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VAIN FORTUNE, 
 
Only One Hundred and Fifty Copies of this Large Paper Edition 
 have been Printed^ of which this is 
 
 Mo. 
 
> ».-..-..^ 1>>-' 
 
 "THE GKKAT CRITICS HAD i:ACn A SKI'AIIATK Al'DIHN-CK. [ l>„gt GS. 
 Pronlhincce.'] 
 
VAIN" FOETUNE. 
 
 BY 
 
 GEOKGE MOOKE, 
 
 Av.thor ef "A Mummer's Wife," " Impressions and Ojiinums," " Confessions of c, 
 Touny Man," "A Modem Lover," etc. 
 
 WITH ELEVEN ILLUSTRATIONS BY MAURICE GKEJFFENHAGEN. 
 
 LONDON: 
 HENRY AND CO., 
 
 BOUVERIE STREET, E.G. 
 
Printed by Haaell, Watson, & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury, 
 
The Author- has to express Ms thanks to the Editor 
 of the '■''Lady's Pictorial" for his kind permission to 
 reproduce in this volume Mr. GreiffenkagerC s illus- 
 trations. 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 rpHE lamp had not been wiped, and the room 
 smelt slightly of paraffin. The old window- 
 curtains, whose harsh green age had not softened, 
 were drawn. The mahogany sideboard, the thread- 
 bare carpet, the small horsehair sofa, the gilt mirror, 
 standing on a white marble chimney-piece, said clearly, 
 " Furnished apartments in a house built about a 
 hundred years ago." There were piles of newspapers, 
 there were books on the mahogany sideboard and on 
 the horsehair sofa, and on the table there were various 
 manuscripts, — The Gipsy, Act 1. ; The Gipsy, Act III., 
 Scenes iii. and iv. 
 
 A sheet of foolscap paper, and upon it a long slender 
 hand. The hand traced a few lines of fine, beautiful 
 
Z VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 caligrapliy, then it paused, correcting with extreme 
 care what was already written, and in a liesitating, 
 minute way, telling of a brain that delighted in the 
 correction rather than in the creation of form. 
 
 The shirt cuff was frayed and dirty. The coat 
 was thin and shiny. A half-length figure of a man 
 drew out of the massed shadows between the window 
 and sideboard. The red beard caught the light, 
 and the wavy brown hair brightened. Then a look 
 of weariness, of distress, passed over the face, and 
 the man laid down the pen, and, taking some tobacco 
 from a paper, rolled a cigarette. Rising, and leaning 
 forward, he lighted it over the lamp. He was a man 
 of about thirty — six feet, broad-shouldered, well-built, 
 healthy, almost handsome. 
 
 The time he spent in dreaming his play amounted 
 to six times, if not ten times, as much as he devoted 
 to trying to write it ; and he now lit cigarette after 
 cigarette, abandoning himself to every meditation, — the 
 unpleasantness of life in lodgings, the charm of foreign 
 travel, the beauty of the south, what he would do 
 if his play succeeded. He plunged into calculation 
 
VAIN FOETUNE. 3 
 
 of the time it would take him to finish it if he 
 were to sit at home all day, working from seven to 
 ten hours every day. If he could but make up his 
 mind concerning the beginning and the middle of the 
 third act, and about the end, too,— the solution,— he 
 felt sure that, with steady work, the play could be 
 completed in a fortnight. In such reverie and such 
 consideration he lay immersed, oblivious of the present 
 moment, and did not stir from his chair until the 
 postman shook the frail walls with a violent double 
 knock. He hoped for a letter, for a newspaper — either 
 would prove a welcome distraction. The servant's 
 footsteps on the stairs told him the post had brought 
 him something. His heart sank at the thought that 
 it was probably only a bill, and he glanced at all the 
 bills lying one above another on the table. 
 
 It was not a bill, nor yet an advertisement, but 
 a copy of a weekly review. He tore it open. An 
 article about himself ! 
 
 After referring to the deplorable condition of the 
 modern stage, the writer pointed out how dramatic 
 writing has of late years come to be practised entirely 
 
4 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 by men who have failed in all other branches of 
 literature. Then he drew attention to the fact that 
 signs of weariness and dissatisfaction witli the old 
 stale stories, the familiar tricks in bringing about 
 " striking situations," were noticeable, not only in the 
 newspaper criticisms of new plays, but also among the 
 better portion of the audience. He admitted, how- 
 ever, that hitherto the attempts made by younger 
 writers in the direction of new subject-matter and 
 new treatment had met with little success. But this, 
 he held, was not a reason for discouragement. Did 
 those who believed in the old formulas imagine that 
 the new formula would be discovered straight away, 
 without failures preliminary ? Besides, these attempts 
 were not utterly despicable ; at least one play written 
 on the new lines had met with some measure of 
 success, and that play was Mr. Hubert Price's Divorce. 
 But Mr. Hubert Price had kept silence too long, 
 they were waiting for him to speak. By his admir- 
 able play Div07'ce he had made himself Chef d' Ecole. 
 The time had come ; the opjtortunity was I'ipe ; the 
 public was ready to ai)plaud a masterpiece. 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. O 
 
 " Yes, the fellow is right. The public is ready for 
 a good play : it wasn't when Divorce was given. I 
 must finish J he Gipsy. There are good things in 
 it ; that I know. But I wish I could get that third 
 act right. The public will accept a masterpiece, but 
 it will not accept an attempt to write a masterpiece. 
 But this time there'll be no falling off in the last 
 acts. The scene between the gipsy lover and the 
 young lord will fetch 'em." Taking up the review, 
 Hubert glanced over the article a second time. 
 " How anxious the fellows are for me to achieve a 
 success ! How they believe in me ! They desire it 
 more than I do. They believe in me more than I 
 do in myself. They want to applaud me. They are 
 hungry for the masterpiece." 
 
 At that moment his eye was caught by some letters 
 written on blue paper. His face resumed a wearied 
 and hunted expression. " There's no doubt about it, 
 money I must get somehow. I am running it 
 altogether too fine. There isn't twenty pounds be- 
 tween me and the deep sea. Great Scott ! it is awful 
 to think of it. Here am 1, a London celebrity,— I 
 
6 VAIN FOKTUNE. 
 
 suppose I am a London celebrity, — living in a garret 
 on the verge of starvation, while my genius is being 
 discussed in caf6, club, and drawing-room. I must 
 do something to earn a little money. Journalism ! 
 there is journalism ; but how I hate it ! how incapable 
 I am of the facile commonplaces it demands ! " 
 ***** 
 
 In his own soul every man's life is a romance, pro- 
 saic though the outward facts may be ; and Hubert's 
 life was a psychological romance of intense interest, 
 although the facts of his existence were so few and 
 simple that without compression or undue brevity 
 they can be told in a few pages. 
 
 He was the son of the Rev. James Price, a Shrojj- 
 shire clergyman. The family was of Welsh extraction, 
 but in Hubert none of the physical characteristics of 
 the Celt appeared. He might have been selected as 
 a typical Anglo-Saxon. The face was long and pale, 
 and he wore a short reddish beard ; the eyes were light 
 blue, verging on grey, and they seemed to speak a 
 quiet, steadfast soul — an impersonal soul, one would 
 have said. But Hubert Price's impersonality was only 
 
VAIN FOETUNE. 7 
 
 apparent. In truth he was morbidly personal ; and 
 to escape from an overwhelming self-consciousness he 
 often simnlated an interest in others which was hardly 
 genuine. " I stand so much in need of your sympathy 
 that to gain it I must sympathise with you." 
 
 When a child, Hubert had been shy, meditative, 
 illusive, — his mother's favourite, and the scorn of his 
 elder brothers, two rough boys, addicted in early 
 youth to robbing orchards, and later on to gambling 
 and drinking. The elder, after having broken his 
 father's heart with debts and disgraceful living, had 
 gone out to the Cape. News of his death came to the 
 Rectory soon after; but James's death did not turn 
 Henry from his evil courses, and one day his father 
 and mother had to go to London on his account, and 
 they brought him back a hopeless invalid. Hubert 
 was twelve years of age when he followed his brother 
 to the grave. 
 
 It was at his brother's funeral that Hubert met 
 for the first time his uncle, Mr. Burnett. Mr. Bur- 
 nett had spent the greater part of his life in New 
 Zealand, where he had made a large fortune by sheep 
 
8 VAIN FOETUNE. 
 
 farming and investments in land. He had seemed to 
 be greatly taken witli his nephew, and for many years 
 it was miderstood that he would leave him the greater 
 part, if not the whole, of his fortune. But Mr. 
 Burnett had come under the influence of some poor 
 relations, some distant cousins, the Watsons, and had 
 eventually decided to adopt their daughter Emily 
 and leave her his fortune. He did not dare intimate 
 his change of mind to his sister ; but the news having 
 reached Mrs. Price in various rumours, she wrote to 
 her brother asking him to confirm or deny these 
 rumours ; and when he admitted their truth, Mrs. 
 Price never spoke to him again. She was a deter- 
 mined woman, and the remembrance of the wrong 
 done to her son never left her. 
 
 While the other children had been a torment and 
 disgrace, Hubert had been to his parents a consolation 
 and a blessing. They had feared that he too might 
 turn to betting and drink, but he had never shown 
 sign of low tastes. He played no games, nor did he 
 care for terriers or horses ; but for books and drawing, 
 and long country walks. Immediately on hearing of 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 9 
 
 his disinheritance he had spoken at once of entering 
 a profession ; and for many months this was the sub- 
 ject of consideration in the Rectory. Hubert joined 
 in these discussions willingly, but he could not bring 
 himself to accept the army or the bar. It was indeed 
 only necessary to look at him to see that neither 
 soldier's tunic nor lawyer's wig was intended for him ; 
 and it was nearly as clear that those earnest eyes, so 
 intelligent and yet so undetermined in their gaze, were 
 not those of a doctor. 
 
 But if his eyes failed to predict his future, his 
 hands told the story of his life distinctly enough 
 — those long, white, languid hands, what could they 
 mean but art ? And very soon Hubert began to draw, 
 evincing some natural aptitude. Then an artist came 
 into the neighbourhood, the two became friends, and 
 went together on a long sketching tour. Life in the 
 open air, the shade of the hedge, the glare of the 
 highway, the meditation of the field, the languor of 
 the riverside, the contemplation of wooded horizons, 
 was what Hubert's pastoral nature was most fitted 
 to enjoy ; and, for the sake of the life it afforded 
 
10 VAIN FORTFNE. 
 
 him, he pursued the calling of a landscape painter 
 long after he had begun to feel his desire turning 
 in another direction. When the landscape on the 
 canvas seemed hopelessly inadequate, he laid aside 
 the brush for tlie pencil, and strove to interpret the 
 summer fields in verse. From verse he drifted into 
 the article and the short story, and from the story into 
 the play. And it was in this last form that he felt 
 himself strongest, and various were the dramas and 
 comedies that he dreamed from year's end to year's end. 
 While he was in the midst of his period of verse- 
 writing his mother died, and in the following year, 
 just as he was working at his stories, he received a 
 telegram calling him to attend his father's death-bed. 
 When the old man was laid in the shadow of the 
 weather-beaten village church, Hubert gathered all his 
 belongings and bade farewell for ever to the Shropshire 
 rectory. Sitting in the railway carriage, he watched 
 the long line running on to London — London, beginning 
 in the fields, a line of lamps stretching behind the 
 sleeping cattle, houses, then fields again, gardens, then 
 a bridge, and the street below freckled with yellow 
 
VAIN FOETUNE. 11 
 
 lights. The train shook, springing from rail to rail — 
 there was the immense Thames, its grey indefinite 
 perspectives ! 
 
 In London Hubert made few friends. There were 
 some two or three men with whom he was frequently 
 seen — quiet folk like himself, whose enjoyment con- 
 sisted in smoking a tranquil pipe in the evening, 
 or going for long walks in the country. He was 
 one of those men whose indefiniteness provokes 
 curiosity, and his friends noticed and wondered why 
 it was that he was so frequently the theme of their 
 conversation. His simple, unaffected manners were 
 full of suggestion, and in his writings there was 
 always an indefinable rainbow-like promise of ultimate 
 achievement. So, long before he had succeeded in 
 writing a play, detached scenes and occasional verses 
 led his friends into gradual belief that he was one from 
 whom big things might be exjjected. And when the 
 one-act play which they had all so heartily approved 
 of was produced, and every newspaper praised it 
 for its literary quality, the friends took pride in 
 this public vindication of their opinion. After the 
 
12 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 production of his play people came to see the new author, 
 and every Saturday evening some fifteen or twenty 
 men nsed to assemble in Hubert's lodgings to drink 
 whisky, smoke cigars, and talk drama. Encouraged 
 by his success, Hubert wrote Divorce. He worked 
 unceasingly upon it for more than a year, and when he 
 had written the final scene he was breaking into his 
 last hundred pounds. The play was refused twice, and 
 then accepted by a theatrical speculator, to whom it 
 seemed to afford opportunity for the exhibition of the 
 talents of a lady he was interested in. 
 
 It was bitterly assailed and passionately defended. 
 A certain section of the Press spoke of " foul psycho- 
 logy " ; another said, " At last a literary play can be 
 witnessed in London ! " 
 
 The success of the play was brief. In something 
 like fifty representations its audience — the few thou- 
 sands who are capable of appreciating literature, and 
 the few thousands who would have it believed that 
 they are capable of appreciating literature — was ex- 
 hausted, and the i)lay had to be withdrawn. But 
 before this happened, Hubert had sold the American 
 
VAIN FOKTUNE. 13 
 
 rights for a handsome sum, and within the next two 
 years he had completed a second play, which he called 
 An Ebbing Tide. The production of An Ebbing Tide 
 was the theatrical event of the season. Some of the 
 critics argued that it contained scenes as fine as any 
 in Divorce, but it was admitted on all sides that the 
 interest withered in the later acts. But the failure 
 of the play did not shake the established belief in 
 Hubert's genius ; it merely concentrated the admiration 
 of those interested in the new art U2)on Divorce, the 
 partial failure of which was now attributed to the 
 acting. If it had only been played at the Haymarket 
 or the Lyceum, it could not have failed. 
 
 The next three years Hubert wasted in various 
 asstheticisms. He explained the difference between 
 the romantic and realistic methods in the reviews; 
 he played with a poetic drama to be called The King 
 of the Beggars, and it was not until the close of 
 the third year that he settled down to definite work. 
 Then all his energies were concentrated on a new 
 play— TAe Gipsy. A young woman of Bohemian 
 origin is suddenly taken with the nostalgia of the 
 
14 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 tent, and leaves her hnsband and her home to wander 
 with those of her race. He had read portions of this 
 play to his friends, who looked npou it as his master- 
 piece. Innumerable paragraphs had appeared in the 
 newspapers concerning it, and as Hubert's fortunes 
 grew narrower his fame grew wider in the world. 
 
 At last the newspapers succeeded in driving Mon- 
 tague Ford, the popular actor-manager, to Hubert's 
 door ; and after hearing some few scenes he had 
 offered a couple of hundred pounds in advance of 
 fees for the completed manuscript. "But when can 
 I have the manuscript ? " said Ford, as he was about 
 to leave. "As soon as I can finish it," Hubert re- 
 plied, looking at him wistfully out of pale blue-grey 
 eyes. " I could finish it in a month, if I could count 
 on not being worried by duns or disturbed by friends 
 during that time." 
 
 Ford looked at Hubert questioningly ; then he said, 
 " I have always noticed that when a fellow wants to 
 finish a jd^y? t.he only way to do it is to go away to 
 the country and leave no address." 
 
 But the country was always so full of pleasure for 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. li) 
 
 him, that he doubted his power to remain indoors with 
 the temptation of fields and rivers before his eyes, 
 and he thought that to escape from dunning creditors 
 it would be sufficient to change his address. So he 
 left Norfolk Street for the more remote quarter of 
 Fitzroy Street, where he took a couple of rooms on the 
 second floor. One of his fellow-lodgers, he soon found, 
 was Rose Massey, an actress engaged for the per- 
 formance of small parts at the Queen's Theatre. The 
 first time he spoke to her was on the doorstep. She 
 had forgotten her latch-key, and he said, " Will you 
 allow me to let you in ? " She stepped aside, but did 
 not answer him. Hubert tliought her rude, but her 
 strange eyes and absent-minded manner had piqued 
 his curiosity, and, having nothing to do that night, he 
 went to the theatre to see her act. She was playing 
 a very small part, and one that was evidently unsuited 
 to her — a part that was in contradiction to her nature ; 
 but there was something behind the outer envelope 
 which led him to believe she had real talent, and 
 would make a name for herself when she was given a 
 part that would allow her to reveal what was in her. 
 
16 VAIN FOETUNE. 
 
 In the meantime, Rose had been told that the 
 gentleman she had snubbed in the passage was Mr. 
 Hubert Price, the author of Divorce. 
 
 " Oh, it was very silly of me," she said to Annie. 
 " If I had only known ! " 
 
 " Lor', he don't mind ; he'll be glad enough to speak 
 to you when you meets him again." 
 
 And when they met again on the stairs. Rose nodded 
 familiarly, and Hubert said, — 
 
 " I went to the Queen's the other night." 
 
 " Did you like the piece ? " 
 
 " I did not care about the piece ; but when you get 
 a wild, passionate part to play, you'll make a hit. 
 The sentimental parts they give you don't suit you." 
 
 A sudden light came into the languid face. " Yes, 
 I shall do something if I can get a part like that." 
 
 Hubert told her that he was writing a play con- 
 taining just such a part. 
 
 Her eyes brightened again. " Will you read me 
 the play ? " she said, fixing her dark, dreamy eyes on 
 him. 
 
 " I shall be very glad. ... Do you think it won't 
 
VAIN FOETUNE. 17 
 
 bore you ? " And his wistful grey eyes were full of 
 interrogation. 
 
 " No, I'm sure it won't." 
 
 And a few days after she sent Annie with a note, 
 reminding him of his promise to read her what he 
 had written. As she had only a bedroom, the reading 
 had to take place in his sitting-room. He read her 
 the first and second acts. She was all enthusiasm, 
 and begged hard to be allowed to study the part — ^just 
 to see what she could do with it — just to let him see 
 that he was not mistaken in her. Her interest in his 
 work captivated him, and he couldn't refuse to lend 
 her the manuscript. 
 
CHAPTER, 11. 
 
 T3OSE often came to see Hnbert iu his rooms. 
 Her manner was disappointing, and he 
 thought he must be mistaken in his first judgment 
 of her talents. But one afternoon she gave him a 
 recitation of the sleep-walking scene in Macbeth. It 
 was strange to see this little dark-complexioned, 
 dark-eyed girl, the merest handful of flesh and bone, 
 divest herself at will of her personality, and assume 
 the tragic horror of Lady Macbeth, or the passionate 
 rapture of Juliet detaining her husband-lover on 
 the balcony of her chamber. Hubert watched iu 
 wonderment tin's girl, so weak and languid in her owu 
 nature, awaking only to life when she assumed the 
 personality of another. There she lay, her wispy form 
 stretched in his arm-chair, her great dark eyes fixed, 
 her mind at rest, sunk in some inscrutable dream. 
 Her thin hand lay on the arm of the chair : wheu 
 
 i9 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 19 
 
 she woke from her day-dream she burst into irre- 
 sponsible laughter, or questioned him with petulant 
 curiosity. He looked again : her dark curling hair 
 hung on her swarthy neck, and she was somewhat 
 untidily dressed in blue linen. 
 
 " Were you ever in love ? " she said suddenly. " I 
 don't suppose you could be; you are too occupied 
 with your play. I don't know, though; you might 
 be in love, but I don't think that many women would 
 be in love with you. . . . You are too good a man, 
 and women don't like good men." 
 
 Hubert laughed, and without a trace of offended 
 vanity in his voice he said, " I don't profess to be 
 
 much of a lady-killer." 
 
 "You don't know what I mean," she said, looking 
 
 at him fixedly, a maze of half-childish, lialf-artistic 
 
 curiosity in her handsome eyes. 
 
 Perplexed in his shy, straightforward nature, 
 
 Hubert inquired if she took sugar in her tea. She 
 
 said she did ; stretched her feet to the fire, and lapsed 
 
 into dream. She was one of the enigmas of Stageland. 
 
 She supported herself, and went about by herself, 
 
20 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 looking a poor, lost little thing. She spoke with con- 
 siderable freedom of language on all subjects, but 
 no one had been able to fix a lover upon her. 
 
 " What a part Lady Hayward is ! But tell me, — I 
 don't quite catch your meaning in the second act. Is 
 this it ? " and starting to her feet, she became in a 
 moment another being. With a gesture, a look, an 
 intonation, she was the woman of the play, — a woman 
 taken by an instinct, long submerged, but which has 
 floated to the surface, and is beginning to command her 
 actions. In another moment she had slipped back into 
 her weary lymphatic nature, at once prematurely old 
 and extravagantly childish. She could not talk of 
 indiiferent things ; and having asked some strange 
 questions, and laughed loudly, she wished Hubert 
 " Good-afternoon " in her curious, irresponsible fashion, 
 taking her leave abruptly. 
 
 The next two days Hubert devoted entirely to his 
 play. There were things in it which he knew were 
 good, l)ut it was incomplete. Montague Ford would 
 not produce it in its present form. He must put his 
 shoulder to the wheel and get it right ; one more 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 21 
 
 push, that was all that was wanted. And he conld 
 he heard walking to and fro, np and down, along and 
 across his tinj^ sitting-room, stopping suddenly to take 
 a note of an idea that had occurred to him. 
 
 One day he went to Hampstead Heath. A long 
 walk, he thought, would clear his mind, and he 
 returned home thinking of his play. The sunset still 
 glittered in the skies ; the bare trees were beautifully 
 distinct on the blue background of the suburban street, 
 and at the end of the long perspective a 'bus and a 
 hansom could be seen coming towards him. As they 
 grew larger, his thoughts defined themselves, and the 
 distressing problem of his fourth act seemed to solve 
 itself. That very evening he would sketch out a new 
 dramatic movement around which all the other move- 
 ments of the act would cluster. But at the corner of 
 Fitzroy Square, within a few yards of No. 17, he was 
 accosted by a shabbily-dressed man, who inquired if 
 he were Mr. Price. On being answered in the affirma- 
 tive, the shabbily dressed man said, " Then I have 
 something for ye ; I have been a-watchiug of ye for 
 the last three days, but ye didn't come out; missed 
 
22 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 yer this morning: 'ere it is ; " and he thrust a folded 
 paper into Hubert's hand. 
 
 " What is this ? " 
 
 " Don't yer know ? " he said with a grin ; " Messrs. 
 Tomkins & Co., Tailors, writ— twenty-two pound odd." 
 
 Hubert made no answer ; he put the paper in his 
 pocket, opened the door quietly, stole up to his room, 
 and sat down to think. The first thing to do was to 
 examine into his finances. It was alarming to find 
 that he was breaking into his last five-pound note. 
 True that he was close on the end of his play, and 
 when it was finished he would be able to draw on 
 Ford. But a summons to appear in the county 
 court could not fail to do him immense injury. He 
 had heard of avoiding service, but he knew little of 
 the law, and wondered what power the service of the 
 writ gave his creditor over him. His instinct was to 
 escape — hide himself where they would not be able 
 to find him, and so obtain time to finish his play. 
 But he owed his landlady money, and his departure 
 would have to be clandestine. As he reflected on how 
 many necessaries he might carry uwuy in a newspaper, 
 
VAm FOETUNE. 23 
 
 ne began to feel strangely like a criminal, and while 
 rolling np a couple of shirts, a few pairs of socks, and 
 some collars, he paused, his hands resting on the 
 parcel. He did not seem to know himself, and it was 
 difficult to believe that he really intended to leave the 
 house in this disreputable fashion. Mechanically he 
 continued to add to his parcel, thinking all the while 
 that he must go, otherwise his play would never be 
 written. 
 
 He had been working very well for the last few days, 
 and now he saw his way quite clearly; the inspiration 
 he had been so long waiting for had come at last, and 
 he felt sure of his foui-th act. At the same time he 
 wished to conduct himself honestly, even in this dis- 
 tressing situation. Should he tell his landlady the 
 truth? But the desire to realise his idea was intolerable, 
 and, )delding as if before an irresistible force, he tied 
 the parcel and prepared to go. At that moment he 
 remembered that he must leave a note for his landlady, 
 and he was more than ever surprised at the naturalness 
 with which lying phrases came into his head. But 
 when it came to committing them to paper, he found 
 
24 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 lie could not tell an absolute lie, and he wrote a simple 
 little note to the effect that he had been called away on 
 urgent business, and hoped to return in about a week. 
 He descended the stairs softly. Mrs. Wilson's 
 sitting-room opened on to the passage; she might step 
 out at any moment, and intercept his exit. He had 
 nearly reached the last flight when he remembered 
 that he had forgotten his manuscripts. His flesh 
 turned cold, his heart stood still. There was nothing 
 for it but to ascend those creaking stairs again. 
 His already heavily encumbered pockets could not be 
 persuaded to receive more than a small portion of 
 the manuscripts. He gathered them in his hand, and 
 prepared to re-descend the perilous stairs. He walked 
 as lightly as possible, dreading that every creak would 
 bring Mrs. Wilson from her parlour. A few more 
 steps, and he would be in the passage. A smell of 
 dust, sounds of children crying, children talking in 
 the kitchen ! A few more steps, and, with his eyes 
 on the parlour door, Hubert had reached the rug at 
 the foot of the stairs. He hastened along the passage. 
 Mrs. Wilson was a moment too late. His hand was 
 
VAIX FOETUNE. 25 
 
 on the street-door when she appeared at the door of 
 her parlour. 
 
 '• Mr. Price, I want to speak to yon before yon go 
 ont. There has " 
 
 " I can't wait — running to catch a train. You'll 
 find a letter on my table. It will explain." 
 
 Hubert slipped out, closed the door, and ran down 
 the street, and it was not until he had put two or 
 three streets between him and Fitzroy Street that he 
 relaxed his pace, and could look behind him without 
 dreading to feel the hand of the '' writter" upon his 
 shoulder. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 n~*HEN he wandered, not knowing where he was 
 J.. 
 
 going, still in the sensation of his escape, a 
 
 little amused, and yet with a shadow of fear npon 
 
 his soul, for he grew more and more conscious of the 
 
 fact that he was homeless, if not quite penniless. 
 
 Suddenly he stopped walking. Night was thickening 
 
 in the street, and he had to decide where he would 
 
 sleep. He could not afford to pay more than five or 
 
 six shillings a week for a room, and he thought of 
 
 Holloway, as being a neighbourhood where creditors 
 
 would not be able to find him. So he retraced his 
 
 steps, and, tired and footsore, entered the Tottenham 
 
 Court Road by the Oxford Street end. 
 
 There the omnibuses stopped. A conductor shouted 
 
 for fares, with the light of the public-house lamps on 
 
 his open mouth. There was smell of mud, of damp 
 
 clothes, of bad tobacco, and where the lights of the 
 
 26 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 27 
 
 costermongers' barrows broke across tlie footway the 
 picture was of a group of three coarse, lond-voiced 
 girls, followed by boys. There were fish shops, cheap 
 Italian restaurants, and the long lines of low houses 
 vanished in crapulent night. The characteristics of 
 the Tottenham (Jourt Road impressed themselves on 
 Hubert's mind, and he thought how he would have 
 to bear for at least three weeks with all the grime 
 of its poverty. It would take about that time to 
 finish his play, and the neighbourhood would suit his 
 purpose excellently well. So long as he did not pass 
 beyond it he ran little risk of discovery, and to secure 
 himself against friends and foes he penetrated farther 
 northward, not stopping till he reached the confines 
 of Holloway. 
 
 Then a little dim street caught his eye, and he 
 knocked at the door of the first house exhibiting 
 a card in the parlour window. But they did not 
 let their bedroom under seven shillings, and this 
 seemed to Habert to be an extravagant price. He 
 tried further on, and at last found a clean room 
 for six shillings. Having no luggage, he paid a 
 
28 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 week's rent in advance, and the landlady promised 
 toget liim a small table, on which he cotild write, a 
 small table that wonld fit in somewhere near the 
 window. She asked him when he wonld like to be 
 called, and put the candlestick on the chair. Hubert 
 looked round the room, and a moment sufficed to 
 complete the survey. It was about seven feet long. 
 The lower half of the window was curtained by a 
 piece of muslin hardly bigger than a good-sized 
 pocket-handkerchief ; to do anything in this room 
 except to lie in bed seemed difficult, and Hubert sat 
 down on the bed and emptied out his pockets. He had 
 just four pounds, and the calculation how long he 
 could live on such a sum took him some time. His 
 breakfast, whether he had it at home or in the 
 coifee-house, would cost him at least fourpence. He 
 thought he would be able to obtain a fairly good 
 dinner in one of the little Italian restaurants for 
 ninepence. His tea would cost the same as his 
 breakfast. To these sums he must add twopence for 
 tobacco and a penny for an evening paper — impossible 
 to do without tobacco, and he must know what was 
 
VAIN FOETUNE. 29 
 
 going on in the world. He could therefore live for 
 one shilling and eightpence a day — eleven shillings 
 a week — to which he would have to add six shillings 
 a week for rent, altogether seventeen shillings a week. 
 He really did not see how he could do it cheaper. 
 Four times seventeen are sixty-eight; sixty-eight 
 shillings for a month of life, and he had eighty 
 shillings — twelve shillings for incidental expenses ; 
 and out of that twelve shillings he must buy a shirt, 
 a sponge, and a tooth-brush, and when they were 
 bought there would be very little left. He must 
 finish his play under the month. Nothing could be 
 clearer than that. 
 
 Next morning he asked the landlady to let him 
 have a cup of tea and some bread and butter, and he 
 ate as much bread as he could, to save himself from 
 being hungry in the middle of the day. He began 
 work immediately, and continued until seven, and 
 feeling then somewhat light-headed, but satisfied with 
 himself, went to the nearest Italian restaurant. The 
 food was better than he had expected ; but he spent 
 twopence more than he had intended, so, to accustom 
 
30 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 himself to a life of strict raeasnre and discipline, he 
 determined to forego his tea that evening. And so he 
 lived and worked until the end of the week. 
 
 But the situation he had counted on to complete his 
 fourth act liad proved almost impracticable in the 
 working out ; he laboured on, liowever, and at the 
 end of the tenth day at least one scene satisfied him. 
 He read it over slowly, carefully, tliought about it, 
 decided that it was excellent, and lay down on his bed 
 to consider it. At that moment it struck him that 
 he had better calculate how much he had spent in the 
 last ten days. He gathered himself into a sitting 
 posture and counted his money ; he had spent tliirty 
 shillings, and at that rate his money would not hold 
 out till the end of the month. He must reduce his 
 expenditure ; but liow ? Impossible to find a room 
 where he could live more cheaply than in the one he 
 had got, and it is not easy to dine in London on less 
 than ninepence. Only the poor can live cheaply. He 
 pressed his hands to his face. His head seemed like 
 splitting, and his monetary difficulty, united with his 
 literary difficulties, produced a momentary insanity. 
 
VAIN FOETUNE. 31 
 
 Work that morning was impossible, so he went out 
 to study the eating-houses of the neighbourhood. He 
 must find one where he could dine for sixpence. Or 
 he might buy a pound of cooked beef and take it home 
 with him in a paper bag; but that would mean an 
 almost intolerable imprisonment in his little room. 
 He could go to a public-house and dine off a sausage 
 and potato. But at that moment his attention was 
 caught by black letters on a dun, yellowish ground : 
 " Lockhart's Cocoa Rooms." Not having breakfasted, 
 he decided to have a cup of cocoa and a roll. 
 
 It was a large, barn-like place, the walls covered 
 with a coat of grey-blue paint. Under the window there 
 was a zinc counter, with zinc urns always steaming, emit- 
 ting odours of tea, coffee, and cocoa. The seats were 
 like those which give a garden-like appearance to the 
 tops of some omnibuses. Each was made to hold two 
 persons, and the table between them was large enough 
 for four plates and four pairs of hands. A few hollow- 
 chested men, the pale vagrants of civilisation, drowsed 
 in the corners. They had been hunted through the 
 night by the policemen, and had come in for something 
 
32 VAIN FOETUNE. 
 
 hot. Hubert noted the worn frock-coats, and the 
 miserable arms coming out of shirtless sleeves. One 
 looked up inquiringly, and Hubert thought how slight 
 had become the line that divided him from the outcast. 
 A serving maid collected the plates, knives, and forks, 
 when the customers left, and carried them back to the 
 great zinc counter. 
 
 Impressed by his appearance, she brought him 
 what he had ordered and took the money for it, 
 although the custom of the place was for the customer 
 to pay for food at the counter and carry it himself 
 to the table at which he chose to eat. Hubert learnt 
 that there was no set dinner, but there was a beef- 
 steak pudding at one, price fourpence, a penny potatoes, 
 a penny bread. So by dining at Lockhart's he would be 
 able to cut down his daily expense by at least twopence; 
 that would extend the time to finish his play by nearly 
 a week. And if his appetite were not keen, he could 
 assuage it with a penny plum pudding ; or he could 
 take a middle course, making his dinner oif a sausage 
 and mashed potatoes. The room was clean, well 
 lighted, and airy ; he could read his paper there, and 
 
VAIN FOETTJNE.' 3^ 
 
 forget his troubles in tlie observation of character. He 
 
 even made friends. An old wizen creature, who had 
 
 been a prize-fighter, told him of his triumphs. If he 
 
 hadn't broke his hand on somebody's nose he'd have 
 
 been champion light weight of England. " And to 
 
 think that I have come to this," he added emphatically. 
 
 " Even them boys knock me about now, and 'alf a 
 
 century ago I could 'ave cleared the bloomin' place." 
 
 There was a merry little waif from the circus who 
 
 loved to come and sit with Hubert. She had been a 
 
 rider, she said, but had broken her leg on one occasion, 
 
 and cut her head all open on another, and had ended 
 
 by running away with some one who had deserted her. 
 
 " So here I am," she remarked, with a burst of 
 
 laughter, " talking to you. Did you never hear of 
 
 Dolly Dayrell ? " Hubert confessed that he had not. 
 
 " Why," she said, " I thought every one had." 
 
 About eight o'clock in the evening, the table near 
 
 the stairs was generally occupied by flower-girls, dressed 
 
 in dingy clothes, and brightly feathered hats. They 
 
 placed their empty baskets on the floor, and shouted at 
 
 their companions — men who sold newspapers, boot- 
 
 3 
 
34 VAIN FOETUNE. 
 
 laces, and cheap toys. About nine the boys came in, the 
 boys who used to push the old prize-fighter about, 
 and Hubert soon began to perceive how representative 
 they were of all vices — gambling, theft, idleness, and 
 cruelty were visible in their faces. They were led by 
 a Jew boy who sold penny jewellery at the corner of 
 Oxford Street, and they generally made for the tables 
 at the end of the room, for there, unless custom was 
 slack indeed, they could defeat the vigilance of the 
 serving maid and play nap at their ease. The tray of 
 penny jewellery was placed at the corner of a table, 
 and a small boy set to watch over it. His duty 
 was also to shuffle his feet when the servant-maid 
 approached, and a precious drubbing he got if he 
 failed to shuffle them loud enough. The " 'ot un," as 
 he was nicknamed, always had a pack of cards in his 
 pocket, and to annex everything left on the tables 
 he considered to be his privilege. One day, when he 
 was asked how he came by the fine carnation in his 
 buttonhole, he said it was a ju'esent from Sally, 
 neglecting to add that he had told the child to steal 
 it from a basket which a flower-girl had just put down. 
 

VAIN FORTUNE. 35 
 
 Hubert hated this boy, and once could not resist 
 boxing his ears. The " 'ot un " writhed easily out of 
 his reach, and then assailed him with foul language^ 
 and so loud were his words that they awoke the 
 innocent cause of the quarrel, a weak, sickly-looking 
 man, with pale blue eyes and a blond beard. Hubert 
 had protected him before now against the brutality of 
 the boys, who, when they were not playing nap, divided 
 their pleasantries between him and the decrepit prize- 
 fighter. He came in about nine, took a cup of coffee 
 from the counter, and settled himself for a snooze. 
 The boys knew this, and it was their amusement to 
 keep him awake by pelting him with egg-shells and 
 other missiles. Hubert noticed that he had always 
 with him a red handkerchief full of some sort of loose 
 rubbish, which the boys gathered when it fell about the 
 floor, or purloined from the handkerchief when they 
 judged that the owner was sufficiently fast asleep. 
 Hubert now saw that the handkerchief was filled with 
 bits of coloured chalk, and guessed that the man must 
 be a pavement artist. 
 
 " A dirty, hignominious lot, them boys is," said the 
 
36 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 artist, fixing his i)ale, melancholy eyes ou Hubert ; 
 "bad manners, no eddication, and, above all, no 
 respect." 
 
 " They are an unmannerly lot — that Jew boy 
 especially. I don't think there's a vice he hasn't 
 got." 
 
 The artist stared at Hubert a long time in silence. 
 A thought seemed to be stirring in his mind. 
 
 " I'm speaking, I can see, to a man of eddication. 
 I'm a fust-rate judge of character, though I be but 
 a pavement artist ; but a picture's none the less a 
 picture, no matter where it is drawn. That's true, 
 ain't it ? " 
 
 " Quite true. A horse is a horse, and an ass is an 
 ass, no matter what stable you put them into." 
 
 The artist laughed a guttural laugh, and, fixing his 
 pale blue porcelain eyes on Hubert, he said, — 
 
 " Yes ; see I made no blooming error when I said 
 you was a man of eddication. A literary gent, I 
 should think. In the reporting line, most like. Down 
 in the luck like myself. What was it — drink ? Got 
 the chuck ? " 
 
VAIN FOKTUNE. 37 
 
 " No," said Hubert, " never touch it. Out of work." 
 
 "No offence, master, we're all mortal, we is all 
 weak, and in misfortune we goes to it. It was them 
 boys that drove me to it." 
 
 " How was that ? " 
 
 " They was always round my show ; no getting rid 
 of them, and their remarks created a disturbance ; the 
 perlice said he wouldn't 'ave it, and when the perlice 
 won't 'ave it, what's a poor man to do ? They are that 
 hignorant. But what's the use of talking of it, it 
 only riles me." The blue-eyed man lay back in his 
 seat, and his head sank on his chest. He looked as 
 if he were going to sleep again, but on Hubert's 
 asking him to explain his troubles, he leaned across 
 the table. 
 
 " Well, I'll tell yer. Yer be an eddicated man, 
 and I likes to talk to them that 'as 'ad an eddicatiou. 
 Yer says, and werry truly, just now, that changing 
 the stable don't change an 'orse into a hass, or a hass 
 into an 'orse. That is werry true, most true, none but 
 a eddicated man could 'ave made that ere hobserva- 
 tion. I likes yer for it. Give us yer 'and. The 
 
38 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 public just thinks too much of the stable, aucl 
 not enough of what's inside. Leastways, that's my 
 experience of the public, and I 'ave been a-catering 
 for the public ever since I was a growing lad — sides 
 of bacon, ships on fire, good old ship on fire. ... I 
 knows the public. Yer don't follow me ? " 
 
 "Not quite." 
 
 " A moment, and I'll explain. You'll admit there's 
 no blooming reason except the public's blooming 
 hignorance why a man shouldn't do as good a picture 
 on the pavement as on a piece of canvas, provided he 
 ave the blooming genius. There is no doubt that 
 with them 'ere chalks and a nice smooth stone that 
 Raphael — I 'ave been to the National Gallery and 'ave 
 studied 'is work, and werry fine some of it is, although 
 I don't altogether hold — but that's another matter. 
 What was I a-saying of? I remember, — that with 
 them 'ere chalks, and a nice smooth stone, there's no 
 reason why a masterpiece shouldn't be done. That's 
 right, ain't it ? I ask you, as a man of eddication, to 
 say it thai ain't right; as a representative of the Press, 
 I asks you to say." Hubert nodded, and the pale-eyed 
 
VAIN FOKTUNE. 39 
 
 man continued, " Well, that's what the public won't 
 see, can't see. Raphael, says I, could 'ave done a 
 masterpiece with them 'ere chalks and a nice smooth 
 stone. But do yer think 'e'd 'ave been allowed ? Do 
 yer think the perlice would have stood it ? Do yer 
 think the public would 'ave stood him doing master- 
 pieces on the pavement ? I'd give 'im just one after- 
 noon. Them boys would 'ave got 'im into trouble, just 
 as they did me. Raphael would 'ave been told to 
 wipe them out just as I was." 
 
 The conversation paused ; and half amused, half 
 frightened, Hubert considered the pale vague face, and 
 he was struck by the scattered look of aspiration that 
 wandered in the pale blue eyes. 
 
 " I'll tell you," said the man, growing more excited, 
 and leaning further across the table ; " I'll tell you, 
 because I knows you for an eddicated man, and won't 
 blab. S'pose yer thinks, like the rest of the world 
 that the chaps wot smears, for it ain't drawing, the 
 pavement with bits of bacon, a ship on fire, and the 
 regulation oysters, does them out of their own 'eads ? " 
 Hubert nodded. " I'm not surprised that you do, all 
 
40 VAIN FOETUNE. 
 
 the world flo, and the public chncks down its coppers 
 to the poor hartist ; but 'e aint no hartist, no more 
 than is them 'ere boys that did for my show." Lean- 
 ing still further forward, he lowered his voice to a 
 whisper. " They learns it all by 'art ; there is schools 
 for the teaching of it down in Whitechapel. They can 
 just do what they learns by 'art, not one of them could 
 draw that 'ere chair or table from natur'; but I could. I 
 'ave an original talent. It was a long time afore I found 
 out it was there," he said, tapping his forehead ; " but 
 it is there," he said, fixing his eyes on Hubert., " and 
 when it is there they can't take it away — I mean my 
 mates — though they do laugh at my ideas. They call 
 me ' the genius,' for they don't believe in me, but I 
 believe in myself, and they laughs best that laughs 
 last. ... I don't know," he said, looking round 
 him, his eyes full of reverie, " that the public liked 
 my fancy landscapes better than the ship on fire, 
 but I said the public will come to them in time, 
 and I continued my fancy landscapes. But one day 
 in Trafalgar Square it came on to rain very 'eavy, 
 and I went for shelter into the National Gallery. It 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 41 
 
 was my fast visit, and I was struck all of a 'eap, and 
 ever since I can 'ardly bring myself to go on with the 
 drudgery of the piece of bacon, and the piece of cheese 
 with the mouse nibbling at it. And ever since my 
 'ead 'as been filled with other things, though for a long 
 time I could not make exactly out what. I 'ave 'card 
 that that is always the case with men that 'as an idea 
 — dare say you 'ave found it so yourself. So in m}^ 
 spare time I goes to the National to think it out, and 
 in studying the pictures. There 1 got wery interested 
 in a chap called Hetty, and 'e do paint the female form 
 divine. I says to myself. Why not go in for lovely 
 woman ? the public may not care for fancy land- 
 scapes, but the public alius likes a lovely woman, and, 
 as well as being popular, lovely woman is 'igh 'art. 
 So, after dinner hour, I sets to work, and sketches in 
 a blue sea with three bathers, and two boxes with the 
 'orse's head looking out from behind one of the boxes. 
 For a fust attempt at the nude, I assure you — it ain't 
 my way to blow my own trumpet, but I can say that 
 the crowd that 'ere picture did draw was bigger than 
 any that 'ad assembled about the bits o' bacon and 
 
42 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 ship-a-fire of all the other coves. 'Ad I been let 
 alone, I slionld 'ave made my fortune, bnt the crowd 
 was so big and the curiosity so great that it took the 
 perlice all their time to keep the pavement from being 
 blocked. It wasn't that the public didn't like it 
 enough, it was that the public liked it too much, that 
 was the reason of my misfortune." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " said Hubert. 
 
 " Well, yer see them boys was a-hawking their 
 cheap toys in the neighbourhood, and when they got 
 wind of my success they comes round to see, and they 
 remains on account of the crowd. Pockets was picked, 
 I don't say they wasn't, and the perlice turned rusty, 
 and then a pious old gent comes along, and 'earing 
 the remarks of them boys, which I admit wasn't nice, 
 complains to the hauthorities, and I was put down ! 
 Now, wliat I wants to know is why my 'art should be 
 made to suffer for the beastly-mindedness of them 'ere 
 boys." 
 
 Hubert admitted that there seemed to be an injustice 
 somewhere, and asked the artist if he had never tried 
 again. 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 43 
 
 " Try again ? Should think I did. When once a 
 man 'as tasted of 'igh 'art, he can't keep his blooming 
 fingers out of it. It was impossible after the success 
 of my bathers to go back to the bacon, so I thought I 
 would circumvent the hauthorities. I goes to the 
 National Gallery, makes a sketch, 'ere it is," and after 
 some fumbling in his breast pocket, he produced a 
 greasy piece of paper, which he handed to Hubert. 
 " S'pose yer know the picture ? " Hubert admitted 
 that he did not. " Well, that is a drawing from 
 Gainsborough's celebrated picture of Medora a-washing 
 of her feet. . . But the perlice wouldn't 'ave it any 
 more than my original, 'e said it was worse than the 
 bathers at Margate, and when I told the hignorant 
 brute wot it was, 'e said he wanted no hargument, 
 that 'e wouldn't 'ave it." 
 
 Hubert had noticed, during the latter part of the 
 narrative, a look of dubious cunning twinkling in the 
 pale eyes ; but now this look died away, and the eyes 
 resumed their habitual look of vague reverie. 
 
 " I've been 'ad up before the Beak : from him i 
 expected more enlightenment, but he, too, said 'e 
 
44 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 wouldn't 'ave it, and I got a month. But I'll beat 
 tliem yet, the public is on my side, and if it woru't 
 for them 'ere boys, I'd say that the public could be 
 helevated. They calls me ' the genius,' and they is 
 right." Then something seemed to go out like a 
 flame, the face grew dim, and changed expression. 
 " It is 'ere all right," he said, no longer addressing 
 Hubert, but speaking to himself, "and since it is 
 there, it must come out." 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 T TUBERT at last found himself obliged to write to 
 Ford for an advance of money. But Ford replied 
 that he would advance money only on the delivery 
 of the completed manuscript. And the whole of one 
 night, in a room hardly eight feet long, sitting on his 
 bed, he strove to complete the fourth and fifth acts. 
 But under the pressure of such necessity ideas died 
 within him. And all through the night, and even 
 when the little window, curtained with a bit of muslin 
 hardly bigger than a pocket-handkerchief, had grown 
 white with dawn, he sat gazing at the sheet of paper, 
 his brain on fire, unable to think. Laying his pen 
 down in despair, he thought of the thousands who 
 would come to his aid if they only knew — if they 
 only knew ! And soon after he heard life beginning 
 again in the little brick street. He felt that his 
 brain was giving way, that if he did not find change, 
 
 45 
 
46 VAIN FOETUNE. 
 
 whatever it was, he must surely run raving mad. 
 He had had enough of England, and would leave it 
 for America, Australia — anywhere. He wanted change. 
 The present was unendurable. How would he get to 
 America ? Perhaps a clerkship on board one of the 
 great steamships might be obtained. 
 
 The human animal in extreme misery becomes self- 
 reliant, and Hubert hardly thought of making applica- 
 tion to his uncle. The last time he had applied for 
 help his letter had remained unanswered, and he 
 now felt that he must make his own living or die. 
 And, quite indifferent as to what might befall him, 
 he walked next day to the Victoria Docks. He 
 did not know where or how to apply for work, and 
 he tired himself in fruitless endeavour. At last he 
 felt he could strive with fate no longer, and wan- 
 dered mile after mile, amused and forgetful of his own 
 misery in the spectacle of the river — the rose sky, the 
 long perspectives, the houses and warehouses show- 
 ing in fine outline, and then the wonderful blue night 
 gathering in the forest of masts and rigging. He 
 was admirably patient. There was no fretfulness in 
 
VAIN FOETUNB. 47 
 
 his sonl, nor did he rail against the world's injustice, 
 but took his misfortunes with sweet gentleness. 
 
 He slept in a public house, and next day resumed 
 his idle search for employment. The weather was 
 mild and beautiful, his wants were simple, a cup of 
 coffee and a roll, a couple of sausages, and the day 
 passed in a sort of morose and passionless contem- 
 plation. He thought of everything and nothing, 
 least of all of how he should find money for the 
 morrow. When the day came, and the penny to buy 
 a cup of coffee was wanting, he quite naturally, 
 without giving it a second thought, engaged himself 
 as a labourer, and worked all day carrying sacks 
 of grain out of a vessel's hold. For a large part 
 of his nature was patient and simple, docile as an 
 animal's. There was in him so much that was 
 rudimentary, that in accepting this burden of physical 
 toil he was acting not in contradiction to, but in full 
 and perfect harmony with, his true nature. 
 
 But at the end of a week his health began to give 
 way, and, like a man after a violent debauch, he thought 
 of returning to a more normal existence. He had 
 
48 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 left the mannscript of his unfortunate play in the 
 North. Had they destroyed it ? The involuntary fear 
 of the writer for his child made him smile. What 
 did it matter ? Clearly the first thing to do would 
 be to write to the editor of The Cosmopolitan^ and ask 
 if he could find him some employment^ something 
 certain ; writing occasional articles for newspapers, 
 that he couldn't do. 
 
 Hubert had saved twelve shillings. He would 
 therefore be able to pay his landlady : he smiled — one 
 of his landladies ! The earlier debt was now hopelessly 
 out of his reach, and seemed to represent a social 
 plane from which he had for ever fallen. If he had 
 succeeded in getting that play right, what a difference 
 it wonld have made ! He would have been able to do 
 a number of things he had never done, things which 
 he had always desired to do. He had desired above 
 all to travel — to see France and Italy ; to linger, to 
 muse in the shadows of the world's past ; and after 
 this he had desired marriage, an English wife, an 
 English home, beautiful children, leisure, the society 
 of friends. A successful play would have given him 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 49 
 
 all these things, and now his dream must remain for 
 
 ever unrealised by him. He had sunk out of sight 
 
 and hearing of such life. 
 
 Eose was another ; she might sink as he had 
 
 sunk ; she might never find the opportunity of realising 
 
 her desire. How well she would have played that 
 
 part ! He knew what was in her. And now ! What 
 
 did his failure to write that play condemn him to ? 
 
 Heaven only knows, he did not wish to think. Strange, 
 
 was it not strange ? . . . A man of genius — many 
 
 believed him a genius — and yet he was incapable of 
 
 earning his daily bread otherwise than by doing the 
 
 work of a navvy. Even that he could not do well, 
 
 society had softened his muscles and eifeminised his 
 
 constitution. Indeed, he did not know what life fate 
 
 had willed him for. He seemed to be out of place 
 
 everywhere. His best chance was to try to obtain 
 
 a clerkship. The editor of The Cosmopolitan might 
 
 be able to do that for him ; if he could not, far better 
 
 it would be to leave a world in which he was out of 
 
 place, and through no fault of his own — that was the 
 
 hard part of it. Hard part I Nonsense ! What does 
 
 4 
 
50 VAIN FOETUNE. 
 
 Fate know of our little rights and wrongs — or care ? 
 Her intentions are inscrutable ; she watches us come 
 and go, and gives no sign. Prayers are vain. The 
 good man is punished, and the wicked is sent on 
 his way rejoicing. 
 
 In such mournful thought, his clothes stained and 
 torn, with all the traces of a week's toil in the docks 
 upon them, Hubert made his way round St. Paul's 
 and across Holborn. As he was about to cross into 
 Oxford Street, he heard some one accost him, — 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Price, is that you ? " It was Rose. 
 " Where have you been all this time ? " 
 
 She seemed so strange, so small, and so much alone 
 in the great thoroughfare, that Hubert forgot all his 
 own troubles in a sudden interest in this little mite. 
 "Where have you been hiding yourself? ... It is 
 lucky 1 met you. Don't you know that Ford has 
 decided to revive Divorce ? " 
 
 " You don't mean it ! " 
 
 " Yes ; Ford said that the last acts of The Gipsy 
 were not satisfactorily worked out, and as there was 
 something wrong with that Hamilton Brown's piece, 
 
VAIN FOETUNE. 51 
 
 he has decided to revive Divorce. He says it never 
 was properly played ... he thinks he'll make a hit in 
 the husband's part, and I daresay he will. But I have 
 been iinfortnuate again ; I wanted the part of the 
 adventuress. I really could play it. I don't look it, 
 I know ... I have no weight, but I could play it for 
 all that. The public mightn't see me in it at first, 
 but in five minutes they would." 
 
 " And what jjart has he cast you for — the young 
 girl ? " 
 
 " Of course ; there's no other part. He says I look 
 it ; but what's the good of looking it when you don't 
 feel it ? If he had cast me for Mrs. Barrington, I 
 should have had just the five minutes in the second 
 act that I have been waiting for so long, and I should 
 have just wiped Miss Osborne out, acted her off the 
 stage ... I know I should ; you needn't believe it if 
 j'OU don't like, but I know I should." 
 
 Hubert wondered how any one could feel so sure of 
 herself, and then he said, " Yes, I think you could do 
 just what you say. . . . How do you think Miss 
 Osborne will play the part ? " 
 
52 VAIN FOETUNE. 
 
 "She'll be correct enough; she'll miss nothing, and 
 yet somehow she'll miss the whole thing. But you 
 must go at once to Ford. He was saying only this 
 morning that if you didn't turn up soon, he'd have to 
 give up the idea." 
 
 " 1 can't go and see him to-night. You see what a 
 state I'm in." 
 
 " You're rather dusty ; wliere liave you been ? what 
 have you been doing ? " 
 
 " I've been down at the dock. ... I thought of 
 going to America." 
 
 " Well, we'll talk about that another time. It 
 doesn't matter if you are a bit dusty and worn-out- 
 looking. Now that he's going to revive your play, 
 he'll let you have some money. You might get a 
 new hat, though. I don't know how much they 
 cost, but I've five shillings ; can you iget one for 
 that ? " 
 
 Hubert tnanRed her. 
 
 " But you are not offended ? 
 
 " Offended, my dear Rose I I shall be able to 
 manage. I'll get a brush up somewhere." 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 53 
 
 " That's all rigbt. Now I'm going to jnmp into 
 that 'bus," and she signed with her parasol to the 
 conductor. " Mind yon see Ford to-night," she cried ; 
 and a moment after he saw a small space of blue 
 back seated against one of the windows. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 n^HERE was much prophecy abroad. Stiggins 
 words, " The piece never did, and never will 
 draw money," were evidently present in everybody's 
 mind. They were visible in Ford's face, and more 
 than once Hubert expected to hear tliat — on account 
 of severe indisposition— Mr. Montague Ford has been 
 obliged to indefinitely postpone his contemplated 
 revival of Mr. Hubert Price's play Divorce. But, 
 besides the apprehension that Stiggins' unfavourable 
 opinion of his enterprise had engendered in him. Ford 
 was obviously provoked by Hubert's reluctance to 
 execute the alterations he had suggested. Night 
 after night, sometimes until six in the morning, 
 Hubert sat uj) considering them. Thanks to Ford's 
 timely advance he was back in his old rooms in 
 Fitzroy Street. Lockhart's and the docks were for- 
 gotten — a fugitive dream that had come and gone. 
 
 54 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 55 
 
 All was as it had been. He was working at his 
 play every evening, waiting for Rose's footsteps on 
 the stairs. And yet a change had come into his 
 life ! He believed now that his feet were set on 
 the way to fortune — that he would soon be happy. 
 
 He stared at the bright flame of the lamp, he 
 listened to the silence. The clock chimed sharply, 
 and the windows were growing grey. Hubert had 
 begun to drowse in his chair; but he had promised to 
 rewrite the young girl's part, Ford having definitely 
 refused to entrust Rose with the part of the adventuress. 
 He was sorry for this. He believed that Rose had not 
 only talent, but genius. Besides, they were friends, 
 neighbours ; he would like to give her a chance of 
 distinguishing herself — the chance which she was 
 seeking. All the time he could not but realise that, 
 however he might accentuate and characterise the 
 part of the sentimental girl. Rose would not be able 
 to do much with it. To bring out her special powers 
 something strange, wild, or tragic was required. But 
 of what use thinking of what was not to be ? Having 
 altered the part to suit her to the best of his ability, 
 
56 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 Le Ibkled his papers np, and addressed them to Miss 
 Massey, He wrote on a piece of paper that they 
 were to be given to her at once, and that he was to 
 be called at ten. There was a rehearsal at twelve. 
 
 On the night of the first performance, Hubert asked 
 Rose to dine in his rooms. Mrs. Wilson proposed 
 that they should have a roast chicken, and Annie was 
 sent to fetch a bottle of cliampagne from the grocer's. 
 Annie had been given a ticket for the pit. Mrs. Wilson 
 was going to the upper boxes. Annie said, — 
 
 " Why, you look as if you was going to a funeral, 
 and not to a play. Why don't ye laugh ? " 
 
 In truth, Hubert and Rose were a little silent. 
 Rose was thinking how she could say certain lines. 
 She had said them right once at rehearsal, but had 
 not since been able to reproduce to her satisfaction a 
 certain effect of voice. Hubert was too nervous to 
 talk. There was nothing in his mind but " Will the 
 piece succeed ? What shall I do if it fails ? " He 
 could give heed to nothing but himself, all the world 
 seemed blotted out, and he suffered the pain of ex- 
 cessive self-concentration. Rose, on the other hand, 
 
VAIN FOETUNE. 57 
 
 had lost sight of herself, and existed almost un- 
 consciously in the sonl of another being. She was 
 sometimes like a hypnotised spectator watching with 
 foolish, involuntary curiosity the actions of one whom 
 she had been bidden to watch. Then a little cloud 
 would gather over her eyes, and then this other 
 being would rise as if out of her very entrails and re- 
 create her, fashioning her to its own image and 
 likeness. 
 
 She did not answer when she was spoken to, and 
 when the question was repeated, she awoke with a 
 little start. Dinner was eaten in morbid silence, with 
 painful and fitful efforts to appear interested in each 
 other. Walking to the theatre, they once took the 
 wrong turning and had to ask the way. At the stage 
 door they smiled painfully, nodded, glad to part. 
 Hubert went up to Montague Ford's room. He found 
 the comedian on a low stool, seated before a low table 
 covered with brushes and cosmetics, in front of a triple 
 glass. 
 
 " My dear friend, do not trouble me now. I am 
 thinking of my part." 
 
58 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 Hubert tnrnecl to go. 
 
 " Stay a moment," cried the actor. " Yon know 
 when the hnsband meets the wife he has divorced ? " 
 
 Hubert remembered the moment referred to, and, 
 with anxious, doubting eyes, the comedian sought 
 from the author justification for some intonations and 
 gestures which seemed to him to form part and parcel 
 of the nature of the man whose drunkenness he had 
 so admirably depicted on his face. 
 
 " ' Tills is most unfortunate^ very unlucky — ver-y, my 
 dear Louisa ; but ' 
 
 a ( 
 
 '7 am no longer obliged to bear with your insults ; 
 I can now defend myself against you.'' 
 
 " Now, is that your idea of the scene ? " 
 
 A pained look came upon Hubert's face. '' Don't 
 question me now, my dear fellow. I cannot fix my 
 attention. I can see, however, that your make-up is 
 capital — you are the man himself." 
 
 The actor was satisfied, and in his satisfaction he 
 said, " I think it will be all right, old chap." 
 
 A dense crowd pressed about the pit and gallery 
 doors, and on the mass of cloth coats the ostrich 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 59 
 
 feathers in the girls' hats and bonnets made spots of 
 bright colour. A girl smiled at Hubert, and he 
 returned the smile, thinking how she might be to- 
 night amone; those who would condemn him. In the 
 stillness of the evening, the yellow Haymarket rose 
 up distinct on a rose-flushed sky. A clatter of 
 cabs, and plenty of shirt-fronts hastening westwards. 
 High wheels whirling in light dust, and the mature 
 elegance of a woman of thirty stepping into her 
 victoria. She sits down by the side of a poodle. 
 Every balcony bright with flowers. The air a cordial 
 that the lungs drink greedily. Fashion tremulous in 
 the pale air, and every heart singing the song of its 
 own sweet life. The passion of life on every face ; 
 lips trembling, and vague emotion afloat in the grey 
 glint of English eyes. Up and down the high steps 
 leading from Birdcage Walk to the Duke's Column 
 feet springing like india-rubber, and the talk of 
 sweethearts growing lower, dying on their lips. 
 
 The spectacle of spring in the Birdcage was en- 
 trancing ; but danger forced his thoughts onward, and 
 the joy of the evening seemed to him a mockery. 
 
60 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 He hated the salmon-colonred sky, the skiffs shooting 
 through the yellow water, the frocks and the voices 
 of the children, and thought he would sooner look on 
 melancholy mountain lands, where the curlew called. 
 The gravel walks like grey ribbons, the coquettish 
 islands blue in the twilight, and the line of Buckingham 
 Palace seen at the end of a vista, were particularly 
 disagreeable. As he turned, memory of the half-crazed 
 pavement artist he had met in Lockhart's fell upon 
 him. Had that reformer succeeded in persuading the 
 public that wanted pieces of bacon and shij)s on fire 
 to accept his memories of Gainsborough and Etty? 
 and would he, Hubert Price, succeed any better in 
 inducing a public hungering after melodrama and 
 farce to accept psychology ? 
 
 Retracing his steps, he wandered up Regent Street 
 and crossed the Circus. The long, circular line of 
 the houses ended abruptly on the pale sky ; the 
 telegraph wires hung heavy and black in the still 
 air. Tlie French women stood sentinel-like, with their 
 backs against the patent shutters ; the English girls 
 walked rapidly, their long muslin dresses falling from 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 01 
 
 their waists straight as baby-clothes. He entered the 
 golden Caf^ Royal, and called for a liqueur of brandy. 
 Trying to distract his thoughts, he forced himself 
 to notice the gold columns, the mirrors surmounted 
 with half-length figures of women holding gold 
 garlands. He wondered at the murmur of voices 
 and the clanking of money on the marble tables, 
 and was vaguely interested in the various faces seen 
 through blue arabesques of smoke. Then, leaving 
 the cafe, he walked through Leicester Square. At 
 Charing Cross a row was in progress, — cabs were 
 backing into each other, and a group of girls in straw 
 hats pressed forward, interested in the dispute; a tired 
 woman leaned on the arm of a clerk ; a band of boys 
 passed singing — one danced, his hands in his pockets ; 
 and behind a block of buildings, painted yellow, 
 Trafalgar Square stood out in the glowing atmosphere, 
 its black lions and balustrades beautifully distinct. 
 The fountains were playing, and the blithe sound of 
 children's voices contrasted with the sunset still- 
 ness of the black domes and roofs of the National 
 Gallery. 
 
62 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 It had struck eight, and Hubert hastened towards 
 the theatre, lioping to reach his box without meet- 
 ing critics oj- authors. The serving-maids bowed and 
 smiled,— he was the author of the play. " They'll 
 think still more of me if the notices are right," he 
 thought, as he hurried upstairs, and from behind the 
 curtain of his box peeped down into the grey twilight 
 of the auditorium. The gas had not yet been turned 
 uj). Tlie darkness of the pit and gallery was spattered 
 with shining faces. Hubert wondered where the girl 
 who had smiled so sweetly at him an hour ago was 
 sitting ; and he counted the critics who edged their 
 way down the stalls, securing their places. The dark- 
 bearded man, with the genial commonplace of his 
 copy so strangely well expressed on his face, writes 
 for The Morning Express; the thin, wizen man, whose 
 sharp snout tells of two or three ideas, old-fashioned, 
 dusty, and tied with red tape, writes for The Telephone ; 
 the awkward, lieavy-shouldered man, whose vague, 
 vapid face advertises his general incapacity for every 
 sort of thought, writes for The Weekly Messenger. 
 " And there's Stiggins," said Hubert to himself ; and 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 63 
 
 he watched the large unctuous face. The hands were 
 crossed over the stomach in an attitude of resignation. 
 " He will maintain that weary look the whole evening, 
 hoping thereby to imjjress those who are not within 
 speaking distance." 
 
 A thin, cone-headed young man made his way 
 towards Stiggins, and Hubert said, " Now he'll tell 
 him all he said about the piece when it was first 
 produced; and Hooper, who is the veriest blockhead, 
 without an idea on any subject, will take it all down 
 and publish it next morning. That's the way criticism 
 is manufactured." 
 
 The stalls began to fill. Middle-aged women came 
 with sedate circulating literature wi"itten on their 
 faces ; here and there the vagrant eyes of an actress ; 
 fashionable women nodding to their admirers as they 
 passed, utterly indifferent whether the play came from 
 Parnassus or Grub Street. Little by little the theatre 
 assumed an air oi fete. In one box the white line 
 of a neck of sixteen, and in the adjoining box the 
 diamonds of a rJemi-mondaine, heaving on her heavy 
 fatness. Smiles and the colour of violet gloves, the 
 
64 VAIN FOItTUNE. 
 
 shiue of silk hats, the sullen black of opera hats, 
 sharply broken folds, aud the sound of silk. 
 
 In the third row of the stalls Harding stood talking 
 to a young man. He said, " You mean the Avoman 
 with the black hair piled into a point, and fastened 
 with a steel circlet. A face of sheep-like sensuality. 
 Red lips and a round receding chin. A large 
 bosom, aud two thin arms showing beneath the 
 opera cloak, which she has not 3'et thrown from her 
 shoulders. I do not know her — une laideur attir- 
 ante. Many a man might be interested in her. But 
 do you see the woman in the stage-box ? You would 
 not believe it, but she is sixty, and has only just begun 
 to speak of herself as an old woman. IShe kept her 
 figure, and had an admirer when she was fifty-eight." 
 
 " What has become of him ? " 
 
 " They quarrelled ; two years ago he told her he 
 lioped never to see her ugly old face again. And 
 tliat delicate little creature in the box next to her — 
 that pale diaphanous face ? " 
 
 " With a young man hanging over her whispering 
 in her ear ? " 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 65 
 
 " Yes. She hates the theatre; it gives her neuralgia; 
 but she attends all the first nights because her one 
 passion is to be made love to in public. If her 
 admirer did not hang over her in front of the box 
 just as that man is doing, she would not tolerate 
 him for a week." 
 
 At that moment the conversation was interrupted 
 by a new-comer, who asked if he had seen the play 
 when it was first produced. 
 
 " Yes," said Harding ; " I did." And he continued 
 his search for acquaintances amid white rows of 
 female backs, necks, and half-seen profiles — amid the 
 black cloth shoulders cut sharply upon the illummed 
 curtam. 
 
 " And what do you think of it ? Do you think it 
 will succeed this time ? " 
 
 " Ford will create an impression in the part; but I 
 don't think the piece will run." 
 
 " And why ? Because the public is too stupid ? " 
 
 " Partly, and partly because Price is only an in- 
 
 tentionist. He cannot carry an idea quite tlirough." 
 
 " Are you going to write about it ? " 
 
 5 
 
66 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 " I may." 
 
 " And what will you say ? " 
 
 " Oil, most interesting things to be said. Let's 
 take the case of Hubert Price. . . . Ah, there, the 
 cnrtain is going up." 
 
 The cnrtain rolled slowly up, and in a small country 
 drawing-room, in very simple but very pointedly 
 written dialogue, the story of Mrs. Holmes' domestic 
 misfortunes was gradually unfolded. It appeared 
 that she had flirted with Captain Grey ; he had 
 written her some compromising letters, and she had 
 once been to his rooms alone. So the Court had 
 pronounced a decree nisi. But Mrs. Holmes had not 
 been unfaithful to her husband. She had flirted with 
 Captain Grey because her husband's attentions to a 
 certain Mrs. Barriugtou had maddened her, and in her 
 jealous rage had written foolish letters, and been to 
 see Captain Grey. 
 
 It was one of those plays whose force depends upon 
 the degree of attention which has been o-iveu to the 
 first act ; and Hubert noticed in despair that folk were 
 still asking for their seats, and pushiug down the very 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 67 
 
 rows in which the most influential critics were sitting. 
 They exchanged a sahitation with their friends in 
 the dress-circle, and, when they were seated, looked 
 aronnd, making observations regarding the appear- 
 ance of the house ; and all the while the actors were 
 speaking the precious dialogue, every sentence of 
 which was necessary for the due setting forth of the 
 story. Hubert trembled with fear and rage. Would 
 these people never give their attention to the stage ? 
 If they had been sitting by him, he could have struck 
 them. Then a line turned into nonsense by the 
 actress who played Mrs. Holmes was a lancinating- 
 pain ; and the actor who played Captain Grey played 
 so slowly that Hubert could hardly refrain from 
 calling from his box. He looked round the theatre, 
 noticing the indifferent faces of the critics, and the 
 women's shoulders seemed to him especially vacuous 
 and imbecile. There was an air of cruelty in the 
 theatre ; and he felt like a victim led forth for torture, 
 and the line " Butchered to make a Roman holiday " 
 came into his mind. 
 Notwithstanding some mistakes and some slow- 
 
68 VAIN FOETUNE. 
 
 ness in the interpretation, the act was received 
 with applause, and Hubert could see the audience 
 was pleased. Indifi'erence melted away like snow in 
 April, and in a few minutes groups had collected 
 round the doorways, and rapid progress was made 
 in the discussion of the piece. The great critics had 
 each a separate audience. The younger men worked 
 their way up to where Harding was sitting ; the 
 elderly men assembled in corners, their backs to the 
 orchestra, and the indifference of their heavy features 
 contrasted with the nervous animation of the young 
 men. Some young women approached Stiggins. He 
 shook his head, trying to convey by gesture his 
 opinion of the play to the entire theatre. Hubert 
 knew that the young men would fight hard for the 
 life of this play — it had long been their battle-ground; 
 but the journals that the veterans who chatted so 
 aftably wrote for circulated a hundred thousand a 
 day, and then he must count on the enormous mischief 
 that they would do him. At that moment Harding 
 turned towards a young critic who had come to inquire 
 his opinion. 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 69 
 
 " I know what he is saying," tlioiight Huhert. 
 " That this always was and that it will remain 
 the most serions effort of our time to define the new 
 dramatic formula. How often all that has been said, 
 and how little the saying of it has served me ! How 
 little I care now for the new dramatic art ! To give 
 one's life for a little scribbling on paper, for the little 
 fictitious life of a few hours on the stage ; to be 
 praised by a few enthusiasts ; to pass through life a 
 hungry fanatic, — such has been my past, and I have 
 had enough of it. 1 want comfort, leisure, an Eng- 
 lish home, and an English wife, — like that— like that 
 blonde woman dressed in white, waving a white fan. 
 To have a woman like that, and an English home in 
 one of the southern counties, I'd write all the detest- 
 able melodramas and farces that have been produced 
 within the last ten years." Hubert thought all this, 
 and then his thought paused, and he asked himself 
 if he were sincere with himself. 
 
 The principal scene of the second act was between 
 Mrs. Holmes and the man who had divorced her. He 
 has been driven to drink by the vile behaviour of his 
 
70 VAT^r FORTUNE. 
 
 second wife ; he Is mined in health and in pocket, and 
 has come to the woman he wronged to beg forgive- 
 ness; he knows she has learnt to love Captain Grey, 
 but will not mavrv him, because she believes that once 
 married always married. There is only one thing 
 he can do to repair the wrong he has done — he will 
 commit snicide, and so enable her to marry the man 
 she loves. He tells her that he has bonglit the pistol 
 to do it with, and the words, " Not here 1 not here I " 
 escape from herj and he answers, " No, not here, but 
 in a cab. I've got one at the door." He goes out ; 
 Captain Grey enters, and Mrs. Holmes begs him to 
 save her hnsband. While they are discussing how 
 this is to be done, he re-enters, saying that his 
 conscience smote him as he was going to pull the 
 trigger. Will she forgive him ? If she won't, he 
 must make an end of himself. She says she will. 
 
 The realism of Ford's acting electrified the house ; 
 every one cried, " A masterpiece ! a masterpiece ! " 
 The actors were called for ; and Hubert said, " Well, 
 who knows ? perhaps success has come to me at last." 
 
 At that moment a knock came at the door, and 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 71 
 
 Arthnr Hood, a little Jew, one of Hubert's stannchest 
 admirers, entered. '' A hundred congratulations, my 
 dear friend ! What did I tell yoii ? An immense 
 success ! " 
 
 " Do they like it downstairs ? — tell me." 
 Then Hood told him what Stiggins had said: he 
 was furious at what he termed the attitude of the 
 house — it was deplorable ; and his hope lay in the 
 third act — that no English audience would stand. 
 " He'll ' slate' you up and down a couple of columns ; 
 but we don't care for him. No one reads him now 
 but cookmaids and the sentimental ballet-girls whom 
 he invites to tea. Roberts is delighted ; he speaks of 
 a new theatrical renaissance. Harvey — well, I don't 
 know what he'll say ; he and his wife are not on 
 speaking terms, and it is im2)0ssible to say what view 
 he'll take. The Basset girls are enthusiastic, and want 
 to come up and congratulate you ; they write for a 
 lot of papers." 
 
 "Yes, yes; but what do the veterans say ? Theirs 
 are the papers that circulate. What does Harding 
 say ? " 
 
iZ VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 " Oh, he has complicated theories of his own to 
 work out. He and Roberts will back each other np, 
 tear yon to pieces, and then stick yon together again." 
 
 " Oh, here is Harding," said Hubert. 
 
 " Snperb, my dear friend ! There will be an end 
 of Stiggins if you succeed. He is asking if England 
 has become cynical, and if the heart-rending sorrows 
 of the family are to be made a subject of pitiless 
 dissection." 
 
 Then Harding was interrupted by the Basset girls, 
 who, in their enthusiasm, looked as if they were going 
 to kiss Hubert. They dropped their note-books and 
 pencils about the box, spoiling the effect of the 
 epigrams and ajihorisms of a massive and liilarious 
 man ; and all the while Hubert's voice was heard, 
 " Thank you, thank you ; it is very kind of yon. I 
 hoi)e the third act will be all right." 
 
 In the third act Hubert had attempted to paint 
 Mr. Holmes' vain efforts to reform his life. But the 
 constant presence of Captain Grey in the household, 
 his attempts to win Mrs. Holmes from her husband, 
 and the drunken husband's amours with the servant- 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 73 
 
 maid disgusted rather than horrified. The act was 
 not liked, and in the upper portions of the theatre 
 there were some slight manifestations of displeasure ; 
 but the vociferous cheering of the young men in the 
 stalls and dress-circle prevailed, and the actors were 
 called before the curtain, and an appearance of success 
 was secured for the piece. Then Hubert and his 
 friends felt that if the fourth act went well the 
 victory would be with them. But in the fourth act 
 the wretched husband admits that his reformation is 
 impossible, and that, although he has no courage to 
 commit suicide and set his wife free, he will return to 
 his evil courses ; they will sooner or later make an 
 end of him. The slowness and deadly gravity with 
 which Ford took this scene rendered it intolerable ; 
 and, notwithstanding the beautv of the conclusion, 
 when the deserted wife, in the silence of her drawing- 
 room, reads again Captain Grey's letter telling her 
 that he has left England for ever and with another, 
 the success of the play was left in doubt, and the 
 audience filed out, talking, chattering, arguing, won- 
 dering what the public verdict would be. 
 
74 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 To avoid commiseration of heartless friends and the 
 triumphant glances of literary enemies, Hubert passed 
 through the door leading on to the stage. Scene- 
 shifters were brutally pushing away what remained 
 of his play ; and the presence of Hamilton Brown, the 
 dramatic author, talking to Ford was at that moment 
 particularly disagreeable. On catching sight of Hubert, 
 Brown ran to him, shook him by the hand, and mur- 
 mured some discreet congratulations. He preferred 
 the piece, however, as it had been originally written, 
 and suggested to Ford the advisability of returning 
 to the first text. Then Ford went upstairs to take 
 his paint off, and Hubert walked about the stage with 
 Brown. Brown's insincerity was sufficiently trans- 
 parent ; but men in Hubert's position catch at straws, 
 and he soon began to believe that the attitude of the 
 public towards his play was not so unfavourable as he 
 had imagined. 
 
 Hubert tried to summon up a smile for the stage-door 
 keeper, who, he feared, had heard that the piece had 
 failed, and then the moment they got outside he begged 
 Kose to tell him the exact truth. She assured him 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 75 
 
 that Ford had said that he had always counted on a 
 certain amount of opposition ; but that he believed that 
 the general public, being more free of prejudice and 
 less sophisticated, would be impressed by the simple 
 humanity of the play. The conversation paused, and 
 at the end of an irritating silence he said, " You were 
 excellent, as good as any one could be in a part that 
 did not suit them. Ah, if he had cast you for the 
 adventuress, how you would have played it ! . . ." 
 
 " I'm so glad you are pleased. I hope my notices 
 will be good. Do you think they will ? " 
 
 " Yes, your notices will be all right," he answered, 
 with a sigh. 
 
 " And vour notices will be all right too. No one 
 can say what is going to succeed. There was a call 
 after each of the last three acts. ... I don't see how 
 a piece could go better. It is the suspense. . . ." 
 " Ah, yes, the suspense ! " 
 
 They lingered on the landing, and Hubert said, 
 " Won't you come in for a moment ? " She followed 
 him into the room. His calm face, usually a perfect 
 picture of repose and self-possession, betrayed his 
 
76 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 emotion by a certain blankness in the eyes, certain 
 contractions in the skin of the forehead. " I'm 
 afraid," he said, '^ there's no hope." 
 
 " Oh, yon mustn't say that ! " she replied. " I think 
 it went very well indeed. ... I know I did nothing 
 with the yonng girl. I oughtn't to have undertaken 
 the part." . 
 
 " You were excellent. If we only get some good 
 notices. If we don't, I shall never get another play 
 of mine acted." He looked at her imploringly, 
 thirsting for a woman's sympathy. But the little 
 o^irl was thinking of certain effects which she would 
 liave made, and which the actress who had played 
 the adventuress had failed to make. 
 
 " I watched her all the time," she said, "following 
 every line, saying all the time, ' Oh yes, that's all very 
 nice and very proper, my young woman ; but it's not 
 it ; no, not at all — not within a hundred miles of it.' 
 I don't think she ever really touched the part — do 
 you ? " Hubert did not answer, and a quiver of dis- 
 traction ran through the muscles of her face. 
 
 " Why don't you answer me ? " 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 77 
 
 " I can't answer yon," he said abrnptly. Then 
 rememhering, he added, " Forgive me ; I can think 
 of nothing now." He hid his face in his hands, and 
 sobbed twice — two heavy, choking sobs, pregnant with 
 the weight of anguish lying on his heart. 
 
 Seeing how mnch he suffered, she laid her hand on 
 his shoulder. '' I am very sorry ; I wish I could help 
 you. I know how it tears the heart when one cannot 
 get out what one has in one's brain." 
 
 Her artistic appreciation of his suffering only jarred 
 him the more. What he longed for was some kind, 
 simple-hearted woman who would say, " Never mind, 
 dear ; the play was perfectly right, only they did not 
 understand it ; 1 love you better than ever." But 
 Rose could not give him the sympathy he wanted ; 
 and to be alone was almost a relief. He dared not go 
 to bed ; he sat looking into space. The roar of London 
 hushed till it was no more than a faint murmur, the 
 hissing of the gas grew louder, and still Hubert sat 
 thinking, the same thoughts battling in his brain. 
 He looked into the future, but could see nothing 
 but suicide. His uncle ? He had applied to him 
 
78 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 before for help ; there was no hope there. Then he 
 tramped up and down, maddened by the infernal hiss- 
 ing of the gas ; and then threw himself into his 
 arm-chair. And so a terrible night wore away ; 
 and it was not until long after the early carts had 
 begun to rattle in the streets that exhaustion brought 
 an end to his sufi'erings, and he rolled into bed. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 " TTTHAT will ye 'ave to eat ? Eggs and bacon ? " 
 " No, no ! " 
 
 " Well, then, 'ave a chop ? " 
 
 " No, no : " 
 
 " Ye must 'ave something." 
 
 " A cup of tea, a slice of toast. I'm not hungry." 
 
 " Well, ye are worse than a young lady for a 
 happetite. Miss Massey 'as sent you down these 
 'ere papers." 
 
 The servant-girl laid the papers on the bed, and 
 Hubert lay back on his pillow, so that he might collect 
 his thoughts. Stretching forth his hands, he selected 
 the inevitable paper. 
 
 " For those who do not believe that our English 
 home life is composed mainly, if not entirely, of lying, 
 drunkenness, and conjugal infidelity, and its sequel, 
 divorce, yester evening at the Queen's Theatre must 
 
 79 
 
80 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 have been a sad and dismal experience. That men 
 and women who have vowed to love each other do 
 sometimes i)rove false to their troth no reasonable 
 man will deny. With the divorce court before oar 
 eyes, even the most enthusiastic believer in the natural 
 goodness and ultimate perfectibility of human nature 
 must admit that men and women are frail. But 
 drunkenness and infidelity are happily not charac- 
 teristic of our English homes. Then why, we ask, 
 should a dramatist select such a theme, and by every 
 artifice of dialogue force into prominence all that 
 is mean and painful in an unfortunate woman's life ? 
 Always the same relentless method ; the cold, pas- 
 sionless curiosity of the vivisector ; the scalpel is 
 placed under the nerve, and we are called upon to 
 watch the quivering flesh. Never the kind word, 
 the tears, the effusion, which is man's highest pre- 
 rogative, and which separates him from the brute and 
 signifies the immortal end for which he was created. 
 , We hold that it is a pity to see so much talent wasted, 
 and it was indeed a melancholy sight to see so 
 many capable actors and actresses labouring to " 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 81 
 
 " This is even worse than usual," said Hubert ; and 
 glancing through half a column of hysterical common- 
 place, he came upon the following : — 
 
 " But if this woman had succeeded in reclaiming 
 from vice the man who unjustly divorced her, and who 
 in his misery goes back to ask her forgiveness for pity's 
 sake, what a lesson we should have had ! And; with 
 lightened and not with heavier hearts, we should have 
 left the theatre comforted, better and happier men 
 and women. But turning his back on the goodness, 
 truth, and love whither he had induced us to believe 
 he was leading us, the author flagrantly makes the 
 woman contradict her whole nature in the last 
 act ; and, because her husband falls again, she, 
 instead of raising him with all the tender mercies 
 and humanities of wifehood, declares that her life has 
 been one long mistake, and that she accepts the 
 divorce which the Court had unjustly granted. The 
 moral, if such a word may be applied to such a piece 
 is this : ' The law may be bad, but human nature 
 
 is worse.' " 
 
 The other morning papers took the same view, — a 
 
 6 
 
82 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 great deal of talent wasted ou a subject that could 
 l^lease uo one. Hubert threw the papers aside, lay 
 back, and in the lucid idleness of the bed his thoughts 
 grew darker. It was hardly possible that the piece 
 could survive such notices ; and if it did not ? Well, 
 he would have to go. But until the piece was taken 
 out of the bills it would be a weakness to harbour the 
 ugly thought. 
 
 There were, however, the evening papers to look 
 forward to, and soon after midday Annie was sent to 
 buy all that had appeared. Hubert expected to find 
 in these papers a more delicate appreciation of his 
 work. Many of the critics of the evening press were 
 his personal friends, and nearly all were young men in 
 full sympathy with the new school of dramatic thought. 
 He read paper after paper with avidity ; and Annie 
 was sent in a cab to buy one that had not yet 
 found its way so far north as Fitzroy Street. The 
 opinion of this paper was of all im2)ortance, and 
 Hubert tore it open with trembling fingers. Although 
 more temperately written than the others, it was 
 clearly favourable, and Hubert sighed a sweet sigh 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 83 
 
 of relief. A weight was lifted from Lim ; the world 
 suddenly seemed to grow brighter ; and he went to the 
 theatre that evening, and, half doubting and half con- 
 fidently, presented himself at the door of Montague 
 Ford's dressing-room. The actor had not yet begun 
 to dress, and was busy writing letters. He stretched 
 his hand hurriedly to Hubert. 
 
 " Excuse me, my dear fellow ; I have a couple of 
 letters to finish." 
 
 Hubert sat down, glancing nervously from the actor 
 to the morning papers with which the table was 
 strewn. There was not an evening paper there. Had 
 he not seen them ? At the end of about ten minutes 
 the actor said, — 
 
 " Well, this is a bad business ; they are terribly 
 down on us — aren't they ? What do you think ? " 
 
 " Have you seen the evening papers — The Telephone, 
 for instance ? " 
 
 " Oh yes, I've seen them all ; but the evening 
 papers don't amount to much. Stiggins's article was 
 terrible. I am afraid he has killed the piece." 
 
 " Don't you think it will run, then ? " 
 
84 
 
 VAIN FOP.TUNE. 
 
 " Well, that depends npon the public, of course. If 
 they like it, I'll keep it on." 
 
 " How's the booking ? " 
 
 " Not good." Montague Ford moved his papers 
 absent-mindedl3^ At the end of a long silence he 
 said, " Even if the piece did catch on, it would take 
 a lot of working up to undo the mischief of those 
 articles. Of course you can rely on me to give it 
 every chance. I sha'n't take it out of the bills if I 
 can possibly help. " 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 85 
 
 " There is my Gipsy ^ 
 
 " I have another piece ready to put into rehearsal ; 
 it was arranged for six months ago. I only consented 
 to produce your play because — well, because there has 
 been such an outcry lately about art. . . . Tremendous 
 part for me in the new piece . . . I'm sure you'll 
 like it." 
 
 The business did improve, but so very slowly that 
 Hubert was afraid Ford would lose patience and 
 take the play out of the bills. But while the fate of 
 the play hung in the balance, Hubert's life was being 
 rendered unbearable by duns. They had found him 
 out, one and all ; to escape being served was an im- 
 possibility; and now his table was covered with sum- 
 monses to appear at the County Court. This would not 
 matter if the piece once took the public taste. Then 
 he would be able to pay every one and have some time 
 to rest and think. And there seemed every prospect 
 of its catching on. Discussions regarding the morality 
 of the play had arisen in the newspapers, and the 
 eternal question whether men and women are happier 
 married or unmarried had reached its height. Hubert 
 
86 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 spent the afternoon addressing letters to tlie papers, 
 striving to fan the flame of controversj'. Every even- 
 ing he listened for Rose's footstep on the stairs. — How 
 did the piece go ? — Was there a better house ? Money 
 
 or paper ? — Have yon seen the notice in the ? — ■ 
 
 First-rate, wasn't it ? — That ought to do some good. 
 
 — I've heard there was a notice in the , hut 
 
 I haven't seen it. Have you ? — No ; but So-and-so 
 saw the paper, and said there was nothing in it. 
 And, do you know, I hear there's going to be a 
 notice in The Modern Revieiv, and that So-and-so 
 is writing it. 
 
 Every post brought newspapers ; the room was 
 filled with newspapers — all kinds of newspapers — 
 papers one has never heard of, — French papers, Welsh 
 papers, North of England pai)ers, Scotch and Irish 
 papers. Hubert read columns about himself, anecdotes 
 of all kinds, — where he was born, who were his 
 parents, and what first induced him to attempt writing 
 for the stage ; his personal appearance, mode of life, 
 the cut of his clothes ; his religious, moral, and 
 political views. Had he been the plaintitf in an 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 87 
 
 action for criminal libel, greater industry in the col- 
 lection and the fabrication of personal details conld 
 hardly have been displayed. Bnt one evening his 
 attention was caught by an article written, even in the 
 opening lines, with more clearness and more concise- 
 ness than the others. The opening lines were a plain 
 statement of how Hubert had come to be a marked 
 man in the theatrical world. It told how brutally 
 and how bitterly Divorce had been received when it 
 was first produced, how not three men in London had 
 dared speak a word in its favour ; '' whereas now," 
 said the critic, " if we except an aged scribbler or 
 two, there is not a journalist in Fleet Street who, 
 with or without provocation, is not prepared to declare, 
 in one or two columns stnifed full of allusions to the 
 new dramatic formula, that Mr. Hubert Price is the 
 man the world is waiting for — the mau who will 
 achieve the dramatic revolution. 
 
 " But the Ethiopian had not changed his skin, 
 nor the leopard his spots," said this critic, " and the 
 explanation of all this noisy kindness and bustling 
 generosity lies in the discovery that, beyond creating a 
 
88 VAIN FOKTUNE. 
 
 little useful agitation in dramatic circles, which will 
 enable certain dramatic opportunists to get rid of 
 their wares, Mr. Hubert Price has achieved nothing ; 
 it therefore suits every one to praise him, just 
 as it suits every one to praise the dead." 
 
 The humanity of this hypocrisy deliglited this critic ; 
 and, having made sufficiently merry over it, he turned 
 to what Hubert had already written, and pointed out 
 the signs of incipient sterility even in Divorce. In 
 An Ebbing Tide there was hardly a good scene — a 
 few ideas that the author had not been able to 
 develop, a few striking phrases. The critic then ran 
 over cases of artistic sterility, noting the first appear- 
 ance of the disease, and its subsequent developments. 
 Men of partial genius were said to be peculiarly 
 liable to it, and the tendency of education to foster 
 the growth was interestingly touched upon. 
 
 The paper dropped from his hands, and he re- 
 collected all his failures. 
 
 " Once 1 could do good work ; now 1 can do neither 
 good work nor bad. Were I a rich man, I should 
 collect my scattered papers and write songs to be 
 
VAIN FOKTUNE. 89 
 
 sung in drawing-rooms ; but being a poor one, I must 
 — I suppose I must get out. Positively, there is 
 no hope, — debts on every side. Fate has willed me 
 to go as went Haydon, Gerard de Nerval, and 
 Marechal. The first cut his throat, the second hanged 
 himself, and the third blew out his brains. Clearly 
 the time has come to consider how I shall make 
 my exit. It is a little startling to be called upon 
 so peremptorily to go." 
 
 In this moment of extreme dejection it seemed to 
 Hubert that the writer of the article had told him 
 the exact truth. He refused to admit the plea of 
 poverty. It was of course hard to write when one 
 is being harassed by creditors. But if he had had 
 it in him, it would have come out. The critic had 
 very probably told him the truth. He could not 
 hope to make a living out of literature. He had 
 not the strength to write the masterpiece which the 
 perverse cruelty of nature had permitted him only 
 to see, and he was hopelessly unfit for journalism. 
 But in his simple, wholesome mind there was no bent 
 towards suicide ; and he scanned every horizon. Once 
 
90 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 again lie thought of his uncle. Five years ago he had 
 written, asking him for the loan of a hundred poimds. 
 He had received ten. And how vain it would be to 
 write a second time ! A few pounds would onlj^ serve 
 to prolong his misery. No ; he would not drift from 
 degradation to degradation. 
 
 He only glanced at the letter which Annie had 
 brought up with the copy of The Modern Review. It 
 was clearly a lawyer's letter. Should he open it ? Why 
 not spare himself the pain ? He could alter nothing ; 
 
 and in these {'bs^ days Leaving the thought 
 
 unfinished, he sought for his keys; he went to his 
 box, unlocked it, and took out a small paper package. 
 Of the fifty pounds he had received from Ford about 
 twenty remained : he had been poorer before, but 
 hardly quite so hopeless. He scanned every horizon 
 — all were barred. The thought of suicide, and with 
 it the instinctive shrinking from it, came into his 
 mind again. Suppose he took, that very night, an 
 overdose of chloral ? He tried to put the thought from 
 him, and returned, a little dazed and helpless, to his 
 chair. Had the critic in The Modern Review told him 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 91 
 
 the truth ? Was he incapable of earning a living ? 
 It seemed so. Above all, was he incapable of finishing 
 The Gipsy as he intended ? No ; that he felt was a 
 lie. Give him six months' quiet, free from worry and 
 all anxiety, and he would do it. Many a year had 
 passed since he had enjoyed a month of quiet ; and 
 glancing again at the letter on the table, he thought 
 that perhaps at that very moment a score of gallery 
 boys were hissing his play. Perhaps at that very 
 moment Ford was making up his mind to announce 
 the last six nights of Divorce. At a quarter to 
 twelve he heard Rose's foot on the stairs. He opened 
 the door. 
 
 " How did the piece go to-night ? " 
 
 " Pretty well." 
 
 " Only pretty well ? Won't you come in for a 
 few minutes ? ... So the piece didn't go very well 
 to-night ? " 
 
 " Oh yes, it did. I've seen it go better ; but " 
 
 " Did you get a call ? " 
 
 " Yes, after the second act." 
 
 " Not after the third ? " 
 
92 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 " No. That act never goes -well. Harding came 
 behind ; I was speaking to him, and he said some- 
 thing which struck me as heing very trnc. Ford, 
 he said, plaj^s the j)art a great deal too seriously. 
 When the piece was first produced, it was played 
 more good-hnmouredly by indifferent actors, who let 
 the thing run without trying to bring out every 
 point. Ford makes it as hard as nails. I think 
 those were his exact words." 
 
 Hubert did not answer. At the end of a long 
 silence he said, — 
 
 " Did you hear anything about the last nights ? " 
 " No," she said ; " I heard nothing of that." 
 " Ford appeared quite satisfied, then ? " 
 " Yes, quite," she answered, with difficulty ; for his 
 eyes were fixed on her, and she felt he knew she was 
 not telling the truth. The conversation paused again, 
 and to turn it into another channel she said, " Why, 
 you have not opened your letter ! " 
 
 " I can see it is a lawyer's letter, on account of 
 some unpaid bill. If 1 could jiay it I would ; but as 
 I can't " 
 
AIN FORTUNE. 93 
 
 "You are afraid to open it," said Rose. 
 
 Ashamed of his weakness, Hubert opened the letter, 
 and began to read. Rose saw that the letter was not 
 such an one as he Lad expected, and a moment after 
 his face told her that fortunate news had come to 
 him. The signs of the tumult within were repre- 
 sented by the passing of the hand across the brow, as 
 if to brush aside some strange hallucination, and the 
 sudden coming of a vague look of surprise and fear 
 into the eyes. He said, — 
 
 " Read it ! Read it ! " 
 
 Relieved of much detail and much cumbersome 
 legal circumlocution, it was to the following effect : — 
 That about three months ago Mr. Burnett had come 
 up from his place in Sussex, and at the offices of 
 Messrs. Grandly & Co. had made a will, in which 
 he had disinherited his adopted daughter, Miss Emily 
 Watson, and left everything to Mr. Hubert Price. 
 There was no question as to the validity of the will ; 
 but Messrs. Grandly deemed it their duty to inform 
 Mr. Hubert Price of the circumstances under which 
 it had been made, and also of the fact that a few 
 
94 YAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 weeks before his deatli Mr. Burnett had told Mr. 
 John Grandly, who was then staving with Mr, Burnett 
 at Ashwood, that he intended adding a codicil, leaving 
 some two or three hundred a year to Miss Watson. 
 It was unfortunate that Mr, Burnett had not had time 
 to do this ; for Miss Watson was an orphan, eighteen 
 years of age, and entirely unprovided for. Messrs. 
 Grandly begged to submit these facts to the con- 
 sideration of Mr. Hubert Price. Miss Watson was 
 now residing at Ashwood. She was there with a 
 friend of hers, Mrs. Beutley ; and should Mr. 
 Hubert Price feel inclined to do what Mr. Burnett 
 had left undone, Messrs. Grandly would have 
 very great pleasure in carrying his wishes into 
 effect. 
 
 " I'm not dreaming, am I ? " 
 
 " No, you are not. It is quite true. Your uncle 
 has left his money to you. I am so glad ; indeed, 
 I am. You will be able to finish your play, and take 
 a theatre and produce it yourself if you like. I hope 
 you won't forget me. I do want to play that part. 
 You can't quite know what I shall do with it. One 
 
VAIN FOKTUNE, 95 
 
 can't explain oneself in a scene here and there. . . . 
 What are yon thinking of ? " 
 
 "I'm thinking of that poor girl Emily Watson. 
 It comes very hard upon her." 
 
 " Who is she ? " 
 
 " The girl my uncle disinherited." 
 
 " Oh, she ! Well, you can marry her if you like. 
 That would not be a bad notion. But if you do you'll 
 forget all about me and Lady Hayward." 
 
 " No ; I shall never forget you, Rose." He 
 stretched his hand to her ; but. irrespective of his 
 will, the gesture seemed full of farewell. 
 
 " I'm so much obliged to you," he said ; " had 
 it not been for you I might never have opened that 
 letter." 
 
 " Even if you hadn't it wouldn't have mattered ; you 
 would have heard of your good-fortune some other 
 way. But it is getting very late. I must say good- 
 night. I hope you will have a pleasant time in the 
 country, and will finish your play. Good-night." 
 
 Returning from the door, he stopped to think. 
 " We have been very good friends — that is all. How 
 
^6 VAIN FOETUNE. 
 
 strangely determined she is ! . . . More so than I am. 
 She is bound to sncceed. There is in her just that 
 note of individual passion. . . . Perhaps some one will 
 find her out before I have finished, — that would 
 be a pity. I wonder which of us will succeed 
 first ? " 
 
 Then the madness of good-fortune came upon liim 
 suddenly ; he could think no more of Rose, and had to 
 go for a long walk in the streets. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 "TT was pleasing to listen to the detailed story of 
 his wonderful fortune. There were so many- 
 thousands in funds, and so much more in other 
 securities ; altogether, five-and-thirty thousand pounds, 
 excellently well invested. And then there was the 
 estate in Sussex; and the senior member of the firm of 
 Grandly & Co. was able to show Hubert a photograph 
 of the house, and to tell him of the many advantages 
 of this snug little estate. Ashwood was a couple of 
 miles from a railway station, and Mr. Grandly told 
 Hubert of the woods and the gardens. It sounded 
 like a pleasant dream, from which he could not shake 
 himself, and the moment seemed always imminent 
 when the solicitor and his office would vanish, and 
 he would find himself in his arm-chair, Mrs. Wilson 
 standing over him with her terrible "book" in her 
 hand. 
 
 97 7 
 
98 VAIN FOETUNE. 
 
 Miss Emily Watson was only a connection, a second 
 or third cousin — he was not certain which. The 
 Watsons had always lived in Cornwall, and as they 
 rarely came to London he had never happened to 
 meet her. Only his mother used to speak of them. 
 Emily would look upon him as a robber; no reparation, 
 except perhaps marriage, would be thought complete 
 by her, and, even if he liked her sufficiently, he must 
 woo and win her. But under the circumstances of 
 this disinheritance it seemed difficult even to offer to 
 see her. He wondered if she expected him to make 
 a settlement, and if she would deem three hundred a 
 year sufficient. 
 
 The conversation paused. Then speaking suddenly, 
 Mr. Grandly said, — 
 
 " If you have any communication to make to 
 Miss Watson, I shall be pleased to take charge 
 of it." 
 
 " I shall be glad if you will. ... It is a very 
 delicate matter, but I have every confidence in your 
 tact and judgment." 
 
 Mr. Grandly bowed. 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 09 
 
 " I quite understand my cousin must feel this 
 disinheritance very deeply." 
 
 " I have reason to believe that she does ; she had 
 been brought up to consider Mr. Burnett as her father. 
 Of course 1 was aware that Mr. Burnett made no 
 provision for her in his will. ... I may say that the 
 matter was discussed between us ; but Mr. Burnett 
 was— legal etiquette does not allow me to divulge his 
 motives for his sudden change of intention in regard 
 to Miss Watson, but I may again bring it under your 
 notice that he was considering the necessity of adding 
 a codicil. . . . Indeed, I have some letters in which 
 reference is made — if you would like to see them." 
 
 Mr. Grandly opened a drawer, and, taking out a 
 bundle of letters, he sought for one. Finding it, he 
 read a few lines, and passed it across the table to 
 Hubert. 
 
 Then Hubert proposed that Mr. Grandly should 
 write to Miss Watson, asking her to come up to 
 London to meet her cousin at his office. Mr. Grandly 
 agreed to do this ; but after some further conversation, 
 in which the excellence of Hubert's feelings was evident, 
 
iOO VAIN FOETUNE. 
 
 Mr. Grandly was moved to advise Hubert to jump into 
 the train and go down and see the young lady himself. 
 Such an adventurous grappling with circumstances 
 Mr. Grandly thought would find more favour with 
 Emily, and be more likely to remove any resentment 
 she might feel, than an official summons to a meeting 
 by appointment in a solicitor's office. 
 
 " It is a delicate matter, sir ; but if you run down 
 as I advise, and, claiming relationship, tell the young 
 lady that you intend to settle three hundred a year 
 upon her, I venture to say you will please her more 
 than if you invited her up here and settled six hundred 
 a year." Mr. Grandly threw himself back in his chair, 
 and a twinkle ran round the corner of his eves. "And 
 if you should ever feel inclined to call in the three 
 hundred you so generously propose to settle on the 
 
 young lady, you will find that " Mr. Grandly 
 
 finished his sentence with a laugh. 
 
 Hubert did not doubt that Mr. Grandly was right; 
 but he was a shy, reserved man, and felt he could not 
 go down to Ashwood and introduce himself to those 
 two ladies. Mr. Grandly tried to persuade him, and 
 
TllKY DINED AT THE CAFE KOYAL. [Page lOl. 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 101 
 
 finally the matter was compromised. Mr. Grandh- 
 promised to write to Miss Watson, telling her of her 
 cousin's desire to see her, and asking her to send a 
 trap to meet him at the station on Monday. If 
 Hubert took the half-past four train from Victoria, 
 he would arrive at South Water at six. 
 
 On Saturday night Hubert went to see the last 
 performance of Divorce. On Sunday he took Rose 
 out to dinner. They dined at the Caf6 Royal; the 
 dinner was copious and expensive, the wine was the 
 rarest; but they both felt that their dinners in little 
 side-streets had given them more pleasure. Hubert 
 tried to talk to her about Hamilton Brown's new 
 drama, which they had just heard would follow Divorce-, 
 but he was unable to detach his thoughts from Ash- 
 wood and the ladies he was going to visit to-morrow 
 evening. They felt like two school-fellows, one of 
 whom is leaving school ; the link that had bound them 
 had snapped ; henceforth their ways lay separate ; and 
 they were sad at parting just as school-friends are 
 sad. To both of tliem their friendship seemed strangely 
 incomplete ; there was a restlessness in their souls ; 
 
102 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 and yet both knew that they were not in love. Both 
 felt, however, that things should have turned out 
 differently. The girl thought he should have finished 
 the play ; he thought so too, although for the moment 
 all remembrance of the stage was distasteful to him. 
 
 "You are not rich," he said ; "you offered to lend 
 me money once. I want to lend you some now." 
 
 " Oh yes," she said, with a sudden laugh ; " five 
 shillings, wasn't it ? " 
 
 " It doesn't matter what the sum was, — we were 
 both very poor then " 
 
 " And I'm still poorer now." 
 
 " All the more reason why you should allow me to 
 help you. . . . Allow me to write you a cheque for a 
 hundred pounds. I assure you I can afford it." 
 
 " I think I had better not. ... I have some things 
 I can sell." 
 
 " But you must not sell your things. Indeed, you 
 must allow me " 
 
 " I think I'd rather not. I shall l)e all right — that 
 is to say, if Ford engages me for Brown's new piece; 
 and I think he will." 
 
VAIN FOKTUNE. 103 
 
 " But if he doesn't ? " 
 
 " Then," she said, with a sweet and natural smile, 
 "I'll write to yon. . . . We have been excellent 
 friends — comrades — have we not ? " 
 
 " Yes, we have indeed, and I shall never forget. 
 There is my address ; that will always find me." 
 
 Next day he bade good-bye to the whole house, — 
 to Mrs. Wilson, to Annie, and once more to Rose. 
 He caught up his rug, and a moment after he was 
 driving toward Victoria. Before he reached the rail- 
 way station the last realities of the lodging-house, the 
 good-byes bidden on the doorstep, began to fade, and 
 he again lost himself in the glamour and hallucination 
 of the new life which chance had so unexpectedly 
 thrust upon him. Like one in fairyland, he was pre- 
 pared for everything. Anything might happen. He 
 had ceased to calculate, had surrendered himself uj) 
 to nature ; and puzzled by the irregularity of her 
 metre, he listened to the rattle of the train, and 
 took a vague joy in watching the white steam 
 going out and dispersing over the rich country just 
 beginning to ripen into summer. This house, this 
 
104 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 property, these ladies 1 He wondered what they 
 would say, what he should say ; and in extreme 
 nervousness regretted not having given the solicitor 
 fuller instructions. 
 
 When he got out of the train, a smart footman 
 touched his hat, and a fast-trotting animal took him 
 rapidly through a small red town into a fine open 
 country, the outlines of which were beginning to grow 
 dim in the setting light. The sky was rose; and had 
 a river flowed through the undulating meadows where 
 the cattle were grazing, they would have been as 
 Corot would have painted them. Fugitive pride rose 
 in him that part of this beautiful country was his ; 
 but the sensation was constantly engulfed in nervous 
 apprehension of the approaching interview with his 
 cousin. He wondered if the fringe of trees which 
 stretched downwards from the right belonged to 
 him, and soon after the dog-cart stopped before a 
 white gate. The park was clothed in its* finest 
 greenery ; the trees were in fullest leaf. The orna- 
 mental water was crossed by a handsome bridge, 
 and through the shadows of the darkening island two 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 105 
 
 swans floated softly, leaving behind them alight silver 
 lines ; above, the swallows flew high in the evening. 
 Peace and profound silence, forgetfiilness of the 
 past; and Hubert thought that this corner of the 
 park represented, in some vague way, his memory 
 of the life he had endured and that had fallen from 
 him. 
 
 The house was pale brown and of irregular structure. 
 
 Numerous windows opened on a sward set forth with 
 
 vases, and the bulging conservatory was green with 
 
 plants. He noticed portraits and yellowing statues in 
 
 the hall, and wolfskins on the parqueted floor in the 
 
 drawing-room. There were dim decorations on the 
 
 walls — vine leaves and distant mountains. There was 
 
 a grand piano, and a tall woman came from the 
 
 instrument, her pale hair sparkling in the light. She 
 
 wore a yellow summer dress, and on her arm there 
 
 was a gold bracelet. At the same moment, out of 
 
 an arm-chair covered with grey drugget, there rose a 
 
 small slender girl of about eighteen. Her abundant 
 
 chestnut hair — exquisite, soft, and silky — was looped 
 
 picturesquely, and fastened with a thin tortoiseshell 
 
106 
 
 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 comb. The tiny month trembled, and the large, pro- 
 minent eyes reflected a strange, yearning soul. She 
 
 was dressed in black, 
 
 and the fantastically 
 small waist was con- 
 fined with a black band. 
 " I am Miss Watson," 
 she said in a low mnsical 
 voice, "and this is my 
 friend, Mrs. Bentley." 
 Hubert bowed, and 
 sought for words. He 
 found none, and the 
 irritating silence was 
 broken again by Miss 
 Watson. " Won't you 
 sit down ? " she said. 
 
 "Thank you." He 
 pulled oif his gloves. 
 The pained, troubled look which he had met in Miss 
 Watson's face seemed a reproach, and he regretted 
 not having followed his own idea, and invited the 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 107 
 
 yonng lady to meet him at Mr. Grandly's office. He 
 glanced nervously from one lady to the other. 
 
 " I hope you have had a pleasant journey, Mr. 
 Price," said Mrs. Bentley. " The country is looking 
 very beautiful just at present. Do you know this 
 part of the country ? " Mrs. Bentley's words were 
 very welcome, and Hubert replied eagerly, — 
 
 " No, I do not know the country at all well. I 
 have been very little out of London for some years, 
 but I hope now to see more of the country. This 
 is a beautiful place." 
 
 At that moment he met Mrs. Bentley's eyes, and, 
 feeling that he was touching on delicate ground, he 
 stopped speaking. When he turned his head, he met 
 Miss Watson's great sad eyes, which seemed to absorb 
 the entire face, fixed upon him. They expressed such 
 depth of pathetic appeal that he trembled with appre- 
 hension, and the instinct in him was to beg for pardon. 
 But it became suddenly necessary to say something, 
 and, speaking at random, his head full of whirling 
 words, he said, — 
 
 "Of course nothing could be more sad than my 
 
108 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 poor uncle's death, — so unexpected. . . . Having lived 
 
 so long together, yon must have " Then it was 
 
 Hnbert's tnrn to look appealingly at Miss Watson ; 
 but her great eyes seemed to say, " Go on, go on ; 
 heap cruelty on cruelty ! " Then he plunged des- 
 perately, hoping to retrieve his mistakes. " He died 
 about a month ago. Mr. Grandly told me 1 should 
 still find you liere, so I thought " 
 
 The intensity of his emotion perhaps caused Hubert 
 to accentuate his words, so that they conveyed a mean- 
 ing different from that which he intended. C'ertainly 
 his hesitations were capable of misinterpretation, and 
 Miss Watson said, her voice trembling, — 
 
 " Of course we know we have no right here, we are 
 intruding ; but we are making preparations. ... I 
 daresay that to-morrow we shall be able to " 
 
 "Oh, I beg pardon, Miss Watson; let me assure 
 you ... 1 am sorry if " 
 
 Taking a little handkerchief out of her black dress, 
 Emily covered her face in her thin, tiny hands. She 
 sobbed aloud, and ran out of the room, Hubert turned 
 to Mrs. Bentley, his face full of consternation. 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 109 
 
 " I am very sorry, but she did not give me time to 
 speak. Will yon go and fetch her, Mrs. Bentley ? 
 I want to tell her I hope she will never leave Ash- 
 wood. ... I believe she thinks that I came down 
 here to ask her to leave as soon as possible. It 
 is really quite awful that she should think such a 
 thing." 
 
 " She is an exceedingly sensitive girl, and is now 
 a little overwrought. The events of the last month 
 have proved too much for her." 
 
 " Mr. Grandly informed me that it was Mr. Bur- 
 nett's intention to add a codicil to his will, leaving 
 Miss Watson three hundred a year. This money 1 
 am prepared to give her, and I'm quite sure she is 
 welcome to stay here as long as she pleases. Indeed, 
 she will do me a great favour by remaining. Please 
 go and tell her. I cannot bear to see a girl cry ; 
 to hear her sob like that is quite terrible." 
 
 " You will be able to tell her yourself during the 
 course of the evening. I think it will come better 
 from you." 
 
 " After what has happened, it will be very difficult 
 
110 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 for me to meet her until she is informed that she is 
 mistaken. I charged Mr. G-randly to explain every- 
 thing in his letter. Apparently he omitted to do so." 
 
 " He only said you wanted to see Emily on a matter 
 of business. Of course we did not expect such 
 generosity." 
 
 They were standing quite close together, and sud- 
 denly Hubert became conscious of Mrs. Bentley's 
 beauty. Her blue eyes were at that moment full 
 of tender admiration for the instinctive generosity 
 which Hubert so unwittingly exhibited, and her eyes 
 told what was passing in her soul. Suddenly they 
 both seemed to understand each other better, and, 
 playing with the bracelet on her arm, she said, — 
 
 " You do not know Emily ; she is strangely sensitive. 
 But I will go and try to persuade her to return. . . . 
 Although only distantly related, you are cousins, after 
 all — are you not ? " 
 
 "Yes, we are cousins, but the relationship is remote. 
 Tell her everything ; beg of her to come downstairs." 
 
 Hubert imagined Emily's little black figure thrown 
 upon her bed, sobbing convulsively. He was very 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. Ill 
 
 much agitated, and looked abont the room, at first 
 hardly seeing it. At last its novelty drew his thoughts 
 from his cousin's tears, and he wondered what was 
 the history of the house. " The old man," he thought, 
 "bought it all, furniture and ancestors, from some 
 ruined landowner, and attempted very few alterations 
 — that's clear." Then he reproached himself. " How 
 could I have been so stupid ? I did not know what 
 I was saying. I was so horribly nervous. Those 
 strange eyes of hers quite upset me. I do hope 
 Mrs. Bentley will tell her that I wish to act generously, 
 that I am prepared to do everything in my power 
 to make her happy. Poor little thing ! She looks 
 as if she had never been happy." Again the room 
 drew Hubert's thoughts away from his cousin. It 
 was still lit with the faint perfumed glow of the 
 sunset. The paint of the old decorations was cracked 
 and faded. A man in a plum-coloured coat with gold 
 facings fixed his eyes upon him, and the tall lady in 
 blue satin had no doubt played there in short clothes. 
 He walked up and down, he turned over the music 
 on the piano, and, hearing a step, looked round. It 
 
112 VAIN FOETUNE. 
 
 was only the servant coming to tell him that his room 
 was ready. 
 
 He dressed for dinner, hoping to find the two ladies 
 in the drawing-room, and it was a disappointment to 
 find only Mrs. Bentley there. 
 
 " I have told Emily everything yon said. She is 
 very grateful, and begs of me to thank you for your 
 kind intentions. But I am afraid you must excuse 
 her absence from dinner. I really don't think she is 
 in a fit state to come down ; she couldn't possibly 
 take part in the conversation." 
 
 " But why ? I hope she isn't ill. Had we better 
 send for the doctor ? " 
 
 " Oh no ; she'll be all right in the morning. She 
 has been crying. She sufiers from depression of 
 spirits. She is, I assure you, all right," said Mrs. 
 Bentley, replying to Hubert's alarmed and questioning 
 face. " I assure you there is no need for you to 
 reproach yourself. Dinner is ready." She took his 
 arm, and they went into the dining-room. 
 
 No further mention was made of Mr. Burnett, of 
 money matters, or of the young lady upstairs ; and 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 113 
 
 with considerable tact Mrs. Bentley introdnced the 
 Bubject of literature, alluding gracefully to Hubert's 
 position as a dramatist. 
 
 " Your play, Divorce., is now running at the Queen's 
 Theatre ? " 
 
 " No ; I'm sorry to say it was taken out of the 
 bills last Saturday. Saturday night was the last 
 performance." 
 
 " That was not a long run. And the papers spoke 
 so favourably of it." 
 
 " It is a play that only appeals to the few." And, 
 encouraged by Mrs. Bentley's manner, Hubert told 
 her how happy endings and comic love scenes were 
 essential to secure a popular success. 
 
 " I am afraid you will think me very stupid, but I 
 do not quite understand." 
 
 In a quiet, unobtrusive way Hubert was a graceful 
 
 talker, and he knew how to adapt his theme, and 
 
 bring it within the circle of the sympathies of his 
 
 listeners. There was some similarity of temperament 
 
 between himself and Mrs. Bentley ; they were both 
 
 quiet, fair, meditative Saxons. She lent her whole 
 
 8 
 
114 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 mind to the conversation, interested in the account 
 that the young man gave of his dramatic aspirations. 
 
 From the dining-room window looking over the 
 park the long road wound through the vaporous 
 country. The town stood in the middle distance, its 
 colour blotted out, and its smoke hardly distinguish- 
 able. In the room a yellow dress turned grey, and 
 the gold of a bracelet grew darker, and the pink of 
 delicate finger nails was no longer visible. But the 
 pensive dusk of the dining-room, which blackened the 
 claret in the decanters, leaving only the faintest ruby 
 glow in the glass which Hubert raised to his lips, 
 suited the tenor of the conversation, which had wan- 
 dered from the dramatic to the social side of the 
 question. What did he think of divorce ? She 
 sighed, and he wondered what her story might be. 
 
 They passed out of the dining-room, and stood on 
 the gravel, watching the night gathering in the open 
 country. In the light of the moon, which had just 
 risen above the woods, the white road grew whiter, 
 the town was faintly seen in the tide of blue vapour, 
 which here and there allowed a field to ai)pear. In 
 
VAIN FOETUNE. 115 
 
 the foreground a great silver fir, spiky and solitary, 
 rose np in the blue night. Beyond it was seen a 
 corner of the ornamental bridge. The island and its 
 shadow were one black mass rising from the park 
 up to the level of the moon, which, a little to the 
 right, between the town and the island, lay reflected 
 in a narrow strip of water. Farther away some reeds 
 were visible in the illusive light, and the meditative 
 chatter of dozing ducks stirred the silence which 
 wrapped the country like a cloak. 
 
 Hubert and Mrs. Bentley stood looking at the 
 landscape. The fragrance of his cigar, the presence 
 of the woman, the tenderness of the hour, combined 
 to make him strangely happy ; his past life seemed to 
 him like a harsh, cruel pain that had suddenly ceased. 
 More than he had ever desired seemed to be fulfilled; 
 the reality exceeded the dream. What greater happi- 
 ness than to live here, and with this woman ! His 
 thoughts paused, for he had forgotten the girl upstairs. 
 She was not happy ; but he would make her happy — 
 of that he was quite certain. At that moment Mrs. 
 Bentley said, — 
 
116 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 " I hope yon like your home. Is not the prospect 
 a lovely one ? " 
 
 "Yes ; bnt I was thinking at that moment of 
 Emily. I suppose I must accustom myself to call 
 her by her Christian name. She is my cousin, and 
 we are going to live together. But, by the way, she 
 cannot stay here alone. I hope — may I trust that 
 you will remain with her ? " 
 
 Mrs. Bentley turned her face towards him ; he 
 noticed the look of pleasure that had passed into 
 it. 
 
 " Thank you ; it is very good of you. I shall be 
 glad to remain with Emily as long as she cares for 
 my society. It is needless to say I shall do my best 
 to deserve your approval." 
 
 Her voice fell, and he heard her sigh, and in his 
 happiness it seemed to him to be a pity that he 
 should find unhappiness in others. 
 
 They went into the drawing-room. Mrs. Bentley 
 asked him if he liked music, and she went to the 
 piano and sang some Scotch songs very sweetly. 
 Then she took a book from the table and bade him 
 
VAIN FOKTUNE. 117 
 
 good-night. She was sure that he would excuse her. 
 She must go and see after Emily. 
 
 When the door closed, the woman who had just left 
 him seemed like some one he had seen in a dream ; 
 and still more shadowy and illusive did the girl 
 seem — that pale and plaintive beauty, looking like a 
 pastel, who had so troubled him with her enigmatic 
 eyes ! And the lodging-house that he had left only 
 a few hours ago I and Miss Massey ! What did it all 
 mean ? Had there ever been such a romance ? And 
 yet the facts were simple enough. When all hojie 
 seemed dead, when he stood on the brink of suicide, 
 his uncle, who had adopted a distant member of the 
 family, — one of the Watsons, — had suddenly taken it 
 into his head to leave his money to the nearest of kin. 
 The most commonplace story in the world when looked 
 at from one side, and yet how romantic when looked 
 at from another ! The point of view is everything. 
 
 He had written a play — a play that the most 
 competent critics had considered a work of genius ; 
 in any case, a play that had interested his generation 
 more than any other. It had failed, and failed twice; 
 
118 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 but did that prove anything ? Fortune had deserted 
 him, and he had been unable to finish The Gipsy. 
 Was it the fanlt of circnmstances that he had not 
 been able to finish that play ? or was it that the slight 
 vein of genius that had been in him once had been ex- 
 hausted ? He remembered the article in The Modern 
 Review, and was frightened to think that the critic 
 might have divined the truth. Once it had seemed 
 impossible to finish that play ; but fortune had come 
 to his aid, accident had made him master of Ids 
 destiny ; he could spend three years, five years if he 
 liked, on The Gipsy. But why think of the play at 
 all ? What did it matter even if he never wrote it ? 
 There were many things to do in life besides writing 
 plays. There was life ! His life was henceforth his 
 own, and he could live it as he pleased. What should 
 he do with it ? To whom should he give it ? Should 
 he keep it all for himself and his art? It were useless 
 to make plans. All he knew for certain was tliat 
 henceforth he was master of his own life, and could 
 dispense it as he pleased. 
 
 And then, in sensuous curiosity, his thoughts turned 
 
VAIN FOKTUNE. 119 
 
 on the pleasure of life in this beautiful house, in the 
 society of two charming women. 
 
 " Perhaps I shall marry one of them. Which do I 
 like the better? I haven't the least idea." And then, 
 as his thoughts detached themselves, he remembered 
 Emily's tears. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 "^TEXT morning Hubert lay late in bed, tempted 
 by tlie fineness of the sheets and the bright 
 air and colour of the room. About half-past ten he 
 found his way into the dining-room, and, remembering 
 Fitzroy Street, he smiled when the biiiler proposed 
 devilled chicken, kidneys, omelette, cutlets sausages. 
 On the sideboard there were a pale, enticing ham and 
 a rich brown tongue. Mrs. Bentley poured out a cup 
 of coffee for him, and boiled two eggs by lighting a 
 spirit lamp beneath a pretty silver spirit apparatus 
 that stood on the dining-room table. He asked after 
 Emily, and was told she had quite recovered, and 
 was now in the flower-garden. Seeing he had all 
 he wanted, she begged him to excuse her. Then his 
 thoughts went to Emily, whom he imagined among 
 the swards and flower-beds, looking after the gardener. 
 He knew he would have to go to her when he had 
 
VAIN FORTUNE, 121 
 
 finislied breakfast, and wished the meeting was over. 
 He dreaded her reproachful eyes. 
 
 It was a day of English summer, and the meadows 
 and trees drowsed in the moist atmosphere ; a few 
 white clouds hung lazily in the blue sky ; the garden 
 was bright with geraniums and early roses, and the 
 closely cropped privets were in full leaf. Hubert's 
 senses were taken with the beauty of the morning, 
 and there came the thought, so delicious, " All this is 
 mine." He noticed the glitter of the greenhouses, 
 and thought the cawing of some young rooks a sweet 
 sound ; a great tortoiseshell cat lay basking in the 
 middle of the greensward, whisking its furry tail. 
 Hubert stroked the animal ; it arched its back, and 
 rubbed itself against his legs. At that moment a 
 half-bred fox-terrier barked noisily at him ; he heard 
 some one calling the dog, and saw a slight black figure 
 hastening down one of the side-walks. Despite the 
 dog's attempts on his legs, he ran forward. 
 
 " Emily ! Emily ! " he called. She stopped, turned, 
 and stood looking at him. 
 
 " My dear cousin," he said. " I'm sorry about last 
 
122 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 night. I hope that Mrs. Beutley has told you. I 
 begged of her to do so." 
 
 " Yes, she told me of your kind intentions. I have 
 to thank you." 
 
 They walked on in silence, neither knowing what 
 to say. 
 
 " Go away, Dandy ! " said Emily, thrusting her black 
 silk parasol at the dog, who had begun an attack on 
 Hubert's trousers. The dog retreated ; Hubert laughed. 
 
 " I'm afraid he doesn't like me." 
 
 " He'll soon get to know you. Are you fond of 
 animals ? " 
 
 " I don't know that I am particularly." 
 
 " Oh ! " she said, looking at him reproachfully, 
 " how can you ? " Her eyes seemed to say, " I never 
 can like you after that." " I adore animals," she said. 
 " My dear dog — there is nothing in the world I love as 
 I love my Dandy ; come here, dear." The dog came, 
 wagging his tail, putting back his ears, knowing he 
 was going to be caressed. Emily stooped down, took 
 his rough head in her hands, and kissed him. " Is he 
 not a dear ? " she said, looking up ; and then she 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 123 
 
 said, " I hope yoa won't object to having him in the 
 house " ; and her face clouded. 
 
 " Oh, my dear Emily, how can you ask such a 
 question ? I shall never object to anything you 
 desire." The conversation paused, and they walked 
 some paces in silence. Emily had just begun to speak 
 of her flowers, when they came upon the gardener, who 
 was standing in consternation over the fragments of a 
 broken mowing-machine. Jack — that was the donkey 
 — had been left to himself just for a moment. It was 
 impossible to say what wild freak had taken him ; but 
 instead of waiting, as he was expected to wait, stolidly, 
 he had started off on a wild career, regardless of the 
 safety of the machine. At the first bound it had 
 come in contact with a flower-vase, which had been 
 sent in many pieces over the sward ; at the second it 
 had met with some stone coping ; and at the third it 
 had turned over in complete dissolution, and Jack was 
 free to tear up the turf with his hoofs, until finally his 
 erratic course was stopped by the small boy who was 
 responsible for the animal's behaviour. The arrival of 
 Hubert and Emily saved the small boy from many a 
 
124 YAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 cuff and the donkey from a kick or two ; and Jack 
 stood amid the ruin he had created, as quiet and as 
 docile a creature as the mind couhl imagine. 
 
 " Oh, you — you wicked Jack ! Who would have 
 thought it of you ? " said Emily, throwing her arms 
 round the animal's neck. " And at your age, too ! 
 This is my old donkey," she said, turning her dreamy 
 eyes on Hubert. " I used to ride him every day 
 until about two years ago. I love my dear old Jack, 
 and would not have him beaten for worlds, although he 
 is so wicked as to break the mowing-machine. Look 
 what you have done to the flower-vase." The animal 
 shook its long ears. 
 
 Hubert and Emily strolled down a long walk, 
 wondering what they should talk about. 
 
 " These are really very pretty grounds," he said at 
 last. " I am sure I shall enjoy myself immensely 
 here." The remark appeared to him to be of doubtful 
 taste, and he hastened to add, "That is to say, if I 
 have completely made it up with my pretty cousin." 
 
 " But you have not seen the place yet," she said, 
 speaking still with a certain tremor in her voice. 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 125 
 
 " Yon haven't even seen the gardens. Come, and I'll 
 show them to you." 
 
 Hubert would have preferred to walk with her 
 through these ornamental swards ; and he liked the 
 espalier apple trees with which the garden was divided 
 better than the glare and heat of the greenhouses into 
 which she took him. 
 
 " Do you care for flowers ? " 
 
 " Not very much." 
 
 "These are all my flowers," she said, pointing to 
 many rows of flower-pots. " These are Julia's. You 
 see I run a line of thread around mine, so that there 
 shall be no mistake. She is not nearly so careful as I 
 am, and it isn't nice to find that the plants you have 
 been tending for weeks have been spoilt by over- 
 watering. I don't say she doesn't love them, but she 
 forgets them. . . . Just look at these ; they are 
 devoured by insects. They want to be taken out and 
 given a thorough cleansing. Even then I doubt if 
 they would come out right, — a plant never forgives 
 you ; it is just like a human being." 
 
 " And doesn't a human being ever forgive ? " 
 
126 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 " Oh, I didn't mean that ! " she said, blushing ; " but 
 sometimes I could ciy over the poor plants which she 
 neglects. I daresay you will think me very ridiculous, 
 but I do cry sometimes, and sometimes I cannot re- 
 sist taking them out on the sly, and giving them 
 a thoroughly good syringing, — only you must not tell 
 her ; we have agreed not to touch each other's flowers. 
 But I cannot bear to see the poor things dying. How 
 do we know that they do not suffer ? " 
 
 " I don't think it probable." 
 
 " But we don't know for certain," she said, fixing 
 her great eyes on him. " Do we ? " 
 
 " We know nothing for certain," he answered ; and 
 then he said, " You and Mrs. Bentley have lived a 
 long time together ? " 
 
 " No, not very long. About a couple of years. I 
 was about thirteen when 1 came to Ashwood. J am 
 now eighteen. Mrs. Bentley is a sort of connection. 
 She is very poor — that is why Mr. Burnett asked her 
 to come and live here ; besides, as I grew up I 
 wanted a companion. She has been very good to 
 me. We have been very happy together — at least, 
 
VAIN FOKTUNE. 127 
 
 s iiappy as one may be ; for I don't think that any 
 one is ever very happy. Have you been very happy ? " 
 " I have not always been happy. But tell me 
 more about Mrs. Bentley." 
 
 " There is little more to tell. I naturally love her 
 very much. She nursed me when I was ill — and I'm 
 often ill ; she taught me all I know ; she cheered me 
 when I was sad — when I thought my heart would 
 break; when everybody else seemed unkind she was 
 kind. Besides, I could not remain here without her." 
 Emily lowered her eyes, and the conversation seemed 
 to pause. 
 
 " I have arranged all that/' Hubert answered 
 hurriedly. " I spoke to her last night, and she has 
 consented to remain." 
 
 " That is very good of you." Emily raised her eyes 
 and looked shyly at Hubert ; and then, as if doubtful 
 of herself, she said, " Do you like her ? I'm sure you 
 do. Every one does. Do you not think she is very 
 handsome ? " 
 
 " I think her an exceedingly pleasant woman, and 
 I'm sure we shall all get on very well together." 
 
128 VAIN FOETUNE. 
 
 " But don't yoa think her very handsome ? " 
 
 " Yes, she is a handsome woman." 
 
 Nothing more was said. Emily drew meditatively 
 on the gravel with the point of her parasol. The 
 gardeners looked up from their work. 
 
 " I have to go now," she said, raising her eyes 
 timidly, " to feed the swans. You would not care to 
 go so far ? " 
 
 " On the contrary, I should like it of all things. A 
 walk by the water on a day like this will be quite a 
 treat." 
 
 " Then will you wait a moment ? I will go and 
 fetch the bread." She returned soon after with a 
 small basket; and a large retriever, tied up in the 
 corner of the yard, barked and lugged at his chain. 
 " He knows where I am going, and is afraid I shall 
 forget him — aren't you, dear old Don ? You wouldn't 
 like to miss a walk with your mistress, would you, 
 dear ? " The dog bounded and rushed from side 
 to side ; it was with difficulty that Emily loosed him. 
 Once free, he galloped down the drive, returning at 
 intervals for a caress and a sniff at the basket which 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 129 
 
 his mistress carried. " There's nothing there for you, 
 my beantiful Don ! " 
 
 The drive sloped from the house down to the arti- 
 ficial water, passing under some large elms ; and in the 
 twilight of the branches where the sunlight played, 
 and the silence was tremulous with wings, Hubert 
 felt that Emily had forgiven him. She wore the 
 same black dress that he had admired her in the 
 night before ; her waist was confined by the same 
 black band ; but the chestnut hair seemed more 
 beautiful beneath the black silk sunshade, leaned 
 so gracefully, the black handle held between thumb 
 and forefinger. And the little black figure seemed a 
 part of the beautiful English park, now so green and 
 fragrant in all the flower and sunlight of June, and 
 decorated with a blue summer sky, and white clouds 
 moving lazily over the tops of the trees. And the 
 impression of the beautiful park was enforced by its 
 reflection, which lay, with the mute magic of re- 
 flected things, in the still water, stirred only when, 
 with exquisite motion of webbed feet, the swans 
 
 propelled their freshness to and fro, balancing them- 
 
 9 
 
130 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 selves in the current where they knew the bread 
 must surely fall. 
 
 " They are waiting for me. Cannot you see their 
 black eyes turned towards the bridge ? " And she 
 threw the bread from the basket, and the beautiful 
 birds unbent their curved necks, devouring it vora- 
 ciously under the water. 
 
 In the larger portion of this artificial lake there 
 were two islands, thickly wooded. In the smaller, 
 which lay behind Emily and Hubert, there was one 
 small island covered with reeds and low bushes, and 
 this was a favourite haunt for the waterfowl, which 
 now came swimming forward, not daring to approach 
 too near the dangerous swans. 
 
 " These are my friends," said Emily. '• They wUl 
 follow me to the other end, and I shall be able to feed 
 them as we walk along the meadow." 
 
 Don and Dandy bounded through the tall grass; 
 sometimes foolishly giving chase to the birds that rose 
 up out of the golden grasses, barking in mad eager- 
 ness — sometimes pursuing a hare into the distant 
 woods. The last chase had led them far, and both 
 
k."_»S. C Atxaj_ia-i»_ 
 
 TAis rv:«si"L>*- 131 
 
 bieath br their misszeba s ajOc : sadsfr the 
 
 retriever's affecn.:^ I^ 
 
 Plaji__ - - -. -— : -— :? ^ie s&ii — 
 
 ~ Sot ginoe I was a dot, ten or rweire years aaro^ 
 I was ~. T^rTc -5^ rlr 
 
 -zelT decisive 
 
 noieasKKi! 
 
 r,->» »^- . 
 
 "Yes. 
 
 ^^ ' V """ ■ 
 
 t(»e. 
 
 
 -Mavl 
 
 ask 
 
 ~ I do nor kn : - if ^ . - ijo lell yoo. It — ' " ' 
 better not to. Y t.~ slLe cc»iit:_"^ ". -~ 
 
 :lv«' "J^^i-L- _-- '> - ----- ; - 
 
 not wast JC'~ ' ' 'i'.:ls: TJiai I am so very - - — - -^ - - 
 
 I do nor - 
 
 b^Tp acT^i ' _ : to 
 
 tc I taey irere s 
 
 vouth and : :the-~ __ •• Frve vears 
 
 ago I ^=^:- : "-'— ," - H — r^^j -rry 
 
132 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 slowly, " asking him to lend me fiftj^ pounds, and he 
 refused. Since then I have not heard from him." At 
 the end of a long silence, the girl said, — 
 
 " So long as you know that I am no longer angry 
 with him for having disinherited me, I do not mind 
 telling you the reason. Two months before lie died 
 ho asked me to marry him, and I refused." 
 
 They walked several yards without speaking. 
 
 " Do you not think I was right ? I was only 
 eighteen, and he was over sixty." 
 
 " It seems to me quite shocking that he could have 
 even contemplated such a thing." 
 
 " But look at these poor ducks ; they have followed 
 us all the way, and I have forgotten to feed them ! " 
 Taking out all the bread that remained in the basket, 
 Emily threw it to the ducks that had collected where 
 the dammed up stream that filled the lake trickled 
 over a wooden sluice. There was a plank by which to 
 cross the deej) cutting. Hubert and Emily paused, 
 and stood gazing at the large beech wood that swept 
 over some rising ground. Don had not been seen for 
 some time, and they both shouted to him. Presently 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 133 
 
 a black mass was seen bounding through the flowers, 
 and the panting animal once more ensconced himself 
 by his mistress's side. 
 
 " I was very fond of Mr, Burnett," she said, " but I 
 could not marry him. I could not marry any man 
 I did not love." 
 
 " And because you refused to marry him, he did 
 not mention you in his will. I never heard of such 
 selfishness before ! " 
 
 " Men are always selfish," she said sententiously. 
 " But it really does not matter ; things are just the 
 same ; he hasn't succeeded in altering anything — at 
 least, not for the worse. We shall get on very well 
 together." 
 
 The conversation paused. Then Emily went on : 
 " You won't tell any one I told you ? I only 
 told you because I did not want you to think me 
 selfish. I was afraid that after the foolish way I 
 behaved last night you might think I hated you. 
 Indeed, I do not. Perhaps everytliing has happened 
 for the best. I was very fond of the old man. I 
 gave him my whole heart; no father ever had a 
 
134 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 daughter more attached; but I could uot marry him. 
 And it was the remembrance of my love for him that 
 made me burst out crying. I do not think I realised 
 until I saw you how cruelly I had been treated. But 
 yon won't tell any one ? You won't tell Mrs. Bentley ? 
 Slie knows, of course; but do not tell her that 1 told 
 you. I do not care that my feelings should be made 
 a subject of discussion. You promise me ? " 
 
 " 1 promise you." 
 
 They now reached the tennis lawn. The gong 
 sounded, and Emily said, " That is lunch, and we 
 shall iind Julia waiting for ns in the dining-room." 
 It was as she said. Mrs. Bentley was standing by the 
 sideboard, her basket of keys in her hand ; she had 
 not quite finished her housekeeping, and was giving 
 some last instructions to the butler. Hubert noticed 
 that the place at the head of the table was for him, 
 and he sat down a little embarrassed to carve a 
 chicken. So much home after so manv vears of home- 
 lessness seemed strange. 
 
 " Thank you, Til take a wing." 
 
 " May 1 help you ? " 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 135 
 
 " Thank you, I'll help myself." 
 
 He gave an animated account of their morning- 
 walk, interspersing it with playful allusions to Don's 
 temptations among the rabbits, and how perfectly 
 incapable he had shown himself of resisting any. 
 Emily, too, was full of conversation and laughter ; 
 and Mrs. Bentley thought, " They have settled their 
 monetary difficulties ; I wonder if any other will 
 arise ^ 
 
 At that moment Hubert looked at Mrs. Bentley, 
 and, remembering their conversation of the previous 
 evening, he desired to tell her how very charming he 
 had found Emily, how well they had got on together, 
 and how sure he was that henceforth their lives would 
 be one uninterrupted flow of happiness. And thinking 
 she was going to pass through the window and on 
 to the terrace, Hubert moved to follow her. But, 
 mentioning that she had some orders to give to 
 the servants, she left the room by the farther 
 door. 
 
 He had said all he had to say to Emily, and 
 bethought himself of a walk with the gamekeeper. As 
 
136 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 he made inqniries of the bntler, Emily said they were 
 going for a drive — going to have tea with some neigh- 
 bours : wonld he not come to accompany them ? It 
 was impossible to refuse, and a few minntes after the 
 pony-chaise came round. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 nnWO or three days afterwards, when Hubert was 
 finishing breakfast, the butler came to tell him 
 that the bailiff wished to see him ; and, as he did not 
 yet know the way through his house, the butler took 
 him through wide passages — past doors standing ajar, 
 behind which he divined store-rooms — past doors wide 
 open, whence white-capped maid-servants came with 
 bowls in their hands. Farther on he saw the cook 
 standing at her work before the great range, and the 
 kitchen-maid sat preparing vegetables in the cool 
 scullery. These homely aspects of his new life 
 awakened a keener sense of consciousness in his own 
 good-fortune than he had yet felt; and, a-tingle with 
 happiness, he passed into the open air. The trees 
 waving above the garden walls stimulated his present 
 mood, and he entered into conversation with the thick- 
 set man in breeches and gaiters, who wanted to know 
 
 137 
 
138 VAIN FOllTUNE. 
 
 what the Squire meant to do with that twoscore of 
 lambs that were not sold at Fendon last month. 
 
 They passed through the paddock ; and he did not 
 attempt to disguise his ignorance of lambs, fearlessly 
 questioning his bailiff about them and the growing 
 crops. He thought that corn was cut in September, 
 and had no idea as to the value of a " load." He had 
 hardly seen the country since he was fifteen ; it was 
 to him an inordinate and delicious surprise, and he 
 was charmed with the freshness of the green rustling- 
 corn. And all along the edge of the plantation they 
 met lads and lasses taking their ease in the high 
 grass, gently fanned and hushed by the waving shadows 
 of the trees. 
 
 And over the paling there came a man, whose 
 slouching gait, gun, and velveteen coat proclaimed him 
 to be the gamekeeper. Hubert asked him what he 
 had been shooting. 
 
 " Very nearly got a stoat. Squire, coming along 
 yonder hedgerow." 
 
 " What is a stoat ? " 
 
 " A sort of a weasel, sir. Only jest seed him ; 
 
VAIN FOETUNE. 139 
 
 dreadful mischievous them 'ere stoats — worse than 
 any pair of foxes." 
 
 " They take the young rabbits, don't they ? " 
 " Yeas, and the old ones too. I'll 'ave some trajjs 
 down there to-night." 
 
 When he passed through the stables the groom 
 and coachman came forward, touching their caps. 
 They would like to know if he intended to keep them 
 on. Without trying to assume the air of a man who 
 was accustomed to servants, Hubert told them that he 
 did not intend to make any changes for the present ; 
 and when they asked him if he would like to see the 
 horses, he consented to walk through the stables — 
 more because he thought they would be disappointed 
 if he did not, than because he wished to save himself 
 from disparaging criticism. The horses looked fat 
 and shiny, so he said they looked very well. Then, 
 turning into the house, he went in search of Emily; 
 but, happening to meet Mrs. Bentley, they went into 
 the morning-room, for she wanted to speak to him 
 about some household matters. There were account- 
 books on the table. 
 
140 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 " Really, Mrs. Beutley, I'm quite satisfied. I have 
 so little taste for accounts. In a few days I intend 
 to go thoroughly into my affairs. I had thought 
 of writing to my solicitor, but " 
 
 " I will not trouble you very long. My business 
 with you is not important enough to need the assist- 
 ance of a solicitor. I merely want to show you what 
 are our household expenses. No ; I promise you 
 there shall be no long accounts to go through. You 
 need not look further into things than the general 
 accounts — for instance, the servants' wages " 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Bentley " 
 
 " No ; you really must know how much we are 
 si)ending — that is to say, if you wish me to continue." 
 
 " But, of course " 
 
 " Then, listen. Give me your attention, and in an 
 hour we shall have finished." 
 
 So Hubert had to bend his intelligence upon house- 
 hold economy, and even sanction some cutting down 
 of expenses. He very often said, "Yes- — quite so;" 
 but Mrs. Bentley was not easily deceived, and she 
 insisted on his understanding the necessity of keeping 
 
VAIN FOKTUNE. 141 
 
 two under-housemaids. A great deal of fuel had been 
 wasted in the garden, and she had little doubt the 
 coal bill could be reduced. There were the horses, 
 an expensive item, and at least two should be sent 
 away. Hubert wished things to go on without any 
 change, — at least, for the present, — and was not 
 prepared to say that a second gamekeeper was not 
 required. Allusion was made to the farm, the number 
 of eggs the bailiff generally sent up, and the income 
 derived from the sale of butter. At last everything 
 seemed settled; but Mrs. Bentley still hesitated, and 
 it was not until Hubert rose that she decided to speak. 
 
 " There is only one thing more I have to trouble 
 you with, and that is myself. You were kind enough 
 to let me remain here as Emily's companion " 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Bentley •" 
 
 " No, no; we must understand one another. 1 am a 
 distant cousin of the late Mr. Burnett, a connection of 
 yours. My husband died leaving me quite unprovided 
 for " 
 
 " I know ; Emily has " 
 
 " I really must insist on your hearing me out," she 
 
142 VAIN FOKTUNE. 
 
 said, smiling. " My husband left me entirely un- 
 provided for ; and, knowing of my circumstances, Mr. 
 Burnett asked me to come and look after his house. 
 I have no means whatever. He allowed me fifty 
 pounds a year." 
 
 " Well, then, I allow you the same. Do not let us 
 talk any more about it. I'm sure I hope you'll be 
 happy here. Anything you want, if you will let 
 Emily know, I shall, I'm sure, be only too glad " 
 
 " It is very kind." 
 
 Their eyes met . . . they looked aside. Then to 
 break an irritating silence Mrs. Bentley said, " You 
 are satisfied, I suppose, at the way things have turned 
 out ? Emily enjoyed her walk. She was very full of 
 it. She came into my room last night, and told me 
 all about it." 
 
 .- " I found her charming. . . . What a pretty girl 
 she is ! Yes, we had a pleasant walk. She fled from 
 me, bat I caught her up. ... I was very much afraid ; 
 but I felt I had better get it over, and it was over 
 almost at once. Suddenly I noticed that we were 
 friends. But I owe it all to you; you prepared the 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 143 
 
 way. I think she has behaved splendidly ; for, of 
 course, that disinheritance was a terrible blow." 
 
 " I think she is quite satisfied at how things have 
 turned out. Your generosity has quite won her 
 heart. We are only afraid now lest you should not 
 be satisfied." 
 
 " If I Should not be satisfied ! I hardly under- 
 stand." 
 
 "Well, some men might not care to accept the 
 responsibility of looking after two women. Some 
 men are women-haters ; some men would have pre- 
 ferred to live alone." 
 
 " I assure you I'm not a woman-hater ; I have lived 
 too much alone, and grown tired of my own company. 
 I'm sure that so long as you and Emily are free to 
 remain — I mean that you will both do me a great 
 favour by remaining at Ash wood. I suppose the time 
 will come when some one will come and take Emily 
 away. It would be selfish to say I hope that time 
 will never come I " 
 
 Mrs. Bentley looked as if she were going to say 
 something, but she changed her mind. 
 
144 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 " Of course, a pretty girl like that doesn't remain 
 long single. I daresay there's many a young fellow 
 in the neighbourhood whose heart is breaking for 
 her." 
 
 " I don't think we have got such a tiling as a young 
 man in the neighbourhood — at least, none that Emily 
 would care about." 
 
 "Well, we must get some whom she will. . . . 
 When I'm a little settled here, we — I'll ask some 
 friends. The editor of The Cosmopolitan. I'm long- 
 ing to ask him here, and he knows every one. I'll 
 ask him to bring down an irresistible young man." 
 
 " I'm afraid you'll find she is difficult to suit." 
 
 " Do you think so ? " Hubert wondered if Mrs. 
 Bentley meant that Emily did not wish to marry. 
 Then, speaking suddenly, he said, '' I never could 
 understand those who like every woman. It seems 
 to me so necessary to choose, to find exactly the 
 one we love. Then all the others are indifferent 
 to us." 
 
 " I thought men were not like that. I thought that 
 men could like any woman if she were pretty." 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 145 
 
 Her voice sank, and she forgot herself in thought. 
 Hubert wondered if her experience of men had been a 
 sad one. " One can only speak for oneself," he said. 
 " I could only love one woman." 
 
 She looked at him a little puzzled. Did he mean 
 that he was by temperament a monogamist, or that 
 he had chosen and could never choose again ? In the 
 silence that settled between them, both wondered how 
 it was that they who three days before had met for 
 the first time should be now discussing the most 
 intimate characteristics of each other's souls. Eaisino- 
 her eyes, she examined his pale face lit with grey, 
 quiet eyes. They were not unlike — fair Saxon faces, 
 wearing the expression of the country that produced 
 them ; and the nature so plainly written on their faces 
 seemed to reach to their souls, and to mould and colour 
 their very slightest thought. 
 
 At that moment steps were heard in the passage, 
 
 and the door opened quickly. " Do you not know that 
 
 lunch is waiting ? What can you have to say to each 
 
 other all this while ? " 
 
 " I was explaining to Mr. Price a number of details 
 
 10 
 
146 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 conuectecl with the management of the honse — dry 
 matters of pounds, shillings, and pence — business, 
 Emily, which you would, I'm afraid, attend to with 
 even worse grace than he." 
 
 Two days after he received a visit from the county 
 solicitor, and the business of the estate absorbed the 
 greater ])ortion of his time for at least a fortnight. 
 It was necessary that he should visit his tenants, and 
 hear what each had to say about reduction of rent and 
 the improvements of farm buildings which needed 
 
 overhauling. 
 
 It was amusing to listen to the questions he put, 
 
 making the folk smile — at the same time betrajdng 
 a love of the country which they who had seen nothing 
 else could neither feel nor understand. His natural- 
 ness was very winning ; and the bailiff once said, 
 " That's jest what I likes about he ; he doan't pretent 
 to knawwhat he knaws nothing about." This seemed 
 to all an adequate explanation, except, perhaps, the 
 groom, who found it difficult to think much of a 
 gentleman who went for long walks across the downs 
 when there were horses in the stable wanting exercise. 
 
VAIN FOKTUNE 147 
 
 Coming home in the evening, at the hour when the 
 hind drives the cows from the pasture to the milking- 
 shed, he experienced a joy of which he was half 
 ashamed, so selfish did it seem ; for his heart exulted 
 when he opened the white gate and looked upon his 
 park. He walked up the drive slowly, thinking of the 
 first time he saw it. The swallows flew high, just as 
 now, and all the tranquil beauty of the hour was 
 reflected in the artificial water. In these moments the 
 plausive and wilful sweetness of life possessed him ; 
 and the joy about his heart grew tense indeed when 
 he stoj^ped, a little tired, but so happy, after his long 
 ramble, and viewed his house in the setting light, — 
 the long terrace, bright with flowers, and the slender 
 figures of the women walking to and fro, their arms 
 about one another. 
 
 He was, perhaps, a little too conscious of his 
 happiness ; and he feared to do anything that would 
 endanger the pleasure of his present life. It seemed 
 to him like a costly thing which might slip from his 
 hand or be broken ; and day by day he appreciated 
 more and more the delicate comfort of this well-ordered 
 
148 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 house, — its brightness, its ample rooms, the charm of 
 space within and without, the health of regular and 
 wholesome meals, the presence of these two women, 
 whose first desire was to minister to his least wish or 
 caprice. These, the first spoilings he had received, com- 
 bined to render him singularly happy. Bohemiauism, 
 he often thought, had been forced upon him — it was 
 not natural to him ; and though sjnritual belief was 
 dead, he experienced in church a resurrection of in- 
 fluences which misfortune had hypnotised, but which 
 were stirring again into life. He was conscious again 
 of this revival of his early life in the evenings when 
 Mrs. Bentley went to the piano ; and when playing a 
 game of chess or draughts, remembrances of the old 
 Shropshire rectory came back sudden, distinct, and 
 sweet. In these days the disease of fame and artistic 
 achievement only sang monotonously, plaintively, like 
 the wind in the valleys where the wind never wholly 
 rests. 
 
 Sometimes, when moved by the novel he was 
 reading, he would discuss its merits and demerits 
 witli the two women who sat by him in the quiet of 
 
VAIN FOETUNE. 149 
 
 the dim drawing-room, their work on their knees, 
 thinking of him. In the excitement of criticism 
 his thoughts wandered to his own work, and the 
 women's eyes filled with reveries, and their hands 
 folded languidly over their knees. He spoke without 
 emphasis, his words seeming to drop from the thick 
 obsession of his dream. At ten the ladies gathered up 
 their work, bade him good-night ; and nightly these 
 good-nights grew tenderer, and nightly they went 
 upstairs more deeply penetrated with a sense of their 
 happiness. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 "TZTE was strangely haj^py — it was the happiness of 
 rest ; and the peace he enjoyed was as beautiful 
 as the summer wliich drowsed in the shady English 
 park, waxing every day to deeper fulness and perfection. 
 He had never known before the charm of ladies' society, 
 and his shyness and nnsensual nature, which had 
 alienated liim from London women, endeared him to 
 these quiet country ladies, and gradually he became 
 their idol. When he was not present, they talked of 
 him ; and he watched and delighted in the contem- 
 plation of their love for one another, which the slight 
 accidents of every hour of their peaceful life revealed. 
 But at heart he was a man's man. He hardly per- 
 ceived life from a woman's point of view ; and in the 
 long evenings which he spent with these women he 
 sometimes had to force liimself to appear interested in 
 their conversation. He was as far removed from one 
 
 '5° 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 151 
 
 as from the other. Emily's wilfnlness puzzled him, 
 and he did not seem to have anything further to talk 
 about to Mrs. Bentley. 
 
 He missed the bachelor evenings of former days, — 
 the whisky and water, the pipes, and the literary dis- 
 cussion ; and as the days went by he began to think 
 of London ; his thoughts turned aifectionately towards 
 the friends he had not seen for so long, and at the end 
 of July he announced his intention of running up to 
 town for a few days. He called on all his friends. 
 He spent pleasant half-hours with painters and poets ; 
 he met journalists in Fleet Street, and had drinks 
 with them ; he penetrated behind the scenes into the 
 managers' rooms — heard their projects for the autumn ; 
 and on the following day he knocked at the doors of 
 dramatists and novelists. Wherever he went there 
 were drinks, cigars, and artistic discussion. 
 
 He felt called upon to entertain his friends, and 
 dinners in restaurants and clubs had for him who had 
 always been so poor a peculiar interest. One evening 
 they all sat dining at Hurlingham in the long room. 
 The conversation, as usual, had been about books and 
 
152 VAIN FOKTUNE. 
 
 pictures. And now, leaning back in their chairs, 
 heavy and happy in a gentle torpor of digestion, 
 they mused ou the spectacle of existence that the long 
 room presented ; remembering the while liow little 
 they had done — how much had escaped their analysis. 
 Thompson envied the richness of line of a woman's 
 neck, seeing some character there that his pencil had 
 not expressed. Harding studied a woman in a green 
 dress whose capricious infidelities had been described 
 to him. He watched the folly of every gesture, think- 
 ing how impossible it was to convey in a book the 
 sparkling nothingness of fashionable life. 
 
 It was the moment when strings of lanterns were 
 hoisted from tree to tree. In front of a large space of 
 sky the coloured globes were crude and trivial ; but in 
 the shadows of the trees by the river, where the mist 
 rose into the branches, they had begun to awaken the 
 first impression of melancholy and the sadness oifcte. 
 It was the moment when the great trees hung heavy 
 and motionless, strangely green and solemn beneath a 
 slate-coloured sky; and the plaintive waltz cried on 
 Hungarian fiddle strings, till it seemed the soul of this 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 153 
 
 feminine evening. The fashionable crowd had moved 
 out upon the lawn; the white dresses were phantom 
 blue, and the men's coats faded into obscure masses, 
 darkening the gathering shadows. It was the moment 
 when voices soften, and every heart, overpowered with 
 yearning, is impelled to tell of grief and disillusion ; 
 and every moment the wail of the fiddles grew more 
 unbearable, tearing the heart to its very depths. 
 
 " Women bring us no happiness," said Harding ; 
 " they are no more in our lives than febrile agitation." 
 
 " Yes," said Thompson ; " look at those greens and 
 that slate-coloured sky, just to get those values right. 
 But I daresay you are right, — women do not bring 
 happiness ; and, what's more, I doubt if we bring 
 women happiness." 
 
 " There I disagree with you," said Harding. " We 
 bring women all their happiness. But what do they 
 bring us ? " 
 
 Various answers were given; and then Hubert said, 
 as if speaking to himself, — 
 
 " I never was happy, except in those rare moments 
 when I thought I was a great man." 
 
154 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 The remark was indignautly challenged. Every 
 one felt he had been taken, as it were, in the act ; 
 and to cover his nakedness each declared that he 
 worked for the sake of his art, and was indifferent to 
 the opinion of others. 
 
 " I know what Price means," said Harding, — " those 
 moments when we feel that we are — when the world 
 seems centred in the I." 
 
 Drawing round their chairs, several joined m the 
 discussion, and soon the question was raised whether 
 artists should marry. Hubert offered no opinion. He 
 had thought too long on that subject, and he knew it to 
 be unsolvable. He remembered how he had debated 
 whether he should ask liose to be his wife. He had 
 genuinely liked her, and in all his relations with her 
 had behaved as well as the most critical could desire. 
 It was not unlikely that she thought of him as one of 
 the best and kindest. But he had never considered 
 her gain — only his own ! He had often said, " She is 
 a woman of genius, and will be able to interpret my 
 ideas. Married, I shall have a quiet home, where I 
 shall be able to work in ease and security. And to 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 155 
 
 get her managers will have to produce my plays. But, 
 on the other hand, if I married I might find myself 
 forced to write vnlgar farce and melodrama — marriage 
 might hinder the free development of my talent." 
 For more than a month such thoughts had formed his 
 whole heart. He remembered the alarm the thought 
 had occasioned in him, that the responsibilities of 
 marriage might force him to accept Ford's suggestions 
 regarding the last act of The Gipsy. And he believed 
 now that was why he had not proposed to Rose. The 
 discovery of so much meanness puzzled and perplexed 
 his knowledge of his own character ; and, romance 
 taking hold of him, he thought he should go to 
 Rose and ask her to marry him. But this was not 
 possible. He had formed other ties, and he must 
 let the past be the past. The best he could now do 
 was to finish his play, and give her the part of 
 Lady Hayward. It would make her reputation as 
 an actress. 
 
 He rose, and he and a friend walked on the lawn, 
 passing to and fro amid the fashionable crowd, puffing 
 at their cigars. The others sat watching, knowing 
 
15(5 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 that the conversation must turn on him. They longed 
 to speak, yet none dared to say the first word. At 
 last some one said, — 
 
 " What a nice fellow he is I — so kind, so quiet, so 
 gentle — never says an ill word to any one." 
 
 " And such a clever fellow too ! ... I wonder he 
 doesn't do more." 
 
 " I wonder I Of all the men we know he is the 
 best equipped to do big things. He is the best read 
 man amongst us, he writes the most perfect English, 
 and I know no greater pleasure than to listen to him 
 criticizing a work of art. . . . What subtle apprecia- 
 tion, he — " 
 
 " He is a mystery ! But I begin to understand him. 
 Did you hear what he said just now? The whole 
 story of his soul appeared in the phrase, '■ I never was 
 happy, except when I thought I was a great man'! 
 He did not say a famous man, — ' a great man,' but — " 
 
 " Do you believe in that unalterable kindness, that 
 unaffected sympathy, — is it a mask ? and beneath the 
 mask is there a suffering, envious heart ? " 
 
 " I should say that he was eaten up with envy. 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 157 
 
 Living the life lie does, — no dissipations of any kind, 
 no vice, — nature must find a vent somewhere, and in 
 his case I should say she finds it in envy." 
 
 '^ I'm not sure that I agree with you. He is too 
 much bound up in himself, and his belief in himself 
 is so intense that it is not probable he realises how 
 little he has done. That is how I see him." 
 
 " Then you think he'll never succeed in writing his 
 play ? " 
 
 " I did not say so. None of us see much below the 
 surface. He may return to the country and come back 
 in two months' time with a masterpiece. Or — and it 
 is by no means unlilvely, for I hear he has not touched 
 his play since he inherited his fortune — he may 
 gradually forget it, marry his cousin, and settle down, 
 — a happy man, fond of his wife and children, whose 
 one fault is a predilection for the composition of 
 pastoral or domestic poetry. Or maybe he will 
 become a monomaniac, and spend his life re-writing 
 his play. If so, I pity the people who have to live 
 with him. My father had a clerk in his office ; he 
 was the best and worthiest man that ever lived, until 
 
158 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 one day he conceived the idea of a machine for the 
 exhibition of advertisements on the hoardings. His 
 system was based on the roller towel which we find 
 in public lavatories. The roller was moved by clock- 
 work, and the advertisements went round like the towel. 
 I think there were two rollers . . . but I never quite 
 understood. He used to explain it to me. But, one roller 
 or two rollers, he went into a lunatic asylum, and his 
 wife and children were thrown upon the parish." 
 
 "What surprises me most about Price is the interest 
 that we take in him. We are always talking about 
 him — always wondering if this play is better than that 
 play, and if he will prove his incontestable superiority 
 in the next." 
 
 " I can never look at him without thinking of the 
 discrejjancy between his fine manly appearance and 
 the slightness of his artistic production." 
 
 " He is a very clever fellow, but I don't think he 
 has the irresponsible instinct of genius." 
 
 " Who has ? " 
 
 " Who has ? Tliere's that little Hose Massey— that 
 little baby who spends half her day dreaming, and 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 159 
 
 who is as ignorant as a cod-fish. Well, she has got 
 that something — that nndefinable but always recog- 
 nisable something. It was Price who discovered her. 
 We used to laugh at him when he said she had 
 genius. He was right ; we were wrong. The other 
 night I was standing in the wings ; she was coming 
 down from her dressing-room — she lingered on the 
 stairs, looking the most insignificant little thing you 
 can well imagine ; but the moment her cue came a 
 strange light came into her eyes and a strange life 
 was fused in her limbs ; she was transformed, and 
 went on the stage a very symbol of old-world passion 
 and romance." 
 
 The slate colour of the sky did not seem to change, 
 and yet the night grew visibly denser in the park ; 
 and there had come the sensation of things ended, 
 a movement of wraps thrown over shoulders, and 
 thought of bedtime and home. The crowd was 
 moving away, and nearly lost in the darkness Hubert 
 came towards his friends. He had just knocked the 
 ash from his cigar, and as he drew in the smoke the 
 glow of the lighted end fled over his blond face. 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 ""VTEXT day he returned home. The fortnight in 
 London had been passed pleasantly, and Hubert 
 felt that the association it had brought about between 
 his past and his present life had been beneficial. For 
 the change in his fortune had strangely divided the 
 entity of his life: and now, for the first time, the 
 twain were one, and no longer was he conscious of 
 any discrepancy or discord between Hubert Price, 
 the dramatic author, and Hubert Price, the owner 
 of Ashwood Park. He felt happy and at one with 
 himself. This visit to London had brought him into 
 harmony with himself and his surroundings, and he 
 was sure that the moment, if ever, had arrived for 
 him to devote himself to his play. 
 
 The wheels of the dog-cart raised little clouds of 
 dust, and the hedgerows were white with it, and the 
 sun sank sullenly through the woods, reddening the 
 
 i6o 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 191 
 
 sheaves in the stnbble. The ^mmer had burnt up 
 the park, and nothmg seemed cool except the swans. 
 The ladies left their flowers and came forward to 
 meet him, and he walked with Emily on the terrace 
 till the gong sounded for dinner. Never did they pass 
 a happier evening ; and as if they had been separated 
 for years instead of two short weeks, the ladies ques- 
 tioned him about his doings in London, prolonging 
 their stay in the drawing-room until nearly eleven. 
 
 In the morning Emily or Mrs. Bentley was 
 generally about to pour out his coffee for him and 
 keep him company. One day Hubert noticed that 
 it was no longer Mrs. Bentley but Emily who met 
 him in the passage and followed him into the dining- 
 room. And while he was eating she sat with her feet 
 on the fender, talking of some girls in the neighbour- 
 hood — their jealousies, and how Edith Eastwick could 
 not think of anything for herself, but always copied 
 her dresses. Dandy drowsed at her feet, and very 
 often she would take him to the window and make 
 him go through all his tricks, calling on Hubert to 
 
 admire him. 
 
 11 
 
162 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 She had a knack of monopolising Hubert, and 
 since his return from London her desire to do so 
 had become almost a determination. Hubert showed 
 no disinclination, and after breakfast they were to 
 be seen together in the gardens. Hubert was a great 
 catch, and there were other young ladies eager to 
 be agreeable to him; but he did not seem to desire 
 flirtation with any. So they came to speak of him 
 as a very clever man, no doubt ; but as they knew 
 nothing about plays, he very probably did not care 
 to talk to them. Hubert was not attractive in 
 general society, and he would soon have failed to 
 interest them at all had it not been for Emily. She 
 was proud of her influence over him, and for the first 
 time showed a desire to go into society. Day by day 
 her conversation turned more and more on tennis 
 parties, and she even spoke about a ball. He con- 
 sented to take her ; and he had to dance with her, and 
 she refused nearly every one, saying she was tired, 
 leading Hubert away for long conversations in the 
 galleries and on the staircases. Hubert had positively 
 nothing to say to her ; but she seemed (j[uite happy 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 163 
 
 as long as she was with him. And as they drove 
 through the dawn Emily chattered of a hundred 
 trifles, — what Edith had said, what Mabel wore, of 
 the possibility of a marriage, and the arrival of a 
 detachment of some cavalry regiment. Hubert found 
 it liard to affect interest in these conversations. His 
 brain was weary with waltz tunes, the shape of 
 shoulders, and the glare and rustle of silk; but as she 
 chattered, rubbing the misted windows from time to 
 time, so as to determine how far they were from home, 
 he wondered if he should ever marry, and half play- 
 fully he thought of her as his wife. He allowed vague 
 dreams to linger, — dreams of Italy, pictures, terraces, 
 and wonderful moonlit nights. He was the hero of 
 his imaginings ; and his companion, a pale, translucid 
 girl, stood by him on the shore of a pale, translucid 
 lake. 
 
 But without warning his dreams were broken by 
 a sudden thought, and he said, — 
 
 " Another time, I think it will be better, my 
 dear Emily, that Mrs. Bentley should take you 
 out." 
 
164 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 " Why should yoii not take me ont ? . . . I suppose 
 you don't care to — I bore you." 
 
 " No, on the contrary, I enjoy it — I like to see 
 you amused ; but I think you should have a proper 
 chaperon." 
 
 Emily did not answer ; and a little cloud came 
 over her face. Hubert thought she looked even 
 prettier in her displeasure than she had done in her 
 joy ; and he went to sleep thinking of her. Never 
 had he thought her so beautiful — never had she 
 touched him with so personal an interest ; and next 
 morning, when he lounged in his study, he was glad 
 to hear her knock at the door ; and the half-hour 
 he spent with her there, yielding to her pleading 
 to come for a walk with her, or drive her over to 
 South water in the dog-cart, was one of unalloyed 
 pleasure. But a few days after, as he lay in bed, 
 a new idea came to him for his third act. So he 
 had said he would have breakfast in his stud v. He 
 dressed, thinking the whole time how he could round 
 off his idea and bring it into the act. So clear and 
 precise did it seem in his mind that he sat down 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 165 
 
 immediately after breakfast, forgetting even his matu- 
 tinal cigar, and wrote with a flowing pen. He had 
 left orders that he was not to be disturbed ; and was 
 annoyed when the door opened and Emily entered. 
 
 " I am very sorry, but you must not be cross with 
 me ; I do so want you to come and see the Eastwicks 
 with me." 
 
 " My dear Emily, I could not think of such a thing 
 this morning. I am very busy — indeed I am." 
 
 " What are you doing ? Nothing very important, I 
 can see. You are only writing your play. You might 
 come with me." 
 
 " My play is as important to me as a visit to the 
 Eastwicks is to you," he answered, smiling. 
 
 " I have promised Edith. ... I really do wish you 
 would come." 
 
 " My dear Emily, it is quite impossible : do let me 
 get on with my work ! " 
 
 Emily's face instantly changed expression ; she 
 turned to leave the room, and Hubert had to go after 
 her and beg her to forgive him — he really had not 
 meant to be rude to her. When he returned to his 
 
166 VAIN FOETUNE. 
 
 study, having made his peace with her, he sat down 
 at his writing-table, and he noticed with delight that 
 the interruption had not broken the sequence of his 
 thoughts. He wrote on for some hours, rested, and 
 then returned refreshed and ardent to his work ; and 
 it was not till four o'clock that he had exhausted him- 
 self, feeling he had done enough for the day. 
 
 He lit a cigar, and threw himself into his arm-chair, 
 happy in the sensation of accomplishment. Never had 
 he written so fluently before — only a shadow of doubt 
 lingered ; and he felt sure of being able to achieve his 
 play in exactly the manner he had intended ; he even 
 thought it likely that he would exceed his ideal. And 
 as he blew the fragrant smoke from his lips his happi- 
 ness grew irresponsible — birdlike in a new sense of 
 wings ; and, like a bird in a warm June garden, his 
 soul wandered through a fair region of fancy, and every- 
 where through the sweet air came intoxicating odours 
 of ultimate success. 
 
 Vague and fugitive remembrance of the literature 
 of all ages passed through his mind, and he was 
 astonished at how little had been done. Infinite 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 167 
 
 possibilities seemed to open up before him, and lie 
 only asked for time and health to achieve an entirely 
 new literature, — dramas peopled with human souls, 
 strangely true, intense, subtle, and strong ! ... He 
 analysed masterpiece after masterpiece, finding all 
 defective. Romeo and Juliet was only a love-song ; 
 Hamlet ought to have ended with a philosophic sui- 
 cide, and not in a series of turbulent assassinations. 
 But Shakespeare only wrote poetic romances, and 
 could hardly be said to come into the present 
 argument. The comedies of the Restoration ? Courtly 
 intrigues — nothing more. Sheridan had produced — 
 well, one admirable piece of work ; after him, no one. 
 Ibsen ? A man of talent, too didactic, too small, too 
 curtailed in rhythm, and generally his plays were dis- 
 figured by stage devices of the most threadbare kind. 
 It really was surprising how little had been done. 
 Then a little giddiness came into his brain, and the 
 dramatic literature of the world seemed paltry, a mere 
 plot of kitchen-garden. But The Gipsy ? This play 
 seemed to him to unite all qualities in one perfect 
 whole. It was realistic, romantic, psychological. And 
 
168 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 the story ? Surely it would be difficult to invent a 
 finer one. 
 
 Overcome with self, he pitied the toilers whom the 
 want of a little money never allows to realise the high 
 ideals that haunt their souls. They must remain 
 unknown ; but he was a great man — he could hear 
 his own heart singing the words, " A great man "; and 
 he felt strangely happy — strangely at rest — strangely 
 at harmony with his surroundings — strangely thank- 
 ful for all that fate had done for him. Why should 
 he do anything to change the blissful present ? That 
 silly little girl who put her visit to the Eastwicks 
 before his play ! Marry ! Why should he marry ? 
 He would like to marry ; but perchance bachelor- 
 hood was the natural state of the artist. Were he 
 her husband, he'd have to escort her to balls and 
 parties ! . . . That idiotic ball ! She was a pretty and 
 charming little thing, but quite incapable of under- 
 standing him. No ; he did not think he would ever 
 marry. 
 
 Then another set of thoughts came upon him. He 
 grew rapidly aware of a number of things he had not 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 169 
 
 noticed before. He remembered how his neighbours, 
 whenever he met them, always asked after Emily, 
 and the looks that were exchanged when they arrived 
 together at tennis parties. His conscience smote him, 
 and he asked himself if he had done anything to 
 encourage ? Surely not. 
 
 He hoped that her manifest interest in him was of a 
 fleeting kind— the first ephemeral love of a young girl ; 
 and in this hope he bore with her visits. He could not 
 forbid her his study, and he could not always refuse 
 her his company. Sometimes he took refuge in Mrs. 
 Bentley's society ; but this expedient was not very 
 successful. Mrs. Bentley seemed to avoid him ; and 
 Emily, who seemed to divine all that concerned him 
 with a strange intuition, alluded frankly to her 
 inability to acquire interest in anything outside of 
 the little material circle of their lives. She said, — 
 
 " You don't care to talk to me. I am not clever 
 enough for you." 
 
 Then pity took him, and he made amends by 
 suggesting they should go for a walk in the park, 
 and she often succeeded in leading him even to dry. 
 
170 VAIN FOETUNE. 
 
 uninteresting neighbours. But the burden grew 
 heavier, and soon he could endure no longer the 
 evenings of devotion to her in the drawing-room, 
 where the presence of Mrs. Bentley seemed to fill 
 her with incipient rebellion. One evening after dinner, 
 as he was about to escape upstairs, Emily took his 
 arm, pleading that he should play at least one game of 
 backgammon with her. He played three ; and then, 
 thinking he had done enough, he took up a novel and 
 began to read. Emily was bitterly offended. She sat 
 in a corner, a picture of deep misery; and whenever 
 he spoke to Mrs. Bentley, he thought she would burst 
 into tears. It was exasperating to be the perpetual 
 victim of such folly; and, pressed by the desire to talk 
 to Mrs. Bentley about the book he was reading, he 
 suggested that she should come with him to the meet. 
 The Harriers met for the first time that season at not 
 five miles from Ashwood. Mrs. Bentley pleaded an 
 engagement. She had promised to go over to tea at 
 the rectory. 
 
 " Oh, we shall be back in plenty of time ; I'll leave 
 you at the rectory on our way home." 
 
VAIN FOETUNE. 171 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Price ; but I do not think I 
 can go." 
 
 " And why, may I ask ? " 
 
 " Well, perhaps Emily would like to go." 
 
 " Emily has a cold, and it would be folly of her to 
 venture a long drive on a cold morning." 
 
 " My cold is quite well." 
 
 " You were complaining before dinner how bad it 
 was." 
 
 " If you don't want to take me, say so." Tears 
 were now streaming down her cheeks. 
 
 " My dear Emily, I am only too pleased to have you 
 with me ; I was only thinking of your cold." 
 
 " My cold is quite gone," she said, with brightening 
 face ; and next morning she came down with her 
 waterproof on her arm, and she had on a new cloth 
 dress which she had just received from London. 
 Hubert recognised in each article of attire a sign that 
 she was determined to carry her point. It seemed 
 cruel to tell her to take her things off, and he 
 glanced at Mrs. Bentley and wondered if she were 
 offended. 
 
172 VAIN FOETUNE. 
 
 " I hope the drive won't tire yon ; yon know the 
 meet is at least five miles from here." 
 
 Emily did not answer. She looked charming with 
 her great boa tied about her throat, and sprang into 
 the dog-cart all lightness and joy. 
 
 " I hope you are well wrapped up about the knees," 
 said Mrs. Bentley. 
 
 " Oh yes, thank you; Hubert is looking after me." 
 
 Mrs. Bentley's calm, statuesque face, whereon no 
 trace of envy a2)peared, caught Hubert's attention as 
 he gathered up the reins, and he thought how her 
 altruism contrasted with the passionate egotism of the 
 young girl. 
 
 " I hope Julia was not disappointed. I know she 
 wanted to come ; but " 
 
 " But what ? " 
 
 " Well, no one likes Julia more than I do, and I 
 don't want to say anything against her; but, having 
 lived so long with her, I see her faults better than 
 you can. She is horribly selfish ! It never occurs to 
 her to think of me." 
 
 Hubert did not answer, and Emily looked at him 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 173 
 
 inqniringly. At last she said, " I suppose yon don't 
 think so?" 
 
 " Well, Emily, since yon ask me, I mnst say that 
 I think she took it very good-humouredly. You said 
 you were ill, and it was all arranged that I should 
 drive her to the meet; then you suddenly interposed, 
 and said yon wanted to go ; and the moment yon 
 mentioned your desire to go, she gave way without 
 a word. I really don't know what more you want." 
 
 " Yon don't know Julia. You cannot read her face. 
 She never forgets anything, and is storing it up, and 
 will pay me out for it sooner or later." 
 
 " My dear Emily, how can yon say such things ! 
 
 I never heard She is always ready to sacrifice 
 
 herself for you." 
 
 " Yon think so. She has a knack of pretending to 
 be more unselfish than another; but she is in reality 
 intensely selfish." 
 
 " All I can say is that it does not strike me so. I 
 never saw any one give way more good-humouredly 
 than she did to-day." 
 
 " I don't . think that that is so wonderful, after all. 
 
174 
 
 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 
 She is only a paid companion; and I do not see why 
 she shonkl go driving about the country with you, and 
 
 I be left at 
 
 home." 
 
 I Hubert was 
 
 I somewhat 
 
 I shocked. 
 
 M T ]i e con- 
 
 versation 
 
 paused. 
 
 " She gets 
 
 ^ on very well 
 with men," 
 Emily said 
 at last, 
 breaking an 
 
 '••3 
 
 ^ 
 
 irritating 
 
 V~:: 
 
 ''^' silence some- 
 
 v^_^/ - ' what suddenly. " They say she is 
 
 very good-looking. Don't you think so ? " 
 
 " Oh yes, she is certainly a pretty woman — or, I 
 
 should say, a good-looking woman. She is too tall 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 175 
 
 to be what one generally understands as a pretty 
 
 woman." 
 
 " Do yon like tall women ? " 
 
 At that moment the hunt appeared in the field at 
 the bottom of the hill. A grey horse had just got rid 
 of his rider, and after galloping round and round, his 
 head in the air, stopped and began to graze. The 
 others jumped the hedge, and the greater part of the 
 field got over the brook in capital style. Emily and 
 Hubert watched them with delighted eyes, for the 
 sight was indeed picturesque this fine autumn day. 
 Even their horse pricked up his ears and began neigh - 
 ing, and Hubert had to hold him tight in hand, lest 
 he should break away while they were enjoying the 
 spectacle. At that moment a poor little animal, with 
 fear-haunted eyes, and in all the agony of fatigue, 
 appeared above the crest of the hill, and immediately 
 after came the straining hounds, one within a dozen 
 yards of the poor little beast, now running in a circle, 
 uttering the most plaintive and pitiful cries. 
 
 " Oh, they are not going to kill it ! " cried EmUy. 
 " Oh, save it, save it, Hubert ! " She hid her face in 
 
176 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 her hands. " Did it escape ? is it killed ? " she said, 
 looking round. " Oh, it is too cruel !" The huntsman 
 was calling to the hoands, holding something above 
 them, and at every moment horses' heads appeared 
 over the brow of the hill. 
 
 There was more hunting ; and when the October 
 night began to gather, and the lurid sunset flared up 
 in the west, Hubert got out another wrap, and placed 
 it about Emily's shoulders. But although the chill 
 night had drawn them close together in the dog-cart, 
 they were as widely separated as if oceans were 
 between them. So far as lay in his power he had 
 hidden the annoyance that the intrusion of her society 
 had occasioned him ; and, to deceive her, very little 
 concealment was necessary. So long as she saw him 
 she seemed to live in a dream, unconscious of every 
 other thought. 
 
 They rolled through a gradual eftacement of things, 
 seeing the lights of the farmhouses in the long plain 
 start into existence, and then remain fixed, like gold 
 beetles pinned on a blue curtain. The chill evening 
 drew her to him, till they seemed one ; and full of 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 177 
 
 the intimate happiness of the senses which comes 
 of a long day spent in the open air, she chattered 
 of indifferent things. He thought how pleasant the 
 drive would he were he with Mrs. Bentley — or, for 
 the matter of that, with any one with whom he could 
 talk about the novel that had interested him. They 
 rolled along the smooth wide road, watching the 
 streak of light growing narrower in a veil of light 
 grey cloud drawn athwart the sky. Overpowered by 
 her love, the girl hardly noticed his silence ; and 
 when they passed through the night of an over- 
 hanging wood her flesh thrilled, and a little faintness 
 came over her ; for the leaves that brushed her face 
 had seemed like a kiss from her lover. 
 
 12 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A S the days went by Emily's demands on Hubert's 
 time grew larger and larger. He bad begun 
 to notice tbat be met ber at every turn, that to keep 
 out of ber way seemed no longer possible, and witb 
 proposals to go bere and tbere, witb tennis parties, 
 and witb visitors, sbe beguiled bim from bis play. 
 He yielded because be bad no beart to refuse sucb 
 sligbt favours to one from wbom be bad taken so 
 mucb. 
 
 During tbe summer montbs be bad written bardly 
 anything ; and in tbis long idleness wbat be believed 
 to be an inspiration bad come upon bim, and be 
 bad re-written bis first and tbird acts from a slightly 
 different point of view. The second act now engaged 
 his attention. He could not quite determine what it 
 required to bring it into harmony witb the first and 
 
 tbird ; but his first and third acts pleased him so 
 
 178 
 
VAIN FOETUNB. 179 
 
 mnch that he could not wait for an opinion of his 
 work till he had finished the play, and one evening 
 he spoke of asking some of his London friends to 
 stay with him at Ashwood. Emily and Mrs. Bentley 
 welcomed this proposal. He would ask the editor 
 of The Cosm,opolit(m, Montague Ford, Harding, and 
 perhaps one or two more. In subsequent considera- 
 tion it occurred to him that it might be well to ask 
 some one who might take a fancy to Emily. He 
 confided his intention to Mrs. Bentley, who, while 
 avoiding any direct expression of opinion, contrived 
 to let him understand that, if he did not intend 
 marrying Emily, it might be as well to try to get 
 her a husband. There could be very little difficulty, 
 — a pretty girl with three hundred a year ! And in his 
 letter to the editor Hubert mentioned these facts, 
 suggesting that if he (the editor) could lay his 
 hand on a nice young man, he might bring him 
 down. 
 
 The young man that the editor brought with him 
 was rich, good-looking, and well connected — in every 
 way a desirable match ; and, as luck would have 
 
180 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 it, he seemed very much taken with Emily. After 
 dinner he came and sat by her, devoting himself 
 entirely to her. 
 
 Hubert, who did not care for shooting, walked, 
 as the afternoon declined, with the ladies through 
 the fields, so as to meet the sportsmen as they were 
 coming home. And seeing a tall figure getting 
 through a hedge, Hubert and Mrs. Bentley hoped 
 it was young Rawley. It was he ; and they thought, 
 as he strode towards them, his gun on his shoulder, 
 looking so well in his shooting gear, that no girl 
 could refuse him. He gave them a brief description 
 of the day's sport ; and as he then addressed himself 
 entirely to Emily, Hubert and Mrs. Bentley dropped 
 back, leaving the younger couple together. Their 
 kind intention, however, seemed to meet with but 
 scant appreciation — at least, from Emily, who fre- 
 quently looked back, and stopped so as to allow 
 Hubert and Mrs. Bentley to catch them up. Hubert 
 was surprised at her obvious want of interest in 
 the young man ; and, finding himself alone with her 
 in the drawing-room, — the others had not yet come 
 
t- /I Ay* 
 
 '^t 
 
 ^'S.'brtv-'S: -■'" 
 
 "HUBERT AND MRS. BENTLEY DROPPED BACK, LEAVING THE YOUNGER 
 
 COUPLE TOGETHER." [P«^e 180. 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 181 
 
 downstairs,— he said, " I cannot understand why you 
 don't like young Rawley." 
 
 "■ I suppose you want me to marry him ? " she asked 
 abruptly, her voice trembling slightly. 
 
 "■ I don't want you to marry ; I was thinking only 
 of your own good, my dear Emily. He is a very 
 nice young man. Almost any girl " 
 
 " Then let any girl that wants him take him ! " 
 
 "That settles the matter. Let's say no more 
 about it." 
 
 " You are not angry ? " 
 
 " Angry ! " 
 
 " I'm very happy as I am. Unless you wish me 
 to leave Ashwood, 1 see no reason why I should 
 marry. Do you ? " 
 
 " No, I can't say I do. Most people think a girl 
 should marry ; but I daresay the world is far too 
 prejudiced in favour of marriage." 
 
 It was disappointing to see her throw over so 
 excellent a chance, and in quick passage a thought 
 asked what would eventually become of her. The 
 thought passed, leaving no impression, swallowed up 
 
182 VAIN FOETUNE. 
 
 in more present and more personal interests. He 
 had not enjoyed a literary discnssion for months, 
 and was absorbed in Ford, Harding, and the editor. 
 He read to them the acts he had re-written, and these 
 were passionately argued, and the various alternative 
 fourth and fifth acts which he proposed to his critics 
 formed the theme of conversation. His critics were 
 ready with suggestion ; but they differed so widely 
 in their view of the play that it was difficult to 
 arrive at any conclusion. The actor spoke of public 
 taste, and inclined to the opinion that there must 
 be at least one character with whom the audience 
 could wholly sympathise. Harding dissented vio- 
 lently. He thought that Hubert in re-writing his 
 play, with a view of securing the sympathies of the 
 public, had, especially in the third act, deprived the 
 characters of a great deal of their original humanity. 
 Hubert denied that he had re-written his play with 
 a view to securing the theatrical sympathies of the 
 audience, and the editor joined issue with Harding 
 regarding the third act. He infinitely preferred the 
 revised version. On the other hand, he could not 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 183 
 
 but think that the first act was better as Hubert 
 had originally written it. It was simpler and more 
 logical. " But why," he said, " seek after any one's 
 advice ? You are now a rich man, and can afford 
 to impose your ideas on the public. Finish your play 
 in the way it seems best to you, come up to London, 
 take a theatre, and produce it. We shall all be 
 there to applaud you ; and if it is good, we will, I 
 promise you, fight your battle." This advice ap- 
 peared to Hubert to be excellent, and when his friends 
 left him he made a new scenario. 
 
 He worked very hard, roughing out his play from 
 end to end. New ideas came to him, but the diffi- 
 culty of working them into the woof of his story was 
 very great. They seemed to find their jjlaces in the 
 end ; and, feeling sure he would now be able to finish 
 The Gips]) to his satisfaction, he had already begun 
 to speak of the theatre he would select, and of the 
 date of the first performance. Both women were 
 eagerly interested ; and after dinner, the excitement 
 of the journey to town, the dresses they would wear, 
 the assemblage of fashion in the theatre, the great 
 
184 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 snpper to wliicb all genius and talent would be 
 invited, and, above all, the pleasure of seeing Hubert 
 successful, were the theme of their conversation. 
 In the excitement of this prospect of pleasure, 
 and new sensation of life, Emily's jealousy of Julia 
 seemed to subside — her melancholy little soul 
 seemed to brighten ; and it was not until Hubert 
 directed any considerable amount of his conversation 
 to Mrs. Bentley that she retreated into a corner 
 and sat watching, as her wont was, in miserable 
 silence. 
 
 One afternoon, about the end of September, Hubert 
 came down from his study about tea-time, and an- 
 nounced that he had written the last scene of his last 
 act. Emily was alone in the drawing-room. 
 
 " Oh, how glad I am 1 Then it is done at last. 
 Why not write at once and engage the theatre ? 
 When shall we go to London ? " 
 
 " Well, I don't mean that the play could be put 
 into rehearsal to-morrow. It still requires a good 
 deal of overhauling. Besides, even if it were com- 
 pletely finished, I should not care to produce it at 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 185 
 
 once. I should like to lay it aside for a couple of 
 months, and see how it read then." 
 
 " What a lot of trouble you do take ! Does every 
 one who writes plays take so much trouble ? " 
 
 " No, I'm afraid they do not, nor is it necessary 
 they should. Their plays are merely incidents strung 
 together more or less loosely ; whereas my play is 
 the development of a temperament, of temperamental 
 characteristics which cannot be altered, having been in- 
 herited through centuries ; it must therefore pursue its 
 
 course to a fatal conclusion. In Shakespeare 
 
 But no, no ! these things have no interest for you. 
 You shall have the nicest dress that money can buy ; 
 and if the play succeeds " 
 
 The girl raised her pathetic eyes. In truth, she 
 cared not at all what he talked to her about ; she was 
 occupied with her own thoughts of him, and just to 
 sit in the room with him, and to look at him occasion- 
 ally, was sufficient. But for once his words had 
 pained her. It was because she could not understand 
 that he did not care to talk to her. Why did she not 
 understand ? It was hard for a little girl like her to 
 
186 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 understand such things as he spoke about ; but she 
 would understand ; and then her thoughts passed into 
 words, and she said, — 
 
 " I understand quite as well as Julia. She knows 
 the names of more books than I, and she is very 
 clever at pretending that she knows more than she 
 does." 
 
 At that moment Mrs, Bentley entered. She saw 
 that Emily was enjoying her talk with her cousin, 
 and tried to withdraw. But Hubert told her that he 
 had written the last act ; she pretended to be looking 
 for a book, and then for some work which she said 
 had dropped out of her basket. 
 
 " If Emily would only continue the talking," she 
 thought, " I should be able to get away." But Emily 
 said not a word. She sat as if frozen in her chair ; 
 and at length Mrs. Bentley was obliged to enter, 
 however cursorily, into the conversation. 
 
 " If you have written out The Gipsy from end to 
 end, I should advise you to produce it without further 
 delay. Once it is put on the stage, you will be able to 
 see better where it is wrong." 
 
VAIN FOETUNE. 187 
 
 "Then it will be too late. The critics will have 
 expressed their opinion ; the work will be judged. 
 There are only one or two points about which I am 
 doubtful. I wish Harding were here. I cannot work 
 unless I have some one to talk to about my work. I 
 don't mean to say that I take advice ; but the very fact 
 of reading an act to a sympathetic listener helps me. 
 I wrote the first act of Divorce in that way. It was 
 all wrong. I had some vague ideas about how it 
 might be mended. A friend came in ; I told him 
 my difficulties ; in telling them they vanished, and 
 I wrote an entirely new act that very night." 
 
 " I'm sorry," said Mrs. Bentley, " that I am not 
 Mr. Harding. It must be very gratifying to one's 
 feelings to be able to help to solve a literary difficulty, 
 particularly if one cannot write oneself." 
 
 " But you can — I'm sure you can. I remember 
 asking your advice once before ; it was excellent, and 
 was of immense help to me. Are you sure it will 
 not bore you? I shall be so much obliged if you 
 will." 
 
 ' Bore me ! No, it won't bore me," said Mrs. Bentley. 
 
188 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 *' I'm sure I feel very much flattered." The colour 
 mounted to her cheek, a smile was on her lips ; but it 
 went out at the sight of Emily's face. 
 
 " Then come up to my study. We shall have just 
 time to get through the first act before dinner." 
 
 Mrs. Bentley hesitated ; and, noticing her hesita- 
 tion, Hubert looked surprised. At that moment 
 Emily said, — 
 
 " May I not come too ? " 
 
 " Well, I don't know, Emily. You see that we 
 wish to see if there is anything in the play that a 
 young girl should not hear." 
 
 " Always an excuse to get rid of me. You want to 
 be alone. I never come into the room that you do not 
 stop speaking. Oh, I can bear it no longer ! " 
 
 " My dear Emily ! " 
 
 " Don't touch me ! Go to her ; shut yourself up 
 together. Don't think of me. I can bear it no 
 longer ! " And she fled from the room, leaving 
 behind her a sensation of alarm and pity. Hubert 
 and Mrs. Bentley stood looking at each other, both 
 at a loss for words. At last he said, — 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 189 
 
 " That poor child will cry herself into her grave. 
 Have you noticed how poorly she is looking ? " 
 
 " Not noticed ! But yon do not know half of it. 
 It has been going on now a long time. You don't 
 know half ! " 
 
 " I have noticed that things are not settling down 
 as I hoped they would. It really has become quite 
 dreadful to see that poor face looking reproachfully 
 at you all day long. And I am quite at a loss to 
 know what's the right thing to do." 
 
 " It is worse than you think. You have not noticed 
 that we hardly speak now ? " 
 
 " You — who were such friends — surely not ! " 
 
 Then she told him hurriedly, in brief phrases, of the 
 change that had taken place in Emily in the last three 
 months. " It was only the other night she accused 
 me of going after you, of having designs upon you. It 
 is very painful to have to tell you these things, but I 
 have no choice in the matter. She lay on her bed 
 crying, saying that every one hated her, that she was 
 thoroughly miserable. Somehow she seems naturally 
 an unhappy child. She was unhappy at home before 
 
190 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 she came here ; but then I believe she had excellent 
 reasons, — her mother was a very terrible person. 
 However, all that is past ; we have to consider the 
 present now. She accused me of having designs on 
 you, insisting all the while that every one was talking 
 about it, and that she was fretting solely because of 
 my good name. Of course, it is very ridiculous ; but it 
 is very pitiful, and will end badly if we don't take 
 means to put a stop to it. I shouldn't be surprised if 
 she went off her head. We ought to have the best 
 medical advice." 
 
 " This is very serious," he said. And then, at 
 the end of a long silence, he said again, " This is 
 very serious — perhaps far more serious than we 
 think." 
 
 " Not more serious than I think. I ought to have 
 spoken about it to you before ; but the subject is a 
 delicate one. She hardly sleeps at all at night ; she 
 cries sometimes for hours ; she works herself up into 
 such fits of nervousness that she doesn't know what 
 she is saying, — accuses me of killing her, and then 
 repents, declaring that I am the only one who has ever 
 
VAIN FGETUNE. 191 
 
 cared for her, and begs of me not to leave her. I do 
 assure you it is becoming very serious." 
 
 " Have you any proposal to make regarding her ? 
 I need hardly say that I'm ready to carry out any idea 
 of yours." 
 
 " You know what the cause of it is, I suppose ? " 
 
 " I do not know ; I am not certain. I daresay I'm 
 mistaken." 
 
 "No, you are not ; I wish you were — that is to say, 
 
 unless But I was saying that it is most serious. 
 
 The child's health is affected ; she is working herself 
 up into an awful state of mind ; she is losing all self- 
 control. I'm sure I'm the last person who would say 
 anything against her ; but the time has come to speak 
 out. Well, the other day, when we were at the East- 
 wicks', you took the chair next to mine when she left 
 the room. When she returned, she saw that you had 
 changed your place, and she said to Ethel Eastwick, 
 ' Oh, I'm fainting. I cannot go in there ; they are 
 together.' Ethel had to take her up to her room. 
 Well, this morbid sensitiveness is most unhealthy. If 
 I walk out on the terrace, she follows, thinking that I 
 
192 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 have made an appointment to meet yon. Jealonsy of 
 me fills up her whole mind. I assure you that I am 
 most seriously alarmed. Something occurs every day 
 — trifles, no doubt ; and in anybody else they would 
 mean nothing, but in her they mean a great deal." 
 " But what do you propose ? " 
 " Unless you intend to marry her — forgive me for 
 speaking so plain — there is only one thing to do. I 
 must leave." 
 
 " No, no, you must not leave ! She could not live 
 alone with me. But does she want you to leave ? " 
 
 " No, that is the worst of it. I have proposed it ; 
 she will not hear of it ; to mention the subject is to 
 provoke a scene. She is afraid if I left that you would 
 come and see me ; and the very thought of my escaping 
 her vigilance is intolerable." 
 " It is very strange." 
 
 " Yes, it is very strange ; but, opposed though she 
 be to all thoughts of it, I must leave." 
 
 " As a favour I ask you to stay. Do me this 
 service, I beg of you. I have set my heart on finishing 
 my play this autumn. If it isn't finished now, it 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 193 
 
 never will be finished ; and your leaving would create 
 so much trouble that all thought of work would be out 
 of the question. Emily could not remain alone here 
 with me. I should have to find another companion 
 for her ; and you know how difficult that would be. 
 I'm worried quite enough as it is." A look of pain 
 passed through his eyes, and Mrs. Bentley wondered 
 what he could mean. " No," he said, taking her 
 hands, "we are good friends — are we not? Do me 
 this service. Stay with me until I finish this play ; 
 then, if things do not mend, go if you like, but not 
 now. Will you promise me ? " 
 
 " I promise." 
 
 " Thank you. I am deeply obliged to you." 
 
 At the end of a long silence, Hubert said, " Will 
 you not come upstairs, and let me read you the first 
 act ? " 
 
 " I should like to, but I think it better not. If 
 Emily heard that you had read me your play, she 
 would not close her eyes to-night ; it would be tears 
 and misery all the night through." 
 
 13 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 nnHE study in which he had determined to write 
 his masterpiece had been fitted up with taste 
 and care. The floor was covered with a rare Persian 
 carpet, and the walls were lined with graceful book- 
 cases of Chippendale design ; the volumes, half morocco, 
 calf, and the yellow paper of French no vels, showed 
 through the diamond panes. The writing-table 
 stood in front of the window ; like the bookcases, it 
 was Chippendale, and on the dark mahogany the 
 handsome silver inkstand seemed to invite literary 
 composition. There was a scent of flowers in the 
 room. Emily had filled a bowl of old china with 
 some pale Sej^tember roses. The curtains were made 
 of a modern cretonne — their colour was similar to the 
 bowl of roses ; and the large couch on which Hubert 
 lay was covered with the same material. On one wall 
 there was a sea-piece by Courbet, and upon another 
 
 *94 
 
VAIN FOKTUNE. 195 
 
 a .river landscape, with rosy-tinted evening sky, by 
 Corot. The chimney-piece was set out with a large 
 gilt time-piece, and candelabra in Dresden china. 
 Hubert had bought these works of art on the occasion 
 of his last visit to London, about two months ago. 
 
 It was twelve o'clock. He had finished reading his 
 second act, and the reading had been a bitter dis- 
 appointment. The idea floated, pure and seductive, 
 in his mind ; but when he tried to reduce it to a 
 precise shape upon paper, it seemed to escape in some 
 vague, mysterious way. Enticingly, like a butterfly 
 it fluttered before him ; he followed like a child, 
 eagerly — his brain set on the mazy flight. It led 
 him through a country where all was promise of 
 milk and honey. He followed, sure that the alluring 
 spirit would soon choose a flower ; then he would 
 caj)ture it. Often it seemed to settle. He approached 
 with pali)itatiug heart ; but lo ! when the net was 
 withdrawn it was empty. 
 
 A look of pain and perplexity came upon his face ; 
 he remembered the lodging at seven shillings a week 
 in the Tottenham Court Road. He had suffered there ; 
 
196 VAIN FOETUNE. 
 
 but it seemed to him that he was suii'eriug- more here. 
 He had changed his surroundings, but he had not 
 changed himself. Success and failure, despair and 
 hope, joy aud sorrow, lie within and not without us. 
 His pain lay at his heart's root ; he could not pluck 
 it forth, and its gratification seemed more than ever 
 impossible. He changed his jjosition on the couch. 
 Suddenly his thoughts said, " Perhaps 1 am mistaken 
 in the subject. Perhaps that is the reason. Perliaps 
 there is no play to be extracted from it ; perhaps it 
 would be better to abandon it and choose another." 
 For a few seconds he scanned the literary horizon 
 of his mind. " No, no ! " he said bitterly, " this is 
 the play I was born to write. No other subject is 
 possible ; I can think of nothing else. This is all 
 I can feel or see." It was the second act that now 
 defied his efforts. It had once seemed clear and of 
 exquisite proportions ; now no second act seemed 
 possible : the subject did not seem to admit of a 
 second act ; and, clasping his forehead with his 
 hands, he strove to think it out. 
 
 He remembered that in the second act, drawn by 
 
VAIN FO"RTITNK. 197 
 
 irresistible instinct, Lady Hayward visits the gipsies' 
 encampment. The nostalgia of the desert is upon 
 her ; she questions them about their wanderings, 
 learning eventually that the old fortune-teller is her 
 mother. Although Lady Hayward loves her husband, 
 she is unconsciously drawn towards a young gipsy ; 
 and it is at the close of the act that this note of the 
 attraction of race, out of which the story proceeds, is 
 first touched upon. But though clear and precise in 
 its conception, this act, as the author recognised, was 
 overgrown with a fungous growth of subordinate idea. 
 He felt that all subordinate idea must be eliminated, 
 and nothing left but just enough to explain the drama 
 that was to follow. But how to secure the main theme, 
 and preserve it like a thread of gold to the end ? 
 
 lu his distraction he would take down book after 
 book, never finding the one he wanted ; he would turn 
 over newspapers ; or, dashing out of the house and 
 wandering about in the park, the strain of his 
 thoughts, first relieved by the chatter of a bird or 
 an effect of light, would unconsciously steal back 
 to Lady Hayward ; and very often, before he was 
 
198 VATN- FORTUNE. 
 
 aware, the dense dilemma and devious labyrinth 
 of the act would grow suddenly elear, and measure 
 out in proportioned ways ; and he, feeling strong 
 and capable of achievement, would liasten home, 
 fearing he might lose the precious inspiration. 
 See him on a wet SejDtember evening, hurrying 
 through the deep grass, his feet soaking, fearing 
 only lest the idea should fade before he reaches the 
 white sheet of paper. As he ajjproaches his study, 
 it slackens within him, and he waits not to throw 
 off his boots, but sits down at once and writes 
 precipitately. But as he draws to the end of the first 
 few repliques the scene withers in his brain, and 
 goes out like a dying light. See him reading and 
 re-reading the few lines he has written, knowing 
 them to be worthless, tortured by a prescience of 
 the perfection required, and maddened by the sight 
 of the futility that is. See him rising from his 
 writing-table with blank despair upon his face, un- 
 able to bear any longer the mocking ghastliness of 
 the sheet of paper. He throws himself on the couch 
 absorbed in despair, and then a curious painful look 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 199 
 
 creeps romid the corners of the month, and looks ont 
 of the eyes — the pained, pinched look of impotent 
 desire. Any distraction from the haunting pain, now 
 become chronic, is welcome, and he answers with a 
 glad " Come in ! " the knock at the door. 
 
 " I'm sorry," said Mrs. Bentley, " for disturbing 
 yon, but I should like to know what fish yon would 
 like for your dinner — soles, turbot, or whiting ? 
 Immersed in literary problems as you are, 1 daresay 
 these details are very prosaic ; but I notice that later 
 in the day " 
 
 Hubert laughed. "I find such details far more 
 agreeable than literature. I can do nothing with my 
 play." 
 
 " Aren't you getting on this morning ? " 
 
 " No, not very well." 
 
 " What do you think of turbot ? " 
 
 " I think turbot very nice. Emily likes turbot." 
 
 " Very well, then. I'll order turbot." 
 
 As Mrs. Bentley was about to withdraw, she said, 
 " I'm sorry you are not getting on. What stops you 
 now ? That second act ? " 
 
200 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 " Come, YOU are not very bnsy. I'll read yon the 
 act as it stands, and then tell yon how I think it 
 onght to be altered. Nothing helps me so mnch 
 as to talk it over ; not only does it clear np my 
 ideas, bnt it gives me desire to write. My best 
 work has always been done in that way." 
 
 " I really don't think I can stay. If Emily heard 
 tliat yon had been reading yonr play to me " 
 
 " I'm tired of hearing of what Emily thinks. I 
 can pnt np with a good deal, and I know that it 
 is my duty to show mnch forbearance ; bnt there 
 is a limit to all things ! " This was the first time 
 Mrs. Bentley had seen him show either excitement or 
 anger ; she hardly knew him in this new aspect. In 
 a moment the blonde calm of the Saxon had dropped 
 from him, and some Celtic emphasis appeared in his 
 speech. " This hysterical girl," he continued, " is a 
 sore burden. Tears about this, and sighs about that ; 
 fainting fits because I happen to take a chair next 
 to yours. Yon may depend upon it our lives are 
 already the constant gossip of the neighbourhood." 
 
 " I know it is very annoying ; and I, I assure 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 201 
 
 you, receive my share. Every look and word is mis- 
 interpreted. I must not stay here." 
 
 " You must not go ! I really want you. I assure 
 you that your opinion will be of value." 
 
 " But think of Emily. It will make her wretched 
 if she hears of it. You do not know how it affects 
 her. The slightest thing I You hardly see any- 
 thing ; I see it all." 
 
 " But there is no sense in it ; it is pure madness. 
 I'm writing a play, trying to work out a most 
 difficult problem, and am in want of an audience, 
 and I ask you if you will be kind enough to let 
 me read you the act, and you cannot listen to it 
 because — because — yes, that's just it — because ! " 
 
 " You do not know how she suffers. Let me go ; 
 spare her the pain," 
 
 " She is not the only one who suffers. Do you 
 think that I don't suffer? I've set my heart — my 
 very life is set on this play. I must get through 
 with it ; they are all waiting for it. My enemies say 
 I cannot write it, but I shall if you will help me." 
 
 " Poor Emily's heart is equally broken. Her life 
 
202 
 
 VATN FORTUNE. 
 
 is equally set- 
 
 Mrs. Bentlev did not finish. 
 
 Hubert jnst caught the words. Their significance 
 
 
 :5gg«gS^''--'- 
 
 struck him ; 
 he looked 
 questioningly 
 
 into Mrs. Bentley's eyes ; then, pretending not to have 
 understood, he begged her to remain. With the air of 
 one who yields to a temptation, she came into the 
 
VATN FORTUNE. 203 
 
 room. He felt strangely liappy, and, drawing over an 
 arm-chair for her, he threw himself on the conch. He 
 noticed that she wore a loose white jacket, and once 
 during the reading of the act he was conscions of a 
 beantifnl hand hanging over the rail of the chair. 
 Sometimes, in an exciting passage, the hands were 
 clasped. The black slippers and the slender black- 
 stockinged ankles showed beneath the skirt ; and 
 when he raised his eyes from the manuscript, he saw 
 the blonde face and hair, and the pale eyes were 
 always fixed upon him. She listened with a keen 
 and penetrating interest to his criticism of the act, 
 agreeing with him generally, sometimes quietly con- 
 testing a point, and with some strange fascination 
 drawing new and unexpected ideas from him ; and 
 in the intellectual warmth of her femininity his brain 
 seemed to clear and his ideas took new shape. 
 
 " Ah," he said, after two hours' delightful talk, 
 " how much I'm indebted to you ! At last I see my 
 mistakes ; in two days I shall have written the act. . . . 
 If I only had you by me, I should soon finish the play. 
 Just to talk to you, just some slight communion with 
 
204 VAIN FORTTTNT?. 
 
 good sense, and I've got it, I do not think I'll come 
 down to lunch. Send me np a sandwich ; bnt before 
 yon go, let me tell you. ... In the third act, you know, 
 the nostalgia of the tent gains upon her ; her husband 
 lavishes presents of love and jewels upon her, bnt to 
 no purpose. She pines for the stars and skies of the 
 encampment ; she pines also for her gipsy lover ; but 
 of her love for him she is not yet conscious. The 
 ct ends with her elopement. In the fourth act her 
 husband comes after her ; for her sake he will become 
 a gipsy ; he will wander with her, her people shall 
 be his people. But now she shrinks from him as 
 one of an alien race. He learns the truth ; the men 
 meet and they fight. Lord Hayward is stabbed by 
 the gipsy. ... In the fifth act, overcome with remorse, 
 and unable to stand the rough life of the encamp- 
 ment, Lady Hayward escapes and returns to her home. 
 She is followed by the gipsy. The last act is by her 
 husband's tomb, and the play ends with her death." 
 Hubert told the story of his play, looking at Mrs. 
 Bentley, but hardly seeing her, completely absorbed 
 in his desire. She looked at him, noticing every 
 
VAIN FOKTUNB. 205 
 
 characteristic — the shape of his ears, of his hands, 
 the colour of his eyes, every peculiarity of manner ; 
 and the thought passed, " How he does love his 
 work ! how his life is in it ! " 
 
 When she left, he instantly sat down to write, and 
 he wrote rapidly for nearly two hours, reconstructing 
 the opening scenes of his second act. He then threw 
 himself on the couch, smoked a cigar, and after half 
 an hour's rest continued writing till dinner-time. 
 
 When he came downstairs, the thought of what he 
 had been writing was still so vivid in him that he did 
 not notice at once the silence of those with whom he 
 was dining. He complimented Mrs. Bentley on the 
 freshness of the turbot ; she hardly answered ; and then 
 he became aware that something had gone wrong. 
 What ? Only one thing was possible. Emily had 
 heard that Mrs. Bentley had been in his study. Look- 
 ing from the woman to the girl, he saw that the latter 
 had been weeping. She was still in a highly hys- 
 terical state, and might burst into tears and fly from 
 the dinner-table at any moment. His face changed 
 expression, and it was with difficulty that he restrained 
 
206 VAUSf FOKTUNE. 
 
 his temper. His life had been made up of a constant 
 recurrence of these scenes, and he was wholly weary 
 of them ; and the thought of the absolute want of 
 reason in the causeless jealousy, and the misery that 
 these little bickerings made of his life, exasperated 
 him beyond measure. The dinner proceeded in silence, 
 and every slight remark was a presage of storm. 
 Hubert hoped the girl would say nothing until the 
 servant left the room, and with that view he never 
 spoke a word except to ask the ladies what they would 
 take to eat. These tactics might have succeeded if 
 Mrs. Bentley had not unfortunately said that next 
 week she intended to go to London for a couple of 
 days. " The Eastwicks are there now, and they've 
 asked me to stay with them." 
 
 " I think I shall go up with you. I want to go to 
 London," said Emily. 
 
 " It will be very nice if you'll come ; but we cannot 
 both stay with the Eastwicks ; they have only one 
 spare room." 
 
 " I suppose you'd like me to go to an hotel." 
 
 "My dear Emily, how can you think of such a 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 207 
 
 thing ? A young girl like you could not stay at an 
 hotel alone. I shall be only too pleased if you will 
 go to the Eastwicks ; I will go to the hotel." 
 
 Emily's lip quivered, and in the irritating silence 
 both Hubert and Mrs. Bentley saw that she was trying 
 to overcome her passion. They fervently hoped she 
 would succeed ; for at that moment the servant was 
 handing round the wine, and the time he took to 
 accomplish this service seemed endless. He had filled 
 the last glass, had handed round the dessert, and was 
 preparing to leave the room when Emily said, — 
 
 " The hotel will suit you very well. You'll be free 
 to see Hubert whenever you like." 
 
 Hubert looked up quickly, hoping Mrs. Bentley 
 would not answer, but before he could make a sign 
 she said, — 
 
 " What do you mean, Emily ? I did not know 
 that Hubert was going to London." 
 
 " You hardly expect me to believe that, do you ? " 
 
 The servant was still in the room ; but no look of 
 astonishment appeared on his face, and Hubert hoped 
 he had not heard. An awful silence glowered upon 
 
208 VAEN FORTUNE. 
 
 the (linuer-table. The moment the door closed Hubert 
 said, turning angrily to Emily, — 
 
 " Really, I am quite surjjrised, Emily, that you 
 should make such observations in the presence of 
 servants ! This has been going on quite long enough ; 
 you are making the house intolerable. I shall not be 
 able to live here any longer." 
 
 Emily burst into a passionate flood of tears. She 
 declared she was wretchedly miserable, and that she 
 fully understood that Hubert had begun to regret that 
 he had asked her to stay at Ashwood. Everything 
 had been taken from her ; every one was against her. 
 Her sobs shook her frail little frame as if they would 
 break it, and Hubert's heart was wrung at the sight 
 of such genuine suffering. 
 
 " My dear Emily, I assure you jou are mistaken. 
 We both love you very much." He got up from his 
 chair, and, putting his arm about her, besought her 
 to dry her eyes ; but she shook him passionately from 
 her, and fled from the room. 
 
 Three days after Emily tore up one of her songs, 
 because Mrs. lientley had sung it without her leave. 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 209 
 
 And so on and so on, week after week. No sooner 
 was one quarrel allayed than signs of another began 
 to appear. Hubert despaired. " How is this to 
 end ? " he asked himself every day. Mrs. Bentley 
 begged him to cancel her promise, and allow her to 
 go. But that was impossible. He could not remain 
 alone with Emily ; if he left her she would not fail 
 to believe that he had gone after her rival. The 
 situation had become so tense that they ended by 
 discussing these questions almost without reserve. 
 To make matters worse, Emily had begun visibly to 
 lose her health. There was neither colour in her 
 cheeks nor light in her eyes ; she hardly slept at 
 all, and had grown more than ever like a little 
 shadow. The doctor had been summoned, and, after 
 prescribing ' a tonic, had advised quiet and avoid- 
 ance of all excitement. Therefore Hubert and Mrs. 
 Bentley agreed never to meet except when Emily 
 was present, and then strove to speak as little 
 as possible to each other. But the very fact of 
 having to restrain themselves in looks, glances, 
 
 and every slightest word — for Emily misinterpreted 
 
 14 
 
210 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 all things — whetted their appetites for each other's 
 society. 
 
 In the misery of his study, when he watched the 
 sheet of paper, he often sought relief in remembrance 
 of her sweet manner, and tho happy morning he liad 
 spent in her companionship. What he had written 
 under the direct influence of her inspiration still 
 seemed to him to be less bad than the rest of his 
 play ; and he began to feel sure that, if ever this 
 play were written, it would be written in the benign 
 charm of her sweet encouragement, in the reposeful 
 shadow of her presence. But that presence was for- 
 bidden him — that presence that seemed so necessary ; 
 and for what reason ? Turning on the circumstances 
 of his life, he raged against them, declaring that it 
 would be folly to allow his very life's desire to be 
 frittered away to gratify a young girl's caprice, — a 
 caprice which in a few years she would laugh at. 
 And whenever he was not thinking of his play, he 
 remembered the charm of Mrs. Bentley's company, 
 and the beneficent effect it had on his work. He had 
 never known a woman he had liked so much, and he 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 211 
 
 felt — he started at the thought, so like an inspiration 
 did it seem to him — that the only possible solution of 
 the present situation was his marriage with her. Once 
 he was married, Emily woukl soon learn to forget him. 
 They would take her up to London for the season ; and, 
 amid the healthy excitement of balls and parties, her 
 girlish fancy would evaporate. No doubt she would 
 meet again the young cavalry officer whose addresses 
 she had received so coldly. She would be sure to 
 meet him again — be sure to think him the most 
 charming man in the world ; they would marry, 
 and she would make him the best possible wife. 
 The kindest action they could do Emily would be 
 to marry. There was nothing else to do, and they 
 must do something, or else the girl would die. It 
 seemed wonderful to Hubert that he had not thought 
 of all this before. " It is the very obvious solution 
 of the problem," he said ; and his heart beat as he 
 heard Mrs. Bentley's step in the corridor. It died 
 away in the distance ; but a few days after, when he 
 heard it again, he jumped from his chair, and ran to 
 the door. " Come," he said, '' I want to speak to you." 
 
212 VAESr FORTUNE. 
 
 " No, no, 1 Leg of you I " 
 
 " I must speak to yon ! " He laid his hand upon 
 her arm, and said, '' I beg of you. I have something 
 to say — it is of great importance. Come in." 
 
 They looked at each other a moment, and it seemed 
 as if they could see into each other's souls. Then a 
 look of yielding passed into her eyes, and she said, — 
 
 " Well, what is it ? " 
 
 The familiarity of the words struck her, and 
 she saw by the kindling tenderness in his eyes that 
 they had given him pleasure. She almost knew he 
 was going to tell her that he loved her. He looked 
 towards the open door, and, guessing his intention, 
 she said, — 
 
 " Don't shut it ! Speak quickly. Remember that 
 she may pass at any moment. Were she to find us 
 together, she would suffer ; it would be tears and 
 reproaches. What you have to say to me is about 
 her ? " 
 
 " Of course ; we never speak of anything else. But 
 we must not be overheard. I must shut the door." 
 She noticed a certain embarrassment in his manner. 
 
VAIN FOETUNE. 213 
 
 Snddenly relinq^uishing his intention to take her 
 hands, he said, — 
 
 " This cannot go on ; our lives are being made 
 unbearable. You agree with me — do you not ? " 
 
 " Yes," she said, with a curious inquiring look in 
 her eyes. " You had better let me leave. It is the 
 only way out of the difficulty." 
 
 " You know very well, Julia, that that is 
 impossible." 
 
 It was the first time he had used her Christian 
 name, and she knew now he was going to ask her 
 to marry him. A frightened look passed into her 
 face ; she turned from him ; he took her hands. 
 
 " No, Julia," he said ; " there is another and better 
 way out of the difficulty. You will stop here— you 
 will be my wife ? " Reading the look of pain that 
 had come into her eyes, he said, " You will not refuse 
 me ? I want you — I can do nothing without you. If 
 you leave me, I shall never be able to write my play ; 
 it can only be written under your influence. I love 
 you, Julia ! " She allowed him to draw her towards 
 him, and then she broke away. 
 
214 VAIN FOETUNE. 
 
 " Oh," she said, " why do you say these things ? 
 Yon only make my task harder. You kuow that I 
 cannot betray my friend. Why do you tempt me to 
 do a dishonourable action ? " 
 
 " A dishonourable action ! What do you mean ? It 
 is the only way to save her. Once we are married, 
 she will forget. No doubt she will shed a few tears ; 
 but to save the body we must often lose a limb. It 
 is even so. Things cannot go on as they are. We 
 cannot watch her withering away under our very eyes ; 
 and that is what is actually happening. I have 
 thought it all over, considered it from every point of 
 view, and have come to the conclusion that — that, well, 
 that we had better marry. You must have seen that 
 I always liked you. I did not myself know how much 
 until a few days ago. Say that I am not wholly 
 disagreeable to you." 
 
 "No, I will not listen to you ! My conscience tells 
 me plainly where my duty lies. Not for all the world 
 will I play Emily false. I shudder to think of such 
 a thing ; it would be the basest ingratitude. I owe 
 everything to her. When I hadn't a penny in the 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 215 
 
 world, and wlien in my homelessness I wrote to Mr. 
 Burnett, she pleaded in my favour, and decided him to 
 take me as a companion. No, no ! a thousand times 
 no ! Let go my hands. Do you not know what it is 
 to be loyal ? " 
 
 " I hope I do. But, as I have explained, it is the 
 only solution. The romantic attachments of young 
 girls, unless nipped in the bud, often end fatally. Do 
 you not see how ill she is looking ? She is wearing 
 her life away. We shall be acting in her best in- 
 terests. Besides, she is not the only person to be 
 considered. Do I not love you ? Are you not the very 
 woman whose influence, whose guidance, is necessary, 
 so that I should succeed ? Without your help I 
 shall never write my play. A woman's influence is 
 necessary to every undertaking. The greatest writers 
 owe their best inspiration to " 
 
 " Her heart is as closely set upon you as yours is 
 upon your play." 
 
 " But," cried Hubert, " I do not love her 1 Under 
 no circumstances would I marry her. That I swear to 
 you. If she and I were alone on a desert island " 
 
216 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 Julia looked at him one moment donbting-ly, in(]^uir- 
 ingly. Then she said, — 
 
 " Hers is no evanescent fancy, but a passion that 
 goes to tlie very roots of her nature, and will kill 
 her if it be not satisfied." 
 " Or cut out in time." 
 " I must leave." 
 " That will not mend matters." 
 " My departure will, at all events, remove all cause 
 for jealousy ; and when I am gone you may learn to 
 love her." 
 
 " No, that 1 swear is impossible ! " 
 " You very likely think so now ; but I'm bound to 
 give her every chance of winning you." 
 
 " I say again that that is impossible I 1 have never 
 seen a woman except yourself I could marry. I tell 
 you so : believe me as you like. ... In this matter 
 you are acting like a woman, — you allow your emotions 
 and not your intellect to lead you. By acting thus, 
 you are certainly sacrificing two lives — hers and mine. 
 Of your own 1 do not speak, not knowing what is 
 passing in your heart ; but if by any chance you should 
 
VAIN FOETUNE. 217 
 
 care for me, yon are adding your own happiness to the 
 general holocanst." Neither spoke again for some 
 time. 
 
 " Why should yon not marry her?" Julia said, at 
 the end of a long silence. " Some people think her 
 quite a pretty girl." 
 
 The lovers looked at each other, and smiled sadly. 
 And then, in pathetic phrases, Hubert tried to explain 
 why he could never love Emily. He spoke of his age, 
 and of difference of tastes, — he liked clever women. 
 The conversation fell. At the end of a long silence, 
 Julia said, — 
 
 " There is nothing for it but my departure, and the 
 sooner the better." 
 
 " You are not in earnest ? You are surely not in 
 earnest ? 
 
 " Yes, indeed I am." 
 
 " Then, if you go, you must take her with you. 
 She cannot remain here alone with me. And even if 
 she could, I could not live with her. Her folly has 
 destroyed any liking I may have ever had for her. 
 You'll have to take her with you." 
 
218 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 " She would not come with me. I spoke to her 
 once of a trip abroad." 
 
 " And she refased ? " 
 
 " She said she only wanted things to go on just as 
 they are." 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 XN some trepidation Julia knocked. Receiving no 
 reply, she opened the door, and her candle burnt 
 in what a moment before must have been inky dark- 
 ness. Emily lay on her bed — on the edge of it; and 
 the only movement she made was to avert her eyes 
 from the light. " What ! all alone in this dark- 
 ness, Emily ! . . . Shall I light your candles ? " She 
 had to repeat the question before she could get an 
 answer. 
 
 " No, thank you ; I want nothing ; I have no wish 
 to see anything. I like the dark." 
 
 " Have you been asleep ? " 
 
 " No, I have not. . . . Why do you come to tor- 
 ment me ? It cannot matter to you whether I lie 
 in the dark or the light. Oh, take that candle 
 
 away 1 it is blinding me." Julia put the candle 
 
 319 
 
220 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 on the washstand. Then full of pity for the 
 grieving girl, she stood, her hand resting on the 
 bed-rail. 
 
 " Aren't you coming down to dinner, Emily ? 
 Come, let me pour out some water for you. When 
 you have bathed your eyes " 
 
 " I don't want any dinner." 
 
 " It will look very strange if you remain in your 
 room the whole evening. You do not want to vex 
 him, do you ? " 
 
 " I suppose he is very angry with me. But I did 
 not mean to vex him. Is he very angry ? " 
 
 " No, he is not angry at all ; he is merely dis- 
 tressed. You distress him dreadfully when " 
 
 " I don't know why I should distress him. I'm 
 sure I don't mean to. You know more about it 
 than 1. You are always whispering together — talk- 
 ing about me." 
 
 " I assure you, Emily, you are mistaken. Mr. 
 Price and I have no secrets whatever." 
 
 " Why should you tell me these falsehoods ? They 
 make me so miserable." 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 221 
 
 " Falsehoods, Emily ! When did you ever know 
 me to tell a falsehood ? " 
 
 " You say you have no secrets ! Do you think I 
 am blind ? You think, I suppose, I did not see you 
 showing him a ring ? You took it off, too ; and 1 
 suppose you gave it to him, — an engagement ring, 
 very likely." 
 
 " I lost a stone from my ring, and I asked Mr. 
 Price if he would take the ring to London and have 
 the stone replaced. . . . That is all. So you see how 
 your imagination has run away with you." 
 
 Emily did not answer. At last she said, breaking 
 the silence abruptly, — 
 
 " Is he very angry ? Has he gone to his study ? 
 Do you think he will come down to dinner ? " 
 
 " I suppose he'll come down for dinner." 
 
 " Will you go and ask him ? " 
 
 " I hardly see how I can do that. He is very 
 busy. . . . And if you would listen to any advice 
 of mine, it would be to leave him to himself as much 
 as possible for the present. He is so taken up with 
 his play ; 1 know he's most anxious about it." 
 
222 VAIN FORTT'NE. 
 
 "Is he ? I don't know. He never speaks to 
 me abont it. I hate that play, and 1 hate to see 
 him go up to that study ! I cannot understand why 
 he should trouble himself about writing jilays ; he 
 doesn't want the money, and it can't be agreeable 
 sitting up there all alone thinking. ... It is easy 
 to see that it only makes him unhappy. But you 
 encourage him to go on with it. Oh yes, you do; 
 there's no use saying you don't. You are always 
 talking to him about it ; you bring the conversation 
 up. You think I don't see how yon do it, but I 
 do ; and you like doing it, because then you have 
 him all to yourself. I can't talk to him about that 
 play ; and I wouldn't if I could, for it only makes 
 him unhappy. But you don't care whether he's 
 unhappy or not ; you only think of yourself." 
 
 " You surely don't believe what you are saying 
 is true ? To-morrow you will be sorry for what you 
 have said. You cannot think that I would deceive 
 you, Emily ? Remember what friends we have been." 
 
 " I remember everything. You think I tlon't ; but 
 I do. And you think also that there's no reason 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 223 
 
 why I should be miserable ; bnt there is. Because 
 you do not feel my misery, you think it doesn't 
 exist. I daresay you think, too, that you are very 
 
 good and kind ; but yon aren't. You think you de- 
 
 » 
 
 ceive me ; but you don't. I know all that is passing 
 between you and Hubert. I know a great deal more 
 than I can explain. . . ." 
 
 " But tell me, Emily, what is it you suspect ? 
 What do you accuse me of ? " 
 
 " I accuse you of nothing. Can't you understand 
 that things may go wrong without it being any one's 
 fault in particular ? " 
 
 Julia wondered how Emily could think so wisely. 
 She seemed to have grown wiser in her grief. But 
 grief helped her no further in her instinctive per- 
 ception of the truth, and she resumed her puerile 
 attack on her friend. 
 
 " Nothing has gone well with me ever since you 
 came here. I was disinherited ; and I daresay you 
 were glad, for you knew that if the money did not 
 come to me it would go to Hubert, and I do 
 know " 
 
224 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 " What are yon saying, Emily ? I never heard 
 of such wild accusations before ! You know very 
 well tliat I never set eyes on Mr. Price until he 
 came down here." 
 
 " How should I know what you know or don't 
 know ? But I know that all my life every one has 
 been plotting against me. And I cannot make out 
 why. I never did harm to any one." 
 
 The conversation paused. Emily flung herself back 
 on the pillow. Not even a sob. The candle burned 
 like a long yellow star in the shadows, yielding only 
 sufficient light for Julia to see the outlines of a 
 somewhat untidy room, — an old-fashioned mahogany 
 wardrobe, cloudy and black, upon old-fashioned grey 
 paper, some cardboard boxes, and a number of china 
 ornaments, set out on a small table covered with a 
 tablecloth in crewel work. 
 
 ' "I would do anything in the world for you, Emily. 
 I am your best friend, and yet " 
 
 " I have no friend. I don't believe in friends. You 
 think people are your friends, and then yon find they 
 are not." 
 
VAIN FOKTUNE. 225 
 
 " How can I convince you of the injustice of your 
 suspicions ? " 
 
 " I see all plainly enough; it is fate, I suppose. . . . 
 Selfishness. We all think of ourselves — we can't help 
 it ; and that's what makes life so miserable. . . . 
 He would be a very good match. You have got him 
 to like you. Perhaps you didn't intend to ; but you 
 have done it all the same." 
 
 " But, Emily dear, listen ! There is no question of 
 marriage between me and Mr. Price. If you will only 
 have patience, things will come right in the end." 
 
 " For you, j)erhaps." 
 
 " Emily, Emily ! . . . You should try to understand 
 things better." 
 
 " I feel them, even if T don't understand." 
 
 " Admit that you were wrong about the ring. Have 
 I not convinced you that you were wrong ? " 
 
 Emily did not answer. But at the end of a long: 
 
 silence, in which she had been pursuing a different 
 
 train of thought, she said, " Then you mean that he 
 
 has never asked you to marry him ? " 
 
 The directness of the question took Julia by 
 
 15 
 
226 VAIN FORTUNE 
 
 surprise, and, falsehood being unnatural to her, she 
 hesitated, hardly knowing what to answer. Her 
 hesitation was only momentary ; but in that moment 
 there came up such a wave of pity for the grief- 
 stricken girl that she lied for pity's sake, " No, he 
 never asked me to marry him. I assure you that he 
 
 never did. If you do not believe me " As she 
 
 was about to say, " I will swear it if you like," an 
 irresponsible sensation of jiride in her ownership of his 
 love surged up through her, overwhelming her will, 
 and she ended the sentence, " I am very sorry, but 
 I cannot help it." 
 
 The words were still well enough ; it was in the 
 accent that the truth transpired. And then }ielding 
 still further to the force which had subjugated her 
 will, she said, — 
 
 •• I admit that we have talked about a great many 
 
 ithmgs." (Again she strove not to speak, but the words 
 
 rose red-hot to her lips.) " He has said tluit he would 
 
 like to marry, but I should not think of accepting " 
 
 "Then it is just as I thought !" Emily cried ; "he 
 wants to get rid of me ! " 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 227 
 
 Julia was shocked and surprised at the depth of 
 disgraceful vanity and cowardice which special cir- 
 cumstances had brought within her consciousness. 
 The Julia Bentley of the last few moments was not 
 the Julia Bentley she was accustomed to meet and 
 interrogate, and she asked herself how she might 
 exorcise the meanness that had so unexpectedly 
 appeared in her. Should she pile falsehood on false- 
 hood ? She felt it would be cruel not to do so ; but 
 Emily said, " He wants to marry to get rid of me, 
 and not because he loves yon." Then it was hard to 
 deny herself the pleasure of telling the whole truth ; 
 but she mastered her desire of triumph, and, actuated 
 by nothing but sincerest love and pity, she said, — 
 
 " Oh, Emily dear, he never asked me to marry 
 him ; he does not love me at all ! Why will you 
 not believe me ? " 
 
 " Because I cannot ! " she cried passionately. " I 
 only ask to be left alone." 
 
 " A little patience, Emily, and all will come right. 
 Mr. Price does not want to get rid of you. You 
 wrong him just as you wrong me. He has often said 
 
228 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 how much he likes yon ; indeed he has." Although 
 speaking from the bottom of her heart, it seemed to 
 Julia that she was playing the part of a cruel, false 
 woman, who was designingly plotting to betray a 
 helpless girl ; and not understanding why this was 
 so, she was at once puzzled and confused. It seemed 
 to her that she was being borne on in a wind of 
 destiny, and her will seemed to beat vainly against 
 it, like a bird's wings when a storm is blowing. 
 She was conscious of a curious powerlessness ; it 
 surprised her, and she could not understand why she 
 continued talking, so vain and useless did words 
 seem to her — an idle jjatter. She continued, — 
 
 " You think that 1 stand between you and Mr. 
 Price. Now, I assure you that it is not so. I tell you 
 I should refuse Mr. Price, even if he were to ask me 
 to marry him, here, at this very moment. 1 pledge 
 you my wonl on this. Give me your hand, Emily. 
 You will not refuse itr" Emily gave her hand. "It 
 is quite ridiculous to promise, for he will never ask 
 me ; but I promise not to marry him even if he should 
 ask me." She gave the j)romise, determined to keep 
 
VAIN FORTUNE, 229 
 
 it ; and yet she knew she would not keep it. She 
 argued passionately with herself, a prey to an inward 
 dread ; for no matter how firmly she forced resolu- 
 tion upon resolution, they all seemed to melt in her 
 soul like snow on a blazing fire. Then, determined 
 to rid herself of a numb sensation of powerlessness, 
 and achieve the end she desired, she said, " I'll tell 
 you, Emily, what I'll do. I'll not stay here ; I will 
 go away. Let me go away, dear, and then it will be 
 all right." 
 
 " No, no ! you mustn't leave ; I don't want you 
 to leave. It would be said everywhere that I had 
 you sent away. . . . You promise me not to leave ? " 
 Raising herself, Emily clung to Julia's arm, detaining 
 her until she had extorted the desired promise. 
 
 " Very well ; I promise," she said sadly. " But I 
 think you are wrong ; indeed I do. I have always 
 thought that ' the only solution of the problem ' 
 was my departure." Memory had betrayed her into 
 Hubert's own phrase. 
 
 " Why should you go ? You think, I suppose, 
 that I'm in love with Hubert ? I'm not. All I want 
 
230 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 is for things to go on jnst the same — for us to be 
 friends as we were before." 
 
 " Very well, Emily — very well. . . . But in the 
 meantime you must not neglect your meals as you 
 have been doing lately. If you don't take care 
 you'll lose your health and your looks. I have been 
 noticing how thin you are looking." 
 
 " I suppose you have told him that I am looking 
 thin and ill. . . . Men like tall, big, healthy women 
 like you — don't they ? " 
 
 " 1 see, Emily, that it is hopeless ; every word one 
 utters is misinterpreted. Dinner will be ready in 
 a few minutes ; or, if you like, I will dine upstairs ; 
 and you and Mr. Price " 
 
 " But is he coming down to dinner ? I thought 
 you said he had gone to his study ; sometimes he 
 dines there." 
 
 " T can tell you nothing about Mr. Price. I don't 
 know whether he'll dine upstairs or down." 
 
 At that moment a knock was heard at the door, 
 and the servant announced that dinner was ready. 
 " Mr. Price has sent down word, ma'am, that he 
 
VATN FORTUNE. 231 
 
 is very busy writing ; he hopes you'll excuse him, 
 and he'll be glad if you will send him his dinner 
 up on a tray." 
 
 " Very well ; I shall be down directly." 
 The slight interruption had sufficed to calm Julia's 
 irritation, and she stood waiting for Emily. But 
 seeing that she showed no signs of moving, she 
 said, " Aren't you coming down to dinner, Emily ? " 
 It was a sense of strict duty that impelled the 
 question, for her heart sank at the prospect of spend- 
 ing the evening alone with the girl. But seeing the 
 tears on Emily's cheeks, she sat down beside her, 
 and said, " Dearest Emily, if you would only confide 
 in me ! " 
 
 " There's nothing to confide. . . ." 
 " You mustn't give way like this ; you really 
 mustn't. Come down and have some dinner." 
 " It is no use ; I couldn't eat anything." 
 " He may come into the drawing-room in the 
 course of the evening, and will be so disappointed 
 and grieved to hear that you have not been 
 down." 
 
232 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 " No ; he will spend the whole evening iu his 
 room ; we shall not see him again." 
 
 " Bnt if I go and ask him to come ; if I tell 
 him " 
 
 " No ; do not speak to him about me ; he'd only 
 say that I was interfering with his work." 
 
 "That is nnjnst, Emily ; he has never reproached 
 you with interfering witli his work. Shall I go and 
 tell him that you won't come down because you 
 tbink he is angry with you ? " 
 
 Ten minutes passed, and no answer could be 
 obtained from Emily — only passionate and illusive 
 refusals, denials, prayer to be left alone ; and these 
 mingled with irritating suggestions that Julia had 
 better go at once, that Hubert might be waiting for 
 her. But Julia bore patiently with her, and did not 
 leave her until Hubert sent to know why his dinner 
 was delayed. 
 
 Emily had begun to undress ; and, tearing off her 
 things, she hardly took more than five minutes to 
 get into bed. 
 
 " Shall I light a candle?" Julia asked before leaving. 
 
VAIN FOETUNE. 233 
 
 " No, thank yon." 
 
 " Shall I send yon up some sonp ? " 
 " No ; I could not touch it." 
 
 " You are not going to remain in the dark ? Let 
 me light a night-light ? " 
 
 " No, thank you ; I like the dark." 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 TZrUBERT and Mrs. Bentley stood by the chimney- 
 piece in the drawing-room, waiting for the 
 doctor ; they had left him with Emily, and stood 
 facing each other absorbed in tlionght, when the door 
 opened, and the doctor entered. Hnbert said, — 
 
 " What do you think, doctor ? Is she seriously ill ? " 
 
 " There is nothing, so far as I can make out, organic- 
 ally the matter with her, but the system is running 
 down. She is very thin and weak. I shall prescribe 
 a tonic, but " 
 
 " But what, doctor ? " 
 
 " She seems to be suffering from extreme depres- 
 sion of spirits. Do you know of any secret grief — 
 any love affair ? At her age, anything of that sort fills 
 the entire mind, and the consequences are often grave." 
 
 " And supposing it were so, what would be your 
 
 advice ? Change of air and scene.? " 
 
 234 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 235 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " Have yon spoken to her on the subject ? " 
 
 "Yes; but she says she will not leave Ashwood." 
 
 " We cannot send her away by force. What would 
 yon advise us to do ? " 
 
 " There's nothing to be done. We must hope for 
 the best. There is no immediate cause for fear. . . . 
 But, by the way, she looks as if she suffered from 
 sleeplessness." 
 
 "Yes, she does ; but she has been ordered chloral. 
 Any harm in that ? " 
 
 " In her case, it is a necessity ; but do you think she 
 takes it ? " 
 
 " Oh yes, she has been taking chloral." 
 
 The conversation paused ; the doctor went over to 
 the writing-table, wrote a prescription, made a few 
 remarks, and took his leave, announcing his intention 
 of returning that day fortnight. 
 
 Hubert said, and his tone implied reference to 
 some anterior conversation, " We are powerless in 
 this matter. You see we can do nothing. We 
 only succeed in making ourselves unhappy ; we 
 
236 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 do not change in anything. I am wretchedly 
 unhappy ! " 
 
 " Believe me," she said, raising her arms in a beau- 
 tiful feminine movement, "I do not wish to make 
 you unhappy." 
 
 " Then why do you persist ? Why do you refuse 
 to take the only step that may lead us out of this 
 difficulty?" 
 
 " How can you ask me ? Oh, Hubert, I did not 
 think you could be so cruel ! It would be a shameful 
 action." 
 
 It was the first time she had used his Christian 
 name, and his face changed expression. 
 
 " I cannot," she said, " and I will not, and I do not 
 understand how you can ask me — you who are so loyal, 
 how can you ask me to be disloyal ? " 
 
 " Spare me your reproaches. Fate has been cruel. 
 I have never told you the story of my life. I have 
 suftered deeply; my pride has been humiliated, and I 
 have endured hunger and cold ; but those sufferings 
 were light compared to this last misfortune." 
 
 She looked at him with sublime i)ity in her eyes. 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 237 
 
 " 1 do not conceal from yon," she said, " that I love 
 you very much. I, too, have suffered, and I had 
 thought for one moment that fate had vouchsafed me 
 happiness ; but, as you would say — the irony of life ! " 
 
 " Julia, do not say you never will ? " 
 
 " We cannot look into the future. But this I can 
 say — I will not do Emily any wrong, and so far as 
 is in my power I will avoid giving her pain. There 
 is only one way out of this difficulty. 1 must leave 
 this house as soon as I can persuade her to let me go." 
 
 The door opened; involuntarily the speakers moved 
 apart; and though their faces and attitudes were strictly 
 composed when Emily entered, she knew they had 
 been standmg closer together. 
 
 " I'm afraid I'm interrupting you," she said. 
 
 " No, Emily ; pray do not go away. We were only 
 talking about you." 
 
 " If I were to leave every time you begin to talk 
 about me, I should spend my life in my room. I 
 daresay you have many faults to find. Let me hear 
 all about your fresh discoveries." 
 
 It was a thin November day : leaves were whirling 
 
238 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 on the lawn, and at that moment one blew rustling 
 down the window-pane. And, even as it, she seemed a 
 passing thing. Her face was like a plate of fine white 
 porcelain, and the deep eyes filled it with a strange and 
 magnetic pathos ; the abundant chestnut hair hung in 
 the precarious support of a thin tortoiseshell; and there 
 was something unforgetable in the manner in which 
 her aversion for the elder woman betrayed itself, — a 
 mere nothing, and yet more impressive than any more 
 obvious and therefore more vulgar expression of dislike 
 would have been. 
 
 " A little patience, Emily. You will not have me 
 here much longer." 
 
 " I suppose that I am so disagreeable that you 
 cannot live with me. Why should you go away ? " 
 
 " My dear Emily, you must not excite yourself. The 
 doctor " 
 
 " J want to know why she said she was going to 
 leave. Has she been com2)laining about me to you ? 
 What is her reason for wanting to go ? " 
 
 " We do not get on together as we used to — that is 
 all, Emily. I can please you no longer." 
 
VAIN FOETUNE. 239 
 
 '* It is not my fault if we do not get on. I don't 
 see why we shouldn't, and I do not want you to go." 
 " Emily, dear, everything shall be as you like it." 
 The girl looked at him with the shy, doubting look 
 of an animal that would like, and still does not dare, 
 to go to the beckoning hand. How frail seemed the 
 body in the black dress ! and how thin the arms in the 
 black sleeves ! Hubert took the little hand in his. 
 At his touch a look of content and rest passed into her 
 eyes, and she yielded herself as the leaf yields to the 
 wind. She was all his when he chose. Mrs. Bentley 
 left the room ; and, seeing her go, a light of sudden 
 joy illuminated the thin, pale face ; and when the door 
 closed, and she was alone with him, the bleak, un- 
 happy look, which had lately grown strangely habitual 
 to her, faded out of her face and eyes. He fetched 
 her shawl, and took her hand again in his, knowing 
 that by so doing he made her happy. He could not 
 refuse her the peace from pain that these attentions 
 brought her, though he would have held himself 
 aloof from all women but one. She knew the truth 
 well enough ; but they who suffer much think only of 
 
240 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 the cessation of pain. He wondered at the inveigling 
 content that introduced itself into her voice, face, and 
 gesture. Settling herself comfortably on the sofa, she 
 said, — 
 
 " Now tell me what the doctor said. Did he say I 
 would soon recover ? Did he say that I was very bad ? 
 Tell me all." 
 
 " He said that yon ought to have a change — that 
 you should go south somewhere." 
 
 " And you agree with him that I ought to 
 go away ? " 
 
 " Is he not the best judge ? — the doctor's orders ! " 
 
 " Then you, too, have learnt to hate me. You, too, 
 want to send me away ? " 
 
 "My dear Emily, I only want to do as you like. 
 You asked me what the doctor said, and I told you." 
 
 Hubert got up and walked aside. He passed his 
 hand across his eyes. He could hardly contain him- 
 self; the emotion that discussion with this sick girl 
 caused liim went to his head. She looked at him 
 curiously, watching his movement, and he failed to 
 understand what pleasure it could give her to have 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 241 
 
 him by her side, knowing, as she clearly did, that his 
 heart was elsewhere. Turning suddenly, he said, — 
 
 " But tell me, Emily, how are you feeling ? You 
 are, after all, the best judge." 
 
 " I feel rather weak. 1 should get strong enough 
 if " 
 
 She paused, as if waiting for Hubert to ask her 
 to finish the sentence. But he hurriedly turned the 
 conversation. 
 
 " The doctor said you looked as if you had not had 
 any sleep for several nights. I told him that that was 
 strange, for you were taking chloral." 
 
 " I sleep well enough," she said. " But sometimes 
 
 life seems so sad, that I do not think I shall be able 
 
 to bear with it any longer. You do not know how 
 
 unfortunate I have been. When I was a child, father 
 
 and mother used to quarrel always, and I was the only 
 
 child. That was why Mr. Burnett asked me to come 
 
 and live at Ashwood. I came at first on a visit ; and 
 
 when father and mother died, he said he wished to 
 
 adopt me. I thought he loved me ; but his love was 
 
 only selfishness. No one has ever loved me. I feel 
 
 16 
 
242 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 SO utterly alone in this world — that is why I am 
 unhappy." 
 
 Her eyes filled with tears, and at the sight of her 
 tears Hubert's feelings were overwrought, and again 
 he had to walk aside. He would give her all things ; 
 but she was dying for him, and he could not save her. 
 No longer was there any disguisement between them. 
 The words they uttered were as nothing, so clearly did 
 the thought shine out of their eyes, " I am d)'ing of 
 love for you," and then the answer, " I know that is 
 so, and I cannot help it." Her whole soul was spoken 
 in her eyes, and he felt that his eyes betrayed him 
 equally plainly. They stood in a sort of mental 
 nakedness. The woman no longer sought for words to 
 cover herself with ; the man did, but he did not find 
 them. They had not spoken for some time; they had 
 been thinking of each other. At last she said, and 
 with the querulous perversity of the sick, — 
 
 " But even if I wished to go abroad, with whom 
 could I go ? " 
 
 Hubert fell into the trap, and, noticing the sudden 
 brightness in his eyes, a cloud of disappointment 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 243 
 
 shadowed hers. " Of course, with Mrs. Bentley. I 
 assure you, my dear Emily, that you " 
 
 " No, no, I am not mistaken ! She hates me, and I 
 cannot bear her. It is she who is making me ill." 
 
 " Hate you ! Why should she hate you ? " 
 
 Emily did not reply. Hubert watched her, noticing 
 the pallor of her cheek, so entirely white and blue, 
 hardly a touch of warm colour anywhere, even in the 
 shadow of the heavy hair. 
 
 " I would give anything to see you friends again." 
 
 " That is impossible ! I can never be friends with 
 
 JiUia as I once was. She has No, never can we 
 
 be friends again. But why do you always take her 
 part against me ? That is what grieves me most. If 
 only you thought " 
 
 " Emily dear, these are but idle fancies. You are 
 mistaken." 
 
 The conversation fell. The girl lay quite still, 
 her hands clasped across the shawl, her little foot 
 stretched beyond the limp black dress, the hem of 
 which fell over the edge of the grey sofa. Hubert 
 sat by her on a low chair, and he looked into the 
 
244 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 fire, whose light wavered over the walls, now and 
 again bringing the face of one of the pictures out of 
 the darkness. The wind whined about the windows. 
 Then, sjjeakiug as if out of a dream, Emily said, — 
 
 " Julia and I can never be friends again — that is 
 impossible." 
 
 " But what has she done ? " Hubert asked in- 
 cautiously, regretting his words as soon as he had 
 uttered them. 
 
 " What has she done ? " she said, looking at him 
 curiously. " Well, one thing, she has got it reported 
 that — that I am in love with you, and that that is the 
 reason of my illness." 
 
 " I am sure she never said any such thing. You are 
 entirely mistaken. Mrs. Bentley is incapable of such 
 wickedness." 
 
 " A woman, when she is jealous, will say anything. 
 If she did not say it, can you tell me how it got 
 about ? " 
 
 " I don't believe any one ever said such a thing." 
 
 " Oh yes, lots have said so — things come back to me. 
 Julia always was jealous of me. She cannot bear me 
 
VAIN FOKTUNE. 245 
 
 to speak to you. Have you not noticed how she follows 
 us ? Do you think she would have left the room just 
 now if she could have helped it ? " 
 
 " If you think this is so, had she not better 
 leave ? " 
 
 Emily did not answer at once. Motionless she lay 
 on the sofa, looking at the grey November day with 
 vague eyes that bespoke an obsession of hallucination. 
 Suddenly she said, " I do not want her to go away. 
 She would spread a report that I was jealous of her, 
 and had asked you to send her away. No, it would 
 not be wise to send her away. Besides," she said, fixing 
 her eyes, now full of melancholy reproach, " you would 
 like her to remain." 
 
 " I have said before, Emily, and I assure you I am 
 speaking the truth, I want you to do what you like. 
 Say what you wish to be done and it shall be done." 
 
 " Is that really true ? I thought no one cared for 
 me. You must care for me a little to speak like that." 
 
 " Of course I care for you, Emily." 
 
 " I sometimes think you might have if it had not 
 been for that play ; for, of course, I'm not clever, and 
 
246 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 cannot discnss it witli yon. . . . Jnlia, I snj)pose, 
 can — that is the reason why you like her. Am I not 
 right?" 
 
 " Mrs. Bentley is a clever woman, who has read a 
 great deal, and I like to talk an act over with her 
 before I write it." 
 
 " Is that all ? Then why do people say yon are 
 going to marry her ? " 
 
 " But nobody ever said so." 
 
 " Oh yes, they have. Is it true ? " 
 
 " No, Emily; it is not trne." 
 
 " Are yon quite sure ? " 
 
 " Yes, quite sure." 
 
 "If that is so," she said, turning her eyes on Hubert, 
 and looking as if she could see right down into his 
 soul, " I shall get well very soon. Then we can go 
 on just the same; but if you married her, I " 
 
 " I what ? " 
 
 " Nothing ! I feel quite happy now. I did not want 
 you to marry her. I could not bear it. It would be 
 like having a step-mother — worse, for she would not 
 have me here at all; she would drive me away." 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 247 
 
 Hubert shook his head. 
 
 " You don't know Julia as well as I do. However, 
 it is no use discussing what is not going to be. You 
 have been very nice to-day. If you would be always 
 nice as you are to-day, I should soon get well." 
 
 Her pale profile seemed very sharp in the fading 
 twilight, and her delicate arms and thin bosom were 
 full of the charm and fascination of deciduous things. 
 She turned her face and looked at Hubert. ^' You 
 have made me very happy. I am content." 
 
 He was afraid to look back at her, lest she should, 
 in her subtle, wilful manner, read the thought that 
 was passing in his soul. Even now she seemed to 
 read it. She seemed conscious of his pity for her. 
 So little would give her happiness, and that little 
 was impossible. His heart was irreparably another's. 
 But though Emily's eyes seemed to know all, they 
 seemed to say, " What matter ? I regret nothing, only 
 let things remain as they are." And then her voice 
 said, — 
 
 " 1 think I could sleep a little; Jiappiness has 
 brought me sleep. Don't go away, i shall not be 
 
248 VAIN FOETUNE. 
 
 asleep long." Slie looked at him, and dozed, and 
 then fell asleep. Hubert waited till her breathing 
 grew deeper ; then he laid the hand he held in his by 
 her side, and stole on tiptoe from the room. 
 
 The strain of the interview had become too intense ; 
 the house was unbearable. He went into the air. The 
 November sky was drawing into wintry night; the 
 grey clouds darkened, clinging round the long plain, 
 overshadowing it, blotting out colour, leaving nothing 
 but the severe green of the park, and the yellow whirl- 
 ing of dishevelled woods. 
 
 " I must," he said to himself, " think no more about 
 it. I shall go mad if I do. Nature will find her 
 own solution. God grant that it may be a merciful 
 one ! I can do nothing." And to escape from useless 
 consideration, to release his overwrought brain, he 
 hastened his steps, extending his walk through the 
 farthest woods. As he approached the lodge gate 
 he came upon Mrs. Bentley. She stood, her back 
 turned from him, leaning on the gate, her thoughts 
 lost in the long darkness of autumnal fields and 
 woods. 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 249 
 
 " Julia 1" 
 
 " You have left Emily. How did you leave her ? " 
 
 " She is fast asleep on the sofa. She fell asleep. 
 Then why should I remain ? The house was unbear- 
 able. She went to sleep, saying she felt very happy." 
 
 " Really ! What induced such a change in her ? 
 Did you " 
 
 " No, I did not ask her to marry me; but I was able 
 to tell her that I was not going to marry you, and that 
 seemed entirely to satisfy her." 
 
 " Did she ask you ? " 
 
 " Yes. And when I told her I was not, she said 
 that that was all she wanted to know — that she would 
 soon get well now. How we human beings thrive in 
 each other's unhappiness ! " 
 
 " Quite true, and we have been reproaching ourselves 
 for our selfishness." 
 
 " Yes, and hers is infinitely greater. She is quite 
 satisfied not to ^e happy herself, so long as she can 
 make sure of our unhappiness. And what is so strange 
 is her utter unconsciousness of her own fantastic and 
 hardly conceivable selfishness. ... It is astonishing I " 
 
250 VAIN FOETUNE. 
 
 I 
 
 " She is very yonng, and the young are naturally 
 egotistic." 
 
 " Possibly. Still, it is hardly more agreeable to 
 encounter. Come, let's go for a walk ; and, above all 
 things, let's talk no more about Emily." 
 
 The roads were greasy, and the hedges were torn 
 and worn with incipient winter, and when they dipped 
 the town appeared, a reddish-brown mass in the blue 
 landscape. Hubert thought of his play and his love; 
 but not separately — they seemed to him now as one 
 indissoluble, indivisible thing ; and he told her that he 
 never would be able to write it without her assistance. 
 That she might be of use to him in his work was 
 singularly sweet to hear, and the thought reached 
 to the end of her heart, causing her to smile sadly, 
 and argue vainly, and him to reply querulously. They 
 walked for about a mile ; and then, wearied with sad 
 expostulation, the conversation fell, and at the end of 
 a long silence Julia said, — 
 
 " I think we had better turn back." 
 
 The suggestion filled Hubert's heart with rushing 
 pain, and he answered, — 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 251 
 
 " Why should we return ? I cannot go back to that 
 girl. Oh, the miserable life we are leading I " 
 
 " What can we do ? We must go back ; we cannot 
 live in a tent by the wayside. We have no tent to 
 set np." 
 
 " Come to London and be my wife." 
 
 " No," she said ; " that is impossible. Let us not 
 speak of it." 
 
 Hubert did not answer; and, turning their faces 
 homeward, they walked some way in silence. Suddenly 
 Hubert said, — 
 
 " No, it is impossible. I cannot return. There is 
 no use. I'm at the end of my tether. I cannot." 
 
 She looked at him in alarm. 
 
 " Hubert," she said, " this is folly ! I cannot return 
 without you." 
 
 " You ruin my life ; you refuse me the only 
 happiness. Ikn more wretched than 1 can tell 
 you 1 " 
 
 " And I ! Do you think that I'm not wretched ? " 
 She raised her face to his ; her eyes were full of tears. 
 He caught her in his arms, and kissed her. The warm 
 
252 VAIN FOETUNE. 
 
 touch of her lips, the scent of her face and hair, 
 banished all bnt desire of her. 
 
 " Yon must come with me, Jnlia. I shall go mad 
 if von don't. I can care for no one bnt von. All 
 my life is in yon now. Yon know I cannot love that 
 girl, and we cannot continue in this wretched life. 
 There is no sense in it ; it is a voluntary, senseless 
 martyrdom ! " 
 
 " Hubert, do not temjjt me to be disloyal to my 
 friend. It is cruel of yon, for yon know I love yon. 
 But no, nothing shall tempt me. How can I ? We 
 do not know what might happen. The shock might 
 kill her. She might do away with herself." 
 
 " You must come with me," said Hubert, now com- 
 pletely lost in his passion. " Nothing will happen. 
 Girls do not do away with themselves; girls do not 
 die of broken hearts. Nothing happens in these days. 
 A few more tears will be shed, and she will soon 
 become reconciled to what cannot be altered. A year 
 or so after, we will marry her to a nice young man, 
 and she will settle down a (piiet mother of children." 
 
 " Perhaps you are right ? " 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 253 
 
 An empty fly, returning to the town, passed them. 
 The fly-man raised his whip. 
 
 " Take yon to the railway station in ten minutes ? " 
 
 Hubert spoke quietly ; nevertheless there was a 
 strange nervousness in his eyes when he said — 
 
 " Fate comes to help me ; she offers us the means 
 of escape. You will not refuse, Julia ? " 
 
 Her upraised face was full of doubt and pain, and 
 she was perplexed by the fly-man's dull eyes, his 
 starved horse, his ramshackle vehicle, the wet road, 
 the leaden sky. It was one of those moments when 
 the familiar appears strange and grotesque. Then, 
 gathering all her resolution, she said — 
 
 " No, no ; it is impossible ! Come back, come back." 
 
 He caught her arm : quietly and firmly he led her 
 across the road. " You must listen to me. . . . We 
 are about to take a decisive step. Are you sure 
 that " * 
 
 " No, no, Hubert, I cannot ; let us return home." 
 
 " I go back to Ashwood ! If I did I should commit 
 suicide." 
 
 " Don't speak like that. . . . Where will you go ? " 
 
254 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 " I shall travel. ... I shall visit Italy and Greece. 
 ... I shall live abroad." 
 
 " You are not serious ? " 
 
 " Yes, I am, Julia. That cab may not take both, 
 but it certainly will take one of us away from Ash- 
 wood, and for ever." 
 
 " Take you to Southwater, sir — take you to the 
 station in ten minutes," said the fly-man, pulling in his 
 horse. A zig-zag fugitive thought passed : why did 
 the fly-man speak of taking them to the station ? 
 How was it that he knew where they wanted to go ? 
 They stopped and wondered. The poor horse's bones 
 stood out in strange projections, the round-shouldered 
 little fly-man sat grinnmg on his box, showing three 
 long yellow fangs. The vehicle, the horse, and the 
 man, his arm raised in questioning gesture, appeared 
 in strange silhouette upon the grey clouds, assuming 
 portentous aspect in their tremulous and excited 
 imaginations. " Take you to Southwater in ten 
 minutes ! " The voice of the fly-man sounded hard, 
 grating, and derisive in their ears. 
 
 He had stopped in the middle of the road, and they 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 255 
 
 walked slowly past, through a great puddle, which 
 drenched their feet. 
 
 " Get in, Jnlia. Shall I open the door ? " 
 " No, no ; think of Emily. I cannot, Hubert,— I 
 cannot ; it would kill her." 
 
 The conversation paused, and in a long silence they 
 wondered if the fly-man had heard. Then they walked 
 several yards listening to the tramp of the hoofs, 
 and then they heard the fly-man strike his horse with 
 the whip. The animal shuffled into a sort of trot, and 
 as the carriage passed them the fly-man again raised 
 his arm and again repeated the same phrase, " Drive 
 you to the station in ten minutes ! " The carriage was 
 her temptation, and Julia hoped the man would linger 
 no longer. For the promise she had given to Emily lay 
 like a red-hot coal upon her heart ; its fumes rose to 
 her head, And there were times when she thought they 
 would choke her, and she grew so sick with the pain 
 of self-denial that she could have thrown herself down 
 in the wet grass on the roadside, and laid her face 
 on the cold earth for relief. Would nothing happen ? 
 What madness ! Night was coming on, and still they 
 
256 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 followed the road to Sonthwater. Rain fell in heavy 
 drops. 
 
 " We shall get wet," she mnrmnred, as if she were 
 answering the fly-man, who had said again, " Drive 
 you to the station in ten minutes ! " She hated the 
 man for his persistency. 
 
 " Say you will come with me ! " Hubert 
 whispered ; and all the while the rain came down 
 heavier. 
 
 "No, no, Hubert. ... I cannot ; I promised Emily 
 that I never would. I am going back." 
 
 '' Then we must say good-bye. I will not go 
 back." 
 
 " You don't mean it. You don't really intend me 
 to go back to Emily and tell her ? . . . She will not 
 believe me ; she will think I have sent you away to 
 gain my own end. Hubert, you mustn't leave me . . . 
 and in all this wet. See how it rains. I shall never 
 be able to get home alone." 
 
 " I will drive you on as far as the lodge gate ; further 
 than the lodge I will not go. Nothing in the world 
 shall tempt me to pass it." 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 257 
 
 At a sign from Hubert the little fly-man scrambled 
 clown from bis box. He was a little old man, almost 
 hunchbacked, with small mud-coloured eyes and a 
 fringe of white beard about his sallow, discoloured face. 
 He was dressed in a pale yellow jacket and waistcoat, 
 and they both noticed that his crooked little legs were 
 covered with a pair of pepper-and-salt trousers. They 
 felt sure he must have overheard a large part of their 
 conversation, for as he opened the carriage door he 
 grinned, showing his three yellow fangs. . . . His 
 appearance was not encouraging. Julia wished he 
 were different, and then she looked at Hubert. She 
 longed to throw herself into his arms and weep. But 
 at that moment the heavens seemed to open, and the 
 rain came down like a torrent, thick and fast, splashing 
 all along the road in a million splashes. 
 
 " Horrible weather, sir ; sha'n't be long a-takin' 
 you to South water. What part of the town be yer 
 going to — the railway station ? " 
 
 Julia still hesitated. The rain beat on their faces. 
 
 and when some chilling drops rolled down her neck 
 
 she instinctively sought shelter in the carriage. 
 
 17 
 
258 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 " Drive me to the station as fast as yon can. Catch 
 the half-past five to London, and I'll give you five 
 shillings." 
 
 The leather thong sounded on the starved animal's 
 hide, the crazy vehicle rocked from side to side, and 
 the wet country almost disappeared in the dark- 
 ness. Hedges and fields swept past them in faintest 
 outline, here and there a blurred mass, which they 
 recognised as a farm building. His arm was about her, 
 and she heard him murmur over and over again — 
 
 " Dearest Julia, you are what I love best in the 
 world." 
 
 The words thrilled her a little, but all the while 
 she saw Emily's eyes and heard her voice. 
 
 Hubert, however, was full ef happiness — the 
 sweet happiness of the quiet, docile creature that has 
 at last obtained what it loves. 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 "TIpMILY awoke shivering ; the fire had gone out, 
 the room was in darkness, and the house seemed 
 strange and lonel}'. She rang the bell, and asked the 
 servant if he had seen Mr. Price. Mr. Price had gone 
 out late in the afternoon, and had not come in. Where 
 was Mrs. Bentley ? Mrs. Bentley had gone out earlier 
 in the afternoon, and had not come in. 
 
 She suspected the truth at once. They had gone to 
 London to be married. The servant lighted a candle, 
 made up the fire, and asked if she would wait dinner. 
 Emily made no answer, but sat still, her eyes fixed, 
 looking into space. The man lingered at the door. 
 At that moment her little dog bounded into the room, 
 and, in a paroxysm of delight, jumped on his mis- 
 tress's lap. She took him in her arms and kissed 
 him, and this somewhat reassured the alarmed servant, 
 who then thought it was no more than one of Miss 
 
 259 
 
260 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 Emily's queer ways. Daudy licked his mistress's 
 face, and nibbed bis rongb bead against her sbonlder. 
 He seemed more tban usually affectionate that evening. 
 Suddenly sbe caugbt bim up in ber arms, and kissed 
 bim passionately. " Not even for your sake, dearest 
 Dandy, can I bear witb it any longer ! We are all 
 very selfisb, and it is selfisb of me to leave you, but I 
 cannot help it." Tben a doubt crossed her mind, and 
 sbe raised her head and listened to it. It seemed 
 difficult to believe that he had told ber a falsehood — 
 a cruel, wicked falsehood — he who bad been so kind. 
 
 And yet Ah! yes, she knew well enough that it 
 
 was all true ; something told her so. The lancinating 
 pain of doubt passed away, and she remained thinking 
 of the impossibility of bearing any longer with ber life. 
 An hour passed, and the servant came with the 
 news that Mr. Price and Mrs. Bentley bad gone 
 to London ; they had taken the half-past live train. 
 " Yes," sbe said, " I know they have." Her voice was 
 calm. There was a strange hollow ring in it, and 
 the servant wondered. A few minutes after, dinner was 
 announced; and to escape observation and comment 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 261 
 
 she went into the dining-room, tasted the soup, and 
 took a slice of mutton on her plate. She could not 
 eat it. She gave it to Dandy. It was the last time 
 she should feed him. How hungry he was ! She 
 hoped he would not care to eat it ; he would not if 
 he knew she was going to leave him. 
 
 In the drawing-room he insisted on being nursed ; 
 and alone, amid the faded furniture, watched over by 
 the old portraits, her pale face fixed and her pale 
 hands clasping her beloved dog, she sat thinking, 
 brooding over the uuhaj^piness, the incurable unhap- 
 piness, of her little life. She was absorbed in self, 
 and did not rail against Hubert, or even Julia. Their 
 personalities had somehow dropped out of her mind, 
 and merely represented forces against which she found 
 herself unable any longer to contend. Nor was she 
 surprised at what had happened. There had always 
 been in her some prescience of her fate. She and 
 unhappiness had always seemed so inseparable, that 
 she had never found it difficult to believe that this 
 last misfortune would befall her. She had thought it 
 over, and had decided that it would be unendurable 
 
262 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 to live any longer, and Jiad borne many a terrible 
 insomnia so that she might collect sufficient chloral 
 to take her out of her misery ; and now, as she sat 
 thinking, she remembered that she had never, never 
 been hajjpy. Oh ! the miserable evenings she used to 
 spend when a child between her father and mother, 
 who could not agree — why, she never understood. But 
 she used to have to listen to her mother addressing 
 insulting speeches to her father in a calm, even voice 
 that nothing could alter; and, though both were dead 
 and years divided her from that time, the memory 
 survived, and she could see it all again — that room, 
 the very paper on the wall, and her father being 
 gradually worked up into a frenzy. 
 
 When she was left an orphan, Mr. Burnett had 
 adopted her, and she remembered the joy of coming to 
 Ashwood. She had thought to find happiness there; 
 but there, as at home, fate had gone against her, and 
 she was hardly eighteen when Mr. Burnett had asked 
 her to marry him. She had loved that old man, but 
 he had not loved her ; for when she had refused to 
 marry him he had broken all his promises and left 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 263 
 
 her penniless, careless of what miglit become of her. 
 Then she had given her whole heart to Julia, and Julia, 
 too, had deceived her. And had she not loved Hubert ? 
 — no one would ey&c know how much ; she did not 
 know herself,— and had he not lied to her ? Oh, it 
 was very cruel to deceive a poor little girl in this 
 heartless way ! There was no heart in the world, that 
 was it — and she was all heart; and her heart had been 
 trampled on ever since she could remember. And 
 when they came back they would revenge themselves 
 upon her — insult her with their happiness ; perhaps 
 insist on sending her away. 
 
 Dandy drowsed on her lap. The servant brought in 
 the tea, and when he returned to the kitchen he said 
 he had never seen any one look so ghost-like as Miss 
 Emily. The clock ticked loudly in the silence of the 
 old room, the hands moving slowly towards ten. She 
 waited for the hour to strike ; it was then that she 
 usually went to bed. Her thoughts moved as in a 
 nightmare; and paramount in this chaotic mass of 
 sensation was an acute sense of the deception that had 
 been practised on her ; with the consciousness, now 
 
264 
 
 VAIN FOETUNE. 
 
 firm and nnalterable, tliat it had become impossible 
 for her to live. When the clock struck she got 
 
 up from her 
 
 -0 
 
 I chair, and the 
 
 ■| movement 
 , seemed to 
 . react on her 
 . brain ; her 
 thoughts nn- 
 4 clouded, and 
 I \ she went up- 
 stairs think- 
 ing clearly of her 
 love of this old 
 house. The old 
 gentleman in the red 
 :^' coat, his hand on his 
 
 r"»s^^^^^^^^^^mr sword, looked on her 
 '^^^MkP^^ benignly ; and the lady 
 playing the spinet smiled as 
 sweetly as was her wont. Emily held up the 
 candle to the picture of the windmill. She had 
 
 .^. 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 265 
 
 alwa,ys loved that picture, and the sad thought came 
 that she should never see it again. Dandy, who 
 had galloped upstairs, stood looking through the 
 banisters, wagging his tail. 
 
 The moment she got into her room she wrote the 
 following note : " I have taken an overdose of chloral. 
 My life was too miserable to be borne any longer. 
 I forgive those who have caused my unhappiness, and 
 I hope they will forgive me any unhappiness I have 
 caused them." They were nothing to her now ; they 
 were beyond her hate, and the only pang she felt 
 was parting with her beloved Dandy. There he stood 
 looking at her, standing on the edge of the bed, 
 waiting for her to cover him up and put him to sleep 
 in his own corner. " Yes, Dandy, in a moment, dear 
 — have patience." She looked round the little room, 
 and, remembering all that she had suffered there, 
 thought that the walls must be saturated with grief, 
 like a sponge. 
 
 It was a common thing at that time for her to 
 stand before the glass and address such words as 
 these to herself : " My poor girl, how I pity you ; 
 
266 YATN FORTUNE. 
 
 how I pity j-ou I " And now, looking at lierself 
 very sadly, she said, " My poor girl, I shall never 
 pity yon any more ! " Having hung np her dress, 
 she fetched a chair and took varions doses of chloral 
 out of the hollow top of her wardrobe, where 
 she had hidden things all her life — sweets, novels, 
 fireworks. They more than half-filled the tumbler; 
 and, looking at the sticky, white liquid, she thought 
 with repugnance of drinking so much of it. But, 
 wanting to make quite sure of death, she resolved 
 to take it all, and she undressed quickly. She was 
 very cold when she got into bed. Then a thought 
 struck her, and she got out of bed to add a postscript 
 to her letter. " I have only one request to make. I 
 hope Dandy will always be taken care of." Surprised 
 that she had not wrapped him up and told him he 
 was to go to sleep, the dog stood on the edge of the 
 bed, watching her so earnestly that she wondered 
 if he knew what she was going to do. " No, you 
 don't know, dear — do you ? If you did, you wouldn't 
 let me do it ; you'd bark the house down, 1 know 
 you would, my own darling." Clasping liim to her 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 267 
 
 breast, she smothered him with kisses, then put him 
 away in his corner, covering him over for the night. 
 
 She felt neither grief nor fear. Through mucli 
 suffering, thought and sensation were, to a great 
 extent, dead in her ; and, in a sort of emotive numb- 
 ness, she laid her candlestick in its usual place on 
 the chair b}^ her bedside ; and, sitting up in bed, her 
 nightdress carefully buttoned, holding the tuml^ler 
 half-filled with chloral, she tried to take a dispassionate 
 survey of her life. She thought of what she had 
 endured, and what she would have to endure if she 
 did not take it. Then she felt she must go, and 
 without hesitation drank off the chloral. vShe placed 
 the tumbler by the candlestick, and lay down, re- 
 membering vaguely that a long time ago she had 
 decided that suicide was not wrong in itself. The 
 last thing she remembered was the clock striking 
 eleven. 
 
 For half an hour she slept like stone. Then her 
 eyes opened, and they told of sickness now in motion 
 within her. And, strangely enough, through the over- 
 powering nausea rising from her stomach to her brain, 
 
268 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 the thought that she was not going to die appeared 
 perfectly clear, and with it a sense of disappointment ; 
 she would have to begin it all over again. It was 
 with great difficulty that she struck a match and 
 lighted a candle. It seemed impossible to get up. 
 At last she managed to slip her legs out of bed, and 
 found she could stand, and through tlie various assaults 
 of retching she thought of the letter : it must be 
 destroyed ; and, leaning in the corner against the 
 wall and the wardrobe, she tried to recover herself. 
 A dull, deep sleep was pressing on her brain, and 
 she thought she would never be able to cross the 
 room to where the letter was. Dandy looked out of 
 his rug ; she caught sight of his bright eyes. 
 
 On cold and shaky feet she attemjited to make 
 her way towards the letter ; but the room heaved 
 up at her, and, fearing she should fall, and knowing 
 if she did tliat she would not be able to regain her 
 feet, she clung to the toilette-table. She must destroy 
 that letter : if it were found they would watch her; 
 and, however impossible her life might l)ccome, she 
 would not be able to escape from it. This cousidera- 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 269 
 
 tion gave lier strength for a final effort. She tore 
 the letter into very small pieces, and then, clinging 
 to a chair, strove to grasp the rail of the bed ; but 
 the bed rolled worse than any ship. Making a supreme 
 effort she got in; and then, neither dreams nor waking 
 thoughts, but oblivion complete. Hours and hours 
 passed, and when she opened her eyes her maid stood 
 over the bed, looking at her. 
 
 " Oh, miss, you looked so tired and ill that I didn't 
 wake you. You do seem poorly, miss. It is nearly 
 two o'clock. Should you like to sleep a little longer, 
 or shall I bring you up some breakfast ? " 
 
 " No, no, no, thank you. I couldn't touch any- 
 thing. I'm feeling wretched ; but I'll get up." 
 
 The maid tried to dissuade her ; but Emily got out 
 of bed, and allowed herself to be dressed. She was 
 very weak — so weak that she could hardly stand up 
 at the wash stand ; and the maid had to sponge her 
 face and neck. But when she had drunk a cup 
 of tea and eaten a little piece of toast, she said she 
 felt better, and was able to walk into the drawing- 
 room. She thought no more of death, nor of her 
 
270 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 troubles ; thought drowsed in her ; aud iu a passive, 
 torpid state she sat looking into the lire till dinner- 
 time, hardly caring to bestow a casual caress on 
 Dandy, who seemed conscious of his mistress's neglect, 
 for, in his sly, coaxing way, he sometimes came and 
 rubbed himself against her feet. She went into the 
 dining-room, and the servant was glad to see that she 
 finished her soup, and, though she hardly tasted it, 
 she finished a wing of a chicken, and also the glass of 
 wine which the man pressed upon her. Half an hour 
 after, when he brought out the tea, he found her 
 sitting on her habitual chair nursing her dog, and 
 staring into the fire so drearily that her look 
 frightened him, and he hesitated before he gave 
 her the letter which had just come up from the 
 town ; but it was marked " Immediate." 
 
 When he left the room she opened it. It was from 
 Mrs. Bentley. 
 
 " Dearest Emily, — I know that Hubert told you 
 that he was not going to marry me. He thought 
 ho was not, for I had refused to marry him ; but a 
 short time after we met in the park quite accidentally, 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 271 
 
 and — well, fate took the matter out of our hands, and 
 we are to be married to-morrow. Hubert insists on 
 going to Italy, and I believe we shall remain there 
 two months. We have made arrangements for your 
 aunt to live with you until we come back ; and when 
 we do come back, I hope all the little unpleasantnesses 
 which have marred our friendship for this last month 
 or two will be forgotten. So far as I am concerned, 
 nothing shall be left undone to make you happy. 
 Your will shall be law at Ashwood so long as I am 
 there. If you would like to join us in Italy, you 
 have only to say the word. We shall be delighted 
 to have you." 
 
 Emily could read no more. " Join them in Italy ! " 
 She dashed the letter into the fire, and an intense 
 hatred of them both pierced her heart and brain. 
 It was the kiss of Judas. Oh, those hateful, lying 
 words ! To live here with her aunt until they came 
 back, to wait here quietly until she returned in triumph 
 with him — him who had been all the world to her. 
 Oh no ; that was not possible. Death, death — escape 
 she must. But how? She had no more chloral. 
 
272 VAIN FOKTUNE. 
 
 Suddenly she thouglit of the lake. " Yes, yes; the 
 lake, the lake ! " And then a keen, swift, passionate 
 longing for death, such as she had not felt at all the 
 night before, came upon her. There was the knowledge 
 too that by killing herself she would revenge herself 
 on those who had killed her. She was just conscious 
 that her suicide would have this effect, but hardly 
 a trace of such intention appeared in the letter she 
 wrote ; it was as melancholy and as brief as tlie 
 letter she had torn up, and ended, like it, with a 
 request that Dandy should be well looked after. She 
 had ouly just directed the envelope when she heard 
 the servant coming to take away the tea-things. She 
 concealed the letter; and when his steps died away in 
 the corridor and the house door closed, she knew she 
 could slip out unobserved. Instinctively she thought 
 of her hat and jacket, and, without a shudder, 
 remembered she would not need them. She sped 
 down the pathway through the shadow of the 
 firs. 
 
 It was one of those warm nights of winter when 
 a sulphur-coloured sky hangs like a blanket behind 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 273 
 
 the wet, dishevelled woods; and, though there was 
 neither moon nor star, the night was strangely clear, 
 and the shadow of tlie bridge was distinct in the 
 water. When she approached the brink the swans 
 moved slowly away. They reminded her of the cold ; 
 
 
 ^^Z.M 
 
 S^ir*^«~ 
 
 i^-..— i 
 
 but the black obsession of death was upon her ; and, 
 
 hastening her steps, she threw herself forward. She 
 
 fell into shallow water and regained her feet, and for 
 
 a moment it seemed uncertain if she would wade to 
 
 the bank or fling herself into a deeper place. Suddenly 
 
 she sank, the water rising to her shoulders. She was 
 
 18 
 
274 VAIN FOETUNE. 
 
 lifted off lier feet. A faint struggle, a faint cry, and 
 then nothing — nothing but the whiteness of the swans 
 moving through the sultry night slowly towards the 
 island. 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 " n^^HEY ought to be back from the theatre by now. 
 They'll want a nice fire. I always likes to 
 make a newly-married couple comfortable." 
 
 " When were they married ? " 
 
 " This morning. We mnst make the room look 
 nice. Better light the candles ; they'll be home in 
 a few minutes." 
 
 Its rich, inanimate air proclaimed the room to be 
 an expensive bedroom in a first-class London hotel. 
 Interest in the newly-married couple, who were to 
 occupy the room, prompted the servants to see that 
 nothing was forgotten; and as they lingered steps 
 were heard in the passage, and Hubert and Julia 
 entered. The maid-servants stood aside to let them 
 pass, and one inquired if madame wanted anything, so 
 that her eyes might be gratified with a last inquisition 
 of the happy pair. 
 
 275 
 
276 VAIN FOKTUNE. 
 
 " How wonderful ! oh, how wonderful ! I don't 
 think I ever saw any one act before like that — did 
 you?" 
 
 " She certainly had three or four moments that 
 could not be surpassed. Her entrance in the sleep- 
 walking scene — what vague horror ! what pale presenti- 
 ment 1 how she filled the stage ! notliing seemed to 
 exist but she." 
 
 "And Ford; what did you think of Ford's Macbeth ? " 
 
 "Very good. Everything he does is good. Talent; 
 but the other has genius." 
 
 " I shall never forget this evening. What an 
 awful tragedy ! " 
 
 " Perhaps I should have taken you to see something 
 more cheerful; but I wanted to see Miss Massey play 
 Lady Macbeth. But let us talk of something else. 
 We are very well here. Splendid fire— is it not?" 
 
 She slipped her long cloak from her shoulders. The 
 gown was pale blue, with a bunch of 2)alc roses on the 
 shoulder and a garland of pale roses on the skirt, and 
 in the candle and firelight her pale hair filled with 
 rich tones. Hubert threw off his overcoat, and in the 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 277 
 
 black and white of his evening clothes his tall, thiu 
 figure drew a look of admiration from Julia. Hubert 
 surprised that look; his face changed expression, and 
 he said, " Dearest, let me kiss you ; " and, leaning up 
 to her, for he was seated in the arm-chair, he drew 
 her down to him, and their lips lingered in a long 
 and intoxicating embrace. She sat upon his knee 
 and stretched her feet to the fire. " I'm so happy," 
 he said, " that I fear it must be only a dream. But 
 you are with me. Say that it is not a dream ! " 
 
 " Yes, I'm here with you. Why do you think it is 
 only a dream ? " 
 
 " Because my life now is a perfect realisation of the 
 life I desired when I was poor and miserable; and no 
 man ever attains his ideal." 
 
 " And were you ever really poor ? I mean, did you 
 ever really want ? " 
 
 " Want a dinner ? Yes, for whole weeks together, 
 when I was writing The Gips'j, I lived on tenpence 
 and a shilling a day. For three days — for the better 
 part of a week — I worked in the docks as a labourer. 
 I went down there hoping to get a clerkship on board 
 
278 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 one of the Transatlantic steamers. I had had enough 
 of England, and thought of seeking fortune elsewhere." 
 
 " I can hardly believe you worked as a labourer in 
 the docks." 
 
 "Yes, I did. I awoke one morning without a penny- 
 piece. I saw some men going to work, and I joined 
 them. I don't think I thought much about it at the 
 time. A very little misery rubs all the psychology out 
 of us, and we return more easily than one thinks to 
 the animal." 
 
 " And then ? " 
 
 " At the end of a week the work began to tell upon 
 me, and I drifted back in search of my manuscript." 
 
 " But you must have been in a dreadful condition ; 
 your clothes " 
 
 "Ah! thereby hangs a tale. An actress lived in 
 one of the houses I had been lodging in." 
 
 " Oh, tell me about her 1 This is getting very 
 interesting." 
 
 Then passing his arm round his wife's neck, and 
 with her sweet blonde face looking upon him, and 
 the insinuating warmth of the lire about them, he 
 
VAIN FOETUNE. 279 
 
 told how Rose had lent him five shillings to buy a 
 hat, and how he had gone to see Ford. He told of 
 the terrible first night, of the fight that the younger 
 critics had made against the grossness of public taste, 
 and the stupidity and animosity of the veteran critics 
 who wrote in morning papers. Hubert told the story 
 with such directness and simplicity that the illusion 
 was complete — it seemed like a real scene she was 
 witnessing, it was passing under her very eyes. 
 
 " But," she said, her voice trembling, " you would 
 not have committed suicide ? " 
 
 " No man knows beforehand whether he will commit 
 suicide. I can only say that every other issue was 
 closed." 
 
 At the end of a long silence Julia said, " I wish 
 you hadn't spoken about suicide. I cannot but think 
 of Emily. If she were to make away with herself ! 
 The very possibility turns my heart to ice. What 
 should 1 do — what should we do ? I ought never 
 to have given way ; we were both abominably selfish. 
 I can see that poor girl sitting alone in that house 
 grieving her heart out." 
 
280 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 " You ought never to have given way ! A nice 
 speech indeed to make, and on your wedding night." 
 
 " Yon know what I mean ! " she said, clasping her 
 arms about him, and kissing him. Hubert took her 
 arms in his hands, and looked at her. He thought 
 he had never seen anything so exquisite as her white 
 beauty in the romantic voluptuousness of the fire- 
 light. 
 
 "Nothing will happen," he said, to assure her. 
 " My life has been always full of agitation, and yet 
 nothing happened. My marriage is the one real 
 event." 
 
 " The most terrible things often happen — have 
 happened." 
 
 " Emily may have been fond of me — I think she 
 was ; but it was no more than the hysterical caprice 
 of a young girl. Besides, people do not die for love; 
 and I assure you it will be all right. This is not a 
 time for gloomy thoughts. Kiss me." 
 
 " I'll try not to think of her. Well, what were we 
 talking about ? I know : about the actress who lived 
 in 17, Fitzroy Street. Tell me about her." 
 
VAIN FOETUNE. 281 
 
 " She was a real good girl. If she hadn't lent me 
 that five shillings, I don't know where I should be 
 now." 
 
 " Were yon very fond of her ? " 
 
 " No ; there never was anything of that sort 
 between ns. We were merely friends." 
 
 " Truly ? Am I to believe that ? Didn't you love 
 her a little bit ? " 
 
 " No, dearest wife, I did not; you have all my love." 
 
 " Yes ; but the past ? " 
 
 " There was neither love nor cheerfulness in the 
 past." 
 
 " And what has become of this actress ? Have you 
 lost sight of her ? " 
 
 " You must think me very ungrateful. No ; I saw 
 her to-night." 
 
 " You saw her to-night ? " 
 
 " Yes ; were we not at the theatre ? " 
 
 " Was she acting in the piece we saw to-night ? " 
 
 " It was she who played Lady Macbeth." 
 
 " You are joking." 
 
 " No I'm not. I always knew she had genius, and 
 
282 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 they have found it out ; but I must say they have 
 taken their time about it." 
 
 " How wonderful ! she has succeeded ! " 
 
 " Yes, she has succeeded." 
 
 " And she is really the girl you intended to play 
 Lady Hayward?" 
 
 " Yes, and I hope she will play the part one of 
 these days." 
 
 " Of course, she is just the woman for it. What a 
 splendid success she has had ! All London is talking 
 about her." 
 
 " And I remember when Ford refused to cast het 
 for the adventuress in Divorce. If he had, there is 
 no doubt she would have carried the piece through. 
 Life is but a bundle of chances ; she has succeeded, 
 whatever that may mean." 
 
 " But you will let her have the part of Lady 
 Hayward ? " 
 
 " Yes, of course — that is to say, if " 
 
 "Why 4f'?" 
 
 " My thoughts are with you, dear ; literature seems 
 to have passed out of sight." 
 
VAIN FOKTUNE. 283 
 
 " But you must not sacrifice your talent in worship 
 of me. I shall not allow you. For my sake, if not 
 for hers, you must finish that play. I want you to 
 be famous ? I should be for ever miserable if my 
 love proved a upas tree." 
 
 " A upas tree ! It will be you who will help 
 me ; it will be your presence that will help me to 
 write my play. I was always vaguely conscious 
 that you were a necessary element in my life ; but 
 I did not wake up to any knowledge of it until 
 that day — do you remember ? — when you came into 
 my study to ask me what fish I'd like for dinner, and 
 I begged of you to allow me to read to you that 
 second act. It is that second act that stops me." 
 
 " I thought you had written the second act to your 
 satisfaction. You said that after the talk we had 
 that afternoon you wrote for three hours without 
 stopping, and that you had never done better work." 
 
 " Yes, I wrote a great deal ; but on reading it over 
 I found that — I don't mean to say that none of it will 
 stand ; some still seems to me to be all right, but 
 a great deal will req[uire alteration." 
 
284 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 The conversation fell. At the end of a long silence 
 Hubert said, — 
 
 " What are you thinking of, dearest ? " 
 
 " I was thinking that supposing you were mistaken 
 — if I failed to help you in your work." 
 
 " And I never succeeded in writing my play ? " 
 
 " No, I don't mean that. Of course you will write 
 your play ; all you have to do is to be less critical." 
 
 " Yes, I know — I have heard that before ; but, 
 unfortunately, we cannot change ourselves. I'll either 
 carry my play through completely, realise my ideal, 
 or " 
 
 " Remain for ever unsatisfied ? " 
 
 Hubert hesitated ; they looked at each other a 
 moment fixedly; then he answered, "You have said it." 
 
 " But," said Julia, — there was a slight note of alarm 
 in her voice which she sought to disguise, — " we are 
 going to Italy. You said you loved me. I give you all 
 my love, as much as a woman ever gave to man. Yes, 
 and Fortune has given you wealth, and now you can 
 do with your life as you will. . . . We are lovers ; 
 we are going to Italy. Think of the long days we 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 285 
 
 shall spend together ! and yon will show me all that 
 is to be seen — ruins, pictures, statues , . . you will 
 teach me ! And you'll have patience with me, for I 
 am very ignorant. . . . Yes, we shall be very happy ? 
 Fortune has conspired to make us happy. So why 
 think of that play at all— I mean for the present ? " 
 
 " I will think of it as little as may be, and whether 
 I write it or no I shall be happy in your love." 
 
 " Yes, yes ; let us be happy." 
 
 Hubert and Julia looked at each other. He did not 
 speak, but his thought said, "There is no happiness 
 on earth for him who has not accomplished his task." 
 
 " I wonder if I shall make you happy ? The day 
 will come when my love will cease to charm you, and 
 you will seek distraction again in your study." 
 
 " I do not think so. We attach too much importance 
 to a little scribbling on paper, to a little daubing on 
 canvas. I will not think of my play ; I will forget 
 everything in love of you.' 
 
 " No, 1 would not have you forget it." 
 
 Hubert sighed, and then he continued : " You are 
 here ; Italy awaits us— its skies, its cities, its palaces; 
 
^°6 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 and with yon for companion, tell me, is not the 
 prospect allnring ? And yon would have me sacrifice 
 all the beautiful, intoxicating reality for the folly of a 
 vulgar ambition, and such an ambition — such scribbling 
 on paper as would succeed in awaking some clapping 
 of hands and a few cries of applause among a herd of 
 half-educated jieople. But, leaving me out of it, — my 
 desires and my beliefs, — tell me, do you not hunger for 
 life ? Is there no longing in you for ease, for leisure, 
 I'or love ? Do you not want to drink one draught of 
 the golden cup ? " 
 
 " Yes, indeed I do. We have both suffered, we are 
 both tired of suffering, and it is only right that we 
 should be happy." 
 
 " There, I like to hear you talk so ; I would have 
 you enjoy life even as I intend to enjoy it. Long 
 suffering has whetted our appetites. We shall feast 
 well. It shall be my pleasure to attend you, to give 
 you all your desire. But you said just now that 
 you had suffered. I have told you my past. Tell 
 me yonrs. I know nothing except that you were 
 unhappily married." 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 2 
 
 " There is little else to know ; a woman's life is 
 not adventurons, like a man's. I have not known 
 the excitement of ' first nights,' nor the striving and 
 the craving for an artistic ideal. My life has been 
 essentially a woman's life, — suppression of self and 
 monotonous duty, varied by heart-breaking misfortune. 
 I married when I was very young; before I had even 
 begun to think about life I found But why dis- 
 tress these hours with painful memories ? " 
 
 " It is pleasant to look back on the troubles we 
 have passed through; the memory gives a keener zest 
 to present happiness. Beside, I want to know all 
 your life ; it seems to me that I must know all to 
 possess you wholly." 
 
 " Well, I learnt in one year the meaning of three 
 terrible words — poverty, neglect, and cruelty. In the 
 second yeg,r of my marriage my husband died of drink, 
 and I was left a widow at twenty, entirely penniless. 
 I went to live with my sister, and she was so poor 
 that I had to support myself by giving music lessons. 
 You think you know the meaning of poverty : you 
 may ; but you do not know what a young woman who 
 
288 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 wants to earn her bread honestly has to put np with, 
 trudging through wet and cold, mile after mile, to give 
 a lesson, paid for at the rate of one-and-sixpence or 
 two shillings an hour." 
 
 The conversation came to a pause. Julia took her 
 eyes from her husband's face, and looked dreamily 
 into the fire. Then, raising her face from the flame, 
 she looked around with the air of one seeking for 
 some topic of conversation. At that moment she 
 caught sight of the corner of a letter lying on the 
 mantel-piece. Eeaching forth her hand, she took it. 
 It was addressed to her husband. 
 
 " Here is a letter for you, Hubert. . . . Why, 
 it comes from Ashwood. Yes, and it is in the 
 handwriting of one of the servants. Oh, it 
 is Black's writing ! It may be about Emily. 
 Something may have happened to her. Open it 
 quickly." 
 
 " That is not probable. Nothing can have happened 
 to her." 
 
 " Look and see. Be quick 1 " 
 
 Hubert opened the letter, and he had not read three 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 289 
 
 lines when Julia's face caught expression from his, 
 which had become overcast. 
 
 " It is bad news, I know. Something has happened. 
 What is it ? Don't keep me waiting. The suspense 
 is worse than the truth." 
 
 " It is very awful, Julia. Don't give way." 
 
 " Tell me what it is. Is she dead ? " 
 
 " Yes, she is dead." Julia grew pale as the dead, 
 and she got up from her husband's knees and stood by 
 the mantelpiece, leaning upon it. " It is more than 
 mere death." 
 
 " What do you mean ? She killed herself— is that it ? " 
 
 " Yes ; she drowned herself the night before last in 
 the lake." 
 
 " Oh, it is too horrible ! Then we have murdered 
 
 her. Our unpardonable selfishness ! I cannot bear 
 
 it ! " Her eyes closed and her lijis trembled. Hubert 
 
 caught her in his arms, laid her on the chair, and, 
 
 fetching some water in a tumbler, sprinkled her face ; 
 
 then he held it to her lips; she drank a little, and 
 
 revived. " I'm not going to faint. Tell me — tell mc 
 
 when the unfortunate child " 
 
 19 
 
290 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 " They don't know exactly. She was in the 
 drawing-room at tea-time, and the drawing-room was 
 empty when Black went ronnd three-quarters of an 
 hour after to lock up. He thought she had gone to 
 her room. It was the gardener who brought in the 
 news in the morning about nine." 
 
 " Oh, good God 1 " 
 
 " Black says he noticed that she looked very de- 
 pressed the day before, but he thought she was 
 looking better when he brought in the tea." 
 
 " It was then she got my letter. Does Black say 
 anything about giving her a letter ? " 
 
 " Yes, that is to say " 
 
 " I knew it ! I knew it ! " said Julia ; and her eyes 
 were wild with grief, and she rocked herself to and 
 fro. " It was that letter that drove her to it. It was 
 most ill-advised. I told you so. You should have 
 written. She would have borne the news better had 
 it come from you. My instinct told me so, but I let 
 myself be persuaded. I told you how it would happen. 
 I told you. You can't say I didn't. Oh ! why did 
 you persuade me — why — why — why ? " 
 
VAIN FORTUNE. 291 
 
 " Julia dear, we are not responsible. We were in 
 nowise bound to sacrifice our happiness to her " 
 
 " Don't say a word ! I say we were bound. Life can 
 never be the same to me again." 
 
 Hubert did not answer. Nothing he could say 
 would be of the Slightest avail, and he feared to say 
 anything that might draw from her expressions which 
 she would afterwards regret. He had never seen her 
 moved like this, nor did he believe her capable of such 
 agitation, and the contrast of her present with her 
 usual demeanour made it the more impressive. 
 
 " Oh," she said, leaning forward and looking at him 
 fixedly, " take this nightmare off my brain, or I shall 
 go mad ! It isn't true ; it cannot be true. But — oh ! 
 yes, it's true enough." 
 
 " Like you, Julia, I am overwhelmed ; but we can 
 do nothing." 
 
 " Do nothing ! " she cried ; " do nothing ! We can 
 do nothing but pray for her — we who sacrificed her." 
 And she slipped on her knees and burst into a pas- 
 sionate fit of weeping. 
 
 " The best thing that could have happened," thought 
 
292 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 Hubert ; and his thought said, clearly and precisely, 
 " Yes ; it is awful, shocking, cruel beyond measure I " 
 
 The fire was sinking, and he built it up quietly, 
 ashamed of this proof of his regard for physical 
 comfort, and hoping it would pass unnoticed. But 
 they could not sit without a fire, and he saw that 
 their tete-d-tete might be unduly prolonged. His pain 
 expressed itself less vehemently than Julia's; but for 
 all that his mind ached. He remembered how he had 
 taken everything from her — fortune, happiness, and 
 now life itself. It was certainly an appalling tragedy 
 — one of those senseless cruelties which we find nature 
 so constantly inventing, and with such devilish in- 
 genuity. Then a thought revealed an unexpected 
 analogy between him and his victim. In both lives 
 there had been a supreme desire, and both had failed. 
 " Hers was the better part," he said bitterly. " Those 
 whose souls are burdened with desire that may not 
 be gratified had better fling the load aside. They are 
 fools who carry it on to the end. ... If it were not 
 for Julia " 
 
 She was still upon her knees, and she had never 
 
■■SHE HAD NKVKK LnoKEIJ .MoKE BEALTIFL'L THAN NOW, HER ARMS 
 FLUNG ACROSS THE CHAIR." [Pa^^e 203. 
 
VAIN FOKTUNE. 293 
 
 looked more beautiful than now, her arms flnng across 
 the chair. Her beauty drew Hnbert's thoughts from 
 his play, and he remembered how misadventure had 
 pursued them, even to the finding of the letter. If 
 they had not sat up talking, if she had not seen the 
 letter, if she had merely given it to him without seeing 
 where it came from ! Then he songht to determine 
 what were his exact feelings. He knew he was 
 infinitely sorry for poor Emily ; but he could not stir 
 himself into a paroxysm of grief, and, ashamed of 
 his inability to express his feelings, he looked at Julia, 
 who still wept. 
 
 "No doubt," he thought, '-'women have keener 
 feelings than we have." 
 
 At that moment Julia got up from her knees. She 
 had brushed away her tears. Her face was shaken with 
 
 grief. 
 
 " My heart is breaking," she said. " This is too 
 cruel — too cruel ! And on my wedding night." 
 
 Their eyes met ; and, divining each other's thought, 
 each felt ashamed, and Julia said, — 
 
 " Oh, what am I sajdng ? This dreadful selfishness. 
 
294 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 from which we cannot escape, that is with us even 
 in such a moment as this ! That poor child gone 
 to her death, and yet amid it all we must think of 
 ourselves." 
 
 " My dear Julia, we cannot escape from our human 
 nature ; but, for all that, our grief is sincere. We 
 can do nothing. Do not grieve like that." 
 
 " And why not ? She was my best friend. How have 
 I repaid her ? Alas ! as woman always repays woman 
 for kindness done. The old story. I cannot forgive 
 myself. No, no ! do not kiss me ! I cannot bear it. 
 Leave me. I can see nothing but Emily's reproachful 
 face." She covered her face in her hands and sobbed 
 again. 
 
 The same scenes repeated themselves over and over 
 again. The same fits of passionate grief ; the same 
 moment of calm, when words impregnated with self 
 dropped from their lips. The same nervous sense that 
 something of the dead girl stood between them. And 
 still they sat by the fire, weary with sorrow, re- 
 crimination, long regret, and pain. They could grieve 
 no more ; and before dawn sleep pressed upon their 
 
VAIN FOETUNE. 295 
 
 eyelids, and at the end of a long silence he dozed — a 
 pale, transparent sleep, through which the realities 
 of life appeared almost as plainly as before. Suddenly 
 he awoke, and he shivered in the chill room. The 
 fire was sinking ; dawn divided the window curtains. 
 He took his overcoat from the bed, and his hand 
 met the evening paper he had thrust unread into his 
 pocket. He opened and glanced through the paper, 
 until his eyes were arrested by his own name. " So they 
 are still thinking of The GipsyT . . . Instantly his 
 thoughts wandered into some new scheme of reconstruc- 
 tion. But dismissing these involuntary hopes abruptly, 
 he looked at his wife. She seemed to him very 
 beautiful as she slept, her face turned a little on one 
 side, and he asked himself if he loved her. Then, 
 going to the window, he drew the curtains softly, so as 
 not to awaken her ; and as he stood watching a thin 
 discoloured day now breaking over the roofs, it seemed 
 to him that Emily's suicide was the better part. 
 " Those who do not perform their task in life are 
 never happy." The words drilled themselves into 
 his brain with relentless insistency. . . . Should he 
 
296 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 ever be happy any more? Surely Emily's suicide 
 was the better part. 
 
 " Hubert ! " It was Julia calling him. Pale and 
 overworn, but in all her woman's beauty, she came, 
 offering herself as compensation for tlie burden of 
 life. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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 "Mr. Adams discourses wisely and well on all our principal native bur- 
 lesque." — Referee. 
 
 "A volume most welcome on table or desk. 
 Is Davenport Adams' ' Book of Burlesque,' 
 There's fun at your asking, wherever you look, 
 And not a dull page, you'll declare, in the booVi."— Punch. 
 
 LONDON: HENRY & CO., 6, BOUVERIE STREET, E.G.; 
 And at all Booksellers' and the Railway Stalls, 
 
IN A CANADIAN CANOE. 
 
 BY 
 
 BARRY PAIN. 
 
 (Vol. VL—Vibc 'Mbitctvinxs Xibrarg of M(t anD Ibumour) 
 
 WITH PORTRAIT. Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d. 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 PRESS OPINIONS. 
 
 "The pleasant and even remarkable book which Mr. Barry Pain has con- 
 tributed to the Whitefriars Library. The best thing in the book, to our mind, 
 is ' The Celestial Grocery,' a quaint and thoroughly original blending of 
 effervescent humour with grim pathos." — Pall Mall Gascttc. 
 
 " Mr. Barry Pain has a decided sense of humour. The best things in the 
 volume are the classical burlesques grouped under the title of 'The Nine 
 Muses minus One.' They are really clever and full oi esprit." — Academy. 
 
 " Nor is he deficient in fancy, and ' The Celestial Grocery ' is as whimsical as 
 it is fresh. ' Bill ' is in yet another vein, and proves that Mr. Pain can handle 
 the squalor of reality : while the last half of ' The Girl and the Beetle,' the best 
 of the book, suggests a certain comprehension of character." — National 
 Observer. 
 
 " An original worker, a man who copies no one either in treatment or style 
 — this, his first volume, should find a wide popularity.'' — The Review q/ 
 Reviews. 
 
 " If you want a really refreshing book, a book whose piquant savour and 
 quaint originality of style are good for jaded brains, buy and read /« a 
 Canadian Canoe . . . There is in these stories a curious mixture of humour, 
 insight and pathos, with here and there a dash of grimness and a sprinkling ol 
 that charming irrelevancy which is of the essence of true humour. As for 
 The Celestial Grocery,' I can only say that it is in its way a masterpiece." — 
 Punch. 
 
 " In Mr. Barry Pain we have a new humorist, not of the rollicking sort who 
 splits one's tympanum by coarse guffaws, but quiet, dry, quaint^ and refined, 
 making one think even while one laughs, and taking one out ot the world of 
 fact into the nebulous region of imagination and speculation. He has struck a 
 new vein which, if we err not in judgment, is rich in the pure metal of thought. 
 There is no vulgarity in his humour ; his fancy is bold and strong, and otten 
 exquisitely graceful in its creations. . . . ' The Celestial Grocery, a Fantasia,' 
 is a piece of fantastic imagining which should live in literature." — Evening 
 News and Post. 
 
 "Indeed, the absolute and incessant incongruity ol the writing is a new 
 thing, though perhaps the newness is still more in the excellent stufl of the 
 ingredients. Lots of people can do the topsy-turvy, but few have such a back- 
 ground, for it includes a fine gift of style, and a real knowledge of life." — Star. 
 
 "Genuine fun which has a knack of shading off into equally genuine pathos. 
 Mr. Pain is no mere droll. With him the source of laughter is also the source 
 of tears. There is much in this book of his which is truly pathetic." — Globe. 
 
 " Indeed, we are much mistaken if Mr. Barry Pain's ' In a Canadian Canoe ' 
 does not create a. furore. Certainly it is one of the wittiest books of the year." 
 — Illustrated London News. 
 
 " Is an exceeding pleasant volume." — Daily Graphic. 
 
 " We shall look forward to Mr. Pain's future work with much interest." — 
 Daily Chronicle. 
 
 "Unquestionably there is a good deal of humour in these burlesques and 
 stories." — AthcncEum. 
 
 LONDON : HENRY & CO., 6, BOUVERIE STREET E.G. 
 
NOW READY. FIFTH EDITION. 
 
 THE BOOK OF THE HOLIDAY SEASON 
 
 THE BACHELORS' CLUB. 
 
 By L ZANGVVILL. 
 
 Crown 8vo. 348 pp. 3s. 6d. 
 
 With HiLUSTRATIONS by GEOKGE HUTCHINSON. 
 
 BRIEF EXTRACTS FROM LATER PRESS NOTICES. 
 
 Ally Sloper: "We have few genuine humourists, but Mr. Zangwill is 
 certainly one of them." 
 
 Artist : " The tales are quite as good as the shorter things of Charles Dickens. 
 
 The best book of the month." 
 Daily Chronicle : " With all his fun he is not a ' funny man,' he is a literary 
 
 humourist — in all the seriousness of claiming a place in literature." 
 Detroit Free Press : " A book almost impossible to review in such a way 
 as to give the reader an adequate idea of its genius. It must be read to 
 be appreciated." 
 Fun : " On Fame's drum it will beat rub-a-dub-dub." 
 Glasgow Herald: "Would-be wit. The ordinary civilised mortal is not 
 
 likely to enjoy it. The skits are rather sombre in their eccentricity." 
 Hearth and Home : " Humour is a rare gift, but Mr. Zangwill has it in 
 
 abundance." 
 Lady : " The author is one entirely born to the motley. His quips are quaint, 
 
 his satire delightfully exhilarating." 
 Literary World: "Entitles Mr. Zangwill to rank as a genuine humourist. 
 
 The book is full of good things." 
 Literary Opinion : " Far above the average mechanical stuff that does duty 
 
 for humour." 
 Lloyds : " Ingenuity oi incident is combined with a wealth of reflective 
 
 wisdom, that often becomes dazzling in its effect." 
 Morning Post: "The author has a manner of touching upon the foibles of 
 the day, full of playful malice, but quite devoid ol bitterness, which is 
 one of the best gifts of the humourist." 
 Observer: " The author has a delightful vein of humour." 
 Publishers' Circular : "We have laughed with genuine enjojmient." 
 Review of Reviews : " Much that is genuinely novel and amusing." 
 Saturday Review: "We like the stories of ' Hamlet up to Date,' and 'The 
 
 Fall of Israfel ' best, but all are amusing, and all coruscate with puns." 
 Speaker : " It is impossible to read this book without being delighted with 
 
 it. It is full of good things." 
 Sporting Times : " No end of fun. Mr. Zangwill never misses the oppor- 
 tunity of saying a clever thing." 
 Sunday Sun : "A funny book by the very funny editor of And." 
 Weekly Dispatch : " The history of the Club is told with charming fluency, 
 whimsical variety, and dramatic power ; this delightful and clever book ; 
 Mr. Zangwill has raised expectations that will not be easily satisfied." 
 
 At all Libraries, Booksellers', and the Railway Stalls. 
 LONDON : HENRY & CO., 6, BOUVERIE STREET, E.G. 
 
The Whitefriars Library 
 
 of Wit and Htimour, 
 
 NEW SERIES. 
 
 In crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. IVii/i Portraits and Illustrations. 
 
 Vol. I.— THOSE OTHER ANIMALS. 
 
 Bv G. A. HENTY. 
 
 With Twenty-two Illustrations by Harrison Weir. 
 
 " Some very pleasant reading, the attraction of which is greatlj- enhanced by 
 
 the numerous graphic illustrations contributed by Mr. Harrison Weir. A 
 
 distinct vein of humour runs through Mr. Henty's text, and a happy reflection 
 
 of it is to be found in Mr. Weir's characteristic drawings." — Globe. 
 
 "Mr. Henty attempts to lead us to a juster view of what we are pleased 
 to consider the inferior creation. The process is very entertaining. . . . We 
 are accustomed to being amused by Mr. Henty, but he has written nothing 
 more amusing than these thirty-seven essays." — Sunday Times. 
 
 " Mr. Henty has gone to the animal world for topics, and discourses brightly 
 and pleasantly upon all kinds of creatures, from the elephant to the tortoise. 
 Mr. Henty does not give the reader a series of studies in natural history ; he 
 does not look upon the camel or the daddy-long-legs with the cold eye of the 
 scientist, but with the geniality of a man who has a sympathy with every 
 created thing (barring the mosquito), and with the gift of seizing upon the 
 humorous points of our fellow-occupants of the earth." — Eveuing News and Post. 
 
 " No more delightful and amusing book could be wished for than Mr. Henty's 
 ' Those Other Animals.' The book is full of information as well as of humour, 
 and it is cleverly illustrated by Mr. Harrison Weir." — Scotsman. 
 
 Vol. II.— IN CAMBRIDGE COURTS. 
 
 By R. C. LEHMANN, Author of "Harry Fludyer at Cambridge," etc. 
 Illustrated by A. C. Payne. [Ready. 
 
 Also a limited Large-Paper Edition. Crown 4to, 10s. Gd. 
 
 Vol. III.— MR. BATTERS'S PEDIGREE. 
 
 By Horace G. Hutchinson. Illustrated. [//) preparation. 
 
 To be followed, at monthly intervals, by works from the pens of 
 F. C. BuRNAND, Justin McCarthy, M.P., Theodore Watts, 
 Clement Scott, H. D. Traill, Sir Henry Cunningham, K.C.I. E., 
 Sir Herbert Maxwell, Bart., M.P., W. Clark Russell, Miss M. 
 Betham Edwards, R. Le Gallienne, etc. 
 
 LONDON : HENRY & CO., 6, BOUVERIE STREET, E.G. 
 
George Moore's New Novel. 
 ^^^ 
 
 VAIN FORTUNE. 
 
 By the Author of "A MUMMER'S LIFE," "A MODERN LOVER," 
 "IMPRESSIONS AND OPINIONS," etc. 
 
 In crozvn 8vo, with Eleven Illustrations by 
 
 MAURICE GREIFFENHAGEN. 
 
 6/-. 
 
 Also a LARGE-PAPER EDITION, crown 4to, limited 
 to 150 Copies, Numbered and Signed by the Author, 
 £1 5s, nett. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE DUTCH. 
 
 THE 
 
 RESIDENT'S DAUGHTER, 
 
 A NOVEL. 
 
 By MELATI van TAVA. Translated from the Dutch by A. Teixeira 
 DE Mattos. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3^. dd. 
 
 NEW S/- NOVELS. 
 
 THE DYNAMITARDS : 
 
 A TALE OP A.D. 1888. 
 
 By REGINALD TAYLER. 
 
 A FREAK OF FATE, 
 
 By ERNEST F. SPENCE. 
 
 A SHILLING SHOCKER! 
 
 THE BIG BOW MYSTERY. 
 
 By I. ZANGWILL, Author of "The Bachelor's Club," etc 
 
 Reprinted from the Star. 
 
 LONDON : HENRY & CO., 6, BOUVERIE STREET, E.C. 
 
IMPRESSIONS & OPINIONS 
 
 By GEORGE MOORE 
 
 Author of "Confessions of a Young Man," "Vain Fortune," etc. 
 16mo, 346 pages, 5s. net. 
 
 CONTENTS : 
 Balzac— Turgu£neff— A Great Poet (Verlaine)— Two Unknown Poets 
 (Laforgue and Rimbault)— La Reve— Le Revers d'un Grand Homme 
 —An Actress of the Eighteenth Century (Mdlle. Clairon)— Mum- 
 mer Worship— Our Dramatists and their Arts— Ghosts— Theatre 
 Libre— Meissonier and the Salon Julian— Art for the Villa- 
 Degas— The New Pictures in the National Gallery. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM PRESS NOTICES. 
 
 THE ACADEMY, March 21st, 1891, says: 
 "The work of an artist who understands art, and who is entirely honest, 
 absolutely unaffected, in his noting down of exactly how he has been im- 
 pressed by this or that novel, drama, or picture." 
 
 THE ST. JAMES'S GAZETTE, April 2nd, 1891, says : 
 "Mr. George Moore is gifted with ability, honesty, courage, and youth— all 
 of which are good gifts. He has so evidently his subjects at heart ; he is so 
 evidently able to feel and think for himself; he is so evidently fearless about 
 frankly uttering his very own impressions and opinions for the time being, 
 that he makes a refreshing figure among more cautious or more convention- 
 ally cultivated critics. Here, in spite of obvious faults, is a man who can do 
 really good work, and who has a real feeling for literature and literary crafts- 
 manship." 
 
 THE LITERARY WORLD, March 27th, 1891, says : 
 " One of the freshest and most interesting volumes of criticism that have 
 appeared for some time. There are some of Mr. Moore's views in art, litera- 
 ture, and morals with which we certainly disagree ; but in these pages they 
 are expressed ably and honestly and without offence, and we are inclined to 
 agree far oftener than to differ." 
 
 THE AN Tl -JACOBIN says : 
 "Well worth presenting anew in book form. In the immense mass of 
 matter that appears, week by week and month by month, under the name of 
 criticism, the true critical faculty is rarely visible. Mr. Moore possesses it, 
 though in him it needs discipline." 
 
 THE LADY'S PICTORIAL, April 4th, 1891, says : 
 " It is a treat to meet Mr. George Moore in the capacity of critic. The 
 critical faculty is- as he is, probably, beginning to find out- iar greater in 
 him than the imaginative. There are not many readers, except those who 
 think all criticisms dull, who will either scamp Mr. Moore's ' Impressions and 
 Opinions,' or put the book aside unread." 
 
 D. NUTT, 270, STRAND. 
 
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