
 
 By E. A. Bennett. 
 
 VI. The Duke of Linden. By 
 
 Joseph F. Charles. 
 
 Leather (R. K.). 
 
 Verses. 250 copies. Fcap. 8vo. 
 3s. net. [Transyi?-feii to the 
 present Publisher, 
 
 Lefroy (Edward Cracroft.) 
 
 Poems. With a Memoir by W. A. 
 Gill, and a reprint of Mr. J. .\. 
 Symonds' Critical Essay on 
 "Echoes from Theocritus." Cr. 
 Svo. Photogravure Portrait. 55. 
 net. 
 
 Le Gallienne (Richard). 
 Prose Fancies. With Portrait of 
 the Author by Wilson Steer 
 Crown Svo. Purple cloth. 5s, 
 , net. [Fourth Edition. 
 
 Also a limited large paper edition 
 I2S. 6d. net. 
 
 The Book Bills of Narcissus 
 An Account rendered by Richard 
 LE Gallienne. With a Frontis 
 piece. Crown Svo, purple cloth 
 3s. 66. net. [Third Edition. 
 
 Also 50 copies on large paper. Svo 
 los. 6d. net. 
 
 Robert Louis Stevenson, an 
 Elegy, and Other Poems, 
 mainly Personal. With Etched 
 Title-page by D. V. Cameron. 
 Crown Svo, purple cloth. 4s. fid. 
 net. 
 
 English Poems. Crown Svo, pur- 
 ple cloth. 4s. 6d. net. 
 
 [Fourth Edition, rcinscd. 
 George Meredith : Some Char- 
 acteristics. With a Bibliography 
 (much enlarged) by John Lane, 
 portrait, &c. Crown Svo, purple 
 cloth. 5s. 6d. net. 
 
 [Fourth Edition. 
 
 Le Gallienne (Richard) — 
 
 continued. 
 
 The Religion of a Literary 
 
 Man. Crown Svo, purple cloth. 
 
 3s. fid. net. [Fifth Thousand. 
 
 Also a special ruhricated edition on 
 
 hand-made paper. Svo. ids. 6d. net. 
 
 Retrospective Reviews, A Liter- 
 ary Log, iSpt-iSgs. 2 vols. 
 Crown Svo, purple cloth. 9s. 
 net. 
 
 Prose Fancies (Second Series). 
 Crown Svo, Purple cloth. 5s. net. 
 
 The QuEiT of the Golden Girl. 
 Crown Svo. 5s. net. 
 
 See also Hazlitt, Walton and 
 Cotton. 
 Lowry (H. D.). 
 
 Make Believe. Illustrated by 
 Charles Robinson. Crown Svo, 
 gilt edges or uncut. 5s. net. 
 
 Women's Tragedies. (See Key- 
 notes Series). 
 
 The Happy Exile. (See Arcady 
 Library). 
 Lucas (Winifred). 
 
 Units : Poems. Fcap. Svo. 3s. fid. 
 net. 
 Lynch (Hannah). 
 
 The Great Galeoto and Folly 
 or Saintliness. Two Plays, 
 from the Spanish of Jose Eche- 
 garay, with an Introduction. 
 Small 4to. 5s 6d. net. 
 
 Marzials (Theo.). 
 The Gallery of Pigeons and 
 Other Poems. Post Svo. 4s. fid. 
 net. [Transjerrcd to the present 
 Publisher. 
 The Mayfair Set. 
 Each volume fcap. Svo. 3s. fid. net. 
 1. The Autobiography of a 
 Boy. Passages selected by 
 his friend G. S. StreSt. 
 With a Title-page designed 
 by C. W. Furse. 
 
 [Fifth Edition. 
 II. The Joneses and the 
 Asterisks. A Story in 
 Monologue. By Gerald 
 Campbell. With a Title- 
 page and 6 Illustrations by 
 F. H. Townsend. 
 
 [Second Edition,
 
 JOHN LANE 
 
 The Mayfair Set — continued. 
 
 III. Select Conversations 
 
 WITH AN Uncle, now 
 Extinct. Hy H. G. 
 Wells. With a Title-page 
 by F. H. TowNSENu. 
 
 IV. For Plain Women Only. 
 
 By George Fleming. With 
 a Title-page by Patten 
 Wilson. 
 V. The Feasts OF AuTOLvcus : 
 The Di.\ry ok a Greedy 
 Woman. Edited by Eliza- 
 beth RoiiiNS Pennei.l. 
 With a Title-page by 
 Patten Wilson. 
 VI. Mrs. Ai.iiERT Grundy : 
 
 OliSERVATIONS IN PhIUS- 
 
 TiA. By Harold Fred- 
 eric With a Title-page 
 by Patten Wilson. 
 
 [Second Edition. 
 
 Meredith (George). 
 
 TiiK First Published Portrait 
 ok this -Author, engraved on the 
 wood by W. Biscomiie Gardner, 
 after the painting by (J. F. Watts. 
 Proof copies on Japanese vellum, 
 signed by painter and engraver. 
 £i\ IS. net. 
 
 Meynell (Mrs.). 
 
 PoKMS, Fcap. Svo. 3S. 6d. net. 
 iFifth Edition. 
 The Rhythm of Life and Other 
 
 Essays. Fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. 
 \_Fi/th Ediiion. 
 The Colour ok Life and Other 
 
 Essays. Fcap Svo. 3s. fid. 
 
 net. [Fi/tk Edition. 
 
 The Children. Fcap. Svo. 3s. fid. 
 
 net. [Second Edition. 
 
 Miller (Joaquin). 
 
 I'liE Building ok the City Beau- 
 tiful. Fcap. Svo. With a 
 Decorated Cover. 5^. net. 
 
 Money-Coutts (F. B.). 
 
 P,)EMS. With Title-p.ige designed 
 by Patten Wilson. Crown Svo. 
 3s. fid. net. 
 
 Monkhouse (Allan). 
 Books and Plays: A Volume of 
 
 Essays on Meredith, Borrow, 
 
 Ibsen, and others. Crown Svo. 
 
 5s. net. 
 A Deliverance. [See Keynotes 
 
 Series.) 
 Nesbit (E.). 
 A Pomander of Verse. With a 
 
 Title-page and Cover designed by 
 
 Laurence Housman. Crown 
 
 Svo. 5s. net. 
 In Homespun. (See Keynotes 
 
 Series ) 
 Nettleship (J. T.). 
 RdiiERr Buowning: Essays and 
 
 Thoughts. Crown Svo. 5s. fid. 
 
 net. [ Third Edition. 
 
 Noble (Jas. Ashcroft). 
 The Sonnf.t in ?2ngland and 
 Other Essays. Title-page and 
 Cover Design by Austin Young. 
 Crown Svo. 5s. net. 
 Also 50 copies lartj^e paper I3S. 6<i. net 
 
 Oppenheim (Michael). 
 A History of the Administra- 
 tion OF the Royal Navy, and 
 of Merchant Shipping in relation 
 to the Navy from MDIX to 
 MDCLX, with an introduction 
 treating of the earlier period. With 
 Ilkistrations. Demy Svo. 15s. 
 net. 
 
 O'Shaughnessy (Arthur). 
 His Life and His Work. With 
 Selections from his Poems. By 
 Louise Chandler Moulton. 
 Portrait and Cover Design. Fcap. 
 Svo. 5s. net. 
 
 Oxford Characters. 
 
 A series of lithographed portraits by 
 Will Rothenstein, with te.\t 
 by F. VoKK Powell and others. 
 200 copies only, folio, buckram. 
 £i 3s. net. 
 
 C5 special lari^e paper copies containin'.j 
 I>roof impressions of the portr.iiis 
 siijned by the artist, £6 6s. net. 
 
 Peters (Wm. Theodore). 
 
 Posies out of Rings. With Title- 
 page by Patten Wilscs. Sq. 
 ifimo. 2S. fid. net.
 
 THE PUBLICATIONS OF 
 
 Pierrot's Library. 
 
 Each volume with Title-page, Cover 
 
 and End Papers, designed by 
 
 Aubrey Beardsley. Sq. i6mo. 
 
 2s. net. 
 
 I. Pierrot. By H. de Vere 
 
 Stacpoole. 
 II. My Little Lady Anne. 
 By M Rs. Egerton Castle. 
 
 III. SiMi'LiciTY. By A. T. G. 
 
 Price. 
 
 IV. My Brother. By Vincent 
 
 Brown. 
 Tlw following are iti preparation : 
 V. Death, the Knight, and 
 THE Lady. By H. de 
 Vere Stacpoole. 
 VI. Mr. Passingham. By 
 
 Thomas Cobb. 
 VII. Two in Captivity. By 
 Vincent Brown. 
 Plarr (Victor). 
 In the Dorian Mood: Poems. 
 With Title-page by Patten 
 Wilson. Crown Svo. 5s. net. 
 Posters in Miniature : over 
 
 250 reproductions of French, 
 English and American Posters 
 with Introduction by Edward 
 Pen field. Large crown Svo. 
 ss. net. 
 
 Radford (Dollie). 
 Songs and other Verses, With 
 a Title-page by Fatten Wilson. 
 Fcap. Svo. 4s. 6d. net. 
 
 Rhys (Ernest). 
 A London Rose and Other 
 Rhymes. With Title-page de- 
 signed by Selwyn Image. Crown 
 Svo. 5s. net. 
 
 Robertson (John M.). 
 
 Essays towards a Critical 
 Method. (New Series.) Crown 
 Svo. 5s. net. [l7ipreparatio7i. 
 St. Cyres (Lord). 
 The Little Flowers of St. 
 Francis : A new rendering into 
 English of the Fioretti di San 
 Francesco. Crown Svo. 5s. net. 
 [ht preparation. 
 
 Seaman (Owen). 
 The Battle of the Bays. Fcap. 
 gvo. 3s. 6d. net, 
 
 Sedgwick (Jane Minot). 
 
 Songs from the Greek. Fcap. 
 Svo. 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 Setoun (Gabriel). 
 The Child World : Poems. With 
 over 200 Illustrations by Charles 
 Robinson. Crown Svo, gilt edges 
 or uncut. 5s. net. 
 
 Sharp (Evelyn). 
 
 WvMis: Fairy Tales. With Colour- 
 ed Illustrations by Mabel Dear- 
 MER. Small 4to, decorated cover. 
 4s. 6d. net. 
 
 At the Relton Arms. (_See Key- 
 notes Series.) 
 
 The Making of a Prig. [See 
 
 FOUR-AND-SIXPENNY NoVELS.) 
 
 Shore (Louisa). 
 Poems. With an appreciation by 
 Frederic Harrison and a Por- 
 trait. Fcap. Svo. ss. net. 
 
 Short Stories Series. 
 
 Each volume Post Svo. Coloured 
 edges. 2s. 6d. net. 
 
 I. Some Whims of Fate. By 
 
 M^nie Muriel Dowie. 
 II. The Sentimental Vikings. 
 
 By R. V. RisLEY. 
 III. Shadows of Life. By Mrs. 
 Murray Hickson. 
 Stevenson i^Robert Louis). 
 
 Prince Otto. A Rendering in 
 French by Egerto.n C.\>Tr e. 
 With Frontispiece, Title-page, and 
 Cover Design by D. Y. Cameron. 
 Crown Svo. 7s. 6d. net. 
 Also 50 copies on lartje paper, uniform 
 in s ze with tlie Edinburjjii Edition of 
 thf Works. 
 
 A Child's Garden of Verses. 
 With over 150 Illustrations by 
 Charles Robinson. Crown Svo. 
 5s. net. [Second Edition. 
 
 Stimson (F. J.) 
 
 King Noanet t. A Romance of 
 Devonshire Settlers in New Eng- 
 land. Illustrated. La.ge crown 
 Svo. 5s. net. 
 
 Stoddart (Thos. Tod). 
 The Death Wake. With an 
 Introduction by Andrew Lang. 
 Fcap. Svo. js. net.
 
 JOHN LANE 
 
 Street (G. S.). 
 Ei'isoDES. Post 8vo. 3S. net. 
 Miniatures and Moods. Fcap. 
 
 8vo. 3S. net. [Both trans/erred 
 
 to the present Publisher. 
 QuALES Ego : A few Remarks, 
 
 IN I'ARTICULAR AND AT LARGE. 
 
 Fcap. 8vo. 3S. 6d. net. 
 The AuTOBioGRAi'iiY OF A Boy. 
 
 {Sec Mavfair Set.) 
 The Wise and the Wayward. 
 
 (•See Four - and - Sixpenny 
 
 Novels.) 
 
 Swettenham (F. A.) 
 
 Malay Sketches. With a Title- 
 page and Cover Design by Patten 
 Wilson. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. 
 [Second Edition. 
 
 Tabb (John B.). 
 
 Poems. Sq. 32nio. 4s. 6d. net. 
 Tennyson (Frederick). 
 Poems of the Day and Year. 
 With a Title-page designed by 
 Patten Wilson. Crown 8vo. 
 5S. net. 
 
 Thimm (Carl A.). 
 A Complete Bihi.iography of 
 Fencin(; and Duki.i.ini;, as 
 
 PR.\CTISED liY ALL EUKOIKAN 
 
 Nations from ihe Middle 
 Ages to the Present Day. 
 With a Classified Inde.x, arranged 
 Chronologically according to 
 Languages. Illustrated wiih 
 numerous Portraits of Ancient 
 and Modern Masters of the Art. 
 Title-pages and Frontispieces of 
 some of the earliest works. Por- 
 trait of the Author by Wilson 
 Steer, and Title page designed 
 by I'atpen Wilson. 4to. 21s. 
 net. 
 
 Thompson (Francis) 
 
 Pt)E.MS. With Frontispiece, Title- 
 page, and Cover Design by 
 Laurence Housman. Pott 410. 
 5s. net. [Fourth Edition. 
 
 Sister-Songs : An Offering to 
 Two Sisters. With Frontispiece, 
 Title-page, and Cover Design by 
 Laurence Housman. Pott 4to. 
 5s. net. 
 
 Thoreau (Henry David). 
 Poems of Nature. Selected and 
 edited by Henky S. Salt and 
 Frank B. Sanuorn, with a 
 Title-page designed by Patie.w 
 Wilson. Fcap. 8vo. 4s. 6d. 
 net. 
 
 Traill (H. D.). 
 The Barparous Britishers : A 
 Tip-top Novel. With Title and 
 Cover Design by Aubrey 
 Beardsi.ey. Crown 8vo, wrap- 
 per. IS. net. 
 From Cairo to the Soudan 
 Frontier. With Cover Design 
 by P.\tten Wilson. Crown 
 8vo. 5s. net. 
 
 Tynan Hinkson (Katharine) 
 Cuckoo Songs. With Title-page 
 and Cover Design by Laurence 
 Housman. Fcap. 8vo. 5s. ret. 
 Miracle Plays. Our Lord's 
 Co.MiNG AND Childhood. With 
 6 Illustrations, Title-page, and 
 Cover Design by Patten Wil- 
 son. Fcap. 8vo. 4s. 6d. net. 
 
 Walton and Cotton. 
 
 The Com pleat Angler. Edited 
 by RiciiAKD I.B Gali.ienne. 
 Illustrated by Ed.mund H. New. 
 Fcap. 4to, decorated cover. 15s. 
 nut. 
 ANo t<> lie had in Ihirtccii is parts, 
 
 Watson (Rosamund Mar- 
 riott). 
 N'espertilia and other Poems. 
 With a Title-page designed by R. 
 Anninc; Bell. Fcap. 8vo. 4s. 6 J. 
 net. 
 A Summer Night and Other 
 PoE.MS. New Edition. With a 
 Decorative Title-p.ige. Fcap. 
 8vo. 3s. net. 
 
 Watson (William). 
 The Father of the Forest and 
 other Poems. With New Photo- 
 gravure Portrait of the Author 
 Fcap. 8vo, buckrjm. 3s. 6d. net. 
 [Fifth Edition. 
 Odes and Other Poems. Fcap. 
 8vo, buckram. 4s. 6d. net. 
 
 \Foiirth Edition,
 
 THE PUBLICATIONS OF JOHN LANE 
 
 Watson (William) — continued. 
 
 The Eloping Angels : A Caprice 
 Square i6nio, buckram. 3";. 6d. 
 net. [Second Edition. 
 
 Excursions in Criticism : being 
 some Prose Recreations of a 
 Rhymer. Crown 8vo, buckram. 
 5s. net, [Second Edition. 
 
 The Prince's Quest and Other 
 Poems. With a Bibliographical 
 Note added. Fcap. Svo, buckram. 
 4s.6d.net. [Third Edition. 
 
 The Purple East : A Series of 
 Sonnets on England's Desertion 
 of Armenia. With a Frontispiece 
 after G. F. Watts, R.A. Fcap. 
 Svo, wrappers, is. net. 
 
 [Third Edition. 
 
 The Year of Sha.me. With an 
 Introduction by the Bishop of 
 Hericford. Fcap. Svo. 2s. 6d. 
 net. [Second Edition. 
 
 Watt (Francis). 
 The Law's Lumber Room. Fcap. 
 Svo. 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 [Second Edition. 
 
 Watts-Dunton (Theodore). 
 
 Poems. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. 
 
 [In preparation. 
 There will also be an Edition de Luxe of 
 this volume printed at the Kelmscott 
 Press. 
 
 Wenzell (A. B.) 
 
 In Vanity Fair. 70 Drawings. 
 Oblong folio. 153. net. 
 
 Wharton (H. T.) 
 
 Sappho. Memoir, Text, Selected 
 Renderings, and a Literal Trans- 
 lation by Henry Thornton 
 Wharton. With 3 Illustra- 
 tions in Photogravure, and a 
 Cover designed by Aubrey 
 Beardslev. Fcap. Svo. 7s. 6d. 
 net. [Third Edition. 
 
 THE YELLOW BOOK 
 
 An Illustrated Quarterly. 
 
 Pott 4to, js. net. 
 
 I. April 1894,272 pp., 15 Illustra- 
 tions. [Otit oj print. 
 
 II. July 1894, 364 pp., 23 Illustra- 
 tions. 
 
 III. October 18^4, 280 pp., 15 
 
 Illustrations. 
 
 IV. January 1895, 285 pp., 16 
 
 Illustrations. 
 
 V. April 1895, 317 pp., 14 Illus- 
 trations. 
 
 VI. July 1S95, 335 pp., 16 Illustra- 
 tions. 
 
 VII. October 1895, 320 pp., 20 
 Illustrations. 
 
 VIII. January 1S96, 406 pp., 26 
 Illustrations. 
 
 IX. April 1S96, 256 pp., 17 Illus- 
 trations. 
 
 \'. July 1896, 340 pp., 13 Illustra- 
 tions. 
 
 • xi. October 1896, 342 pp., 12 Illus- 
 trations. 
 
 XII. January 1897, 35° PPi '4 lUus- 
 
 tralions. 
 
 t-v
 
 Goon 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 Santa Barbara 
 
 THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE 
 STAMPED BELOW. 
 
 Series 9482
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FAC|L1TY 
 
 A A 001 429 829 3
 
 I 
 
 Vti