Monoch
Ella D'Arcy
_
DLIVE-PERCIVAL-
THE LIBRARY
OF
THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA
LOS ANGELES
MONOCHROMES
Copyrighted in the United States
All rights resetted
MONOCHROMES
BY ELLA D'ARCY
LONDON : JOHN LANE, VIGO ST.
BOSTON: ROBERTS BROS., 1895
Edinburgh : T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty
TR
4525
TO
THE CHIEF
A Q
"" TDD APV
CONTENTS
PAGE
'THE ELEGIE,' ...... I
IRREMEDIABLE, ...... 65
POOR COUSIN LOUIS, ..... 9$
THE PLEASURE-PILGRIM, . . . .129
WHITE MAGIC, . . . . . -177
THE EXPIATION OF DAVID SCOTT, . . *9*
'THE ELEGIE'
'THE ELEGIE'
' Into paint will I grind thee, O my Bride ! '
Do you know how Schoenemann's ' Elegie ' came
to be written ?
This is the story.
In the summer of '40, Emil Schoenemann, then
quite a young man, returned from Leipsic, where
he had been studying under Brockhoff, to his native
village of Klettendorf-am-Rhein. He had already
written his ' Traum-Bilder,' those delicious fugitive
thoughts which Vieth's fine rendering has since
made known all over Europe ; and we can trace
in this early composition the warm imagination,
the aspirations towards the Beautiful and the Good,
and the wide, vague hopes as yet unfulfilled, which
mark the history of most artists.
Schoenemann came back to the homely family,
to the cottage-house with its low rooms, its tiny
garden and orchard, to the beautiful Rhine country
with its vineyards, wooded hills, and swiftly-flowing
river, purposing to spend the summer months in a
profitable solitude.
But his fame had preceded him. Every one
4 MONOCHROMES
knew of young Schoenemann's Academy successes ;
Herr Postmeister and Herr Schulmeister held
learned discussions on the subject of his musical
genius, and Herr Schumacher, who had played
the 'cello in trios with Emil's father, predicted
emphatically a great career for his old friend's
son. But it was Harms, the organist, who did
most to spread Schoenemann's glory round and
about ; for it was to Harms, his earliest master,
that Emil had sent in affectionate remembrance
a manuscript copy of the 'Traum-Bilder' the pre
ceding Christmas.
Harms became enthusiastic over this composi
tion. All the winter it had been his constant
theme for discourse. He had played portions on
every piano in Klettendorf, and for miles around.
He could not see an instrument without sitting
down to it, asked or unasked, to demonstrate the
beauties of the ' Bilder.' He would play a few
bars, then dash his hands down upon the notes
in a rush of admiration which rendered his fingers
powerless, and flinging himself round to face his
audience, would call their attention in stammer
ing words to the profundity of the thought, the
subtlety of the scoring, the originality of this or
that phrase, until he had roused excitement to a
pitch nearly equalling his own. Then he would
toss back his already grizzling head with a dog-
like shake, and begin the composition over again,
to recommence the moment he had finished, lest
inadvertently he should have slurred over one of
its thousand excellencies.
'THE ELEGIE' 5
Yet, that Klettendorf took Schoenemann at
Harms's estimate was due rather to the latter's faith,
energy, and good-will, than to his skilful interpreta
tion of his ex-pupil's work ; poor Harms was but a
mediocre pianist. It was reserved for Vieth to
combine a just appreciation of Schoenemann's
genius with a fine illustrative talent of his own.
Naturally, if Harms had possessed such a talent, he
would not have found himself at forty the obscure
organist of a Rhine village.
Among those persons to whom he had spoken of
the young composer with most warmth were the
Dittenheims. Graf Dittenheim owned Klettendorf
and most of the land thereabouts ; he possessed
across the river at Godesberg, a beautiful villa,
generally occupied for a few months only, during
the summer season. But this year the family had
been there since early March, the Graefin having
been ordered away from the bitter winds of Berlin.
Again, as on previous occasions, Harms was
allowed to give piano-lessons to the only daughter,
the little Contesse Marie. But he, with the simple
uncalculating generosity that distinguished him,
wished her to have Schoenemann for a master
instead.
'When Schoenemann comes to us in the
summer,' he told the Graefin, ' you should not
fail to give the Contesse the advantages of his
help. She has a charming talent, to which I have
at least done no harm ; possibly even some little
good. But I can take her no further. I have
taught her all I know. Now, Schoenemann in six
6 MONOCHROMES
weeks will do more for her than I could in six
years.'
The Graefin looked at him from blue and sunken
eyes. She had no interest in, or opinion on, the
subject of music ; it was nothing to her whether
Schoenemann or Harms was her daughter's
teacher. The only subject which really interested
her was her own failing health ; and as she looked
and mused on August's ugly face and thickset
figure, where nevertheless strength and long life
were so legibly written, she grew bitter against the
fate which threatened to cut her off in the height
of her youth and beauty. She was thirty-four, and
looked twenty-six, and her passionate love of life
and amusement grew keener in proportion as she
seemed destined to forego them. Yet she did
remember to say to her husband the next time she
happened to see him, ' That odd Harms wants us
to have young Schoenemann to give Marie music-
lessons. It seems he is expected back in Kletten-
dorf.'
'So? Schoenemann?' said the Graf; 'he is
expected home, is he? I hear he is one of our
coming men. By all means patronise him, if the
little one would like it. I should be glad to help
him for his father's sake. Poor Franz was a faith
ful servant, and a good musician himself. His
touch on the violin was superb.'
Thus Harms obtained the wished-for permission
to bring Emil to Bellavista, and present him to
the family. But on the day fixed for this cere
mony it happened that a funeral service was to be
'THE ELEGIE' 7
celebrated in the Hofkapelle in Bonn, and that the
organist was taken ill. Harms was asked to
supply his place ; and in consequence, Schoenemann
found himself on the way to Bellavista alone.
It was June, gloriously sunny, three in the
afternoon. It was a day for lying by woodland
streams, listening to the small sounds of woodland
life, seeing in fancy coy woodland nymphs peep
ing out from between the tree-boles. The road
to Godesberg was long, dusty, and monotonous ;
most people would have found it insuperably dull ;
but Emil, who walked in the melodious company
of his own thoughts, was raised far above dulness.
Every impression received through the senses
became music when it reached this young man's
brain. The birds sang to him, and so did the
breeze in the trees. The complaining cry of a
gate which a woman opened to drive through some
young calves, became a whole phrase in the tone-
poem growing up in his soul. A band of little
children, holding hands as they advanced towards
him, introduced a new train of thought. He saw
himself again just such a little child as one of
these, running down the village street, and listen
ing to the tune which his iron-bound shoes rang
out upon the cobbles.
The whole of this walk, or rather the emotions
which it set free, has been immortalised in the
descriptive opening movement of Op. 37 so at
least Vieth tells us, to whom Schoenemann con
fided much of his history and early experiences :
the dreamy and delicious adagio was born of the
8 MONOCHROMES
rose-garden, and the impulsive passionate finale of
the events that followed. But first I must describe
to you this garden of Bellavista.
The high road ran right through it ; or rather,
there were two separate gardens, one on either
hand. In the centre of the right-hand garden,
fenced off from the highway by a wire-rail and a
laurel hedge, stood the house ; a villa in the
Italian style, that thus determined the foreign
form its name should take. On the other side of
the road, railed off in a similar manner, was a
garden for pleasure only, extending from road to
Rhine. And the view obtained from the windows
of Bellavista, of rose, of myrtle, of broad-bosomed
river, of upland vineyard and wood beyond, fully
justified the claim set forth in the name itself.
Floating out from the two gardens, innumerable
flower-perfumes blent themselves into one intoxi
cating whole, which was wafted far and wide, so
that Schoenemann revelled in it long before he
reached the open iron wicket that gave access to
the house.
The path wound first between walls of glossy
laurel. Then suddenly you found yourself upon
an open lawn, pierced with flower-beds resembling
jewels in their gorgeous colourings and geometrical
shapes. Here lay a ruby, formed of black and
red and crimson roses, pinned closely down to the
grass in circular pattern ; there climbed a clematis
about a slender rod, which, massing its purple
blossoms in an immense bouquet at the top, looked
like a cluster of deep-hued amethysts and sapphires
'THE ELEGIE' 9
invisibly suspended a few feet above the ground.
And scarlets, yellows, and whites, yellows and
scarlets, flashed and flamed and glimmered against
the greenness on every side. Yonder lay the
tubing which finished in the iron stand-piece of
a movable fountain. It was playing now. Two
broad rings of water, one above the other, revolved
in contrary directions ; and while the inner portion
of each ring was of a glassy tenuity and smoothness,
the outer edges broke up into a spray that scattered
its myriad drops like diamonds in the sunshine.
Continental gardens have a charm of which those
who only know the green lawns and shady trees
of England can form no idea. Those trees and
lawns are beautiful indeed in their own peaceful
way ; but such a garden as Bellavista is a veritable
land of enchantment, where warmth, colour,
perfume, and the aural coolness of plashing water,
all woo the senses at once.
Schoenemann found the door of the villa wide
open like the gate. He stood on the threshold of
a square hall, solemn and silent as a temple ; and
the Medicean Venus, who, from her pedestal of
porphyry, was reflected at all her white and lovely
length in the marble floor below, appeared like the
goddess of the shrine. On either hand were door
ways closed by heavy curtains, but there was no
sight or sound of human life. Only the noise of
water from a vase of roses overturned upon a side-
table, falling drop-wise into a self-formed pool on
the pavement below. Only this, and the murmur
of a bee, which had followed the young man in
io MONOCHROMES
from the garden, broke the stillness. And when
presently the water was all drained away, and the
bee having found out the flowers, settled down to
enjoy them, the silence grew intense.
Emil told himself he had come upon a fairy
palace, of which the inhabitants had long ago been
touched to sleep. He stood there upon the thres
hold, and savoured a perfect enjoyment. He was
not in the least embarrassed. The possessor of
genius never is. He feels himself at all times
and in all places far above external circumstances.
Nature has crowned him king ; and though a king
may meet his equals, none stand above him.
It is only the consciousness of a real or fancied
inferiority that causes embarrassment.
For some little time the young man remained
quiescent, because the beauty, silence, and solitude
of his surroundings pleased him ; but when
presently he noticed a doorway of which the
curtains were not closed, he thought it natural to
walk straightway in.
He found himself in a large drawing-room, with
a parqueted floor, an admirably painted ceiling,
and walls hung with silk brocade. Three long
windows looked out across the garden on to the
Rhine, and a fourth window at the farther end of
the room stood open on to a conservatory filled
with tropical plants. There were flowers here too,
and the stronger fragrance of tuberose and gardenia
effaced the remembrance of the roses outside.
But the only object which appealed to Schoe-
nemann's interest was a grand piano placed at
'THE ELEGIE' n
an angle to this conservatory door. There are
men who go into a room and leave it again,
having seen absolutely nothing of its contents.
Others there are who will give not only a
correct inventory of all the furniture, but an
appraisement of every article at its just price.
There are those who see only the pictures, and
those who see only the books ; and some among
the latter cannot resist taking a book up from
the table or down from the shelf, although they
knew their immediate expulsion were to be the
consequence.
Schoenemann was affected in this way by
musical instruments. He could not keep his
fingers off them. Now he crossed over to the
piano, opened it, and seated himself at the key-board
with the same calmness and self-absorption as at
the hired instrument in his Leipsic lodging, or at
the wheezy old spinnet in the tiny living-room at
home. He began to transmute back through his
fingers, with the god-like faculty given to musicians
alone, all the impressions of life, and joy, and
beauty which his soul had received. At first with
a certain hesitation, as his fingers sought the right
chords a hesitation still audible in the first eight
bars, before comes the change of key the
harmonies rose and swelled and flooded the room
with sound, until by that most unique and
beautiful transition I write with my eyes
upon the published score he passed to the light
scherzo movement, which paints so well Nature's
joyousness, and which, yet, like Nature, to those
12 MONOCHROMES
who know her best, reveals an undersong of pain.
Cruder, no doubt, in places than in its now perfected
form, the work which has appealed to so many
thousands of feeling hearts ever since, must have
possessed an extraordinary fascination on the day
when it was first drawn, warm and palpitating, out
of silence by the power of the musician's soul.
The piano was placed so that the player faced
the Rhine windows ; and as Emil played, his gaze
travelled across the river, and rested on the
congregated roofs of his own village ; but rapt by
the melodies he created, he was raised to an ideal
world. He was unconscious of the instrument he
played on, of the realities around him.
Velvet curtains hung on either side of the con
servatory door, fell in voluminous folds, and lay
on the floor in masses of drapery to delight a
painter's heart. While Schoenemann played, one
of these curtains was pulled gently aside, to reveal,
hitherto concealed behind it, a very young girl.
She had been sitting there reading, until the
warmth of the day, the silence, and the enervating
perfumes of the flowers had sent her to sleep.
The book, a slim volume of Goethe's ' Lieder,' still
lay open where it had slipped to her feet. If she
had dreamed she was in heaven listening to the
music of the spheres, she awoke to find the music
was real; and she drew aside the curtain to perceive,
with blue astonished eyes, a veritable flesh and
blood young man, an entire stranger, seated at the
piano before her.
Schoenemann struck the final chords, and slowly
'THE ELEGIE' 13
released the notes one by one. The faint
harmonies still delighted his ear, when his glance
fell upon the young girl. He looked at her, not
with surprise, but with interest that passed into a
passionate pleasure. In a flash of light, he caught
a resemblance between her and the ideal woman,
he had vainly sought since boyhood. The next
moment, real and ideal were inextricably blended,
and he devoted himself, body and soul, to the
worship of Marie von Dittenheim. If his very
first words did not tell her what had happened to
him, at least his eyes must have done so; for,
leaning on the piano and blushing deeply, she
murmured in broken phrases her thanks for his
music, and her praise, while her mind swung like
a pendulum between terror and joy.
II
THAT evening Emil sought out Harms, and over
flowed to him on the subject of the Contesse
Marie.
' She is the most beautiful creature I have ever
met ! Where were your eyes, Harms, not to have
seen it? Wonderful man that you are! You
have always spoken of her to me as a mere child.
If I ever pictured her to myself at all, it was as
a most ordinary young person. But she is holy
as an angel, and exquisite as a Grecian statue, into
whom the gods have just breathed life. Just so
must Galatea have looked when she stepped down
from her pedestal to Pygmalion. Have you not
noticed her throat? It is like marble, as white,
as columnar, as softly rounded. You feel irresis
tibly inclined to lay your hand on its smooth
contours, precisely as you desire to touch some
subtly modelled piece of statuary.'
Harms was bewildered, as much by Emil's
warmth of language as by the new light his
praises shed over the little Contesse. In point of
fact, Harms had hitherto considered her as an
amiable, nice-looking, but not unordinary young
girl. Now, influenced as ever by Emil, he began
'THE ELEGIE' 15
to readjust this opinion. Certainly she had a full
white throat this was a point about her he
remembered ; but he had never felt tempted to
touch it in the way Emil described. His attitude
towards Woman was altogether too timorous to
allow him to entertain any such poetic idea.
' And then her hair ! ' pursued Schoenemann ;
' I like that light-brown crinkly sort of hair. And
it is gathered back into a loose knot behind, from
which a golden haze escapes to float like an aureola
about her face."
In true lover-fashion he saw beauties where the
sane man might reasonably have found defects.
' She has no eyelashes, Harms, or scarcely any.
Have you observed ? But then her eyelids have
curves that Phidias might have copied. And
after all, eyelashes are a type of low organisation.
Cattle and deer have them in far greater abundance
than man ; while the highest point of human
beauty, as achieved by the Greeks, is entirely
devoid of them. Yet who has ever felt the need
of giving eyelashes to the Milean Venus ? And,
Harms, what heavenly dove's eyes ! the bluest
blue I have ever seen. There are no eyes like blue
eyes, I think.'
' Dark eyes are beautiful too,' Harms answered.
Emil's own were ' black as our eyes endure ; ' but
Harms was thinking of other eyes less beautiful
than Emil's, but which he was once in the way of
loving even better.
' Marie, Marie ! ' murmured the young man
rapturously ; ' the name of Marie has acquired
16 MONOCHROMES
quite a new meaning for me. I am coming to
consider it the most beautiful name in the world.'
' It has always seemed so to me/ said Harms
with a certain shyness ; but Emil was too self-
absorbed to remember that Harms had any
particular reason for caring about the name.
' Yes ? ' he said carelessly ; ' but being my sister's
name, it had become a household word to me,
devoid of meaning. Now only, has its significance
and its poetry returned. I am to go over to
Bellavista again next Friday. Ah, how shall I
live through the days and the nights till then ! '
The two men were walking in the woods above
Klettendorf. They reached a point in the steep
ascent where a clearing had been made, and a
bench placed, that the climber might rest awhile
and enjoy the view. The trees fell away on either
hand, permitting the eye to travel down over
umbrageous masses of foliage to the river far
below ; to the level opposite shore, where stretched
the gardens of Godesberg ; to where beyond them
a glowing sun sank down towards a horizon of
distant trees. And as he sank, long ranks of
crimson cloudlets radiated out and up to the
very zenith of the sky, while the broad-bosomed
Rhine flowing below was stained to a corresponding
crimson glory.
Emil and Harms sat down on the bench, which
was an old and favourite haunt of theirs. The
younger man continued his love-litany. The elder
listened, uttered the necessary responses, and like
many another worshipper who prays devoutly with
'THE ELEGIE' 17
the lips, allowed his thoughts to stray away to
personal matters. It was impossible for him not
to recall that, on just such an evening as this six
years ago, he and Emil had sat together on that
same bench, and their talk then as now had been
of love, but with this difference then Harms had
been the lover, Emil the listener ; and he had
listened in absolute silence to August's unexpected
and unpleasing confession listened until he could
endure it no longer, but had broken out into a
passion of protestation and grief. He had thrown
himself over there upon the ground and wept
ragingly. Harms could still see the slight boyish
figure shaken by sobs, and the black head low
among the grasses, half hidden by nodding
ferns.
Whence came these tears? Harms had foolishly
slipped into love with Emil's sister. He had
known Marie Schoenemann since he first came
to Klettendorf. She had been his piano-pupil
as well as Emil. He had seen her grow from
a child to a shy and silent maiden, to a woman
gay, hopeful, and kind. She could talk and jest
now, as well as knit and sew ; could wash her
men-folk's shirts as well as cook their dinners.
Harms admired all she did. He saw in her a
heaven-sent wife. But he had never dared think
practically of marrying her until the unexpected
offer of a fairly good post at Bremen made
marriage a possibility instead of a dream. And
then he had been stricken dumb by the manner
in which Emil had received his confidence. He
B
i8 MONOCHROMES
had looked at the prone figure before him, and
been filled with perplexity and pain.
The storm had passed as suddenly as it had
broken. Emil had sprung up pale and with
flashing eyes, to demonstrate to Harms his
colossal selfishness in desiring to take Marie
away from her recently widowed mother, not
to speak of the irreparable loss his friendship
and daily companionship would be to Emil him
self. The boy had spoken with singular lucidity
and force. He was one of those gifted people
who, the moment they have adopted an opinion,
are able to impose it upon others by mere strength
of will. Instantly they marshal forward such an
array of weighty arguments that even opponents
are forced to admit reason is on the other side.
While Emil had spoken, poor Harms had sunk
through every stage of humiliation and self-
reproach. Nor had the boy spared him for this.
When the iron glows hot and malleable is not
the moment to give over striking.
'And Marie does not care for you,' he had
said, ' except as a friend. Of that I am certain.
Who could have better opportunities of judging
than I ? To tell her of your feelings towards her
would be to destroy for ever the harmonious
relations existing between you. She will marry,
of course, some day ; but it must be with a man
more suited to her than you. Marie is twenty,
but in many respects even younger than I am.
You are nearly forty, and old for your years.
'THE ELEGIE' 19
What possible sympathy could there be between
you ?'
'There is something in what you say,' August
had admitted humbly ; and he realised for the
first time that youth was irrevocably gone. Such
knowledge usually comes with a shock and an
extraordinary bitterness. For so many years one
has been young, very young, the youngest of one's
company.
' There would, of course, be little* inducement
for a girl to leave her own people and begin life
in a new place for my sake. It was folly of me
ever to think of it. I will do so no more. But
keep my secret, Emil, that I may keep her friend
ship. I would sooner see her and you daily,
and be of some use to you both, than meet
with all the good fortune in the world else
where.'
In consequence of this conversation Harms had
declined the Bremen offer, and from that day he
strenuously endeavoured to put from him all idle
hopes. But to-night, scene and circumstance
brought back past dreams so vividly, he could
not at once trample them under foot. For a
while he lost himself in them, and the pains of
renunciation were renewed. Whereby he came
to sympathise all the more strongly with Emil,
who appeared to him to be opening the first
volume of an equally unpropitious love-story.
For August found it impossible to contemplate
seriously an alliance between a Dittenheim and
the son of Franz Schoenemann. He thought he
20 MONOCHROMES
could gauge the Graefin's amazed reception of such
an idea.
'Did you see no one beside Contesse Marie?'
he asked Emil.
' A vague-looking lady with red eyebrows came
in, but I did not observe her much.'
'That would be the English governess,' said
Harms.
' And then I was summoned into another room
to be presented to the Graefin.'
' Ah, now ! what did you think of her ? ' asked
Harms, with interest. ' Sad she should be so
delicate, is it not ? But she is still universally
considered a very beautiful woman.' He him
self thought her, so far as appearance went, better
worth praise than her little daughter.
' Perhaps/ said Emil briefly ; ' I scarcely re
member. Do you know, Harms,' he went on,
clasping his two hands behind his neck with
an action which was habitual to him, ' I have
made a discovery; all life and all art is but a
preparation for Love. Love is the end of life,
and I do not seem to have really lived until
to-day. I have eaten and drunk, have slept and
have awakened, but, like an infant on its nurse's
arm, have hitherto been utterly unconscious of the
real meaning and purpose of existence. In the
same way, my music has been but a vague groping
after joys and beauties which have for ever eluded
me. I have played on an instrument from which
the key-note has been missing, and the result has
been as unsatisfying as a series of unresolved
'THE ELEGIE' 21
chords. But henceforth all will be different.
With Marie as my sweetheart and wife, I shall
scale the highest pinnacles.'
Harms was staggered by this confidence.
1 But,' objected he, ' do you think the Ditten-
heims would ever consent to accept you as a
suitor?'
' Why not ? ' asked Emil, superbly. ' Love
makes all things equal ; and if she loves me,
she is raised to the same level as mine.'
Harms stared, doubting whether his ears did not
betray him.
' Or is it possible you mean she is what fools
call " well-born," and I am not ? To my mind
the best born is he who has received the gifts of
the gods direct. Read Plato. Does he not put
musicians highest of all even above poets and
orators ? False modesty shall never lead me to
deny or belittle a possession which I prize and
honour a thousand times more than life.'
' Yes, yes, I agree with all you say,' cried
Harms ; ' and those whose opinion is better worth
having than mine, to-day put genius above birth.
But will the Dittenheims do so? I cannot endure
to see you preparing for yourself such bitter
disappointment.'
' I love this girl,' said Emil ; ' and if she loves
me and she will love me no power on earth
shall stand between us. I have set my whole
heart and mind on this thing, and you or the
Dittenheims could as easily turn me from it, as
you could make the Rhine there flow backwards.'
22 MONOCHROMES
From childhood up, Emil had achieved his own
way hitherto in silence. This was the first
occasion on which he openly announced his
intention of always achieving it.
The upper rim of the sun-ball now touched the
trees behind the gardens of Godesberg. Looking
down on the river, the two men saw it all orange
and indigo, while the sky flamed with orange and
rose. They began their descent through the
twilight of the woods. When they gained the
open hillside, the heavens were painted with the
softer colours of the afterglow. In the east, river
and sky were red with reflected light ; but in the
west, sky and river were of an exquisite unearthly
green. The islands and wooded promontories
rose up with a new sombreness, and to Emil's
fancy the trees justled closer together and moved
into new combinations as he watched them through
the gathering gloom.
Ill
SCHOENEMANN, who would recognise no diffi
culties in the way of his love for Marie von
Dittenheim, chose to observe no reticences either.
Before Friday came, his whole family I had
almost said all Klettendorf knew of his passion.
Precisely as he had overflowed on the subject to
Harms, so he overflowed to his mother, his aunt
Kunie, his sister Marie. The two elder women
were dismayed. The discipline of life had taught
them to place expediency before sentiment.
Besides, Emil's sentiments appeared to them
exaggerated, his hopes impossible to fulfil. But
although, when alone together, they reiterated the
insuperable difficulties which barred his wishes,
neither ventured to point these out to the young
man himself. Their love for him was largely
tempered with fear.
Marie Schoenemann, on the contrary, was
strangely stirred by the event. Here, for the first
time in her life, was a real love-story beginning
under her very eyes. She could not hear enough
of it from Emil; nor could she recover from her
surprise that the Contesse Marie, whom she had
last seen two summers ago, a little girl in short
24 MONOCHROMES
frocks, with plaited hair down her back, should
be capable of inspiring such a passion as her
brother's.
But, besides elation, she was conscious of feeling
a species of envy, and when at night combing out
her long dark hair she looked in the glass at her
agreeable reflection, she longed for some such
happiness as Marie von Dittenheim's to befall
herself. She was already six-and-twenty : it was
time the lover came. And now, while she cooked
and scoured, washed Emil's shirts and ironed them,
she ceased to sing. For the first time in her life
her youthful confidence in her own future began
to be shaken.
Emil, who did not lean on chance, but had the
lofty assurance his future should be as he chose to
make it, lost neither time nor opportunity in further
ing his desires. His second interview with the
little Contesse was decisive. I know not how he
managed to again escape the company of the
vague lady with the fiery eyebrows. I only know
that determined lovers always do succeed in
managing such things. But he did not leave
Bellavista a second time without having won from
the young girl her tremulous admission that she
loved him too. Masculine fire such as his could
not burn without awakening a corresponding glow
in the feminine mirror.
The lady with the eyebrows, though constantly
out-generalled by Emil in matters of detail, could
not be altogether blinded to the state of affairs.
She carried her surmises to the Graefin, who, first
'THEELEGIE' 25
incredulous, then disdainfully amused, caused a
letter to be written to Emil putting a stop to her
daughter's lessons. Emil continued to visit Bella-
vista as a friend. The servants had orders to
deny him the door. Aided at every point by
the little Contesse herself, he contrived to meet
her in the Rhine garden. The Graefin, now
angry in earnest, kept the girl a prisoner in the
house. Emil wrote her letters, which were con
fiscated before reaching her. He determined to
make a bold appeal to the Graf to sanction a
betrothal. The Graefin appealed to her husband
on the same day for his interference and support.
Dittenheim turned from a perusal of Schoene-
mann's extraordinary epistle to listen to his
wife's denunciation of the writer. He sent for
his daughter, and drew from her a meagre con
fession and an abundance of tears. Alone again
in his study, he gave himself up to a sense of
dispassionate entertainment. He was a student
of human nature, and constantly deplored the fact
that conformity and mental flabbiness, rendered so
few humans profitable studies. But he scented in
Emil's letter a refreshing amount of originality of
mind. It was undeniably original that the son of
his deceased under-ranger should write and calmly
demand the hand of his only daughter in marriage.
He must see between four walls what manner of
man it was, who could prefer so audacious a
request.
Emil accordingly came over again to Bellavista
at Graf Dittenheim's desire, who, devoting eye and
26 MONOCHROMES
ear to the young man before him, told himself he
had not for months past experienced so keen
a pleasure. And indeed there are no pleasures
comparable to those of observation. To these
alone time bringeth not satiety, and the most in
veterate sportsman rejoices less when his prey falls
living into his hands, than does the character-
hunter on first turning a fresh page in the history
of his fellows.
'You tell me my daughter is as much in love
with you as you are with her? Good. Love
makes all things equal, you say? Good again.
You won't take a seat ? Very good, very good.
Continue walking up and down if it gives you any
solace.'
Emil, for the first time in his life, was slightly
disconcerted. He had thought to experience the
most violent opposition ; scorn, perhaps vitupera
tion. He had armed himself with counter-scorn,
with passion, eloquence, irresistible pleadings to
beat it down ; and he found the expected foe very
courteous, very bland, almost cordial. It was like
going out to assault a castle, and finding yourself
engulfed instead in a smooth, smiling, and
treacherous sea.
Dittenheim, leaning comfortably back in an
easy-chair, noted Emil's every look, registered his
smallest word, and while he appeared to be
merely listening, was collating evidence, weighing
it, passing judgment. Not for one moment did he
contemplate an alliance between his daughter and
his late servant's son ; but he fancied he detected
'THE ELEGIE' 27
in Emil's own character, that which would have
made him refuse the honour, no matter how
highly born the young man had been.
The Graf, pointing the ends of his moustache
with white ringers, smiled up at him. 'You are
aware,' he went on, 'that the Contesse and you
belong to widely different ranks? Yes, yes, you
have told me already that genius is superior to
birth ; that such gifts as yours, received straight
from the gods, are better than a worn-out name,
handed down through a line of enfeebled progeni
tors. No doubt you are right. Only there is this
point to be considered. Any fool can verify the
social value of a name ; but as to the genius, the
supposed possessor, when young and unknown as
you are, stands in the position of a page who has
still to win his spurs. The genius is unproven.
You say you can prove it ? Very good indeed.
Go out into the world, make your reputation there,
come back in seven years' time and then I will
reconsider the question of giving you my
daughter.'
Emil protested against seven years. It was a
lifetime.
' But can you reach the goal in less ? You
know the difficulties of the career you have chosen.
Besides, did ever man yet make a reputation worth
having before he was thirty ? Putting the Contesse
out of the question, are seven years too long for
the work you have mapped yourself out ? '
'Give me ten years,' said Emil, impetuously,
' and I reach the top of the ladder.'
28 MONOCHROMES
' And I as a reasonable man offer to take you
while you are yet a few rungs lower down. Only,
that I should see you first fairly mounted, is not, I
think, too much to ask. Go out into the world, go
to Paris,' there was, in fact, a project that
Schoenemann should go to Paris to complete his
studies ; Brockhoff, his Leipsic master, had recom
mended it ; it had been a question of ways and
means which had hitherto prevented him from
acting on Brockhoffs advice, ' study, succeed, set
the name of Schoenemann as high in the musical
world as Dittenheim stands in society circles, come
back in seven years crowned with laurels, and
Marie is yours provided of course she still wishes
it.'
Emil required at the least a formal betrothal,
but this the Graf pleasantly refused. ' With seven
years' separation before you it is better both should
be absolutely free. But why let that depress you ?
What are words or promises? How can they
make more binding an affection which you tell me
nothing can weaken or change? Betrothals may
be useful between persons who believe more in the
sanctity of a promise than in the sanctity of love ;
but to you, and presumably to my daughter, who
understand so perfectly love's divine, unalterable
nature, it could only be a work of supererogation.'
' But,' the young man objected, ' you and all
her people will endeavour to make her forget
me?'
' I shall certainly try,' admitted Dittenheim.
' I should be very glad to think I could succeed.
'THE ELEGIE' 29
Unfortunately, Marie is of a steadfast disposi
tion.'
He looked at his visitor smilingly, had a phrase
on the tip of his tongue, bit it back as imprudent,
and after all, could not resist letting it go. ' It
is rather on your inconstancy, that I build my
hopes.'
Emil was indignant, demanded explanations,
and received them after this fashion :
' Marie is a good but ordinary girl ; you are an
exceptional young man. It is not probable she
will ever again be wooed with such poetic fire and
passion. She will compare future suitors with you
to their disadvantage. The mere fact of your
absence will not efface your memory from her
heart. I even contemplate the possibility of her
remaining intolerably true. She will continue to
lead a sheltered and more or less monotonous life
running always in accustomed grooves. It will be
difficult to obliterate the impression you have
created. Besides which, she has reached the
highest point of her development. She will never
be much other than what she now is. But you
have still a long way to go. It is safe to predict
that five years hence will find you a very different
person from what you are to-day. You will have
discovered new wants, of which at the present
moment you have no suspicion. You will have
rid yourself of many old possessions, which have
their uses while we linger in the valley, but become
impedimenta when climbing the mountain-side.
And then you will have met in Paris the most
30 MONOCHROMES
refined, the most charming, the most intellectual
women in the world. I have lived there, and
speak with knowledge. You will look back with
astonishment at this grande passion of yours, this
green love-episode, and you will remember, with
gratitude let me hope, that you are absolutely free.
This at least, my young friend, is what I reckon
on, and it partly explains the equanimity with
which I have listened to your entirely preposterous
proposals.'
The frankly cynical speech was delivered with a
confidence which Emil found extremely galling.
The well-chosen words fell like drops of ice-water
upon his red-hot passion. They left a rankling
wound long in his breast He could not forget
Dittenheim's looks and tones, which asserted a
superiority in worldly wisdom, hard to forgive. An
immense desire to prove the Graf wrong laid hold of
Emil, who said to himself that even in the impossible
case of his ever loving Marie less than at that
moment, he would marry her merely to show Graf
Dittenheim how much he had been mistaken.
Meanwhile Emil's departure for Paris became a
settled thing, and his arrangements were facilitated,
unknown to himself, by Dittenheim's liberality
towards his mother. The Graf fully believed in
the wisdom of building a golden bridge for the
retreating foe.
Emil asked for a final interview with his little
sweetheart; and because the girl kissed her
father's hand, and wept over it, and besought
ardently for the same favour, Dittenheim permitted
'THE ELEGIE' 31
it. He laughed at himself for doing so, and told
his wife he was weak-minded to be moved by a
woman's tears. And she, turning on him incensed
and sunken eyes, from the sofa she could now no
longer leave, declared he was worse than weak-
minded, he was criminal. 'The whole of life is
only a play to you,' she said, ' and even your own
daughter but one of the players. You would not
mind what shameful part she took, so long as you
from your box could see and hear comfortably all
that was done and said.' Which, however, was not
altogether true.
All the same, the interview took place one
August evening, in the Rhine garden of Bellavista.
Here a terrace of stone overhangs the river. Here
it is good to walk and watch the waters flowing
down from the Sieben Gebirge towards the broad
plains of Koeln. Here, leaning on the stone balus
trade, Schoenemann held Marie's plump little red
hand between his own nervous white ones, and
implored her over and over again to be true.
' 1 think it is you who will first forget me,' she
told him, for she too had heard of the sirens
of Paris.
' Never shall I cease remembering you. Alone,
in exile, among strangers, how could I forget ? But
you will meet some man of your own rank, and
your people will persuade you into taking him.'
' Ah, indeed I would die sooner ! ' she declared,
with the pardonable exaggeration of the very
young.
Emil had bought in Bonn two crystal lockets
32 MONOCHROMES
exactly alike ; cheap enough trinkets, but as dear
as his purse could afford ; painfully ugly, but safe
guardians for their destined locks of hair. The
lovers exchanged these mementoes with due
ceremony. They were to be worn day and night
as talismans against misfortunes, and pledges of
secretly-plighted troth. Marie slipped his on to
her little gold neck-chain, which she had worn with
an Immaculate Conception medal since childhood,
and gave him these also. He tied hers with a
ribbon round her throat, and hid the locket in the
bosom of her dress. And finally, after an incred
ibly protracted leave-taking, and manifold signs
of impatience from the red-eyebrowed lady who
played propriety at a little distance off, the young
people parted with vows, tears, kisses, and mutual
heart-break.
IV
EMIL'S first months in Paris, his solitariness, the
difficulties he encountered, and the extent to
which he enhanced these by his own proud and
impetuous bearing, may be found in the bio
graphies. I leave all this aside, being concerned
in following one thread only of his story, in casting
light on a single episode in a career which boasted
many episodes, and which, dating from his arrival
in Paris, embraced wider and more varied interests
daily.
By the time that he had published the first book
of ' Preludes,' the worst struggle was over. He
was beginning to be favourably noticed. Custom
had softened his early detestation of the city and
its ways into tolerance, which in its turn grew
imperceptibly into affection. As in the beginning
he had wondered how he could ever endure the
new life and strange people, so at length he asked
himself how he could ever again exchange the
intellectual brilliancy of Paris for the somnolence
of a German town.
At first the idea of Marie von Dittenheim had been
his constant companion. But as his days grew
more busy, he could only remember her in leisure
C
34 MONOCHROMES
moments, and by-and-by when he occasionally
recalled her image, it was to reproach himself with
having so habitually forgotten it. For he was
now beginning to make that long succession of
warm friendships which is one of the remarkable
features of his life; and to the friend of the hour he
was always passionately and exclusively attached.
It is true, these intimacies were seldom of long
duration, and yet it was not fickleness which
brought them to a close. The moment that
Schoenemann discovered that he had passed his
friend intellectually, he deliberately threw him
aside. He said, and with some show of reason,
that friendship being an exchange of mutual
benefit, directly one ceases to derive advantage
from one's friend, the friendship by that very
reason is dissolved.
The most durable of his friendships was that
with Madame Vasseur, some account of whom
is pertinent to my sketch, since it was perhaps as
much because of the empire which this lady began to
exercise over him, as from any other cause, that he
eventually held true to his German sweetheart.
Flore Vasseur would be now entirely forgotten
but for her connection with Schoenemann (which
led to her tragic death in Rome some years later), on
which account a brief notice is given of her by most
of his biographers. She was, however, in her day,
a flower-painter of some repute. Curiously enough,
I recently came across one of her studies in an
appartement garni of the Quartier Marais. It was a
fruit-piece splashily painted, but all its colours
'THE ELEGIE' 35
faded to a uniform neutrality of tint. Nothing re
mained of its pristine glories, save the ' Flore '
boldly written in vermilion letters across one
corner, and the date, ' 1842,' underneath. She
voluntarily sacrificed future glory for the praise of
her contemporaries, and obtained by illegitimate
methods a brilliancy of colouring as unrivalled as
it was transitory. When it was pointed out to her
that her work would not endure, she replied it
would probably endure quite as long as it deserved
to do. She had not the smallest desire it should
be immortal.
' I wish to leave room for those who come after
me,' said she, jesting ; ' and every twenty years
will produce a flower-painter as good or better than
I. Such talent as mine is perennial as the flowers
themselves. It is not like the genius of Emit
Schoenemann. The true musician and the aloe-
blossom appear only once in a century.'
Madame Vasseur lived just outside Paris, at
Cergay-sous-Senart. Her acquaintance with Emil
dated from the third year of his Paris sojourn.
They were introduced to each other at a musical
evening given by the Pleyels. Emil had by this
time just made the discovery that general society
was distasteful to him, that the adulation people
now gave him was worse than their former neglect,
and that the round of so-called amusement which
he had at first followed with youthful ardour, was
in reality as insipid as it was enervating.
Madame Vasseur attracted him from the first
moment he met her. She was not so pretty as
36 MONOCHROMES
many women, but she was vivacious, intelligent, and
extraordinarily sympathetic. He acquired the habit
of spending a good deal of his time at Cergay. He
found he could work there under happier conditions
than in Paris. After an industrious and solitary
morning, he liked to spend the rest of the day in
Flore's studio. Here, to please him, she had
placed a grand piano, on which he would try over
his latest compositions, while she painted with
rapid, skilful hand. Or if he wished to talk, she
put down her brushes and gave him her whole
attention. She had pieced together the scraps he
had let fall of his early history, and took so vivid
an interest in all that concerned him, that she
could speak of the incidents of his boyhood, and of
the people of Klettendorf, with almost as much
confidence as though personally acquainted with
them. She knew, too, all about the Contesse
Marie ; but on this subject at least, it must be con
fessed, her attitude was slightly chilling.
When she first knew Emil, four years of freedom
still lay before him; an eternity, he told himself;
for the years ahead always seem vague and long as
centuries ; it is only when one looks back upon
them that one sees they have gone like so many
days. And in the beginning of their friendship, his
infrequent references to the young girl troubled
Flore but little; a thousand things might yet happen
to release him from a position she felt sure no longer
held for him any charm. But when, at last, he began
to speak of his departure for Germany as likely to
take place within a year within a few months her
'THEELEGIE' 37
feeling towards Mademoiselle von Dittenheim
deepened into dislike. It was characteristic of
Schoenemann that, seeing this, he should refer to
the subject more often than he might otherwise have
done, and that he should adopt a tone of decision
he was, in reality, far from feeling.
For he began to consider every day more
seriously whether it was not a piece of quixotic
folly to remain bound to a woman whom he had
long ago recognised as unessential to his scheme of
life. His mind swayed this way and that. When
ever he received a letter from Harms he became
for the next few weeks quite determined neither to
return to Germany nor to fulfil his engagement ;
for poor August's expressed or implied confidence
he would do both produced an entirely opposite effect
to that which the writer intended. But Emil could
not forget his interview with Graf Dittenheim. He
would recall the man's shrewd, amused eyes, hear
again the complacent superiority of his tone, and
again be filled with the strong determination to
prove his suspicions had been baseless. And
naturally, there were many other motives pressing
down the scale on this side or that. In real life,
conduct is ever complex : it is only in the story
books that we find it determined by a beautiful
singleness of purpose. Thus, much as Schoene
mann might believe he despised social rank, he
could not be a German and not appreciate the
honour of an alliance with a Dittenheim ; and how
ever coldly egotistic he had become, he could not,
as a man, stifle all feeling for the young girl, who
38 MONOCHROMES
as Harms and rumour told him, still loved him so
devotedly. Yet he knew that never again could
she be anything but a burden to him ; he knew he
had passed her immeasurably, and that all the
stimulus he found in such companionship as Flore's
would be entirely wanting in his home life, should
he make Marie his wife. The problem how to act
best was a knotty one.
He sat one evening in the studio, with a letter
from Harms in his pocket, received that day. It
was a more annoying letter than usual ; for where
as Harms, as a rule, spoke of Emil's return as a
matter of course, he now, to the young man's great
surprise, urged him vehemently to return at
once. ' Do not wait for the summer, best of
friends/ wrote Harms, 'but come immediately and
claim your betrothed ; ' and then he hinted at
some appalling misfortune overhanging the head
of the little Contesse, in dark enigmatical language,
which aroused Emil's anger, rather than his sym
pathy. He sat lost in thought, with set lips and a
frown on his handsome forehead, while Madame
Vasseur watched him pensively.
1 What is the matter with you ? ' she asked him
when the silence had endured some little time ;
'you are not happy to-night. Tell me what is
troubling you.'
'Do you think confession would make me
happier?' said the young man, and his calm
glances rested on her face with immense inward
satisfaction. She had what he called suchfragende
Augen, eyes that seemed to ask and confide so
'THE ELEGIE' 39
much more than the smiling lips would confess
to.
'Assuredly. I always find that to confess my
troubles is the first step towards dismissing them.'
' Because probably your troubles are not real
ones. I do not see how a real trouble or perplexity
is to be vanquished by imparting it to another mind
especially to a mind less capable of sustaining
it.'
'A flattering truth!' said Flore, laughing;
and he found her childlike type of face delicious
when she laughed. ' But tell me, do you make no
account of sympathy ? '
' Not much. I begin to think that sympathy,
like charity, is more harmful than helpful to the
recipient.'
'You are becoming so self-sufficing, that I
should advise you to imitate St Simeon Stylites ;
build yourself a pillar, and make music on the top
of it'
' It appears to me,' said Emil, musing, ' that as
we advance mentally we do live, so to speak,
each of us, on the top of a pillar, and have less and
less communication with our fellow-men. In child
hood the love and praise of our home circle alone
is essential to us ; later on we seek eagerly the
wider appreciation of the world ; but finally, we
outgrow the necessity for either, and ask for nothing
but the approbation of our own souls.'
Flore, with her graceful head on one side,
watched him smilingly. ' You have not reached the
highest point yet then,' said she, ' for you do not
4 o MONOCHROMES
seem to-night entirely convinced of your soul's
approbation. And I am glad of it/ she added :
1 for when that time comes, my poor praises will
no longer give you any pleasure.'
' Every man, of course, likes praise,' said Emil,
' but it is just as well to learn to do without it. I
foresee little enough in the life that lies before me.
That is to say, little intelligent praise, and none
other is worth the having.'
1 Are you thinking of your Gerrr\an fiancte ? '
asked Flore.
1 Yes ; of my fiancee who is soon to be my wife.'
She looked at him in silence, but still smiled.
' You are determined to go in the summer ? ' she
said presently.
' Even sooner. In fact I have received news
from home which seems to necessitate my immedi
ate departure. I must return to Paris to-morrow
to settle my affairs, and so to-night I have come
to bid you good-bye.'
The sudden colour that rose to her cheek, her
momentary hesitation, did not pass unobserved by
Schoenemann ; but when she spoke, the gaiety of
her tone once more perplexed him.
' A most dramatic announcement ! ' she cried,
'although I suspect the decision was only this
moment come to. Well, you would have my best
wishes were you going away for any other cause
than that of your marriage ; but I should be a poor
friend indeed, were I to affect to regard such a step
as beneficial to you."
1 Ah, I know your objections to marriage,' said
'THEELEGIE' 41
Emil ; ' although, coming from a married woman,
the advice rings rather oddly.'
' Oh, I ! what does it matter about me ?
Whether I make more or less progress, am more
or less happy, what difference does it make ? But
for the true artist, the man of genius, it is otherwise.
The world asks from him, and rightly, the best he
can give; and for the production of his best,
happiness is essential. How can he possibly be
happy married to a woman with whom he has no
sympathy ? '
' True, undoubtedly,' said Emil ; ' yet what can I
do ? Morally I am bound to keep my word. Be
sides, the girl loves me. Her happiness counts for
something in the affair.'
' She does not love you, 1 cried Flore, ' if she can
not sacrifice her happiness to her love ! Why, I
. . . that is to say, a woman who really loved a
man would cheerfully see him married to another
if it were for his greater good. But when she
saw him going blindly to his own destruction, she
would let the whole world perish, if by doing so
she could save him.'
' It is curious,' said Schoenemann, speaking more
to himself than his companion, ' how one's opinions
change. Seven years ago it seemed to me that
life held nothing more desirable than my little
sweetheart. Then I would have married her joy
fully, and should have considered myself the most
fortunate fellow in the world.' He mused, clasping
his hands behind his head with the action Flore
knew so well. ' Then, I looked upon the whole of
42 MONOCHROMES
life merely as a preparation for love. Then, it
seemed to me that music itself was but a means of
honouring the beloved one. Now I know that life
and love too, are but steps upward towards the
attainment of the highest art; and the passion
which seemed so beautiful in youth is only
valuable for the deeper and wider emotions it
enables us to express.'
Madame Vasseur watched him with an indefin
able air. ' So you have outgrown love,' she said,
' as you have outgrown society, and as you will
presently, no doubt, outgrow friendship. You
progress so fast, that with the best intentions in the
world, you could not promise to remain to-morrow
where you stand to-day. Do you not see that for
you, it is madness to contemplate matrimony ? '
' True again,' he answered ; ' to give up in any
measure my liberty and independence, is to deduct
just so much from the likelihood of producing good
work. Yet it seems to me that if Mademoiselle
von Dittenheim still desires it, I am bound in
honour to fulfil my engagement.'
Flore's smile condensed a vast number of
meanings. 'What, have you not outgrown such
puerile notions of honour also ? ' she cried.
' In point of fact,' said Emil, seriously, ' I begin
to think I have. The honourableness of holding
to the letter of a promise, when the spirit which
quickened it is dead or changed, does seem
sufficiently puerile. And yet '
He found it most difficult to decide what to do.
He remembered the satisfaction his infidelity
'THE ELEGIE' 43
would afford Graf Dittenheim, and he inclined
to go. But he remembered also the urgency of
Harms' entreaties that he should return home, and
he was almost fixed in his determination to stay.
Madame Vasseur, who openly watched him,
seemed to read his thoughts. A flash of triumph
lighted her soft eyes. The pleasure she felt was
too strong to be concealed, and she betrayed it in
her smile, in her dimples, in the animation of her
voice.
' You will not go ! ' she cried gaily. ' Ah, I felt
sure all along you could not go. And I confess
the studio would seem a strange and desolate land
without you. I have the fancy I could no longer
paint, if you were no longer here to play to me.'
Schoenemann looked down the long and lofty
room, with its half-lighted distances, its widely
dispersed lamps, and said to himself he too should
feel strange, rooted out from a life that had grown
so congenial to him. Here at the piano he had
spent delicious hours, weaving musical fancies into
which all his surroundings made subtle entrance
the blossoms, flowers, and creepers, which during
more than half the year trailed their lengths, shed
their perfume, and spread their beauty all over the
place ; those other flowers scarcely less brilliant,
which still during the winter months bloomed from
the walls ; the bizarre properties, the gorgeous bits
of drapery, the thousand and one knick-knacks,
every fold and piece of which he knew so well ;
Madame Vasseur's light, graceful figure, and the
small brown head held flower-fashion, now this side
44 MONOCHROMES
and now that, as she walked to and fro before her
easel.
Yes, he recognised it was Flore herself whom he
would miss most of all. She had acquired an
influence over him which might in time grow
irresistible. And as he glanced at her and listened to
her confident assertions, he told himself she would
use every means to increase and rivet her power.
He felt she would make far greater claims on him
than a Marie von Dittenheim could do. Here, even
more than in marriage, was he likely to lose the
independence he held so dear. Were he at the end
of his life, he might perhaps be ready to acquiesce
in this woman's gentle yoke ; but now, in the
zenith of his youth, with so much still to learn and
to achieve, he must break it while he could yet do
so without much pain.
As his hesitations finally condensed themselves
into settled purpose, his brow cleared. Flore divined
his intentions in the bright coldness of his glance.
Her face lost its smile, and she sat in pale
suspense.
4 It is getting late,' said he, rising, ' and I have
a great deal to do, so you must allow me to say
good-night. Good-night and good-bye both to
gether. For at last I have made up my mind. I
return to Germany after all.'
THE Dittenheims, father and daughter, were
residing in Berlin. The Graefin had been laid
to rest, long since, in the cemetery at Nice, the
town wherein so many European health-seekers
find only a grave.
Schoenemann did not purpose going straight
to the capital. He broke his journey at Koeln,
in order to spend half a week at Klettendorf. He
desired particularly to see Harms, that he might
reproach him for the irritating urgency of his
letter. He intended to recapitulate to him all
Flore's arguments against marriage, to prove in-
contestably that for him, Emil, it would be
especially fatal ; then having reduced the un
fortunate Harms to a state of abject despair,
to go to move heaven and earth to make that
marriage an accomplished fact. Quite at the
back of his mind he rejoiced in the idea, that
when all his predicted misery should have
actually come to pass, he would be able to
inflict on Harms a still more poignant regret.
Outside of these intentions he found a real
pleasure in returning to Klettendorf. He wanted
to see the village, the old home, his own people
46 MONOCHROMES
again. He loved them all because of the relation
in which they stood to himself. He remembered
with the greatest affection the little Emil of long
ago ; the boy who had run so light-heartedly up
and down the highways of Klettendorf, or in the
dark cottage room had sat so many hours at the
loose-tongued old piano, trying to reproduce the
song of the birds, or the gush and babble of the
mountain streams. From the beginning all the
world had made music to him ; it was to beauti
ful and harmonious sounds his affections had
first responded. Almost a baby, he had heard
melodies in the winter winds which torment
the woods above Klettendorf; and the Rhine
for ever flowing swiftly seawards had taught him
harmonies.
He remembered now as though it were yester
day, numberless incidents which had impressed
themselves on his child's mind, in which either
his dead father or mother, Marie or Harms, arose
as attendant figures ; the humble house, the poor
village as familiar background.
There was an unique occasion on which he had
come into collision with his father, who had
reprimanded him with some roughness. For two
hours afterwards he had lain upon the floor,
weeping tropically, and refusing to be comforted.
He was about five years old then, and he had
said to his mother in reference to the event a
few days later, ' I am always happy, and I wanted
to be unhappy to see what it was like.'
The man Emil smiled as he looked back on the
'THE ELEGIE' 47
child's curiosity to probe sensations, a curiosity
which on another occasion had made him persist,
despite of gathering nausea, in assisting at the
slaughter of a pig. He had stood a stubborn and
white-faced spectator of the scene, until he had
fallen down on the stones in a faint. But the
smoking blood, the shrieks of the victim, had
worked upon his mind, and he had composed
a little battle-song for piano and riddle, to
commemorate the impression. He had tried to
represent horror and tumultuous movement, and
to simulate by long wailing notes on the violin
the cries of the dying. He wondered what had
become of this early opus, which Harms had
praised enthusiastically, as, by the way, he had
praised every single work Schoenemann had pro
duced since.
He remembered how as a child he had adored
his mother ; how she had once seemed to him not
only the most beautiful and the kindest of women,
but the cleverest also. It was only very gradually
he came to discover her wanting in perceptions,
and too occupied in mending and cooking to have
time to listen to his music. By the age of ten
he had already begun to lean more on his sister
Marie, who was then seventeen, and full of the
hopes, the gaiety, the carelessness of a young
girl. Marie was devoted to the clever little
brother, and no sacrifice was too much for her
to make him. When he wanted her company she
would give up any personal pleasure, or rise at
four to get through the household tasks, so as to
48 MONOCHROMES
be free for his service. He remembered the hours
he had spent with her dreaming aloud, while she
listened and praised. And then, as he came to
be fifteen, she was less necessary to him than
Harms ; he had learned all she was able to teach
him ; she was as a book he had read through,
and one of those books that do not bear reading
twice. Henceforth, all his spare time was spent
in August's room discussing life, music, glory ;
improvising on his piano, or climbing with him
the wooded hills that shelter Klettendorf, walking
through the apple and cherry orchards that gather
round it. At that time he simply could not have
existed in his narrow village, but for the sympathy
and affection he found in Harms. No wonder he
had opposed August's desire to marry his sister ;
and Marie herself had become dear to him as
ever the moment there had seemed a possibility
of losing her. But as it turned out, they might
have married so far as he was concerned ; and he
thought with a faint and natural contempt of the
weakness of poor Harms, in allowing the whole
course of his life to be altered^ by the will of a
boy.
Memories such as these beguiled the way to
Klettendorf; and for himself, he was filled with
a tender compassion. What a foolish, affectionate
fellow he had been. Ever ready to expend his
heart on other people, ever believing he had found
in each new personality the brother soul which
was to satisfy him, ever condemned to struggle
upwards alone. His past was strewn with the
'THE ELEGIE' 49
friendships he had tried in the balance and found
wanting.
He was already beginning to gauge the limits of
Harms' capacities, when he had met the Contesse
Marie. His passion for her had been but transi
tory, yet how beautiful while it lasted. She
would always retain a certain interest for him,
in having been the passive object, which had
awakened those heavenly feelings of first love.
But he had long seen clearly that ft was the light
of his own genius which had transfigured her, and
that he had fallen at the feet of an idol of his
own creation. Ah ! the wild, the wonderful, the
delicious generosity of youth. He could not
restrain a smile when he reflected, that in those
days he had desired to consecrate his whole
powers, his whole future life, to the service of
a little moon-faced girl with round eyes and red
hands.
He supposed her hands were no longer red.
Harms had written she was grown thin, and had
otherwise much changed. But the real Marie
must of course remain the same, a soul on a lower
plane which could never be raised to his, any
more than he could successfully stoop to hers.
And such was to be their union, one in name but
never in fact.
He could and would show her kindness, bear
himself with patience, but henceforth all his
highest desires and sympathies must be unshared.
Mournful anticipations of the future had begun to
blot out the pleasanter reminiscences of the past,
P
5 o MONOCHROMES
when he reached Klettendorf and stood with his
hand on the familiar garden-gate.
The click of the latch brought two women out
from the cottage to greet him : an old woman with
bands of yellow-white hair showing in front of a
close net cap his Aunt Kunie ; and a woman no
longer young, with the expression women acquire
whose lives have been all duty without one
satisfying joy this was the once bright and hope
ful sister.
Schoenemann sat down with them to the meal
they had prepared for him ; the best they could
manage, and yet almost barbarous in its homely
ingredients and rude cooking, after the civilisations
of Paris. The coarse tablecloth was distasteful
to him, so were the horn-handled knives and
forks, the earthen beer-mugs with their pewter
tops. Aunt Kunie produced in his honour the
Bowie wine, which she made herself from elder-
flowers and oranges, and which as a boy he had
thought so delicious. Now he found it detestable,
and could scarcely bring himself to finish the
small glassful she ladled out for him. Her
hesitating, trivial conversation teased him ; he was
only annoyed by her well-meant efforts to please.
She thought herself bound to talk about Paris,
the friends he had made there, and the musical
world. It cost him a struggle to reply to her with
civility.
When he looked at Marie, he was amazed to see
how plain and old she had become. Again the
thought crossed his mind it might have been
'THE ELEGIE' 51
better for her had Harms made her his wife.
Certainly no man would marry her now.
He almost wished he had never returned to
Klettendorf at all. His memory-pictures would
have remained entirely agreeable had he never
confronted them with the reality. However, he
had been obliged to come in order to see Harms.
'What is all this about the Dittenheims?' he
asked his sister. ' August writes such mysterious
letters. Marie von Dittenheim has lived well enough
without me for seven years. What is the " urgent
need " she has for me now ? '
' People say she has always counted on your
coming,' said the other Marie.
' Well, and have I not come ? I always intended
coming this summer, but it would have been more
convenient to have come a few months later on.
Only August, finally, gave me no peace. Where
is he ? Why is he not here to meet me ? '
' He will be here at four. He had a lesson to
give across the river.'
'Just the same life, I suppose? He still
lodges with Schumacher ? '
'Just the same,' said the sister drily ; ' no change
but one ever comes to the poor.'
'You will wish to go and visit your blessed
mother's grave?' said aunt Kunie. 'Marie will
take you there, and you will be back in time
for coffee.'
Emil walked with his sister to the quiet God's
acre on the hill. He stood before the slate
headstone inscribed to the memory of Franz
52 MONOCHROMES
Schoenemann and Marie Bleibtreu his wife, and
thought over many things. It is certain that a man
cannot stand by the grave of his mother and not
experience emotion. He had told her once, in a
transport of child-affection, that when he was a
man he would never leave her, but would live with
her always. And yet he had not found it possible
to get to her dying bed. He wished now it had
been possible ; but it had not been so, although he
had forgotten by this time the particular obstacles
which had prevented him. He left the graveyard
trying to recall them. He walked fast, absorbed
in thought, and his sister was left far behind.
A man in slovenly clothes stood by Aunt Kunie
in the little garden, watching for his return. Emil
saw it was Harms, and said to himself, he, too, had
changed for the worse. He looked broken-
down, blunted, unsatisfied with life, yet hopeless
of mending it. After kissing Emil with his old
affection, he waited for Marie to come up, and
exchanged a few words with her of the most
ordinary common-place. The hopes he had once
entertained were along ago extinguished. Now
he was so wedded to the dull routine of life, he
would have dreaded any change. He had reached
the point where all divinely implanted discontent
withers away, and could meet the woman he had
once loved, and no colour rise to his cheek, his
heart beat no whit the faster.
Her lot was perhaps harder still ; she had never
known the happiness of even unrequited love, but
had lost youth and freshness, youth's adjuncts of
'THE ELEGIE' 53
hope and high spirits, and the gaiety that lends a
passing charm to glance and smile, nursing in
secret the agonising conviction, that never once to
any man had she afforded eye-satisfaction or heart-
pleasure. She treated Harms with a certain bitter
ness, but there was no particular meaning in this ;
it was her attitude towards all the world.
Aunt Kunie had prepared coffee for two in the
parlour. She and Marie retired to drink theirs
in the kitchen, knowing that Emil would prefer
being left alone with his friend. Harms sat for
long silent and embarrassed. Momentarily he grew
more impressed with Emil's immense superiority,
visible even in such trifles as his dress, his manners,
the way in which he held his head. He saw that
any equality or companionship with his former
pupil and friend, was now out of the question. He
feared he had shown presumption in the warmth
of his greetings. Emil was obliged to question him
before he regained courage to talk.
' The Contesse Marie is ill ? Is that the misfor
tune you hint at ? You seem to imply she is dying
of love for me. The idea is absurd. Now and
again I have heard of the Dittenheims from
Berliners in Paris, and from all accounts my
Betrothed has become a most accomplished
young lady of the world : the exact counterpart
of her mother.'
1 You still love her, my poor Emil ? ' asked Harms
earnestly.
' Does it not look like it,' parried the other ' since
I am here ? '
54 MONOCHROMES
' You wish to make her your wife ? '
' I mean of course to make her my wife.'
1 1 knew it ; I could trust you ! ' cried Harms,
enthusiastically. 'I knew that you, a Rhine-
lander, would be true. And she, I am sure, loves
you still ; but she is naturally weak, and then
reports reached her she spoke of them to me
last year and of course her family made the
most of them. But you can save her yet. Go at
once to Berlin ; present yourself. It is fixed for
next week, I believe ; but when she sees you she
will retract her word. With you beside her, she
will feel herself strong enough to face the con
sequences, and you will rescue her from the worst
possible fate. All the world knows what that
man's character is ; and besides, how could he
ever satisfy a woman who has been honoured with
such an affection as yours ? '
Schoenemann stared at the speaker with a
glacial irritation. ' You are raving,' said he ; ' I
have no conception of your meaning. Speak
German if you are able and tell me what fate
threatens my Betrothed ? '
'Then command yourself, Emil,' said the good
Harms, himself greatly agitated; 'keep calm, I
implore you! She has yielded at last to over-
persuasion, and has consented to marry her cousin,
Baron Max. The wedding is arranged for Friday
next.'
VI
HARMS' words surprised Emil as much as a douche
of cold water in the face. He sat silent. Then
he experienced a movement of sensible relief. He
saw for the first time in all its completeness how
dear to him was the liberty with which he had
been prepared to part. He was free, and in the
only way possible to him, through the initiative
of Marie herselC
After that, his surprise returned. It was aston
ishing she should have given him up astonishing
to the point of annoyance. A great many women
in Paris, some as well-born, most far prettier and
more intelligent than the little Contesse, would
have been proud of his preference. Flore, an
artist to her finger-tips, good, gay, witty, with
the warmest heart you could desire, the most
cultivated mind, only longed to be allowed to
serve him. And he had eluded them all, had
treated Flore with studied coldness, for the sake
of this little girl, who now dared to play him false
after letting him wait for her seven years,
just when the moment had come to claim the
fulfilment of her promise.
56 MONOCHROMES
Beneath a calm exterior his thoughts travelled
with stormy rapidity. What unexampled im
pudence on the part of the father, what treachery
in the daughter! His anger augmented. He
could no longer conceal it ; for his armour of
polished coldness was but a weapon of defence
painfully acquired. The colour rose all over his
face, and his ireful eyes fixed themselves on
August, as though he saw in him the chief cause
of offence.
' Go to Berlin,' Harms urged ; ' you will yet be
in time.'
' Do you imagine I should beseech her to recon
sider, to marry me after all ? No. I think myself
fortunate in discovering, before it is too late, the
falseness and vacuity of which she is capable.
But I will go to Berlin and see her. I owe this
to myself. She shall not ease her conscience
by saying I made no claim.'
' Yes, I will see her,' he reflected. ' I will re
proach her to her face.' He foresaw in this
interview a new experience which would be in
structive to him. Still, as when a child, he sought
curiously for emotions, and was eager to exalt, to
intoxicate, to crucify his heart for the pleasure
of standing aside to watch the effects. He pur
posely worked himself into the delusion that he still
loved Marie von Dittenheim with passion, in order
that the sensations of the final interview might be
the more intense.
He began at once to prepare for departure.
Harms desired to accompany him, and Emil
'THE ELEGIE' 57
permitted him to do so, not caring sufficiently
for his absence to find it worth while to forbid his
presence. He kissed his women-kind without
affection, and turned his back on Klettendorf
without regret. It happened that he never saw
either village or kindred again.
He made the journey to Berlin in impenetrable
silence, arranging the phrases he should make
use of in the coming scene, testing the bitter
flavour of each word, selecting those that would
inflict the sharpest pain.
Harms respected Schoenemann's silence. He
knew so perfectly all that the renunciation of the
beloved one means. His heart suffered vicariously
for the suffering of his friend.
Berlin was reached late one evening, and the
two men put up at a small hotel. Harms informed
himself as to the quarter of the town the Ditten-
heims inhabited, its distance and the way thither.
He accompanied Emil next morning part of the
way. ' Take courage ! ' he said. ' Be sure she
still loves you ;' and then, with a warm hand-grip,
turned and left him.
It was March ; an iron day. The streets were
searched by a piercing wind, which tried even the
stolid cheeriness of the Berliners. People walked
with heads held low, wraps muffled up to nose and
ears, hands encased in fur or woollen gloves, and
still the universal enemy pierced into every chink
and cranny, froze the marrow of their bones, and
filled their eyes with dust. Not a propitious day
for a wedding, if to-day it was, and yet the day
5 8 MONOCHROMES
poetic justice should select for the wedding of one
who had broken plighted vows.
The Dittenheim house was large and handsome,
with many windows looking on the street. Emil
found the door standing half open, as though some
one had hurriedly passed out or in. An immense
basket of flowers stood in the hall. Other flowers,
rows of tall white lilies, masses of white bridal
roses, white narcissi, and white snowdrops, were
heaped in disordered beauty against one wall.
There was a sense of expectancy, a flavour of
excitement in the air, as though some imposing
ceremony were about to take place. Emil, going
in, found none to question him. It seemed as
though the household, thrown off its balance by
the coming event, had abandoned its accustomed
routine.
A door shut above. Looking up towards the
gallery which ran round the upper floor,
Schoenemann saw a young woman flit rapidly
by. She was in a light-coloured gown. She was
not unlike Marie. He was convinced it was Marie.
He hurried up the shallow steps. But before he
reached the landing she had disappeared through
one of the several doors which met his view.
An overpowering scent of flowers greeted him.
Here and there on the crimson carpets lay a sprig
of jasmine or a lily of the valley, as though such
quantities had been carried up that the few which
fell were left unheeded. The unfamiliar house in
which he found himself, the silence, the fragrance,
reminded Emil of that other day, so long ago,
'THE ELEGIE' 59
when he first visited Bellavista. Then unknown to
himself he was advancing to Love's birth ; now
he told himself with a bitterness he did not feel, he
went to Love's grave.
Opposite to him, as he reached the head of the
stairs, were high doors of white enamelled wood.
They gave, presumably, on to the reception-rooms,
the dozen windows of which overlooked the street.
Here, he should doubtless find Marie herself, or at
least some one who could bring him to her. He
opened one door-wing.
To his surprise he faced darkness, for the wind
rushing up from the hall momentarily extin
guished the six wax candles which stood in tall
silver candlesticks down the centre of the floor.
Emil took a step forward and closed the door
behind him. The lights burned up again yellow
and steady. They shed their radiance down on a
mass of flowers, on a cloth of white satin ....
what was it ? ... an altar ? . . . or a bed on
which a woman was sleeping? . . . The next
instant Emil saw it was a bier.
Advancing, he stood between the candles, look
ing down on the dead Marie. For he knew
intuitively it was she, though at first his eyes
denied it. She was so changed from the little
moon-faced girl he remembered. Shewas beautified
and ennobled by the hand of Death almost beyond
recognition. Her features in their purer and finer
outlines recalled those of her dead mother. Emil,
who had looked at the Graefin and never seen her
in the old days, saw her now and admitted she
6o
was fairer than the little daughter who had stood
beside her. But the dead girl who lay at his feet
was even fairer than the mother. Nothing re
mained absolutely of the Marie he remembered
but the light-brown crinkly hair, which, flowing
down on either side of the pale face, was spread
out over the coverlet to the slightly raised knees.
The delicate, waxen hands were crossed upon
a crucifix, and on a satin ribbon round the neck
hung a common crystal locket.
Emil had sought emotions : here he found some
of unexpected thrillingness. He was genuinely
shaken. The charm of his lost love for Marie
returned with full force. His heart seemed to
melt, tears gushed from his eyes, all his cold self-
sufficiency fell from him. Could the dead at that
moment have come to life, he would have flung
himself at her feet and sworn eternal devotion.
The locket, cherished to the end, touched him
inexpressibly. He recognised his own hair still
within it. He knew she had worn it day and
night upon her heart, and had wished it to go
untouched with her to the grave. He remembered
with compunction that the companion locket was
long since lost. It had gone astray in one of his
many Paris removals.
For the moment he hated himself. By the
power which is given to the imaginative, he
identified himself with the dead Marie. In the
interval of a few seconds he lived through her
entire life, loved with her, suffered with her. He
understood how completely and irrevocably she
'THE ELEGIE' 61
had given up her personality to him, how to her
gentle and faithful nature he had appeared the only
man possible; he felt how constantly she had thought
about him, how patiently she had waited and*
hoped, how the disappointment of his silence had
only strengthened her love through pain. While
he had been working, living, enjoying a thousand
interests, or concentrating them all into the one
absorbing pursuit, his image had been for her all
in all. During these seven years, when he had
forgotten her for months at a time, or only remem
bered her with coldness, every hour of every day
her thoughts had turned to him. Love and hope
had kept her alive, when otherwise she must long
ago have fallen a victim to the hereditary disease
which shed its fateful beauty upon her face. It
was only when hope was crushed out, and she
found herself on the point of ceding to the con
tinuous pressure of relatives and circumstances,
that she had given up the struggle and life both
at once.
Down Emil's cheeks tears ran unchecked. Love,
melancholy, and passionate regret flooded his soul.
He gazed at the dead face, and to his shaken
fantasy it seemed to regain warmth and colour.
He listened intently, and could have sworn he
heard low and regular breathing. . . . But sud
denly his heart stood still. ... A new force
overwhelmed it. ...
Meanwhile, a figure sitting hitherto unnoticed
in the darkness beyond the circle of candle-light,
rose and came forward. It was Graf Dittenheim,
62 MONOCHROMES
but a changed, a broken man. His air of amused
superiority, his ironical smile were gone. Death,
for the moment, had dragged him down to a level
with his fellows. He and Emil exchanged glances
of instant recognition. Surprise, doubt, a sort
of remorse showed themselves on Dittenheim's
countenance. He noticed the tears which still
wetted the young man's face, and with a move
ment of the hand indicated the dead Marie.
' Is it possible you cared for her after all ? ' he said
in a low voice ; ' that you have remained true ? '
But Schoenemann only looked at him in silence
and with an intense earnestness. Then he turned
abruptly and walked out of the room. Out of the
room, out of the house. Like one distraught he
slipped through the streets of the city, and meeting
Harms on the tavern steps, flung him aside with
furious impatience.
' Oh, for God's sake, leave me alone ! ' he cried
violently ; and Harms was not wounded. He saw
that something terrible had happened, and he
understood so well the hopeless misery that cries
for solitude.
Meanwhile Emil double-locked the doors of his
room, fearful only that the unlucky encounter
might have stemmed or diverted the torrent of
music flowing within him. He seized pen and
paper, and began to pour it forth in a series of
spluttering dots and dashes. His brain was on
fire with the excitement, his soul filled with the
fierce joy which only the artist knows, and he in
the moments of creation alone.
'THE ELEGIE' 63
With the waning light the sketch lay complete,
and Schoenemann threw himself back in his
chair with a smile of supreme contentment.
Then came the reaction ; he yawned, felt in
clined for supper, locked up his papers, and
went down to seek Harms, who was stupefied
by his friend's genial spirits. But the latter was
happy, knowing 'that the work he had just com
pleted was very good.
For it was thus that the famous ' Elegie ' came
to be written. This is the story.
IRREMEDIABLE
IRREMEDIABLE
A YOUNG man strolled along a country road one
August evening after a long delicious day a day
of that blessed idleness the man of leisure never
knows : one must be a bank clerk forty-nine weeks
out of the fifty-two before one can really appreciate
the exquisite enjoyment of doing nothing for
twelve hours at a stretch. Willoughby had spent
the morning lounging about a sunny rickyard ;
then, when the heat grew unbearable, he had
retreated to an orchard, where, lying on his back
in the long cool grass, he had traced the pattern
of the apple-leaves diapered above him upon the
summer sky ; now that the heat of the day was
over he had come to roam whither sweet fancy led
him, to lean over gates, view the prospect, and
meditate upon the pleasures of a well-spent day.
Five such days had already passed over his head,
fifteen more remained to him. Then farewell to
freedom and clean country air ! Back again to
London and another year's toil.
He came to a gate on the right of the road.
Behind it a footpath meandered up over a grassy
slope. The sheep nibbling on its summit cast
long shadows down the hill almost to his feet.
68 MONOCHROMES
Road and fieldpath were equally new to him, but
the latter offered greener attractions ; he vaulted
lightly over the gate and had so little idea he was
taking thus the first step towards ruin that he
began to whistle ' White Wings ' from pure joy of
life.
The sheep stopped feeding and raised their
heads to stare at him from pale-lashed eyes ; first
one and then another broke into a startled run,
until there was a sudden woolly stampede of the
entire flock. When Willoughby gained the ridge
from which they had just scattered, he came in
sight of a woman sitting on a stile at the further
end of the field. As he advanced towards her he
saw that she was young, and that she was not
what is called ' a lady ' of which he was glad : an
earlier episode in his career having indissolubly
associated in his mind ideas of feminine refinement
with those of feminine treachery.
He thought it probable this girl would be
willing to dispense with the formalities of an
introduction, and that he might venture with her
on some pleasant foolish chat.
As she made no movement to let him pass
he stood still, and, looking at her, began to
smile.
She returned his gaze from unabashed dark
eyes, and then laughed, showing teeth white, sound,
and smooth as split hazel-nuts.
' Do you wanter get over ? ' she remarked
familiarly.
' I'm afraid I can't without disturbing you.'
IRREMEDIABLE 69
' Dontcher think you're much better where you
are ? ' said the girl, on which Willoughby hazarded :
' You mean to say looking at you ? Well,
perhaps I am ! '
The girl at this laughed again, but nevertheless
dropped herself down into the further field ; then,
leaning her arms upon the cross-bar, she informed
the young man : ' No, I don't wanter spoil your
walk. You were goin' p'raps ter Beacon Point ?
It's very pretty that wye.'
' I was going nowhere in particular,' he replied ;
'just exploring, so to speak. I'm a stranger in
these parts.'
' How funny ! Imer stranger here too. I only
come down larse Friday to stye with a Naunter
mine in Horton. Are you stying in Horton?'
Willoughby told her he was not in Orton, but
at Povey Cross Farm out in the other direction.
' Oh, Mrs Payne's, ain't it ? I've heard aunt
speak ovver. She takes summer boarders, don't
chee ? I egspeck you come from London, hen ? '
' And I expect you come from London too ? '
said Willoughby, recognising the familiar accent.
' You're as sharp as a needle,' cried the girl
with her unrestrained laugh ; ' so I do. I'm here
for a hollerday 'cos I was so done up with the
work and the hot weather. I don't look as though
I'd bin ill, do I ? But I was, though : for it was
just stiflin' hot up in our workrooms all larse month,
an' tailorin's awful hard work at the bester times.'
Willoughby felt a sudden accession of interest
in her. Like many intelligent young men, he had
7 o MONOCHROMES
dabbled a little in Socialism, and at one time had
wandered among the dispossessed ; but since then,
had caught up and held loosely the new doctrine
it is a good and fitting thing that Woman also
should earn her bread by the sweat of her brow.
Always in reference to the woman who, fifteen
months before, had treated him ill, he had said
to himself that even the breaking of stones in the
road should be considered a more feminine employ
ment than the breaking of hearts.
He gave way therefore to a movement of friend
liness for this working daughter of the people, and
joined her on the other side of the stile in token
of his approval. She, twisting round to face him,
leaned now with her back against the bar, and the
sunset fires lent a fleeting glory to her face.
Perhaps she guessed how becoming the light was,
for she took off her hat and let it touch to gold
the ends and fringes of her rough abundant hair.
Thus and at this moment she made an agreeable
picture, to which stood as background all the
beautiful, wooded Southshire view.
' You don't really mean to say you are a
tailoress?' said Willoughby, with a sort of eager
compassion.
' I do, though ! An' I've bin one ever since I
was fourteen. Look at my fingers if you don't
b'lieve me.'
She put out her right hand, and he took hold of
it, as he was expected to do. The finger-ends
were frayed and blackened by needle-pricks, but
the hand itself was plump, moist, and not
IRREMEDIABLE 71
unshapely. She meanwhile examined Willoughby's
fingers enclosing hers.
' It's easy ter see you've never done no work ! '
she said, half admiring, half envious. ' I s'pose
you're a tip-top swell, ain't you ? '
' Oh, yes ! I'm a tremendous swell indeed ! ' said
Willoughby, ironically. He thought of his hundred
and thirty pounds' salary ; and he mentioned his
position in the British and Colonial Banking house,
without shedding much illumination on her mind,
for she insisted :
'Well, anyhow, you're a gentleman. I've often
wished I was a lady. It must be so nice ter wear
fine clo'es an' never have ter do any work all day
long.'
Willoughby thought it innocent of the girl to
say this ; it reminded him of his own notion as a
child that kings and queens put on their crowns
the first thing on rising in the morning. His
cordiality rose another degree.
' If being a gentleman means having nothing to
do,' said he, smiling, ' I can certainly lay no claim
to the title. Life isn't all beer and skittles with
me, any more than it is with you. Which is the
better reason for enjoying the present moment,
don't you think ? Suppose, now, like a kind little
girl, you were to show me the way to Beacon
Point, which you say is so pretty ? '
She required no further persuasion. As he
walked beside her through the upland fields where
the dusk was beginning to fall, and the white
evening moths to emerge from their daytime
72 MONOCHROMES
hiding-places, she asked him many personal
questions, most of which he thought fit to parry.
Taking no offence thereat, she told him, instead,
much concerning herself and her family. Thus he
learned her name was Esther Stables, that she and
her people lived Whitechapel way ; that her father
was seldom sober, and her mother always ill ; and
that the aunt with whom she was staying kept
the post-office and general shop in Orton village.
He learned, too, that Esther was discontented with
life in general ; that, though she hated being at
home, she found the country dreadfully dull ; and
that, consequently, she was extremely glad to have
made his acquaintance. But what he chiefly
realised when they parted was that he had spent
a couple of pleasant hours talking nonsense with
a girl who was natural, simple-minded, and entirely
free from that repellently protective atmosphere
with which a woman of the ' classes ' so carefully
surrounds herself. He and Esther had 'made
friends' with the ease and rapidity of children
before they have learned the dread meaning of
' etiquette/ and they said good-night, not without
some talk of meeting each other again.
Obliged to breakfast at a quarter to eight in
town, Willoughby was always luxuriously late
when in the country, where he took his meals also
in leisurely fashion, often reading from a book
propped up on the table before him. But the
morning after his meeting with Esther Stables
found him less disposed to read than usual. Her
image obtruded itself upon the printed page, and
IRREMEDIABLE 73
at length grew so importunate he came to the
conclusion the only way to lay it was to confront
it with the girl herself.
Wanting some tobacco, he saw a good reason
for going into Orton. Esther had told him he
could get tobacco and everything else at her aunt's.
. He found the post-office to be one of the first
houses in the widely spaced village street. In
front of the cottage was a small garden ablaze
with old-fashioned flowers ; and in a larger garden
at one side were apple-trees, raspberry and currant
bushes, and six thatched beehives on a bench.
The bowed windows of the little shop were partly
screened by sunblinds ; nevertheless the lower
panes still displayed a heterogeneous collection of
goods lemons, hanks of yarn, white linen buttons
upon blue cards, sugar cones, churchwarden pipes,
and tobacco jars. A letter-box opened its narrow
mouth low down in one wall, and over the door
swung the sign, ' Stamps and money-order office,'
in black letters on white enamelled iron.
The interior of the shop was cool and dark. A
second glass-door at the back permitted Willoughby
to see into a small sitting-room, and out again
through a low and square-paned window to the
sunny landscape beyond. Silhouetted against the
light were the heads of two women; the rough
young head of yesterday's Esther, the lean outline
and bugled cap of Esther's aunt.
It was the latter who at the jingling of the door
bell rose from her work and came forward to serve
the customer; but the girl, with much mute
74 MONOCHROMES
meaning in her eyes, and a finger laid upon her
smiling mouth, followed behind. Her aunt heard
her footfall. ' What do you want here, Esther ? '
she said with thin disapproval ; ' get back to your
sewing.'
Esther gave the young man a signal seen only
by him and slipped out into the side-garden, where
he found her when his purchases were made. She
leaned over the privet-hedge to intercept him as
he passed.
' Aunt's an awful ole maid,' she remarked
apologetically ; ' I b'lieve she'd never let me say
a word to enny one if she could help it.'
'So you got home all right last night?' Willoughby
inquired ; ' what did your aunt say to you ? '
' Oh, she arst me where I'd been, and I tolder
a lotter lies.' Then, with a woman's intuition,
perceiving that this speech jarred, Esther made
haste to add, ' She's so dreadful hard on me. I
dursn't tell her I'd been with a gentleman or she'd
never have let me out alone again.'
' And at present I suppose you'll be found some
where about that same stile every evening ?' said
Willoughby foolishly, for he really did not much
care whether he met her again or not. Now he
was actually in her company, he was surprised at
himself for having given her a whole morning's
thought ; yet the eagerness of her answer flattered
him, too.
' To-night I can't come, worse luck ! It's
Thursday, and the shops here close of a Thursday
at five. I'll havter keep aunt company. But
IRREMEDIABLE 75
to-morrer? I can be there to-morrer. You'll
come, say?'
' Esther ! ' cried a vexed voice, and the precise,
right-minded aunt emerged through a row of
raspberry-bushes ; ' whatever are you thinking
about, delayin' the gentleman in this fashion ? '
She was full of rustic and official civility for ' the
gentleman,' but indignant with her niece. ' I don't
want none of your London manners down here,'
Willoughby heard her say as she marched the girl
off.
He himself was not sorry to be released from
Esther's too friendly eyes, and he spent an agree
able evening over a book, and this time managed
to forget her completely.
Though he remembered her first thing next
morning, it was to smile wisely and determine he
would not meet her again. Yet by dinner-time the
day seemed long ; why, after all, should he not
meet her ? By tea-time prudence triumphed anew
no, he would not go. Then he drank his tea
hastily and set off for the stile.
Esther was waiting for him. Expectation had
given an additional colour to her cheeks, and her
red-brown hair showed here and there a beautiful
glint of gold. He could not help admiring the
vigorous way in which it waved and twisted, or
the little curls which grew at the nape of her neck,
tight and close as those of a young lamb's fleece.
Her neck here was admirable, too, in its smooth
creaminess ; and when her eyes lighted up with
such evident pleasure at his coming, how avoid
76 MONOCHROMES
the conviction she was a good and nice girl after
all?
He proposed they should go down into the little
copse on the right, where they would be less
disturbed by the occasional passer-by. Here,
seated on a felled tree-trunk, Willoughby began
that bantering, silly, meaningless form of con
versation known among the ' classes ' as flirting.
He had but the wish to make himself agreeable,
and to while away the time. Esther, however,
misunderstood him.
Willoughby 's hand lay palm downwards on his
knee, and she, noticing a ring which he wore on
his little finger, took hold of it.
' What a funny ring !' she said ; ' let's look ? '
To disembarrass himself of her touch, he pulled
the ring off and gave it her to examine.
' What's that ugly dark green stone ? ' she
asked.
' It's called a sardonyx.'
' What's it for ? ' she said, turning it about.
' It's a signet ring, to seal letters with.'
' An' there's a sorter king's head scratched on it,
an' some writin' too, only I carnt make it out ? '
' It isn't the head of a king, although it wears a
crown,' Willoughby explained, ' but the head and
bust of a Saracen against whom my ancestor of
many hundred years ago went to fight in the
Holy Land. And the words cut round it are our
motto, "Vertue vaunceth," which means virtue
prevails.'
Willoughby may have displayed some accession
IRREMEDIABLE 77
of dignity in giving this bit of family history, for
Esther fell into uncontrolled laughter, at which he
was much displeased. And when the girl made as
though she would put the ring on her own finger,
asking, 'Shall I keep it?' he coloured up with
sudden annoyance.
' It was only my fun ! ' said Esther hastily, and
gave him the ring back, but his cordiality was
gone. He felt no inclination to renew the idle-
word pastime, said it was time to go, and,
swinging his cane vexedly, struck off the heads of
the flowers and the weeds as he went. Esther
walked by his side in complete silence, a pheno
menon of which he presently became conscious.
He felt rather ashamed of having shown temper.
' Well, here's your way home,' said he with an
effort at friendliness. ' Good-bye ; we've had a nice
evening anyhow. It was pleasant down there in
the woods, eh ? '
He was astonished to see her eyes soften with
tears, and to hear the real emotion in her voice as
she answered, ' It was just heaven down there with
you until you turned so funny-like. What had I
done to make you cross ? Say you forgive me,
do!'
' Silly child ! ' said Willoughby, completely
mollified, * I'm not the least angry. There, good
bye ! ' and like a fool he kissed her.
He anathematised his folly in the white light of
next morning, and, remembering the kiss he had
given her, repented it very sincerely. He had an
uncomfortable suspicion she had not received it in
7 8 MONOCHROMES
the same spirit in which it had been bestowed, but,
attaching more serious meaning to it, would build
expectations thereon which must be left unfulfilled.
It was best indeed not to meet her again ; for he
acknowledged to himself that, though he only half
liked, and even slightly feared her, there was a
certain attraction about her was it in her dark
unflinching eyes or in her very red lips? which
might lead him into greater follies still.
Thus it came about that for two successive
evenings Esther waited for him in vain, and on the
third evening he said to himself, with a grudging
relief, that by this time she had probably trans
ferred her affections to some one else.
It was Saturday, the second Saturday since he
left town. He spent the day about the farm,
contemplated the pigs, inspected the feeding of
the stock, and assisted at the afternoon milking.
Then at evening, with a refilled pipe, he went for
a long lean over the west gate, while he traced
fantastic pictures and wove romances in the glories
of the sunset clouds.
He watched the colours glow from gold to
scarlet, change to crimson, sink at last to sad
purple reefs and isles, when the sudden conscious
ness of some one being near him made him turn
round. There stood Esther, and her eyes were
full of eagerness and anger.
' Why have you never been to the stile again ? '
she asked him. ' You promised to come faithful,
and you never came. Why have you not kep'
your promise? Why? Why?' she persisted,
IRREMEDIABLE 79
stamping her foot because Willoughby remained
silent.
What could he say ? Tell her she had no
business to follow him like this ; or own, what was,
unfortunately, the truth, he was just a little glad to
see her?
' P'raps you don't care for me any more ? ' she
said. ' Well, why did you kiss me, then ? '
Why, indeed ! thought Willoughby, marvelling
at his own idiocy, and yet such is the incon
sistency of man not wholly without the desire
to kiss her again. And while he looked at her she
suddenly flung herself down on the hedge-bank at
his feet and burst into tears. She did not cover
up her face, but simply pressed one cheek down
upon the grass while the water poured from her
eyes with astonishing abundance. Willoughby
saw the dry earth turn dark and moist as it drank
the tears in. This, his first experience of Esther's
powers of weeping, distressed him horribly ; never
in his life before had he seen any one weep like
that, he should not have believed such a thing
possible ; he was alarmed, too, lest she should
be noticed from the house. He opened the gate ;
' Esther ! ' he begged, ' don't cry. Come out here,
like a dear girl, and let us talk sensibly.'
Because she stumbled, unable to see her way
through wet eyes, he gave her his hand, and they
found themselves in a field of corn, walking along
the narrow grass-path that skirted it, in the shadow
of the hedgerow.
'What is there to cry about because you have
8o MONOCHROMES
not seen me for two days ? ' he began ; ' why,
Esther, we are only strangers, after all. When we
have been at home a week or two we shall scarcely
remember each other's names.'
Esther sobbed at intervals, but her tears had
ceased. 'It's fine for you to talk of home,' she
said to this. 'You've got something that is a
home, I s'pose? But me! my home's like hell,
with nothing but quarrellin' and cursin,' and
a father who beats us whether sober or drunk.
Yes ! ' she repeated shrewdly, seeing the lively
disgust on Willoughby's face, 'he beat me, all
ill as I was, jus' before I come away. I could
show you the bruises on my arms still. And now
to go back there after knowin' you ! It'll be
worse than ever. I can't endure it, and I won't !
I'll put an end to it or myself somehow, I swear ! '
' But, my poor Esther, how can I help it ? what
can I do?' said Willoughby. He was greatly
moved, full of wrath with her father, with all
the world which makes women suffer. He had
suffered himself at the hands of a woman and
severely, but this, instead of hardening his heart,
had only rendered it the more supple. And yet
he had a vivid perception of the peril in which he
stood. An interior voice urged him to break away,
to seek safety in flight even at the cost of appear
ing cruel or ridiculous ; so, coming to a point in
the field where an elm-bole jutted out across the
path, he saw with relief he could now withdraw
his hand from the girl's, since they must walk
singly to skirt round it.
IRREMEDIABLE 81
Esther took a step in advance, stopped and
suddenly turned to face him ; she held out her
two hands and her face was very near his own.
' Don't you care for me one little bit ? ' she said
wistfully, and surely sudden madness fell upon
him. For he kissed her again, he kissed her
many times, he took her in his arms, and pushed
all thoughts of the consequences far from him.
But when, an hour later, he and Esther stood
by the last gate on the road to Orton, some of
these consequences were already calling loudly
to him.
'You know I have only ^130 a year? ' he told
her ; ' it's no very brilliant prospect for you to
marry me on that.'
For he had actually offered her marriage,
although to the mediocre man such a proceed
ing must appear incredible, uncalled for. But
to Willoughby, overwhelmed with sadness and
remorse, it seemed the only atonement possible.
Sudden exultation leaped at Esther's heart.
' Oh ! I'm used to managin',' she told him con
fidently, and mentally resolved to buy herself, so
soon as she was married, a black feather boa,
such as she had coveted last winter.
Willoughby spent the remaining days of his
holiday in thinking out and planning with Esther
the details of his return to London and her own,
the secrecy to be observed, the necessary legal
steps to be taken, and the quiet suburb in which
F
82 MONOCHROMES
they would set up housekeeping. And, so success
fully did he carry out his arrangements, that within
five weeks from the day on which he had first met
Esther Stables, he and she came out one morning
from a church in Highbury, husband and wife. It
was a mellow September day, the streets were
filled with sunshine, and Willoughby, in reckless
high spirits, imagined he saw a reflection of his
own gaiety on the indifferent faces of the passers-
by. There being no one else to perform the
office, he congratulated himself very warmly, and
Esther's frequent laughter filled in the pauses of
the day.
Three months later Willoughby was dining with
a friend, and the hour-hand of the clock nearing
ten, the host no longer resisted the guest's growing
anxiety to be gone. He arose and exchanged
with him good wishes and good-byes.
' Marriage is evidently a most successful institu
tion,' said he, half- jesting, half-sincere ; ' you almost
make me inclined to go and get married myself.
Confess now your thoughts have been at home the
whole evening.'
Willoughby thus addressed turned red to the
roots of his hair, but did not deny it.
The other laughed. 'And very commendable
they should be,' he continued, 'since you are
scarcely, so to speak, out of your honeymoon.'
With a social smile on his lips, Willoughby
calculated a moment before replying, ' I have been
IRREMEDIABLE 83
married exactly three months and three days.'
Then, after a few words respecting their next
meeting, the two shook hands and parted the
young host to finish the evening with books and
pipe, the young husband to set out on a twenty
minutes' walk to his home.
It was a cold, clear December night following a
day of rain. A touch of frost in the air had dried
the pavements, and Willoughby's footfall ringing
upon the stones re-echoed down the empty
suburban street. Above his head was a dark,
remote sky thickly powdered with stars, and as he
turned westward Alpherat hung for a moment
' comme le point sur un *',' over the slender spire of
St John's. But he was insensible to the worlds
about him ; he was absorbed in his own thoughts,
and these, as his friend had surmised, were entirely
with his wife. For Esther's face was always before
his eyes, her voice was always in his ears, she filled
the universe for him ; yet only four months ago he
had never seen her, had never heard her name.
This was the curious part of it here in December
he found himself the husband of a girl who was
completely dependent upon him not only for food,
clothes, and lodging, but for her present happiness,
her whole future life ; and last July he had been
scarcely more than a boy himself, with no greater
care on his mind than the pleasant difficulty of
deciding where he should spend his annual three
weeks' holiday.
But it is events, not months or years, which age.
Willoughby, who was only twenty-six, remembered
84 MONOCHROMES
his youth as a sometime companion irrevocably
lost to him ; its vague, delightful hopes were now
crystallised into definite ties, and its happy
irresponsibilities displaced by a sense of care,
inseparable perhaps from the most fortunate of
marriages.
As he reached the street in which he lodged his
pace involuntarily slackened. While still some
distance off, his eye sought out and distinguished
the windows of the room in which Esther awaited
him. Through the broken slats of the Venetian
blinds he could see the yellow gaslight within.
The parlour beneath was in darkness ; his landlady
had evidently gone to bed, there being no light
over the hall-door either. In some apprehension
he consulted his watch under the last street-lamp
he passed, to find comfort in assuring himself it
was only ten minutes after ten. He let himself in
with his latch-key, hung up his hat and overcoat by
the sense of touch, and, groping his way upstairs,
opened the door of the first floor sitting-room.
At the table in the centre of the room sat his
wife, leaning upon her elbows, her two hands
thrust up into her ruffled hair ; spread out before
her was a crumpled yesterday's newspaper, and so
interested was she to all appearance in its con
tents that she neither spoke nor looked up as
Willoughby entered. Around her were the still
uncleared tokens of her last meal : tea-slops,
bread-crumbs, and an eggshell crushed to frag
ments upon a plate, which was one of those
trifles that set Willoughby's teeth on edge,
IRREMEDIABLE 85
whenever his wife ate an egg she persisted in
turning the egg-cup upside down upon the table
cloth, and pounding the shell to pieces in her plate
with her spoon.
The room was repulsive in its disorder. The
one lighted burner of the gaselier, turned too high,
hissed up into a long tongue of flame. The fire
smoked feebly under a newly administered shovel
ful of 'slack,' and a heap of ashes and cinders
littered the grate. A pair of walking boots, caked
in dry mud, lay on the hearthrug just where they
had been thrown off. On the mantelpiece, amidst
a dozen other articles which had no business there,
was a bedroom-candlestick ; and every single
article of furniture stood crookedly out of its
place.
Willoughby took in the whole intolerable picture,
and yet spoke with kindliness. 'Well, Esther!
I'm not so late, after all. I hope you did not find
the time dull by yourself?' Then he explained
the reason of his absence. He had met a friend
he had not seen for a couple of years, who had
insisted on taking him home to dine.
His wife gave no sign of having heard him ;
she kept her eyes riveted on the paper before
her.
' You received my wire, of course,' Willoughby
went on, ' and did not wait ? '
Now she crushed the newspaper up with a
passionate movement, and threw it from her. She
raised her head, showing cheeks blazing with
anger, and dark, sullen, unflinching eyes.
86 MONOCHROMES
' I did wyte then ! ' she cried. ' I wyted till near
eight before I got your old telegraph ! I s'pose
that's what you call the manners of a " gentleman,"
to keep your wife mewed up here, while you
go gallivantin' off with your fine friends ? '
Whenever Esther was angry, which was often,
she taunted Willoughby with being ' a gentleman,'
although this was the precise point about him
which at other times found most favour in her
eyes. But to-night she was envenomed by the
idea he had been enjoying himself without her,
stung by fear lest he should have been in company
with some other woman.
Willoughby, hearing the taunt, resigned himself
to the inevitable. Nothing that he could do might
now avert the breaking storm ; all his words would
only be twisted into fresh griefs. But sad experi
ence had taught him that to take refuge in silence
was more fatal still. When Esther was in such a
mood as this it was best to supply the fire with
fuel, that, through the very violence of the con
flagration, it might the sooner burn itself out.
So he said what soothing things he could, and
Esther caught them up, disfigured them, and flung
them back at him with scorn. She reproached
him with no longer caring for her ; she vituperated
the conduct of his family in never taking the
smallest notice of her marriage ; and she detailed
the insolence of the landlady who had told her
that morning she pitied ' poor Mr Willoughby,' and
had refused to go out and buy herrings for Esther's
early dinner.
IRREMEDIABLE 87
Every affront or grievance, real or imaginary,
since the day she and Willoughby had first met,
she poured forth with a fluency due to frequent
repetition, for, with the exception of to-day's added
injuries, Willoughby had heard the whole litany
many times before.
While she raged and he looked at her, he
remembered he had once thought her pretty. He
had seen beauty in her rough brown hair, her
strong colouring, her full red mouth. He fell into
musing ... a woman may lack beauty, he told
himself, and yet be loved
Meanwhile Esther reached white heats of passion,
and the strain could no longer be sustained. She
broke into sobs and began to shed tears with the
facility peculiar to her. In a moment her face was
all wet with the big drops which rolled down her
cheeks faster and faster, and fell with audible
splashes on to the table, on to her lap, on to the
floor. To this tearful abundance, formerly a sur
prising spectacle, Willoughby was now accli
matised ; but the remnant of chivalrous feeling not
yet extinguished in his bosom forbade him to sit
stolidly by while a woman wept, without seeking
to console her. As on previous occasions, his
peace-overtures were eventually accepted. Esther's
tears gradually ceased to flow, she began to exhibit
a sort of compunction, she wished to be forgiven,
and, with the kiss of reconciliation, passed into a
phase of demonstrative affection perhaps more
trying to Willoughby's patience than all that had
preceded it. ' You don't love me ? ' she questioned,
88 MONOCHROMES
' I'm sure you don't love me ? ' she reiterated ; and
he asseverated that he loved her until he despised
himself. Then at last, only half satisfied, but
wearied out with vexation possibly, too, with a
movement of pity at the sight of his haggard face
she consented to leave him. Only, what was he
going to do ? she asked suspiciously ; write those
rubbishing stories of his ? Well, he must promise
not to stay up more than half-an-hour at the
latest only until he had smoked one pipe.
Willoughby promised, as he would have pro
mised anything on earth to secure to himself a
half-hour's peace and solitude. Esther groped for
her slippers, which were kicked off under the
table ; scratched four or five matches along the
box and threw them away before she succeeded in
lighting her candle ; set it down again to contem
plate her tear-swollen reflection in the chimney-
glass, and burst out laughing.
' What a fright I do look, to be sure ! ' she
remarked complacently, and again thrust her two
hands up through her disordered curls. Then,
holding the candle at such an angle that the
grease ran over on to the carpet, she gave Wil
loughby another vehement kiss and trailed out of
the room with an ineffectual attempt to close the
door behind her.
Willoughby got up to shut it himself, and won
dered why it was that Esther never did any one
mortal thing efficiently or well. Good God ! how
irritable he felt. It was impossible to write. He
must find an outlet for his impatience, rend or
IRREMEDIABLE 89
mend something. He began to straighten the
room, but a wave of disgust came over'him before
the task was fairly commenced. What was the
use? To-morrow all would be bad as before. What
was the use of doing anything ? He sat down by
the table and leaned his head upon his hands.
The past came back to him in pictures : his boy
hood's past first of all. He saw again the old
home, every inch of which was familiar to him as
his own name ; he reconstructed in his thought all
the old well-known furniture, and replaced it pre
cisely as it had stood long ago. He passed again
a childish finger over the rough surface of the faded
Utrecht velvet chairs, and smelled again the strong
fragrance of the white lilac tree, blowing in through
the open parlour- window. He savoured anew the
pleasant mental atmosphere produced by the
dainty neatness of cultured women, the companion
ship of a few good pictures, of a few good books.
Yet this home had been broken up years ago, the
dear familiar things had been scattered far and
wide, never to find themselves under the same roof
again ; and from those near relatives who still
remained to him he lived now hopelessly estranged.
Then came the past of his first love-dream, when
he worshipped at the feet of Nora Beresford, and,
with the whole-heartedness of the true fanatic,
clothed his idol with every imaginable attribute of
virtue and tenderness. To this day there remained
a secret shrine in his heart wherein the Lady of
90 MONOCHROMES
his young ideal was still enthroned, although it was
long since he had come to perceive she had nothing
whatever in common with the Nora of reality. For
the real Nora he had no longer any sentiment, she
had passed altogether out of his life and thoughts ;
and yet, so permanent is all influence, whether
good or evil, that the effect she wrought upon his
character remained. He recognised to-night that
her treatment of him in the past did not count for
nothing among the various factors which had
determined his fate.
Now, the past of only last year returned, and,
strangely enough, this seemed farther removed
from him than all the rest. He had been particu
larly strong, well, and happy this time last year.
Nora was dismissed from his mind, and he had
thrown all his energies into his work. His tastes
were sane and simple, and his dingy, furnished
rooms had become through habit very pleasant to
him. In being his own, they were invested with a
greater charm than another man's castle. Here he
had smoked and studied, here he had made many
a glorious voyage into the land of books. Many a
home-coming, too, rose up before him out of the
dark ungenial streets, to a clear blazing fire, a
neatly laid cloth, an evening of ideal enjoyment ;
many a summer twilight when he mused at the open
window, plunging his gaze deep into the recesses
of his neighbour's lime-tree, where the unseen
sparrows chattered with such unflagging gaiety.
He had always been given to much day-dreaming,
and it was in the silence of his rooms of an evening
IRREMEDIABLE 91
that he turned his phantasmal adventures into
stories for the magazines ; here had come to him
many an editorial refusal, but here, too, he had
received the news of his first unexpected success.
All his happiest memories were embalmed in those
shabby, badly-furnished rooms.
Now all was changed. Now might there be no
longer any soft indulgence of the hour's mood.
His rooms and everything he owned belonged now
to Esther, too. She had objected to most of his
photographs, and had removed them. She hated
books, and were he ever so ill-advised as to open
one in her presence, she immediately began to talk,
no matter how silent or how sullen her previous
mood had been. If he read aloud to her she either
yawned despairingly, or was tickled into laughter
where there was no reasonable cause. At first
Willoughby had tried to educate her, and had gone
hopefully to the task. It is so natural to think you
may make what you will of the woman who loves
you. But Esther had no wish to improve. She
evinced all the self-satisfaction of an illiterate
mind. To her husband's gentle admonitions she
replied with brevity that she thought her way quite
as good as his ; or, if he didn't approve of her pro
nunciation, he might do the other thing, she was
too old to go to school again. He gave up the
attempt, and, with humiliation at his previous fatuity,
perceived that it was folly to expect that a few
weeks of his companionship could alter or pull up
the impressions of years, or rather of generations.
Yet here he paused to admit a curious thing : it
92 MONOCHROMES
was not only Esther's bad habits which vexed
him, but habits quite unblameworthy in themselves
which he never would have noticed in another,
irritated him in her. He disliked her manner of
standing-, of walking, of sitting in a chair, of
folding her hands. Like a lover, he was conscious
of her proximity without seeing her. Like a
lover, too, his eyes followed her every movement,
his ear noted every change in her voice. But
then, instead of being charmed by everything as
the lover is, everything jarred upon him.
What was the meaning of this ? To-night the
anomaly pressed upon him : he reviewed his
position. Here was he, quite a young man, just
twenty-six years of age, married to Esther, and
bound to live with her so long as life should last
twenty, forty, perhaps fifty years more. Every
day of those years to be spent in her society ; he
and she face to face, soul to soul ; they two alone
amid all the whirling, busy, indifferent world.
So near together in semblance; in truth, so far
apart as regards all that makes life dear.
Willoughby groaned. From the woman he did
not love, whom he had never loved, he might not
again go free; so much he recognised. The
feeling he had once entertained for Esther, strange
compound of mistaken chivalry and flattered
vanity, was long since extinct; but what, then,
was the sentiment with which she inspired him ?
For he was not indifferent to her no, never for
one instant could he persuade himself he was
indifferent, never for one instant could he banish
IRREMEDIABLE 93
her from his thoughts. His mind's eye followed
her during his hours of absence as pertinaciously
as his bodily eye dwelt upon her actual presence.
She was the principal object of the universe to
him, the centre around which his wheel of life
revolved with an appalling fidelity.
What did it mean ? What could it mean ? he
asked himself with anguish.
And the sweat broke out upon his forehead and
his hands grew cold, for on a sudden the truth lay
there like a written word upon the tablecloth
before him. This woman, whom he had taken to
himself for better, for worse, inspired him with
a passion, intense indeed, all - masterful, soul-
subduing as Love itself. .... But when he
understood the terror of his Hatred, he laid his
head upon his arms and wept, not facile tears like
Esther's, but tears wrung out from his agonising,
unavailing regret.
POOR COUSIN LOUIS
POOR COUSIN LOUIS
THERE stands in the Islands a house known as
' Les Calais.' It has stood there already some
three hundred years, and to judge from its stout
walls and weather-tight appearance, promises to
stand some three hundred more. Built of brown
home-quarried stone, with solid stone chimney-
stacks and roof of red tiles, its door is set in the
centre beneath a semicircular arch of dressed
granite, on the keystone of which is deeply cut
the date of construction :
J VN I
1603
Above the date straggle the letters, L G M M,
initials of the forgotten names of the builder of
the house and of the woman he married. In the
summer weather of 1603 that inscription was cut,
and the man and woman doubtless read it with
pride and pleasure as they stood looking up at
their fine new homestead. They believed it
would carry their names down to posterity when
they themselves should be gone ; yet there stand
the initials to-day, while the personalities they
G
98 MONOCHROMES
represent are as lost to memory as are the builders'
graves.
At the moment when this little sketch opens,
Les Calais had belonged for three generations to
the family of Renouf (pronounced Rennuf), and it
is with the closing days of Mr Louis Renouf that
it purposes to deal. But first to complete the
description of the house, which is typical of
the Islands : hundreds of such homesteads placed
singly, or in groups then sharing in one common
name may be found there in a day's walk,
although it must be added that a day's walk
almost suffices to explore any one of the Islands
from end to end.
Les Calais shares its name with none. It stands
alone, completely hidden, save at one point only,
by its ancient elms. On either side of the door
way are two windows, each of twelve small panes,
and there is a row of five similar windows above.
Around the back and sides of the house cluster all
sorts of outbuildings, necessary dependencies of a
time when men made their own cider and candles,
baked their own bread, cut and stacked their own
wood, and dried the dung of their herds for extra
winter fuel. Beyond the outbuildings lie its
vegetable and fruit gardens, which again are
surrounded on every side by its many rich vergees
of pasture land.
Would you find Les Calais, take the high road
from Jacques-le-Port to the village of St Gilles,
then keep to the left of the schools along a narrow
lane cut between high hedges. It is a cart track
POOR COUSIN LOUIS 99
only, as the deep sun-baked ruts testify, leading
direct from St Gilles to Vauvert, and, likely enough,
during the whole of that distance you will not
meet with a solitary person. You will see nothing
but the green running hedgerows on either hand,
the blue-domed sky above, from whence the lark,
a black pin-point in the blue, flings down a gush
of song ; while the thrush you have disturbed
lunching off that succulent snail takes short ground
flights before you, at every pause turning back
an ireful eye to judge how much farther you
intend to pursue him. He is happy if you branch
off midway to the left, down the lane leading
straight to Les Calais.
A gable end of the house faces this lane, and its
one window in the days of Louis Renouf looked
out upon a dilapidated farm and stable - yard,
the gate of which, turned back upon its hinges,
stood wide open to the world. Within might be
seen granaries empty of grain, stables where no
horses fed, a long cow-house crumbling into
ruin, and the broken stone sections of a cider
trough dismantled more than half a century back.
Cushions of emerald moss studded the thatches,
and Liliputian forests of grass-blades sprang thick
between the cobble stones. The place might
have been mistaken for some deserted grange, but
for the contradiction conveyed in a bright pewter
full-bellied water-can standing near the well, in a
pile of firewood, with chopper still stuck in the top
most billet, and in a tatterdemalion troop of barn
door fowl lagging meditatively across the yard.
ioo MONOCHROMES
On a certain day, when summer warmth and
unbroken silence brooded over all, and the broad
sunshine blent the yellows, reds, and greys of tile
and stone, the greens of grass and foliage, into one
harmonious whole, a visitor entered the open gate.
This was a tall, large young woman, with a fair,
smooth, thirty-year-old face. Dressed in what
was obviously her Sunday best, although it was
neither Sunday nor even market-day, she wore
a bonnet diademed with gas-green lilies of the
valley, a netted black mantilla, and a velvet-
trimmed violet silk gown, which she carefully
lifted out of dust's way, thus displaying a
stiffly starched petticoat and kid spring-side
boots.
Such attire, unbeautiful in itself and incongruous
with its surroundings, jarred harshly upon the
picturesque note of the scene. From being a
subject to perpetuate on canvas, it shrunk, as it
were, to the background of a cheap photograph,
or the stage adjuncts to the heroine of a farce.
The silence too was shattered as the new comer's
foot fell upon the stones. An unseen dog began
to mouth a joyous welcome, and the fowls, lifting
their thin, apprehensive faces towards her, flopped
into a clumsy run as though their last hour were
visible.
The visitor meanwhile turned familiar steps to
a door in the wall on the left, and raising the latch,
entered the flower garden of Les Calais. This
garden, lying to the south, consisted then, and
perhaps does still, of two square grass-plots with
POOR COUSIN LOUIS 101
a broad gravel path running round them and up
to the centre of the house.
In marked contrast with the neglect of the farm
yard was this exquisitely kept garden, brilliant and
fragrant with flowers. From a raised bed in the
centre of each plot standard rose-trees shed out
gorgeous perfume from chalices of every shade of
loveliness, and thousands of white pinks justled
shoulder to shoulder in narrow bands cut within
the borders of the grass.
Busy over these, his back towards her, was an
elderly man, braces hanging, in coloured cotton
shirt.
'Good afternoon, Tourtel,' cried the lady,
advancing.
Thus addressed, he straightened himself slowly
and turned round. Leaning on his hoe, he shaded
his feyes with his hand. ' Eh den ! it's you, Missis
Pedvinn,' said he ; ' but we didn't expec' you till
to-morrow ? '
' No, it's true,' said Mrs Poidevin, ' that I wrote
I would come Saturday, but Pedvinn expects
some friends by the English boat, and wants me
to receive them. Yet as they may be staying the
week, I did not like to put poor Cousin Louis off
so long without a visit, so thought I had better
come up to-day.'
Almost unconsciously, her phrases assumed
apologetic form. She had an uneasy feeling
Tourtel's wife might resent her unexpected advent ;
although why Mrs Tourtel should object, or why
she herself should stand in any awe of the
102 MONOCHROMES
Tourtcls, she could not have explained. Tourtcl
was but gardener, the wife housekeeper and nurse,
to her cousin Louis Renouf, master of Les Calais.
' I shan't inconvenience Mrs Tourtel, I hope ?
Of course I shouldn't think of staying tea if she is
busy; I'll just sit an hour with Cousin Louis, and
catch the six o'clock omnibus home from Vauvert.'
Tourtel stood looking at her with wooden
countenance, in which two small shifting eyes
alone gave signs of life. ' Eh, but you won't be
no inconvenience to de ole woman, ma'am,' said
he suddenly, in so loud a voice that Mrs Poidevin
jumped; 'only de apple-goche, dat she was goin'
to bake agen your visit won't be ready, dat's
all.'
He turned, and stared up at the front of the
house ; Mrs Poidevin, for no reason at all, did
so too. Door and windows were open wide.
In the upper story, the white roller-blinds were
let down against the sun, and on the broad sills
of the parlour windows were nosegays placed in
blue china jars. A white trellis-work criss-crossed
over the fa$ade, for the support of climbing rose
and purple clematis, which hung out a curtain of
blossom almost concealing the masonry behind.
The whole place breathed of peace and beauty,
and Louisa Poidevin was lapped round with that
pleasant sense of well-being which it was her chief
desire in life never to lose. Though poor Cousin
Louis feeble, childish, solitary was so much to
be pitied, at least in his comfortable home and his
worthy Tourtels he found compensation.
POOR COUSIN LOUIS 103
An instant after Tourtel had spoken, a woman
passed across the wide hall. She had on a blue
linen skirt, white stockings, and shoes of gray list.
The strings of a large, bibbed, lilac apron drew
the folds of a flowered bed-jacket about her ample
waist ; and her thick yellow-gray hair, worn
without a cap, was arranged smoothly on either
side of a narrow head. She just glanced out, and
Mrs Poidevin was on the point of calling to her,
when Tourtel fell into a torrent of words about
his flowers. He had so much to say on the
subject of horticulture ; was so anxious for her to
examine the freesia bulbs lying in the tool-house,
just separated from the spring plants ; he
denounced so fiercely the grinding policy of
Brehault, the middleman, who purchased his
garden stuff to resell it at Covent Garden
' My good ! on dem freesias I didn't make not
two doubles a bunch ! ' that for a long quarter
of an hour all memory of her cousin was driven
from Mrs Poidevin's brain. Then a voice said
at her elbow, ' Mr Rennuf is quite ready to see
you, ma'am,' and there stood Tourtel's wife, with
pale composed face, square shoulders and hips,
and feet that moved noiselessly in her list slippers.
' Ah, Mrs Tourtel, how do you do ? ' said the
visitor ; a question which in the Islands is no mere
formula, but demands and obtains a detailed
answer, after which the questioner's own health is
politely inquired into. Not until this ceremony
had been scrupulously accomplished, and the two
women were on their way to the house, did Mrs
104 MONOCHROMES
Poidevin beg to know how things were going with
her ' poor cousin.'
There lay something at variance between the
ruthless, calculating spirit which looked forth from
the housekeeper's cold eye, and the extreme
suavity of her manner of speech.
' Eh, my good ! but much de same, ma'am, in his
health, an' more fancies dan ever in his head.
First one ting an' den anudder, an' always tinking
dat everybody is robbin' him. You rem-ember de
larse time you was here, an' Mister Rennuf was
abed ? Well, den, after you was gone, if he didn't
deck-clare you had taken some of de fedders of his
bed away wid you. Yes, my good ! he tought you
had cut a hole in de tick as you sat dere beside
him an' emptied de fedders away into your pocket.'
Mrs Poidevin was much interested. ' Dear me,
is it possible ? . . . . But it's quite a mania with
him. I remember now, on that very day he com
plained to me Tourtel was wearing his shirts,
and wanted me to go in with him to Lepage's to
order some new ones.'
' Eh ! but what would Tourtel want wid fine
white shirts like dem ? ' said the wife placidly.
' But Mr Louis have such dozens an' dozens of 'em
dat dey gets hidden away in de presses, an' he
tinks dem stolen.'
They reached the house. The interior is
as characteristic of the Islands as is the outside.
Two steps take you down into the -hall, crossing
the further end of which is the staircase with its
balustrade of carved black oak. Instead of the
POOR COUSIN LOUIS 105
mean painted sticks, known technically as ' raisers,'
and connected together at the top by a vulgar
mahogany hand-rail a fundamental article of
faith with the modern builder these old Island
balustrades are formed of wooden panels, fretted
out into scrolls, representing flower, or leaf, or
curious beaked and winged creatures, which go
curving, creeping, and ramping along in the direc
tion of the stairs. In every house you will find the
detail different, while each resembles all as a
whole. For in the old days the workman, were he
never so humble, recognised the possession of an
individual mind, as well as of two eyes and two
hands, and he translated fearlessly this individuality
of his into his work. Every house built in those
days and existing down to these, is not only a
confession, in some sort, of the tastes, the habits,
the character, of the man who planned it, but pre
serves a record likewise of every one of the
subordinate minds employed in the various parts.
Off the hall of Les Calais are two rooms on
the left and one on the right. The solidity of
early seventeenth-century walls is shown in the
embrasure depth (measuring fully three feet) of
windows and doors. Up to fifty years ago all the
windows had leaded casements, as had every similar
Island dwelling-house. To-day, to the artist's regret,
he will hardly find one. The showy taste of the
Second Empire spread from Paris even to these
remote parts, and plate-glass, or at least oblong
panes, everywhere replaced the mediaeval style.
In 1854, Louis Renoufjust three and thirty, was
io6 MONOCHROMES
about to bring his bride, Miss Betsy Mauger, home
to the old house. In her honour it was done up
throughout, and the diamonded casements were
replaced by guillotine windows, six panes to each
sash.
The best parlour then became a 'drawing-
room ' ; its raftered ceiling was white-washed, and
its great centre-beam of oak infamously papered
to match the walls. The newly-married couple
were not in a position to refurnish in approved
Second Empire fashion. The gilt and marble,
the console tables and mirrors, the impossibly
curved sofas and chairs, were for the moment
beyond them ; the wife promised herself to acquire
these later on. But later on came a brood of
sickly children (only one of whom reached man
hood) ; to the consequent expenses Les Calais
owed the preservation of its inlaid wardrobes, its
four-post bedsteads with slender fluted columns,
and its Chippendale parlour chairs, the backs of
which simulate a delicious intricacy of twisted
ribbons. As a little girl, Louisa Poidevin had
often amused herself studying these convolutions,
and seeking to puzzle out among the rippling
ribbons some beginning or some end ; but as she
grew up, even the simplest problem lost interest
for her, and the sight of the old Chippendale chairs
standing along the walls of the large parlour
scarcely stirred her bovine mind now to so much
as reminiscence.
It was the door of this large parlour that the
housekeeper opened as she announced, ' Here is
POOR COUSIN LOUIS 107
Mrs Pedvinn come to see you, sir,' and followed
the visitor in.
Sitting in a capacious 'berceuse,' stuffed and
chintz-covered, was the shrunken figure of a more
than seventy-year-old man. He was wrapped in a
worn gray dressing-gown, with a black velvet
skull-cap napless at the seams covering his
spiritless hair, and he looked out upon his narrow
world from dim eyes set in cavernous orbits. In
their expression was something of the questioning
timidity of a child, contrasting curiously with the
querulousness of old age shown in the thin sucked-
in lips, now and again twitched by a movement in
unison with the twitching of the withered hands
spread out upon his knees.
The sunshine, slanting through the low windows,
bathed hands and knees, lean shanks and slippered
feet, in mote-flecked streams of gold. It bathed
anew rafters and ceiling-beam, as it had bathed them
at the same hour and season these last three hun
dred years ; it played over the worm-eaten
furniture, and lent transitory colour to the faded
samplers on the walls, bringing into prominence
one particular sampler, which depicted in silks
Adam and Eve seated beneath the fatal tree, and
recorded the fact that Marie Hoched6 was seventeen
in 1808 and put her 'trust in God'; and the same
ray kissed the cheek of that very Marie's son who
at the time her girlish fingers pricked the canvas
belonged to the enviable myriads of the unthought-
of and the unborn.
' Why, how cold you are, Cousin Louis,' said
io8 MONOCHROMES
Mrs Poidevin, taking his passive hand between
her two warm ones, and feeling a chill strike from
it through the violet kid gloves ; ' and in spite of
all this sunshine too ! '
' Ah, I'm not always in the sunshine,' said the
old man ; ' not always, not always in the sun
shine.' She was not sure that he recognised her,
yet he kept hold of her hand and would not let
it go.
' No ; you are not always in de sunshine, because
de sunshine is not always here,' observed Mrs
Tourtel in a reasonable voice, and with a side
glance for the visitor.
' And I am not always here either,' he murmured,
half to himself. He took a firmer hold of his
cousin's hand, and seemed to gain courage from
the comfortable touch, for his thin voice changed
from complaint to command. 'You can go, Mrs
Tourtel,' he said, ' we don't require you here. We
want to talk. You can go and set the tea-things
in the next room. My cousin will stay and drink
tea with me.'
' Why, my cert'nly ! of course Mrs Pedvinn will
stay tea. P'r'aps you'd like to put your bonnet off
in the bedroom first, ma'am ? '
' No, no,' he interposed testily, ' she can lay it off
here. No need for you to take her upstairs.'
Servant and master exchanged a mute look ; for
the moment his old eyes were lighted up with the
unforeseeing, unveiled triumph of a child ; then
they fell before hers. She turned, leaving the
room with noiseless tread ; although a large-built,
POOR COUSIN LOUIS 109
ponderous woman, she walked with the softness of
a cat.
' Sit down here close beside me,' said Louis
Renouf to his cousin ; ' I've something to tell you,
something very important to tell you.' He
lowered his voice mysteriously, and glanced with
apprehension at window and door, squeezing tight
her hand. ' I'm being robbed, my dear, robbed
of everything I possess.'
Mrs Poidevin, already prepared for such a state
ment, answered complacently, ' Oh, it must be
your fancy, Cousin Louis. Mrs Tourtel takes too
good care of you for that.'
' My dear,' he whispered, ' silver, linen, everything
is going ; even my fine white shirts from the shelves
of the wardrobe. Yet everything belongs to poor
John, who is in Australia, and who never writes to
his father now. His last letter is ten years old
ten years old, my dear, and I don't need to read it
over, for I know it by heart.'
Tears of weakness gathered in his eyes, and
began to trickle over on to his cheek.
' Oh, Cousin John will write soon, I'm sure,' said
Mrs Poidevin, with easy optimism ; ' I shouldn't
wonder if he has made a fortune, and is on his way
home to you at this moment.'
' Ah, he will never make a fortune, my dear, he
was always too fond of change. He had excellent
capabilities, Louisa, but he was too fond of
change And yet I often sit and pretend
to myself he has made money, and is as proud
to be with his poor old father as he used to be
no MONOCHROMES
when quite a little lad. I plan out all we should
do, and all he would say, and just how he would
look .... but that's only my make-believe ; John
will never make money, never. But I'd be glad if
he would come back to the old home, though it
were without a penny. For if he don't come soon,
he'll find no home, and no welcome I raised
all the money I could when he went away, and
now, as you know, my dear, the house and land go
to you and Pedvinn But I'd like my poor boy
to have the silver and linen, and his mother's
furniture and needlework to remember us by.'
' Yes, cousin, and he will have them some day,
but not for a great while yet, I hope.'
Louis Renouf shook his head, with the immov
able obstinacy of the very old or the very young.
' Louisa, mark my words, he will get nothing,
nothing. Everything is going. They'll make
away with the chairs and the tables next, with
the very bed I lie on.'
1 Oh, Cousin Louis, you mustn't think such
things,' said Mrs Poidevin serenely; had not the
poor old man accused her to the Tourtels of
filching his mattress feathers ?
' Ah, you don't believe me, my dear/ said he,
with a resignation which was pathetic ; ' but you'll
remember my words when I am gone. Six dozen
rat-tailed silver forks and spoons, with silver candle
sticks, and tray, and snuffers. Besides odd pieces,
and piles and piles of linen. Your cousin Betsy was
a notable housekeeper, and everything she bought
was of the very best. The large table-cloths were
POOR COUSIN LOUIS in
five guineas apiece, my dear, British money five
guineas apiece.'
Louisa listened with perfect calmness and scant
attention. Circumstances too comfortable, and a
too abundant diet, had gradually undermined with
her all perceptive and reflective powers. Though,
of course, had the household effects been coming
to her as well as the land, she would have felt more
interest in them ; but it is only human nature to
contemplate the possible losses of others with
equanimity.
' They must be handsome cloths, cousin,' she
said pleasantly ; ' I'm sure Pedvinn would never
allow me half so much for mine.'
At this moment there appeared, framed in the
open window, the hideous vision of an animated
gargoyle, with elf-locks of flaming red, and an
intense malignancy of expression. With a finger
dragging down the under eyelid of each eye, so
that the eyeball seemed to bulge out with a finger
pulling back either corner of the wide mouth, so
that it seemed to touch the ear this repulsive
apparition leered at the old man in blood-curdling
fashion. Then catching sight of Mrs Poidevin,
who sat dumbfounded, and with her ' heart in her
mouth,' as she afterwards expressed it, the fingers
dropped from the face, the features sprang back
into position, and the gargoyle resolved itself into
a buxom red-haired girl, who, bursting into a laugh,
impudently stuck her tongue out at them before
skipping away.
The old man had cowered down in his chair
ii2 MONOCHROMES
with his hands over his eyes ; now he looked up.
' I thought it was the old Judy,' he said, ' the old
Judy she is always telling me about. But it's only
Margot.'
' And who is Margot, cousin ? ' inquired Louisa,
still shaken from the surprise.
' She helps in the kitchen. But I don't like her.
She pulls faces at me, and jumps out upon me
from behind doors. And when the wind blows
and the windows rattle she tells me about the old
Judy from Jethou, who is sailing over the sea on a
broomstick, to come and beat me to death. Do
you know, my dear,' he said piteously, ' you'll think
I'm very silly, but I'm afraid up here by myself all
alone ? Do not leave me, Louisa ; stay with me, or
take me back to town with you. Pedvinn would
let me have a room in your house, I'm sure ? And
you wouldn't find me much trouble, and of course
I would bring my own bed linen, you know.'
' You had best take your tea first, sir,' said Mrs
Tourtel from outside the window ; she held scissors
in her hand, and was busy trimming the roses. She
offered no excuse for eavesdropping.
The meal was set out, Island fashion, with
abundant cakes and sweets. Louisa saw in the
silver tea-set another proof, if need be, of her
cousin's unfounded suspicions. Mrs Tourtel stood
in the background, waiting. Renouf desired her
to pack his things ; he was going into town. ' To
be sure, sir,' she said civilly, and remained where
she stood. He brought a clenched hand down
upon the table, so that the china rattled. ' Are
POOR COUSIN LOUIS, 113
you master here, or am I ? ' he cried ; ' I am going
down to my cousin Pedvinn's. To-morrow I shall
send my notary to put seals on everything, and to
take an inventory. For the future I shall live in
town.'
His senility had suddenly left him ; he spoke
with firmness ; it was a flash-up of almost extinct
fires. Louisa was astounded. Mrs Tourtel looked
at him steadily. Through the partition wall,
Tourtel in the kitchen heard the raised voice,
and followed his curiosity into the parlour.
Margot followed him. Seen near, and with her
features at rest, she appeared a plump, touzle-
headed girl, in whose low forehead and loose-
lipped mouth, crassness, cruelty, and sensuality
were unmistakably expressed. Yet freckled cheek,
rounded chin, and bare red mottled arms, presented
the beautiful curves of youth, and there was a
certain sort of attractiveness about her not to be
gainsaid.
' Since my servants refuse to pack what I
require,' said Renouf with dignity, ' I will do it
myself. Come with me, Louisa.'
At a sign from the housekeeper, Tourtel and
Margot made way. Mrs Poidevin would have
followed her cousin, as the easiest thing to do
although she was confused by the old man's out
break, and incapable of deciding what course
she should take when the deep vindictive baying
of the dog ushered a new personage upon the
scene.
This was an individual who made his appearance
H
u 4 MONOCHROMES
from the kitchen regions a tall, thin man of about
thirty years of age, with a pallid skin, a dark eye,
and a heavy moustache. His shabby black coat
and tie, with the cords and gaiters that clothed
his legs, suggested a combination of sportsman
and family practitioner. He wore a bowler hat,
and was pulling off tan driving gloves as he
advanced.
' Ah my good ! Doctor Owen, but dat's you ? '
said Mrs Tourtel. ' But we wants you here badly.
Your patient is in one of his tantrums, and no
one can't do nuddin wid him. He says he shall go
right away into town. Wants to make up again
wid Doctor Lelever for sure.'
The new comer and Mrs Poidevin were examin
ing each other with the curiosity one feels on first
meeting a person long known by reputation or by
sight. But now she turned to the housekeeper in
surprise.
'Has my cousin quarrelled with his old friend
Doctor Lelever ? ' she asked. ' I've heard nothing
of that.'
' Ah, dis long time. He tought Doctor Lelever
made too little of his megrims. He won't have
nobody but Doctor Owen now. P'r'aps you know
Doctor Owen, ma'am ? Mrs Pedvinn, Doctor ;
de master's cousin, come up to visit him.'
Renouf was heard moving about overhead ;
opening presses, dragging boxes.
Owen hung up his hat, putting his gloves inside
it. He rubbed his lean discoloured hands lightly
together, as a fly cleans its forelegs.
POOR COUSIN LOUIS 115
' Shall I just step up to him ? ' he said. ' It may
calm him, and distract his thoughts.'
With soft nimbleness, in a moment he was
upstairs. ' So that's Doctor Owen ? ' observed
Mrs Poidevin with interest. ' A splendid-looking
gentleman ! He must be very clever, I'm sure.
Is he beginning to get a good practice yet ? '
' Ah, bah, our people, as you know, ma'am, dey
don't like no strangers, specially no Englishmen.
He was very glad when Mr Rennuf sent for
him 'Twas through Margot there. She got
took bad one Saturday coming back from market
from de heat or de squidge ' (crowd), ' and Doctor
Owen he overtook her on the road in his gig, and
druv her home. Den de master, he must have a
talk with him, and so de next time he fancy
hisself ill, he send for Doctor Owen, and since
den he don't care for Doctor Lelever no more at
all.'
' I ought to be getting off/ remarked Mrs
Poidevin, remembering the hour at which the
omnibus left Vauvert ; ' had I better go up and
bid cousin Louis good-bye ? '
Mrs Tourtel thought Margot should go and ask
the Doctor's opinion first, but as Margot had
already vanished, she went herself.
There was a longish pause, during which Mrs
Poidevin looked uneasily at Tourtel; he with rest
less, furtive eyes at her. Then the housekeeper
reappeared, noiseless, cool, determined as ever.
' Mr Rennuf is quiet now,' she said ; ' de Doctor
have given him a soothing draught, and will stay to
ii6 MONOCHROMES
see how it axe. He tinks you better slip quietly
away.'
On this, Louisa Poidevin left Les Calais ; but in
spite of her easy superficiality, her unreasoning
optimism, she took with her a sense of oppression.
Cousin Louis's appeal rang in her ears : ' Do not
leave me ; stay with me, or take me back with you.
I am afraid up here, quite alone.' And after all,
though his fears were but the folly of old age, why,
she asked herself, should he not come and stay
with them in town if he wished to do so ? She
resolved to talk it over with Pedvinn ; she thought
she would arrange for him the little west room,
being the furthest from the nurseries ; and in
planning out such vastly important trifles as to
which easy-chair and which bed-room candlestick
she would devote to his use, she forgot the old
man himself and recovered her usual stolid
jocundity.
When Owen had entered the bedroom, he had
found Renouf standing over an open portmanteau,
into which he was placing hurriedly whatever
caught his eye or took his fancy, from the sur
rounding tables. His hand trembled from eager
ness, his pale old face was flushed with excitement
and hope. Owen, going straight up to him, put
his two hands on his shoulders, and without
uttering a word, gently forced him backwards into
a chair. Then he sat down in front of him, so
close that their knees touched, and fixing his
strong eyes on Renoufs wavering ones, and
stroking with his finger-tips the muscles behind
POOR COUSIN LOUIS 117
the ears, he threw him immediately into an
hypnotic trance.
'You want to stay here, don't you ?' said Owen,
emphatically.
' I want to stay here,' repeated the old man
through gray lips. His face was become the
colour of ashes, his hands were cold to the sight.
'You want your cousin to go away and not
disturb you any more ? Answer answer me.'
' I want my cousin to go away,' Renouf murmured,
but in his staring, fading eye were traces of the
struggle tearing him within.
Owen pressed down the eyelids, made another
pass before the face, and rose on his long legs with
a sardonic grin. Margot, leaning across a corner
of the bed, had watched him with breathless interest.
' I b'lieve you're de Evil One himself/ she said,
admiringly.
Owen pinched her smooth chin between his
tobacco-stained thumb and fingers.
' Pooh ! nothing but a trick I learned in Paris,'
said he ; ' it's very convenient to be able to put a
person to sleep now and again/
1 Could you put any one to sleep ?'
' Any one I wanted to.'
' Do it to me then,' she begged him.
' What use, my girl ? Don't you do all I wish
without ? '
She grimaced, and picked at the bed-quilt
laughing, then rose and stood in front of him, her
round red arms clasped behind her head. But he
only glanced at her with professional interest.
u8 MONOCHROMES
'You should get married, my dear, without
delay. Pierre would be ready enough, no doubt ? '
' Bah! Pierreorannuder if Ibroughtaweddin'por-
tion. You don't tink to provide me wid one, I s'pose?'
'You know that I can't. But why don't you
get it from the Tourtels ? You've earned it
before this, I dare swear.'
It was now that the housekeeper came up, and
took down to Louisa Poidevin the message given
above. But first she was detained by Owen, to
assist him in getting his patient into bed.
The old man woke up during the process, very
peevish, very determined to get to town. 'Well,
you can't go till to-morrow den,' said Mrs Tourtel ;
' your cousin has gone home, an' now you've got to
go to sleep, so be quiet.' She dropped all sem
blance of respect in her tones. ' Come, lie down ! '
she said sharply, 'or I'll send Margot to tickle
your feet.' He shivered and whimpered into
silence beneath the clothes.
' Margot tells him 'bout witches, an ogres, and
scrapels her fingures 'long de wall, till he tinks dere
goin' to fly 'way wid him,' she explained to Owen
in an aside.
'Oh, I know Margot,' he answered laconically,
and thought, ' May I never lie helpless within reach
of such fingers as hers.'
He took a step, and stumbled over a port
manteau gaping open at his feet. ' Put your
mischievous paws to some use,' he told the girl,
' and clear these things away from the floor ; ' then
remembering his rival Le Lievre ; ' if the old fool
POOR COUSIN LOUIS 119
had really got away to town, it would have been a
nice day's work for us all/ he added.
Downstairs he joined the Tourtels in the
kitchen, a room situated behind the living-room
on the left, with low green glass windows, rafters
and woodwork smoke-browned with the fires of a
dozen generations. In the wooden racks over by
the chimney hung flitches of home-cured bacon,
and the kettle was suspended by three chains over
the centre of the wide hearth, where glowed and
crackled an armful of sticks. So dark was the
room, in spite of the daylight outside, that two
candles were set in the centre of the table,
enclosing in their circles of yellow light the pale
face and silver hair of the housekeeper, and Tourtel's
rugged head and weather-beaten countenance.
He had glasses ready, and a bottle of the cheap
brandy for which the Island is famous. ' You'll
take a drop of something, eh, Doctor ? ' he said as
Owen seated himself on the jonquiere, a padded
settle green baize covered, to replace the primi
tive rushes fitted on one side of the hearth. He
stretched his long legs into the light, and for a
moment considered moodily the old gaiters and
cobbled boots. ' You've seen to the horse ? ' he
asked Tourtel.
' My cert'nly ; he's in de stable dis hour back,
an' I've given him a feed. I tought maybe you'd
make a night of it ? '
' I may as well for all the work I have to do,'
said Owen with sourness ; ' a damned little Island
this for doctors. Nothing ever the matter with
120 MONOCHROMES
any one except the " creeps," and those who have it
spend their last penny in making it worse.'
' Dere's as much illness here as anywhere,' said
Tourtel, defending the reputation of his native soil,
' if once you gets among de right class, among de
people as has de time an' de money to make
dereselves ill. But if you go foolin' roun' wid
de paysans, what can you expeck ? We workin'
folks can't afford to lay up an' buy ourselves
doctors' stuff.'
' And how am I to get among the right class ? '
retorted Owen, sucking the ends of his moustache
into his mouth and chewing them savagely. 'A
more confounded set of stuck-up, beggarly aristo
crats I never met than your people here.' His
discontented eye rested on Mrs Tourtel. ' That Mrs
Pedvinn is the wife of Pedvinn the Jurat, I suppose ? '
' Yes, de Pedvinns of Rohais.'
' Good people,' said Owen thoughtfully ; ' in with
the de Caterelles, and the Dadderney ' (d' Aldenois)
' set. Are there children ? '
'Tree.'
He took a drink of the spirit and water ; his
bad temper passed. Margot came in from upstairs.
' De marster sleeps as dough he'd never wake
again,' she announced, flinging herself into the
chair nearest Owen.
' It's 'bout time he did,' Tourtel growled.
' I should have thought it more to your interest
to keep him alive?' Owen inquired. 'A good
place, surely ? '
' A good place if you like to call it so,' the wife
POOR COUSIN LOUIS 121
answered him ; ' but what, if he go to town, as he
say to-night ? and what, if he send de notary, to
put de scelles here ? den he take up again wid Dr
Lelever, dat's certain.' And Tourtel added in his
surly key, ' Anyway, I've been .workin' here desc
tirty years now, and dat's 'bout enough.'
' In fact, when the orange is sucked, you throw
away the peel ? But are you quite sure it is
sucked dry ? '
' De house an' de Ian' go to de Pedvinns, an' all
de money die too, for de little he had left when
young John went 'crost de seas, he sunk in a
'nuity. Dere's nuddin' but de lining an' plate, an'
such like, as goes to de son.'
'And what he finds of that, I expect, will
scarcely add to his impedimenta ? ' said Owen,
grinning. He thought, ' The old man is well known
in the Island, the name of his medical attendant
would get mentioned in the papers at least ; just as
well Lelever should not have the advertisement.'
Besides, there were the Poidevins.
' You might say a good word for me to Mrs
Pedvinn, ' he said aloud, ' I live nearer to Rohais
than Lelever does, and with young children she
might be glad to have some one at hand.'
' You may be sure you won't never find me un
grateful, sir,' answered the housekeeper ; and Owen,
shading his eyes with his hand, sat pondering over
the use of this word ' ungrateful,' with its faint yet
perceptible emphasis.
Margot, meanwhile, laid the supper ; the remains
of a rabbit-pie, a big ' pinclos ' or spider crab, with
122 MONOCHROMES
thin, red knotted legs, spreading far over the edges
of the dish, the apple-gdche, hot from the oven,
cider, and the now half-empty bottle of brandy.
The four sat down and fell to. Margot was in
boisterous spirits ; everything she said or did was
meant to attract Owen's attention. Her cheeks
flamed with excitement ; she wanted his eyes to be
perpetually upon her. But Owen's interest in her
had long ceased. To-night, while eating heartily,
he was absorbed in his ruling passion : to get on in
the world, to make money, to be admitted into
Island society. Behind the pallid, impenetrable
mask, which always enraged yet intimidated
Margot, he plotted incessantly, schemed, combined,
weighed this and that, studied his prospects from
every point of view.
Supper over, he lighted his meerschaum ; Tourtel
produced a short clay, and the bottle was passed
between them. The women left them together,
and for ten, twenty minutes, there was complete
silence in the room. Tourtel let his pipe go out,
and rapped it down brusquely upon the table.
' It must come to an end,' he said with suppressed
ferocity ; ' are we eider to spen' de whole of our
lives here, or else be turned off at de eleventh hour
after sufferin' all de heat an' burden of de day ?
It's onreasonable. An' dere's de cottage at Cottu
standin' empty, an' me havin' to pay a man to look
after de tomato houses, when I could get fifty per
cent, more by lookin' after dem myself .... An'
what profit is such a sickly, shiftless life as dat ?
My good ! dere's not a man, woman, or chile in de
POOR COUSIN LOUIS 123
Islan's as will shed a tear when he goes, an' dere's
some, I tells you, as have suffered from his whim
sies dese tirty years, as will rejoice. Why, his wife
was dead already when we come here, an' his on'y
son, a dirty, drunken, lazy vaurien too, has never
been near him for fifteen years, nor written neider.
Dead most likely, in foreign parts An'
what's he want to stay for, contraryin' an' thwartin'
dem as have sweated an' laboured, an' now, please
de good God, wan's to sit 'neath de shadow of
dere own fig-tree for de short time dat remains to
dem ? . . . . An' what do we get for stayin' ? Forty
pound, Island money, between de two of us, an'
de little I makes from de flowers, an' poultry, an'
such like. An' what do we do for it ? Bake, an'
wash, an' clean, an' cook, an' keep de garden in
order, an' nuss him in all his tantrums If
we was even on his testament, I'd say nuddin. But
everything goes to Pedvinns, an' de son John, an'
de little bit of income dies wid him. I tell you 'tis
'bout time dis came to an end/
Owen recognised that Destiny asked no sin
more heinous from him than silence, perhaps con
cealment ; the chestnuts would reach him without
risk of burning his hand. ' It's time,' said he, ' I
thought of going home. Get your lantern and I'll
help you with the trap. But first, I'll just run up
and have another look at Mr Rennuf.'
For the last time the five personages of this
obscure little tragedy found themselves together in
the bed-room, now lighted by a small lamp which
stood on the wash-hand stand. Owen, who had to
124 MONOCHROMES
stoop to enter the door, could have touched the
low-pitched ceiling with his hand. The bed, with
its slender pillars, supporting a canopy of faded
damask, took up the greater part of the room.
There was a fluted headpiece of the damask, and
long curtains of the same material, looped up on
either side of the pillows. Sunken in these lay the
head of the old man, crowned with a cotton night
cap, the eyes closed, the skin drawn tight over the
skull, the outline of the attenuated form indistin
guishable beneath the clothes. The arms lay
outside the counterpane, straight down on either
side ; and the mechanical playing movement of the
fingers showed he was not asleep. Margot and
Mrs Tourtel watched him from the bed's foot.
Their gigantic shadows, thrown forward by
the lamp, stretched up the opposite wall, and
covered half the ceiling. The old-fashioned
mahogany furniture, with its fillets of paler wood,
drawn in ovals, upon the doors of the presses, their
centrepieces of fruit and flowers, shone out here and
there with reflected light; and the looking-glass,
swung on corkscrew mahogany pillars between
the damask window curtains, gleamed lake-like
amidst the gloom.
Owen and Tourtel joined the women at the bed-
foot. Though each was absorbed entirely in his own
egotisms, all were animated by the same secret
desire. Yet, to the feeling heart, there was some
thing unspeakably pleading in the sight of the old
man lying there, in his helplessness, in the very
room, on the very bed, which had seen his
POOR COUSIN LOUIS 125
wedding-night forty years before ; where as a
much-wished-for and welcomed infant, he had
opened his eyes to the light more than seventy
years since. He had been helpless then as now,
but then the child had been held to loving hearts,
loving fingers had tended him, a young and loving
mother lay beside him, the circumference of all his
tiny world, as he was the core and centre of all of
hers. And from being that exquisite, well-beloved
little child, he had passed thoughtlessly, hopefully,
despairfully, wearily, through all the stages of life,
until he had come to this a poor, old, feeble,
helpless, worn-out man, lying there where he had
been born, but with all those who had loved him
carried long ago to the grave ; with the few who
might have protected him still, his son, his cousin,
his old friend Le Lievre, as powerless to save him
as the silent dead.
Renouf opened his eyes, looked in turn at the
four faces before him, and read as much pity in
them as in masks of stone. He turned himself to
the pillow again and to his miserable thoughts.
Owen took out his watch, went round to count
the pulse, and in the hush the tick of the big
silver timepiece could be heard.
'There is extreme weakness,' came his quiet
verdict.
' Sinking ? ' whispered Tourtel loudly.
1 No ; care and constant nourishment are all
that are required ; strong beef-tea, port wine jelly,
cream beaten up with a little brandy at short
intervals, every hour say. And of course no
126 MONOCHROMES
excitement ; nothing to irritate, or alarm him '
(Owen's eye met Margot's) ; ' absolute quiet and
rest.' He came back to the foot of the bed and
spoke in a lower tone. ' It's just one of the usual
cases of senile decay,' said he, ' which I observe
every one comes to here in the Islands (unless he
has previously killed himself by drink), the results
of breeding in. But Mr Rennuf may last months,
years longer. In fact, if you follow out my
directions, there is every probability that he will.'
Tourtel and his wife shifted their gaze from
Owen to look into each other's eyes ; Margot's
loose mouth lapsed into a smile. Owen felt cold
water running down his back. The atmosphere
of the room seemed to stifle him ; reminiscences
of his student days crowded on him : the horror
of an unperverted mind, at its first spectacle of
cruelty, again seized hold of him, vivid as though
no twelve benumbing years were wedged between.
At all costs he must get out into the open air.
He turned to go. Louis Renouf opened his
eyes, followed the form making its way to the
door, and understood. ' You won't leave me,
doctor ? surely you won't leave me ? ' came the
last words of piercing entreaty.
The man felt his nerve going all to pieces.
' Come, come, my good sir, do you think I am
going to stay here all night?' he answered
brutally. . . . Outside, Tourtel touched his sleeve.
' And suppose your directions are not carried out ? '
he asked in his thick whisper.
Owen gave no spoken answer, but Tourtel was
POOR COUSIN LOUIS 127
satisfied. ' I'll come an' put the horse in,' he said,
leading the way through the kitchen to the stables.
Owen drove off with a parting curse and cut with
the whip because the horse slipped upon the
stones. A long ray of light from Tourtel's lantern
followed him down the lane. When he turned
out on to the high road to St Gilles, he reined in
a moment, to look back at Les Calais. This is
the one point from which a portion of the house
is visible, and he could see the lighted window of
the old man's bedroom plainly through the trees.
What was happening there? he asked himself;
and the Tourtels' cupidity and callousness, Margot's
coarse cruel tricks, rose before him with appalling
distinctness. Yet the price was in his hand, the
first step of the ladder gained ; he saw himself
to-morrow, perhaps, in the drawing-room of Rohais,
paying the necessary visit of intimation and
condolence. He felt he had already won Mrs
Poidevin's favour. Among women, always poor
physiognomists, he knew he passed for a hand
some man ; among the Islanders, the assurance
of his address would pass for good breeding ; all
he had lacked hitherto was the opportunity to
shine. This, his acquaintance with Mrs Poidevin
would secure him. And he had trampled on his
conscience so often before, it had now little
elasticity left. Just an extra glass of brandy
to-morrow, and to-day would be as securely laid
as those other episodes of his past.
While he watched, some one shifted the
lamp .... a woman's shadow was thrown upon
128 MONOCHR6MES
the white blind .... it wavered, grew monstrous,
and spread, until the whole window was shrouded
in gloom Owen put the horse into a
gallop .... and from up at Les Calais the long-
drawn melancholy howling of the dog filled with
forebodings the silent night.
THE PLEASURE-PILGRIM
THE PLEASURE-PILGRIM
I
CAMPBELL was on his ,way to Schloss Altenau,
for a second quiet season with his work. He had
spent three profitable months there a year ago,
and he was hoping now for a repetition of
that good fortune. His thoughts outran the train ;
and long before his arrival at the Hamelin railway
station, he was enjoying his welcome by the
Ritterhausens, was revelling in the ease and
comfort of the old Castle, and was contrasting the
pleasures of his home-coming for he looked upon
Schloss Altenau as a sort of temporary home
with his recent cheerless experiences of "lodging-
houses in London, hotels in Berlin, and strange
indifferent faces everywhere. He thought with
especial satisfaction of the Maynes, and of the good
talks Mayne and he would have together, late at
night, before the great fire in the hall, after the rest
of the household had gone to bed. He blessed the
adverse circumstances which had turned Schloss
Altenau into a boarding-house, and had reduced
the Freiherr Ritterhausen to eke out his shrunken
i 3 2 MONOCHROMES
revenues by the reception, as paying guests, of
English and American pleasure-pilgrims.
He rubbed the blurred window-pane with the
fringed end of the strap hanging from it, and, in the
snow-covered landscape reeling towards him, began
to recognise objects that were familiar. Hamelin
could not be far off. .... In another ten minutes
the train came to a standstill.
He stepped down with a sense of relief from the
overheated atmosphere of his compartment into the
cold, bright February afternoon, and saw through
the open station doors one of the Ritterhausen
carriages awaiting him, with Gottlieb in his second-
best livery on the box. Gottlieb showed every
reasonable consideration for the Baron's boarders,
but had various methods of marking his sense of
the immense abyss separating them from the family.
The use of his second-best livery was one of these
methods. Nevertheless, he turned a friendly
German eye up to Campbell, and in response to
his cordial ' Guten Tag, Gottlieb. Wie geht's ?
Und die Herrschaften ? ' expressed his pleasure at
seeing the young man back again.
While Campbell stood at the top of the steps
that led down to the carriage and the Platz, looking
after the collection of his luggage and its bestowal
by Gottlieb's side, he became aware of two persons,
ladies, advancing towards him from the direction
of the Wartsaal. It was surprising to see any one
at any time in Hamelin Station. It was still more
surprising when one of these ladies addressed him
by name.
THE PLEASURE-PILGRIM 133
'You are Mr Campbell, are you not?' she said.
' We have been waiting for you to go back in the
carriage together. When we found this morning
that there was only half-an-hour between your train
and ours, I told the Baroness it would be perfectly
absurd to send to the station twice. I hope you
won't mind our company ? '
The first impression Campbell received was of
the magnificent apparel of the lady before him ; it
would have been noticeable in Paris or Vienna it
was extravagant here. Next, he perceived that the
face beneath the upstanding feathers and the
curving hat-brim was that of so very young a girl,
as to make the furs and velvets seem more incon
gruous still. But the sense of incongruity vanished
with the intonation of her first phrase, which told
him she was an American. He had no standards for
American conduct. It was clear that the speaker
and her companion were inmates of the Schloss.
He bowed, and murmured the pleasure he did
not feel. A true Briton, he was intolerably shy ;
and his heart sank at the prospect of a three-mile
drive with two strangers who evidently had the
advantage of knowing all about him, while he was
in ignorance of their very names. As he took his
place opposite to them in the carriage, he uncon
sciously assumed a cold, blank stare, pulling
nervously at his moustache, as was his habit in
moments of discomposure. Had his companions
been British also, the ordeal of the drive must have
been a terrible one ; but these young American
ladies showed no sense of embarrassment whatever.
134 MONOCHROMES
1 We've just come back from Hanover/ said the
girl who had already spoken to him. ' I go over
once a week for a singing lesson, and my little
sister comes along to take care of me.'
She turned a narrow, smiling glance from
Campbell to her little sister, and then back to
Campbell again. She had red hair; freckles on
her nose, and the most singular eyes he had ever
seen; slit-like eyes, set obliquely in her head,
Chinese fashion.
' Yes, Lulie requires a great deal of taking care
of/ assented the little sister sedately, though the
way in which she said this seemed to imply some
thing less simple than the words themselves. The
speaker bore no resemblance to Lulie. She was
smaller, thinner, paler. Her features were straight,
a trifle peaked ; her skin sallow ; her hair of a non
descript brown. She was much less gorgeously
dressed. There was even a suggestion of shabbi-
ness in her attire, though sundry isolated details of
it were handsome too. She was also much less
young ; or so, at any rate, Campbell began by
pronouncing her. Yet presently he wavered. She
had a face that defied you to fix her age. Campbell
never fixed it to his own satisfaction, but veered in
the course of that drive (as he was destined to do
during the next few weeks) from point to point up
and down the scale from eighteen to thirty-five.
She wore a spotted veil, and beneath it a pince-nez,
the lenses of which did something to temper the
immense amount of humorous meaning which
lurked in her gaze. When her pale prominent
THE PLEASURE-PILGRIM 135
eyes met Campbell's, it seemed to the young man
that they were full of eagerness to add something
at his expense to the stores of information they had
already garnered up. They chilled him with mis
givings ; there was more comfort to be found in
her sister's shifting, red-brown glances.
' Hanover is a long way to go for lessons,' he
observed, forcing himself to be conversational. ' I
used to go there myself about once a week, when I
first came to Schloss Altenau, for tobacco, or note-
paper, or to get my hair cut. But later on I did
without, or contented myself with what Hamelin,
or even the village, could offer me.'
' Nannie and I,' said the young girl, ' meant to
stay only a week at Altenau, on our way to
Hanover, where we were going to pass the winter ;
but the Castle is just too lovely for anything.'
She raised her eyelids the least little bit as she
looked at him, and such a warm and friendly gaze
shot out, that Campbell was suddenly thrilled.
Was she pretty, after all ? He glanced at Nannie ;
she, at least, was indubitably plain. ' It's the very
first time we've ever stayed in a castle,' Lulie went
on ; ' and we're going to remain right along now,
until we go home in the spring. Just imagine living
in a house with a real moat, and a drawbridge, and
a Rittersaal, and suits of armour that have been
actually worn in battle! And oh, that delightful
iron collar and chain ! You remember it, Mr
Campbell ? It hangs right close to the gateway on
the courtyard side. And you know, in old days
the Ritterhausens used it for the punishment of
136 MONOCHROMES
their serfs. There are horrible stones connected
with it. Mr Mayne can tell you them. But just
think of being chained up there like a dog ! So
wonderfully picturesque.'
' For the spectator perhaps,' said Campbell,
smiling. ' I doubt if the victim appreciated the
picturesque aspect of the case.'
With this Lulie disagreed. ' Oh, I think he
must have been interested/ she said. ' It must
have made him feel so absolutely part and parcel
of the Middle Ages. I persuaded Mr Mayne to
fix the collar round my neck the other day ; and
though it was very uncomfortable, and I had to
stand on tiptoe, it seemed to me that all at once
the courtyard was filled with knights in armour,
and crusaders, and palmers, and things ; and there
were flags flying and trumpets sounding ; and all
the dead and gone Ritterhausens had come down
from their picture-frames, and were walking about
in brocaded gowns and lace ruffles.'
' It seemed to require a good deal of persua
sion to get Mr Mayne to unfix the collar again,'
said the little sister. ' How at last did you manage
it?'
But Lulie replied irrelevantly : ' And the Ritter
hausens are such perfectly lovely people, aren't
they, Mr Campbell? The old Baron is a perfect
dear. He has such a grand manner. When he
kisses my hand I feel nothing less than a princess.
And the Baroness is such a funny, busy, delicious
little round ball of a thing. And she's always
playing bagatelle, isn't she? Or else cutting up
THE PLEASURE-PILGRIM 137
skeins of wool for carpet- making.' She meditated
a moment. ' Some people always are cutting
things up in order to join them together again,'
she announced, in her fresh drawling young voice.
'And some people cut things up, and leave
other pe6ple to do the reparation/ commented
the little sister enigmatically.
And meantime the carriage had been rattling
over the cobble - paved streets of the quaint
mediaeval town, where the houses stand so near
together that you may shake hands with your
opposite neighbour; where allegorical figures,
strange birds and beasts, are carved and painted
over the windows and doors ; and where to every
distant sound you lean your ear to catch the fairy
music of the Pied Piper, and at every street corner
you look to see his tatterdemalion form with the
frolicking children at his heels.
Then the Weser bridge was crossed, beneath
which the ice-floes jostled and ground themselves
together, as they forced their way down the river ;
and the carriage was rolling smoothly along country
roads, between vacant snow-decked fields.
Campbell's embarrassment began to wear off.
Now that he was getting accustomed to the girls,
he found neither of them awe-inspiring. The red-
haired one had a simple child-like manner that
was charming. Her strange little face, with its
piquant irregularity of line, its warmth of colour,
began to please him. What though her hair was
red, the uncurled wisp which strayed across her
white forehead was soft and alluring; he could
138 MONOCHROMES
see soft masses of it tucked up beneath her
hat-brim as she turned her head. When she
suddenly lifted her red-brown lashes, those queer
eyes of hers had a velvety softness too. Decidedly,
she struck him as being pretty in a peculiar way.
He felt an immense accession of interest in her.
It seemed to him that he was the discoverer of
her possibilities. He did not doubt that the
rest of the world called her plain ; or at least
odd-looking. He, at first, had only seen the
freckles on her nose, her oblique-set eyes. He
wondered now what she thought of herself, how she
appeared to Nannie. Probably as a very ordinary
little girl ; sisters stand too close to see each
other's qualities. She was too young to have had
much opportunity of hearing flattering truths from
strangers ; and besides, the average stranger would
see nothing in her to call for flattering truths.
Her charm was something subtle, out-of-the-
common, in^ defiance of all known rules of beauty.
Campbell saw superiority in himself for recognising
it, for formulating it ; and he was not displeased to
be aware that it would always remain caviare to
the multitude.
The carriage had driven through the squalid
village of Diirrendorf, had passed the great Ritter-
hausen barns and farm-buildings, on the tie-beams
of which are carved Bible texts in old German ; had
turned in at the wide open gates of Schloss Altenau,
where Gottlieb always whipped up his horses to a
fast trot. Full of feeling both for the pocket and
the dignity of the Ritterhausens, he would not use
THE PLEASURE-PILGRIM 139
up his beasts in unnecessary fast driving. But it
was to the credit of the family that he should reach
the Castle in fine style. And so he thundered
across the drawbridge, and through the great
archway pierced in the north wing, and over the
stones of the cobbled courtyard, to pull up before
the door of the hall, with much clattering of hoofs
and a final elaborate whip-flourish.
II
' I'M jolly glad to have you back,' Mayne said, that
same evening, when, the rest of the boarders having
retired to their rooms, he and Campbell were
lingering over the hall-fire for a talk and smoke.
' I've missed you awfully, old chap, and the good
times we used to have here. I've often meant to
write to you, but you know how one shoves off
letter-writing day after day, till at last one is too
ashamed of one's indolence to write at all. But
tell me you had a pleasant drive from Hamelin ?
What do you think of our young ladies ? '
' Those American girls ? But they're charming,'
said Campbell, with enthusiasm. ' The red-haired
one is particularly charming.'
At this Mayne laughed so strangely that
Campbell, questioned him in surprise. ' Isn't she
charming ? '
' My dear chap,' Mayne told him, ' the red-haired
one, as you call her, is the most remarkably charm
ing young person I've ever met or read of. We've
had a good many American girls here before now
you remember the good old Choate family, of
course they were here in your time, I think ?
but we've never had anything like this Miss Lulie
Thayer. She is something altogether unique.'
THE PLEASURE-PILGRIM 141
Campbell was struck with the name. ' Lulie
Lulie Thayer,' he repeated. ' How pretty it is ! '
And, full of his great discovery, he felt he must
confide it to Mayne, at least. ' Do you know/ he
went on, 'she is really very pretty too? I didn't
think so at first, but after a bit I discovered that
she is positively quite pretty in an odd sort of way.'
Mayne laughed again. ' Pretty, pretty ! ' he
echoed in derision. ' Why, lieber Gott im Himmel,
where are your eyes ? Pretty ! The girl is beau
tiful, gorgeously beautiful ; every trait, every tint,
is in complete, in absolute harmony with the whole.
But the truth is, of course, we've all grown accus
tomed to the obvious, the commonplace ; to violent
contrasts ; blue eyes, black eyebrows, yellow hair ;
the things that shout for recognition. You speak
of Miss Thayer's hair as red. What other colour
would you have, with that warm, creamy skin?
And then, what a red it is ! It looks as though it
had been steeped in red wine.'
' Ah, what a good description,' said Campbell,
appreciatively. ' That's just it steeped in red wine.'
' Though it's not so much her beauty,' Mayne
continued. ' After all, one has met beautiful
women before now. It's her wonderful generosity,
her complaisance. She doesn't keep her good
things to herself. She doesn't condemn you to
admire from a distance.'
' How do you mean ? ' Campbell asked, surprised
again.
'Why, she's the most egregious little flirt I've
ever met. And yet, she's not exactly a flirt,
142 MONOCHROMES
either. I mean she doesn't flirt in the ordinary
way. She doesn't talk much, or laugh, or appar
ently make the least claims on masculine attention.
And so all the women like her. I don't believe
there's one, except my wife, who has an inkling as
to her true character. The Baroness, as you know,
never observes anything. Seigneur Dieu ! if she
knew the things I could tell her about Miss Lulie !
For I've had opportunities of studying her. You
see, I'm a married man, and not in my first youth,
and the looker-on generally gets the best view of
the game. But you, who are young and charming
and already famous we've had your book here, by-
the-by, and there's good stuff in it you're going
to have no end of pleasant experiences. I can see
she means to add you to her ninety-and-nine other
spoils ; I saw it from the way she looked at you at
dinner. She always begins with those velvety red-
brown glances. She began that way with March
and Prendergast and Willie Anson, and all the
men we've had here since her arrival. The next
thing she'll do will be to press your hand under the
tablecloth.'
' Oh come, Mayne, you're joking/ cried Camp
bell a little brusquely. He thought such jokes in
bad taste. He had a high ideal of Woman, an
immense respect for her ; he could not endure to
hear her belittled, even in jest. ' Miss Thayer is
refined and charming. No girl of her class would
do such things.'
' But what is her class ? Who knows anything
about her ? All we know is that she and her uncanny
THE PLEASURE-PILGRIM 143
little friend her little sister, as she calls her, though
they're no more sisters than you and I are they're
not even related all we know is, that she and Miss
Dodge (that's the little sister's name) arrived here
one memorable day last October from the Kron-
prinz Hotel at Waldeck-Pyrmont. By-the-by,
it was the Choates, I believe, who told her of the
Castle hotel acquaintances you know how travel
ling Americans always cotton to each other. And
we've picked up a few little auto and biographical
notes from her and Miss Dodge since. Zum
Beispiel) she's got a rich father somewhere away
back in Michigan, who supplies her with all the
money she wants. And she's been travelling about
since last May : Paris, Vienna, the Rhine, Diissel-
dorf, and so on here. She must have had some
rich experiences, by Jove, for she's done every
thing. Cycled in Paris ; you should see her in her
cycling costume, she wears it when the Baron
takes her out shooting she's an admirable shot by
the way, an accomplishment learned, I suppose,
from some American cow-boy then in Berlin
she did a month's hospital nursing ; and now she's
studying the higher branches of the Terpsichorean
art. You know she was in Hanover to-day. Did
she tell you what she went for ? '
'To take a singing lesson,' said Campbell,
remembering the reason she had given.
' A singing lesson ! Do you sing with your legs ?
A dancing lesson, mein lieber. A dancing lesson
from the ballet-master of the Hof Theater. She
could deposit a kiss on your forehead with her
144 MONOCHROMES
foot, I don't doubt. I must ask her if she can do the
grand ccart yet.' And when Campbell, in astonish
ment, wondered why on earth she should wish to
learn such things, ' Oh, to extend her opportunities,'
Mayne explained, ' and to acquire fresh sensations.
She's an adventuress. Yes, an adventuress, but an
end-of-the-century one. She doesn't travel for
profit, but for pleasure. She has no desire to
swindle her neighbour, but to amuse herself. And
she's clever ; she's read a good deal ; she knows
how to apply her reading to practical life. Thus,
she's learned from Herrick not to be coy; and
from Shakespeare that sweet-and-twenty is the
time for kissing and being kissed. She honours
her masters in the observance. She was not in the
least abashed when, one day, I suddenly came
upon her teaching that damned idiot, young
Anson, two new ways of kissing.'
Campbell's impressions of the girl were readjust
ing themselves completely, but for the moment he
was unconscious of the change. He only knew
that he was partly angry, partly incredulous, and
inclined to believe that Mayne was chaffing him.
' But, Miss Dodge,' he objected, ' the little sister,
she is older ; old enough to look after her friend.
Surely she could not allow a young girl placed in
her charge to behave in such a way '
'Oh, that little Dodge girl,' said Mayne con
temptuously ; 'Miss Thayer pays the whole shot, I
understand, and Miss Dodge plays gooseberry,
sheep-dog, jackal, what you will. She finds her
reward in the other's cast-off finery. The silk
THE PLEASURE-PILGRIM 145
blouse she was wearing to-night, I've good reason
for remembering, belonged to Miss Lulie. For,
during a brief season, I must tell you, my young
lady had the caprice to show attentions to your
humble servant I suppose my being a married
man lent me a factitious fascination. But I didn't
see it. That kind of girl doesn't appeal to me.
So she employed Miss Dodge to do a little active
canvassing. It was really too funny ; I was coming
in one day after a walk in the woods ; my wife was
trimming bonnets, or had neuralgia, or something.
Anyhow, I was alone, and Miss Dodge contrived to
waylay me in the middle of the courtyard. " Don't
you find it vurry dull walking all by yourself?" she
asked me ; and then blinking up in her strange little
short-sighted way she's really the weirdest little
creature " Why don't you make love to Lulie ? "
she said ; " you'd find her vurry charming." It
took me a minute or two to recover presence of
mind enough to ask her whether Miss Thayer had
commissioned her to tell me so. She looked at me
with that cryptic smile of hers ; " She'd like you to
do so, I'm sure," she finally remarked, and
pirouetted away. Though it didn't come off,
owing to my bashfulness, it was then that Miss
Dodge appropriated the silk " waist " ; and Pro
vidence, taking pity on Miss Thayer's forced
inactivity, sent along March, a young fellow reading
for the army, with whom she had great doings.
She fooled him to the top of his bent ; sat on his
knee ; gave him a lock of her hair, which, having
no scissors handy, she burned off with a cigarette
taken from his mouth; and got him to offer her
K
i 4 6 MONOCHROMES
marriage. Then she turned round and laughed in
his face, and took up with a Dr Weber, a cousin of
the Baron's, under the other man's very eyes. You
never saw anything like the unblushing coolness
with which she would permit March to catch her
in Weber's arms.'
'Come,' Campbell protested again, 'aren't you
drawing it rather strong ? '
' On the contrary, I'm drawing it mild, as you'll
discover presently for yourself; and then you'll
thank me for forewarning you. For she makes
l ove desperate love, mind you to every man she
meets. And goodness knows how many she hasn't
met in the course of her career, which began pre
sumably at the age of ten, in some " Amur'can "
hotel or watering-place. Look at this.' Mayne
fetched an alpenstock from a corner of the hall ; it
was decorated with a long succession of names,
which, ribbon-like, were twisted round and round
it, carved in the wood. ' Read them,' insisted
Mayne, putting the stick in Campbell's hands.
' You'll see they're not the names of the peaks she
has climbed, or the towns she has passed through ;
they're the names of the men she has fooled. And
there's room for more ; there's still a good deal of
space, as you see. There's room for yours.'
Campbell glanced down the alpenstock reading
here a name, there an initial, or just a date and
jerked it impatiently from him on to a couch. He
wished with all his heart that Mayne would stop,
would talk of something else, would let him get
away. The young girl had interested him so
THE PLEASURE-PILGRIM 147
much ; he had felt himself so drawn towards her ; he
had thought her so fresh, so innocent. But Mayne,
on the contrary, was warming to his subject, was
enchanted to have some one to listen to his stories,
to discuss his theories, to share his cynical
amusement.
' I don't think, mind you/ he said, ' that she is a bit
interested herself in the men she flirts with. I don't
think she gets any of the usual sensations from it,
you know. My theory is, she does it for mere
devilry, for a laugh. Or, and this is another
theory, she is actuated by some idea of retribution.
Perhaps some woman she was fond of her
mother even who knows ? was badly treated at
the hands of a man. Perhaps this girl has con
stituted herself the Nemesis for her sex, and goes
about seeing how many masculine hearts she can
break, by way of revenge. Or can it be that she is
simply the newest development of the New
Woman she who in England preaches and bores
you, and in America practises and pleases ? Yes,
I believe she's the American edition, and so new
that she hasn't yet found her way into fiction.
She's the pioneer of the army coming out of the
West, that's going to destroy the existing scheme
of things, and rebuild it nearer to the heart's desire.'
' Oh, damn it all, Mayne,' cried Campbell, rising
abruptly, ' why not say at once that she's a wanton,
and have done with it ? Who wants to hear your
rotten theories?' And he lighted his candle
without another word, and went off to bed.
Ill
IT was four o'clock, and the Baron's boarders were
drinking their afternoon coffee, drawn up in a semi
circle round the hall fire. All but Campbell, who
had carried his cup away to a side-table, and, with
a book open beside him, appeared to be reading
assiduously. In reality he could not follow a line
of what he read ; he could not keep his thoughts
from Miss Thayer. What Mayne had told him
was germinating in his mind. Knowing his friend
as he did, he could not on reflection doubt his
word. In spite of much superficial cynicism, Mayne
was incapable of speaking lightly of any young girl
without good cause. It now seemed to Campbell
that, instead of exaggerating the case, Mayne had
probably understated it. He asked himself with
horror, what had this girl not already known,
seen, permitted ? When now and again his eyes
travelled over, perforce, to where she sat, her red
head leaning against Miss Dodge's knee, and seem
ing to attract to, and concentrate upon itself all the
glow of the fire, his forehead set itself in frowns,
and he returned to his book with an increased sense
of irritation.
THE PLEASURE-PILGRIM 149
' I'm just sizzling up, Nannie,' Miss Thayer
presently complained, in her child-like, drawling
little way ; ' this fire is too hot for anything/
She rose and shook straight her loose tea-gown,
a marvellous plush and lace garment created in
Paris, which would have accused a duchess of
wilful extravagance. She stood smiling round a
moment, pulling on and off with her right hand
a big diamond ring which decorated the left.
At the sound of her voice Campbell had looked
up, and his cold, unfriendly eyes encountered hers.
He glanced rapidly past her, then back to his
book. But she, undeterred, with a charming sinu
ous movement and a frou-frou of trailing silks,
crossed over towards him. She slipped into an
empty chair next his.
' I'm going to do you the honour of sitting
beside you, Mr Campbell,' she said sweetly.
' It's an honour I've done nothing whatever to
merit,' he answered, without looking at her, and
turned a page.
'The right retort,' she approved; 'but you
might have said it a little more cordially.'
' I don't feel cordial.'
' But why not ? What has happened ? Yester
day you were so nice.'
' Ah, a good deal of water has run under the
bridge since yesterday.'
' But still the river remains as full/ she told him,
smiling, ' and still the sky is as blue. The thermo
meter has even risen six degrees.'
ISO MONOCHROMES
' What did you go into Hanover for yesterday?'
Campbell suddenly asked her.
She flashed him a comprehending glance from
half-shut eyes. ' I think men gossip a great deal
more than women,' she observed, ' and they don't
understand things either. They try to make all
life suit their own pre-conceived theories. And
why, after all, should I not wish to learn dancing
thoroughly ? There's no harm in that.'
' Only, why call it singing ? ' Campbell enquired.
Miss Thayer smiled. 'Truth is so uninterest
ing ! ' she said, and paused. ' Except in books.
One likes it there. And I wanted to tell you, I
think your books perfectly lovely. I know them,
most all. I've read them away home. They're
very much thought of in America. Only last
night I was saying to Nannie how glad I am to
have met you, for I think we're going to be great
friends, aren't we, Mr Campbell ? At least, I hope
so, for you can do me so much good, if you will.
Your books always make me feel real good ; but
you yourself can help me much more. '
She looked up at him with one of her warm,
narrow, red-brown glances, which yesterday would
have thrilled his blood, and to-day merely stirred
it to anger.
' You over-estimate my abilities,' he said coldly ;
' and, on the whole, I fear you will find writers a
very disappointing race. You see, they put their
best into their books. So not to disillusion you too
rapidly' he rose 'will you excuse me? I have
some work to do.' And he left her sitting there alone.
THE PLEASURE-PILGRIM 151
But he did no work when he got to his room.
Whether Lulie Thayer was actually present or not,
it seemed that her influence was equally disturbing
to him. His mind was full of her : of her singular
eyes, her quaint intonation, her sweet, seductive
praise. Twenty-four hours ago such praise would
have been delightful to him : what young author is
proof against appreciation of his books? Now,
Campbell simply told himself that she laid the butter
on too thick ; that it was in some analogous manner
she had flattered up March, Anson, and all the
rest of the men that Mayne had spoken of. He
supposed it was the first step in the process by
which he was to be fooled, twisted round her finger,
added to the list of victims who strewed her con
quering path. He had a special fear of being
fooled. For beneath a somewhat supercilious
exterior, the dominant note of his character was
timidity, distrust of his own merits ; and he knew
he was single-minded one-idea'd almost if he
were to let himself go, to get to care very much for
a woman, for such a girl as this girl, for instance,
he would lose himself completely, be at her mercy
absolutely. Fortunately, Mayne had let him know
her character. He could feel nothing but dislike for
her disgust, even ; and yet he was conscious how
pleasant it would be to believe in her innocence, in
her candour. For she was so adorably pretty ; her
flower-like beauty grew upon him ; her head,
drooping a little on one side when she looked up,
was so like a flower bent by its own weight. The
texture of her cheeks, her lips, was delicious as
152 MONOCHROMES
the petals of a flower. He found he could recall
with perfect accuracy every detail of her appear
ance : the manner in which the red hair grew round
her temples ; the way in which it was loosely and
gracefully fastened up behind with just a single tor
toise-shell pin. He recollected the suspicion of a
dimple that shadowed itself in her cheek when she
spoke, and deepened into a delicious reality every
time she smiled. He remembered her throat ; her
hands, of a beautiful whiteness, with pink palms
and pointed fingers. It was impossible to write.
He speculated long on the ring she wore on her
engaged finger. He mentioned this ring to Mayne
the next time he saw him.
'Engaged? very much so, I should say. Has
got a fiance in every capital of Europe probably.
But the ring-man is the fiance* en titre. He writes
to her by every mail, and is tremendously in love
with her. She shows me his letters. When she's
had her fling, I suppose she'll go back and marry
him. That's what these little American girls do,
I'm told ; sow their wild oats here with us, and
settle down into bonnes m^nageres over yonder.
Meanwhile, are you having any fun with her?
Aha, she presses your hand? The "gesegnete
Mahlzeit" business after dinner is an excellent
institution, isn't it ? She'll tell you how much she
loves you soon ; that's the next move in the
game.'
But so far she had done neither of these things,
for Campbell gave her no opportunities. He was
guarded in the extreme, ungenial ; avoiding her
THE PLEASURE-PILGRIM 153
even at the cost of civility. Sometimes he was
downright rude. That especially occurred when he
felt himself inclined to yield to her advances. For
she made him all sorts of silent advances, speaking
with her eyes, her sad little mouth, her beseeching
attitude. And then one evening she went further
still. It occurred after dinner in the little green
drawing-room. The rest of the company were
gathered together in the big drawing-room beyond.
The small room has deep embrasures to the
windows. Each embrasure holds two old faded
green velvet sofas in black oaken frames, and an
oaken oblong table stands between them. Camp
bell had flung himself down on one of these sofas
in the corner nearest the window. Miss Thayer,
passing through the room, saw him, and sat down
opposite. She leaned her elbows on the table, the
laces of her sleeves falling away from her round
white arms, and clasped her hands.
' Mr Campbell, tell me, what have I done ?
How have I vexed you ? You have hardly spoken
two words to me all day. You always try to avoid
me.' And when he began to utter evasive
banalities, she stopped him with an imploring
' Ah, don't ! I love you. You know I love you. I
love you so much I can't bear you to put me off
with mere phrases.'
Campbell admired the well-simulated passion
in her voice, remembered Mayne's prediction, and
laughed aloud.
' Oh, you may laugh,' she said, ' but I'm serious.
I love you, I love you with my whole soul.' She
154 MONOCHROMES
slipped round the end of the table, and came close
beside him. His first impulse was to rise ; then he
resigned himself to stay. But it was not so much
resignation that was required, as self-mastery, cool-
headedness. Her close proximity, her fragrance,
those wonderful eyes raised so beseechingly to his,
made his heart beat.
' Why are you so cold ? ' she said. ' I love you
so, can't you love me a little too ? '
' My dear young lady,' said Campbell, gently
repelling her, ' what do you take me for ? A
foolish boy like your friends Anson and March?
What you are saying is monstrous, preposterous.
Ten days ago you'd never even seen me.'
' What has length of time to do with it ? ' she
said. ' I loved you at first sight.'
' I wonder,' he observed judicially, and again
gently removed her hand from his, 'to how
many men you have not already said the same
thing ? '
' I've never meant it before,' she said quite
earnestly, and nestled closer to him, and kissed the
breast of his coat, and held her mouth up towards
his. But he kept his chin resolutely high, and
looked over her head.
' How many men have you not already kissed,
even since you've been here ? '
' But there've not been many here to kiss ! ' she
exclaimed naively.
' Well, there was March ; you kissed him ? '
' No, I'm quite sure I didn't.'
' And young Anson ; what about him ? Ah, you
THE PLEASURE-PILGRIM 155
don't answer ! And then the other fellow what's
his name Prendergast you've kissed him?'
' But, after all, what is there in a kiss ? ' she
cried ingenuously. ' It means nothing, absolutely
nothing. Why, one has to kiss all sorts of people
one doesn't care about.'
Campbell remembered how Mayne had said she
had probably known strange kisses since the age
of ten ; and a wave of anger with her, of righteous
indignation, rose within him.
' To me,' said he, ' to all right-thinking people, a
young girl's kisses are something pure, something
sacred, not to be offered indiscriminately to every
fellow she meets. Ah, you don't know what you
have lost ! You have seen a fruit that has been
handled, that has lost its bloom ? You have seen
primroses, spring flowers gathered and thrown
away in the dust? And who enjoys the one, or
picks up the others ? And this is what you remind
me of only you have deliberately, of your own
perverse will, tarnished your beauty, and thrown
away all the modesty, the reticence, the delicacy,
which make a young girl so infinitely dear. You
revolt me, you disgust me. I want nothing from
you but to be let alone. Kindly take your hands
away, and let me go.'
He shook her roughly off and got up, then felt
a moment's curiosity to see how she would take
the repulse.
Miss Thayer never blushed : had never, he
imagined, in her life done so. No faintest trace
of colour now stained the warm pallor of her rose-
156 MONOCHROMES
leaf skin ; but her eyes filled up with tears, two
drops gathered on the under lashes, grew large,
trembled an instant, and then rolled unchecked
down her cheeks. Those tears somehow put him
in the wrong, and he felt he had behaved brutally
to her, for the rest of the night.
He began to seek excuses for her : after all, she
meant no harm : it was her upbringing, her genre :
it was a genre he loathed ; but perhaps he need
not have spoken so harshly. He thought he would
find a more friendly word for her next morning ;
and he loitered about the Mahlsaal, where the
boarders come in to breakfast as in an hotel just
when it suits them, till past eleven ; but she did
not come. Then, when he was almost tired of
waiting, Miss Dodge put in an appearance, in a
flannel wrapper, and her front hair twisted up in
steel pins.
Campbell judged Miss Dodge with even more
severity than he did Miss Thayer ; there was
nothing in this weird little creature's appearance to
temper justice with mercy. It was with difficulty
that he brought himself to inquire after her
friend.
' Lulie is sick this morning,' she told him. ' I've
come down to order her some broth. She
couldn't sleep any last night, because of your
unkindness to her. She's vurry, vurry unhappy
about it.'
' Yes, I'm sorry for what I said. I had no right to
speak so strongly, I suppose. But I spoke strongly
because I feel strongly. However, there's no
THE PLEASURE-PILGRIM 157
reason why my bad manners should make her
unhappy.'
' Oh, yes, there's vurry good reason,' said Miss
Dodge. ' She's vurry much in love with you.'
Campbell looked at the speaker long and
earnestly to try and read her mind ; but the pro
minent blinking eyes, the cryptic physiognomy, told
him nothing.
' Look here/ he said brusquely, ' what's your
object in trying to fool me like this? I know all
about your friend. Mayne has told me. She has
cried "Wolf" too often before to expect to be
believed now.'
' But, after all,' argued Miss Dodge, blinking
more than ever behind her glasses, ' the wolf did
really come at last, you know ; didn't he ? Lulie
is really in love this time. We've all made mis
takes in our lives, haven't we? But that's no
reason for not being right at last. And Lulie has
cried herself sick.'
Campbell was a little shaken. He went and
repeated the conversation to Mayne, who laughed
derisively.
' Capital, capital ! ' he cried ; ' excellently con
trived. It quite supports my latest theory about
our young friend. She's an actress, a born com6-
dienne. She acts always, and to every one: to
you, to me, to the Ritterhausens, to the Dodge
girl even to herself when she is quite alone. And
she has a great respect for her art ; she'll carry out
her role, cofite que codte, to the bitter end. She
158 MONOCHROMES
chooses to pose as in love with you ; you don't
respond ; the part now requires that she should
sicken and pine. Consequently, she takes to her
bed, and sends her confidante to tell you so. Oh,
it's colossal, it's/amos /'
IV
' IF you can't really love me,' said Lulie Thayer
' and I know I've been a bad girl and don't deserve
that you should at least, will you allow me to go
on loving you ? '
She walked by Campbell's side, through the
solitary, uncared-for park of Schloss Altenau.
It was three weeks later in the year, and the
spring feeling in the air stirred the blood. All
round were signs and tokens of spring ; in the
busy gaiety of bird and insect life ; in the purple
flower-tufts which thickened the boughs of the ash
trees ; in the young green things pushing up
pointed heads from amidst last season's dead
leaves and grasses. The snow-wreaths, that had
for so long decorated the distant hills, were
shrinking perceptibly away beneath the strong
March sunshine.
There was every invitation to spend one's time
out of doors, and Campbell passed long mornings
in the park, or wandering through the woods and
the surrounding villages. Miss Thayer often
accompanied him. He never invited her to do so,
but when she offered him her company, he could
not, or at least did not, refuse it.
160 MONOCHROMES
' May I love you ? Say,' she entreated.
' " Wenn ich Dich Hebe, was geht's Dich an?"' he
quoted lightly. 'Oh, no, it's nothing to me, of
course. Only don't expect me to believe you
that's all. 1
This disbelief of his was the recurring decimal
of their conversation. No matter on what subject
they began, they always ended thus. And the more
sceptical he showed himself, the more eager she
became. She exhausted herself in endeavours to
convince him.
They had reached the corner in the park where
the road to the Castle turns off at right angles from
the road to Durrendorf. The ground rises gently
on the park-side to within three feet of the
top of the boundary wall, although on the other
side there is a drop of at least twenty feet. The
broad wall-top makes a convenient seat. Campbell
and the girl sat down on it. At his last words she
wrung her hands together in her lap.
' But how can you disbelieve me ? ' she cried,
1 when I tell you I love you, I adore you ? when
1 swear it to you ? And can't you see for your
self? Why, every one at the Castle sees it.'
' Yes, you afford the Castle a good deal of
unnecessary amusement; and that shows you
don't understand what love really is. Real love is
full of delicacy, of reticences, and would feel itself
profaned if it became the jest of the servants'
hall.'
' It's not so much my love for you, as your
rejection of it, which has made me talked
about.'
THE PLEASURE-PILGRIM 161
' Isn't it rather on account of the favours you've
lavished on all my predecessors ? '
She sprang to her feet, and walked up and down
in agitation.
' But, after all, surely, mistakes of that sort are
not to be counted against us ? I did really think I
was in love with Mr March. Willie Anson doesn't
count. He's an American too, and he understands
things. Besides, he is only a boy. And how
could I know I should love you before I had met
you? And how can I help loving you now I
have ? You're so different from other men.
You're good, you're honourable, you treat women
with respect. Oh, I do love you so, I do love you !
Ask Nannie if I don't.'
The way in which Campbell shrugged his
shoulders clearly expressed the amount of reliance
he would place on any testimony from Miss
Dodge. He could not forget her ' Why don't you
make love to Lulie ? ' addressed to a married man.
Such a want of principle argued an equal want of
truth.
Lulie seemed on the brink of weeping.
' I wish I were dead,' she struggled to say ;
' life's impossible if you won't believe me. I don't
ask you any longer to love me. I know I've been
a bad girl, and I don't deserve that you should ; but
if you won't believe that I love you, I don't want
to live any longer.'
Campbell confessed to himself that she acted
admirably, but that the damnable iteration of the
one idea became monotonous. He sought a change
L
162 MONOCHROMES
of subject. ' Look there,' he said, ' close by the
wall, what's that jolly little blue flower ? It's the
first I've seen this year.'
He showed her where, at the base of the wall, a
solitary blossom rose above a creeping stem and
glossy dark green leaves.
Lulie, all smiles again, picked it with childlike
pleasure. 'Oh, if that's the first you've seen,' she
cried, 'you can take a wish. Only you mustn't
speak until some one asks you a question.'
She began to fasten it in his coat. ' It's just as
blue as your eyes,' she said. ' You have such blue
and boyish eyes, you know. Stop, stop, that's not
a question,' and seeing that he was about to speak,
she laid her finger across his mouth. ' You'll
spoil the charm.'
She stepped back, folded her arms, and seemed
to dedicate herself to eternal silence ; then relent
ing suddenly :
' Do you believe me ? ' she entreated.
'What's become of your ring?' Campbell
answered beside the mark. He had noticed its
absence from her finger while she had been fixing
in the flower.
' Oh, my engagement's broken.'
Campbell asked how the fiance" would like that.
' Oh, he won't mind. He knows I only got
engaged because he worried so. And it was
always understood between us that I was to be
free if I ever met any one I liked better.'
Campbell asked her what sort of fellow this
accommodating fiance was.
THE PLEASURE-PILGRIM 163
' Oh, he's all right. And he's very good too.
But he's not a bit clever, and don't let us talk
about him. He makes me tired.'
' But you're wrong,' Campbell told her, ' to throw
away a good, a sincere affection. If you really
want to reform and turn over a new leaf, as you
are always telling me you do, I should advise you
to go home and marry him.'
' What, when I'm in love with you ? ' she cried
reproachfully. ' Would that be right ? '
' It's going to rain,' said Campbell. ' Didn't you
feel a drop just then ? And it's getting near
lunch-time. Shall we go in ? '
Their shortest way led through the little cemetery
in which the departed Ritterhausens lay at peace,
in the shadow of their sometime home.
' When I die the Baron has promised I shall be
buried here,' said Lulie pensively; 'just here, next
to his first wife. Don't you think it would be
lovely to be buried in a beautiful, peaceful, baronial
graveyard instead of in some horrid, crowded city
cemetery ? '
Mayne met them as they entered the hall. He
noticed the flower in his friend's coat. 'Ah, my
dear chap, been treading the periwinkle path of
dalliance, I see ? How many desirable young men
have I not witnessed, led down the same broad
way by the same seductive lady ! Always the
same thing; nothing changes but the flower
according to the season.'
When Campbell reached his room he took the
164 MONOCHROMES
poor periwinkle out of his coat, and threw it away
into the stove.
And yet, had it not been for Mayne, Miss
Thayer might have triumphed after all ; might
have convinced Campbell of her passion, or have
added another victim to her long list. But Mayne
had set himself as determinedly to spoil her game,
as she was bent on winning it. He had always the
cynical word, the apt reminiscence ready, whenever
he saw signs on Campbell's part of surrender. He
was very fond of Campbell. He did not wish
him to fall a prey to the wiles of this little Ameri
can siren. He had watched her conduct in the
past with a dozen different men ; he genuinely
believed she was only acting in the present.
Campbell, for his part, began to experience an
ever-increasing exasperation in the girl's presence.
Yet he did not avoid it ; he could not well avoid
it, she followed him about so persistently : but his
speech would overflow with bitterness towards
her. He would say the cruellest things ; then re
membering them when alone, be ashamed of his
brutalities. But nothing he said ever altered her
sweetness of temper or weakened the tenacity of
her purpose. His rebuffs made her beautiful eyes
run over with tears, but the harshest of them never
elicited the least sign of resentment. There would
have been something touching as well as comic in
this dog-like humility, which accepted everything
as welcome at his hands, had he riot been imbued
with Mayne's conviction that it was all an admirable
piece of acting. Or when for a moment he forgot
THE PLEASURE-PILGRIM 165
the histrionic theory, then invariably there would
come a chance word in her conversation which
would fill him with cold rage. They would be
talking of books, travels, sport, what not, and she
would drop a reference to this man or to that. So-
and-so had taken her to Bullier's, she had learned
skating with this other ; Duroy, the prix de Rome
man, had painted her as Hebe, Franz Weber had
tried to teach her German by means of Heine's
poems. And he got glimpses of long vistas of
amourettes played in every state in America, in
every country of Europe, since the very beginning,
when, as a mere child, elderly men, friends of her
father's, had held her on their knee and fed her on
sweetmeats and kisses. It was sickening to think
of; it was pitiable. So much youth and beauty
tarnished ; the possibility for so much good thrown
away. For if one could only blot out her record,
forget it, accept her for what she chose to appear,
a more endearing companion no man could desire.
IT was a wet afternoon ; the rain had set in at mid
day, with a gray determination, which gave no
hopes of clearing. Nevertheless, Mayne had
accompanied his wife and the Baroness into
Hamelin. ' To take up a servant's character, and
expostulate with a recalcitrant dressmaker/ he ex
plained to Campbell, and wondered what women
would do to fill up their days were it not for the
perennial crimes of dressmakers and domestic
servants. He himself was going to look in at the
English Club; wouldn't Campbell come too?
There was a fourth seat in the carriage. But
Campbell was in no social mood ; he felt his
temper going all to pieces ; a quarter of an hour
of Mrs Mayne's society would have brought on an
explosion. He thought he must be alone ; and yet
when he had read for half an hour in his room he
wondered vaguely what Lulie was doing ; he had
not seen her since luncheon. She always gave him
her society when he could very well dispense with
it, but on a wet day like this, when a little con
versation would be tolerable, of course she stayed
away. Then there came down the long Rittersaal
THE PLEASURE-PILGRIM 167
the tapping of high heels, and a well-known knock
at his door.
He went over and opened it. Miss Thayer, in
the plush and lace tea-gown, fronted him serenely.
1 Am I disturbing you ? ' she asked ; and his
mood was so capricious that, now she was standing
there on his threshold, he thought he was annoyed
at it. ' It's so dull,' she said persuasively : ' Nannie's
got a sick headache, and I daren't go downstairs,
or the Baron will annex me to play Halma. He
always wants to play Halma on wet days.'
'And what do you want to do? ' said Campbell,
leaning against the doorpost, and letting his eyes
rest on the strange piquant face in its setting of
red hair.
' To be with you, of course.'
' Well,' said he, coming out and closing the door,
' I'm at your service. What next?'
They strolled together through the room and
listened to the falling rain. The Rittersaal occupies
all the space on the first floor that the hall and
four drawing-rooms do below. Wooden pillars
support the ceiling, dividing the apartment length
wise into a nave and two aisles. Down the
middle are long tables, used for ceremonial
banquets. Six windows look into the courtyard,
and six out over the open country. The centre
pane of each window is emblazoned with a
Ritterhausen shield. Between the windows hang
family portraits, and the sills are broad and low
and cushioned in faded velvet.
' How it rains ! ' said Lulie, stopping before one
1 68 MONOCHROMES
of the south windows ; ' why, you can't see anything
for the rain, and there's no sound at all but the
rain either. I like it. It makes me feel as though
we had the whole world to ourselves.'
Then, 'Say, what would you like to do?' she
asked him. ' Shall I fetch over my pistols, and
we'll practise with them ? You've no notion how
well I can shoot We couldn't hurt anything here,
could we?'
Campbell thought they might practise there
without inconvenience, and Lulie, bundling up the
duchess tea-gown over one arm, danced off in very
unduchess-like fashion to fetch the case. It was a
charming little box of cedar-wood and mother-o'-
pearl, lined with violet velvet ; and two tiny
revolvers lay inside, hardly more than six inches
long, with silver engraved handles.
' I won them in a bet,' she observed complacently,
' with the Hon. Billie Thornton. He's an English
man, you know, the son of Lord Thornton. I knew
him in Washington two years ago last fall. He
bet I couldn't hit a three-cent piece at twenty yards
and I did. Aren't they perfectly sweet ? Now,
can't you contrive a target ? '
Campbell went back to his room, drew out a
rough diagram, and pasted it down on to a piece
of cardboard. Then this was fixed up by means
of a penknife driven into the wood of one of
the pillars, and Campbell, with his walking-stick
laid down six successive times, measured off the
distance required, and set a chalk mark across
the floor. Lulie took the first shot. She held the
THE PLEASURE-PILGRIM 169
little weapon up at arm's length above her head,
the first finger stretched out along the barrel ; then
dropping her hand sharply so that the finger
pointed straight at the butt, she pulled the trigger
with the third. There was the sharp report, the
tiny smoke film and when Campbell went up to
examine results, he found she had only missed the
very centre by a quarter of an inch.
Lulie was exultant. ' I don't seem to have got
out of practice any,' she remarked. ' I'm so glad,
for I used to be a very good shot. It was Hiram
P. Ladd who taught me. He's the crack shot of
Montana. What ! you don't know Hiram P. ?
Why, I should have supposed every one must have
heard of him. He had the next ranche to my
Uncle Samuel's, where I used to go summers, and
he made me do an hour's pistol practice every
morning after bathing. It was he who taught me
swimming too in the river.'
'Damnation,' said Campbell under his breath,
then shot in his turn, and shot wide. Lulie made
another bull's-eye, and after that a white. She
urged Campbell to continue, which he sullenly did,
and again missed.
'You see I don't come up to your Hiram P.
Ladd/ he remarked savagely, and put the pistol
down, and walked over to the window. He stood
with one foot on the cushioned seat, staring out at
the rain, and pulling moodily at his moustache.
Lulie followed him, nestled up to him, lifted the
hand that hung passive by his side, put it round
her waist and held it there. Campbell lost in
170 MONOCHROMES
thought, let it remain so for a second ; then remem
bered how she had doubtless done this very same
thing with other men in this very room. All her
apparently spontaneous movements, he told himself,
were but the oft-used pieces in the game she
played so skilfully.
'Let go,' he said, and flung himself down on
the window-seat, looking up at her with darkening
eyes.
She sitting meekly in the other corner folded
her offending hands in her lap.
' Do you know, your eyes are not a bit nice when
you're cross ? ' she said ; ' they seem to become quite
black.'
He maintained a discouraging silence.
She looked over at him meditatively.
' I never cared a bit for Hiram P., if that's what
you mean,' she remarked presently.
' Do you suppose I care a button if you did ? '
' Then why did you leave off shooting, and why
won't you talk to me ? '
He vouchsafed no reply.
Lulie spent some moments immersed in thought.
Then she sighed deeply, and recommenced on a
note of pensive regret.
' Ah, if I'd only met you sooner in life, I should
be a very different girl.'
The freshness which her quaint, drawling enun
ciation lent to this time-dishonoured formula, made
Campbell smile, till, remembering all its impli
cations, his forehead set in frowns again.
Lulie continued her discourse. 'You see/ said
THE PLEASURE-PILGRIM 171
she, ' I never had any one to teach me what was
right. My mother died when I was quite a child,
and my father has always let me do exactly as I
pleased, so long as I didn't bother him. Then I've
never had a home, but have always lived around in
hotels and places : all winter in New York or
Washington, and summers out at Longbranch or
Saratoga. It's true we own a house in Detroit,
on Lafayette Avenue, that we reckon as home, but
we don't ever go there. It's a bad sort of life for a
girl, isn't it ? ' she pleaded.
' Horrible,' he said mechanically. His mind was
at work. The loose threads of his angers, his
irritations, his desires, were knitting themselves
together, weaving themselves into something over
mastering and definite.
The young girl meanwhile was moving up
towards him along the seat, for the effect which his
sharpest rebuke produced on her never lasted more
than four minutes. She now again possessed
herself of his hand, and holding it between her
own, began to caress it in childlike fashion, pulling
the fingers apart and closing them again, spreading
it palm downwards on her lap, and laying her own
little hand over it, to exemplify the differences
between them. He let her be ; he seemed uncon
scious of her proceedings.
' And then,' she continued, ' I've always known
a lot of young fellows who've liked to take me
round ; and no one ever objected to my going with
them, and so I went. And I enjoyed it, and there
wasn't any harm in it, just kissing and making
i;2 MONOCHROMES
believe, and nonsense. But I never really cared
for one of them I can see that now, when I
compare them with you ; when I compare what I
felt for them with what I feel for you. Oh, I do
love you so much,' she murmured ; ' don't you
believe me ? ' She lifted his hand to her lips and
covered it with kisses.
He pulled it roughly from her. ' I wish you'd
give over such fool's play,' he told her, got up,
walked to the table, came back again, stood
looking at her with sombre eyes and dilating
pupils.
' But I do love you,' she repeated, rising and
advancing towards him.
' For God's sake, drop that damned rot/ he cried
out with sudden fury. ' It wearies me, do you hear ?
it sickens me. Love, love my God, what do you
know about it? Why, if you really loved me,
really loved any man if you had any conception
of what the passion of love is, how beautiful, how
fine, how sacred the mere idea that you could not
come to your lover fresh, pure, untouched, as a
young girl should that you had been handled,
fondled, and God knows what besides, by this man
and the other would fill you with such horror for
yourself, with such supreme disgust you would
feel yourself so unworthy, so polluted .... that
.... that .... by God ! you would take up that
pistol there, and blow your brains out ! '
Lulie seemed to find the idea quite entertaining.
She picked the pistol up from where it lay in the
window, examined it critically, with her pretty head
THE PLEASURE-PILGRIM 173
drooping on one side, and then sent one of her
long red-brown caressing glances up towards him.
'And suppose I were to,' she asked lightly,
' would you believe me then ? '
' Oh, .... well .... then, perhaps ! If you
showed sufficient decency to kill yourself, perhaps
I might,' said he, with ironical laughter. His
ebullition had relieved him ; his nerves were
calmed again. ' But nothing short of that would
ever make me.'
With her little tragic air, which seemed to him so
like a smile disguised, she raised the weapon to the
bosom of her gown. There came a sudden, sharp
crack, a tiny smoke film. She stood an instant
swaying slightly, smiling certainly, distinctly out
lined against the background of rain-washed
window, of gray falling rain, the top of her head
cutting in two the Ritterhausen escutcheon. Then
all at once there was nothing at all between him
and the window he saw the coat of arms entire
but a motionless, inert heap of plush and lace, and
fallen wine-red hair, lay at his feet upon the floor.
' Child, child, what have you done ? ' he cried
with anguish, and kneeling beside her, lifted her
up, and looked into her face.
When from a distance of time and place
Campbell was at last able to look back with some
degree of calmness on the catastrophe, the element
in it which stung him most keenly was this : he could
never convince himself that Lulie had really loved
I 7 4 MONOCHROMES
him after all. And the only two persons who had
known them both, and the circumstances of the
case, sufficiently well to have resolved his doubts
one way or the other, held diametrically opposite
views.
' Well, listen, then, and I'll tell you how it was,'
Miss Nannie Dodge had said to him impressively,
the day before he left Schloss Altenau for ever.
' Lulie was tremendously, terribly in love with you.
And when she found that you wouldn't care about
her, she didn't want to live any more. As to the
way in which it happened, you don't need to
reproach yourself for that. She'd have done it,
anyhow. If not then, why later. But it's all the
rest of your conduct to her that was so mean.
Your cold, cruel, complacent British unresponsive-
ness. I guess you'll never find another woman to
love you as Lulie did. She was just the darlingest,
the sweetest, the most loving girl in the world.'
Mayne, on the other hand, summed it up in this
way . ' Of course, old chap, it's horrible to think of:
horrible, horrible, horrible ! I can't tell you how
badly I feel about it. For she was a gorgeously
beautiful creature. That red hair of hers ! Good
Lord ! You won't come across such hair as that
again in a lifetime. But, believe me, she was only
fooling with you. Once she had you in her
hunting-noose, once her buccaneering instincts
satisfied, and she'd have chucked you as she did all
the rest. As to her death, I've got three theories
no, two for the first being that she compassed
it in a moment of genuine emotion, we may dismiss,
THE PLEASURE-PILGRIM 175
I think, as quite untenable. The second is, that
it arose from pure misadventure. You had both
been shooting, hadn't you ? Well, she took up the
pistol and pulled the trigger from mere mischief, to
frighten }<pu, and quite forgetting one barrel was
still loaded. And the third is, it was just her
histrionic sense of the fitness of things. The rdle
she had played so long and so well now demanded
a sensational finale in the centre of the stage.
And it's the third theory I give the preference to.
She was the most consummate little actress I ever
met.'
WHITE MAGIC
M
WHITE MAGIC
I SPENT one evening last summer with my
friend Mauger, pharmacien in the little town of
Jacques-le-Port He pronounces his name Major,
by-the-by, it being a quaint custom of the Islands
to write proper names one way and speak them
another, thus serving to bolster up that old, old
story of the German savant's account of the
difficulties of the English language 'where you
spell a man's name Verulam,' says he reproachfully,
' and pronounce it Bacon.'
Mauger and I sat in the pleasant wood-panelled
parlour behind the shop, from whence all sorts
of aromatic odours found their way in through
the closed door to mingle with the fragrance of
figs, Ceylon tea, and hot goches-a-beurre, con
stituting the excellent meal spread before us.
The large old-fashioned windows were wide open,
and I looked straight out upon the harbour,
filled with holiday yachts, and the wonderful
azure sea.
Over against the other islands, opposite, a gleam
of white streaked the water, white clouds hung
motionless in the blue sky, and a tiny boat with
white sails passed out round Falla Point. A white
i8o MONOCHROMES
butterfly entered the room to flicker in gay
uncertain curves above the cloth, and a warm
reflected light played over the slender rat-tailed
forks and spoons, and raised by a tone or two
the colour of Mauger's tanned face and yellow
beard. For, in spite of a sedentary profession, his
preferences lie with an out-of-door life, and he
takes an afternoon off whenever practicable, as he
had done that day, to follow his favourite pursuit
over the golf-links at Les Landes.
While he had been deep in the mysteries of
teeing and putting, with no subtler problem to be
solved than the judicious selection of mashie and
cleek, I had explored some of the curious cromlechs
or pouquelayes scattered over this part of the island,
and my thoughts and speech harked back irre
sistibly to the strange old religions and usages of
the past.
' Science is all very well in its way/ said I ; ' and
of course it's an inestimable advantage to inhabit
this so-called nineteenth century ; but the mediaeval
want of science was far more picturesque. The
once universal belief in charms and portents, in
wandering saints, and fighting fairies, must have
lent an interest to life which these prosaic days
sadly lack. Madelon then would steal from
her bed on moonlight nights in May, and slip
across the dewy grass with naked feet, to seek
the reflection of her future husband's face in the
first running stream she passed ; now, Miss Mary
Jones puts on her bonnet and steps round the
corner, on no more romantic errand than the
WHITE MAGIC 181
investment of. her month's wages in the savings
bank at two and a half per cent/
Mauger laughed. ' I wish she did anything half
so prudent ! That has not been my experience of
the Mary Joneses.'
'Well, anyhow,' I insisted, 'the Board School
has rationalised them. It has pulled up the innate
poetry of their nature to replace it by decimal
fractions.'
To which Mauger answered ' Rot ! ' and offered
me his cigarette-case. After the first few silent
whiffs, he went on as follows : ' The innate poetry
of Woman ! Confess now, there is no more un-
poetic creature under the sun. Offer her the
sublimest poetry ever written and the Daily
Telegraph's latest article on fashions, or a good
sound murder or reliable divorce, and there's no
betting on her choice, for it's a dead certainty.
Many men have a love of poetry, but I'm inclined
to think that ninety-nine women out of a hundred
positively dislike it.' ,
Which struck me as true. 'We'll drop the
poetry then,' I answered; 'but my point; remains,
that if the girl of to-day has no superstitions, the
girl of to-morrow will have no beliefs. Teach her
to sit down thirteen to table, to spill the salt, and
walk under a ladder with equanimity, and you
open the door for Spencer and Huxley, and and
all the rest of it,' said I, coming to an impotent
conclusion.
' Oh, if superstition were the salvation of woman
but you are thinking of young ladies in London,
i82 MONOCHROMES
I suppose? Here, in the Islands, I can show you
as much superstition as you please. I'm not sure
that the country-people in their heart of hearts
don't still worship the old gods of the pouquelayes.
You would not, of course, find any one to own up
to it, or to betray the least glimmer of an idea as
to your meaning, were you to question him, for
ours is a shrewd folk, wearing their orthodoxy
bravely ; but possibly the old beliefs are cherished
with the more ardour for not being openly avowed.
Now you like bits of actuality. I'll give you one,
and a proof, too, that the modern maiden is still
separated by many a fathom of salt sea-water from
these fortunate isles.
' Some time ago, on a market morning, a girl
came into the shop, and asked for some blood
from a dragon. " Some what ? " said I, not catch
ing her words. "Well, just a little blood from
a dragon," she answered very tremulously, and
blushing. She meant of course " dragon's blood,"
a resinous powder, formerly much used in medicine,
though out of fashion now.
' She was a pretty young creature, with pink
cheeks and dark eyes, and a forlorn expression of
countenance which didn't seem at all to fit in with
her blooming health. Not from the town, or I
should have known her face ; evidently come from
one of the country parishes to sell her butter and
eggs. I was interested to discover what she
wanted the " dragon's blood " for, and after a
certain amount of hesitation she told me. " They
do say it's good, sir, if anything should have
WHITE MAGIC 183
happened betwixt you an' your young man."
" Then you have a young man ? " said I. " Yes,
sir." "And you've fallen out with him?"
"Yes, sir." And tears rose to her eyes at the
admission, while her mouth rounded with awe
at my amazing perspicacity. " And you mean
to send him some dragon's blood as a love
potion ? " " No, sir ; you've got to mix it with
water you've fetched from the Three Sisters'
Well, and drink it yourself in nine sips on nine
nights running, and get into bed without once
looking in the glass, and then if you've done
everything properly, and haven't made any mistake,
he'll come back to you, an' love you twice as much
as before." " And la Mere Todevinn (Tostevin)
gave you that precious recipe, and made you
cross her hand with silver into the bargain ? "
said I severely ; on which the tears began to flow
outright.
' You know,' said Mauger, breaking off his narra
tion, ' the old lady who lives in the curious stone
house at the corner of the market-place? A
reputed witch, who learned both black and white
magic from her mother, who was a daughter of
Holier Mouton, the famous sorcerer of Cakeuro.
I could tell you some funny stories relating to la
Mere Todevinn, who numbers more clients among
the officers and fine ladies here than in any other
class ; and very curious, too, is the history of
that stone house, with the Brancourt arms still
sculptured on the side. You can see them, if you
turn down by the Water-gate. This old sinister-
1 84 MONOCHROMES
looking building, or rather portion of a building, for
more modern houses have been built over the
greater portion of the site, and now press upon
it from either hand, once belonged to one of the
finest mansions in the Islands, but through a curse
and a crime has been brought down to its present
condition ; while the Brancourt family has Ion g
since been utterly extinct. But all this isn't the
story of Elsie Mahy, which turned out to be the
name of my little customer.
' The Mahys are of the Vauvert parish, and
Pierre Jean, the father of this girl, began life as a
day-labourer, took to tomato-growing on borrowed
capital, and now owns a dozen glass-houses of his
own. Mrs Mahy does some dairy-farming on a
minute scale, the profits of which she and Miss
Elsie share as pin-money. The young man who
is courting Elsie is a son of Toumes the builder.
He probably had something to do with the putting
up of Mahy's greenhouses, but anyhow, he has
been constantly over at Vauvert during the last
six months, superintending the alterations at de
Caterelle's place.
'Toumes, it would seem, is a devoted but
imperious lover, and the Persian and Median laws
are as butter compared with the inflexibility of his
decisions. The little rift within the lute, which has
lately turned all the music to discord, occurred
last Monday week bank-holiday, as you may
remember. The Sunday school to which Elsie
belongs and it's a strange anomaly, isn't it, that
a girl going to Sunday school should still have a
WHITE MAGIC 185
rooted belief in white magic ? the school was to
go for an outing to Prawn Bay, and Toumes had
arranged to join his sweetheart at the starting-
point. But he had made her promise that if by
any chance he should be delayed, she would not
go with the others, but would wait until he came
to fetch her.
' Of course, it so happened that he was detained,
and, equally of course, Elsie, like a true woman,
went off without him. She did all she knew to
make me believe she went quite against her own
wishes, that her companions forced her to go. The
beautifully yielding nature of a woman never comes
out so conspicuously as when she is being coerced
into following her own secret desires. Anyhow,
Toumes, arriving some time later, found her gone.
He followed on, and under ordinary circumstances,
I suppose, a sharp reprimand would have been
considered sufficient. Unfortunately, the young
man arrived on the scene to find his truant love
deep in the frolics of kiss-in-the-ring. After tea in
the Caterelle Arms, the whole party had adjourned
to a neighbouring meadow, and were thus whiling
away the time to the exhilarating strains of a
French horn and a concertina. Elsie was led into
the centre of the ring by various country bump
kins, and kissed beneath the eyes of heaven, of her
neighbours, and of her embittered swain.
' You may have been amongst us long enough
to know that the Toumes family are of a higher
social grade than the Mahys, and I suppose the
Misses Toumes never in their lives stooped to
1 86 MONOCHROMES
anything so ungenteel as public kiss-in-the-ring.
It was not surprising, therefore, to hear that after
this incident " me an' my young man had words,"
as Elsie put it.
'Note,' said Mauger, 'the descriptive truth of
this expression " having words." Among the un
lettered, lovers only do have words when vexed.
At other times they will sit holding hands through
out a long summer's afternoon, and not exchange
two remarks an hour. Love seals their tongue;
anger alone unlooses it, and, naturally, when
unloosened, it runs on, from sheer want of
practice, a great deal faster and further than
they desire.
' So, life being thorny and youth being vain,
they parted late that same evening, with the
understanding that they would meet no more ; and
to be wroth with one we love worked its usual
harrowing effects. Toumes took to billiards and
brandy, Elsie to tears and invocations of Beel
zebub: then came Mere Todevinn's recipe, my
own more powerful potion, and now once more
all is silence and balmy peace.'
' Do you mean to tell me you sold the child
a charm, and didn't enlighten her as to its
futility?'
' I sold her some bicarbonate of soda worth a
couple of doubles, and charged her five shillings
for it into the bargain,' said Mauger unblushingly.
' A wrinkle I learned from once overhearing an old
lady I had treated for nothing expatiating to a
crony, " Eh, but, my good, my good ! dat Mr
WHITE MAGIC 187
Major, I don't t'ink much of him. He give away
his add-vice an' his meddecines for nuddin. Dey
not wurt nuddin' neider, for sure." So I made Elsie
hand me over five British shillings, and I gave her
the powder, and told her to drink it with her
meals. But I threw in another prescription, which, if
less important, must nevertheless be punctiliously
carried out, if the charm was to have any effect.
" The very next time," I told her, " that you meet
your young man in the street, walk straight up to
him without looking to the right or to the left, and
hold out your hand, saying these words : ' Please, I
so want to be friends again ! ' Then if you've
been a good girl, have taken the powder regularly,
and not forgotten one of my directions, you'll find
that all will come right."
' Now, little as you may credit it,' said Mauger,
smiling, ' the charm worked, for all that we live in
the so-called nineteenth century. Elsie came into
the shop only yesterday to tell me the results, and
to thank me very prettily. " I shall always come to
you now, sir," she was good enough to say, " I mean,
if anything was to go wrong again. You know a
great deal more than Mere Todevinn, I'm sure."
"Yes, I'm a famous sorcerer," said I, "but you had
better not speak about the powder. You are wise
enough to see that it was just your own conduct
in meeting your young man rather more than half
way that did the trick eh ? " She looked at me
with eyes brimming over with wisdom. "You
needn't be afraid, sir, I'll not speak of it. Mere
Todevinn always made me promise to keep
1 88 MONOCHROMES
silence too. But of course I know it was the
powder that worked the charm."
' And to that belief the dear creature will stick
to the last day of her life. Women are wonderful
enigmas. Explain to them that tight-lacing dis
places all the internal organs, and show them
diagrams to illustrate your point, they smile
sweetly, say, " Oh, how funny ! " and go out to buy
their new stays half an inch smaller than their old
ones. But tell them they must never pass a pin
in the street for luck's sake, if it lies with its point
towards them, and they will sedulously look for
and pick up every such confounded pin they see.
Talk to a .woman of the marvels of science, and
she turns a deaf ear, or refuses point-blank to
believe you ; yet she is absolutely all ear for any
old wife's tale, drinks it greedily in, and never
loses hold of it for the rest of her days.'
' But does she ? ' said I ; ' that's the point in
dispute, and though your story shows there's still
a commendable amount of superstition in the
Islands, I'm afraid if you were to come to London,
you would not find sufficient to cover a three
penny-piece.'
'Woman is woman all the world over,' said
Mauger sententiously, ' no matter what mental garb
happens to be in fashion at the time. Grattez la
femme et vous trouvez lafolle. For see here : if I
had said to Mademoiselle Elsie, " Well, you were
in the wrong; it's your place to take the first step
towards reconciliation," she would have laughed in
my face, or flung out of the shop in a rage. But
WHITE MAGIC 189
because I sold her a little humbugging powder
under the guise of a charm, she submitted herself
with the docility of a pet lambkin. No ; one need
never hope to prevail through wisdom with a
woman, and if I could have realised that ten years
ago, it would have been better for me.'
He fell silent, thinking of his past, which to
me, who knew it, seemed almost an excuse for
his cynicism. I sought a change of idea. The
splendour of the pageant outside supplied me
with one.
The sun had set ; and all the eastern world ot
sky and water, stretching before us, was steeped
in the glories of the after-glow. The ripples
seemed painted in dabs of ruddy gold upon a
surface of polished blue-gray steel. Over the
islands opposite hung a far-reaching golden cloud,
with faint-drawn, up-curled edges, as though
thinned out upon the sky by some monster brush ;
and while I watched it, this cloud changed from
gold to rose-colour, and instantly the steel mirror
of the sea glowed rosy too, and was streaked and
shaded with a wonderful rosy-brown. As the
colour grew momentarily more intense in the sky
above, so did the sea appear to pulse to a more
vivid copperish-rose, until at last it was like
nothing so much as a sea of flowing fire. And the
cloud flamed fiery too, yet all the while its up-
curled edges rested in exquisite contrast upon a
background of most cool cerulean blue.
The little sailing-boat, which I had noticed an
hour previously, reappeared from behind the Point,
IQO MONOCHROMES
The sail was lowered as it entered the harbour, and
the boatman took to his oars. I watched it creep
over the glittering water until it vanished beneath
the window-sill. I got up and went over to the
window to hold it still in sight. It was sculled by
a young man in rosy shirt-sleeves, and opposite to
him, in the stern, sat a girl in a rosy gown.
So long as I had observed them, not one word
had either spoken. In silence they had crossed the
harbour, in silence the sculler had brought his craft
alongside the landing-stage, and secured her to
a ring in the stones. Still silent, he helped his
companion to step out upon the quay.
' Here,' said I to Mauger, ' is a couple confirming
your " silent " theory with a vengeance. We must
suppose that much love has rendered them
absolutely dumb.'
He came, and leaned from the window too.
' It's not a couple, but the couple,' said he ; ' and
after all, in spite of cheap jesting, there are some
things more eloquent than speech.' For at this
instant, finding themselves alone upon the jetty,
the young man had taken the girl into his arms,
and she had lifted a frank responsive mouth to
return his kiss.
Five minutes later the sea had faded into dull
grays and sober browns, starved white clouds
moved dispiritedly over a vacant sky, and by
cricking the back of my neck I was able to follow
Toumes' black coat and the white frock of Miss
Elsie until they reached Poidevin's wine-vaults,
and, turning up the Water-gate, were lost to view.
THE EXPIATION OF
DAVID SCOTT
THE EXPIATION OF
DAVID SCOTT
MR DAVID SCOTT sat one morning immersed in
business. To and fro from his desk, clerks passed
continually to the outer room, whence, during the
momentary opening of the swing-doors, the rapid
driving of pens on paper was distinctly audible.
Towards mid-day the pressure of work in outer
and inner office slackened ; the handsome presenta
tion clock chiming a quarter to one reminded
Scott to take the prescribed tonic standing there
on the mantel-piece before him. But it was rather
to please his daughter Catherine that he poured it
out and drank it, than because he had any belief
in it himself, as it had been to please her that he
had recently consulted a famous city physician
about his health. The great man had rounded
many sonorous phrases, which to a less shrewd
patient than Scott would have proved, for a time,
amply satisfying. But Scott understood he was in
a precarious condition ; he said to himself his days
were numbered, and he was grateful to Providence
for timely warning before the end.
The medicine was bitter ; he turned to get a
N
i 9 4 MONOCHROMES
biscuit to take away the taste. Then he changed
his mind, putting up with the bitterness instead.
He frequently practised unobserved mortifications
of this sort, with the idea of atonement, yet his un
blemished reputation and religious life were the
edification of all who knew him. It is, however,
only the really pious who suffer from conscience.
A clerk entered with a card and a letter. On
the card was printed ' Mr James O'Brien,' and
written beneath, in pencil, ' from New York ' ; the
letter was in the well-known hand of one of Scott's
correspondents in that city, and contained a
friendly request that Scott would do everything in
his power for the gentleman presenting it.
Scott gave orders for Mr O'Brien's admission.
During the few seconds that elapsed before the
entry of the visitor, he sat with the open letter
under his hand, and a presentiment of trouble in
his heart. He was sensibly relieved when a total
stranger to him walked into the room.
' Mr David Scott ? ' asked the visitor promptly,
with a slight American accent.
Scott assented with a bow, and indicated a seat.
The full light from the window fell upon the
stranger's face ; but Scott, having shifted his chair,
sat in shadow. One naturally takes such an
advantage as this on one's own premises. Scott saw
a man in the prime of life, with a tanned skin,
piercing eyes, and a gloomy expression ; he had
short iron-gray hair and a dark moustache that
completely concealed his mouth. His clothes were
neither new nor good, but he wore them well ; and
EXPIATION OF DAVID SCOTT 195
fixing his interlocutor with his keen glance, he
seemed capable of paralysing you from observing
that his boots were broken and his coat had lost its
nap.
Scott at first took him to be a military man :
but on noting the wary and dogged determination
of his face which only comes from confronting
the varied and undisciplined ills of civil life he
concluded O'Brien had seen service in both careers.
He took up the card again, and looked at it
meditatively.
' In what way can I be of any assistance ? ' he
asked.
' Perhaps my name is not unknown to you ? '
returned the visitor.
Scott hesitated. In truth, the name was con
nected with a melancholy passage in his history,
and every time he came across it since and he
was constantly coming across it it acted as a key
to unlock the secret troubles of the past.
* I have met a good many O'Briens in the course
of my life,' said he, collecting his thoughts ; and
added, with a smile, ' the king, your ancestor, was
a man of large family.'
O'Brien smiled too, but without geniality.
' To be sure ; there are a good many of us about,
and we all descend from kings. But not to detain
you unnecessarily, private affairs of importance have
brought me to England, and pending their settle
ment, it is essential I should obtain some employ
ment, having no private means. I was fortunate
enough to make the acquaintance of Mr Rezin E.
196 MONOCHROMES
van Hannen of N'York, and he kindly gave me the
letter of introduction to you.'
' I should, of course, be very glad to oblige any
of the Van Hannens,' said Scott slowly ; ' they
have put a good deal of business in my way.'
But he was wondering to himself how he could
be expected to find work for a man of O'Brien's
age, and how it was that, despite the stranger's
capable and even impressive appearance, he should
thus be reduced to begging a place in the city, like
the most incompetent of city clerks. Yet he was
interested in him too the name in itself was
sufficient to rivet his interest and then there was
a tone of voice, a trick of manner, Scott found
attractive. He put a few questions as to the kind
of employment desired.
' I'm not particular,' answered O'Brien. ' I
would do anything at all. Indeed, at one time or
another I've done everything already, from gum-
digging in New Zealand to log-rolling in Manitoba.
I've worked with my hands, and I've worked with
my head, and ill-luck has pursued me all the world
round.' He laughed rather bitterly. ' I've heard
people doubt whether there's a Power of Good to
direct man's actions, but there seems no doubt at
all that there's a very active Principle of Evil.'
' What appears to us evil,' said Scott, ' is often
good in disguise ; and it not seldom happens that
those lives, outwardly the most prosperous and
enviable, are in reality the most to be pitied.'
Perhaps he was thinking of the insidious disease
which had laid its hold on him the pain in his
EXPIATION OF DAVID SCOTT 197
side, one of its most troublesome symptoms, was
keen just then. But O'Brien answered from his
own point of view.
' People who have enjoyed every material
prosperity are fond of indulging in imaginary
troubles. To have knocked about two hemispheres
as I have done would soon cure them ; and to have
known the want of a crust of bread or glass of
water makes a man not only grateful, but cheerful
under moderate good fortune.'
' Yes, indeed,' said Scott, ' those are hardships
one rarely encounters. I was referring to other
trials, as real perhaps to some minds, though less
tangible. But you must have seen strange times.
Van Hannen tells me here, you have had some
curious experiences ? '
' I have gone through as many unpleasant
adventures as are to be found in a dime novel,
and now, after twenty years' wandering, find
myself home again at last.'
' Twenty years ! ' repeated Scott, struck by the
coincidence in date with memories of his own.
' After twenty years you must find many changes,
not only in London itself though that is altering
very rapidly but among your own acquaintances
and family?'
'As it happens, I've never been in London
before ; and I never remember any kith and kin,
except a brother, and he, poor fellow, met his death
the year I went abroad let me see, that was in the
spring of '68.'
Scott, apparently busy searching for something
198 MONOCHROMES
among the many papers that littered his desk, was
in reality listening with strained attention.
'Your brother was older than you?' he
hazarded.
' Michael was some five years my elder. He
would be five-and-forty or so now. Excuse the
question, but is anything the matter with you ? '
Scott had gone white as the paper he held in
his hand, that fluttered with the tremor of his
pulse.
' Nothing/ he said, with an effort ; ' nothing
at all but this pain ah ! it often takes me
like this. Go on ; what were you telling
me?'
' I was speaking of my brother. He was a
clever fellow. Had he lived, life would have gone
very differently with me. As it is, the early
mechanical training I had with him he was an
engineer served me in good stead at Van
Hannens', and so has been the indirect means of
my obtaining an introduction to you.'
' If you had a footing in their works, you could
not have done better than held on. Theirs is a
fine business ; my operations are mere trifles in
comparison.'
Scott leaned his head on his hand, and traced
abstractedly dots and dashes on the blotting-pad
before him.
1 But I had to get back to England,' explained
his visitor. ' For many years my whole thoughts
have been centred on getting back, and, strange
as it may seem, I have never until now been able
EXPIATION OF DAVID SCOTT
199
to manage it. Once I actually took ship, to be
wrecked for the second time in my life ; and on
another occasion I got knocked on the head for
the sake of my passage money. I spent the next
two months in hospital, and the next two years
hunting down the man who did it. I paid him
back with interest,' said O'Brien grimly, 'for
I never forget a debt, an idiosyncrasy that has
injured me more than once. I had, for instance,
many chances of settling down in America, could
I have foregone my purpose of returning over here.
But there are some things even dearer to a man
than success.'
' Yes, yes,' said Scott, ' peace of mind is best
of all.' His own peace was gone years ago but
he was overcome now by. unusual agitation.
' Strange ! ' he mused, ' strange that Michael
should have a brother, and I not know it ; stranger
still, that among all the millions in London, chance
should lead that brother to me. But is it not
Providence rather than chance, who thus provides
me with a means of making reparation ? And
even if I am mistaken yet the name ? the date ?
no, I cannot be but even so, I will still help him
for his own sake ; ' for Scott felt that inward
leaning towards the stranger that comes to us
when we first meet a person whom we shall after
wards call friend.
' Well, Mr O'Brien,' he said aloud, ' I will see
what I can do for you. Leave me your address,
or perhaps you wouldn't mind giving me another
call towards the end of the week ? Saturday,
200 MONOCHROMES
shall we say ? Yes ; perhaps by that time I may
have hit on something for you."
The visitor rose and took his departure ; and he
might possibly have looked more elated had he
known into what good hands his interests were
confided.
II
SCOTT'S thoughts that night dwelt persistently on
the past. He had escorted his daughter Catherine
to an evening party, and for the first time he had
observed in her behaviour a reminiscence of her
dead mother's. The sight filled him with inex
pressible pain. He could no longer look at her ;
he wandered through the hot, gas-lighted rooms
alone, examining the drawings on the walls, which
he knew by heart these many years, and turning
over the equally well-known albums of photo
graphs on the side-tables.
While it was yet early he asked Catherine to
come away, and she, always eager to please him,
at once sought her wraps. Rolled cosily round
in them, she leaned back in her corner of the
carriage, and rehearsed in smiling silence the scene
she had just left.
Scott, usually so equable of temper, betrayed
signs of annoyance. He let down the window
nearest him with an unnecessary rattle; he stopped
Catherine's fan in its progress of slipping off the
front seat with an impatient word ; finally, he
glanced at the pretty, dreamy face beside him,
and it seemed to add the last straw to his burden
of discontent.
202 MONOCHROMES
Catherine, returning his gaze, thought he looked
tired, and was filled with self-reproach.
' You are feeling less well ? ' she said anxiously.
' Oh, we ought not to have gone ! I ought to
have stayed at home quietly with you. I am
a selfish wretch ! '
' No, I'm all right,' answered Scott ; ' it's not
that. It's something else. You have enjoyed
yourself, Catherine ? '
'Very much indeed/ she answered, slightly
surprised by his tone.
' I saw it ! ' cried he petulantly ; ' every one in
the room could see it. You laughed and talked
more than I have ever known you. You looked
different you look different now from your
usual self.'
Catherine leaned forward, love and apprehension
blent in her beautiful eyes.
1 Did I do anything wrong ? or say anything ?
was anything the matter with my dress ? '
' No ; you looked very well, and you knew it.
You betrayed your consciousness in every move
ment, in every tone. It was painful to me to
be near you. A vain, coquettish woman is a terror
to me.'
Catherine was too startled to speak. She
pressed her hands together in perplexity, and
her cloak slipped from her bare arms. Scott
drew it up again with tender care. His ebullition
of temper had relieved him.
' I do not mean to accuse you of wilful coquetry ;
but you are young, dearest, and thoughtless. And
EXPIATION OF DAVID SCOTT 203
you, too, have received the best gift that can come
to a woman, if rightly used beauty. For God's
sake do not turn it to the sorrow, the desperation,
perhaps who knows ? to the eternal loss of one
of your fellow-creatures.'
Catherine was tongue-tied by the terrible earnest
ness of these words, as well as by the strangeness
of any reproof from the most indulgent of friends
and fathers.
' There were two young fellows there to-night,'
pursued Scott, ' whom I have long supposed to
be interested in you, who stand, I think, on the
brink of a warmer feeling. I watched your
conduct with them. You distributed kind words
and smiles to each. You let Murchinson fan you,
but you dropped your handkerchief for Hervey to
pick up.'
Catherine relapsed into smiles.
'Oh, no, I did not drop it on purpose!' she
explained.
' You allowed Hervey to turn over the pages of
your music, but you asked Murchinson to choose
the song you should sing ; and though it was his
arm you accepted to the carriage, it was to
Hervey you gave from the window your last
good-bye.'
c But how is that wrong ? ' asked Catherine, still
smiling; 'should I not try to be equally nice to
them both ? '
The cloak began to slip down once more, for
her warm little hand had sought her father's,
and crept inside it like a bird to its nest.
204 MONOCHROMES
' How cold your hand is ! ' she said, shivering.
Scott's fingers closed over hers, at first fondly,
then with unconscious force, until beneath the
unendurable pressure she gave a cry of pain.
' Equally kind to them both ? ' he repeated ;
'don't you see what you are doing? You are
encouraging both to hope where you can only
satisfy one. They used to be friends ; now on
your account they are so no longer. I even see
them exchange glances of enmity. If Hervey
enjoys a momentary pre-eminence, Murchinson
is cast down ; if you accord Murchinson a favour,
Hervey bites his lip and scowls. Always together
when you are present, they avoid each other when
alone. I heard Murchinson just now say to his
friend, " Are you going to walk ? " and when he
got the answer " Yes," then " I'll ride," said
he, and turned on his heel. Formerly, as you
remember, each enjoyed nothing so much as the
other's company ; but jealousy is a plant of rapid
growth. Beginning with petty insults of this sort
between comrades, no one can say to what it may
not lead to the bitter word, the unforgiveable
blow, even to the crime of Cain.'
It was here that Scott in his vehemence crushed
Catherine's hand and wrung from her a cry.
' My poor darling, I have hurt you ! ' said he
remorsefully, and carrying her fingers to his lips,
he covered them with kisses. 'There, I will not
forget again what a delicate little hand it is.
You know I would not purposely hurt it for
the world.'
EXPIATION OF DAVID SCOTT 205
' And I,' said Catherine, with tears in her eyes,
but again smiling, ' did not mean to do the harm
I appear to have done to-night. But it never
occurred to me things were so serious even now
oh, I feel sure neither of them cares for me in
the way you mean.'
' Perhaps not ; perhaps I am mistaken. And
yet, Catherine, let us imagine they do care, that
both are anxious for your favour. Do you act
fairly by them, in letting each one think you like
him the best, or at least quite as well as the
other ? '
' Why, dearest,' cried Catherine, laughing, ' even
if I did care for one in particular, which I don't,
I should be bound to conceal it. You know a girl
must not show preferences.'
' Error, error,' said Scott. ' Is not a girl a
human being too ? Shall she not have her likes
and dislikes with the rest of us ? That is a fatal
doctrine which teaches her to conceal every hint
of the truth. My little daughter, I have known a
case in which this unnatural reticence, due partly
to a narrow education, partly to a cruel coquetry,
worked irretrievable harm.'
He paused, deep in thought. The image of
another Catherine rose before him. He followed
her through her brief career, down to the dread
ful grave. There, one cold, wet day, long ago, he
had left her who had so loved the sunshine and
the light ; but the sin, the anguish, the unavailing
.regret had remained with him ever since.
' A man,' said he presently, ' will accept his fate
206 MONOCHROMES
manfully from the woman he loves, so long as she
deals openly and honestly with him ; but while she
lures him on, he will cede to no one. Therefore,
Catherine, I implore you to act frankly with those
two young fellows. If there is one you like better
than the other, do not be afraid to reveal it. Why
should you be afraid ? If he is poor, I have
enough for you both ; and why should I ask for
family or position ? I rose from the people myself.
All I ask is that you should be happy and good,
and make, through your affection, the man you
marry good and happy likewise.'
' It is evident I don't make you happy/ said
Catherine, playfully ; ' or you would not be so
anxious to get rid of me.'
'Should I not be the selfish wretch you called
yourself just now, if I tried to keep you from the
man you loved ? '
' So you are making out it is I who am in love
now, sir ? ' cried Catherine, with reproach. ' For
the future, instead of being equally kind to every
one, I must be equally cold.'
' No ; there is another danger there,' said Scott ;
'young men have feelings as well as girls, and
some are too shy, and some too proud, to fall in
love without receiving any encouragement. I want
you to let your heart lead you ; then you cannot
go wrong. And it is natural I should have anxieties
about your future. Who knows how long I shall
be here to take care of you ? '
Time after time he said a word of this sort, with
the design of gently preparing Catherine for the
EXPIATION OF DAVID SCOTT 207
coming change. But the girl could not under
stand his meaning. His fits of pain, his lassitude,
his visits to the physician, appeared to her only in
connection with some passing indisposition, per
haps incidental to his great age.
She nestled close up to him.
' You are never going to leave me, dearest, and
I am never going to marry. I am going to
remain with you and be your own little girl
always.'
The carriage reached home, and Scott, lifting
his daughter out, pressed her gratefully in his
arms ; but he knew that, in spite of her innocent
protestations, the day would come when she would
think otherwise. And he would have hastened the
moment had he been able, because, ever drawing
nearer and more near, he foresaw for his darling
the dark and lonely days of a first great grief.
Ill
THE interest O'Brien aroused in Scott increased
the more he saw of him. Eventually he made him
a place in his own business, and found no occasion
to regret having done so. O'Brien's new position
threw him a good deal in Scott's society, who
before long was addressing him with the familiarity
of at least an old acquaintance. He even asked
him to Streatham to dine an unusual token of
favour and drove him out there on the following
Saturday. The clerks, gaily preparing to close
their week's work, and get away to their amuse
ments, had crowded to the window to see the two
gentlemen start. They remarked to each other
how jolly old the 'governor' looked.
In fact, Scott grew visibly older every day. Any
one would have said offhand he was sixty, yet in
reality he was not many years senior to the man
beside him. But O'Brien's upright bearing, and
broad shoulders, made Scott appear more than
usually aged and infirm.
His residence, forty minutes' drive from the city,
stood back from the high road, in its own pleas
ant grounds. Within the oak gates, a gravel
sweep led to the house, which was low and unpre-
EXPIATION OF DAVID SCOTT 209
tending; yet to the discerning eyes its well-kept
approaches, its spruce exterior, spoke of substan
tial wealth, which was confirmed by a first glance
within. Here were good pictures, soft carpets,
handsome furniture ; all the innumerable indi
cations that comfort is understood and money
plentiful. Well-trained, attentive servants came
to take the visitor's coat and stick, and receive
Scott's orders. O'Brien looked about him with
dark envy. It was the most luxurious house he
had ever been in. For the first time in his life
he walked over tiger skins and tessellated pave
ments ; he saw decorations on the walls, and
objects for daily use which he had previously only
associated with the stage. He tried to realise how
the possession of all these good things would affect
him, and he contrasted Scott's evident ease with
his own hardships and toil. He was filled with
wrath.
The large drawing-room into which his host led
him was empty. Scott passed out through a
conservatory at the back, and thence down a
semicircular flight of stone steps on to the lawn.
O'Brien saw a green, delightful solitude stretching
round him. Stately trees cast their shadow over
the grass, there was the tinkle of an unseen foun
tain, and the limits of the garden were cleverly
concealed. It was an ideal place in which to
spend long summer days of indolence.
Through the leafy screen on the right a gleam
of white appeared and vanished. Then a girl in
a white gown emerged from a side path and
O
2io MONOCHROMES
advanced towards them. She appeared about
eighteen years of age, had a skin of milk and roses,
gentlest of blue eyes, and quantities of fair hair
wound round a well-poised little head. She
carried a basket of ferns and flowers, green and
white and scarlet.
O'Brien broke off short in the middle of a
sentence, his gaze riveted upon her. The proud
father understood his surprise and admiration.
New acquaintances were invariably surprised at
finding he possessed, hidden away in his home, so
sweet a creature as Catherine.
' My daughter,' said Scott fondly, as O'Brien
turned towards him with impatient inquiry in his
eyes ; ' Catherine, Mr O'Brien.'
' I am glad to see you,' said Catherine, with
timid hospitality, as she held out a little hand.
' I am glad to come,' he answered, and then
suddenly and oddly turned from her to study the
scene.
' You have a charming place here,' he remarked
to her presently ; ' it has a pleasant, old-world air,
very refreshing to a weary traveller like myself.
I suppose you have lived here all your life ? '
' As long as I can remember,' said Catherine ;
' we came when I was quite a child, sixteen years
ago.'
' When her mother died,' explained Scott, in the
lowered tone in which a man mentions the still-
loved dead ; ' the first four years of my marriage
I had a cottage Hampstead way.'
' Sixteen years,' repeated O'Brien. ' That is a
EXPIATION OF DAVID SCOTT 211
long, an enviable time to have spent in such an
oasis as this ; for it seems to me that life here must
be always smooth and happy.'
' Yes, yes,' said Scott ; ' and if happiness were
intended to be our portion on earth, under con
ditions similar to these, it might perhaps be attained.'
He looked from Catherine to the velvet lawns and
pastures, to the low house, with its friendly aspect,
and sun-awnings of white and red. ' But it has
not been so willed for man, and we have each of
us to bear our cross.'
' True,' assented O'Brien ; ' there is no rose
without its thorns ; yet to one who has been so
long the sport of chance as I have, ten years, five
even, of such a peaceful home-life would go a long
way towards compensation. After that, I fancy I
could face death without grumbling ; but as it is,
I should rebel, for it would seem hard to go without
having tasted one of the good gifts for which life
was given.'
' Life was given for one thing only,' said Scott,
as though speaking to himself; ' everything else
passes as quickly as those shadows over the grass.
Inequalities here will be set right in the world to
come ; and some of those who stand highest now
will take the lowest places then if, indeed,' he
added, with passionate earnestness, ' if, indeed, they
find a place at all.'
Catherine saw her father had entered into one
of his religious reveries, which often made him
oblivious to external things. To conceal his con
dition from strange, and perhaps unsympathising
212 MONOCHROMES
eyes, she conquered her shyness sufficiently to ask
O'Brien if he would care to go round the garden.
She led him from point to point ; showed him the
great guelder rose-bush, with its million blossoms ;
the little fountain, where the gold-fishes swam
under a glittering cascade poured over them by a
smiling Nereid, and the ' turn-about ' house, set
on a pivot, so that a touch would bring it round to
follow the sunshine ; and he listened to her in such
silence, and with such evident pre-occupation, that
she might have thought he had forgotten all about
her, but for the strangely intense look she en
countered if she chanced to meet his eye.
Presently he abandoned taciturnity and began
to talk. She had taken him into the .orchid-house
to exhibit with especial pride her favourite flowers.
He told her of the countries where he had seen
these growing wild, common as weeds.
' You have travelled a great deal, my father tells
me ? ' said Catherine.
'Yes, I have been a rolling stone, and conse
quently have gathered no moss ; so that I find
myself, Miss Scott, at an age when other men have
homes and children, about to begin life over again.
I am absolutely no further advanced than I was
twenty years ago.
' Oh, but you have been unlucky,' said Catherine,
gently. ' Now that you are home in England you
will find things will go better.'
She blushed at her temerity in offering these
timid consolations, and O'Brien watched her
furtively.
EXPIATION OF DAVID SCOTT 213
' Yes, I think the luck has changed now,' he
answered. ' I see the goal plainly at last.' But
his manner was still charged with gloom.
Catherine was puzzled. His long dark glances
confused her. She was glad that the gong at that
moment recalled them to the house.
At dinner the conversation turned upon the guest's
travels. Scott, whose life was so uniform, who
knew no greater excitement than the rise and fall
of markets, no greater danger than the crossing
of Leadenhall Street, was much interested in the
other's strange tales. O'Brien warmed to his work.
He shook off his moroseness, and without either
boasting or self-depreciation, set forth his adven
tures in manly fashion, selecting episodes he
thought most likely to interest, and painting lively
pictures of foreign life and manners.
Catherine listened enthralled. Never had any
one within her limited experience spoken like this,
seen so many marvels, or done such courageous
things. In her heart she appraised at their just
value the deeds he passed so lightly by. Her
cheeks glowed ; her sweet eyes involuntarily ex
pressed her homage. Yet she did not know the
full meaning of the new emotions awakening
within her breast ; and, had she been asked with
what sentiment O'Brien most inspired her, she
would undoubtedly have told you with fear. For,
though it pleased her so much to hear him talk,
she could scarcely answer for rising blushes and
fluttering pulse.
IV
O'BRIEN began to come over to Streatham at
regular and frequent intervals. It seemed to Scott
his guest took pleasure in walking about the
gardens with Catherine, in telling his stories to
her gentle ear. It was while watching them thus
together one day that the idea first presented itself
to Scott's mind that, by giving his daughter to
James O'Brien, he should be making the best and
fittest atonement. For he no longer felt the
smallest doubt that this man, led by chance across
his path, had, all unknown to O'Brien himself, the
strongest possible claim upon him. And even for
Catherine's own sake, it seemed such a marriage
might be best. In O'Brien she would find a
more indulgent husband than in a younger man.
Young men, said Scott to himself, are often selfish
and tyrannical ; such a one might make Catherine's
life a slavery. But O'Brien would know how to
value the gift, and to unite the tenderness of a
father with the ardour of a lover. He was more
than twenty years her senior, and yet, in appear
ance, still young upright, well built, and possess
ing a face and mien of which any woman might be
proud.
EXPIATION OF DAVID SCOTT 215
Now, as he walked by Catherine's side across the
lawn, he looked particularly well. With her, he
put off some of his gloom, and bending down
towards her as he talked for the top of her head
was but just on a level with his shoulder he
called forth constantly on her charming little face
the most responsive smiles and dimples.
It seemed to Scott that, so far as Catherine was
concerned, his wishes would meet with no resist
ance. And he did begin to wish this thing earnestly.
He not only liked O'Brien as much as he had
liked only one other man in his life, but he believed
that Providence was thus offering him a means
of expiation for the past. O'Brien should marry
Catherine, succeed to the business, and then
money, house, all Scott possessed, should be given
to her and to him.
It was a happy spring and summer for David
Scott, happier than any he had lived through for
the last twenty years. Though he suffered much
physical pain, his anxieties were less, and the
burden of remorse which weighed down his soul
began to lift.
Catherine, too, was filled with a new life, or,
rather, life seemed to hold a new meaning for her.
All smiles and blushes when O'Brien was present,
she rippled over with happiness when alone. She
sang as she ran up and down stairs, or as she
wandered through the quiet garden. Murchinson
and Hervey were completely forgotten.
O'Brien had more than once made casual allu
sion to that private business which had mainly
216 MONOCHROMES
brought him to London, and Scott had felt such
curiosity as may bs pardoned when it springs from
a desire to serve. One evening, as the three were
sitting on the lawn after dinner, it recurred to him
again, this business, and he wondered whether it was
such as might offer any impediment to his hopeful
castle-building.
O'Brien smoked in silence, and Catherine
watched the stars, trooping forth in myriads upon
the darkening summer sky.
' By-the-by,' remarked Scott, tentatively, ' that
affair of yours, you have once or twice alluded
to I hope it is progressing satisfactorily ? '
O'Brien looked up abruptly at the first word ;
then he threw away his cigar, though it was but half
burnt out, and turned his chair to fully face Scott.
' Circumstances are combining to favour me,' he
said, ' better than I ever dreamed possible ; and,
after twenty years' patience, I seem on the verge
of attaining my heart's desire.' He paused a
long, intolerable pause it seemed to Scott before
he added, 'Justice to a criminal, and vengeance
for a crime.'
Catherine too had begun to listen the moment
O'Brien began to speak. Already sensitive to every
change in his voice, her eyes opened in terror at
the ferocity of his tone.
1 You think I speak vindictively, Miss Scott ? '
he asked her. ' I am vindictive it runs in my
Irish blood. We love and hate warmly and for
ever ; and there is a man to whom I owe a debt of
hatred hard to pay.'
EXPIATION OF DAVID SCOTT 217
Scott leaned forward with interest.
' What was this crime ? ' said he.
' Murder/ came the curt answer. ' And the
victim was my only brother, Michael O'Brien.'
It had grown almost too dark for the men to
distinguish each other's faces, but Catherine cried
out with indignation :
' Oh, your brother ! how wicked ! ' And the
murderer at that moment would have found scant
mercy at her hands.
' Yes, it was a cruel piece of work,' began O'Brien ;
' for this man and poor Michael were friends. Yet he
murdered him, and spread the report that Michael,
in a fit of caprice, had joined an outward-bound
ship and sailed for America.'
' But how did the murderer escape if you knew
of the crime ? ' asked Scott from his dusky corner.
' The story is rather singular. I made the
discovery in this way. One day I was taking a
lonely ramble along the shore this occurred down
at Hardsmouth ; the cliffs on either side of the town
rise abruptly, and the coast is solitary and danger
ous but perhaps you may know those parts ? '
' I do,' said Scott ; ' I was there on business some
six years since.'
' Well, I was rambling about there one day some
months after Michael's disappearance I should
explain I had come purposely up from the south
to join my brother in business, only to find to my
surprise and grief he had gone abroad, so it was
told me I was wandering along the shore dis
consolately enough when, rounding a promontory,
218 MONOCHROMES
I was surprised to find the little cove beyond, full
of crows, either walking over the sands or flying
heavily in the air. Disturbed at my approach, they
rose and settled on a jutting-out portion of rock,
some twenty or thirty feet above my head. There,
wedged into a cleft, I saw what appeared to be a
bundle of old clothes. Boylike, I must climb to
discover what this might mean. I shouted to scare
the birds away. They flapped their ugly wings in
circles round my head. Something sickening hung
out from the bundle. It was a half-eaten and
decaying human hand, the flesh hanging in tatters,
the bones showing.'
' Oh,' murmured Catherine, ' how dreadful ! '
' In a few seconds more I discovered to what
this ghastly relic belonged. The bundle of clothes
concealed the body of poor Michael, whom I had
last seen six months before, full of life and vigour,
whom I had loved, who was the only relation I
had in the world.'
' That was a terrible discovery,' said Scott, sym
pathetically ; ' yet what leads you to suppose it
was a murder? Might not your brother have met
with a misadventure? The cliffs round Hards-
mouth are notoriously dangerous, and on a dark
night a man walking along the top might easily
miss his footing and be blown over.'
' Such was my own impression at first ; but as I
lay there upon the rock, innumerable scraps of
evidence presented themselves to my mind, which
together convinced me it was the work of a
murderer. It would not interest you to hear all
EXPIATION OF DAVID SCOTT 219
the details by which I roughly arrived at the theory
which I have since elaborated during many years
of painful retrospect. This man, this friend of
Michael's, had a cause for hating him. Perhaps
Michael had won the affections of some girl the
other coveted, for my brother, as I remember
him, Miss Scott, was a most gay and lovable fellow
as different as possible from the man you see me.
Perhaps thereupon the false friend laid a trap to
entice Michael along the edge of the cliff at night,
and then, suddenly springing upon him unawares,
flung him over. He trusted to the solitary nature
of the spot to keep his secret for twenty years
ago, the coast down there was still more sparsely
inhabited than it is at present and, but for that
chance walk of mine, the remains might never have
been found until they were past recognition.'
' Human nature is vile,' said Scott ; ' no
one knows better than I how deeply man may
fall, but such cold-blooded treachery as you
describe this man guilty of, I am loth to believe
in. Is it not more probable to suppose the two
may have quarrelled, come to blows, and then
perhaps '
' My brother have fallen over accidentally ? ' said
O'Brien, concluding the sentence. ' No, had it
been accidental, and the men struggling, both must
have gone over together, and if one saw the danger
in time to save himself, he could have saved his
friend. Besides, the report so sedulously spread
of the victim's departure for foreign parts,
proves conclusively the guilt of him who spread it.'
220 MONOCHROMES
' But what did you do?' asked Catherine eagerly.
'At this point my own adventures begin. I
hung there, clinging on to the rock, and turning
things over in my mind, when a boat came in sight
a few yards from the shore. I hailed the three
men who were in her, and who at first seemed little
disposed to stop ; but, after consulting together, they
turned her head and ran her up the beach. I made
haste to tell them my story ; they appeared friendly,
advised me to leave the body precisely as I had
found it, and to go with them and lay an informa
tion before the magistrates. I got into the boat,
and they pulled for the harbour ; it was already
past sundown, and the evening was quite closed in
before we reached the bar. Here, lying in the
offing, all ready for sailing, was a Portuguese
trading-vessel, and aboard her, by some easy
excuse or other, my companions managed to decoy
me. But no sooner was my foot set on deck than
I received a knock-down blow, and recovered con
sciousness only to find myself out at sea, with my
choice of supplementing the wretchedly incompetent
crew or tasting the cat. We were bound for
Loanga, but never reached our destination, as we
were wrecked off the coast of Dahomey. There I
fell into the hands of the blacks, and lived in
slavery for five years. Slavery is not a condition
to soften the heart, and it was then, Miss Scott, I
made up my mind to outlive any suffering and I
endured many for the pleasure of one day taking
my revenge.'
' Vengeance,' said Scott, in a low voice, ' belongs
EXPIATION OF DAVID SCOTT 221
to the Lord. Be sure in His own time He will
repay, ay, full measure and running over.'
' Yes,' agreed O'Brien ; ' but even you good
people admit the Lord helps those most who help
themselves. I will help myself here. Think of my
brother's terrible and lingering death ; for it is
evident he was not killed outright by the fall, but
got fixed there in the rock, to die of loss of blood
or of starvation. Think of what I have gone
through since. We have each of us but one life
given us, and the man took Michael's, and for
twenty years has rendered mine exceeding bitter.
The Lord may do as He pleases with his soul
hereafter, but I think I have every right to demand
satisfaction from him here.'
' Catherine,' said her father tenderly, ' it is getting
chilly ; it is time you should go in.'
' It is time we should all go in,' added O'Brien.
' I must be getting away.'
Scott accompanied him to the door to bid him
good-night.
O'Brien produced a pipe from his pocket and
set about lighting it ; but he was awkward with
the matches, which went out one after the other.
Meanwhile he spoke musingly : ' The O'Briens,^
said he, 'may be found every hour of the day,
in every quarter of the globe ; but I suppose the
name of David Scott is not so very unusual
either ? '
'The combination is about as common as any
you will find,' said the host.
' Ah ! ' O'Brien struck the fourth match success-
222 M O N OT H R O M E S
fully ; it flared up, so that for an instant both men's
faces were visible in the glow. ' Curiously enough
the man who murdered my poor Michael, and
whom I have been seeking these many years past,
was also named David Scott.'
V
SCOTT passed the night walking up and down his
bedroom unintermittingly but softly, so as not to
awaken Catherine in the adjoining room.
His thoughts went back to the days when the
dead and more dearly-loved Catherine was alive
and young. He lived over again a certain evening,
when Catherine Eames, seventeen, and radiantly
pretty, was radiantly happy likewise ; for her two
lovers had come up to supper, and it was easy to
see from the dark glances and bitter speeches that
passed between them, how jealous each was of the
other, and how much both aspired to her favour.
Catherine did all she could to foment their bad
feeling. If she gave David a sweet smile, she
straightway touched Michael's hand by accident
as she dispensed her hospitality ; if she laughed
one moment at Michael's half-malicious jests, the
next she had turned to David, and with pretty
pleading eyebrows and bewitching ways, knew
how without a word to get her laughter pardoned.
The unfortunate young men suffered torments ;
but instead of tracing the origin of their pain to
Catherine, where it was due, and putting a stop
once for all to her thoughtless cruelty, they turned
224 MONOCHROMES
fiercely on each other, and their old friendship was
half burned up in the fires of their new passion.
Catherine's father, stolid, phlegmatic, indifferent
to everything but his supper and his doze, ate and
slept the evening away, and noticed nothing of the
young people's folly.
' You will both come again and see me in three
weeks' time,' said Catherine, ' when I shall be back
from auntie's? and then perhaps I may '
She paused to smile coquettishly at one and the
other.
'Then you will give us your answer?' implored
David. ' You will decide between us, Catherine ? '
Michael listened and laughed ; he played tunes
with his fingers on the supper-cloth, and tried to
inform David by his whole demeanour that the
decision held small terrors for him personally ;
but when Catherine turned towards him he
immediately dropped his boastful air, and became
once more the devout lover.
'Perhaps I shall never come back at all,' said
Catherine, merely to tease. ' Who knows if I may
not meet my fate down there ? '
The wild, gusty December wind rushed at the
cottage, and shook every door and window with
violence, as though seeking to force an entrance ;
the log-fire crackled gloriously up the chimney,
and red reflections played over the cosy house-
place and its four occupants upon Eames, who,
with folded hands and head fallen back, dreamed
uneasily of business complications and vanishing
joints of roast ; upon Catherine, turning her fair
EXPIATION OF DAVID SCOTT 225
hair to gold, her eyes to jewels, her flushing cheek
and tiny ear to sunset-clouds, to sea-shells, or to
anything else that might seem appropriate to the
poetical fancy of the lover ; finally, it glowed
warmly over the two young men with all the
impartiality of Catherine herself. It contrasted
Michael's handsome Irish face with David's
northern fairness, and so enhanced and equalised
the good looks of both, that in point of beauty
alone it was impossible to decide which deserved
the preference. The stormy wind, rattling at the
door, mingled with Catherine's light words, and
set Michael quoting:
' " Fate and fortune come without knocking," '
said he. ' Give us your answer candidly to-night,
Catherine ; for who can tell if in three weeks' time
we shall be here to receive it ? You, as you say,
may stop down there at your aunt's altogether,
or a sudden whim may seize me to take
ship to the antipodes, and never be heard of
again.'
' In that case,' cried Catherine, ' my answer can
be of no importance to you.'
' Oh, it would be something to meditate on in
the watches of the night ! ' he answered, and his
blue eyes drew hers and held them fixed for one
pensive moment upon his own. A deeper colour
came to her cheek.
' Have you nothing to meditate on without
that ? ' she asked him, smiling ; and Michael thrust
a careless hand into his breast.
' Ah, to be sure ! There are plenty of nice girls
P
226 MONOCHROMES
down at Hardsmouth,' he said. ' I will meditate
upon Maggie or on Liz.'
Catherine's smile only broadened, and David, for
ever on the watch, turned pale. Just now it
appeared to him there had passed a glance of
secret understanding between the two. He looked
darkly at Catherine, who turned towards him a
face of childlike innocence ; he looked at his
friend, but found no more in Michael's triumphant
expression than he was well used to. Michael was
always sanguine ; up to the very brink of disaster,
his Celtic impetuosity knew no check, his self-
confidence was never one whit abated. He lived
gaily in the present moment, with neither regret
for the past nor fears for the future.
David took life more seriously ; he was of a
religious turn of mind. He ardently desired to
save his soul, but he likewise framed plans to
conquer Fortune. Lately, Catherine had become
the centre and source of all his day-dreaming, and
he thought even more of winning her for his wife
than of making money or obtaining grace. His
worldly position was better than Michael's, and he
believed he should have the old man's good word.
The last mad wind-whirl had disturbed Eames,
and his comfortless position in the chair, on the top
of a plentiful meal, had given him nightmare. He
awoke with a groan, sat up, and saw Catherine
and the boys still sitting as he had left them at
the supper-table, although they had long since
finished. Michael was building up a pyramid of
knives and glasses. Catherine watched the structure
EXPIATION OF DAVID SCOTT 227
as it rose, and David looked at Catherine. Pre
sently she put out a mischievous hand to interfere,
but Michael, still building with his right, caught
her wrist in his left hand, and held it fast With
an impatient jerk of the table, David brought the
edifice crashing down in ruins.
'If you break the glasses,' said Eames, ' you'll
get no hot toddy. Cathey, it's time you were abed.
Get out the whisky and mix the boys a glass
apiece, and your poor old father will have one too.'
Catherine fetched the bottle, the lemons, and
the old-fashioned silver sugar-crushers. Michael
pared the peel into strips so thin ' you might read
through them,' and David lifted the kettle, too
heavy for the girl's slender arms. The fragrant
odour of punch spread about the room, and the
young men clinked glasses with Eames and drank
to their next meeting.
' You've got a rough walk before you, boys,'
said he ; 'I shouldn't care to be in your place.
But, to be sure, you're young ; your united ages
don't come up to mine, I'll be bound. Let me
see you're twenty-three, Michael, and David's
twenty-five. Twenty and twenty is forty, and five
and three is eight. Add another five to forty-
eight and there you have me. Well, twenty years
goes by like a flash, as one day you'll discover for
yourselves.'
He pressed the young men to take just
another half-glass. ' A warm inside keeps the cold
without,' said he, dealing forth the spirit gener
ously.
228 MONOCHROMES
They were glad to delay the moment of depar
ture, and Catherine coquetted to the last. She
handed David his comforter and laughed at the
fashion in which Michael wore his.
' You've tied it very badly, all the ends are
hanging out. Let me do it for you.'
Standing on tiptoes her head just reached to
Michael's chin. She was unnecessarily long in
her arrangements, and when she had finished she
turned her charming little face upwards, with
something so provocative in her baby eyes, that no
young mortal Irishman, especially after Eames's
hospitality, could resist doing as Michael did, and
suddenly kissing her.
David turned white.
' Early times for kissing,' grumbled Eames.
1 No, late times,' said Catherine, ' I am saying
good-night.' With woman's wit she held her
blushing cheek up to her father and David in turn,
as if it were but ordinary friendliness.
David was red enough now, as he awkwardly
took the kiss she proffered him.
Michael made a grimace.
' You know how to cheapen your favours,' he
told Catherine, who blushed still deeper, but
answered pertly, ' It will be a long time before you
obtain such another favour anyhow.'
The whole party went out into the porch,
and David opened the outer door. The wind
drove him back an instant as it rushed triumph
antly past him, lifting the carpet from the boards,
blowing the curtains into strange suggestive shapes,
EXPIATION OF DAVID SCOTT 229
finally losing itself in the great roaring cavern of a
chimney.
Outside, up in the domed heavens, a gibbous
moon, now visible, now hidden, climbed swiftly
through the drifting clouds. The scene was alter
nately washed in cold white light or plunged in
blackness, and the suddenness and completeness
of these changes was full of an eerie desolation.
' Good-night,' said Eames to the young men.
' Good-night !' they cried, setting off.
' Good-night, Davy,' said Catherine, in her most
caressing tone, and making use for the first time
that evening of the familiar diminutive. ' Good
night, Michael.'
Both turned back and waved their caps with a
final ' good-night.' All four saw each other for
the last time in the wan moonlight, then Eames
pulled his daughter within doors, and the two
friends trudged on together.
They went without speaking a mile along their
road. The last house of the village was left behind,
as, striking across the meadows, they reached the
cliff, along the ragged outline of which their route
lay. The moon began to disentangle herself from
the vaporous meshes that held her ; she reached
a breadth of dark transparent sky, and for a time
shone out unimpeded and strong. Every leaf and
blade of grass became suddenly distinguishable
upon the cliff-top ; every bright ripple crest and
dark hollow might be counted on the sheet of silver
sea that crawled below. *
David, since he parted from Catherine, had not
230 MONOCHROMES
opened his lips. The look he still believed he had
surprised between her and Michael rankled within
him. His blood was on fire with the kiss she had
let him take ; perhaps too, Eames's whisky counted
for something. He said to himself over and over
again, Catherine should be his, and the annoying
conviction pressed close upon him, that but for
Michael there was no one in the world to dispute
his claim.
Michael, who had not spoken either, was yet
never silent. Now he whistled, now he hummed
under his breath, now he sang a few bars out loud.
All at once he laughed outright.
David felt a passionate resentment.
' What a fool you are ! ' he exclaimed savagely ;
' everything to you is a matter for jest. Yet the
very next time we walk along here together,
Catherine will have made her choice, and one of
us will be the happiest fellow in the world, one
the most miserable.'
' Perhaps I am cultivating a laughing philosophy,'
replied Michael, 'in order to enable me to sustain
my fate, and yet '
' Yet what ? ' repeated David.
1 Well, of course we each hope to have the luck,'
said Michael, apologetically, 'and I cannot help
being gay-hearted while such a hope is mine.'
The mere possibility that his rival should
succeed and he fail, cut David like a knife, but he
marshalled up all the facts that told in his favour
and found relief.
' Even supposing,' said he, ' Catherine cared for
EXPIATION OF DAVID SCOTT 231
you, what then? How could you support her as
a wife ? You have only just enough to live your
self. Do you mean to ask her to wait for you ?
Eames would not consent. He's a shrewd man.
He understands business. I talked with him to-day
for a long time. I let him know my position and
my prospects. He was pleased. I am almost
sure I can count upon his influence. In fact, he
hinted as much. He said he wanted a son-in-law
competent to put Catherine's own little bit of
money to good use.'
Michael laughed again.
' You're a canny Scot, Davy,' said he, ' and where
money is concerned you're bound to win. But
while you were getting round old Eames, I, for
once, was better employed. I was in the kitchen
helping Catherine make the pies. I sat on a
corner of the table and handed her the pepper,
salt, and herbs as she wanted them. Do you
know she is different when you're alone with her?
she's gentler, and doesn't make fun of what you
say.'
There was a rapturous expression on Michael's
face that told his companion, plain as words could,
he was living over again his hour with Catherine
in the kitchen.
' Have you ever noticed her ear ? ' he went on ;
' I didn't know an ear could be such a beautiful
thing. It's so small and so perfect. I wonder
how any man could have been such a brute as to
bore that little hole through it ? She says it didn't
hurt her much, but imagine hurting her at all ! '
232 MONOCHROMES
Every word wrenched the knife round in David's
heart ; every moment his face grew more fixed
and bloodless. Unconscious or careless of the
effect he was producing, Michael went on ;
' There's a wonderful down over her cheek,
though you only see it when she turns against
the light It is like the bloom on fruit, you
would almost fear to brush it away with a
breath. It must feel like velvet to the finger.
Then her hands. How horny Eames's are, and
ours too. Look at that.' Michael held out' a
large palm, roughened and engrained by weather
and work.
' But Catherine's is quite soft and pink, and is
crossed inside by hundreds of funny little lines,
like a crumpled poppy leaf before it's shaken
out of the husk. And it's so small ! She
measured it against mine, and it lay here in the
centre like a child's. The tips of her fingers
don't reach to this ; ' and he drew an imaginary
line across his first finger-joints.
David stood still, for his limbs were suddenly
powerless, every drop of blood, all energy had
gone to feed the fury welling up in his heart.
' What right have you to know such things ? '
he demanded huskily ; ' what right have you to
touch her? You desecrate her by your speech,
by your thoughts. I have never so much as
squeezed her hand, and you did I not see you
to-night put her to shame by kissing her before
us all ? '
'You should be the last to complain of that,
EXPIATION OF DAVID SCOTT 233
remembering what it earned you,' Michael retorted ;
'but what I do before her father I dare not do
behind his back. When alone with Catherine
I am more timid, and go no further than she
leads.'
' I swear she never leads you ! ' cried David
violently : ' you insult her by every word you
say.'
Michael did not seem to hear ; he was immersed
in pleasurable recollections.
'To-day her hair fell down all about her
shoulders and below her waist. She had run
into the garden to catch her kitten that had
escaped, and the wind loosened it and blew it
about like a yellow cloud. I wanted to take it
in my hands, but I was afraid. I suppose she
saw my longing in my face, for she got her
scissors from her work-box and cut off for me
a long thick piece. I have it here,' and Michael
thrust his hand into his breast.
David recalled the similar movement when
Catherine had said to him, 'Have you nothing
else to meditate upon?' and he understood at
last the look which they had exchanged. Michael
had played him false. Three months ago they
had agreed to court Catherine openly and in
each other's presence, and to loyally accept her
choice ; but now Michael had tampered with her
affection in an underhand manner, and had got
her to concede to him unwarrantable favours.
Love, rage, and jealousy sent David, usually
the most sensible of young men, clean off his
234 MONOCHROMES
head. He sprang upon Michael with the vague
idea of tearing open his coat and proving him a
liar, or else of wresting from him the lock of hair
of which he made his boast. Michael, astonished
at the attack, then angry too, struck back, and
his blow falling upon his assailant's mouth, laid
the lip open, while his own knuckles streamed
with blood. This was enough to change both
men to wild beasts. They fought with fury,
neither remembering nor caring for the cause.
Locked in each other's arms, they swayed
this way and that, and, oblivious of the danger,
came every moment nearer to the cliffs edge.
Both were strong, evenly matched in weight
and height. David had a temporary advantage,
having got Michael below him, but at the same
moment he grew cognisant of their peril, and the
shock sobered him at once. It was perhaps even
then too late, they were already on the brink.
The horror, legible in his eyes, caused Michael
to glance round in his turn ; down, down fell the
precipice, almost perpendicularly to the shore.
His grip upon David's arms, born of ferocity,
tightened in despair.
' Back, David, for God's sake ... for Catherine's,'
he whispered hoarsely. But David felt, with agony
of mind, the ground sliding away beneath him.
Was there nothing on all this great, round, slippery
earth by which to catch hold ? His foot encoun
tered an obstacle; with all his strength he held
against the knotty root of some long-perished
tree, that laced the ground in his path. They
EXPIATION OF DAVID SCOTT 235
were saved. But when Michael said ' for
Catherine's sake,' David's feelings underwent an
other change. His hatred returned a thousand-fold ;
he no longer wished to save his rival, he wished
to thrust him back, to leave him to his fate.
Perhaps he did transmute this impulse into action ;
perhaps Michael must have fallen anyway ;
David never knew. All passed in a flash of
lightning. With an uncertain cry, Michael crashed
down to death alone, and David lay on the grass
where he had fallen, and stared at the sky and
the sailing moon, and vaguely calculated how soon
she would reach that great bank of black cloud
that yawned before her.
Next he observed on the grass, at a little
distance from him, Michael's cap, which had fallen
off in the struggle. He would have recognised it
anywhere by its shape, its colour, its frayed and
sun-browned binding. The blustering wind racing
along the cliff-top raised the cap on edge, played
with it capriciously, whirled it to the brink of the
precipice, balanced it there, toppled it over.
David experienced horrible pain at seeing this
senseless, inanimate object thus disappear before his
eyes. It woke him from his stupor. It carried
his thoughts down to Michael ; he shuddered. Had
he died quickly, or was he alive and conscious of
the increeping sea, that within a few hours would
wash high up the base of every rock and boulder
along that lonely coast? David crept along the
edge, leaned over the abyss, called down with
all his strength. The wind seized hold of his
236 MONOCHROMES
voice, scattered it hither and thither, overpower
ing it.
No human sound might reach to one down there
below ; vision might not scan the depth of those
Titan walls, nor cleave the blackness of their
shadows. Yet for a moment, David, hanging over
the precipice, fancied he could distinguish a dark
and awful something blotting the moon-white
shore ; then the light flickered, paled, went out, the
moon had reached the swarthy cloud bank, she
passed into it and left him alone.
He got up and stumbled home through the
windy darkness. As he went he rehearsed the
three years of his good friendship with Michael.
Closest, most inseparable of companions, never an
unkind word had passed between them, until they
had made the acquaintance of Catherine Eames.
Now, because of this girl, Michael's body lay
crushed at the foot of Browncap Cliff, and David
was not only a murderer, but to conceal his crime
must become a liar and a hypocrite as well.
He loathed himself; his old love for Michael was
strong within him ; and nevertheless, before the
next sun rose, he had skilfully pieced together and
learned by heart the story he was prepared to
adhere to throughout the remainder of his life.
VI
' WHAT do you mean to do ? '
This was the question Scott asked O'Brien the
first moment he found himself alone with him next
day. There was no doubt left in Scott's mind now,
but that O'Brien knew him for the murderer of his
brother Michael.
' I have not come to a decision,' answered
O'Brien, with more than usual gloom.
' Did you know all along I was the man you
were in search of?'
' When I heard of you from the Van Hannens,
it occurred to me you might be the man ; but when
I saw you I fancied I was mistaken, you looked so
much older than I expected.'
' To bear a secret burden of guilt for twenty
years does age a man,' said Scott humbly ; ' but for
my poor Catherine's sake, I should be glad now
the end has come.'
This conversation took place in Scott's private
office during an interval of business. Within a
few feet was the roomful of pen-driving clerks,
young fellows who now and then exchanged a
gay jest over their work ; beyond, again, was the
jar and rumble of city life ; all things ran in their
238 MONOCHROMES
accustomed grooves ; only for Scott was the world
revolutionised. His prosperous, honoured, hypo
critical career was at an end, and the question this
morning of paramount importance to him, was
how and when O'Brien meant to pluck away the
mask.
' It was seeing your daughter convinced me I
was on the right track,' O'Brien told him ; ' she has
her mother's name and her mother's hair.'
Scott was astonished. ' How can you know
that?'
The other took from his breast-pocket an oblong
packet. Unfolding the paper in which it was
wrapped, he produced an old and shabby pocket-
book.
' This was Michael's,' said he, ' I took it from the
body that evening, and through all my wanderings
and misadventures I have managed to keep it safe.
Sea-water, time, and friction have rubbed away the
writing it once contained, but long ago I learned
its contents by heart. There, over and over again,
stood a woman's name, "Catherine," "Catherine
Eames," and sometimes " Catherine O'Brien " ;
once it stood " Catherine Scott," but a black line
had then been run through it. And here in the
pocket I found a treasure time has not destroyed.'
He laid upon the table a long tress of woman's
hair, fine in texture, yellow in colour, and wanting
but the brightness of living hair to be the precise
counterpart of Catherine Scott's.
It was the actual lock of hair for possessing which
Michael had lost his life, and David had earned
EXPIATION OF DAVID SCOTT 239
the curse of Cain. Tears came into Scott's eyes
as he looked at this last memento of all the beauty
that had gone to dust.
* It seems a small thing now to have quarrelled
over/ he said, ' but then it meant to me so much.
Yet, if she had only told me .... for after all,
she loved your brother best. I found this out
when it was too late. But even from the very
beginning the shadow of the dead stood between
me and her, and when she lay dying, and I knelt
beside her, it was his name she uttered with her
failing breath. I never pray to God but Michael
comes to appeal against me, and Catherine in
Heaven knows all, and turns away her face. At
eight-and-twenty my hair was gray, and you see
what I am now .... broken up, a wreck
What is it you mean to do ? '
' I don't know,' said the other again. Deep
furrows seamed themselves in his forehead, and he
looked at Scott with rancorous eyes. Not because
of Scott's crime against Michael which he had
long known, but because in his own breast a strange
and enraging sentiment of pity warred with his
legitimate revenge. The hopes of one day meeting
with his brother's murderer, and exacting payment
to the uttermost farthing, had lent him the energy
and vitality to survive privations that would have
killed another man ; the idea had been to. him a
talisman of power which had over and over again
brought him unharmed from the jaws of death.
Yet now that the moment for which he had so
long waited was come, he hesitated. In spite of
240 MONOCHROMES
all, he felt a friendship, an affection almost, for
David Scott, that filled him with scorn for himself.
He set about recalling his former feelings in the
hopes of re-animating them.
' Often/ said he aloud, ' have I planned out in
my exile what I should do when I met with
Michael's murderer. I pictured to myself that if I
should find him poor, obscure, uncared for, with
nothing precious to him but his worthless life ;
then I would take that life ; I would seize him by
the throat, and, reminding him of Michael, slowly
press his breath from him. But should I, on the
contrary, find him as I have actually found you,
rich, honoured, well thought of, with loving hearts
on which to lean, then I promised myself I would
denounce him, drag him to justice, let him suffer
all the torturing slowness of the law before expiat
ing his crime by a shameful death. You think
perhaps I have not sufficient proof ? or that
after so many years I could not obtain a con
viction ? '
' I should confess everything,' answered Scott ;
' here and now, if you wish it, I will write a con
fession, and sign it before witnesses. How often
have I not longed to unburden my soul, and
lacked courage ! You talk of punishment, of
expiation ; believe me, a man may suffer all the
tortures of hell within his own heart. What cuts
more sharply than unavailing regret ? '
' The scorn of one's fellow-men,' said O'Brien,
calling up the dregs of his waning anger to give
poignancy to his tone ; ' the child's knowledge
EXPIATION OF DAVID SCOTT 241
that the father is unworthy of her honour and
her love.'
' Our sins shall be visited on our children/ mur
mured Scott ; ' and yet .... my poor Catherine,
I would spare her if I could. Sometimes I hoped
that God would permit me, through her .... to
make you reparation ? '
O'Brien's face became a dusky red, his eyes
glowed ; the next moment he was iron again,
and had bitten back the words on the tip of
his tongue.
' What I, myself, might have hoped for under
other circumstances, has been rendered impossible
by your crime. What connection could I have
with the murderer of my brother? Would not his
spirit haunt me? As it is, I am becoming con
temptible to myself. I am temporising and allow
ing human considerations to come between me
and my just revenge.'
' Do not let mistaken pity hold your hand. I
am at your mercy. Show it by dealing the blow
quickly. Suspense alone is more than I can bear.'
' I shall choose my own time and my own
measures,' said O'Brien malignantly, ' and if you
find the suspense hard, remember it is not one-
tenth of the misery your victim suffered, dying on
the rocks alone ; or that I have gone through
since, thanks to you. I have yet to consider the
necessary steps to take, and I will let you know
when I come to a decision.'
A clerk here entered introducing urgent busi
ness, and no more was said ; but Scott tacitly
Q
242 MONOCHROMES
accepted his enemy's conditions, and resumed his
outward life of honourable composure.
It became apparent to Scott that if O'Brien
had ever cared for Catherine, he had successfully
crushed out the sentiment. Now, when he came
over to Streatham, he avoided being alone with
her. He sat in churlish silence. If she addressed
him he did not seem to hear, or else answered her
abruptly, even rudely. On which her pretty eyes
would fill with tears, and for ten minutes after
such a rebuff she could scarcely command herself
to speak; then she would find excuses for him
in her heart, feel sure the fault was hers, and try
a thousand dear devices for making herself more
pleasing. If he still neglected her, she would
go to the piano and sing, and O'Brien found
it difficult, when listening to her sweet young
voice, to maintain his moroseness.
Scott watched her with admiration and pain.
She was so like the other Catherine in face and
form, so different in disposition. The other
Catherine had accepted all homage as her right ;
this Catherine seemed to plead for kindness as a
favour. The mother had played capriciously with
the passionate hearts that loved her ; the daughter,
in retribution as it were, offered her fresh, intense
affections to one who coldly turned aside.
O'Brien at length gave up visiting at Streatham
at all. Catherine waited, hoped, grew anxious, and
sought her father.
' Why does Mr O'Brien no longer come here ? '
she asked ; ' is he ill ? '
EXPIATION OF DAVID SCOTT 243
' No,' Scott answered ; ' he was at the office to
day.'
'Then why does he not come as he used to?'
' Perhaps he is busy.'
' Oh, but not in the evening ! Ask him, dearest,
to come out to dinner to-morrow.'
'Well, is he not coming?' was the first question
she put, when her father returned alone the next
day.
' My dear, he thanks you for the invitation, but
he has another engagement.'
It was misery to Scott to see how Catherine's
colour came and went, and how her eyes filled up
with tears.
'It is I who stand in my darling's way,' he
thought. He began to wonder if his death
would make any difference, whether then O'Brien
would be able to forgive the girl her parentage.
He began to watch with a new interest the pro
gress of his disease.
Catherine could not sleep. She came down in
the mornings looking pale and tired. Scott lay
awake at night too, but this was from the ever-
increasing physical pain. Presently be was no
longer able to go into business.
VII
ONE day in September James O'Brien came over
to Streatham. He had at last made up his mind
what he should do, and he wished to communicate
his intentions to David Scott.
He was shown into the study, where Scott lay
back in an arm-chair supported by pillows. There
was a great and ghastly change in his face. For
this O'Brien had been prepared, partly by Scott's
absence from the office, partly by a few words he
had exchanged with a gentleman who was leaving
the house, as O'Brien entered it. This was a
minister of Scott's church ; he had been sitting
with the invalid. He spoke of Scott's great
sufferings, and in conventional phraseology, but
with real earnestness, of his Christian patience, and
of the loss he would be to them all, if the Lord saw
fit to take him. The servant joined in, to praise his
master, and O'Brien's observant eye took stock of
the enquiry cards that completely covered the hall-
table. All these tokens of respect and solicitude
awoke anew the devil in his breast, and he more
than half regretted the resolution he had come to,
which was to relinquish his vengeance and leave
the murderer to fate. A variety of motives had
EXPIATION OF DAVID SCOTT
brought him to this ; principally, perhaps, the
strange affection he felt for the man who had so
injured him.
Scott, looking up at his visitor with deprecation,
did not venture to offer his hand.
' It's very kind of you to come and see me,' he
said.
' I have come to tell you I am going away, back
to America. You are safe. I have broken my
vow.' O'Brien refused a chair, and stood gazirg
moodily into the vacant garden.
' Why do you spare me ? ' asked Scott humbly.
' Because I'm a fool, I suppose, and a coward.'
' But why do you go ? ' said Scott ; ' I shall not
be here long ; for do not think I shall escape
punishment. The hand of God is upon me. It is
hard to leave my poor Catherine all alone. And
death itself is hard.'
O'Brien looked about the room. There, lay
Catherine's little embroidered handkerchief on the
open book, from which she had probably been
reading aloud ; here, on the table by Scott's
elbow, was a glorious bunch of purple grapes ; the
pillows behind his head, the shawl over his knees
had been arranged by loving hands. O'Brien
called to mind the sympathy of the minister, the
eulogy of the servant, the cards from acquaintances
and friends. He was filled with bitterness.
1 Some deaths are harder than others,' said he ;
'you find it hard to die here among your own
people, waited on by those who love you, with
every alleviation that money and science can give.
246 MONOCHROMES
You are attended by the first doctor in London,
who, though he cannot cure you, can relieve your
pain. Your clergyman comes and talks to you of
God and of His forgiveness, and all who know you
speak of you with respect and regret All day
long your daughter Catherine is by your side to
soothe you with her caresses ; you will pass away
in her arms, death will lose half its terrors with
your head reposing on her tender breast. And
you call that expiation ? Let me remind you how
Michael died. Suddenly, in the midst of life and
strength, he found himself face to face with death.
And it was a cruel and lingering death to which
he was condemned. For the fall crippled him, but
did not kill him outright. Who can say how many
hours he lingered there on those lonely wind-swept
rocks? At first, stunned by the fall, weakened by
loss of blood, the time went by unconsciously ;
then he would collect his thoughts, remember how
you thrust him down over the precipice in a
moment of passion, and he would feel sure of
your repentance and assistance. Did you hear no
voice calling up to you?'
'The wind drowned every cry,' said the sick
man, and drops of sweat stood upon his forehead,
and trickled down his face.
' But cannot you imagine how he kept expecting
you? expecting that you would seek help, let
down ropes, come down yourself to save the friend
you had loved ? or that you would hasten into
Hardsmouth, get a boat, come round by the
coast ? '
EXPIATION OF DAVID SCOTT 247
'It was a night of storm/ said Scott, 'no boat
could have lived in such a sea.'
' But Michael lived through the night. He must
have crawled up to the spot where I found the
corpse, otherwise he would have been washed away.
Think of the lonely and awful day succeeding
that night, as he lay there dying of exposure, of
loss of blood, of want of aid. Picture the pain of
that utter abandonment. Too weak to call for
help, too weak at last to move, and the crows
gathering round him to stare into his glazing
eyes. But he could think, and his thoughts
could not have been such as to solace him.
What had he to think of? The treachery of a
friend a friend who having murdered him, was
not likely to stick at blasting his good name. He
must have foreseen the specious tale you would get
carried to the girl he loved ; foreseen that she would
believe he had deserted her, and so give her hand to
his murderer. Perhaps he foresaw you in just such
a life as you have led, honoured and happy, while
he, cut off in the heyday of youth, went down
to an unknown grave. If he cursed God then, in
the agonies of his abandonment, who can blame
him ? Yet, according to you and people of your
creed, he thereby lost his soul, and so will suffer
eternally, while you, in spite of your crime,
because you have had time and opportunity to
repent and obtain forgiveness, will die and go
straight to life eternal. You may please yourself
by calling this an expiation. I can only see in it an
aggravation of the unfairness of your lot and his.'
24 S MONOCHROMES
O'Brien watched the anguish in his victim's face
with a keen pleasure at his heart; but down
deeper still was an even keener pain ; for he had
come to love David Scott as much as one man can
love another; and nevertheless felt bound to conceal
his love and show hatred, because of the oath he
had sworn. Bitter words were all that remained
to him now he had abandoned bitter vengeance ;
yet he despised himself for bending to handle
such woman's weapons.
Scott leaned his head upon his hand.
' To die alone . . . yes, it must be hard,' he
murmured ; ' human sympathy in that last hour
fs what the whole soul longs for. And Michael
had none. No, I have not expiated.'
An idea struck him. His mind was so un
hinged, he believed it came from God. But to
carry it out he must be alone.
' Will you leave me a while ? ' he asked ; ' the
pain here' he pressed his side 'is so terrible
. . . there is a remedy I must try. Perhaps in
the garden you may find Catherine, you will wish
to bid her good-bye ; . . . but then return to me
here ... by yourself.'
In moody silence O'Brien opened the French
window and stepped out ; then Scott, unlocking
a drawer in the table beside him, produced a
small pistol, and laid it on the desk.
VIII
AT the same moment a gentle knock came to
the door, and Scott knew it was Catherine's touch.
He drew a newspaper over the pistol, leaned back
again among the pillows, and making a strenuous
effort to compose his voice, called her in.
Never had she looked so sweet and winning, but
Scott knew these loveliest blushes were not for
him.
' Mr O'Brien, father, is walking in the garden,'
she began ; ' I saw him from my window. Ought
I not Shall I go out to him ? '
'Yes, go out to him, for he has come to take
leave of us, Catherine. He is going away.'
' Away ! ' repeated Catherine, amazed. ' Where ?
Why?'
' He is returning to America.'
' But only for a visit ? He will come back ?' she
insisted, with varying colour.
' No, dear one, I think I fear he is going
away for good.'
Catherine looked at her father with those
speaking eyes, which had long ago told him
the secret she had thought so well concealed.
But now it trembled on her tongue also. She
250 MONOCHROMES
opened her lips, hesitated, but could not frame
the words.
O'Brien came in sight of the window, crossing
the end of the lawn. He was deep in thought, but
evidently Catherine had no share in it. He gave
no glance towards the house, nor round about him,
as he must have done had he been hoping to see
her. One hand was carried behind his back, now
loosely closed, now vehemently clenched ; the other
held his stick, which he prodded viciously into the
ground as he walked.
Scott's eyes followed Catherine's, fell upon this
figure, and despair seized the father, a forlorn hope
awoke in the girl.
' Father, I love him,' she said, looking up bravely.
' I have known it long, dearest.'
' Did he say nothing ? ' this very wistfully.
' Nothing you would care to hear. He spoke of
his journey and of other things. He is a man
whom grief and injury have rendered hard. He
has no thought for softer feelings.'
' Yet, if he had cared,' said Catherine, ' it would
have pleased you too ? For you like him, father?'
Scott gave no reply ; yet he loved O'Brien and
Catherine to that degree, he had come to the deter
mination then and there to put an end to his life,
that thus, by avenging Michael, he might remove
the impediment between them.
Catherine pursued her train of thought.
' Do you remember what you said to me one
night in the spring, as we drove home from town ?
It was a few days before I first met him.'
EXPIATION OF DAVID SCOTT 251
That was the epoch-making day of her life, and
every event was dated before and after.
'What did I say, Catherine?'
' You said that a woman should not be afraid to
show her affection. That sometimes she might
miss happiness by hiding it too well. That some
times you know a man might be in love with a
girl and be too proud to show it unless she
Father ! ' said Catherine, lifting a pale and piteous
face, ' I love him so passionately that it is painful,
there is a pain always here' she pressed her
hands upon her heart ' I shall find no ease till
he knows it. Day and night, I am urged by a
feeling I cannot explain, to tell him, although I
hope for nothing, I ask for nothing in return. But
unless I may speak I shall die ! May I, father?'
Scott saw, in this unrequited passion of his
Catherine's, the expiation demanded for her
mother's levity, the last drop in his own cup of
grief. But perhaps, too, he thought her innocent
confession would touch O'Brien's heart, and when
he should find also that Scott had made the final
reparation, he would relent and be good to her.
' Go,' said he, ' if you must, and obtain, if you
can, my pardon likewise. Good-bye, my little
daughter, God be with you.'
Catherine went out into the garden and left her
father alone.
IX
SHE had heard his words of farewell, yet had
attached no significance to them. Preoccupied
with her own thoughts, she felt she had come to
the supreme moment of her life, and the sudden
meeting with Death himself could not have held
more terror for her or more strange sweetness, than
this thing she was about to do. And as, too, at the
hour of death, all false shame and all convention
alities drop away, and the soul at last comes near
to other souls, as it never could do in life, so all the
rules and teachings, all the arbitrary laws of society,
slipped from her, and she listened to the voice of
her heart instead.
O'Brien, turning at the end of the grass, saw her
as she advanced towards him. He steeled himself
to coldness.
Catherine gave him, for one instant, a chill and
fluttering hand.
' You are going to leave us ? ' she said.
' Yes ; my passage is booked for next week.'
' But why do you go ? '
' Why should I stay ? ' he replied roughly. ' My
business is finished ; I have no other ties here.'
' We had hoped, my father and I,' said Catherine,
EXPIATION OF DAVID SCOTT 253
' you would have found England so pleasant, you
would not have wished to leave.'
' Ah, of course ! ' he retorted bitterly. ' Because
you find life pleasant yourself, you imagine every
one else should do so. It is a common mistake.
You have a home, friends, many who love you,
and so you are happy, but I have none of these
things.'
'Yet you might have them,' said Catherine
gently, v if you wished.'
' That is a pretty speech. I suppose I ought to
thank you ? But I have lived a rude, uncivilised
life too long, ever to acquire the knack of giving
and taking the pretty nothings of society.'
The savage way in which he said this, the apparent
anger that blazed from his eyes, did not daunt
Catherine ; on the contrary, it gave her courage.
' Mine was no pretty speech, and you know it,'
she answered ; ' if you go it is to please yourself,
not because there are none here to regret you. 1
'If I thought you would regret me?' said he,
tentatively ; ' but, no, I should be a fool so to
deceive myself. You will forget me in a week.
There is no one who cares for me.'
His speech was framed with the cruelly deliber
ate purpose of learning more. He watched her
closely to note its effect, and he saw how it awak
ened some strong emotion in the depths of her
pensive eyes, how it changed the expression of her
sweet and tremulous mouth, how it brought the
vivid colour rushing to her cheek.
But to herself, she seemed to be lifted above
254 MONOCHROMES
time and space, to be standing with O'Brien in
spirit only ; she felf herself brave, and free to speak
her inmost thoughts as only a spirit may.
' Do not say that no one who cares for you,' she
began ; ' for there is a girl who loves you, and has
loved you all along. Why should I be ashamed
to own it ? Does it do you any harm, or me any
dishonour? I think it does me honour. I am
better, prouder, and more glad since I have known
you, than I ever was in my life before. And I ask
nothing from you in return ; only I could not let
you go away without telling you. I said to myself,
we are allowed to show our feelings of kindness,
friendship, or admiration ; why then must love,
which is best of all, be hidden for ever in our hearts,
as if it were something criminal ? Let me tell you
everything. At first you were always good to me.
I thought that you liked me, and I tried to please
you. Then you grew cold, and I was tormented,
always wondering what was the reason. Some
times I fancied if I had not been rich, you would
have come nearer to me : and yet my heart told
me that a man who loved a woman at all, would
hold her far beyond and above her wealth. But
then, when I heard just now you were going away
for ever, I felt I could not let you go in ignorance ;
for, even where one cannot return the same
affection, it is surely good to know oneself beloved ?
And I like to imagine that, in the days to come,
when you yourself will love some good and beauti
ful woman, what I have told you will return to your
memory and give you confidence. And do not think
EXPIATION OF DAVID SCOTT 255
I shall be unhappy now when you have left me.
I shall be happier all my life for having known
you, and for having once, if once only, spoken the
whole truth. And in proof of how much I trust
you, I shall never, never regret what I have told
you to-day.'
O'Brien was looking at her with ardour. He
had somehow got both her cold little hands in his ;
he pressed them passionately, and the girl, in spite
of her last brave asseveration, was seized with fear.
Her body trembled like a leaf, her face was
suffused with blushes, she could not lift her eyes
from the ground. At that moment she would have
given the world to be away, anywhere out of his
sight, out of the sound of his voice. She would
have arrested perversely, had she been able, the
words she so longed to hear.
' Catherine, my darling, my own darling, you
have more than atoned,' he said, in a voice strangely
altered, for the man had grown young again ; he
had thrown away the burden of twenty years'
hatred, and the vow that had bound his heart
broke from it like a gossamer thread. ' I have
not deserved your love, but come, I too have
much to tell you ! ' And they wandered away, out
of sight, amidst the trees.
X
DAVID SCOTT knelt down by his desk with the
pistol lying before him. In the strong sun
light which filled the room he looked what he was
a dying man. All round him were evidences of
his material success. Fine pictures hung upon the
walls, handsomely-bound books filled the dwarf
cases, richly-coloured oriental carpets were spread
over the floor. Through the window his eyes fell
upon his own freehold acres ; upon the lawns and
shrubberies which were his ; upon the million-
fanned chestnuts, the feathery acacias, the ever-
rustling elms, which, planted so many ge/ierations
ago by dead hands, had grown straight and strong
to shadow the gardens for his use. He saw his
daughter, conspicuous in her white dress, talking
with O'Brien. The conversation between them
seemed suddenly to grow intense. Catherine
gesticulated unconsciously with her hands. He
could guess from their motion, as well as from
O'Brien's rigid figure and sunken head, how fruit
less was her task.
Scott groaned. The physical pain he was suffer
ing at that moment from the rapid development
of his disease was nothing to his agony of mind.
EXPIATION OF DAVID SCOTT 257
In the midst of luxury and every apparent con
dition for happiness, David Scott was as miserable
in body and soul as any man that day in London.
He clasped his hands, and the tears forced them
selves down his sunken cheeks.
' O God and Father,' he prayed aloud, ' if I do
this thing Thou knowest the purity of my motives.
Not in despair, nor in contempt of Thy holy laws,
do I take the life Thou hast given me, but to
expiate the crime by which I took Michael's life
from him, and left him to die alone without one
friendly hand to moisten his lips with water, or
wipe the death-dews from his brow. If in those
last dreadful moments he doubted of Thy goodness,
the fault was mine. If he came into Thy presence
uncalled and unprepared, it is right that I too
should in the same way seek Thy awful judgment
seat, for hast not Thou said, " An eye for an eye,
a tooth for a tooth " ? But towards my little girl,
my Catherine The anguish of this thought
was too much for the man ; he laid his head on
the table before him, and his prayer lost all coher
ency and purpose. For some moments his soul
was in confusion. Then his hand touched the cold
steel of the pistol, and it recalled to him his inten
tion. He grew calm, rose from his knees, carefully
looked to the loading of the pistol, and holding it
in his right hand, pressed the nozzle against his
waistcoat, moving it a little this way or that as he
felt for the heart below.
A shadow fell upon the window. Catherine
stood without and O'Brien looked over her shoulder
R
25 8 MONOCHROMES
The girl pushed open the glass and came in. Her
face was exquisite in its shy happiness. Scott had
just time to put the pistol down unobserved on the
table behind him, before Catherine reached her
arms up round his neck, and laid her head upon
his breast.
' Dearest,' she murmured, ' we are going to be so
happy.' Scott looked over the pretty, fair head
to O'Brien. There was something in the man's
appearance totally different to his ordinary self,
and yet strangely familiar too.
' David,' he said, coming nearer, and Scott's
thoughts travelled mysteriously back to the days
of Michael's lifetime : ' David, will you forgive
me for Catherine's sake as I have forgiven
you?'
A giddiness rushed over Scott. He had but
time to put Catherine from his arms before the
room turned round with him, wavered into black
ness, and for an instant everything was blank.
Then he stepped out of the darkness on to a
sunlit cliff, where he and Michael were walking
side by side ; every step they took was on scented
thyme and tiny golden coltsfoot, two blue butter
flies fluttered in arabesques over the ground, above
was a blue and ardent heaven, below a blue and
glittering sea. He tasted the saltness upon his
lips, and the slumberous far-away sea-song hummed
in his ears. Michael spoke to him, and he an
swered. At first it was solid, vivid reality. Then
he came to know it was only his spirit there on
the cliffs, that his body was lying back in his easy
EXPIATION OF DAVID SCOTT 259
chair in his own library, where busy hands were
endeavouring to keep him captive, to cheat him
of the vision. He resisted ; his soul escaped once
more ; but the sunshine on the cliff was already
paler, the flowers were drooping, the butterflies
were gone. Michael's face looked strange and
indistinct, yet his voice now sounded close at
hand, in his ear.
'Davy, Davy!'
What did it mean ? For surely he was again
in his own library, struggling painfully back to
consciousness.
Yes, it was the voice of the dead Michael, but
it was James O'Brien who spoke, kneeling beside
Scott's chair.
' Forgive me, Davy, dear old friend, forgive me ;
my sin has been greater than yours ! '
From O'Brien's face the dark and sinister look
was gone ; his eyes had lost their coldness ;
emotion gave him back a reflection of his beautiful
youth.
Over the dying man old memories crowded.
Now, as he listened to him, he understood why
from the very first this stranger had held such
fascination for him.
'There never was a James O'Brien,' said the
speaker, ' he was a figment of my brain, an instru
ment of my vengeance. For it was I who, lying
crippled at the cliff's foot, was picked up by
the crimps and shipped while still unconscious.
During twenty years of exile I brooded revenge.
I thought on our broken friendship, my lost
26b MONOCHROMES
Catherine, my ruined life, and my heart became
a hell of evil thoughts. I sought you out with
the determination of making you pay for every
pang that I had suffered, and when I found you
happy in your daughter, I conceived the plan of
playing with her heart as the mother had played
with mine. But from the first moment I saw
Catherine, something more than the old love
revived. I felt I could do her no wrong, so I
made up my mind to leave. I meant to forego
everything once more friendship, love, happiness,
and my revenge as well. But Catherine has given
me back all you once took from me, a hundred
fold. Let her earn me, David, your pardon too.'
Twilight fell upon the room for David Scott.
Only dimly could he see the faces of the man and
woman he loved ; but holding a hand of each, in
each of his, his feeble grasp tightened a little over
them as he spoke.
' God has been very merciful to me,' he said ; ' be
good and happy, Catherine.' Then he withdrew
his hand from hers to lean over more completely
towards O'Brien.
' Kiss me, Michael,' he asked him ; but almost
before the kiss could be given and received, he had
passed away without a sigh.
Thanks are due to the Editors of
BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE and of
TEMPLE BAR for permission to
reprint 'THE ELEGIE,' and 'THE
EXPIATION OF DAVID SCOTT;'
and to the Editor of THE YELLOW
BOOK for the use of other stories
contained in this "volume.
Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty,
at the Edinburgh University Press.
John Lane
STfje Bofclcg
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delivered herself of so strong, so forcible a book' Queen.
THE KEYNOTES SERIES
' She is a writer with a profound understanding of the human heart. She
understands men ; and, more than this, she understands women. . . . For
those who weary of the conventional fiction, and who long for something
out of the ordinary run of things, these are tales that carry the zest of
living.' Boston Beacon.
' It is not a book for babes and sucklings, since it cuts deep into rather
dangerous soil ; but it is refined and skilful . . . strikes a very true and
touching note of pathos.' Westminster Gazette.
' The author of these able word sketches is manifestly a close observer of
Nature's moods, and one, moreover, who carefully takes stock of the up-
to-date thoughts that shake mankind." Daily Telegraph.
' Powerful pictures of human beings living to-day, full of burning pain,
and thought, and passion.' Bookman.
' A work of genius. There is upon the whole thing a stamp of down
right inevitableness as of things which must be written, and written exactly
in that way." Speaker.
' " Keynotes " is a singularly clever book.' Truth.
THE DANCING FAUN. By FLORENCE FARR. With
Title-page and Cover Design by AUBREY BEARDSLEY.
Crown 8vo, 35. 6d. net.
1 We welcome the light and merry pen of Miss Fan- as one of the deftest
that has been wielded in the style of to-day. She has written the cleverest
and the most cynical sensation story of the season.' Liverpool Daily Post.
'Slight as it is, the story is, in its way, strong.' Literary World.
' Full of bright paradox, and paradox which is no mere topsy-turvy play
upon words, but the product of serious thinking upon life. One of the
cleverest of recent novels.' Star.
' It is full of epigrammatic effects, and it has a certain thread of pathos
calculated to win our sympathy." Queen.
'The story is subtle and psychological after the fashion of modern
psychology; it is undeniably clever and smartly written.' Gentlewoman.
'No one can deny its freshness and wit. Indeed there are things in it
here and there which John Oliver Hobbes herself might have signed with
out loss of reputation. Woman.
' There is a lurid power in the very unreality of the story. One does not
quite understand how Lady Geraldme worked herself up to shooting her
lover, but when she has done it, the description of what passes through her
mind is magnificent.' Athena-urn.
' Written by an obviously clever woman." Black and White.
'Miss Farr has talent. "The Dancing Faun" contains writing that is
distinctively good. Doubtless it is only a prelude to something much
stronger. ' A cademy.
'As a work of art the book has the merit of brevity and smart writing ;
while the denouement is skilfully prepared, and conies as a surprise,
the book had been intended as a satire on the "new woman" sort of litera
ture, it would have been most brilliant ; but assuming it to be written in
earnest, we can heartily praise the form of its construction withoui
agreeing with the sentiments expressed." St. Jamefs Gazette.
Shows considerable power and aptitude." Saturday Review.
'The book is extremely clever and some of the situations very striking,
while there are sketches of character which really live. The final denote
ment might at first sight be thought impossible, but the effect on those who
take part in it is so free of exaggeration, that we can almost imagine that
such people are in our midst.' Guardian.
THE KEYNOTES SERIES
POOR FOLK. Translated from the Russian of FEDOR
DOSTOIEVSKY. By LENA MILMAN. With an Intro
duction by GEORGE MOORE, and a Title-page and Cover
Design by AUBREY BEARDSLEY. Crown 8vo, 35. 6d. net.
1 The book is cleverly translated. " Poor Folk " gains in reality and pathos
by the very means that in less skilful hands would be tedious and common
place.' Spectator.
' A charming storjr of the love of a Charles Lamb kind of old bachelor
for a young work-girl. Full of quiet humour and still more full of the
iachryma rerunt.' Star.
'Scenes of poignant realism, described with so admirable a blending of
humour and pathos that they haunt the memory.' Daily News.
' No one will read it attentively without feeling both its power and its
pathos. ' Scotsman.
'The book is one of great pathos and absorbing interest. Miss Milman
has given us an admirable version of it which will commend itself to every
one who cares for good literature.' Glasgow Herald.
'These things seem small, but in the hands of Dostoievsky they make
a work of genius.' Black and White.
' One of the most pathetic things in all literature, heartrending just
because its tragedy is so repressed.' Bookman.
' As to novels, the very finest I have read of late or for long is ' ' Poor Folk,
by Fedor Dostoievsky, translated by Miss Lena Milman.' Truth.
' A book to be read for the merits of its execution. The translator by
the way has turned it into excellent English.' Pall Mall Gazette.
"The narrative vibrates with feeling, and these few unstudied letters con
vey to us a cry from the depths of a famished human soul. As far as we
can judge, _the English rendering, though simple, retains that ring of
emotion which must distinguish the original.' Westminster R eview.
'One of the most striking studies in plain and simple realism which was
ever written.' Daily Telegraph.
'"Poor Folk" is certainly a vivid and pathetic story.' Globe.
' A triumph of realistic art a masterpiece of a great writer.' Morning
Post.
' Dostoievsky's novel has met with that rare advantage, a really good
translator.' Queen.
'This admirable translation of a great author.' Liverpool Mercury.
Poor Folk" Englished does not read like a translation indubitably a
masterpiece.' Literary World.
' Told with a gradually deepening intensity and force, a pathetic truth
fulness which lives in the memory-' Leeds Mercury.
'What Charles Dickens in his attempts to reproduce the sentiment and
pathos of the humble deceived himself and others into thinking that he did,
tliat Fedor Dostoievsky actually does.' Manchester Guardian.
'It is a story that leaves the reader almost stunned. Miss Milman's
translation is admirable.' Gentlewo man.
.'The translation appears to be well done so far as we have compared it
with the original.' W. R. MORFILL in Tlie Academy.
'A most impressive and characteristic specimen of Russian fiction.
lliose to whom Russian is a sealed book will be duly grateful to the trans-
ur 1 acquitted herself excellently), to Mr. Moore, and to the
publisher for this presentment of Dostoievsky's remarkable novel.' Times.
THE KEYNOTES SERIES
A CHILD OF THE AGE. By FRANCIS ADAMS. Title-
page and Cover Design by AUBREY BEARDSLEY. Crown
8vo, 35. 6d. net.
' English or foreign, there is no work among those now before me which
is so original as that of the late Francis Adams. " A Child of the Age" is
original, moving, often fascinating.' Academy.
1 A great deal of cleverness and perhaps something more has gone to the
writing of " A Child of the Age." ' Vanity Fair.
' Incomes recognisably near to great excellence. There is a love episode
in this book which is certainly fine. Clearly conceived and expressed with
point.' Pall Mall Gazette.
' Those whose actual experience or natural intuition will enable them to
see beneath the mere narrative, will appreciate the perfect art with which
a boy of nineteen this was the_ author's age when the book was written
has treated one of the most delicate subjects on which a man can write
the history of his own innermost feelings." Weekly Sun.
'The book possesses a depth and clearness of insight, a delicacy of touch,
and a brilliancy and beauty of style very remarkable in so young a writer.'
Weekly Scotsman.
' " A Child of the Age " is as fully saturated with the individuality of its
author as " Wuthering Heights" was saturated with the individuality of
Kmily Bronte.' Daily Chronicle.
' I am writing about the book because it is one you should read, for it is
typical of a certain sort of character and contains some indubitable excel
lences.' Pall Mall Budget.
' Not faultless, indeed, but touched with the magic of real poetry ; with
out the elaborate carving of the chisel. The love incident is exquisite and
exquisitely told. "Rosy" lives; her emotions stir us. Wonderfully sug
gested in several parts of the work is the severe irony of nature before
profound human suffering.' Saturday Review.
'There is a bloom of romance upon their story which recalls Lucy and
Richard Feverel It is rarely that a novelist is able to suffuse his
story with the first rosy purity of passion as Mr. Adams has done in this
book.' Realm.
'Only a man of big talent could have produced it.' Literary World.
'A tale of fresh originality, deep spiritual meaning, and exceptional
power. It fairly buds, blossomSj and fruits with suggestions that search
the human spirit through. No similar production has come from the hand
of any author in our time. It exalts, inspires, comforts, and strengthens
all together. It instructs by suggestion, spiritualises the thought by its
elevating and purifying narrative, and feeds the hungering spirit with
food it is only too ready to accept and assimilate.' Boston Courier, U.S.A.
' It is a remarkable work as a pathological study almost unsurpassed.
It produces the impression of a photograph from life, so vividly realistic is
the treatment. To this result the author's style, with its fidelity of micro
scopic detail, doubtless contributes.' Evening Traveller, U.S.A.
' The story by Francis Adams is one to read slowly, and then to read a
second time. It is powerfully written, full of strong suggestion, unlike,
in fact, anything we have recently read. What he would have done in the
way of literary creation, had he lived, is, of course, only a matter of con
jecture. What he did we have before us in this remarkable book.' Boston
Advertiser, U.S.A.
THE KEYNOTES SERIES
Second Edition now ready,
THE GREAT GOD PAN AND THE INMOST LIGHT.
By ARTHUR MACHEN. With Title-page and Cover
Design by AUBREY BEARDSLEY. Crown 8vo, 35. 6d.
net
'Since Mr. Stevenson played with the crucibles of science in "Dr.
Jekyll and Mr. Hyde" we have not encountered a more successful experi
ment of the sort.' Pall Mali Gazette.
' Nothing so appalling as these tales has been given to publicity within
our remembrance ; in which, nevertheless, such ghastly fictions as Poe's
"Telltale Heart," Bulwer's "The House and the Brain," and Le Fann's
" In a Glass Darkly " still are vividly present. The supernatural element
is utilised with extraordinary power and effectiveness in both these blood-
chilling masterpieces.' Daily Telegraph.
' He imparts the shudder of awe without giving rise to a feeling of disgust.
Let me strongly advise anyone anxious fora real, durable thrill, to get it.'
Woman.
'A nightmarish business it is suggested, seemingly, by "Dr. Jekyll and
Mr. Hyde " and capital reading, we should say, for ghouls ana vampires
in their leisure moments.' Daily Chronicle,
1 The rest we leave for those whose nerves are strong, merely saying that
since "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde," we have read nothing so uncanny.'
The Literary World.
'The literature of the "supernatural" has recently been supplemented
by two striking books, which carry on with much ability the traditions of
Sheridan Le Fanu : one is " The Great God Pan," by Arthur Machen.'
Star.
'Will arouse the sort of interest that was created by "Dr. Jekyll and
Mr. Hyde." The tales present a frankly impossible horror, which, never
theless, kindles the imagination and excites a powerful curiosity. It is
almost a book of genius, and we are not sure that the safeguarding adverb
is not superfluous.' Birmingham Post.
1 The coarser terrors of Edgar Allen Poe do not leave behind them the
shudder that one feels at the shadowed devil-mysteries of ' ' The Great God
Pan." ' Liverpool Mercury.
' it .my one labours under a burning desire to experience the sensation
familiarly known as making one's flesh creep, he can hardly do better than
read "The Great God Pan." 'Speaker.
' For sheer gruesome horror Mr. Machen's story, "The Great God Pan,"
surpasses anything that has been published for a long time. ' Scotsman.
' Nothing more striking or more skilful than this book has been produced
in the way of what one may call Borderland fiction since Mr. Stevenson's
indefatigable Brownies gave the world "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.'"
Glasgow Herald.
' The mysteries he deals with lie far beyond the reach of ordinary human
experience, and as they are vague, though so horror-producing, he wisely
treats them with a reticence that, while it accords with the theme, im
mensely heightens the effect.' Dundee Advertiser.
'The author is an artist, and tells his tale with reticence and grace,
hinting the demoniac secret at first obscurely, and only gradually permit
ting the reader to divine bow near to us are the infernal powers, and how
tembly they satiate their lusts and wreak their malice upon mankind. It
is a work of something like genius, fascinating and fearsome.' Bradford
Observer.
THE KEYNOTES SERIES
' They are fitting companions to the famous stories by Edgar Allan Poe
both in matter and style,' Boston Home Journal, U.S.A.
1 They are horror stories, the horror being of the vague psychologic kind
and dependent in each case up_on a man of science, who tries to effect a
change in individual personality by an operation upon the brain cells.
The implied lesson is that it is dangerous and unwise to seek to probe the
mystery separating mind and matter. These sketches are extremely
strong, and we guarantee the shivers to anyone who reads them.' Hart
ford C our ant, U.S.A.
Fourth Edition now ready.
DISCORDS. By GEORGE EGERTON. With Title-page and
Cover Design by AUBREY BEARDSLEY. Crown 8vo,
33. 6d. net.
'We have the heights as well as the depths of life. The transforming
touch of beauty is upon it, of that poetry of conception beneath whose spefl
nothing is ugly or unclean.' Star.
'The writer is a warm-blooded enthusiast, not a cold-blooded
"scientist." In the long run perhaps it will do some good.' National
Observer.
'The power and passion which every reader felt in "Keynotes" are
equally present in this new volume. But there is also in at least equal
measure that artistic force and skill which went so far to overcome the
repugnance which many felt to the painful dissection of feminine nature.'
North British Daily Mail.
' Force of conception and power of vivid presentment mark these sketches,
and are sure to impress all who read them.' Birmingham Post.
'Written with all "George Egerton's" eloquence and fervour.' York
shire Herald.
' It almost takes one's breath away by its prodigious wrong-headeclness,
its sheer impudence.' MR. A. B. WALKLEY in The Morning Leader.
' The wonderful power of observation, the close analysis and the really
brilliant writing revealed in parts of this volume . . . . " George Egerton '
would seem to be well equipped for the task.' Cork Examiner.
' Readers who have a leaning to psychological fiction, and who rtvel in
such studies of character as George Meredith's " Diana of the Crossways "
will find much to interest them in these clever stories.' Western Daily
Press.
'There is no escape from the fact that it is vividly interesting.' The
Christian World.
'With all her realism there is a refinement and a pathos and a brilliance
of style that lift the book into a region altogether removed from the merely
sensational or the merely repulsive. It is a book that one might read with
a pencil in his hand, for it is studded with many fine, vivid passages.'
Weekly Scotsman.
' She has many fine qualities. Her work throbs with temperament, _and
here and there we come upon touches that linger in the memory as of things
felt and seen, not read of.' Daily News.
'Mrs. Grundy, to whom they would be salutary, will not be induced to
read either " Keynotes" or "Discords." Westminster Gatette.
' What an absorbing, wonderful book it is : How absolutely sincere, and
how finely wrong 1 George Egerton may be what the indefatigable Mr.
Zangwill calls a one-I'd person, but she is a literary artist of exceptional
endowment probably a genius.' Woman.
THE KEYNOTES SERIES
1 She has given, times without number, examples of her ripening powers
that astonish us. Her themes astound ; her audacity is tremendous. In
the many great passages an advance is proved that is little short of amaz
ing.' Literary World.
' Interesting and skilfully written.' Sunday Times.
'A series of undoubtedly clever stories, told with a poetic dreaminess
which softens the rugged truths of which they treat. Mothers might benefit
themselves and convey help to young girls who are about to be married by
the perusal of its pages.' Liverpool Mercury.
' They are the work of an author of considerable power, not to say genius.
Scotsman.
' The book is true to human nature, for the author has genius, and, let us
add, has heart. It is representative ; it is, in the hackneyed phrase, a
human document. 1 Speaker.
1 It is another note in the great chorus of revolt ... on the whole
clearer, mo're eloquent, and braver than almost any I have yet heard."
T. P. (' Book of the Week '), Weekly Sun, December 30.
' These masterly word-sketches." Daily Telegraph,
' Were it possible to have my favourite sketches and stories from both
volumes (" Keynotes " and "Discords") bound together in one, I should
look upon myself as a very fortunate traveller; one who had great pleasure,
if not exactly happiness, within her reach." Lady's Pictorial.
'But in all this there is a rugged grandeur of style, a keen analysis of
motive, and a deepness of pathos that stamp George Egerton as one of the
greatest women writers of the day." Boston. Traveller, U.S.A.
'The story of the child, of the girl, and of the woman is told, and told
by one to whom the mysteries of the life of each are familiarly known, In
their very truth, as the writer has so subtly analysed her triple characters,
they sadden one to think that such things must be ; yet as they are real,
they are bound to be disclosed by somebody, and in due time." Boston
Courier, U.S.A.
Ninth Edition just ready.
THE WOMAN WHO DID. By GRANT ALLEN. With
Title-page and Cover Design by AUBREY BEARDSLEY.
Crown 8vo, 35. 6d. net.
1 There is not a sensual thought or suggestion throughout the whole
volume. Though I dislike and disbelieve in his gospel, I thoroughly
respect Mr. Grant Allen for having stated it so honourably and so bravely."
Academy.
f ' Even its bitterest enemies must surely feel some thrill of admiration for
its courage. It is, once more, one philosopher against the world. Not in
our day, perhaps, can it be decided which is right, Mr. Grant Allen, or the
world. Perhaps our children's children will some day be canonising Mr.
Grant Allen for the very book for which to-day he stands a much greater
chance of being stoned, and happy lovers of the new era bless the name of
the man who, almost single-handed, fought the battle of Free Love.
Time alone can say. . . . None but the most foolish or malignant readei
' . The Woman Who Did ' can fail to recognise the noble purpose which
animates its pages. . . . Label it as one will, it remains a clever, stimu
lating book. A real enthusiasm for humanity blazes through every pag<
of this, in many ways, remarkable and significant little book. ' Sketch.
'The book is interesting, as embodying the carefully thought-oul
theories of so distinguished a writer.' Literary World.
THE KEYNOTES SERIES
' Mr. _Grant Allen has undoubtedly produced an epoch-making book, and
one which will be a living voice when most of the novels of this generation
have passed away into silence. It is epoch-making in the sense that
" Uncle Tom's Cabin" was ; the literary merits of that work were by no
means great, but yet it rang like a tocsin through the land, arousing mankind
to a sense of the slavery under which a large portion of humanity suffered.'
Humanitarian.
' Interesting, and even absorbing.' Weekly Sun.
' His sincerity is undeniable. And in the mouth of Herminia are some
very noble and eloquent passages upon the wrongs of our marriage sys
tem.' Pall Mall Gazette.
' A tale of purity and innocence unparalleled since the " Garden of
Eden " or " Paul and Virginia.'" Daily Express.
,
ngly.' Speake
1 The story is as remarkable for its art as its daring, and well deserves a
place in the remarkable series in which it has been published.' The
Scotsman.
' Herminia is a rare and fine creature.' Daily Chronicle,
carmngy o. eneae w a ecacy n sr
cannot but delight the most fastidious reader. Mr. Grant Allen draws a
picture of a sweet and pure and beautiful woman. The book is very
beautiful and very sad.' Liverpool Mercury.
' The book (for it is well written and clever) ought to be the last note in
the chorus of revolt. For it proves to demonstration the futility of the
attempt. ' Sun.
' We cannot too highly commend the conspicuous and transparent purity
of the handling. ' Public Opinion.
' He conclusively shows that if the marriage laws need revision, yet the
sweetness and seemlinnss of home, the dignity of woman as mother or as
man's helpmeet, are rooted in the sanctity of wedlock." Daily News.
' Mr. Grant Allen deserves thanks for treating with such delicacy a
problem which stands in such pressing need of solution as the reform of
our stern marriage laws.' Echo.
' Its merits are large and its interest profound.' Weekly Scotsman.
' It may not merit praise, but it merits reading.' Saturday Review.
Just published.
PRINCE ZALESKI. By M. P. SHIEL. With Title-page
by AUBREY BEARDSLEY. Crown 8vo, 33. 6d. net.
'Mr. M. P. Shiel has in this volume produced something which is
always rare, and which is every year becoming a greater ranty-a
of literary invention characterised by substantial novelty. We
Poe's analysis and Poe's glamour, but they are no longer distinct ,
are combined in a new synthesis which stamps a new imaginative impres-
sion. A finely wrought structure in which no single line impairs t
symmetry and proportion. One of the most boldly-planned and Is ink-
ingly-executed stories of its kind which has appeared for many a
THE KEYNOTES SERIES
day. We believe there is nothing in "Prince Zaleski" which that great
inventor and masterly manipulator of the spoils of invention (Poe) would
have disdained to father.' Daily Chronicle.
' Should obtain popularity. Written in an easy and clear style. The
author shows an amount of ingenuity and capacity for plot considerably
above the average. The reader will find it difficult to put the book down
before he has satisfied his curiosity to the last page.' Weekly Sun.
' The Prince was a Sherlock Holmes, with this difference : that while
yielding nothing to Conan Doyle's hero in mere intellectual agility, he
had that imaginative insight which makes poets more frequently than
detectives. Sherlock Holmes was a clever but essentially commonplace
man. Prince Zaleski was a great man, simply. Enthralling . . . once
begun they insist on being finished. Broadly and philosophically con
ceived, and put together with rare narrative skill, and feeling for effect.'
Woman.
' There is a strange, fantastic ingenuity in all the stories, while a strong
dash of mysticism gives them a peculiar flavour that differentiates them
from the ordinary detective story. They are clever and curious, and will
appeal to all lovers of the transcendental and improbable.' The Scotsman.
'Thoroughly entertaining, and the chief figure is undeniably pic
turesque.' Yorkshire Post.
'An abundance of ingenuity and quaint out-of-the-way learning mark
the three stories contained in this volume.' Liverpool Mercury.
1 He has imparted to the three tales in this volume something of that
atmosphere of eerie fantasy which Poe knew how to conjure, proceeding
by the analysis of a baffling intricacy of detail to an unforeseen conclusion.
The themes and their treatment are alike highly imaginative.' Daily
News.
' Manifestly written by one of Poe's true disciples. His analytical skill
is not that of the detective, even of so brilliant a detective as Mr. Sherlock
ngly.' Speake
'Truth to tell we like our Sherlock better in his new dress. The
book will please those who love a good old-fashioned riddle, and a good
new-fangled answer.' National Observer.
' Has genuine literary merit, and possesses entrancing interest. A kind
C CM I _ -1 TT 1 .f *. f
. ._ nystery surrounding
the death of Lord Pharanx, the Stone of the Edmundsbury Monks, and the
Suicide Society, constitutes a veritable tour de force. We have nothing
but praise for this extraordinarily clever and interesting volume.' White-
kail Review.
'Worked out very ingeniously, and we are thoroughly impressed by the
Prince s mental powers.' Sunday Times.
' A clever, extravagant, and lurid little book.' Westminster Gazette.
List of Books
in
Retires
IOHN LANE1PU3
LISMER ^ BELLES
LETTRtJ
TtttBODLEY HEAD
VIGOJTLNDNy
ALL BOOKS IN THIS CATALOGUE
ARE PUBLISHED AT NET PRICES
IS95
Telegraphic Address
' BODLEIAN, LONDON '
1*95*
List of Books
IN
BELLES LETTRES
(Including some Transfers)
Published by John Lane
VIGO STREET, LONDON, W.
AT. B. The A uthors and Publisher reserve the right of reprinting
any book in this list if a new edition is called for, except in cases
where a stipulation has been made to the contrary, and of printing
a separate edition of any of the books for America irrespective of the
numbers to which the English editions are limited. The numbers
mentioned do not include copies sent to the public libraries, nor those
sent for review.
Most of the books are published simultaneously in England and
America, and in many instances the names of the American
Publishers are appended.
ADAMS (FRANCIS).
ESSAYS IN MODERNITY. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. [Shortly.
Chicago : Stone & Kimball.
A CHILD OF THE AGE. (See KEYNOTES SERIES.)
ALLEN (GRANT).
THE LOWER SLOPES : A Volume of Verse. With Title-
page and Cover Design by J. ILLINGWORTH KAY.
600 copies. Crown 8vo. 55. net.
Chicago : Stone & Kimball.
THE WOMAN WHO DID. (See KEYNOTES SERIES.)
THE PUBLICATIONS OF JOHN LANE
BEARDSLEY (AUBREY).
THE STORY OF VENDS AND TANNHAUSER, in which is set
forth an exact account of the Manner of State held by
Madam Venus, Goddess and Meretrix, under the
famous Horselberg, and containing the adventures of
Tannhauser in that place, his repentance, his jour
neying to Rome, and return to the loving mountain.
By AUBREY BEARDSLEY. With 20 full-page illus
trations, numerous ornaments, and a cover from the
same hand. Sq, l6mo. los.6d.net. [In preparation.
BEDDOES (T. L.).
See GOSSB (EDMUND).
BEECHING (REV. H. C.).
IN A GARDEN : Poems. With Title-page designed by
ROGER FRY. Crown 8vo. 55. net.
New York : Macmillan & Co.
BENSON (ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER).
LYRICS. Fcap. 8vo., buckram. 55. net.
New York : Macmillan & Co.
BROTHERTON (MARY).
ROSEMARY FOR REMEMBRANCE. With Title-page and
Cover Design by WALTER WEST. Fcap.Svo. 3s.6d.net.
CAMPBELL (GERALD).
THE JONESES AND THE ASTERISKS. With 6 Illustra
tions and a Title-page by F. H. TOWNSEND. Fcap.
8vo. 35. 6d. net. [In preparation.
CASTLE (MRS. EGERTON).
MY LITTLE LADY ANNE : A Romance. Sq. i6mo.
as. 6d. net. [In preparation.
CASTLE (EGERTON).
See STEVENSON (ROBERT Louis).
CROSS (VICTORIA).
CONSUMMATION : A Novel. Crown 8vo. 45. 6d. net.
[In preparation.
DALMON (C. W.).
SONG FAVOURS. With a specially-designed Title-page.
Sq. l6mo. 45. 6d. net. [In preparation.
THE PUBLICATIONS OF
D'ARCY (ELLA).
MONOCHROMES. (See KEYNOTES SERIES.)
DAVIDSON (JOHN).
PLAYS : An Unhistorical Pastoral ; A Romantic Farce ;
Bruce, a Chronicle Play ; Smith, a Tragic Farce ;
Scaramouch in Naxos, a Pantomime, with a Frontis
piece and Cover Design by AUBREY BEARDSLEY.
Printed at the Ballantyne Press. 500 copies. Small
4to. 7s. 6d. net.
Chicago : Stone & Kimball.
FLEET STREET ECLOGUES. Fcap. 8vo, buckram. 55.
net. [ Out of Print at present,
A RANDOM ITINERARY AND A BALLAD. With a Fron
tispiece and Title-page by LAURENCE HOUSMAN.
600 copies. Fcap. 8vo, Irish Linen. 55. net.
Boston : Copeland & Day.
BALLADS AND SONGS. With a Title-page and Cover
Design by WALTER WEST. Third Edition. Fcap.
8vo, buckram. 55. net.
Boston : Copeland & Day.
DAWE (W. CARLTON).
YELLOW AND WHITE. (See KEYNOTES SERIES.)
DE TABLEY (LORD).
POEMS, DRAMATIC AND LYRICAL. By JOHN LEICESTER
WARREN (Lord De Tabley). Illustrations and Cover
Design by C. S. RICKETTS. Second Edition.
Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d. net
New York : Macmillan & Co.
POEMS, DRAMATIC AND LYRICAL. Second Series, uni
form in binding with the former volume. Crown 8vo.
5s. net.
New York : Macmillan & Co.
DIX (GERTRUDE).
THE GIRL FROM THE FARM. (See KEYNOTES SERIES.)
DOSTOIEVSKY (F.).
See KEYNOTES SERIES, Vol. in.
JOHN LANE j
ECHEGARAY (JOSE).
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