COLLECTION 
 
 OF 
 
 BEITISH AUTHORS 
 
 TAUCHNITZ EDITION. 
 VOL. 2905. 
 
 EUTHANASIA; or, TURF, TENT AND TOMB. 
 
 IN ONE VOLUME.
 
 ' Come, gentle Death, the ebbe of care ; 
 
 The ebbe of care, the flood of life ; 
 The flood of life, the joyful fare; 
 
 The joyful fare, the end of strife; 
 The end of strife : that thing wish I : 
 
 Wherefore come. Death, and let me die!" 
 
 Sir THOiiAs Wyatt.
 
 EUTHANASIA 
 
 TURF, TENT AND TOMB. 
 
 COPYRIGHT EDITION. 
 
 LEIPZIG 
 
 BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ 
 
 1893.
 
 o 
 
 R 
 
 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 "We made mistakes in youth, my lad, 
 But they will not outlive us; 
 The worst we did was none so bad. 
 The world may well forgive us." 
 
 Rennell Rodd. 
 
 "Five to one bar one! five to one bar one! 
 eight to one bar two! any price some of these 
 others!" 
 
 These are the sounds which rise in a discordant 
 chorus from the pandemonium of Tattersall's en- 
 closure at Ascot on a hot afternoon in June — now 
 rising to the pitch of an almost unintelligible roar, 
 then again dying away to a comparative lull, sufficient 
 only to give a short rest to the hardened lungs of 
 the perspiring occupants of the "Ring." 
 
 "What are they making favourite, O'Connor?" 
 are the words addressed in the tone of indifference 
 habitually assumed on these occasions, to one of the 
 leading members of the profession by one of that
 
 6 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 well-dressed crowd that is mostly found close against 
 the railings separating the sacred precincts of the 
 Royal Enclosure from the narrow space in which the 
 fielders are huddled together. 
 
 There was nothing about the speaker's outward 
 appearance that would cause him to be singled out 
 from amongst the group in which he was standing. 
 Clear blue eyes that look you straight in the face; a 
 healthy, sunburnt complexion; features, if not of an 
 absolutely faultless mould, nevertheless straight cut, 
 and emphatically those of a gentleman; an upright, 
 somewhat soldierly bearing are not ver}' uncommon 
 characteristics. 
 
 " Silverstreak, my lord," is the answer in a fine 
 Hibernian brogue that many years spent on this side 
 of St. George's Channel have failed to wipe away; 
 "they are all going for her — in fact, there is no 
 money for any of the others whatever." 
 
 Needless to say the answer was fully expected 
 by the person to whom it was addressed. He knew 
 all too well that his nominal yearly income — what- 
 ever that might be — shrank into absolute insignificance 
 compared to the stakes he stood to win — or lose — 
 on the favourite in the race for which the saddling- 
 bell was then being rung. 
 
 Nevertheless, not a muscle moves on his face 
 when, taking out his betting-book, he says: 
 
 "I'll take fifteen hundred to eight about the 
 favourite, if you aaiII lay it; or" — after a slight pause 
 — "I will take it twice." 
 
 After a little demurring, the bet is duly booked,
 
 EUTHANASIA. 7 
 
 swelling the total of Lord George Mansfield's invest- 
 ments on Silverstreak — chestnut mare by Silvester 
 out of Camilla — to a figure which would have made 
 the late Marquis, who knew every cab-fare in London, 
 and looked upon the outstretched hand of a crossing- 
 sweeper as something akin to a personal offence, well- 
 nigh turn in his grave. 
 
 Anyone who has been through similar experiences 
 will readily believe that Lord George, until his 
 suspense was over, was in no frame of mind to 
 devote any of his time to responding with more 
 than a commonplace remark to the many greetings 
 he received as he strode rapidly through the en- 
 closure in search of a point of vantage from which 
 to view the forthcoming race for the Hunt Cup. 
 
 The most enticing smiles that accompany the 
 stereotyped question, "Oh! do tell me, what do you 
 think is going to win?" elicit no more than the some- 
 what curt reply, "They all say the favourite will!" 
 and a noble duchess, requesting him to put thirty 
 shillings on Silverstreak for a place, is surprised to 
 see that so desirable a commission should fail to 
 make him retrace his steps in the direction of the 
 ring. 
 
 Once only does he stop; for, coming towards him 
 in faultless attire, carrying his sixty years with the 
 ease of a boy, still chuckling at the last high-flavoured 
 story he has just imparted to a vision of mauve crepe 
 de c/iiiic walking by his side, comes Lord Devereux, 
 the owner of Silverstreak. 
 
 "Have you seen the Cup yet. Lord Devereux?"
 
 8 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 are his opening words, for he knows too much of 
 the world to ask an owner the odious question, "Is 
 your horse going to win?" 
 
 "No, my dear fellow; I can't say I have. Hope 
 to see it on my dinner-table to-night, though. I 
 think if I were you I would have a bit on." 
 
 This is all Lord George wants to hear, and he is 
 hardly in the frame of mind to make allowance for 
 the sanguine nature which makes Lord Devereux 
 feel rather injured whenever a horse, carrying his 
 colours, is not in the first three. 
 
 And now a stir is noticeable even amongst the 
 crowd in the enclosure, that happy mixture of a 
 garden-party and a race-course. Hungry chaperons 
 are for one moment forgetting the all-important ques- 
 tion as to whether anybody will take them to luncheon; 
 young girls, whose thoughts until then have been 
 monopolized with mental invectives against "that 
 wretch of a Madame Lodo," who sent home their 
 last frock as wide as a sack, are beginning to study 
 their race-cards, and, from the Royal stand glasses 
 are levelled towards the far end of the New Mile. 
 
 After a few trifling breakaways, the flag has 
 fallen to a level start. An almost unbroken line, 
 with the exception of one or two stragglers, presents 
 itself to the eye, gradually approaching the bottom 
 of the dip previous to commencing that ascent that 
 has seen so many hopes dashed to the ground. The 
 clatter of tongues has ceased, to give way to the 
 silence of suspense, almost appalling in its intensity. 
 ..They have crossed the road and are gradually ap-
 
 EUTHANASIA. 9 
 
 preaching that long extended line formed by the 
 various stands. No trace of emotion is perceptible 
 in Lord George's face, and the hand that holds up 
 his glasses is moved by no tremor, though he knows 
 that in a very few seconds his fate will be decided. 
 
 The favourite has a good berth close to the rails; 
 he is breasting the hill resolutely, and his jockey 
 has, as yet, never moved on him. 
 
 "What is that in yellow?" a voice is suddenly 
 heard to say, not far from where our friend has 
 taken up his position, closely followed by a shriek 
 from the ring. "How much Barrister? The favourite 
 don't win for a hundred." 
 
 Alas, for the glorious uncertainty! The favourite 
 answers gamely to his jockey's call, and a fine race 
 home ensues. The lad, riding a rank outsider thus 
 dropped from the clouds, is far too flurried at the 
 idea of riding a finish against a veteran like his 
 antagonist on Silverstreak, even to think of picking 
 up his whip, or the result might have been different. 
 All that human skill can do is done to secure the 
 judge's verdict, but it is not to be. 
 
 Up goes the number of Barrister, winner by half- 
 a-length. 
 
 A deadly pallor creeps over the face of the man 
 who knows his fate is now sealed; but not a syllable 
 escapes him. To him that number means poverty; 
 exile, at least, for many years to come; destruction 
 of all his hopes — nothing, in fact, before him but an 
 absolute blank. 
 
 "I hope you have not had a bad race, Lord
 
 I O EUTHANASIA. 
 
 George — have 3'ou? Do come and let us have some 
 hincheon!" These are the first words that meet 
 his ear. 
 
 The speaker may well be considered worthy of 
 more than a passing glance. The name of Mrs. John 
 Arthur is as familiar to every reader of the Universe, 
 Veracity, or other suppliers to the popular craving 
 for society news as that of Wellington to the student 
 of the Peninsular campaign. 
 
 In the social regions in which she holds sway, 
 not to know "Mrs. Jack" would indeed be to argue 
 oneself unknown. 
 
 The doors of her town house, a "desirable family 
 mansion," situated in the very heart of what, amongst 
 her set, is known as the "hot corner," are open at 
 almost every hour of the twenty-four to her habitues, 
 but to few others. Married without affection, and 
 almost without the pretence of any, to a wealthy 
 member of the Stock Exchange, whatever illusions 
 she might have had speedily vanished. Her sur- 
 prise would probably have been great had it ever 
 dawned upon her that many might consider hers an 
 empty, shallow, contemptible life. Any remarks 
 which during her Sunday devotions she might oc- 
 casionally hear from the pulpit on the wickedness of 
 the pomps and vanities of this world, it would never 
 have occurred to her to apply to herself; and had 
 she ever caught herself inquiring into her inner life, 
 she would probably have come to the conclusion 
 that her liver was out of order, and that she required 
 a cure at Carlsbad.
 
 EUTHANASIA. I I 
 
 Blest with a splendid constitution, a quick intel- 
 ligence, coupled with an early acquired knowledge 
 of the world, her life had hardly been troubled with 
 any other cares than the apprehension of her hus- 
 band "doing something silly" on the Stock Ex- 
 change, or of getting herself talked about more than 
 the social code of morality — the only Qwe she stood 
 in awe of — would tolerate. So, far, she had been 
 fairly successful in the latter respect; for, though 
 sailing dangerously close to the wind on more than 
 one occasion, she had just managed to avoid bring- 
 ing upon herself the frowns of that strangely -con- 
 stituted Court of Justice that sits in judgment upon 
 social offenders. True, its sternest verdict cannot go 
 beyond ostracism from a certain fraction of what 
 terms itself Society; and yet the holy dread of that 
 verdict, coupled with remote visions of Sir J. Hannen, 
 or, rather. Sir Francis Jeime, appearing as the 
 avenger, are the only checks upon natures in which 
 the curse of social ambition and conventionalism has 
 stifled all notion of a nobler code of ethics. 
 
 That the class to whom these remarks apply is 
 still a small one in the ocean of London society few 
 would deny, fewer still that it is a rapidly-increasing 
 one. No statistics are kept of the annual holocausts 
 of feminine pride, honour and self-respect which are 
 made to obtain admission into the charmed circle of 
 what is termed a "smart set," with all the delightful 
 privileges which intimacy with its leading members 
 entails. Only a minute study of the deepest recesses 
 of a woman's heart, from which she will do her very
 
 I 2 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 utmost to ward the indiscreet gazes, even of those 
 for whom she has otherwise few secrets, wll disclose 
 the intensity of delight felt at the safe accompHsh- 
 nient of every successive rung of the social ladder, 
 a satisfaction mostly shared, to some extent, by an 
 admiring, though somewhat bewildered, husband. 
 
 To a nature thus constituted, no work of art, 
 not the most glorious landscape upon which the 
 human eye ever feasted, nay, not even the most 
 passionate words that love can inspire, will evoke 
 anything approaching the gratification felt at being 
 able casually to repeat to a friend of humbler station 
 — formerly her equal — any remark addressed to her 
 at the Duchess of Birmingham's last little dance by 
 an illustrious personage. 
 
 To some, this picture may seem overdrawn. Let 
 those who think so examine more closely even their 
 own circle of acquaintances; let them ask any hostess 
 in London to produce the notes she has received a 
 fortnight before she gave her last ball, and let them 
 then accuse the writer of exaggeration. 
 
 "Nothing I should like better, Mrs. Jack; let us 
 try the Guards' tent. Yes, I did back the favourite, 
 the same as everybody else;" and he leads the way 
 across the course into that scene of lavish hospitality 
 with which the Household Brigade seem anxious to 
 return tenfold the civilities bestowed upon them dur- 
 ing a London season. 
 
 Somewhat below the average height, with a waist 
 not exceeding eighteen inches, Mrs. Jack cannot be 
 described by her most ardent admirers as more than
 
 EUTHANASIA. 1 3 
 
 an "awfully pretty little woman." The epithet of 
 lovely would seem strangely out of place, if applied 
 to what a Frenchman would describe as a "petit 
 minors chiffonne ," with eyes remarkable more for 
 their restlessness and quickness of perception than 
 for anything else. Strength of will — possibly of pas- 
 sion (a bold man is he, or a very inexperienced one, 
 who professes to form an opinion thereon from the 
 outline of a woman's face) — is clearly depicted in 
 the shape of the mouth, which, though generally, 
 lending itself to a conventional smile, has a singularly 
 set expression when at rest. The adjective with 
 which to describe the colour of her hair might take 
 some difficulty in finding, its hue being described 
 once by an irreverent observer as reminding him of 
 the oranges that grow around the terraces of Sor- 
 rento. 
 
 The Guards' tent, with a hungry multitude fight- 
 ing for admission to the tables laden with every sort 
 of delicacy to tempt the inner man, is a milieu ill- 
 adapted for more than the most conventional of 
 intercourse, though conventionalism in her conversa- 
 tion is not one of Mrs. Jack's besetting sins, and a 
 man must indeed be slow of wit not soon to leave 
 the range of platitudes when talking to her. She 
 was once heard to exclaim: 
 
 "As long as a man does not say, 'What a fine 
 
 day it is!' or, 'How lovely the Duchess of 1-, 
 
 is looking!' he is all right, and I can get on with 
 him." 
 
 She has the courage of her opinion in admitting
 
 14 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 to a total want of interest in racing, and her 
 question: "Have you got anything on this next 
 race?" having been answered in the negative, they 
 are left for the time in comparative solitude, once 
 the bell has rung for the race following the Hunt 
 Cup. 
 
 "I am sure you have lost a lot of money, have 
 not you? You might tell me, at least," she says, 
 with a sympathising glance, the expression of all 
 others in a woman's eyes which finds the weak spot 
 in every man's armour. 
 
 Few men care to talk much about themselves or 
 their own affairs, though there are, no doubt, some 
 striking and rather painful exceptions; nevertheless, 
 the reticence which, at the best of times, is but 
 acquired and artificial, may, when a real crisis in 
 hfe is reached, make place for the moment to a 
 deep craving for sympathy. Then, at least, what the 
 Germans call das reiti Me?ischliche comes to the front 
 and sweeps away the hollow fabric of conven- 
 tionalism. 
 
 "Do you really care to hear?" he answered. 
 "Yes, I have had a bad race — so bad that my papers 
 will have to go up before the end of the week, and 
 the sooner I return to towTi and book a birth for 
 Kimberley or G — d knows where, the better it will 
 be for everybody. Of course you must have known 
 for some time back that my affairs were in more of 
 a muddle than usual. How can anyone live on that 
 miserable pittance Errington allows me? As long 
 as all his hospitals are flourishing I might starve for
 
 EUTHANASIA. 1 5 
 
 all he cared. I thought I would get home over this 
 race and have a bit in hand, too; we know the result 
 now." 
 
 Mrs. Arthur has never taken her eyes off him 
 whilst he spoke, and there is a look of genuine sym- 
 pathy in her face: she is capable of kind thoughts 
 and even kind actions when her own private interests 
 are not at stake. 
 
 "And how about Mildred Charteris?" she answers. 
 Has she any idea of this state of things? And I 
 suppose your engagement will have to be broken off 
 now, won't it? I can't tell you how sorry I am for 
 you!" 
 
 "Poor child! it is for her sake that I feel it most; 
 and I don't know how I shall ever raise the courage 
 to tell her. You know she isn't hke you or me, or 
 what in that long sermon the other day they called 
 the worldlings. She is a soul — I don't mean one of 
 the professional souls, but a real genuine one. Money 
 matters don't exist for her; I told her I had a big 
 bet on the Hunt Cup and that my affairs were not 
 progressing satisfactorily, but she never even asked 
 me what I had backed. Wasn't that funny?" 
 
 "No, not at all. I think it particularly nice of 
 her, although you kindly remark she is so totally un- 
 like me. But, do tell me, how long have you been 
 engaged? Did you not propose to her when you 
 were both children? I always thought there was 
 some sort of romance about it, but as a rule you are 
 so very reticent about your affairs." 
 
 "Well, there is not much to tell," he answered,
 
 1 6 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 after a second's hesitation; "she lived with her old 
 aunt, close to the Priory; we were perpetually thrown 
 together as children, and in all my little troubles I 
 would come to her as I would to a sister if I had 
 one. One day — I was at Eton — when I came home 
 for the holidays, I told her I had fallen in love with 
 a girl down there {as a matter of fact it was the 
 sister of the barmaid at Surley's), and poor Mildred 
 burst into tears and sobbed her heart out. Next day 
 I thought the matter over, and I went up to town 
 and bought her a ring for thirty-five shillings, with a 
 turquoise in it, and I told her I loved her the better 
 of the two and she must one day be my wife. She 
 is only a few years younger than I am, you know, 
 and somehow she did not look a bit surprised; she 
 only caught hold of my hand and said she would 
 entrust me with her life's happiness. We have been 
 obliged to keep it dark up to now on account of 
 Errington, who cannot make up his mind whether he 
 is going to do anything for us or not." 
 
 "I never heard quite such a pathetic story; it is 
 a pity she did not keep you in better order once you 
 were engaged. Did you go in for flirting too, or did 
 you save all your energy for betting and gambling?" 
 
 "Of course I never flirted. Surely you have seen 
 enough of me to know that: besides, the only woman 
 with whom I might possibly have forgotten myself 
 sufficiently to do such a thing never gave me a 
 chance." 
 
 "And who might she be?" 
 
 "Don't you pretend not to know," he retorts, in
 
 EUTHANASIA. I "J 
 
 a tone of cheerful banter, his naturally good spirits 
 rapidly rising again; "but it's no good thinking of all 
 that as long as old Jim is to the front. Good old 
 Jim, I wish I were in his shoes," he adds laughingly. 
 
 "Do you?" she replies pensively; "I don't, but 
 your remarks are getting exceedingly frivolous; I 
 think I shall have to tell Miss Charteris. Oh, but 
 here she is!" 
 
 She rises to greet the young girl who, closely fol- 
 lowed by Lord Devereux, is making her way into the 
 tent. The latter is too much elated at the prospect 
 of a long, undisturbed conversation with the young 
 lady on whom he has set his elderly heart to fret 
 about his recent defeat, and he accosts Lord George 
 in his usual tone of careless good humour. 
 
 "So sorry, my dear fellow, I told you to back 
 Silverstreak. Of course, after his running at Leicester, 
 we never troubled any more about Barrister — warm 
 lot in that stable, aren't they? What will you take. 
 Miss Charteris?" 
 
 The habitually rather cold and distant expression 
 upon the latter's countenance has become slightly 
 more marked. Too young to be altogether free from 
 self-consciousness, the notion is intensely distateful to 
 her that Mrs. Jack Arthur might suspect her of hav- 
 ing purposely followed Lord George; so she merely 
 answers her veteran admirer's question by suggesting, 
 under the pretence of more air, their sitting at a 
 table on the farther side of the tent. 
 
 As he pours out a glass of champagne cup to 
 the tall, dark girl by his side, Lord Devereux allows 
 
 Euthanasia. 2
 
 1 8 EfTHANASIA. 
 
 his glance to rest, \Yith a delightful sense of com- 
 placency and expectant proprietorship, upon the de- 
 licate outline of her features. Though he searches 
 in vain for any encouragement in those lustrous dark 
 eyes, of Oriental beauty, which seem to notice neither 
 him nor any of the tempting dishes he is handing to 
 her one after another, Lord Devereux is not to be dis- 
 couraged, and is more than ever determind "to make 
 the running," as he would himself have expressed it. 
 
 He had led the conversation on to a marriage 
 recently announced, the parties to which could hardly 
 boast of a joint budget of eight hundred a-year. 
 
 "Believe me. Miss Charteris (I speak to you al- 
 most like a father; for, of course, I am old enough 
 to be your father over and over again), that sort of 
 thing never answers: you cannot live on bread and 
 cheese and kisses." His neighbour slightly winced, 
 but this was entirely lost upon him. "It's all very 
 well for the first six months. After that, when you 
 find you cannot join your friends' little play-parties 
 because Lacon and Oilier have written to say, "The 
 favour of a cheque is earnestly requested," and your 
 husband has got to stint himself in his after-dinner 
 claret, your evenings by the fireside will soon get to 
 pall upon both of you — mark my words, upon both 
 — before the first year is over." 
 
 "I suppose you are right. Lord Devereux," the 
 girl answered in rather a dreamy, absent manner; 
 "you must know a great deal more about it than I 
 do. I cannot say these are exactly my views, but I 
 don't feel as if I could make a single remark on the
 
 EUTHANASIA. I Q 
 
 subject that had not been made many thousands of 
 times before in every intelligible language. Besides, 
 as there is not much probability of my marrying any- 
 body, rich or poor, for some time to come, it cannot 
 matter much to anyone what I think on the subject, 
 can it? Shall we go back to the other side now? 
 What do you think?" 
 
 With a look of genuine disappointment upon his 
 face, Lord Devereux empties his glass and escorts 
 his fair charge back to the enclosure. 
 
 Once there, she has not many seconds to wait 
 before she sees the stalwart form of Lord George 
 approaching her. There is a heavy cloud on the 
 young man's face that seems to confirm all her worst 
 forebodings. 
 
 They drift apart from the group amongst which 
 she had been standing. "Mildred, I have been so 
 anxious to speak to you," are his opening words; "I 
 have been most unlucky over the Hunt Cup; I am 
 afraid it really is very serious indeed. It is no good 
 attempting to talk the matter over in this bear-garden; 
 might I come and see you to-morrow morning before 
 racing? I am not at all sure of staying on to the 
 end of the week." 
 
 She raises her eyes with a look of intense tender- 
 ness and compassion. "Yes, you will find me some- 
 where near the tennis-court any time after breakfast 
 to-morrow. I am so very sorry;" and she holds out 
 her hand to him. He grasps it, and uttering, with 
 rather a hoarse voice, the one word, "Good-bye," he 
 takes leave of her.
 
 20 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 "We look before and alter, 
 And pine for what is not: 
 Our sincerest laughter 
 
 With some pain is fraught; 
 Our sweetest songs are those that teU of saddest thought." 
 
 Shelley. 
 
 The races are pretty nearly over; an eager 
 crowd is collecting to see the royal procession drive 
 off; people are looking for their belongings, most of 
 them feeling somewhat relieved at a long day being 
 brought to a close. 
 
 Lord George is staying in the same party with 
 Mrs. Jack Arthur, and they soon find themselves 
 seated behind a showy team of bays and roans with 
 which their host is driving them back to The Elms. 
 
 Whatever the results of the day may have been, 
 as chronicled by the betting-book, there are probably 
 few more delightful sensations than the return 
 from the noise, bustle and excitement of Ascot Heath, 
 to one of those many charming houses that surround 
 it within a radius of some five or six miles. The 
 knowledge that, for better, for worse, the struggle of 
 the day is over; that flannels can take the place of 
 frock-coats, and friendly intercourse that of a pro- 
 miscuous exchange of commonplace remarks, gives a
 
 EUTHANASIA. 2 I 
 
 most refreshing feeling of relaxation to the weary 
 mind and body. 
 
 Perhaps on these occasions our insular prejudice 
 against "doing nothing" is carried somewhat too far. 
 Anyhow, no one will be surprised that before The 
 Elms are reached, Mrs. John Arthur should have 
 suggested to her neighbour a quiet ride round 
 Virginia Water to fill up the time before dinner. 
 Needless to say, the invitation is eagerly accepted. 
 In Lord George's present frame of mind some kind 
 of excitement is indispensable; and after a short 
 delay he finds himself by the side of a very smartly- 
 turned-out little lady with a sailor hat most be- 
 comingly perched on her well-shaped head, handling 
 a nicely-bred pony with showy action to the utmost 
 perfection. 
 
 Very few minutes' ride bring them to the gates 
 of Windsor Park, and they follow the path skirting 
 Virginia Water. The rhododendrons are in full 
 bloom; the rays of the setting sun are warded off 
 by the luxuriant verdure overhead; not a sound is 
 to be heard, and hardly a leaf is stirring. 
 
 They ride silently beside each other for a time. 
 At last Mrs. Arthur, dropping her reins on the pony's 
 neck, exclaims: "Isn't this heavenly — this intense 
 solitude after all the noise and bustle? We might 
 fancy ourselves a hundred miles from any human 
 habitation. But it is not to make these general 
 reflections that I have come out; for this evening 
 we may not have a chance of talking. Tell me, 
 what do you suppose will be your next move?"
 
 22 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 She has really been thinking the matter over, 
 and is working herself up into a genuine interest in 
 her companion's fate. 
 
 "Do you think you might tide matters over just 
 for the present? I daresay Jack might get you some 
 berth in the City — that would be better than nothing. 
 I don't want you to go round the world, or goodness 
 knows where; I hate losing my friends, and we have 
 been very good friends, haven't we?" 
 
 "Friends? Yes, I should think so, and we will 
 always remain so, rio matter where I am and what- 
 ever happens. I shall never forget the interest you 
 have shown me; it is more than most people will do. 
 But, believe me, there is nothing to be done for the 
 present. The bookies are not likely to be hard upon 
 me, and will be ready to wait for their money. 
 Living abroad on next to nothing, I can gradually 
 pay them off by instalments, and can eventually clear 
 myself I should be no good at City work; besides, 
 I don't quite like to apply to Jack in a difficulty such 
 as this. As to asking my brother to settle for me 
 on Monday, he would read me a chapter on the 
 folly and vice of gambling, in which he would be 
 well backed up by his wife; and that would be an 
 end of it. There is no use in mincing matters. Much 
 as I hate the idea of leaving the regiment, I must go 
 abroad as soon as ever I can, and try to start a new 
 existence. If ever you think of me at all, you must 
 think of me as the most unlucky fellow you ever 
 came across; that is all. I look upon this as our 
 good-bye for many years to come. I trust your life
 
 EUTHANASIA. 2^ 
 
 will be a happier one than mine — you have every- 
 thing to make it so. And now let us have a canter 
 over this nice bit of grass." 
 
 Though every member of the party at The Elms 
 that evening knew more or less what a disastrous 
 day it had been for one of them, no one could gain- 
 say that George Mansfield was a good loser, and no 
 trace of those sudden fits of despondency was per- 
 ceptible in him that on similar occasions are apt to 
 show themselves in men of softer stuff. 
 
 Much has been said and written of late about, 
 or rather against, the young man of the present day 
 — his idleness, the effeminacy of his manners, his 
 recklessness in the pursuit of pleasure or lucre. 
 
 Taking, not the individual, but the class as a 
 whole, we beg leave to question whether these stric- 
 tures are wholly deserved. 
 
 Whenever their country has called upon their 
 services, these same idle, cigarette-smoking young 
 fellows, whose literary food consists in not much more 
 than what their daily sporting papers convey to them; 
 who are apt to turn up their noses at anything but 
 the very best '74 champagne, have not been found 
 wanting. 
 
 Was any complaint ever heard when these same 
 pampered, petted, spoilt children of society were 
 broiling under an Egyptian sun without any food to 
 speak of, and with nothing but the slimy water of 
 the Nile, as thick as pea-soup, to quench their thirst, 
 and without the prospect of any deed of arms likely 
 to repay them for their privations?
 
 24 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 Can anyone doubt that, should the day ever 
 arrive when "England expects every man to do his 
 duty," all these men of pleasure, the habitues of the 
 race-course and the gambling-table, will be only too 
 thankful of an excuse for resuming a more active 
 life, and will be able to prove to any sceptic that in 
 them there is not much sign of degeneracy as yet? 
 
 Should it ever become otherwise — a surmise for 
 which we see as yet no sort of inclination — the reason 
 may well be looked for, not so much in idleness or 
 the search of pleasure, but in the greed for money- 
 making — to our mind a far more distressing and, at 
 the same time, more wide-spread symptom amongst 
 the young generation of the present day. 
 
 The West End stockbroker is a modern creation, 
 and the undoubted success of those who originated 
 the movement, with remarkable ability and some 
 means at their disposal, has tempted many others 
 with scant resources, either intellectual or financial, 
 to follow in their wake. 
 
 Relying upon family interests to procure them 
 some sort of place in the City, many of them leave 
 the army, touch up their arithmetic, and are soon 
 heard holding forth most glibly on an imminent 
 rise of three-sixteenths in "Tintos" or a slight back- 
 wardation on "Brighton A's." 
 
 Whether they make much money at this business, 
 if any, is known to nobody but themselves, and is 
 nobody's concern but their own; but their pale, 
 hollow cheeks, shattered nerves and ruined constitu- 
 tions tell an eloquent tale of the wear and tear to
 
 EUTHANASIA. 25 
 
 which the incessant pursuit of lucre condemns a 
 frame accustomed to a healthy, open-air life. 
 
 Every member of Mrs. Jack Arthur's party seems 
 to agree not to sit up late that evening; and after a 
 certain amount of dawdling about in the garden, and 
 a mild attempt at penny bank, the evening is brought 
 to a close. 
 
 George Mansfield, pleading a splitting headache, 
 prefers his own company to that assembled in the 
 smoking-room. He opens the windows wide to let 
 in the balmy night air, laden with the scent of the 
 heliotropes, and, lighting a big cigar, throws himself 
 into the most comfortable armchair he can find. 
 
 Yes, the game really is up; at least he is spared 
 the qualms of indecision ; he has got to make a clean 
 sweep of everything. He wonders for a moment 
 whether Mildred will have guessed the full extent 
 of the disaster that has befallen him, and whether 
 she understood his expressing doubts as to "staying 
 to the end of the meeting," as intending to convey 
 to her that he might be sailing for the Antipodes 
 within a week's time. 
 
 In whichever direction his thoughts turn the out- 
 look is dreary and hopeless. The wrench of leaving 
 his regiment {the — Life Guards) in which he was a 
 general favourite, was a cruel one, and doubly so 
 when it meant at the same time leaving his home, 
 his country — everything, in fact, to which the human 
 heart clings. 
 
 What made his reflections doubly galling was the 
 consideration upon how little his fate had depended,
 
 26 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 and how near he had been reaching what would 
 have been a turning point in his existence. Had 
 Sih'erstreak just managed to struggle home, his 
 financial difficulties would have been at an .end for 
 the time being, and his engagement could have been 
 made public on the foUomng day. 
 
 He was not much given to reading poetry, or 
 Lord Lytton's expressive lines might have returned 
 to his memory: 
 
 %^' 
 Yet there's none so unhappj- but what he hath been 
 Just about to be happj-, at some time, I ween; 
 And none so beguiled and defrauded by chance, 
 But what once in his hfe some minute circumstance 
 Would have fi^ly sufficed to secure him the bliss 
 Which, missing it then, he for ever must miss. 
 
 How many are there among us in whom these 
 words do not wake some bitter memory? 
 
 Why, oh, why did we not, when that little hand 
 lay so trustingly in ours, say the words that were on 
 our lips and that scruples or considerations of some 
 sort held back? No amount of remorse or heart- 
 burning will bring back that fugitive moment in- 
 scribed in burning letters in our Life's Diary, under 
 the heading of "Opportunities Lost!" Why would 
 we not listen to the advice of a friend who, knowing 
 we had staked far more than was advisable on a 
 forthcoming "certainty," entreated us to hedge on a 
 dark three-year-old of his that was bound to run 
 well, and, as a matter of fact, did win in a canter? 
 
 Lucky indeed is he who has no occasion to
 
 EUTHANASIA. 2 7 
 
 supplement these questions by others which may 
 cause him to meditate on the words: — 
 
 Of all sad words of tongue or pen, 
 
 ".he saddest are these: "It might have been." 
 
 Before he brings his meditations to an end, 
 George Mansfield decides that anyhow, before many 
 hours had gone by, Mildred should know the whole 
 truth — should know that her promise was null and 
 void; that he to whorr it had been made had proved 
 hims^ unworthy of her; that before long he might 
 be little more than a social outcast — one of the 
 waifs and strays who, under the reign of the survival 
 of the fittest, had gone to the wall. What would 
 she say? How would she take this disclosure? 
 
 His manhood reasserts itself in the firm resolu- 
 tion not to accept any acts of self-sacrifice from 
 her. He has ruined his own life, but he will not 
 ruin hers. 
 
 Braced up by this determination, and thereby 
 reinstated, so to speak, in his own self-respect, he 
 leaves the consideration of his present financial posi- 
 tion and the framing of all further plans until the 
 morrow, and soon falls asleep from sheer weariness 
 of mind and body. 
 
 He appears at breakfast next morning as cool 
 and imperturbable as ever, and joins in the discus- 
 sion of probable winners during the day as if his 
 mind was free from all care. Soon after he is seen, 
 with the swinging stride of a Guardsman, betaking 
 himself to the interview he dreads.
 
 28 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 "I hope I am not late; am I? What a jolly 
 morning it is!" are his opening words. 
 
 An Englishman's repugnance to anything like 
 melodramatics is so great that no doubt Newgate 
 before now has heard remarks about its being a 
 "nice morning" exchanged within not many yards of 
 the scaffold. 
 
 "I am afraid I took the wrong turn after crossing 
 the Windsor Road." 
 
 After being set at rest on this score, he plunges 
 in medias res, determined not to let his courage 
 ooze out. 
 
 She is reclining in a hammock under the shadow 
 of the overhanging boughs of a fir-tree; her expres- 
 sion is sorrowful more than reproachful, and his 
 heart bleeds at the sight of those eyes, dimmed with 
 tears, fixed upon him, not upbraiding or accusing 
 him, but sad and despairing. 
 
 He throws himself upon the lawn almost at her 
 feet, presses her hand to his lips and says: 
 
 "Darling, you can guess what I have got to tell 
 you; you know that it breaks my heart having to do 
 so; but " 
 
 She interrupts him: "Of course I can guess. 
 Do not accuse yourself, and do not think I am sitting 
 in judgment over you. Don't say another word if it 
 gives you pain; you have suffered quite enough 
 already; it is not for me to add to your trouble. I 
 will only ask you one question, for of course I know 
 but httle about betting and money matters generally. 
 Must all be at an end? Is there no hope left? You
 
 EUTHANASIA. 2g 
 
 know what I mean; you know that I would sooner 
 share any hardships with you than withdraw the 
 word I have given you. You know that nothing 
 would seem a sacrifice to me were it done to secure 
 your happiness. Is there no hope?" 
 
 He shakes his head. "God knows I have sunk 
 low enough, but not so low as to wish to ruin your 
 life together with mine and to drag you down with 
 me. I have forfeited all right and all claim to your 
 love. Do you remember that morning, years ago, 
 when I first told you that I should marry yoi(- — or 
 no one? How sweet you looked! I can see you now, 
 in your little cotton frock; do you remember it? How 
 bright and happy all our prospects seemed! I have 
 proved myself unworthy of you." 
 
 The terrible earnestness of his tone is even more 
 convincing than his words, and, unwilling to add to 
 his grief by attempting to oppose so firm a resolu- 
 tion, she only says, forcing a smile to her lips, sadder 
 than any outburst of anguish could have been: 
 
 "Don't say that, George; you have done nothing 
 unworthy of yourself or of me — nothing that could 
 diminish my respect for you— or anything else." 
 
 The effort has been too great, even for her 
 courage, and the words she would have added are 
 buried in an outburst of passionate sobbing. 
 
 Utterly unaware of the intrusion they are com- 
 mitting, or otherwise indifferent to it as long as a 
 plentiful supply of small coin, together with some 
 light refreshment in the servants' hall, is forthcoming, 
 a troupe of negro minstrels — that plague of Ascot —
 
 30 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 has taken up its position between the house and the 
 garden, and their discordant voices are soon raised 
 to the tune of — 
 
 "You can do Anthout a wife, 
 And you can do without a drink; 
 But you cannot do without the merry chink! chink! chink!" 
 
 The ludicrousness of this sudden interruption was 
 too great. Mildred's tears vanished, as if by magic. 
 She jumped up and exclaimed: 
 
 "They are right, George; aren't they? And I am 
 afraid we have not got the merry 'chink.' Don't let 
 us say anything more about it: let us be brave and 
 not think of what might have been. Write and tell 
 me what your plans are as soon as you get back to 
 town. By the bye" — and a mischievous smile lighted 
 up her face — "how is Mrs. Jack Arthur this morning? 
 It was so stupid of us yesterday, coming and disturb- 
 ing you, you looked so happy together." 
 
 Disappointed by the scant attention bestowed 
 upon them, and attracted by visions of an unstinted 
 supply of small beer in the lower regions, the negroes 
 had slowly disappeared. After one glance in the 
 direction where a minute ago they stood, George 
 Mansfield only exclaimed, "Hang Mrs. Jack Arthur ! " 
 and he clasps the girl who has given him so noble 
 an examble of self-sacrificing heroism in his arms, 
 and their lips meet in one long, passionate embrace. 
 Then he leaps over the low laurel hedge, and is gone.
 
 EUTHANASIA. 3 1 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 "Life! It began with a sigh, grew with the leaves that are 
 dead; 
 Its pleasures with wings to fly, its sorrows with limbs of lead : 
 And rest reniaineth never, for the wearier years to be. 
 Till the brook shall become a river, and the river become a 
 sea." Lord Houghton. 
 
 In the busy days we live in, people's movements 
 are no longer regulated by that methodical rigidity 
 that marked the arrivals and departures of our fore- 
 fathers. Not much surprise is caused by social 
 engagements of long standing being overthrown at a 
 moment's notice, the culprit expressing how "awfully 
 sorry" he is, at the rate of one half-penny the word. 
 
 George Mansfield's announcement on returning, 
 that he had received a telegram which obliged him 
 to go to town at once was consequently met with 
 genuine regret rather than with indignation — many 
 of the party probably being able to make a shrewd 
 guess at the real cause of it. 
 
 One good point in Mrs. Jack Arthur's nature, 
 that not even her bitterest enemy could dispute, was 
 that she was able to hold her tongue; and not a 
 word had been elicited from her as to anything 
 George Mansfield told her during their ride on the 
 previous day.
 
 32 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 People were beginning to arrive at the Stands as 
 he drove past in a rickety fly on his way to Ascot 
 station. He gave one parting glance on that scene 
 — to him so familiar and so fond — and wondered, 
 inwardly, whether his eyes were ever likely to light 
 on it again. He had no trouble in finding an empty 
 carriage to take him up to town. In his frame of 
 mind our fellow-creatures are even more than usually 
 unwelcome intruders. 
 
 His course was now becoming more clear to him. 
 Before he could make any plans he must break the 
 matter to his brother, distinctly painful as this process 
 might be to both parties concerned. 
 
 On alighting at the Blenheim Club to order his 
 luncheon, he did not notice the surprised look of the 
 waiters at seeing him in town on Cup Day; nor the 
 deserted look of the club — deserted even by its two 
 most faithful visitors: the gallant General, the hero 
 of many a hard fight in the Crimea and in India, 
 whose genial courtesy of manner is the same, whether 
 telling his last new anecdote to the Heir-Apparent, 
 or whether initiating the newly arrived foreign 
 Attache, whose looks are as bewildered as his idiom 
 is unintelligible, into the mysteries of our insular 
 habits; deserted, also by the handsome, cynical 
 Colonel, the very type of the beau sabreur, with his 
 heavy moustache — a better judge of a woman's looks 
 with the one eye he has left, than most men more 
 favoured in that respect. 
 
 Settling himself down at a writing table, George 
 Mansfield began to realise what an arduous task he
 
 EUTHANASIA. S3 
 
 had before him, and nearly an hour had elapsed, 
 and much paper been wasted, before he finally 
 decided upon the following missive: 
 
 My dear Errington, — We have not, somehow, 
 seen very much of each other lately, our tastes and 
 ways of living not being the same; and I am afraid 
 I have been rather neglectful about calling on 
 Dorothy. 
 
 I am anxious, however, to have a talk with you, 
 if possible, not later than to-morrow, on a serious, 
 and I may at once say a somewhat painful subject. 
 Our conversation will refer to some heavy losses I 
 have recently incurred on the turf, which will in all 
 probability necessitate my leaving the army and this 
 country, for some time at least. 
 
 Do not misunderstand me, or suppose I am ap- 
 pealing to your charity ; but although there has been 
 some estrangement between us of late, it has never, 
 that I know of, taken such proportions that I should 
 decide upon what my future life is to be without 
 your hearing of it. 
 
 I have many urgent matters to settle to-morrow; 
 so, unless I hear to the contrary, I will come in for 
 luncheon and we can have a talk afterwards. 
 
 Please remember me to Dorothy, and believe 
 me, Yours affectionately 
 
 George. 
 
 In case you wish to answer this, the above ad- 
 dress will find me. 
 
 Euthanasia. 3
 
 34 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 The town dwelling of the Mansfields was a 
 gloomy old mansion in St. James's Square, replete 
 with family portraits of no particular artistic merit, 
 and cumbersome mahogany furniture, constructed 
 more with a view to duration than to the comfort of 
 each successive generation of occupants. Lord Erring- 
 ton and his helpmate were sitting at their dinner- 
 table, laden with a vast display of Queen Anne plate. 
 Even the servants officiating around it seemed 
 thoroughly in keeping with the atmosphere of dull, 
 old-fashioned respectability that pervaded the whole 
 dwelling. 
 
 Lord Errington was pouring out his glass of after- 
 dinner claret with some solemnity when the postman's 
 knock announced the delivery of the last post, and 
 shortly afterwards his butler, who, like many servants 
 of the old stamp, carefully petted his master's little 
 crazes, and looked upon anything that might inter- 
 fere with the latter's digestion as a most unwarrant- 
 able disturbance, brought in one solitary letter, and 
 handed it with a somewhat apologetic look to his 
 lordship. 
 
 "What a bore these letters are, arriving at this 
 time of night!" exclaims the latter somewhat irritably 
 across the table to his better half 
 
 Virtue — conjugal, domestic, and maternal but 
 each of them in its least attractive guise, is plainly 
 written on Lady Errington's somewhat hard, but not 
 ill-shaped features. The blameless, but pleasureless 
 life she had led, and on which she prided herself — 
 the oft-recurring cares of maternity, the daily inter-
 
 EUTHANASIA. 35 
 
 course with a selfish, narrow-minded man, given to 
 finding fault with everyone indiscriminately, had 
 gradually, between them, produced the effect of her 
 taking a somewhat stern and gloomy view of the 
 world in general. Knowing little or nothing of the 
 pleasures of life, she felt but scant sympathy for 
 those more given to look upon the brighter side of 
 human existence. 
 
 Consequently, her brother-in-law, George, had 
 never been a favourite with her. His cheery way of 
 taking life, with all its ups and downs, grated upon 
 her nerves. His knack of putting in a kind word 
 when Lady Errington was dealing out stern and im- 
 placable justice to all offenders— especially those 
 against the Seventh Commandment, a class for whom 
 she knew no mercy or pity — savoured to her of 
 laxity of morals, of defending sin, or, as she was apt 
 to put it, "doing the work of Satan." How she re- 
 conciled the severity of her strictures upon those of 
 her sisters whose life of storm and stress had been 
 to hers what the Niagara is to a Dutch canal with 
 the texts she was anxious to quote on all occasions, 
 must be left to her to decide. 
 
 Lord EiTington takes the letter from the salver; 
 notices that it is marked "Immediate;" sends for his 
 spectacles, and, the servants having retired, he reads 
 his brother's missive aloud, slowly and deliberately, 
 but without interrupting it with a word of comment. 
 
 The first remark he makes on getting to the 
 end is characteristic of the man: "Isn't the Bishop 
 of Nottingham lunching here to-morrow, dear?" 
 
 3*
 
 36 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 "Of course he is; so that ^vilI never do. What 
 is to become of this poor abandoned man?" she 
 goes on in a fretful tone. "He must have taken 
 leave of his senses. You will see that, in spite of all 
 he says about not requiring charity, he will try and 
 get round you. As if we had no children to provide 
 for!" And she takes a sort of mental survey of her 
 numerous offspring. 
 
 This exemplary couple agreed on most things; 
 never did they do so more fully than that George 
 must be told that his brother would be very happy 
 to assist him with his influence and an unlimited 
 amount of advice, but that his duties towards his 
 children precluded him "from taking the eventuality 
 into consideration of reducing the latter's patrimony 
 in order to settle their uncle's betting accounts." 
 
 The letter was followed by a postscript: — 
 
 "Dorothy wishes me to add that, as the Bishop 
 of Nottingham is lunching with us to-morrow, you 
 will no doubt prefer coming in rather later. You will 
 find me in the morning-room from three p.m." 
 
 With his hopes not unduly raised as to the re- 
 sults of the forthcoming interview, George Mansfield 
 kept the appointment thus ungraciously granted. He 
 was by no means surprised at the querulous tone of 
 his brother's remarks, which may be summed up in 
 frequent references to his numerous offspring and 
 the now consummated realisation of his former pre- 
 dictions.
 
 EUTHANASIA. 37 
 
 "All I can do," he wound up by saying, "is to 
 try to get you some sort of appointment; and if you 
 manage to put by a little year by year, I dare say 
 your creditors will not care to get you into the Bank- 
 ruptcy Court. Of course, there are not very many 
 appointments for which you would be qualified. I 
 believe they pay a Queen's messenger three hundred 
 a-year to travel all over Europe with a carpet-bag 
 full of despatches which interest nobody but the man 
 who wrote them; I might see if I could get some- 
 thing of that sort for you." 
 
 The half- contemptuous tone with which these 
 words were uttered was rather too much for the 
 other's patience and forbearance. 
 
 "You are really quite too kind," he answered, 
 "and I am so much obliged for your high opinion of 
 my capacities in thinking me capable of conveying a 
 carpet-bag to Constantinople and back; but I don't 
 think I shall have to trouble you. I hope to be able 
 to obtain a commission in some foreign army, and, 
 should that fail, I shall have to try gold-digging in 
 South Africa." 
 
 With this, the interview was brought to a close. 
 Lord Errington's firm behaviour earning him the 
 most unlimited approval of his better half, who con- 
 gratulated him most warmly on the conscientious 
 manner in which he had fulfilled this painful duty. 
 
 The next few days were amongst the most try- 
 ing ones in poor George Mansfield's chequered exist- 
 ence. It was gall and wormwood to his straightfor- 
 ward nature to have to admit to his creditors his
 
 38 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 absolute inability to meet his engagements for the 
 present; and though most of them were willing to 
 take his word as to future settlement and to abstam 
 from taking any steps against him — there is more 
 kindheartedness amongst that much-abused class of 
 bookmakers than many indignant paterfamiliases 
 imagine — nevertheless, he went through many a 
 painful moment infinitely wounding to his pride. 
 
 Some weeks have elapsed. Highly recommended 
 by his superior officers, George Mansfield at last saw 
 some prospect of obtaining a commission in the 
 Austrian Cavalry, considerable influence having been 
 brought to bear in the matter from high quarters. 
 
 Much correspondence had to be gone through 
 and numerous questions answered, the extreme 
 punctiliousness of the military code of honour in 
 Continental armies making it indispensable for him 
 to prove that he was leaving his regiment entirely of 
 his own free will, without any sort of slur upon his 
 character as an officer and a gentleman, and only 
 when this had been investigated and sifted to the 
 entire satisfaction of all the foreign mihtary author- 
 ities, was the difficulty of nationality got over, and 
 George Mansfield duly gazetted as "sub-lieutenant to 
 the 24th Regiment of Austrian Lancers," with the 
 prospect of becoming lieutenant after an interval of 
 some months, which would enable him to acquaint 
 himself with the language of his regiment.
 
 EUTHANASIA. 39 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 "Yes, thou art gone! and round me, too, the night, 
 
 In ever-nearing circles, weaves her shade. 
 I see her veil draw soft across the day: 
 
 I feel her slowly-chilUng breath invade 
 The cheek grown thin, the brown hair sprent with grey; 
 
 I feel her finger light 
 Laid pausefully upon life's headlong train; 
 
 The foot less prompt to meet the morning dew, 
 The heart less bounding at emotion new. 
 
 And hope once crush'd, less quick to spring again." 
 
 Matthew Arnold. 
 
 The severe trials our hero had been going 
 through during the last weeks and months produced 
 a beneficial effect upon his character. Many men 
 of softer stuff might well have broken down, and 
 would have relapsed into a state of complete mental 
 prostration, or given up a hopeless struggle. George 
 Mansfield might possibly have been tempted to do 
 so during some of the bitterest moments of these 
 intervening weeks, had it not been that whenever his 
 spirit seemed to fail him, he would be sure to find 
 words of comfort and encouragement in the one 
 quarter in which he sought them — from Mildred 
 Charteris. 
 
 True to her love, hopeless though it might be, 
 the latter had with admirable tact and sagacity
 
 40 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 played to him the part of confidant and adviser, 
 listening with unflagging interest to the account of 
 all his alternate hopes and disappointments; advising 
 him as much as lay in her power, always bright, 
 hopeful and sympa^ising. Her affection for him 
 was so utterly unselfish that she never stopped to 
 think what her Ufe would be after his departure, 
 and how short-hved this present happiness must be. 
 
 The season had run its course; people were 
 leaving town, or those who were unable to do so 
 pretended to be on the point of leaving, or had their 
 departure chronicled in the Morning Post. In the 
 first week of August Mildred had accompanied her 
 aunt, who devoted most of her time to the mother- 
 less girl, to a little riverside house, not far from.-, 
 Marlow, where the latter was in the habit of spending 
 two or three summer months. 
 
 About that time George Mansfield came to the 
 conclusion that all his preparations had been made, 
 and that he could only delay his departure by shal- 
 low pretences. He was beginning to resign himself 
 almost cheerfully to his fate, as far as he was per- 
 sonally concerned; and the dark hours through which 
 he passed were caused by no selfish considerations. 
 The thought of what Mildred's future would be, 
 once he had left, weighed heavily upon his mind, 
 and caused him many an hour of bitter self-reproach. 
 He fully reaHsed how utterly hopeless his own pros- 
 pects were, and he decided, in an almost Quixotic 
 spirit of self-abnegation, to use all his influence upon 
 her, in order that she should wipe out the past, no
 
 EUTHANASIA. 4 1 
 
 matter what suffering it might entail upon him, if 
 only he could thereby ensure her happiness. 
 
 The days of chivalry are over, we are told m 
 letters freely admitted during the silly season to the 
 columns of the daily press. Far be it from us to 
 contradict what appears to be the general consensus 
 of middle-class public opinion; but are not the ex- 
 ceptions sufficiently numerous to form, at least, a 
 very respectable minority? And is it not doubly 
 meritorious if, in this age of snobbishness, of greedy 
 money-making, of sickening little flirtations, the off- 
 spring of vanity and idleness, any vestige of chival- 
 rous feeling should have survived in the men of the 
 present young generation? What is their experience 
 of women — or ladies, we should say? We take it 
 the following is a pretty fair and not overdrawn 
 sample of the first stage of a young man's love- 
 making — save the mark — in a IvOndon ball-room: — 
 
 He: "Lady , do come down and have some 
 
 supper before the rush begins — won't you?" 
 
 She: "All right, I don't mind; although I am 
 not sure I did not promise Harry [her 'young man'] 
 to go down with him. Anyhow, we won't stay away 
 long." 
 
 He (taking her arm): "That is an awfully nice 
 frock you have got on to-night." 
 
 She: "I am so glad you like it, for I am sure 
 you know all about it. [Being firmly convinced that 
 he knows as much about female attire as she does 
 about astronomy.] -You have no idea what a row 
 Dick [her husband] made when the bill came in!"
 
 42 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 He: "Did he really? How brutal of him! Now, 
 I am sure if I were married I should always like my 
 wife to be the best-dressed woman in the room — at 
 least, I would if ^lozi were my wife." 
 
 She: "What nonsense! As if you would ever 
 look at me!" 
 
 He: "Look at you! 1 should think I would!" 
 [Accompanied by an expressive glance.] 
 
 She: "So you imagine. You would soon get 
 tired of me; all men are alike. I suppose you are 
 no better than the rest. By the way, if you are not 
 going to Sandown to-morrow, do come in and see 
 me about tea-time; I am sure to be alone, as every- 
 body will be out of town." 
 
 He, maliciously: "How about Harry?" 
 
 She: "What nonsense you do talk. I have known 
 Harry all my life; he is a sort of brother *•'/ me. 
 (Ahem !) But don't come if you, don't like." 
 
 He: "All right. I'll come right enough about 
 six, or that sort of thing." 
 
 And now we repeat the question: is it not most 
 meritorious if any spark of respect or chivalry or 
 nobler feeling towards the other sex remain in the 
 heart beating under the white gardenia of the 
 "masher" after hearing what he hears and seeing 
 what he sees every day of his hfe? 
 
 And for all that, do we not all of us know men 
 who have sacrificed, all but too willingly, every pros- 
 pect they had in the world — fortune, fame and 
 family — for the sake of a woman? Are there not 
 many more who stint themselves, who give up a
 
 EUTHANASIA. 43 
 
 season's hunting or yachting, or any favourite pastime 
 they have, to make up the deficit in Delilah's budget? 
 The cynic may shrug his shoulders; and well he 
 may, for men who do this sort of thing are not much 
 given to talking about it. 
 
 A lovely morning towards the end of August. 
 Sheltered from the rays of the sun by the branches 
 of an overhanging beech, a punt is made fast against 
 the bank in one of the back-waters close to Hurley 
 Lock. 
 
 The expression of the occupants of it is sadly in 
 contrast with the brightness of the scenery around 
 them. The man is the first to break the silence. 
 
 "I suppose this is our last day together .for a 
 long time to come. This is iny final good-bye to 
 you ^nd to the river, and all the rest of it. Mildred, 
 I have been wishing to have a long talk with you 
 for some time back. Perhaps I ought to have spoken 
 sooner, but somehow I could not. I wish to thank 
 you for all you have done for me during these last 
 weeks and months. You have been my guardian 
 angel; without you I was hopelessly lost and stranded. 
 1 do not wish to show my gratitude in words, but in 
 deeds. That moment has now come. Darling! 
 since that awful day at Ascot you have known the 
 whole truth, haven't you? Perhaps I should have 
 told you of it again, but anyhow you know that it 
 would be the wildest and most criminal folly on 
 my part ever to hope of making you my wife. I 
 played for high stakes and lost. 1 have thought it
 
 44 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 over in my mind many and many a time, and it 
 cannot be. Don't ask me any questions; don't try 
 to shake my resolution! I should not love you as I 
 do, were I to ask you to become the wife of a pen- 
 niless outcast. But this is not all. It is not at a 
 moment such as this that I shall play a part and 
 pretend not to know that you do care for me very, 
 very much." (She nods assent.) "Well, in spite of 
 all that, this is what I want to tell you. Now comes 
 the painful moment. Of course you are nothing 
 but a child; you have your whole life before you. 
 I do not wish to spoil it. We should have been 
 happy together, should not we? I feel sure you 
 will never care for anybody else in quite the same 
 way — the thought would kill me — but you must not 
 spend your life as a homeless, lonely orphan on my 
 account. I have thought it over well' — never mind 
 w^hat my feelings are; I have forfeited the right to 
 have any — but for your sake, listen to my parting 
 words. If old Devereux asks you to become his* 
 wife, which he may do any day, do not refuse him 
 on my account. There, I have said what I meant 
 to say, and it has been rather more painful even 
 than I had anticipated; but I have done my duty, 
 as I hope always to do in future." 
 
 For some seconds, that seemed to him like so 
 many hours, no answer is forthcoming; not a sound 
 is heard but that of the water rushing down the 
 neighbouring weir mingled ^vith that of the breeze 
 passing through the leaves already coloured with the 
 glowing tints of autumn.
 
 EUTHANASIA, 45 
 
 The tears are in Mildred's eyes, but there is no 
 tremor in her voice when she answers: 
 
 "Of course, darling, I know everything. God 
 knows I would willingly face every privation for your 
 sake, and think myself thrice happy to do so. But 
 it must not be; I should only be hampering you. 
 Without me you still have many chances in your 
 favour; with me you would have none. I know you 
 mean it kindly, all you say to me about Lord 
 Devereux; I know what it must have cost you say- 
 ing it; don't think me ungrateful, therefore, if I wish 
 these words had been left unsaid. I have made up 
 my mind to part with you, but not to sell myself to 
 the highest bidder. Don't think me cruel, for of 
 course you meant it kindly. Do you remember the 
 little ring you gave me once, long, long ago? You 
 shall have it back to wear on your watch-chain; 
 and whenever you care for any other woman, throw 
 it into the nearest river you can find. Good-bye!" 
 
 He takes the ring, and one last embrace seals 
 their compact. 
 
 Not many hours later, after a hearty farewell 
 from Mildred's Aunt, George Mansfield was whirling 
 back into town.
 
 46 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 "One fond kiss and then we sever, 
 One farewell and then for ever, 
 Deep, in heart- wrung tears I'U pledge thee, 
 AVarring sighs and groans I'U wage thee." 
 
 R. Burns. 
 
 Even between such an exemplary, well-assorted 
 couple as are Lord and Lady Errington it must not 
 be supposed that the friction of everyday life does 
 not occasionally engender a few sparks, speedily ex- 
 tinguished though they may be. 
 
 Supposing there is no occasion for any mis- 
 givings as to the equilibrium of the budget, what are 
 the chief objections of a man against embarking on 
 matrimony? 
 
 1. Giving up his independence. In this respect 
 the chances are that if he marries a girl who has 
 been in hard training for three or four seasons in 
 London, she will not be over-exacting and will act 
 upon the principle of "do ut des." 
 
 2. Having to go out every evening. Sooner than 
 he anticipates he will be accommodated by his wife 
 suggesting going out without him. 
 
 3. Last and least amongst his objections will be: 
 that his wife might get into a fast set and take to 
 flirting.
 
 EUTHANASIA. 47 
 
 His chief troubles, if any, are, according to our 
 belief, more likely to arise from a totally different 
 quarter. 
 
 Supposing, for example, after a few months of 
 matrimonial bliss, he drops in at his club before 
 dinner for a quiet game of bezique and loses enough, 
 not to affect his income, but only his temper. He 
 returns to his Penates and, after dressing in a hurry 
 — a severe trial to most men's nerves — is met with 
 hardly quite as smiling a countenance as he fondly 
 hoped to see. 
 
 "How late you are, dear!" are the words he is 
 received with (this epithet of "dear" amongst hus- 
 bands and wives is generally used on the luctis a 
 non lucendo principle). "If it bores you dining at 
 home, I wish you would say so, for Jennie (her 
 sister) asked me to dine and do a play with her. I 
 suppose we had better go down; dinner has been 
 announced for the last ten minutes." 
 
 Soup — rather cold — is eaten in silence, then 
 during a temporary disappearance of the servants, 
 when the culprit is thinking he is going to have a 
 quiet little chat with his uxor amans on all sorts of 
 pleasant topics, the latter addresses him with a tone 
 of great urbanity but no less great decision : 
 
 "You must really speak seriously to Johnson (the 
 butler); he is out all day. When I came home this 
 afternoon there was only one footman to let me in. 
 It really is too bad." 
 
 Duly impressed with the gravity of such an oc- 
 currence, the husband meekly replies:
 
 48 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 "All right, dear. I will certainly speak to him; 
 in fact, if you like, I will send him away." (The in- 
 dividual referred to having been with him for the 
 last ten years and hitherto having been considered 
 an invaluable servant.) 
 
 Conversation somewhat flags, for it is a curious 
 phenomenon how easily an atmospheric disturbance 
 is created on the matrimonial horizon and how much 
 patience and perseverance is required to quell it and 
 to restore the glass to "set fair." 
 
 She soon opens fire again: 
 
 "Of course I don't suppose you have any idea 
 whether you ever paid last quarter's rates and taxes 
 yet; they came bothering me about them again to- 
 day. That sort of thing is such a nuisance when 
 one is writing one's letters. Perhaps you had better 
 let me do it in future." 
 
 He repUes blandly: 
 
 "By all means, you shall if you like. As a matter 
 of fact, I don't beheve I have paid them." 
 
 And so on ad nauseam. 
 
 Thus it came to pass that on one particular 
 evening towards the end of August, the perfect 
 harmony that generally prevailed at the Priory — the 
 ancestral home of the Mansfield family- — suffered a 
 temporary disturbance. 
 
 Lord Errington was within the very narrow limits 
 that his essentially unloving nature allowed, not alto- 
 gether devoid of affection for his brother, and the 
 fact that the latter had made no appeal whatever to
 
 EUTHANASIA. 49 
 
 his liberality had produced a somewhat softening 
 effect upon his heart. 
 
 In his weaker moments he could not but re- 
 proach himself for the scant measure of support he 
 had offered his brother in so severe a crisis, and 
 like a true man, he took his wife to task on the 
 subject. 
 
 Petty natures like his are apt to look for support 
 to back up their own opinions, and then, when their 
 object is achieved, to fall foul of those whose assist- 
 ance not long ago they craved for. 
 
 A good opening is afforded him by some very 
 severe strictures passed by his wife upon some 
 slight breach of the rules of household economy 
 that has come to her knowledge, and he opens fire 
 at once: 
 
 "My dear Dorothy, it is all very well not to en- 
 courage waste, and I highly appreciate your good 
 qualities in that as in every respect. On the other 
 hand, even good qualities may be carried to an ex- 
 cess, and even supposing they did, as you say, eat 
 last night's dessert in the housekeeper's room, we 
 shall not be in the workhouse for that. In fact, I 
 wish to take this opportunity for calling your atten- 
 tion to the danger you are in of pushing economy 
 too far. It was chiefly owing to your influence that 
 I declined helping poor George in any way, and it 
 has frequently occurred to me since that I should 
 have done better to have acted more upon my own 
 judgment in the matter." 
 
 A rather angry retort follows this aggressive 
 
 Euthanasia. 4
 
 50 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 movement, and most of the evening is spent \vith 
 what may be described by the homely term of a 
 family jar, through which there is no occasion for 
 us to follow this estimable couple. Anyhow, before 
 prayers are said and the lights put out, Lord Erring- 
 ton remains in possession of the battle-field, and an 
 agreement has been come to that a cheque for five 
 hundred pounds is to be sent next morning to his 
 brother in order to give him a fair start abroad. 
 
 The latter is completely taken back at receiving 
 this donation, accompanied by some words of fare- 
 well that are warmer than anything he anticipated, 
 and it is, though with a heavy heart, nevertheless in 
 a state of peace and good-will with all men that he 
 lay down for the very last time in his snug little 
 
 chambers in St. James' Street. 
 
 ******* 
 
 Scene: Victoria Station, London, Chatham and 
 Dover Railway, 2.50 p.m. 
 
 The present generation is proverbially disinclined 
 to waste time at railway stations, this disinclination 
 being in most cases in inverse ratio to the value of 
 the time of the persons thus affected to themselves, 
 or anyhow to the world in general. 
 
 It is thus about ten minutes only before the 
 departure of the Club train that George Mansfield 
 is seen dashing up. Before he has time almost to 
 answer the stereotyped question of "Where for, sir?" 
 his eye catches sight of a well-known face and figure; 
 for, pale as death, and utterly unconscious of the 
 bustle and excitement around her, IVIildred Charteris
 
 EUTHANASIA. 5 I 
 
 is Standing on the platform to bid God-speed to 
 him. 
 
 Fortunately, leave-takings at railway stations do 
 not form part of our social code of etiquette, though 
 they are much in vogue abroad. Huge gatherings 
 of friends, armed with floral offerings, presumably 
 corresponding in dimensions to the feelings of the 
 donors, are no unusual occurrence at Continental 
 railway stations. The inconvenience of these de- 
 monstrations is sufficiently illustrated by the recent 
 fate of a very fascinating visitor to one of the German 
 watering-places, whose bright eyes had done con- 
 siderable havoc in thfe neighbourhood, and had pre- 
 sumably interfered in many cases with the salutary, 
 soothing effect of the Ferdinands-Quelle. Be this as 
 it may, she was obliged to see her train steam out 
 of the station, being unable to extricate herself from 
 the bouquets her admirers had been showering with 
 too lavish a hand into her carriage when she drove 
 up in the last moment. 
 
 What can be more painful than that mixture of 
 the sublime and the trivial! The leave-taking may 
 be from what is dearest upon earth, amidst jostling 
 porters, struggling materfamiliases in search of the 
 next train for Margate, 'Arrys nudging each other 
 and whispering, "Oh my, don't she look cut up!" 
 the whole relieved by an occasional whistle, or the 
 letting-off of steam. 
 
 You are, as likely as not, vowing eternal fidelity, 
 when your servant comes up: "Beg your pardon, 
 sir; will you have the dressing-bag with you in the 
 
 4*
 
 52 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 carriage?" You are settling where her next letter 
 can reach you, only to be interrupted by an official 
 blandly inquiring whether he "might trouble you for 
 your ticket," and so forth. 
 
 We will, therefore, leave our poor hero and 
 heroine to their somewhat disjointed adieux. Their 
 feelings might well be described in Heine's sad and 
 pathetic words: 
 
 Wir haben niclit geweinet, 
 
 Wir seufzten niclit Weh und niclit Ach, 
 
 Die Seufzer und die Thriinen 
 
 Die kamen hintennach. 
 
 Few things are more depressing than a long 
 railway journey in solitude. The first hour or two 
 there may be a sort of feeling of relaxation — a sen- 
 sation that, for better, for worse, the die is cast; that 
 the decision taken before starting can now no longer 
 be reversed; that no scope is left for any activity 
 whatever, and that the hard-worked brain and body 
 may take a well-earned rest. The chances are, 
 however, that this sensation will be a short-lived one; 
 for the impossibility of any physical exercise will 
 mostly set the mind to work all the harder; and we 
 fancy many rash resolutions have been engendered 
 during a sleepless night in a railway carriage. 
 
 Utter depression and prostration had seized upon 
 poor George Mansfield's mind as he was whirled 
 along through the slums of Battersea and the gloomy 
 darkness of the tunnel that passes under the Crystal 
 Palace, and it came as a welcome relief to him when
 
 EUTHANASIA. 53 
 
 at last his meditations were interrupted by the shrill 
 cry of, "This way for the boat, please!" 
 
 It is of course a commonplace truism disputed 
 by no one, that women have far greater power of 
 resistance against physical pain than the sterner sex 
 can boast of. Have we not all of us seen many a 
 time, pale, delicate women, with highly-strung nerves, 
 tortured by a racking headache, sitting through the 
 dullest of dinner-parties at the fag-end of a London 
 season, in a temperature of about ninety degrees, 
 with an elderly neighbour pouring forth vague plati- 
 tudes into their unwilling ears, the poor victims, with 
 temples throbbing, responding with the blandest smile, 
 wishing, oh, so earnestly! the said elderly gentleman 
 at the bottom of the sea and themselves in bed with 
 an unlimited supply of sal-volatile. 
 
 Whether this applies to the same extent to 
 mental suffering may possibly be disputed by some. 
 Anyhow, the next weeks and months that followed, 
 gave Mildred Charteris ample opportunity of showing 
 that indomitable pluck and stubbornness of spirit 
 which is frequently found in a well-bred woman. 
 
 Brought up as an orphan, without all the petting 
 and spoiling an only child generally comes in for, 
 her character had been given an early opportunity 
 of developing itself; and the habit of thinking and 
 judging for herself had grown upon her at a time of 
 life when many other girls would be incapable of 
 even ordering a frock without assistance. 
 
 Outwardly, nothing was altered in her existence. 
 Her manner was as genial and cheery as ever. But
 
 54 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 as days and weeks followed each other, she could 
 not at times ward off a feeling of intense loneliness. 
 George's letters came irregularly, by fits and starts. 
 The beginning of an entirely new existence, with its 
 manifold phases of an activity altogether novel to 
 him, every detail of which he entered into with all 
 his heart and soul, left him but little time for retro- 
 spection. Minute accounts of all the passing im- 
 pressions that struck his mind were more prevalent 
 than queries as to her life; and although she made 
 every allowance for this under the circumstances, 
 she could not at times resist a slight feeling of dis- 
 appointment. 
 
 Why is it that so many women belonging to 
 what is termed a "fast set" should, besides their 
 many friends and kindred spirits, almost invariably 
 endeavour to have in their orbit some young girl, 
 irreproachable in manner and tone, whose presence 
 at a dinner-table quells the very possibility of any- 
 thing in the shape of a double-entendre, and gives a 
 transient look of intense respectability to the whole 
 proceedings? It is believed that on such occasions, 
 previous notice is given to the habitues that they will 
 have to behave themselves, as "Miss So-and-So is 
 dining" — with the option of not coming if they do 
 not feel up to the task. Anyhow, it is a thing by no 
 means uncommon to see this intimacy between an 
 exceedingly flighty matron and a maiden the very 
 emblem of propriety. 
 
 Should the latter be questioned or any doubts 
 be expressed as to the expediency of this great
 
 EUTHANASIA. 55 
 
 intimacy, she will probably reply: "Oh, yes; I know 
 people say a lot of ill-natured things about poor 
 Florence; but I am sure there is no harm in her. 
 She is so good-natured, and she has always been so 
 nice to me!" The latter remark will probably be true 
 in the sense that the said Florence is too much a 
 woman of the world not to be very careful as to 
 what she says to and before her friend; so that the 
 chances of any contamination for the latter are not 
 nearly so great as might appear at first sight. 
 
 Thus it happened one evening, early in the 
 season, that, arriving at a ball almost at the same 
 time as Miss Charteris, Mrs. Jack Arthur had ad- 
 dressed her in the cloak-room, without waiting for 
 any more formal introduction, and an acquaintance 
 was then and there formed. Mrs. Jack soon took a 
 strong fancy to the motherless girl; she admired her 
 frank and fearless manner, the independence of her 
 mind, and her utter contempt for anything in the 
 shape of social prejudices. Are we not all of us 
 given to appreciate more especially those qualities in 
 others in which we feel ourselves deficient? Her 
 first advances rather took Mildred by surprise, and 
 she consulted George Mansfield as to the measure in 
 which he wished her to respond to them. The latter 
 was then in the very heyday of his short but very 
 enjoyable career: and, like most thoroughly idle men, 
 he was in a perpetual hurry; moreover, the question 
 did not, in his mind, suggest much matter for de- 
 liberation. 
 
 "Go to the Opera with Mrs. Jack?" was his
 
 56 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 reply: "I certainly would if I were you — the De 
 Reszkes are singing, and everybody will be there. I 
 dare say people have told you a lot of nonsense 
 about her, but she is an awfully kind-hearted little 
 woman. By all means, go. Of course, I don't mean 
 that I want you to make a bosom friend of her. I 
 am afraid I must be off now!" 
 
 Having thus obtained the only sanction she stood 
 in need of, Mildred hesitated no longer. Her genuine 
 love of music made a night at the Opera a real treat 
 to her, and not infrequently during the season was 
 she seen in Mrs. Jack's pit-tier box. Thus a sort of 
 outward friendship sprang up, without, of course, any 
 real intimacy, for which the most elementary con- 
 ditions were wanting. 
 
 One of the prominent features in Mrs. Jack's 
 little entertainments was Captain — alias "Jim" — 
 Atherstone, who occupied the proud position of being 
 what the world would call Mrs. Jack's "young man." 
 (Is it not a pity that this denomination should ever 
 have been appropriated from the servants' hall?) 
 Poor Jim! It may be questioned whether his fate 
 was always an enviable one. To be ordered about, 
 and told to get up a river or other party, at no 
 matter how short notice, whenever it might suit Mrs. 
 Jack's gracious pleasure; to be made to throw over 
 all engagements whenever a note might arrive sa)ang 
 she wanted another man for dinner; to be in a state 
 of servile dependency, and yet to be expected to 
 rattle the chains of captivity for proud delight at 
 being allowed to wear them; such was his fate!
 
 EUTHANASIA. 57 
 
 What made his case an exceptionally severe one was 
 that, practically, his servitude lasted all the year 
 round, being a country neighbour of the Arthurs. 
 Good-looking and cheery, he was voted by everybody 
 a real good fellow, a view, no doubt, not unfavour- 
 ably affected by the fact that he had some twenty 
 thousand pounds a-year of his own. 
 
 Since the end of the season Mildred had been 
 without news from Mrs. Jack (she had not yet got 
 herself to call her by her Christian name), but her 
 surprise was not an altogether disagreeable one on 
 receiving, early in October, a note unmistakably ad- 
 dressed in the latter's bold, legible hand. It ran 
 thus — 
 
 My dear Mildred, — I am afraid you must be 
 having a dull time of it, for I hear you have refused 
 all invitations to Scotland on account of your aunt's 
 health. I wonder if I shall be more lucky. I want 
 you so badly to come down on the 30th for a few 
 days. No party, or I should not dare ask you with- 
 out a chaperone: only Mrs. Ryder and her two 
 daughters, little Lady Sinclair (who was married the 
 other day), the Wharnhills and a few men. I won't 
 tell you who the men are till you are here. One of 
 them is awfully anxious to see you. Do come! 
 Oakley is our station, the 2.35 from St. Pancras our 
 best train. 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 Kate Arthur.
 
 58 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 Mildred's first impulse was lo write a polite but 
 firm refusal, saying she could not very well make an 
 exception, having declined all other engagements; or 
 something to that purpose. A sudden change for 
 the better in her aunt's health, together with the 
 arrival of a distant connection, who, for the time 
 being, was able to take her place, however, were two 
 arguments in favour of allowing herself to be per- 
 suaded that a little change would do her good; and 
 thus she found herself, on the day appointed, driving 
 up to the door of Manor Lodge, the Leicestershire 
 fastness of the Arthur familv.
 
 EUTHANASIA. 5g 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 "And be my most gain'd, your least given if such 
 Your sweet will be! I reckon not the cost, 
 Nor count the gain by little or by much, 
 Or least or most." 
 
 Arriving by oneself in a country-house, even with 
 a solemn promise of finding no party, is rather shy 
 work for a girl not yet out of her teens, particularly 
 when a Babel of tongues emerging from the hall 
 where tea was being poured out to the men just 
 returned from shooting, has a tendency to shake her 
 confidence in the value of that promise. 
 
 Mrs. Jack greeted her with effusive cordiality, 
 hoped she wasn't tired, inquired after her aunt and 
 went through the necessary introductions in the most 
 approved style. 
 
 Mildred was pretty quick at taking in impres- 
 sions, and a rapid survey told her that in addition 
 to those mentioned in the letter of invitation she 
 had received, Mrs. Jack had only asked one or two 
 country neighbours; so she couldn't help wondering 
 how comparatively such a small number of people 
 contrived to make so much noise as she was com- 
 ing in. 
 
 The faces of Mrs. Ryder and her two daughters 
 were familiar to her, and she mentally put them
 
 6o EUTHANASIA. 
 
 down as a most uninteresting family. The mother 
 a comely widow with some remains of beauty, that 
 at its prime must have been surpassing; the eldest 
 girl, tall and showy, with good features, lovely hair 
 and a slim waist, well turned out and decidedly re- 
 presentative; the girl was never known to say the 
 wrong thing or seen talking to the wrong person. 
 In fact. Miss Ryder, before expressing an opinion on 
 any given subject, may be excepting the weather, 
 generally made sure of ascertaining in which direc- 
 tion the consensus of opinion lay, or else shrouded 
 herself in safe conventionalisms. 
 
 Mrs. Ryder's youngest daughter had, before she 
 left the nursery, learnt the lesson that her part in 
 life was to act as a foil to her more brilliant sister, 
 and that her share of the good things would be that 
 which her sister chose to leave her. Poor girl! she 
 accepted this position with commendable resignation 
 and unfaltering good humour. 
 
 The tall, fair woman, playing bezique at the other 
 end of the room with Jim Atherstone, Mildred quickly 
 recognises as Lady Wharnhill, Mrs. Jack's particular 
 friend and confidante, who, when the Arthurs, after 
 their great coup in copper, emigrated from Bayswater 
 to the Marble Arch, had held out a helping hand 
 to Mrs. Jack, a service the latter was not likely to 
 forget. 
 
 Gossip-mongers will have it that when her lord 
 and master has an exceptionally bad week's racing, 
 Mrs. Jack's gratitude towards her takes a somewhat 
 tangible shape in order to keep the pot boiling in
 
 EUTHANASIA, 6 1 
 
 the Wharnhill establishment, but we will have no- 
 thing to do with their reckless assertions, all the less 
 so as there is not a more popular man in London 
 than Charlie Wharnhill. 
 
 Somehow you cannot help liking him. There 
 is a sort of irresistible charm in his manner, which 
 disarms anyone who might be disposed to say un- 
 kind things about him. 
 
 He is standing with his back to the fire; there is 
 a good-humoured twinkle in his brown eyes as he 
 listens, apparently with profound interest, to the 
 dissertations of his neighbour, a foreign minister with 
 almond-shaped eyes, the darkest complexion and the 
 whitest teeth ever seen on this island of ours, on the 
 probable winner of the Cesarewitch. 
 
 Charlie Wharnhill had forgotten more about 
 racing than the other ever knew, and could, with 
 very few words, have demolished the structure of 
 the newly-created Excellency's arguments, but he is 
 constitutionally too good-natured, or else too indolent, 
 to enter upon a discussion, still less to contradict 
 anybody. So he only gives the distinguished foreigner 
 a vigorous slap on his broad, round shoulders (an 
 act of familiarity which the easy-going manner and 
 the unprecedented popularity of the latter fully justify) 
 and says: 
 
 "All right, old man. You go and plank it down 
 on the mare — as long as I need not," he adds after 
 half a second's pause. 
 
 He then moves to the farther side of the room 
 and gives the ladies a turn. They are mostly dis-
 
 62 EUTHANASIA. • 
 
 posed to give him a hearing, and his soft, gentle 
 manner, together with a singularly pleasant voice, 
 seem at once to bring him nearer to the object he 
 is bestowing his attention upon. Somehow you can't 
 help at once "feeling at home with Charlie" is what 
 they say of him. 
 
 "Who is the lady in the sealskin jacket just come 
 in?" says Mildred to Mrs. Jack. 
 
 "Oh! my dear, don't you know Mrs. Garrard? 
 She lives close by. She is such a dear; she was a 
 Miss Powell — Irish, of course. I am sure you will 
 like her, so try and make friends with her." 
 
 Whatever Mildred's wishes and intentions may be 
 in this respect, no opportunity is offered her for carry- 
 ing them out, as the dressing gong is sounding, put- 
 ting an end to the rather languishing conversation 
 by the tea-table and the forty winks which most of 
 the men are indulging in in the smoking-room. 
 
 Having gained her room Mildred involuntarily 
 asked herself the question: "I wonder really what I 
 came here for? I should not be surprised if it was 
 going to be very dull: anyhow, I won't stay longer 
 than Friday." 
 
 These reflections, we take it, are rather frequently 
 made on very insufficient evidence on arriving at a 
 countrj'-house, and in many cases those who made 
 them would be much surprised a week afterwards 
 to be reminded of them. At any rate, Mildred makes 
 up her mind that no one of her own sex amongst 
 the party is likely to be much of a resource to her.
 
 EUTHANASIA. 03 
 
 though, of course, she has not yet seen most of 
 the men. 
 
 Like a model host Mr. Arthur arrives downstairs 
 before his guests. There is nothing striking about 
 the man, as he stands in front of the fire looknig 
 complacently around at all the pretty things his wife's 
 undeniable taste has collected in her drawing-room — 
 nothing whatever to catch the eye. Even his age 
 would be hard to guess; it might be anything be- 
 tween thirty-five and fifty. The lines on his brow 
 are suggestive of much hard work during his early 
 Hfe; but, though honest John Arthur had, so to 
 speak, risen from the ranks, there was little if any- 
 thing in his manner to betray him. Whatever his 
 birth might have been, he was a gentleman by nature, 
 or shall we say by intuition; and no truer word was 
 ever said, than when one of his wife's friends ex- 
 claimed one day: "Isn't he extraordinary, that fellow 
 Arthur; he ought to be a snob, if anybody is, but 
 somehow he isn't!" 
 
 His affection and admiration for his wife are 
 extreme — so great as to materially dim the bright- 
 ness of his judgment in everything she is concerned 
 in. Her friends are for the most part only his in 
 the sense that they drink his champagne, smoke his 
 cigars, ride his horses and make love to his wife. 
 
 People are gradually straggling in: the men 
 anxious to get near the fire and not be kept waiting 
 moreover determined to reserve their conversational 
 powers until dinner is announced. 
 
 As Mildred stepped into the drawing-room she
 
 64 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 was fairly taken aback at being met at the doorway 
 by no other than Lord Devereux, evidently on the 
 look-out for her, smihng and radiant and on the 
 best of terms with himself and the world in general. 
 Her feelings on being greeted with outstretched hand 
 by her veteran admirer were somewhat divided. In 
 one way it was a comfort meeting at least one old 
 friend amongst a party of comparative strangers; on 
 the other hand, the thought at once flashed across 
 her mind: "Of course he will begin the same old 
 story over again at once." Nevertheless she re- 
 sponded with a fair amount of alacrity to his greet- 
 ing, and being taken in to dinner by Jim Atherstone, 
 was not affected pleasantly or otherwise at seeing 
 Lord Devereux settling himself down as her left-hand 
 neighbour. 
 
 Boys and elderly men, once they are far gone on 
 any particular object of their affection, are proverbi- 
 ally apt to make great fools of themselves; but there 
 are no doubt exceptions, and Lord Devereux flattered 
 himself that he had himself pretty well "in hand." 
 Anyhow, nothing in his demeanour would have struck 
 a casual observer that his battered old heart was, all 
 through dinner, beating at an accelerated rate against 
 his well starched white waistcoat when his eyes rested 
 upon Mildred, who was looking her very best in a 
 white Empire dress of a soft, clinging material, con- 
 fined at the waist by a broad pink sash, and with 
 large velvet sleeves of the same deUcate hue. 
 
 After weeks of seclusion society in itself is a sort 
 of restorative, quite apart from the intrinsic conver-
 
 EUTHANASIA. 65 
 
 sational powers of those by whom it is represented; 
 and before long Mildred found herself rattling away 
 merrily on very ordinary topics with Jim Atherstone, 
 who she soon found had got more to say for himself 
 than she had ever given him credit for. Lord Devereux 
 waited patiently, and when an opportunity was offered 
 him, the remarks he made were well within the 
 range of what any old friend might have felt justified 
 in saying. 
 
 On returning to the drawing-room Miss Charteris, 
 mindful of her hostess's injunctions, made a point of 
 getting introduced to Mrs. Garrard, and soon settled 
 down in a sofa by her side. She had not been talk- 
 ing five minutes before she said to herself: "What a 
 nice httle woman!" Before the men had returned 
 she had gone further and had decided to make a 
 friend of her. A small head, carried rather erect on 
 well shaped, sloping shoulders; a slim and graceful 
 figure; tiny hands that would not be credited with 
 being able to "hold" many a hard-pulling hunter 
 that has sent home good men and true with aching 
 backs and limbs; hair of a rich warm tint, such as 
 no lotion that ever left the great Lentheric's laboratory 
 can produce — these are the points that strike the 
 eye resting for the first time on Mrs. Garrard's slender 
 and intensely refined form. No fear of any deceit 
 or treachery lurking behind those eyes, that are 
 neither grey nor blue, and that look at you so frankly 
 and fearlessly from under the dark and delicately 
 pencilled brows. Cares and troubles have given them 
 a somewhat serious and pensive look, but this is often 
 
 Euthanasia. 5
 
 66 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 cast aside when their owner's true EQbernian sense 
 of humour bursts forth in merriment. How brightly 
 those pensive eyes will shine and sparkle when hounds 
 are running across the Belvoir Vale, and she, on 
 Torpedo, is well to the front! How maliciously they 
 will twinkle when one of her would-be admirers is 
 professing his willingness to lay his heart at her little 
 feet! No breath of scandal has ever touched her, 
 and with rare tact she has always contrived to keep 
 as friends even those who had at one time professed 
 warmer feelings for her. 
 
 Married when little more than a child to a light- 
 hearted and somewhat scatter-brained captain of 
 dragoons, she had discovered before she was out of 
 her teens that Hfe for her was not Hkely to be free 
 from rocks and quicksands. Her marriage had not 
 turned out a happy one, for Captain Garrard's 
 genuine and even passionate devotion to his wife had 
 not been enough to keep him out of mischief. Rest- 
 less and impulsive by nature, he had, after two or 
 three years of married life, started off for Canada 
 with some vague notion of making a fortune cattle- 
 ranching, and but little had been heard of him since. 
 Thus he left his wife alone in the world with a con- 
 siderably reduced income and a somewhat difficult 
 part to play. 
 
 Her one distraction during the many troubles of 
 her short married Hfe had been her genuine love of 
 hunting, and to this pursuit she determined to remain 
 faithful. A distant connection, with nothing particular 
 to do in the world, agreed to settle down with her,
 
 EUTHANASIA. 67 
 
 and Addesleigh Vicarage soon became the unpretend- 
 ing but thoroughly comfortable and attractive little 
 home of Mrs. Garrard and her maiden aunt. People 
 began to know her ways, and before long she was a 
 universal favourite, even in a country not much given 
 to taking up strangers. After two or three of the 
 most enterprising amongst the men had been put in 
 their places somewhat roundly ("She won't stand any 
 nonsense, I can tell you ! " was the account of one of 
 her crestfallen admirers), she had nothing more to 
 complain of; and seeing her remarkable judgment 
 and boldness with hounds, her friends took to offer- 
 ing her mounts whenever she cared to have them — 
 a far more acceptable offer than that commodity of 
 rather questionable value called their love. Putting 
 aside even the almost faultless mould of her features, 
 her great attraction lay in the extreme refinement 
 and softness of her expression, and the sweetness of 
 her smile. "Why, to see that woman smile," an en- 
 thusiastic countryman of hers once said, "is enough 
 to charm the very birds from off the trees!" 
 
 Though not much given to jumping at conclu- 
 sions, JVIildred felt herself powerfully attracted, and 
 before the evening was over she had ceased regretting 
 having accepted Mrs. Jack's invitation. 
 
 The next few days passed on pleasantly enough 
 for Miss Charteris. Two women — nice women, at 
 least — once they begin a real friendship, do not keep 
 many secrets from each other long, presumably from 
 the fact that they have no secrets to blush over. 
 Safe under her friend's wing, it was easier for Mildred 
 
 5*
 
 68 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 to ward off Lord Devereux's attentions, and she was 
 beginning really to hope that her visit would pass off 
 without his lordship's going on his knees before 
 her, Uterally or metaphorically. 
 
 In this, however, she was doomed to disappoint- 
 ment. Days were going by, and Mildred had given 
 in to Mrs. Jack's entreaties to prolong her visit into 
 the beginning of the following week. By this time 
 Lord Devereux was beginning to get rather restless 
 and anxious to get it over and to know his fate; so 
 one evening, he made a point after dinner of occupy- 
 ing an empty seat next to the object of his affection, 
 who had imprudently seated herself rather apart from 
 the rest of the company. 
 
 "Miss Charteris," he began, "I find I am obliged 
 to go up to town to-morrow morning; so this is my 
 last and only chance of asking you a question which 
 has been on my lips for months back. I am past 
 the age of melodramatics, and I feel sure that I 
 should only injure whatever little chance I may have 
 by making any pretty speeches at so grave a mo- 
 ment. Will you be my wife? Before you answer let 
 me add only very few words. You have known this 
 many a day what my feelings are for you; so I won't 
 say anything more than that the one object of the 
 years I may have to live will be to make you happy. 
 I am not such a fool as to expect your feelings to 
 be the same as mine; but if you think you can look 
 upon me as a true friend now, you will, perhaps, 
 some day be able to get reconciled to the idea of 
 looking upon me in the light of a husband besides."
 
 EUTHANASIA. 69 
 
 These were the few short sentences in which 
 Lord Devereux decided upon all his future life. Far 
 cleverer men than he ever was might have wrecked 
 their chance by a display of greater eloquence and 
 greater passion. Mildred answered after but a mo- 
 ment's hesitation: 
 
 "Lord Devereux, you have spoken to me frankly 
 and straightforwardly; I will try to answer you in the 
 same spirit. I suppose I ought to feign surprise at 
 the question you have asked me; I do not, for I did 
 think for some time back that you cared for me. 
 I believe the right thing to say is that I am flattered; 
 at any rate, I will say this much — that I believe lots 
 of girls, far prettier and more attractive than myself, 
 would not only answer your question in the affirma- 
 tive, but would give you (you see I take you at your 
 word and treat you as a friend) what is not in my 
 power to give. I don't mind telling you — in fact, I 
 am bound to do so — that there is another man whose 
 image stands in the way of my saying Yes. I dare 
 say you know who it is, and also that there is no 
 sort of chance of my ever marrying him; but, in fair- 
 ness to you , and thinking chiefly of your happiness, 
 I am obliged to tell you that I cannot give you the 
 feelings that a wife ought to have for the man she 
 marries for better, for worse. Don't think me harsh 
 or cruel ; I should be cruel were my answer diflerent." 
 
 Lord Devereux was far too wary not to have 
 been fully prepared for the reply that had just met 
 his ear; in fact, he would have been almost dis- 
 appointed had his proposal been accepted then and
 
 70 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 there. So, by no means disconcerted, he proceeded 
 thus: 
 
 "My dear child, of course I have known all this. 
 I know the man you mean, and a nicer fellow than 
 he is I have seldom come across; but, as you say 
 yourself, there is nothing to look forward to, is there? 
 I know George Mansfield too well to think him 
 capable of wishing you to spend your days a home- 
 less, lonely orphan on his account. Years will roll 
 by; you are nothing but a child, you have lost sight 
 of him, perhaps for years; put it before him — would 
 he not sooner himself that you should marry a man 
 of my age, who will be more of a father to you 
 than a husband, than that some day he should be 
 forgotten, and the love you now feel for him should 
 be given wholly and entirely to some other man? 
 You see I don't expect very much, I am very 
 humble in my pretensions; but I do honestly think 
 I could make you fairly happy. I don't wish for a 
 final answer; I won't listen to one even. Think it 
 over, and tell me what you have decided a few 
 weeks hence. Is that a bargain? And now we won't 
 talk any more about it. ^Vhat a charming voice Mrs. 
 Garrard has!" 
 
 That lady had just sat down to the piano, with 
 none of the fuss too many amateurs and profes- 
 sionals are apt to make on these occasions, and in 
 her rich contralto voice had begun one of Moore's 
 Irish Melodies. The conversation ceased as if by 
 magic, and Mildred Hstened in rapturous silence, the 
 tears coming to her eyes.
 
 EUTHANASIA. 7 1 
 
 ■\Vhatever troubles may be weighing upon the 
 mind — the remark does not apply to acute bodily 
 suffering, as martyrs to gout would certify— it is dif- 
 ficult to see only the gloomy side of life when, on 
 awaking, the sun is seen pouring in brightly, gradu- 
 ally dispelling the early mist, and when, as the good 
 old hunting song has it, "All nature looks smiling 
 and gay"; and though Mildred might feel no less 
 worried and perplexed than she had the evening be- 
 fore, she could not resist the exhilarating effect of 
 her surroundings when she appeared at breakfast 
 calm and composed. No one had noticed anything 
 the evening before, so she had not to pass through 
 the ordeal of those rather impertinent, scrutinising 
 glances that are sometimes exchanged across a 
 breakfast table. Most of the men were on the point 
 of leaving when she appeared downstairs, as an out- 
 lying covert had to be shot over that morning, and 
 soon afterwards Mrs. Arthur announced her intention 
 of driving Lady Wharnhill and Mi-s. Ryder to a 
 Primrose meeting at the neighbouring town. These 
 arrangements thoroughly coincided with Mildred's 
 wishes, as they offered her an opportunity of un- 
 burdening her mind of the events of the preceding 
 evening towards the one person whom she still con- 
 sidered to be entitled to be taken into her confidence. 
 As the last carriage vanished in the distance she sat 
 down at Mrs. Arthur's smart marqueterie writing 
 table to pen the following epistle:
 
 72 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 My dear George, — By the way, I don't know 
 why I still go on addressing you in this manner; still, 
 I won't make any alteration to-day. 
 
 My object in writing this is to tell you that 
 your anticipations have been verified, and that last 
 night "old Devereux," as you call him, asked me to 
 be his wife. 
 
 I must say he was particularly nice about it and 
 showed a remarkable amount of tact, etc. 
 
 I could not help feeling just a little sorry for 
 him (does that sound a very conceited speech?) for 
 somehow he seems so terribly in earnest. He knows 
 all about you and me, and feels dreadfully remorse- 
 ful about having told you to back his horse at 
 Ascot 
 
 Now I wonder if you are at all curious to know 
 what I answered; are you? 
 
 Well, of course I told him that I still cared for 
 you and was likely to continue doing so, which 
 naturally meant "No"; but he is one of those extra- 
 ordinary men who won't take "No" for an answer, 
 so that I daresay I shall be called upon to hear 
 the question repeated before very long; in fact, he 
 begged me to allow him not to look upon this as a 
 final decision. 
 
 Now I have told you all, and I suppose I must 
 not take up any more of your time, which belongs to 
 those Polish recruits of yours. Have you taught them 
 to ride bareback by now, and have they learnt how 
 to spell your name?
 
 EUTHANASIA. 73 
 
 I am leaving this in a day or two. Mrs. Jack 
 does not know I am writing to you, or I have no 
 doubt she would send you any amount of tender 
 messages. 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 M. C. 
 
 She had hardly finished her letter before hurried 
 footsteps were heard outside the door, and the pretty 
 Miss Ryder burst in, faultlessly attired as she al- 
 ways was and looking the picture of youth, health 
 and prosperity. 
 
 "Oh, Mildred! we must be off, for the men will 
 be so cross if we keep them waiting. Are you nearly 
 ready? Do you like this hat? I was not sure 
 whether I had not better, perhaps, put on a stalk- 
 ing cap." 
 
 Mildred did not seem to consider the question a 
 very weighty one; so she did no more than assure 
 Miss Ryder that she could not possibly look nicer 
 than she did already; and, noticing on the other's 
 face a genuine look of anxiety to get away, she 
 hurriedly ran upstairs and was soon ready to join 
 the party already seated in the waggonette. 
 
 The rest of the day and evening seemed rather 
 long to all; and were it not for her sincere regret at 
 parting from Mrs. Garrard, she was perhaps not 
 sorry that the end of the week had arrived. Before 
 parting from her new friend — whom she had soon
 
 74 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 learnt to call by her pet-name of "Maggie," under 
 which she was known to all her friends — they pro- 
 mised to write as soon as they got home, and Mildred 
 even made a half engagement to pay Mrs. Garrard 
 a short visit once the hunting season had begun.
 
 EUTHANASIA. 7 5 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 "Adversity hurts none, but only such 
 Whom whitest fortune dandled has too much." 
 
 R. Herrick. 
 
 The Calais boat was dancing merrily when 
 George Mansfield descended the steps off Dover pier 
 with a heavy heart, but one not likely to be affected 
 by the complaint which a stiff south-westerly breeze 
 soon produced in most of his fellow-passengers, and 
 which the French language so strangely — and from 
 a physiological view apparently most incorrectly — 
 connects with the human heart. He had decided to 
 go straight through to Vienna, so as not to waste 
 any time; feeling, as he did, that before he could be 
 expected to do work of any kind whatever, he must 
 first find out what would be expected of him. 
 During the last few months he had been pretty busy 
 learning German, and was now fairly fluent in that 
 language. He felt sure of meeting one friend at 
 the end of his journey — a former brother-officer of 
 his in the Guards, recently appointed Military At- 
 tache in Vienna, with whom he had been frequently 
 corresponding of late. To him he betook himself 
 the morning after his arrival, and rattling over the 
 huge blocks of granite with which the Vienna streets
 
 7 6 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 are paved, at the rate of quite ten miles an hour, he 
 found himself at Colonel Greville's door in an in- 
 credibly short space of time. 
 
 That officer had just completed his somewhat 
 elaborate toilet when George burst in unannounced, 
 greeting him mth the exclamations: "How are you, 
 old chap? I say, what makes these cabs drive such 
 a pace here? Upon my soul, they would run any of 
 our fire-engines pretty close!" 
 
 "I suppose because the fellows inside are so 
 hard-worked," answers the other imperturbably, but 
 with a mildly sarcastic intonation; "they cannot 
 afford to waste any time. But never mind about the 
 cabs; stay and have some breakfast with me, and we 
 will have a good long jaw." 
 
 This George Mansfield willingly assented to, 
 anxious to find out to the best of his ability how the 
 land lay and when he would be able to enter upon 
 his new duties. 
 
 "As a matter of fact, my dear fellow" — these 
 were his former brother-officer's opening words — 
 "you have been uncommonly lucky; they have ap- 
 pointed you to a really crack regiment, quartered 
 only about two hours' rail from Vienna. Your colonel 
 is one of the finest fellows in the Army, and has 
 seen a lot of active service. Besides, from what I 
 hear, he has received instructions to make your life 
 as pleasant as circumstances permit. Of course, 
 everything in this world is relative, and a Hungarian 
 village is not the exact counterpart of Windsor. 
 There are no end of nice fellows in the regiment,
 
 EUTHANASIA. 7 "] 
 
 and I have no doubt you will soon feel quite at home; 
 but take my advice and discard all notions of life in 
 the Guards and all that sort of thing. You will 
 have a fairish amount of roughing it and any amount 
 of hard work; in fact, you will be at it all day, from 
 seven a.m. to five p.m., and may think yourself un- 
 commonly lucky if your colonel allows you to go up 
 to Vienna every other Sunday. The men, from what 
 I hear, are perhaps a bit slow at first — rough sort of 
 devils, but uncommonly fine soldiers for all that; 
 and how they manage to turn them out with their 
 three years' system the way they do beats me al- 
 together. I suppose you don't want to stay in Vienna 
 longer than just the time required to get your kit, 
 and then 1 will take you down to your regiment, and 
 wll introduce you to the colonel. And after that, 
 my dear boy, you must swim for yourself" 
 
 The next few days were devoted to a certain 
 number of indispensable official visits, and to the 
 ordering of his uniforms; but before the week was 
 over George Mansfield found himself in a comfort- 
 able railway carriage, with his friend Colonel Greville, 
 steaming off for his new destination, where, for all he 
 knew, the rest of his life might be spent. 
 
 For the first hour or so the scenery was lovely, 
 beginning with a general panorama of Vienna, situated 
 in almost unique picturesqueness at the foot of two 
 lofty, vine clad mountains, with the Danube, or rather 
 a branch of it, winding its way right through the 
 heart of the city. When the lofty spire of St. Stephen 
 gradually vanished in the mist a range of hills became
 
 78 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 perceptible, skirting the railway line, the summits of 
 them girt with ruins of old feudal mansions, remnants 
 of many a hard-fought battle in days gone by, their 
 stern old battlements frowning upon the valley lying 
 underneath covered with villas, hotels, cafes, and all 
 the other attributes of modern watering-places. 
 
 Then, again, another change ensued, as rapidly 
 as the shifting of the scenery at a play. The moun- 
 tains receded more and more, and the wide plain of 
 Hungary opened up its apparently endless stretch. A 
 dull, dreary, monotonous steppe it may perchance 
 seem to those who see it for the first time. 
 
 And yet there is an indescribable fascination in 
 these Pannonian plains, comparable only to that of 
 the Roman Campagna, which may well justify the 
 old adage of the Magyars: 
 
 Extra Hungariam non est vita, 
 Si est vita, non est ita. 
 
 When examined more closely the apparent mono- 
 tony will soon vanish; what seemed an unbroken 
 surface like that of a billiard table will become 
 animated with quaint little villages resplendent with 
 the dazzle of their whitewashed houses, resonant with 
 the singularly passionate and heart -stirring notes 
 of the national tunes of which many of the Hungarian 
 bands we hear in London ball-rooms give us but so 
 faint a notion. 
 
 Now and then will emerge on the horizon the 
 outline of massive castles, the ancestral seats of the 
 old nobility, with their huge deep yellow frontage, 
 interrupted by an almost incalculable number of
 
 EUTHANASIA. 7 9 
 
 green - shuttered windows; surrounded by hundreds 
 of acres of a park, laid out in days gone by to rival 
 more than to imitate the splendours of Versailles. 
 
 Many of these old country seats are gradually 
 crumbling away; grass is growing thickly in those 
 court-yards that have seen many a time the chariots 
 of royal visitors drive up to their doors; the gloomy 
 sound of the owl, and other birds of the night, is 
 heard along those vast terraces trodden by many a 
 dainty foot in olden days, and the bats are making 
 merry along the endless passages that used to resound 
 with the clash of sword and scabbard. 
 
 "Here we are, old chap," are the words by which 
 George Mansfield is aroused out of his reverie, for 
 upon him the scenery had not failed to produce the 
 effect it generally does at first sight — that of intense 
 depression; "this is Toronya, where the regiment is 
 quartered — at least one troop of it is, for the rest are 
 scattered all about the neighbourhood, and I don't 
 exactly know to which of these villages they will 
 send you. Anyhow, we will have some breakfast, 
 and then we will go and see the Colonel. After that 
 I suppose you will be sworn in, so we can then 
 rig you out in your new kit, and after that I will say 
 good-bye, as I must get back to dine out to-night." 
 
 It may not be generally known that the Austrian 
 cavalry all over the Dual Monarchy is permanently 
 billeted out, even in time of peace, only some few of 
 the largest cities having recently constructed barracks 
 for the mounted troops.
 
 8o EUTHANASIA. 
 
 The staffs of the regiments are niostly located in 
 the more important centres of the different provinces, 
 and the regiment itself will be scattered within a 
 radius varying from two to ten miles. The four 
 troops of each of the six squadrons are clustered 
 round the localities where the Escadrons-Commandant 
 (squadron-leader) is quartered; but in time of peace 
 each troop, consisting of about thirty-five men and as 
 many horses, practically forms a unit of its own. 
 
 Occasionally a sergeant-major is left in command 
 of a troop, but the usual practice is that a lieutenant 
 or sub-lieutenant should be what is called Zugs-Com- 
 mandant (troop-leader), and as such he will in all 
 probability pass his days, as only officer in a little 
 village or hamlet, with his handful of men. At what 
 distance he may be from any of his brother-officers 
 of course varies very much, according to the density 
 of the population and the number of human dwellings 
 in the different provinces. As a rule, it will not 
 exceed two or three miles; but, bearing in mind that 
 during the winter months communication by the 
 little lanes connecting the various villages becomes at 
 times all but impossible, a distance of three miles 
 constitutes as effective a barrier as one of thirty. 
 
 This system has been in existence almost since 
 time immemorial, and has been kept up partly from 
 reasons of economy, but chiefly from the exceedingly 
 satisfactory results obtained by it. 
 
 Amongst these may be mentioned the far more 
 intimate knowledge of their men acquired by the 
 officers through being much more frequently brought
 
 EUTHANASIA. 8 1 
 
 into contact with them, and the early development 
 of that stern sense of duty, and chiefly of responsibility, 
 which is naturally roused by the far greater scope 
 that is granted to a young officer within a year or 
 two of his joining. 
 
 As a matter of fact, a sub-lieutenant is a far 
 more important personage in an Austrian cavalry 
 regiment than a captain with us, as he is solely 
 responsible for the efficiency of his troop. Moreover, 
 the training of the recruits, a certain number of whom 
 is told off to every troop in the regiment, devolves 
 upon him; and if he enjoys the full confidence of his 
 captain he may be entrusted with the breaking-in of 
 some of the remounts. 
 
 In any unforeseen emergency such as a fire — a 
 most frequent occurrence in Hungarian villages, where 
 almost all the houses are roofed with thatch — or in 
 the eventuality of any disturbance between his men 
 and the peasant population — an incident which, not 
 unusual in former days, is now exceedingly rare— he 
 has no one to consult but himself, though, of course, 
 he will subsequently report to his captain the steps 
 he has taken on every separate occasion. 
 
 Thus a comparatively very large sphere of activity 
 is given to a young fellow who, stimulated by a 
 healthy spirit of emulation, will spare no trouble to 
 make his troop the smartest of the squadron — or of 
 the regiment, if he can — knowing that any kmlos 
 thus obtained will fall entirely upon him. 
 
 No doubt the life is a stern and somewhat austere 
 one, doubly so from the fact of the promotion being 
 
 Euthanasia . "
 
 8 2 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 slow. On the other hand, the system has so 
 famiUarised itself with the growth of successive 
 generations that it is looked upon quite as a matter 
 of course. 
 
 Heirs to proud titles and large fortunes are quite 
 happy to do as their fathers and grandfathers have 
 done before them, and take naturally to a life which 
 does not even strike them as one of great hardship 
 or privation, trusting to the monotony of routine 
 being relieved by the unbounded hospitality of what- 
 ever country houses there may be in the neighbour- 
 hood, by a fair amount of shooting and, possibly, in 
 some favoured districts, a gallop with harriers. 
 
 During the summer months each regiment in turn 
 marches off to the manceuvres; and it is only on the 
 first of October of every year that the work in the 
 riding-school is resumed with every successive batch 
 of recruits. 
 
 A large additional amount of work obviously 
 devolves upon the regimental officers in consequence 
 of the short service system, and the resulting diffi- 
 culty of keeping the non-commissioned officers with 
 the colours after their three years have expired. 
 
 Ten minutes' drive through the ill-paved streets 
 of the straggling town of Toronya, where the staff of 
 the 24th Lancers was quartered, brought George and 
 his friend to the chief hotel of the place, where 
 luncheon was soon served. A few glasses of generous 
 old Hungarian wine, that makes every pulse quicken 
 and dispels care — as its name of "Sorgenbrecher" is 
 intended to convey — soon brings George back to his
 
 EUTHANASIA. 83 
 
 wonted spirits; and his one wish now is to get over 
 all the preliminaries, and set to work at once. 
 
 After luncheon, he is taken by his friend to pay 
 a visit to Count Wartenstein , the Colonel of the 
 regiment. A tall, dark man, of soldierly bearing, clad 
 in the undress uniform of his regiment, rises to meet 
 them, and shakes hands cordially with both. The 
 expression of the very high-bred features is a serious, 
 almost a sad one, and is not very frequently lighted 
 up by a smile from underneath the black, curled 
 moustache. And yet, if all tales are true. Colonel 
 Wartenstein has had more than his share of the good 
 things of life. Every favour has been showered upon 
 him; his promotion has been a rapid one; and that 
 voice that rings out the word of command in tones 
 as clear as those of a silver bugle, has, when drop- 
 ping to softer notes, set many heart-strings stirring. 
 
 His clear brown eyes settle somewhat fixedly 
 upon George, whose arrival in the regiment is rather 
 an unusual occurrence; so the Colonel means to have 
 a good look at his new officer. He is pleased at 
 the imperturbable manner in which George bears 
 his scrutinising glance, and he continues with a little 
 more warmth: 
 
 "I need hardly say I am very glad you have 
 been gazetted to my regiment. We used in former 
 days to have many foreigners in our service; but 
 that is a thing of the past; as a matter of fact, we 
 don't encourage them to come as a rule. Of course, 
 it will take you some little time before you get to 
 know our work, and for the next two or three 
 
 6*
 
 84 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 months you won't be able to do much more than 
 look on; still, you can be very useful even now with 
 the remounts. I have told you off to Prince Saal- 
 burg's squadron, the 6th, at Zsadany, and I have 
 particularly recommended him to give you every 
 opportunity of learning your work as quickly as pos- 
 sible, as I should like to put you in command of a 
 troop before very long." 
 
 After a few remarks as to a short stay he had 
 made in England some years back, and to the sport 
 he had seen when hunting in the Pytchley countr}', 
 the interview came to an end. Then, after taking 
 an affectionate leave of his friend and thanking him 
 for his assistance, George Mansfield, having duly 
 taken the oath, hurried back to his hotel and spent 
 the next half-hour coping successfully with his new 
 uniform, in which he was now to spend the greater 
 part of his life; for, according to Austrian Army re- 
 gulations, the uniform is worn on and off duty. He 
 now felt that the final step had been taken, and he 
 was determined to make the best of his new life. 
 It was too late to start the same evening for the 
 village of Zsadany, which was to be his final destina- 
 tion; so he made up his mind to a solitary evening, 
 devoted chiefly to his somewhat neglected correspond- 
 ence.
 
 EUTHANASIA. 85 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 "Der Soldat hat auf Erden kein bleibend Qiiaitier, 
 Kann treue Lieb' nicht bewahren." 
 
 Schiller. 
 
 Early next morning, the new subaltern set out 
 in one of the native conveyances, drawn by two 
 fuckers that thought themselves aggrieved when not 
 allowed to travel at the rate of quite ten miles an 
 hour. Not many minutes' drive took him outside 
 the gates of the town; and a perfectly straight high- 
 road, running along on a dead level, opened up to 
 the eye for a distance that, owing to the extreme 
 clearness and transparency of the atmosphere, seemed 
 almost endless. Rich pasture land lay to either side 
 of the road, interrupted only an occasional clump of 
 trees, but without any sort of enclosure; and fre- 
 quently the driver would leave the dusty, stony high- 
 road and indulge in a spin over the springy turf. 
 "Nice country, this, to handle cavalry," thought 
 George; "no wonder they quarter them out here; 
 their horses ought to be pretty fit, anyhow." 
 
 He was too busy taking in every detail of a 
 country in which everything was strange to him to 
 notice the time passing by, and was almost surprised 
 when his driver, booted and spurred like his com-
 
 86 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 patriots of that class almost invariably are, pointed 
 with his whip to a white steeple on a slight elevation 
 about half-a-mile off, and informed his passenger that 
 that was Zsadany. George's interest increased, the 
 nearer he approached his destination, and was 
 at its height when he entered a village apparently 
 consisting merely of a double row of whitewashed, 
 one-storied houses, with mostly not more than one 
 window to the front but receding to some depth 
 at the back. Open-mouthed, ragged children stared 
 at him v\ith some amazement, and numberless street- 
 curs holding their siesta in the middle of the road 
 yapped and snarled angrily as his carriage rattled by. 
 
 Meeting one or two privates loitering about, he 
 inquired where the captain's quarters were. The 
 answer was given in a tone of intense surprise that 
 anybody should ignore the residence of a personage 
 who, to those addressed, was invested with almost 
 supernatural attributes. However, they showed him 
 to a building lying some fifty yards off the main 
 road, in the centre of a vast farmyard. The build- 
 ing itself was of larger dimensions than the other 
 houses George had seen, but in no other way dis- 
 similar. 
 
 Having ascertained that Captain Prince Saalburg 
 was at home, George was duly shown in and began 
 by officially reporting himself as having been ga- 
 zetted to the 6th Squadron. During the fifty seconds 
 that this formality lasted he felt his captain's eye 
 looking him over from top to toe; for a verj^ mar- 
 tinet he was on duty, and nothing escaped his quick
 
 EUTHANASIA. 87 
 
 glance. Before the last word had passed his lips 
 the professionally stern look left Prince Saalburg's 
 countenance, and he greeted George with an almost 
 boisterous welcome. 
 
 The heir to an historical name and a large pro- 
 perty, he had made the army his profession and 
 loved it with all his heart and soul. The knowledge 
 that his squadron was, perhaps, the best turned out 
 in the whole cavalry gave him far more pleasure 
 than any sort of gratification that his position and 
 wealth could have enabled him to command. Though 
 a keen sportsman, he seldom went on leave, and 
 never for long; and the fascinations of the fair sex 
 could never wile him away for any time from his in- 
 cessant pre-occupation for the efficiency and the 
 welfare of his squadron. He was the terror of his 
 young subalterns, for he would pounce down upon 
 them in their outlying villages when least expected; 
 and woe betide them if a curb-chain was found too 
 tight, or a pair of stirrup-leathers not the exact re- 
 gulation length. 
 
 "None of your young fellows for me," he was 
 wont to say, "who want to go up to town every 
 week and join the regiment, because they think it is 
 a smart thing to do! If a man is a soldier, he can- 
 not be anything else and do the two things pro- 
 perly." 
 
 During half-an-hour's talk, George was gradually 
 being initiated into the rudiments of what his new 
 professional life was going to be. The winter months 
 were devoted almost exclusively to the drilling of
 
 88 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 the recruits who were to join on the ist of October. 
 By the ist of May they must take their place in the 
 ranks and cease to be considered recruits. "Pretty 
 quick work, isn't it?" added the Captain. "Of 
 course we only keep them three years; so we dare 
 not lose any time. We don't profess to turn them 
 out quite like your Lifeguardsmen; we did in the 
 old days when we kept them eight or nine years; 
 but, such as you see them now, for real work I will 
 back them against any cavalry in the world. And 
 now I'll come round with you to your quarters; and 
 then we will go to have some dinner." 
 
 The surprised look in George's face set him off 
 into peals of merry laughter: "You must not mind 
 that; we always dine at twelve or twelve-thirty, and 
 then we have some tea or something in the evening." 
 
 Upon this unexpected statement George made 
 the internal reflection that any misgivings he might 
 have had of late as to increasing in weight were 
 now likely to prove unnecessary; but he was deter- 
 mined to see the bright side of everything, and 
 only said to himself that if all these fellows could do 
 it, he presumably could too. He thereupon followed 
 his Captain into the street. About a hundred yards 
 off the latter stopped and said: 
 
 "This is where you are going to live; it is the 
 best place we could find, and it has always been 
 the officers' quarters. jVIind the door; it is rather 
 low." 
 
 George was now ushered into a room about 
 twenty-four feet by eighteen. Heavy rafters ran
 
 EUTHANASIA. 89 
 
 across the wooden ceiling; the walls were white- 
 washed, and the floor consisted of plain deals. An 
 enormous stove, or rather oven, of bright green tiles, 
 reaching nearly to the ceiling and with a wooden 
 bench running around it, was the first and rather 
 unfamiliar object that met his eye. In the further 
 end of the room stood a bedstead, with many- 
 coloured quilts — the only luxury the Hungarian 
 peasant allows himself — piled upon each other. A 
 deal table and a chair or two completed the furniture. 
 George had made up his mind to appear surprised 
 at nothing; so he only said: 
 
 "That will do very nicely. I shall have my 
 own things coming out from England before very 
 long. Anyhow, I think I will have the window 
 open a bit; that feather bed makes the place rather 
 stuffy." 
 
 Prince Saalburg was slightly disappointed; for 
 he had expected some loud manifestation of surprise, 
 possibly disgust; but inwardly he was beginning to 
 feel some respect for his new subaltern. 
 
 "You must try and make yourself understood as 
 best you can with your soldier servant; like most of 
 our men, he speaks nothing but Polish; but he is 
 sharp enough, and it will be a capital opportunity 
 for you to learn the language. In three months you 
 ought to be able to make yourself fairly well under- 
 stood by the men. And now let us go to dinner." 
 
 The little inn where this early meal was to take 
 place lay on the high road at the farther end of the 
 village; its appearance was not prepossessing. Two
 
 go EUTHANASIA. 
 
 or three carters making their mid-day halt and a few- 
 itinerant pedlars sat in the public room replete with 
 smoke and the smell of burnt grease. Beyond this 
 lay the room reserved for the use of the officers. 
 George noticed that every occupant of the public 
 room jumped to his feet at the sight of the "Herr 
 Rittmeister" (Captain), and saluted him with the 
 deepest of bows. 
 
 "This is where we shall dine together every day 
 for the next three months," said the latter. "You 
 w^ill see that the cooking is not bad, although there 
 is not very much variety; but, on the other hand it 
 is not expensive; we pay eighteen florins (thirty 
 shillings) a month." 
 
 This last statement fairly took George's breath 
 away. "A month, do you say?" and to himself: 
 "By Jove, the bookies at home ought to thank Provi- 
 dence that sent me here!" 
 
 "Yes, I suppose it does seem little," said the 
 other; "I dare say you used often to spend more 
 than that on one dinner. But then we don't eat very 
 much; for at two o'clock we have to be at the riding 
 school again. They have sent us a larger number 
 of remounts than usual this year, and they are still 
 very backward; so we have to be busy with them all 
 the afternoon; and the days are getting so short! 
 Would you like to try your hand at riding some of 
 them to-day? You have plenty of time to change 
 your things between this and two." 
 
 "You are the right sort for me!" thought George, 
 and he willingly assented.
 
 EUTHANASIA. Q I 
 
 On returning to his quarters, which he had some 
 little trouble in finding, from the exact similarity of 
 all the houses, he found his servant putting barrow- 
 loads of fuel into the stove through an opening it 
 had from the passage outside; for its surface towards 
 the room was innocent of any aperture. The man 
 promptly emerged from out of the stove and ad- 
 dressed George with some volubility, apparently ask- 
 ing for orders. 
 
 "All right, my man!" said George; "I have not 
 a notion what you are saying, but you don't look a 
 fool; and I dare say we shall get on very nicely to- 
 gether." 
 
 Not many minutes later he was jogging round 
 an open-air riding school, with a keen east wind 
 raising up clouds of dust, on an unbroken colt with 
 only one side to its mouth, seated in a regulation 
 saddle which, though beHeved to be the very acme 
 of comfort in its downward action, is no doubt con- 
 structed with a view to that. This went on for 
 about a couple of hours, George having ridden suc- 
 cessively four or five remounts to his captain's entire 
 satisfaction. 
 
 "That will do for to-day," said the latter at 
 last; and he ordered the horses to be taken back. 
 "We will now look in at the men's school on our 
 way home." 
 
 Darkness was setting in before the routine work 
 of the day had come to an end. Nevertheless George 
 had learnt this much on the first day of his arrival, 
 that if he were to feel discontented with his new life
 
 92 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 it would not be from want of occupation. He had 
 not been able to gather much information as yet 
 from Prince Saalburg with regard to any social re- 
 sources the neighbourhood might possess. The latter 
 had casually referred to a country house about five 
 miles off where he sometimes went for the evening; 
 "but not often," he added. "I like my quiet even- 
 ings at home; it is the only time I have for reading, 
 and I am now very busy writing an essay on cavalry 
 tactics. On Saturdays I generally ride in to head- 
 quarters and spend Sunday there. I hope next time 
 you will come in with me, and you will get to know 
 all your brother officers." 
 
 Thereupon they parted, and George betook him- 
 self to his quarters, wondering what he would do 
 with himself throughout the evening, all the more as 
 dinner was a thing of the past and he was entirely 
 dependent upon the wits of his soldier servant for 
 any subsequent meal that might be produced. The 
 latter, however, was not taken at a loss and even 
 managed to display a slight smattering of culinary 
 knowledge. Nevertheless the meal was primitive 
 enough, and George could not help smiling inwardly 
 at the idea of what the inmates of the servants' hall 
 at his brother's place would say if exposed to the 
 indignity of having such humble fare placed before 
 them. 
 
 As the clock on the steeple struck eight, the 
 long-drawn, weird notes of the bugle-call for the 
 re/rai/e (eqmva\ent to our "tattoo") resounded through- 
 out the village, and a few minutes afterwards not a
 
 EUTHANASIA. 93 
 
 sound was to be heard but the occasional angry 
 bark of a street dog. Everything outside was in ab- 
 solute darkness; the east wind had freshened since 
 the afternoon and was driving the rain and the sleet 
 in great gusts against the window panes. It must be 
 said to poor George's credit that he kept up his 
 spirits manfully. Picking out the least straight-backed 
 of the two chairs that were at his disposal, he settled 
 himself down, had a good pull at his flask, lit a pipe 
 and began to think. 
 
 "Wednesday; why, of course, it was the day of 
 the St. Leger." He wondered what had won, and 
 when he was likely to hear of it. Eight o'clock; 
 people just beginning to think about dinner; how 
 different things looked at that time last year. He 
 smiled at the recollection of what a cheery party it 
 had been; every incident, even the most trifling one, 
 seemed to come back to him. "I wonder," he said, 
 thinking aloud, "if anybody at Doncaster has even 
 noticed I wasn't there to-day; I don't suppose they 
 did. It could not do me much good, either, if they 
 had. It is a funny world! Am I now going to spend 
 all my evenings like this for the next years to come, 
 between a petroleum lamp and the carcass of a con- 
 sumptive chicken? If I do, I will make myself a bit 
 more comfortable. I wonder what Mildred is doing 
 now." His face saddens, and pensively he watches 
 the coils of smoke as they slowly rise. "The whole 
 thing was awfully hard on her, poor child; and the 
 thought of her alone ought to have kept me straight. 
 Anyhow, I have made whatever amends I could. I
 
 94 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 suppose eventually she will follow my advice and 
 will marry old Devereux; that will make a nice 
 cheery day for me out here, her wedding-day will." 
 He brings down his heel with a rattle that elicits an 
 angry bark from David, his old fox-terrier, who had 
 followed him into his new life. At any rate, it was 
 no good thinking of all that now; "sufficient unto the 
 day," etc., and soon after he devoted himself to the 
 composition of a long letter to the young lady whose 
 vision was before his mind. He gave her a minute 
 account of all he had seen and done during the last 
 few days, followed up by a very cheery sketch of 
 what he anticipated his new life would be. He 
 wound up thus: 
 
 Of course it is a totally different thing from 
 soldiering at home; but, from the little I have seen, 
 I feel sure I shall take to it; so far everybody has 
 been most kind to me, so don't you make yourself 
 unhappy about me. 
 
 Send me every book you can think of; not only 
 novels but something that will improve my mind; I 
 am sure it must be in want of it, and I shall have 
 plenty of leisure for reading in the evening. 
 
 For how long I may be out here nobody can tell. 
 My first duty is to pay up as soon as ever I can; I 
 shall not be happy until that is done. 
 
 Don't fret about me, for I shall get on all right. 
 Don't be too unselfish, and try to think more about 
 yourself than about Your very devoted 
 
 G. M.
 
 EUTHANASIA. 95 
 
 Soon afterwards he dismantled the structure of 
 feather beds and before long was sleeping the sleep 
 
 of the just. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Days followed each other. George Mansfield's 
 indefatigable love of work, coupled with his genial, 
 cheery manner, soon won him the affection of his 
 superiors, who spoke most highly of him. He had 
 gradually made the acquaintance of all his different 
 brother officers during his occasional visits to head- 
 quarters and soon felt thoroughly at home amongst 
 them, never finding anything but the utmost cordiality 
 and the same free and easy manner to which he was 
 accustomed in his old regiment. 
 
 After three or four months of hard work he was 
 considered to have made sufficient progress to be 
 put in command of a troop, quartered a few miles 
 off, which meant absolute soUtude instead of Prince 
 Saalburg's company, with whom he had quite made 
 friends. Their meetings would now be comparatively 
 rare, chiefly dependent upon the requirements of the 
 service. 
 
 Nevertheless, in many respects the change meant 
 an improvement to him. To begin with, he was far 
 more his own master, instead of merely carrying out 
 his captain's orders; and on the other hand, he soon 
 gathered that at his new quarters he would be within 
 about a couple of miles from the country seat of a 
 family, one member of which he had once met in 
 England — a fact which would help to facilitate an 
 introduction.
 
 96 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 The Counts of Szent Imre were amongst the 
 largest landowTiers in Hungary, and the castle of 
 Kisfalva only one of the many country houses in- 
 liabited by them in turn. The old castle, which in 
 the days of Turkish invasions had withstood many a 
 hard siege, formed rather a prominent feature in the 
 landscape around, situated on a slight elevation and 
 surrounded by miles of park and deer forest. A long 
 avenue of poplars led up to the drawbridge that gave 
 access to the outer court, from which the main build- 
 ing, looking rather like an ancient fortress, with its 
 old turrets and battlements, was soon reached. 
 
 From his conversation with various of his brother 
 officers, George had gathered that Countess Szent 
 Imre appeared to be the reigning beauty of the 
 neighbourhood, and that he ought to think himself 
 lucky at being quartered within such easy reach of 
 Kisfalva. He thought he noticed a few significant 
 glances being exchanged around him on this subject, 
 and his curiosity was beginning to be aroused. 
 
 Soon after George Mansfield had joined, his two 
 chargers and a useful, fast-trotting cob had arrived. 
 With the aid of a few bits of comfortable furniture, 
 a large collection of sporting prints, etc., his one 
 solitary room was gradually taking a more inhabitable 
 appearance. Looking back in after years upon the 
 many lonely evenings he had spent with no other 
 company than that of his books, of which he was 
 collecting a steadily increasing stock, he felt inclined 
 to wonder why the recollection of them was not by 
 any means an unpleasant one. Winter had now set
 
 EUTHANASIA. Q 
 
 in in real earnest. Frequently, for several consecutiv 
 days, the little cottage he lived in would be almost 
 buried in snow, great drifts blocking up the roads 
 and all but cutting off the village from the outside 
 world. A narrow path had been dug up between 
 his house and the inn where he went for his meal 
 that was styled by the euphonious name of dinner, 
 and which mostly consisted of rather greasy soup, 
 boiled beef and a rice pudding. 
 
 Euthanasia.
 
 9 8 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 "Love in her sunny eyes doth basldng play, 
 Love walks the pleasant mazes of her hair; 
 Love doth on both her hps for ever stray, 
 
 And sows and reaps a thousand lasses there." 
 
 Abraham Cowley. 
 
 Towards the middle of January George received 
 a message from one of his brother officers that 
 Count and Countess Szent Imre would be glad to 
 see him any day he liked to call at Kisfalva, even 
 without the formality of an introduction; so he had 
 the cob — who was getting rather above himself for 
 want of work — put to a narrow and very low sleigh 
 he had bought in the neighbouring town, and set off 
 for his wintry drive, well provided with the thickest 
 gloves and a fur bag, in which all the lower part of 
 his person was buried. 
 
 The view, once he had left the village behind, 
 was striking enough. The air was absolutely still 
 and the sun shining brightly. As far as the eye 
 could reach not a living being nor any landmark of 
 any kind was to be seen; all traffic on wheels had 
 been suspended for some time, and there was scarcely 
 any indication as to where the road lay. 
 
 As he went skimming along over the hard-frozen 
 snow, he noticed, before he had gone very far, a
 
 EUTHANASIA. QQ 
 
 figure which he thought he identified as that of the 
 parish priest of the village he was quartered in. He 
 slackened as he was about to pass him, and inquired 
 whether he could be of any use, as he had plenty of 
 room in his sledge. The gratified expression that 
 lighted up the thin, pale face of the monk, went 
 straight to George's heart; and, making room for him, 
 he asked what errand might have brought him away 
 from home on a day like that, and so insufficiently 
 protected against the inclemency of the climate. 
 
 "I should not have minded the weather so much, 
 Herr Lieutenant," was the answer, "and I should 
 have walked the five miles to Csernova and back 
 willingly, only I was so afraid of getting there too 
 late. There is a poor old man dying rapidly, who 
 has no one to look after him, and there is no priest 
 nearer than myself Poor old Janko! he would not 
 hear of us when he was well and strong, and went 
 poaching amongst the Kisfalva preserves, and came 
 home tipsy every Sunday afternoon; but now he has 
 sent for me, and bade me not lose a minute. How 
 fast your horse goes! But perhaps you are not going 
 as far as Csernova?" 
 
 "Oh! he can go a lot faster than that," said 
 George — and to the cob; "Come on, old man. No, 
 I was going to Kisfalva, but now that you have told 
 me what your errand is, your old poacher shall not 
 die with no one to comfort him, if I can help it." 
 
 The poor priest's gratitude was expressed warmly, 
 though with no sort of effusion; but the earnest look 
 
 7 *
 
 I OO EUTHANASIA. 
 
 from the expressive eyes that Hghted up an other- 
 wise plain countenance spoke volumes. 
 
 "You have not been at Erdelyi long, have you, 
 Herr Lieutenant? At least, I have never seen you" 
 — he was going to say "in church," but, colouring 
 deeply, he stopped short — "excepting once or twice 
 at the riding-school." 
 
 "No, Hochwurden." (It is thus the Catholic 
 clergy are universally addressed in Austria and 
 Hungary.) "I have only been here a few weeks. I 
 am afraid I have not come in for the best time of 
 year. But don't you find it very dull vourself, 
 too?" 
 
 "No, I cannot say I do; in fact, a little time ago 
 I was offered a large parish at Buda-Pest, but I did 
 not care to go. Besides, my little flock objected to 
 my leaving. I am very much attached to them; I 
 wish I was able to do more. No, I long to remain 
 here. At Buda-Pest I should not have time to read, 
 and I feel I can be almost of more use in a little 
 place like this. But it must be dull indeed for 
 you." 
 
 The shy and rather nervous manner of his com- 
 panion did not facihtate George's conversational 
 efforts; and though he inwardly felt there was more 
 in the man than met the eye, he was not sorr\' to 
 have pointed out to him a little detached farmhouse 
 on the roadside as the priest's destination. On the 
 latter's assurance that there was no probability of 
 his being able to return home that evening, they 
 parted, as George could not but realise that his pre-
 
 EUTHANASIA. I O I 
 
 sence at the bedside of the old poacher would be 
 more than superfluous. 
 
 Turning his pony's head in the direction whence 
 he had come, he decided to carry out his original 
 intention of calling upon Countess Szent Imre. 
 
 As the stern old battlements of the Castle of 
 Kisfalva became more plainly discernible, when the 
 snow sent up by the pony's hind feet, as from a 
 catapult, did not shut off the view altogether, George 
 could not resist a certain feeling of curiosity concern- 
 ing the lady to whom his visit was destined. 
 
 Having emerged from his fur wraps and brushed 
 off the snow that lay thick upon his hair and mous- 
 tache, he was shown into a boudoir where he was 
 told the Countess would shortly join him. Twilight 
 was beginning to set in, and the room was chiefly 
 lighted by the reflection of the flames that danced 
 and flickered merrily around the heavy oak logs in 
 the grate. 
 
 A passing glance sufficed to show that this room 
 must evidently be the favourite nook of a person of 
 exceedingly refined taste. It bore in every one of 
 its details the distinct stamp of the individuality of 
 the owner, from a Greuze of no common merit on 
 the panel facing the entrance down to a Louis XIV. 
 vitrine, containing some choice pieces of Sevres china. 
 Every object that caught the eye was plainly indi- 
 cative of careful selection. A chaise-longue, likewise 
 of the period of the "Roi Soleil," stood out at an 
 angle to the fire-place, within easy reach of a small 
 and curiously-worked gilt bookcase. On an easel at
 
 I02 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 the head of the writing-table George noticed a pastel 
 portrait, at which he was gazing with rapt attention 
 when the door was thrown open to admit the original 
 of the portrait. 
 
 Slightly above the middle height, with a figure 
 remarkable for its flexibihty and the exquisite grace- 
 fulness of all its movements, vnth hands and feet 
 that fully deserved the sonnet with which they once 
 inspired an amorous compatriot of hers addicted to 
 lyrics, the Countess of Szent Imre might well be de- 
 scribed, even by the most fastidious judge, as well 
 worthy of her reputation of a singularly lovely 
 woman. 
 
 Possibly her features might not in every point 
 come up to the standard of one who judges feminine 
 beauty solely by the outlines that Phidias and Praxi- 
 teles have immortalised. A captious critic might 
 possibly object to the eyes being placed rather closer 
 together than the laws of faultless symmetry would 
 rule, or to an almost imperceptible upward cun^e in 
 the outline of the nose; but, having said that much, 
 he would fain subside into a respectful and admiring 
 silence. 
 
 Her face was an almost faultless oval, and the 
 general expression of the features one of all but in- 
 describle softness and charm. Under the delicately 
 pencilled brows and under the shadow of long, curly 
 eyelashes shone a pair of green eyes that few men 
 would gaze at dispassionately. Their usual expres- 
 sion was one of intense indolence and indifference; 
 but trust them not! They may at any moment
 
 EUTHANASIA. IO3 
 
 awaken to an almost childlike look of surprise, of 
 sympathy, of interest. They will flash forth sparks 
 of lightning when aroused to anger; they have been 
 seen half-veiled by the delicate drooping lids, as if 
 for fear their glorious lustre might betray their un- 
 resisting acquiescence with the fervid, impassioned 
 words of love they had inspired. 
 
 The complexion is a singularly delicate one, and 
 the generous blood of a Southern race is seen run- 
 ning through the network of fine blue veins per- 
 ceptible on the clear white brow and temples. 
 
 The low tones of a rich contralto voice greet 
 George as she steps into the room with the graceful, 
 undulating motion that stamps a thorough-bred wo- 
 man. She addresses him in his own language, with 
 a barely noticeable foreign accent: 
 
 "I am so glad, Lord George, that you have at 
 last made up your mind to emerge from your soli- 
 tude. We were all wondering what the attractions 
 of Erdelyi could be that had prevented you from 
 calling here before. I believe I met your brother 
 some years ago in London; isn't he rather a grave 
 man, with a beard, who takes an interest in 
 Church matters and philanthropy and that sort of 
 thing?" 
 
 George at once expressed his recognition of 
 Lord Errington from the above description, and con- 
 versation soon flowed along easily and smoothly. 
 His surprise was great at finding his fair companion 
 well acquainted with every branch of modern litera- 
 ture, as well as with the last topic of London gossip;
 
 1 04 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 full of originality and a delightful disregard of con- 
 ventionalism. 
 
 Time passed; and when George bid farewell to 
 his hostess he was surprised to see how late it was; 
 and he wondered inwardly how he would ever get 
 home again. 
 
 "Now that you have found your way to Kisfalva," 
 said Countess Szent Imre before parting, "I hope 
 you will not forget it. My husband has been very 
 delicate of late, so we are not having anybody to 
 stay with us, but I hope you will come and propose 
 yourself to dinner whenever it is convenient to you." 
 
 An icy blast met George as he left this hospit- 
 able mansion, and his drive back over the hard- 
 frozen road, with his pony pulling double, brought 
 him back to stem reality and the prospects of a 
 solitary evening. 
 
 The postal communication, interrupted for several 
 days owing to the heavy fall of snow, had been re- 
 stored; so George found an accumulated budget of 
 news contained in quite a pile of letters. 
 
 To the dweller in busy London, reading a letter, 
 answering and forgetting it, is often the work of not 
 more than five minutes; but anyone who has ever 
 felt himself in a position at all resembling that of 
 George Mansfield will readily understand the eager- 
 ness with which he scanned his letters one by one, 
 sorting them into those to read the same evening and 
 others that would keep until the morrow. 
 
 The first one to be opened was Mildred Charteris', 
 containing the news that Lord Devereux had pro-
 
 EUTHANASIA. I05 
 
 posed to her. There was nothing unexpected in the 
 news; in fact, it only verified his own predictions. 
 Nevertheless it came to him like a severe shock. 
 The fact that the proposal had not been accepted 
 impressed him far less deeply than its having been 
 made so soon after his departure. 
 
 Brooding over it in his solitary seclusion, it struck 
 him more forcibly than ever before, that every law 
 of honour and duty obliged him to renew the act of 
 renunciation he had once already made. He shud- 
 dered at the responsibility he would assume in 
 allowing any recollection of the past to influence 
 the future of the child who had put her faith in 
 him. 
 
 Even natures in no respect above the common 
 may, at certain moments under the pressure of a 
 powerful conviction, raise themselves to deeds of 
 almost heroic self-abnegation — frequently regretted 
 soon afterwards. 
 
 Within half-an-hour from the time he received 
 Mildred's letter, George Mansfield had given the fol- 
 lowing missive to his servant to take at once to the 
 neighbouring post-office: — 
 
 My dear Mildred, 
 
 Owing to interruption of communications, your 
 letter of Saturday only reached me to-day; and I 
 answer it at once. 
 
 More than ever I feel it to be my duty to im- 
 press upon you the necessity of forgetting the past 
 — of wiping out every recollection of it. The thought
 
 I06 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 that, but for me, your life's happiness would be in- 
 sured, that I have to all intents and purposes ruined 
 your life — is far harder for me to bear than any- 
 thing else. 
 
 Every word I have written is Gospel truth; and 
 there is no greater happiness in store for me than to 
 know that if I have wronged you — unintentionally, 
 God knows — the harm done was not irreparable. 
 
 I cannot write more to-day. Bless you! 
 
 G. M. 
 
 With the recollection of a painful duty success- 
 fully accomplished, George Mansfield woke up next 
 morning to resume his every-day routine work. 
 
 At 7 a.m. he was once more busy in the riding- 
 school, which, by dint of straw and manure profusely 
 strewn about, had been made fit for use. The ten 
 recruits that had been told off to his troop were 
 progressing satisfactorily; and, as he saw them jog- 
 ging round the school, keeping their seats fairly well 
 without reins or stirrups, he felt justified in giving 
 them a hearty word of encouragement. 
 
 The cold was intense, and George kept pacing 
 up and down the riding-school, occasionally cracking 
 his long whip to keep up his circulation; but he felt 
 on good terms with himself and the world in general 
 when he dismissed the last "class," and went off to 
 his frugal mid-day meal. 
 
 Practically, nearly every hour of his day was de- 
 voted to one or the other of his manifold duties; 
 and by the time he returned to his solitary quarters,
 
 EUTHANASIA. IO7 
 
 physical fatigue was mostly sufficient to prevent his 
 thoughts taking too wide a flight or lingering too 
 tenderly on the past. The difficulty of communica- 
 tion prevented his seeing as much of his cheery, 
 light-hearted brother officers as might have been de- 
 sirable for him; consequently, the scant amount of 
 leisure he had was chiefly devoted to the company 
 of Countess Szent Imre and Father Vincent, the 
 parish priest. 
 
 Towards the latter he gradually felt himself 
 powerfully attracted, though in his cynical moments 
 he would sometimes smile grimly at what fellows at 
 home would say at the idea of his drinking tea with 
 a parson two or three nights a-week. The child-like 
 faith of the latter — child-like in its simplicity and 
 earnestness, though founded on the most extensive 
 knowledge of authors, ancient and modern — im- 
 pressed him with a deep respect, bordering on ad- 
 miration. The width of his views, free from anything 
 resembhng exclusiveness or bigotry, was to George a 
 source of ever-recurring surprise, being so totally at 
 variance with the familiar, distorted notion of the 
 Catholic priest; but, above all, the utter self-abnega- 
 tion with which the monk devoted himself to his 
 arduous duties of ministering to the wants of the 
 sick and the poor, showed human life under an 
 aspect from which it had never yet been contem- 
 plated by the young officer. 
 
 Once his first shyness and reserve had worn off, 
 George found in Father Vincent a knowledge of 
 human nature that fairly took him aback. Where
 
 1 08 EUTHANASIA. * 
 
 could a common village priest, whose life had been 
 spent between the walls of a seminary, and the no 
 less narrow horizon of a Hungarian village, have ac- 
 quired so deep an insight into problems, the existence 
 of which he could but know from hearsay? 
 
 With consummate tact. Father Vincent carefully 
 avoided questioning George, even after some intimacy 
 had been established between the two, on any merely 
 personal matters; though he was, no doubt, able to 
 guess from remarks casually dropped during their 
 lengthy conversations, that the young officer's life, 
 unlike his own, had been one disturbed by storms 
 and passions. 
 
 The serene, placid manner of the priest had a 
 soothing effect upon George, when, as would happen 
 at times, visions of the past would oppress his mind 
 as if to taunt him with his own folly, making him 
 restless and feverishly discontented. He would often 
 then ask himself the question whether the life of this 
 priest, devoted exclusively to self-sacrifice and to the 
 ministering to the wants of others- — a life ignorant of 
 ambition, passion and the search of pleasure — was 
 not in reality a far happier one than his own had 
 been, in which he could count on his fingers the few 
 really unselfish actions it included. And what was 
 this due to? Circumstances, the perversity of his 
 nature, or what? 
 
 As long as mankind exists it will be, presumably, 
 very much the same. "Falso queritur de natura sua 
 genus humanum," said grim old Sallust many 
 centuries ago; and thus it will be to the end of the
 
 EUTHANASIA. lOg 
 
 chapter. Happiness exists to man born of woman 
 only in the past or in the future. 
 
 When George found he was giving way too much 
 to his meditative moods he would betake himself, 
 not infrequently, to while away an hour or two v^'ith 
 his charming country neighbour. 
 
 Countess Ilona Szent Imre was at that time in 
 the very acme of her beauty, at that age when a 
 woman's knowledge of the world gives her the ad- 
 ditional subtle charm — hard to define and com- 
 parable only to the art of thought-reading^of know- 
 ing almost by intuition the exact state of a man's 
 feelings towards her. Fully aware, though apparently 
 never conscious of her power, she disdained, as 
 wholly unworthy of her, the threadbare artifices of 
 the professional coquette. The little allurements of 
 side-glances, clasping of hands and other stage "busi- 
 ness" of common flirtations she left to others of 
 meaner clay, for she derived no more satisfaction 
 from the fact of another man's falling in love with 
 her than a crack shot does from each additional bird 
 put down to his bag. The result was that more 
 than one too ardent admirer had been seen leaving 
 the old mansion of Kisfalva on anything but good 
 terms with himself. 
 
 Coldness? A high tone of religious or moral 
 feeling? Extreme modesty? No, indeed! The feel- 
 ing that prompted her might probably be traceable 
 to a form of self-respect that caused her to place 
 too high a value on herself to fritter away promiscu-
 
 no EUTHANASIA. 
 
 ously that which she gave only in giving her whole 
 heart. The beautiful lines of Schiller: 
 
 Ich theile meine Freuden nicht; dem Einen, 
 Dem Einzigen, den ich mir auserkoren, 
 Geb' ich fiir Alles — Alles bin, 
 
 would, perhaps, best describe the secret springs of a 
 strangely complex nature by no means devoid of 
 contradictions; or, rather the nobler and vastly pre- 
 dominant side of it; for there was another one, 
 known only to herself, that might perhaps justify 
 some of the strictures on feminine inconsistency, ac- 
 cumulated during successive centuries. 
 
 A total disregard for the hollow rules of purely 
 conventional ethics allowed her to talk to George 
 about herself and her past Ufa with the greatest 
 freedom. She had married when little more than a 
 child, only to lose her husband after a year or two 
 of blissful happiness. Left a widow before she was 
 twenty, she had, after some years, allowed herself to 
 be persuaded to marry Count Szent Imre, a remote 
 connection of hers. His fortune and position made 
 the match a desirable one; and the difference of age 
 — he was past fifty at the time — dispensed her from 
 the obligation of professing sentiments which she 
 could not feel. Her husband, at that moment a 
 confirmed invalid, was kindness itself towards her, 
 and every spring, as long as his health permitted, he 
 accompanied her on a visit to her numerous friends 
 in England. 
 
 Though, in George's mind, every link that bound 
 him to Mildred had been severed by his last letter,
 
 EUTHANASIA. I I I 
 
 her image was still too present in his thoughts for 
 him not to have carefully avoided anything in the 
 shape of a common flirtation; but his growing inti- 
 macy with Countess Szent Imre was of so peculiar a 
 kind, and could so well be covered by the elastic 
 term of friendship, that it was with no feeling of self- 
 reproach that he saw his visits to Kisfalva becoming 
 more and more frequent. 
 
 Confidence is rarely one-sided; and, before very 
 long, he had reciprocated it by communicating the 
 history of his life, his betrothal and the breaking of 
 it. During the whole of his tale, the Countess sat 
 motionless, her eyes fixed upon the glowing embers 
 in a silent reverie. 
 
 "Poor girl!" were her only words when he had 
 done speaking, and, after a few seconds' pause: "and 
 shall you be very unhappy, do you suppose, if she 
 does follow your advice and marry Lord Devereux?" 
 
 The question was asked in the most common- 
 place manner, intended merely to convey the proper 
 amount of interest which, in polite society, the mis- 
 fortunes of our friends are expected to evoke in us. 
 
 "Yes, very unhappy!" was George's laconic 
 answer.
 
 112 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 "'Tis well to be merry and wise; 
 'Tis well to be honest and true; 
 'Tis well to be off with the old love 
 Before you are on with the new." 
 
 Weeks went by. The first symptoms of Nature's 
 revival were gradually becoming perceptible; the 
 snow slowly disappeared, to give place to an evil far 
 more formidable — fathomless mud. Circulation in 
 the village of Erdelyi and in its neighbourhood be- 
 came more difficult still, and had not military eti- 
 quette forbidden it, George would fain have used 
 stilts to go to the little inn where he took his frugal 
 mid-day meal. 
 
 At the same time, his duties absorbed even more 
 of his time than previously. By the first of May all 
 the recruits of his troop were to be inspected by the 
 Colonel before taking their places in the ranks, and 
 George was anxious to show what he had done. 
 Truly the metamorphosis undergone by these men 
 was sufficient for their own parents to have some 
 difficulty in recognising them. Pale, underfed strip- 
 lings, they had arrived on joining the regiment, 
 mostly clad in a twill suit, a straw hat and innocent 
 of anything in the shape of boots, the very use of 
 which was unknown to many of them.
 
 EUTHANASIA. 1 1 3 
 
 Look at them now, as they pass muster round 
 the riding-school under George's critical eye ! Square 
 and erect they sit on their chargers, thoroughly at 
 home in their smart uniforms, nervously anxious to 
 carry out every injunction imparted them by their 
 officer, whom they idoUse. For George's rough and 
 ready manner, cursing them roundly even for the 
 smallest piece of neglect, but on the other hand 
 never stinting them in words of approval or en- 
 couragement whenever he has an occasion to do so, 
 has won their hearts entirely; they feel the lively and 
 unflagging interest he takes in them and their well- 
 being. 
 
 Six months to teach a man to dress a horse, to 
 sit it and handle it in all its paces along the road 
 and across a country; to clean his kit; to use his 
 carbine; to understand his drill, mounted and un- 
 mounted, is a short allowance of time, no doubt. But 
 as he sees the last man of the class leave the riding- 
 school, George cannot help saying to himself, with 
 legitimate pride, that they ought to pass muster 
 satisfactorily even before the relentlessly critical eye 
 
 of Colonel Count Wartenstein. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Few and far between, indeed, are the natures in 
 which Love will resist the ordeal of prolonged separa- 
 tion. That this should be so — indignant protestations 
 of enthusiastic lovers notwithstanding — is, perhaps, 
 one of the saddest among the many sad truths con- 
 cerning the inner life of mankind. It is a law of 
 nature as unvarying and inexorable as the law of 
 
 Euthanasia. o
 
 114 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 gravitation. We may indignantly deny it — we pro- 
 bably, most of us, have at some period or other of 
 our lives; we may declare ourselves superior to the 
 general law, e pur si miiove. 
 
 During the first few weeks George thought no- 
 thing of walking or riding several miles over slippery, 
 frozen roads to call at the nearest post-office on the 
 days he thought he might expect a letter from 
 Mildred. Almost feverishly he would watch the clerk 
 sorting the letters; and his face would sink at being 
 told, in a sympathising tone, that there was nothing 
 for him that day. Then, after a few weeks, the 
 roads would be too bad and he would wait — im- 
 patiently, no doubt — until the letter was delivered in 
 the natural course of events. When received it would 
 be read and re-read and put by and treasured to- 
 gether with its fellows. The diminution in the inten- 
 sity of feeling \\ith which each successive missive 
 was received, was probably almost imperceptible, but 
 its ratio of progression none the less steady. 
 
 The hollow mask of friendship, of reciprocal 
 sympathy and confidence was still kept up between 
 him and Countess Szent Imre; indeed, on either side 
 no opportunity was lost, as if in self-defence — or, 
 at any rate, in self-delusion — of laying the utmost 
 stress on the purely friendly nature of their relations. 
 
 An incident occurred about that time, trifling, no 
 doubt, in itself, but nevertheless sufficient to serve 
 as a warning to George, had he been in the frame 
 of mind to listen to it. 
 
 One of Countess Szent Imre's favourite cobs had
 
 EUTHANASIA. I I 5 
 
 gone lame; so she suggested trying Lord George's 
 pony in double harness, with the intention of buying 
 it, should it be found to match. The latter of course, 
 assented to this, fervently hoping that old Fobs would 
 be found to pull too hard for the Countess's deli- 
 cate hands, or otherwise not to suit her; for he saw 
 no chance of replacing him within three or four 
 weeks' time. The pony, a nice-looking brown with 
 smartish action, behaved to perfection on his first 
 trial in double harness, when the Countess and his 
 master took the phaeton out for a turn around the 
 park. 
 
 It was a lovely spring morning; a south-westerly 
 breeze had melted away the last remnants of snow 
 that a few days ago still lay in small patches under 
 the hedges, where the snowdrops were timidly surging 
 from the frost-bound soil. The sun was shining 
 brightly, and in the distance the first notes of the 
 cuckoo were faintly heard. 
 
 "Upon my word," said the Countess, after having 
 driven in silence for some minutes, "do you know I 
 think he will do; but I must drive them myself by- 
 and-by. They certainly go very nicely with you, 
 though they have not got quite the same action." 
 
 "No, they haven't," answered George. "Besides, 
 I don't really know that I can let you have old Fobs 
 at once. You see, I should have nothing left to get 
 about with myself." 
 
 The Countess is far too good a judge of "pace" 
 — metaphorically speaking — to have any misgivings as 
 to his consenting eventually. After a (e\v seconds of
 
 I 1 6 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 silence, she turns her eyes upon him and says, in 
 rather a softer tone: 
 
 "Not if / asked you?" 
 
 The question was one not very easily answered, 
 when sitting so close to an exceedingly fascinating 
 woman that her arm was touching his, and when 
 two wondrous green eyes were turned upon him with 
 a look of earnest appeal which she could give them 
 at any moment, whether in earnest or in jest. 
 
 Now of course, prudence and wisdom would have 
 suggested to this misguided young man a vaguely 
 evasive answer, a rapid return of thought to his old 
 love far away, possibly a speedy retreat from a vici- 
 nity the dangers of which were becoming rather more 
 marked, under the plea of a sudden headache caused 
 by the balmy spring air. 
 
 George Mansfield did nothing of all this; but, 
 turning his head towards her, he said, half jestingly: 
 
 "What will you give me if I let you have the 
 pony at once — I don't mean what /rzV^ .-''■' 
 
 "Unconditional surrender are my terms," said 
 Countess Szent Imre. "But we must have that hood 
 up; it is coming on to rain; what a bore it is!" 
 
 A few clouds had rapidly been gathering, and a 
 smart shower — no unusual occurrence at the time of 
 year — was coming down. The hood is put up, and 
 for a few minutes they drive along in silence, the 
 feeling of close proximity to each other and seclu- 
 sion from the rest of the world being somewhat in- 
 tensified by the covering which shuts off the view on 
 either side.
 
 EUTHANASIA. I I 7 
 
 At last George Mansfield breaks the silence: 
 
 "What would you give to have at this moment 
 the right man sitting here in my place?" 
 
 The Countess is by no means taken aback, and 
 answers most imperturbably : "How do you know 
 there is a right man?" 
 
 "Well, if there is not, men in your country must 
 be very different from what they are in ours," says 
 George sententiously; and he gently touches up his 
 pony, who is beginning slightly to flag. 
 
 "And supposing there were" — and, like a flash 
 of lightning, those green eyes are seen to sparkle — 
 "what do you imagine he would say?" 
 
 "I don't know what he would say — I know what 
 he would do," George answers, in a short, rather ab- 
 rupt tone, as if struggling with himself. 
 
 At this moment their conversation is interrupted 
 by a gate which the groom has to descend to open. 
 Sitting behind the hood, he, of course, saw none of 
 the by-play of a conversation carried on in a lan- 
 guage unintelligible to him. 
 
 The thread was broken, and the few remarks 
 exchanged before the castle was once more reached, 
 referred to the pony, who, the Countess finally de- 
 cided, was not a sufficiently good match for hers. 
 
 "I suppose I shall see you again before long?" 
 were her parting words, and her hand just dwelt the 
 tenth part of a second in his. 
 
 Spring gradually waned into summer, and the 
 monotony of the riding-school was varied by frequent 
 days of squadron drill. On returning one morning
 
 I I 8 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 with his troop, after three hours hard work, George 
 was rather surprised to find an order from his Co- 
 lonel to report himself at headquarters the following 
 morning. He had by that time been some eight or 
 nine months with the regiment, and felt thoroughly 
 at home in all his varied duties. So it was with a 
 feeling more of curiosity than of apprehension that 
 he set off to obey the summons. 
 
 Having given the orders for the day to his senior 
 sergeant-major, he mounted his second charger, 
 rather looking forward to his ride, which was nearly 
 all over grass, and to a day with his brother officers. 
 Cantering along over the fine springy turf, the wiry 
 chestnut he was riding just catching hold nicely, 
 George could not but say to himself that, after all, 
 things had not turned out as badly as they might. 
 His work was thoroughly congenial to him; he had 
 found nothing but friendship and kindness in his 
 new sphere of life; and some day things might right 
 themselves. 
 
 Anyhow, he felt he had done his duty towards 
 Mildred in begging her not to allow any considera- 
 tion for himself to affect her plans for the future. 
 Of course he loved her still just the same, and would 
 never care for any other woman; no, not in the same 
 way, at least! At this phase of his meditations the 
 image of the lovely Countess came back to his mind 
 and, together with it, every word of their conversa- 
 tion in the park. Had he anything to reproach him- 
 self with? No, surely not; it had all been harmless 
 chaff Besides, her thoughts were evidently ab-
 
 EUTHANASIA. I I Q 
 
 sorbed by another than himself; so why should he, 
 from any sort of groundless scruples, deprive him- 
 self of the charm of her society, which had slowly 
 grown into a very important feature in his solitary 
 existence? 
 
 Nevertheless, his range of thoughts as he gradu- 
 ally approached the outskirts of Toronya did not, 
 from the expression of his countenance, appear to be 
 an altogether unpleasant one; and any pity which his 
 friends at home might have bestowed upon him for 
 living in some outlandish place would have been alto- 
 gether wasted just then. 
 
 His Colonel's greeting was most friendly. He 
 told George the matter he wished to talk over with 
 him was a private one, and thereupon requested him 
 to sit down. He then began thus: 
 
 "I wish you to understand that all I am going 
 to say is said exclusively in your own interest. I 
 have had a very good account of you through- 
 out, and what I have seen of your troop shows me 
 that you have worked hard and entirely under- 
 stand your duties. So far, so good; I must now pass 
 on to a matter to which I shall refer — please mark 
 this — more as a friend than as your commanding 
 officer. Of course we all know that when you joined 
 you were heavily in debt. No formal understanding 
 was entered upon, fixing any particular date at which 
 these liabilities were to be settled; but from the cor- 
 respondence that passed on the subject I gather, 
 firstly, that every effort would be made to settle the 
 matter within a reasonable time; secondly, that it
 
 I20 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 was not expected that any of your creditors would, 
 what I may call, become troublesome. I need 
 hardly add that, were it otherwise, your chance of 
 being accepted in our army would indeed have been 
 a poor one. 
 
 "As to the first point; I am not aware how 
 much nearer its accomplishment you are now than 
 when you first joined. With regard to the second, 
 a somewhat unpleasant incident has occurred. Hav- 
 ing previously applied unsuccessfully to Lord Er- 
 rington, a London firm, signing themselves "Messrs. 
 Smith & Walter, Turf Accountants," have written to 
 the War Office in Vienna, inquiring as to your 
 whereabouts, and your ability to settle. I have no. 
 doubt you have found out by now how exceedingly 
 particular we are about this sort of thing. Many a 
 young fellow has lost his commission for far smaller 
 sums than what I understand you to owe. It has 
 been thus with us for generations back, and we know 
 of no exception. 
 
 "The letter has been transmitted to me by the 
 War Office; they are a good deal annoyed, and it 
 would not do if it were to happen again. You had 
 better answer the letter yourself; but, at the same 
 time, I am instructed to impress upon you the ex- 
 treme desirability of getting your affairs settled be- 
 tween this and, say six months' time. Nothing has 
 actually been said in so many words as to the con- 
 sequences any further delay might have; but I am 
 bound to tell you I am afraid they might be serious. 
 I have a high opinion of you as an officer, and I
 
 EUTHANASIA. 12 1 
 
 think you may have a distinguished future before 
 you; therefore I am actmg only as a friend in put- 
 ting this before you plainly. I have nothing more 
 to add." 
 
 George had but little to say in reply, beyond 
 expressing his willingness to do all that lay in his 
 power; and he withdrew shortly afterwards. He 
 felt greatly perturbed by what he had just heard. 
 He fully understood the ominous hints the Colonel 
 had thrown out; but, on the other hand, expecting 
 him to square his position within six months, was 
 obviously expecting him to do what was beyond his 
 power. With his spirits at rather a low ebb, he 
 made his day at headquarters shorter than he had 
 originally intended, and the faUing night found him 
 back again in his country retreat.
 
 122 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 "Go not, happy day, 
 
 From the shining fields. 
 Go not, happy day. 
 Till the maiden yields. 
 
 "Rosy is the West, 
 Rosy is the South, 
 Roses are her cheeks, 
 And a rose her mouth. 
 
 "When the happy Yes 
 Falters from her hps. 
 Pass and blush the news 
 Over glowing ships." 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 Mildred Charteris, on returning to her quiet 
 country home in Hampshire after her visit to Mrs. 
 Jack Arthur, once more calmly and cheerfully took 
 up the thread of her peaceful and somewhat mo- 
 notonous existence. Time never seemed to hang 
 on her hands, perhaps owing to the fact of her de- 
 voting so little of it to herself In her quiet, un- 
 ostentatious way she would visit the cottages of all 
 to whom she thought her presence might offer re- 
 lief, and at many a bedside was her pure, placid 
 countenance lighted upon by eyes destined shortly 
 to be closed.
 
 EUTHANASIA. 123 
 
 The letter which she had received from George 
 Mansfield, urging her once more to let herself be 
 hampered by no consideration for him, had come 
 rather as a shock to her feelings, but she en- 
 deavoured to persuade herself that this was nothing 
 but the outcome of a generous wish of repairing any 
 wrong he might have committed towards her. Hers 
 was one of those natures leaving unto Providence the 
 care for the morrow, and the making of plans found 
 no room in her day's work. 
 
 Soon after they had parted she had written Lord 
 Devereux a short letter, only repeating in other words 
 what she had already told him at Manor Lodge, 
 and asking him to forgive her if her answer had 
 wounded his feelings. His reply was couched in 
 such generous and noble-minded words that, slow of 
 belief though she was on that subject, she could not 
 but realise the full depth of his affection for her. 
 
 She was strolling about her garden one morning, 
 attending to the wants of her favourite flowers, when 
 a letter, addressed in George Mansfield's familiar 
 hand, was brought her. These had gradually be- 
 come somewhat less frequent of late, for George 
 would plead the absence of any material whatever 
 from which to concoct a letter — a sure sign, were 
 others wanting, of love on the wane: for was ever a 
 lover known who could not, at any given moment, 
 cover twelve pages without conveying a single par- 
 ticle of news? 
 
 Without avoiding to mention Countess Szent 
 Imre's name when writing to Mildred, George's re-
 
 124 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 ferences to her had of late grown scarce; and like- 
 wise in this particular letter he said no more than 
 that he had been dining with her once or twice during 
 the preceding week. The interview with his Colonel, 
 however, he related most fully, drawing the most 
 gloomy forebodings from it. He wound up by say- 
 ing: 
 
 "It is all very well their talking, but you know 
 how absurd the idea is of my being able to raise six 
 or seven thousand pounds between this and the end 
 of the year; allowing for the small amounts I have 
 been steadily paying off, it will take quite that to 
 set me right. It is impossible. 
 
 "1 am afraid they really mean I cannot remain 
 in the army unless the matter is settled, and if I 
 have to throw up the sponge. Heaven only knows 
 what is to become of me. Here I am doing well, 
 and have some chance of getting on. I like my 
 work, and have got used by now to the life. I am 
 beginning to fear all my efforts will be wasted; per- 
 haps before very long you will see me driving an 
 omnibus down Piccadilly. It does seem awfully 
 hard, but I don't blame them; I mean the military 
 authorities here. They are quite as much down 
 upon their own fellows, and, of course, it would not 
 do to make exceptions for a foreigner. 
 
 "I am sorry to give you such a gloomy ac- 
 count. I was beginning to get quite hopeful a little 
 time ago, but now everything looks worse than ever." 
 
 Mildred felt deeply depressed by the receipt of 
 this letter. The idea of George's returning home
 
 EUTHANASIA. I 2 5 
 
 again after a year of his life wasted, and utterly 
 disheartened at his abortive attempt at righting him- 
 self, haunted her during many a sleepless night; but, 
 turn it over in her mind as she would, not a ray of 
 light would appear to guide her in the utter dark- 
 ness that had befallen her. And yet she knew that 
 from her alone could advice or assistance come. She 
 was well aware that no power on earth could induce 
 George to apply to his brother even for a temporary 
 loan, and that he would merely await his fate in 
 passive resignation. 
 
 A heavy cloud of anxiety and suspense thus 
 hung over the young girl's life; the look of placid 
 serenity upon her countenance had given way to 
 an expression of intense mental strain. She was 
 in the midst of one of these fits of sombre medita- 
 tion when a telegram was handed her. It ran thus: 
 
 "Am staying at the Willows until Monday; will 
 call to-morrow tea-time. 
 
 "Devereux." 
 
 She had not seen the sender of this message 
 since they stayed together under Mrs. Jack Arhur's 
 roof, and though her first impression was rather to 
 dread an interview which could not fail to bring 
 back painful recollections, she at the same time 
 felt gratified by this additional proof on Lord De- 
 vereux's part that no resentment was rankling in his 
 mind. 
 
 Her manner was perfectly natural on greeting
 
 126 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 him the following day and her welcome most cordial. 
 Before they had been together many minutes, Lord 
 Devereux had noticed the weary, wan look upon the 
 pale face on which his eyes were resting. 
 
 "Miss Charteris," he began, "you told me you 
 wished to keep me as a friend though I could be 
 nothing more. You are not given to making 
 speeches you do not mean , so I will avail myself at 
 once of the privilege you have granted me. You 
 are not looking yourself, and your bright, cheery 
 manner has gone. What is it? Ill-health; or have 
 you had any troubles or worries that I do not know 
 of? And, if the latter, may I claim the privilege of 
 your confiding in me? You must not look on me 
 as a fine weather friend; you will find enough of 
 these and to spare. Keep me for troubled times; 
 entrust me with all that weighs upon your mind. 
 Perhaps I can guess the quarter from which the 
 trouble comes; but do not let the wish of avoiding 
 me any unnecessary pain stop you; I am pretty well 
 hardened against pain since these last few months." 
 
 Tears have gathered in Mildred's lustrous eyes 
 whilst Lord Devereux was speaking, and she answers: 
 
 "Yes, I will look upon you as a friend. I am a 
 bad hand at little conventional falsehoods, so I will 
 tell you the whole truth. I have a heavy sorrow 
 weighing upon my mind. You have guessed rightly, 
 I have no doubt, where it comes from. Poor dear! 
 it is no fault of his; he has been behaving admirably 
 and has slaved away night and day, but they now 
 tell him that unless his debts are paid by the end
 
 EUTHANASIA. 127 
 
 of the year he will have to leave the Austrian ser- 
 vice. If he does it will make him perfectly reckless, 
 and there is no saying what the end will be. For- 
 give me if I am hurting your feelings — I never do 
 anything else; Heaven knows I would not do so 
 willingly, but you asked me to tell you the truth." 
 
 Lord Devereux never winced, and when Mildred 
 had ceased speaking he said, in a tone altogether 
 devoid of the earnestness of his former words: 
 
 "1 cannot tell you how sorry I am. Poor fellow! 
 I fancy he lost most of it over that little mare of 
 mine, did not he? She has won a lot of races since. 
 I suppose Errington's agent, old Milton, looks after 
 George's affairs too, doesn't he?" And thereupon 
 he changed the subject, doing his best to cheer 
 Mildred's spirits by rattling along in his old-fashioned, 
 anecdotic manner. 
 
 Shortly afterwards he took his departure, and 
 Mildred could not help noticing his springy, elastic 
 gait as he went to meet his horse that was just being 
 brought round, and the cheery ring of his voice as 
 he bade her farewell. 
 
 Three days later Mildred received the following 
 letter: 
 
 Dear Miss Charteris, — I devoutly hope you may 
 never have any worse troubles in life than those you 
 told me about the other day, and if this letter can 
 bring back the smiles to your lips I shall bless Mrs. 
 Ramsay for having asked me down to The Willows 
 last week.
 
 128 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 Anyhow, it is all right. I saw old Milton two 
 days after I left you. Things are not half as bad as 
 I had expected. In any case, the receipts will be in 
 Milton's hands within very few days. 
 
 1 have instructed him not to mention my name 
 and not to write to our friend for the present, as 
 he had better leave that to your tact. 
 
 Don't trouble to answer this, and believe me. 
 Yours ever, 
 
 Devereux. 
 
 Mildred's first sensation on receiving this letter 
 was a rush of deep and overwhelming gratitude for 
 so unexpected and spontaneous an act of generosity 
 on the part of Lord Devereux towards the very man 
 who, as he well knew, had from the first stood in 
 the way of the accomplishment of all his heart's 
 desires. The extreme simplicity and want of osten- 
 tation with which it was done impressed her more 
 almost than the act itself, and never before or after 
 was Lord Devereux so near to her heart as at that 
 moment. 
 
 On the other hand, when cooler reflection set in, 
 she could not but realise that this act placed her 
 under a deep and lifelong obligation towards him, 
 as the chance of the sum being repaid was obviously 
 a remote one. Though she knew Lord Devereux 
 too well to think for a moment that he would ever 
 attempt to take advantage of this position, her sense 
 of justice, together with her quickness of perception, 
 soon revealed to her the dilemma she was placed in.
 
 EUTHANASIA. 1 29 
 
 In her sad perplexity she bethought herself of her 
 friend, Mrs. Garrard, from whom she had received a 
 letter that very morning, saying she was going up to 
 town for three or four days. 
 
 "I know I can trust her," she said to herself, 
 "and she knows so much more of the world than I 
 do." The two had corresponded frequently during 
 the last few months, besides having met at a County 
 Ball in the course of the spring, and they now looked 
 at each other quite in the light of old friends. 
 
 Before the next hour was over, a message was 
 flashing up to London: "Want you badly; do come 
 down to dine and sleep. If impossible, will be in 
 town to-morrow." 
 
 Mrs. Garrard, warm-hearted and impulsive, like 
 most of her countrywomen, guessed there must be 
 some serious reason for Mildred to send for her in 
 this manner; so, leaving her own affairs to take care 
 of themselves, she dashed off to Waterloo, and, by 
 five o'clock, the two' friends were drinking tea to- 
 gether. Their greeting was a genuinely affectionate 
 one, with that true ring which no amount of tawdry 
 gush can replace. 
 
 Mrs. Garrard had far too much tact to begin 
 with cross-questioning Mildred as to "what was the 
 matter?" but she was not kept long in suspense. 
 When the tale was told, her delicate features assumed 
 an expression of deep reflection. 
 
 "My dear child," she said, "this is indeed a hard 
 case, if ever there was one. It would not be so to 
 many people, for lots of girls would simply jump at 
 
 Euthanasia. 9
 
 I 30 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 the idea of becoming Lady Devereiix, whilst others 
 would accept his money for their young friend, would 
 say 'Thank you!' and then cry quits. Of course, I 
 know you are different or you would not have re- 
 quired my adv-ice. People will say unkind things — 
 at least the mothers of girls who have been knocking 
 about London ball-rooms for five or six seasons will. 
 You don't mind that, do you?" 
 
 Mildred shakes her head. 
 
 "Do you think for a moment Lord Devereux 
 looks upon it at all in the light of a bargain? Excuse 
 my cross-questioning you — but I must!" 
 
 "No, I am positive he does not." 
 
 "Do you actually dislike him — I mean, does he 
 grate on your nerves? Do you hate the sight of him 
 when he says all the pretty things I have no doubt 
 he has said?" 
 
 "My dear Maggie," the young girl says, colouring 
 slightly, "what questions you do ask! No, I can't 
 say I dislike him at all — least of all now, when he 
 has behaved so nobly. But surely that is not enough 
 reason to wish to marry him, is it?" 
 
 "Dear child! I married for love, and the result 
 has not been a very satisfactory one, has it? But I 
 really cannot solve these problems upon which the 
 happiness of half-a-dozen people may depend, at five 
 minutes' notice. I will think it over between this 
 and dinner-time, and before you go to bed to-night 
 you shall have my opinion on the matter. Will that 
 do; and shall I sing you something now?" 
 
 The soft notes of her pure, melodious voice had
 
 EUTHANASIA. I 3 I 
 
 a soothing effect upon the poor girl's distracted 
 nerves, and, in the pleasure of her friend's com- 
 pany, she forgot for the moment her harassing per- 
 plexities. 
 
 They had one more talk in Mildred's bedroom 
 before she put out her candles. 
 
 "Mildred," Mrs. Garrard said in a quiet but 
 rather decided tone, "I have thought it over and I 
 think you ought to marry Lord Devereux. After all, 
 when all our ingenuity fails, don't you think the old 
 test of right and wrong is the simplest and safest 
 one. Lord Devereux knows you are not in love 
 with him and knows how much he can expect. To 
 take his money (for practically the money is given 
 to you) in the hopes of its setting George Mansfield 
 right and your eventually marrying him, would be 
 mean and unworthy of you; and as to your letting 
 George go to the wall when it is in your power to 
 save him — I know you won't do that. Now, don't 
 look too tragic over it, child, for there really is no 
 occasion to do so. I know exactly what you feel 
 like; shall I tell you? I dare say you have never 
 been to Tattersall's: 'And only six thousand bid for 
 her, no more; six thousand; have you all done; going 
 at six thousand; gone!'" and she brings her hand 
 down on the table, endeavouring with her rings to 
 imitate the rattle of the hammer. "Don't think me 
 unsympathising, for you know I am not. Now go to 
 sleep and try not to think any more about it." 
 
 Mildred could not resist bursting out laughing 
 at the latter part of Mrs. Garrard's peroration, for it 
 
 9*
 
 132 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 reflected, with too painful accuracy, the exact state 
 of her feelings. After her friend had left, she spent 
 half-an-hour in silent prayer, and when she rose, her 
 mind was made up. She had decided to sacrifice 
 herself for George's sake. 
 
 ^Miat is called in French a " combat de generosite," 
 though a frequent occurrence on the stage, is some- 
 what rare in real life. Anyhow, I-ord Devereux, who 
 was a warm-hearted English gentleman, and not a 
 fanatic of the flagellant type, allowed his scruples of 
 delicacy to be overruled without any very great dif- 
 ficulty, and within a week the engagement was an- 
 nounced, iirbi et orbi. 
 
 Mildred's task of informing George of the turn 
 things had taken was by no means an easy one, 
 owing to her extreme anxiety to prevent his noticing 
 any direct connection between the two items of news 
 she was imparting to him. Sooner than wound his 
 delicacy, she took upon herself the stigma of having, 
 of her own free will, finally relented towards Lord 
 Devereux's reiterated proposals. 
 
 With regard to the financial difficulty, which 
 George had been complaining about to her, she con- 
 trived, with consummate tact, to put the matter before 
 him in the light of a loan Lord Devereux was mak- 
 ing him to enable him to stay in his profession, and 
 chiefly on account of a large part of his losses having 
 arisen from havdng followed Lord Devereux's advice 
 about backing his stable.
 
 EUTHANASLV. 1 33 
 
 CHAPTER XIL 
 
 "Let the sweet heavens endure, 
 
 Not close and darken above me, 
 Before I am quite, quite sure 
 
 That there is one to love me; 
 Then let come what come may 
 
 To a life that has been so sad, 
 I shall have had my day." 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 At what stage in the proceedings and by what 
 symptoms does a man find out that he is "in love;" 
 and more especially so when there is no one to 
 "make the running" for him, and when whatever 
 competition may exist does not meet his eye in the 
 tangible shape of a rival, but is known to him only 
 from the accounts given by the lady of his affection, 
 which will in many, if not most, cases be slightly 
 touched up with a view either of increasing or mini- 
 mising their importance — as may suit her purpose? 
 
 No one will gainsay that circumstances were 
 singularly propitious towards George Mansfield's 
 sooner or later falling a victim to the charms of the 
 lovely Hungarian Countess. Like the germ of any 
 epidemic that thrives and takes root under certain 
 conditions only, and will not be absorbed by the 
 system under certain others, likewise the germ of
 
 134 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 love may fall on barren soil and may die away, 
 when, under different circumstances in the same in- 
 dividual, it might have spread and grown and 
 developed itself 
 
 Thus a life full of varied interests, distractions 
 and excitements might have proved a safeguard to 
 poor George Mansfield, whereas the many solitary 
 evenings, with no companions but his books, left 
 him time for fits of brooding, for going over in his 
 mind the words he had heard the evening before, 
 and for working himself into a thoroughly dangerous 
 frame of mind. Nothing was more characteristic of 
 the change he had undergone unwittingly than the 
 manner in which he received Mildred's communica- 
 tion. The pang he felt at first at the announcement 
 of her engagement — vaguely anticipated though it 
 might have been — was very severe; but it was un- 
 questionably much relieved by the knowledge that he 
 would not be again cast adrift, and could persevere 
 in the path he had cut out for himself 
 
 As to Lord Devereux's timely assistance, the 
 amount of which would, of course, eventually be re- 
 funded in full, he persuaded himself to look upon it as 
 a generous, but, considering all the circumstances, by 
 no means unaccountable act. Anyhow, Mildred was 
 now lost to him — irretrievably lost. She would soon 
 be another's. His face hardened at the thought; 
 what could it matter now to anyone what he did, 
 he asked himself, in a fit of utter recklessness, as 
 he rode off to impart the news to the fair hostess of 
 Kisfalva.
 
 EUTHANASIA. 1 35 
 
 The tone in which she expressed her deep 
 sympathy for him had such a genuine ring, and was 
 expressed so unreservedly, that George began to 
 feel that this was hardly quite the effect he had 
 hoped his communication to produce. 
 
 Countess Szent Imre was reclining on a chaise- 
 longue in the boudoir in which she had, for the first 
 time, received George. The windows were thrown 
 wide open to let in the balmy spring air; a few 
 steps led from the room down to the terrace, 
 resplendent with many -coloured flower-beds, that 
 did much credit to the English head-gardener, whom 
 Count Szent Imre had persuaded to bring about a 
 metamorphosis in the long-neglected gardens of his 
 ancestral mansion. Beyond the garden the eye 
 could rest on the vast expanse of the park; and, 
 still farther, the snow-clad range of the Carpathian 
 Mountains appeared against the horizon. 
 
 "Come and take a walk in the garden," said 
 Countess Szent Imre: "it is wicked sitting indoors 
 on a day like this; and don't look depressed if you 
 can help it, for I am rather down on my luck my- 
 self to-day. I suppose you are awfully cut up — are 
 you? I am so sorry. As long as you do not ask 
 me to comfort you — at least, not to-day! for I am 
 much too busy moaning over my own fate. No: but 
 seriously" (raising her eyes from the ground, and 
 letting them shine for the first time during their 
 conversation upon him in their full radiancy) "I am 
 awfully sorry for you. I suppose you are jealous, 
 too — are you?" This last question was asked in a
 
 136 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 tone of half-wondering curiosity, such as might be 
 adopted in inquiring from a patient as to some new 
 and strange symptom of his malady. "Poor boy! I 
 wonder what it feels like! Somehow, it seems so 
 long since I felt anything of the kind. I suppose 
 you won't go over for the wedding, will you?" 
 
 George's acquaintance with the Countess was 
 long and intimate enough by that time for him to 
 know that, in certain of her moods, it was quite use- 
 less to endeavour to divert her thoughts into any 
 channel other than the one she would let them drift 
 into. He quickly noticed that on that day they were 
 wandering far away, and that any attempt of his to 
 try and improve the shining hour would prove wholly 
 futile. Thus conversation lingered on. Never had 
 Countess Szent Imre, in George's eyes, appeared 
 more absolutely bewitching. Her slim, graceful 
 figure was clearly defined in the white serge suit 
 she was wearing — the sailor's hat, resting on the 
 thick curls of auburn hair, and its gay ribbon, 
 seemed thoroughly in keeping with the look of 
 almost child-like playfulness which her countenance 
 would now and then take. 
 
 "Don't go yet," she said to George, who was 
 making preparations for his departure. "I know you 
 have found me very dull to-day. Don't be angry; I 
 could not help it. My thoughts had been wandering 
 in the past when you came, and, somehow, your story 
 made me worse." 
 
 The clouds were gathering on her brow un- 
 noticed by George; for she spoke as if to herself,
 
 EUTHANASIA. 137 
 
 with her head almost turned away from him. After 
 a moment's silence, she addressed him again in her 
 low, musical voice. 
 
 "I had always meant to tell you some day what 
 I am now going to say. It is better for you that you 
 should hear it; there is but one other person in the 
 world who knows of it. But I think I can trust you. 
 Well! what I am going to tell you is practically the 
 history of my life. Don't be alarmed; I am not very 
 old, and my story is not very long — in fact, I dare 
 say, a very commonplace one. Of course, you know 
 I was left a widow when little more than a child. It 
 was then that I met the man whom I cared for, not 
 wisely, but too well. I was everything to him- — my 
 youth, my hopes, my faith in mankind were laid 
 down at his feet. The object of my life was to 
 please him, and to make him happy; and two years 
 of my life passed like a dream. One morning I re- 
 ceived an anonymous letter telling me the man in 
 whom I placed a world of faith, for whose sake I 
 would have committed every crime, passed his leisure 
 hours with a circus rider. She was a very smart 
 girl — I can see her now; she used to ride the haute 
 e'cole on a little weedy thoroughbred. You can guess 
 the rest. Don't think I am like the woman in the 
 tragedy, who stamps up and down the stage, vowing 
 vengeance on the whole sex because one man has 
 deceived her; not at all! Do you ever read Schiller? 
 
 'Ich habe genossen das irdische Gliick, 
 Ich habe gelcbt und geliebet.' 
 
 "I was once full of girlish innocence and candour
 
 1 38 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 and faith; that was what God made me: what you 
 see now is man's work. I have only very httle more 
 to add. Your Ufe is empty in a great many ways; 
 you have had a great blow in your dearest affections, 
 two reasons for which you might before very long 
 work up your imagination into fancying yourself in 
 love with me. Mark my words; don't! I don't go 
 in for little flirtations, as I have told you before. I 
 like you very well as a friend; there are moments 
 when I fancy I might drift into caring for you in a 
 sort of way. It would be the greatest misfortune for 
 you, for I know I could make you love me, and I 
 have nothing really to give in return. My life lies 
 in the past and the requiescat on that grave can 
 never be moved. And now you had better go. You 
 are sure you won't stay and dine?" 
 
 Slowly did George Mansfield wend his way home 
 that evening; the rich springy turf he had to ride 
 over could not tempt him to go out of a foot's-pace, 
 with the reins hanging loosely on his horse's neck. 
 Needless to say, he lighted a cigar — in the frame of 
 mind he was in, every man does— regardless of the 
 delicious fragrance of the violets that lined his path. 
 
 He felt that afternoon would be a landmark in 
 his life. The tale he had just heard, told, with the 
 utmost simplicity, in short, almost abrupt sentences, 
 had stirred him to the very innermost depths of 
 his soul. 
 
 On returning to liis own fireside he was not 
 altogether pleasantly surprised to find Father Vincent 
 waiting for him. Though this was not in itself an
 
 EUTHANASIA. 1 39 
 
 infrequent occurrence, he felt that on this particular 
 evening he could well have dispensed with any other 
 company than that of his own meditations. Never- 
 theless he had too much regard for the priest's ex- 
 tremely sensitive feelings not to give him a cheery 
 welcome and to invite him to share his frugal supper. 
 
 Father Vincent appeared to be in a more com- 
 municative mood and altogether in better spirits than 
 was his wont; so much so that George could not 
 refrain from noticing it to him. 
 
 "You are quite right," said the latter; "I feel 
 quite cheerful to-day. A priest's life is a hard one, 
 especially if he does not live merely for the routine 
 work, but tries to do some permanent good. After 
 years of opposition I have at last had the necessary 
 funds assured me for building and maintaining a 
 little cottage-hospital for our village: not more than 
 six beds to begin with, but anyhow it will be an im- 
 provement upon the present state of things. Yes, I 
 feel as elated as you would after — well, I suppose 
 after winning a race or securing the affections of 
 some lovely girl whom you hoped to make your 
 wife?" 
 
 "But, Father Vincent," was George's answer, 
 "does all your happiness in life consist in doing 
 good to others? Do you never think of yourself? 
 Of course, I fully realise that from most forms of 
 self-indulgence you are debarred; but for all that, 
 there must be many pleasures, wholly innocent, which 
 might be within your reach. Have they no attraction 
 for you?"
 
 1 40 EUTHANASU. 
 
 "None whatever," was the priest's reply. "I 
 entered holy orders as a Franciscan monk. The 
 founder of our order had enjoyed Hfe's merriment 
 for a short while, indeed — and he turned from it in 
 weariness and disgust. He was a saint long before 
 he was canonised, and we try to learn from his ex- 
 perience. He wished us to live as the birds of the 
 air do, trusting to Providence alone for our mainten- 
 ance. To us the word pleasure has no other mean- 
 ing than helping our fellow-creatures. My father was 
 a well-to-do man down in the south of Hungary. He 
 wanted me to enter the Bar, and I had completed 
 all my studies. Now I would not change with the 
 Prime Minister, let alone with a barrister. What does 
 ambition mean? Can it matter to anybody whether 
 he is forgotten ten years after his death, as the 
 Prime Minister will be; or twenty- four hours after it, 
 as I shall? Is it not exactly the same when you 
 thmk of eternity? And you who, as you have often 
 told me yourself, have lived for pleasure alone, has 
 your life been a happy one altogether? Are you 
 sure of obtaining all your heart longs for? Are you 
 sure, if you do obtain it, the fruit may not die away 
 in your hand the moment it is picked, and leave 
 you nothing but remorse and disillusion? And then 
 you will begin afresh, pursuing some new purpose, 
 and so on. Is that happiness?" 
 
 Had George been similarly addressed a year or 
 two previously, the chances are that he would have 
 declined the discussion of so abstruse a subject with 
 the remark that the views of a soldier and of a
 
 EUTHANASIA. 1 4 I 
 
 monk were scarcely likely to coincide on such a 
 topic, possibly accompanied by a cheque for the 
 benefit of the hospital in which his companion was 
 interested. But, under the circumstances, although 
 it appeared to him that the conversation was getting 
 rather too much within the range of personalities, he 
 answered without any endeavour to change the topic. 
 "Of course, happiness and pleasure are, to my 
 mind at least, two totally different things. To make 
 the search of pleasure one's sole object in life is, no 
 doubt, characteristic of a shallow and almost con- 
 temptible nature; but to aim at happiness for one- 
 self, and not only for others, as you do, appears to 
 me a perfectly legitimate purpose. What it consists 
 in will probably never be defined, and I suppose 
 everybody is the best judge in his own case. You 
 will not eradicate that pursuit of happiness from 
 human nature, any more than you will the instinct 
 of self-preservation, by any amount of preaching. I 
 don't mean you, personally, of course; it is irrespec- 
 tive of age, and nationality, and creed. A very small 
 percentage of philanthropists — so small that they al- 
 most disappear amongst the number, has probably 
 existed at all times. 1 take it they are horn as such. 
 I do not want for a moment to dispute the utter 
 unselfishness of their motives; but if they take 
 pleasure in doing acts of charity, it is no longer any 
 sacrifice to them, and consequently, as far as they 
 themselves are concerned, there can be no merit left, 
 if the merit of an action is to be judged, not by the 
 results — which would be manifestly unfair — but by
 
 142 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 the amount of self-denial to which it gave rise. I do 
 not wish to appear cynical or materialistic. If I were 
 to give up everything in life— that would not mean 
 very much just now — and were to turn monk, it 
 would be, indeed, an act of self-sacrifice. But in 
 your case — I hope I am not shocking your feelings 
 — you are born for self-abnegation, and would have 
 practised it before the founder of your Order ever 
 lived — before the Christian era began." 
 
 "You are not wounding my feelings in any way," 
 the priest answered mildly; "but you cannot expect 
 me to agree with your views. It is a matter that 
 admits of no absolutely conclusive demonstration; 
 but my experience of humanity leads me to doubt 
 in the love of the fellow-creature existing, so to speak, 
 as a taste, as you might care for books or for racing. 
 I have no faith in your born philanthropist; and, be- 
 lieve me, were it not for the deepest and most 
 earnest religious feeling, few would take to the life 
 we lead. The love of our fellow-creatures is merely 
 the offspring of religion. I love the poor and the 
 suffering noiv ; I thought but little about them be- 
 fore I entered holy orders. Do you believe in the 
 efficacy of charity when unaccompanied by the true 
 humility of heart that lowers you to the level of the 
 poor you are visiting, or rather raises them to yours? 
 I know you look upon me rather in the light of some 
 strange animal, what I should call a 'lusus naturae,' 
 though many of my brethren have practised self- 
 abnegation far more than I have. Happiness without 
 faith is a thing I cannot imagine the existence of.
 
 EUTHANASIA. 143 
 
 Don't you think yourself that weary, restless look I 
 see so often upon your countenance would vanish if 
 you could bring yourself to look beyond the narrow 
 boundaries of this present life, and not to endeavour 
 to cram so much enjoyment and excitement into the 
 short span of time that is allotted you? Forgive the 
 warmth with which I speak. Do not put it down to 
 any professional zeal or any narrow-minded pro- 
 selytism. I know that religion in most modern 
 societies is reduced to a purely conventional form, 
 and that strength of mind and strength of will are 
 required to rouse oneself from following the beaten 
 track and doing as others do. That would be the 
 first step towards real happiness. Practise renuncia- 
 tion and self-sacrifice; it will give you before long a 
 far keener enjoyment than any you have tasted as 
 yet. Like the alchemists of old, who wasted years of 
 their life in the futile endeavour of making gold, 
 placing first one substance and then another into the 
 cauldron, hoping first exultingly, then wearily that 
 the deposit left by the combination of all these dif- 
 ferent ores blended together might be the coveted 
 yellow metal; likewise he who lives only for the 
 vanities of this world throws everything that can at- 
 tract and allure the senses into the cauldron, from 
 which he hopes to distil happiness. He piles them 
 one on the other — every pleasure, enjoyment and 
 delectation; his life is replete with them. But, like 
 the alchemist, he waits in vain." 
 
 George had but little to say in reply to the ex- 
 ordium addressed to him with an amount of warmth
 
 144 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 and depth of feeling which lighted up the priest's 
 countenance with a look of the noblest fervour that 
 ever shone upon the face of any martyr, fearlessly 
 awaiting his doom in the Amphitheatre of Flavins. 
 Had he repHed his words would probably have been, 
 that theoretically he could but agree with all the 
 priest's views, but that he could find no application 
 to them as far as his own life was concerned; and 
 yet the virtue of self-abnegation need not be shunned 
 from want of opportunity of exercising it. 
 
 George's slumbers were restless that night. 
 Scenes followed each other without intermission be- 
 fore his mind, like glimpses of Holbein's "Devils' 
 Dance," seen through a magic lantern. First he saw 
 Mildred in bridal attire and with the orange blossoms 
 in her hair, standing before the altar, pale as are the 
 dead. He felt her turn her eyes upon him in earnest 
 entreaty. Then, suddenly, she held out her arms 
 towards him — not lovingly, but beseechingly, as if 
 calling upon him to save her. But some superior 
 power rooted him to the ground and held him 
 motionless. 
 
 The scene vanished; and soon he saw before 
 him the features, pale and ascetic, of the friar, hold- 
 ing up to him the cross, the emblem of his order; 
 and as he talked to him the figure of the monk 
 seemed to multiply as if his brethren had risen and 
 were joining him, and were encircling the spot where 
 George stood, and he felt himself carried away, as if 
 ready and willing to follow them, until his eye caught 
 sight of the Countess, temptingly bewitching, watch-
 
 EUTHANASIA. 1 45 
 
 ing the scene from a balcony above. The noble 
 features he loved to gaze upon were lighted up by 
 a smile — placid, indifferent, perhaps almost con- 
 temptuous. No glance of encouragement met his 
 eye; but none was required. He fought his way 
 through the crowd surging densely around him 
 towards where the lovely form stood, and, looking 
 up, he saw the set expression had melted to one of 
 passionate wistfulness and softness, and from under 
 the drooping lids shot forth one glance like a 
 Parthian arrow — as straight, almost as deadly. 
 
 George was rudely awakened and brought back 
 to stern reality by a knock at his door, and the ap- 
 pearance of his sergeant-major making his daily 
 report. One man laid up with fever, and a charger 
 lame from having caught his leg in the collar rein. 
 
 "Of course, the best one out of the lot must go 
 and lame himself," said George rather moodily; "why 
 can't the fool of a man see to the weights working 
 properly; a horse cannot get caught if they do. The 
 men to turn out in full marching order at my door 
 at three this afternoon. Troop to parade at seven 
 this morning for squadron drill; remounts to be left 
 at home." 
 
 About an hour later George could be seen riding 
 off at the head of his troop, in the direction of the 
 large plain where three squadrons were under orders 
 to meet. 
 
 Euthanasia,
 
 1 46 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 "We met in secret in the depth of night, 
 
 When there was none to watch us; not an eye, 
 
 Save the lone dweller of the lonely sky. 
 To gaze upon our love and pure delight: 
 And in that hour's vinbroken soUtude, 
 
 When the white moon had robed her in its beams, 
 
 1 thought some vision of a blessed dream 
 Or spirit of the air before me stood 
 And held communion with me." 
 
 ISM.\EL FiTZADAil. 
 
 It was not often that Countess Szent Imre in- 
 dulged in a retrospect of her past life towards 
 others; and long after George had left she remained 
 musing, as if exhausted by the effort of lifting the 
 veil from off the history of her life. 
 
 What she had told George was the truth. She 
 had loved once only, but then with all the passion 
 of a Southern nature. There was nothing petty 
 about her; and when she felt she had met what was 
 to be the love of her life, she gave herself away, 
 body and soul, to the man she loved, as Cleopatra 
 might have done to Antony, in true queenly fashion, 
 with none of the little artifices and subterfuges and 
 sham resistances characteristic of the fiyi de siecle 
 romance. 
 
 The man through whom the whole current of
 
 EUTHANASIA. 1 47 
 
 her life was to be altered had first attracted her 
 attention by a speech he had made in the Hungarian 
 House of Lords during a debate at which she hap- 
 pened to be present. The discussion was a stormy- 
 one, as is frequently the case in that Parliament, 
 which, despite its venerable age, has still maintained 
 a more than youthful vigour, and in which but a 
 light spark is required to bring about a conflagration. 
 
 Count Kesthelyi, who to an unusually fascinat- 
 ing appearance added many of the charms of manner 
 so frequently found in the Hungarian magnate, rose 
 when the excitement was at its culminating point. 
 He then occupied a position analogous to what an 
 Under-Secretary of State is with us. 
 
 A violent attack had been directed against the 
 department which he was called upon to represent 
 on account of an apparent breach of duty committed 
 by one of the minor officials. Strong words, such 
 as "corruption" and "venality," had been freely 
 bandied about, when amidst breathless silence, the 
 Under-Secretary rose to his feet. In a few short 
 sentences, pronounced in a tone of the most per- 
 fectly imperturbable urbanity, he destroyed the hollow 
 fabric of empty words that had been directed against 
 him. It would have been easy to extricate himself 
 and the cabinet from the awkward position they 
 were placed in, by sacrificing the subordinate official 
 against whom the brunt of the attack was directed. 
 Too proud to do this he declared himself fully 
 responsible for the other's actions. Did anybody 
 suspect him of venality, let him say so outside the
 
 1 48 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 walls of the House, when an answer would be speedily 
 forthcoming. 
 
 There are perhaps few nations in which the ring 
 of chivalrous words and actions will so freely find 
 an echo as in the Hungarian. The Government 
 obtained an overwhelming majority, and Count 
 Kesthelyi was the hero of the day. Chance would 
 have it that the following day Countess Szent Imre 
 met him at dinner. They had been nothing but 
 the most ordinary acquaintances until then; but a 
 few hours are often sufficient to decide upon the 
 destiny of a life. 
 
 Far from being elated, or apparently even con- 
 scious of the success he had achieved the man whose 
 name was now in everybody's mouth appeared rather 
 disposed to avoid the topic of last night's debate — 
 an unusual thing in a man barely out of his twenties 
 — and to turn the conversation rather upon her than 
 upon himself They soon began to see more of 
 each other; she, the widow of twenty-one, with all 
 the sweet fragrance of youth upon her; he, fascinating, 
 clever and agreeable, but unfettered by any principles 
 as far as the fair sex was concerned. Like many 
 of his compatriots, he had been, when hardly more 
 than a boy, forced rather reluctantly into a marriage 
 which family considerations made desirable: an ill- 
 fated union which, after very few years, remained a 
 union but in name. 
 
 Anything savouring of deceit and treachery was 
 altogether foreign to Countess Szent Imre's nature, 
 such as it was at that time. A childless widow, she
 
 EUTHANASIA. 1 49 
 
 felt as if she had no one to consult but the voice of 
 her own heart, and she followed it. Radiantly happy 
 as she was during the few years that followed, un- 
 known to herself a slow process of moral dissolution 
 was at work within her — the unavoidable consequence 
 of a life destined at least to deceive the world at 
 large; and nothing was done on the part of her 
 brilliant but singularly unscrupulous lover to arrest 
 the progress of it. Illusions followed the way scruples 
 had gone, and the ennobling influence of a wholly 
 unselfish passion alone kept up some of the better 
 qualities of a nature gifted far above the average of 
 her sex. When the man to whom she had given 
 everything finally deceived her with a low circus- 
 rider, she went through as dangerous a crisis as ever 
 was woman's fate to survive. Though vaguely sus- 
 pected by some, the fiery tumult that raged within 
 her breast for many months was never allowed to 
 become public property; and shortly afterwards she 
 married Count Szent Imre, her senior by many years, 
 who expected Httle more from his wife than that her 
 lovely presence should grace his board and should 
 do the honours of his house in the manner that had 
 become a tradition of it. 
 
 This was the woman that stern Fate threw across 
 poor George Mansfield's path. Love such as hers 
 does not become extinct this side of the grave. 
 "What is pride, compared with love?" she would 
 say wistfully to herself; and had Count Kesthelyi 
 come back penitent, no doubt his misdeeds would 
 have found forgiveness in her eyes. But there was
 
 150 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 not the faintest indication of his having any such 
 intention. 
 
 A sudden return to the frankness and straight- 
 forwardness of olden days had impelled her to give 
 George Mansfield, for whom she felt a considerable 
 amount of sympathy, the warning chronicled before. 
 
 Three or four weeks have elapsed. Wild work 
 has been wrought in George Mansfield's feverish 
 mind. Had Countess Szent Imre been bent upon 
 fanning the flame of passion within him she could 
 not have done so more effectively than by the words 
 she had spoken. His mind was becoming more and 
 more absorbed by her; and though he went through 
 all his professional duties with unflagging mechanical 
 precision, his heart was no longer in it as of yore. 
 
 He took an early opportunity of informing his 
 colonel of the favourable turn his affairs had taken, 
 and wrote Mildred a letter, the wording of which 
 took him the best part of a Sunday afternoon. 
 
 Countess Szent Imre had gone to spend a fort- 
 night at Pesth; so he was left for a time to his pro- 
 fessional duties alone, and to his reflections concern- 
 ing both the past and the future. 
 
 Great was his reUef when, one day early in June, 
 he received a note from the Countess announcing 
 her return, and bidding him come and see her when- 
 ever he Hked. The following day saw him rather 
 earlier than usual at his work, hoping to bring it to 
 a satisfactory conclusion by four p.m., and then to 
 drive over to the castle. A life like George's, where 
 the routine of successive days hardly varies and
 
 EUTHANASIA. I 5 I 
 
 makes them pass with startHng rapidity, soon pro- 
 duces the effect of losing account of time; and it was 
 only on noticing the dates on the daily papers re- 
 ceived just before leaving that George said to him- 
 self; "By Jove! I quite forgot it is the ninth — her 
 wedding-day, of course!" 
 
 His face clouded over just for a moment, and 
 involuntarily he looked back and thought how, not 
 so very long ago, he had dreaded the vision of that 
 day: and now, but for the merest chance, he would 
 have let it pass unnoticed. He lit a cigarette, and 
 going to his writing-table snatched up a telegraph 
 form and wrote, with a hand that betrayed the 
 emotion he felt: 
 
 Countess of Devereux, 
 
 88, Grosvenor Square, London, W. 
 Please accept my sincerest and most heartfelt 
 wishes and congratulations. 
 
 George Mansfield. 
 
 In an unusually abrupt tone — for his manners to his 
 inferiors were, as a rule, studiously considerate — he 
 tells his servant to take the telegram to the post- 
 office town, and then jumps into the pony-cart. His 
 soldier servant does not display the alacrity in releasing 
 the pony's head that suits his master's impatient 
 temper. "Let him go, you fool!" he thunders; and, 
 smartly touching up old Fobs, who rather resents 
 such unaccustomed treatment, he rattles over the 
 stony road at a pace that puts the springs to a some-
 
 152 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 what severe test. The rapid motion suited him, and 
 the balmy spring breeze cooled his feverish brow. 
 Driving along the now so familiar avenue, he could 
 not but look back upon that wintry afternoon when, 
 in his sledge, he, for the first time, set out to find 
 his way to KJsfalva. He remembered it all: the 
 snowdrifts, his meeting with Father Vincent on his 
 way to a death-bed, and, above all, his first inter- 
 view with Her. 
 
 Does a man pretty far "gone," as our friend 
 now was, become blind to Delilah's faults as a rule? 
 We doubt it. He would, of course, not admit them 
 to anybody else; but, in his innermost heart, he sees 
 the faults, knows them to be such, but loves her just 
 as much in spite of them, and w^ould not remove 
 them had he the power to do so, for fear of marring 
 the harmony of the enseinble. Thus George, even 
 making the most liberal allowance for the wrongs the 
 Countess had suffered, could not but admit that many 
 an ill-natured epithet might be applied to her, not 
 wholly without a semblance of justification by sceptics, 
 or others, inclined to judge from appearances only, 
 but to him she was the impersonation of all that 
 makes woman tempting and bewitching — the lust of 
 the eye incarnate. The quiet, rather languid tones 
 of her voice, that smile so hard to interpret, those 
 glorious green eyes that would shine so brightly 
 when she was not too indolent to raise them from 
 underneath the thickly-fringed lids, had each and all 
 an altogether magic power over him. 
 
 He found the Countess lying in a hammock in
 
 EUTHANASIA. 153 
 
 the garden, apparently so absorbed in reading as 
 hardly to notice his approaching footsteps. When 
 he was within a few yards of her, she looked up in- 
 dolently from her book and said: 
 
 "Oh, that is you, is it? I wasn't expecting you 
 until to-morrow; surely that was what I said, wasn't 
 it? Or have 1 made a mistake? I perpetually do; 
 but I really did not mean you to come to-day, for 
 my husband only returns from Pesth to-morrow morn- 
 ing. Anyhow, you must not stay and dine." She 
 burst out laughing merrily on seeing George's crest- 
 fallen look, the cause of which she pretended not to 
 understand. "Poor thing!" she said; "had it counter- 
 ordered its little supper at home, and is it afraid of 
 having to go to bed hungry? Well, then, it shall not; 
 though I have no doubt it will cost me my reputa- 
 tion. Only, seriously, I must turn you out the mo- 
 ment you have done dinner. Is that a bargain? And 
 if you are a good boy, you shall have a bottle of that 
 old Burgundy, which you say you don't often get in 
 our outlandish parts. Noiv are you happy?" 
 
 Of course George protested as to the purely dis- 
 interested character of his visit as far as the arrange- 
 ment of his meals was concerned; but he could not 
 but admit to himself that the playful tone which the 
 Countess had adopted towards him was ill-suited 
 to his own frame of mind. For some occult reason, 
 or possibly for none at all, Countess Szent Imre was 
 that day in what she would herself have described 
 as "tearing spirits." (Foreigners who have mastered 
 the intricacies of our idiom are sometimes rather
 
 154 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 given to overdo things, and to \>q. Anglis ipsis Angliores 
 in the way of talking slang.) Thus she carried on 
 most of the conversation herself. Whence came her 
 lightheartedness? Did George want to know? She 
 hardly knew; nothing had happened to make her so; 
 perhaps it was the fine weather, perhaps the pleasure 
 of seeing him, perhaps anything else. And was it 
 not rather meritorious, her keeping up her spirits as 
 she did? Could anybody imagine a duller life? And 
 what could any of his friends at home say if they 
 were expected to do as she did? 
 
 Thus she rattled along lightly, touching first one 
 subject and then another. "How absurd it seems," 
 she said, as the dinner bell rang, "that we should sit 
 down together in this ultra-conjugal fashion ! I wonder 
 what the servants will think about it all; not that I 
 trouble my head much about them, or ever did, even 
 in old days." 
 
 Her face assumed a thoughtful expression, as it 
 mostly did when reminiscences of the past would rise 
 to her mind. Her thoughts were evidently wander- 
 ing backwards, and her manner was absent through- 
 out the rest of the dinner. Her injunctions to George 
 about leaving early had probably been wiped away 
 by the train of her thoughts; for the moon rising on 
 the horizon found him still in her company. The 
 gardens below the terrace upon which they were 
 standing, were beginning to show streaks of light, 
 making the shadow and darkness of the forests beyond 
 more gloomy and profound. Far in the distance, 
 the weird notes of a Tzigane band were just dis-
 
 EUTHANASIA. I 5 5 
 
 cernible, now rising to impassioned, heart-stirring 
 notes, then again growing fainter and all but dying 
 away. 
 
 "Come indoors," said the Countess; "I cannot 
 bear the moonlight; it always did affect me. By the 
 bye," she began, "do you remember my once telling 
 you about a circus girl who played rather a pro- 
 minent part in my early Ufe?" Her voice, somehow, 
 had not its wonted softness, and the rather abrupt 
 manner in which she spoke betrayed the extreme 
 tension of her nerves. "She has done well for her- 
 self. I happened to hear from Paris to-day that she 
 is the first e'cuyere at the Hippodrome, with a Russian 
 prince smothering her in diamonds. Not bad, is it? 
 But then, her early training was a good one — I don't 
 mean as regards the haute ecole. After all, perhaps 
 it is better as it is; nothing is worth caring for much, 
 and 'Im Grabe ist Ruh.'" 
 
 George could discern her eyes getting moist as 
 she spoke; but, as if with an endeavour to brush 
 away the thoughts that were oppressing her and that 
 caused her heart to throb in angry tumult, she said: 
 
 "How selfish I am; I have been talking of nothing 
 but myself! Tell me now about your troubles. Has 
 any day been fixed for the marriage?" 
 
 "The marriage is to-day; she is married nozv." 
 
 "Are you very unhappy?" is the only reply, in 
 tones scarcely audible; but he guesses the meaning 
 from the working of the lips. 
 
 "Unhappy? You asked me the same question a 
 few weeks ago. Had I told you the whole truth
 
 156 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 then, I should have said I did not think I could live 
 through the day. Now, the Past is effaced; noiv, 
 my happiness lies in these little tiny hands." He 
 seizes them and kisses them passionately. "Your 
 frowns alone can make me unhappy, and I would sell 
 my soul for one of your sweet smiles, for one look 
 from those green eyes I love. I know I never can 
 wipe out the past with you; I know I never can take 
 the place in your heart which he had. But, say, do 
 you think you do care for me — just one little bit?" 
 
 The long restrained passion is fast gaining mastery 
 over him; her eyes are veiled by the drooping lids; 
 her lips barely part to faintly utter: "Should you be 
 here if I did not?" and they do nothing to escape 
 meeting his. 
 
 As George Mansfield drove away that evening, he 
 stopped his pony on passmg the front of the house 
 under the terrace where, bathed in the moonlight, 
 stood the tall and stately figure he had clasped in 
 his arms. Not a sound was to be heard around the 
 vast, silent, gloomy mansion. He just caught the 
 words "Good bye, darling!" from the lips that blew 
 him a parting kiss. 
 
 Vanity or self-love had no share in the feeling of 
 joy, so intense as not to be experienced twice in a 
 lifetime, that filled George's heart to overflowing dur- 
 ing that midnight drive through the Hungarian Puszta. 
 Should death overtake him there and then, he would 
 not look upon his life as wasted. He had won the 
 love of the woman whose vision was always before 
 him as the incarnation of all that is lovely and seduc-
 
 EUTHANASIA. I 5 7 
 
 tive; of all that is noble and good. True, she had 
 sinned in her early days; but did not the very frank- 
 ness of her confession wipe away the stain, and was 
 she not now his, and only his? 
 
 A clock in a neighbouring village struck twelve, 
 and as he counted the strokes, slowly following each 
 other at long-drawn intervals, the thought flashed 
 across him that the moon that had all but shone 
 upon the sealing of the unholy bond consecrated that 
 evening, was the honeymoon of her to whom he had 
 once plighted his troth. He shrugged his shoulders 
 at the thought. 
 
 His pony, anxious to return to home comforts, 
 was going freely up to his bit, and was, no doubt, 
 rather aggrieved at having his progress suddenly 
 checked without any reason that he could delect; for, 
 passing over a little wooden bridge which crossed a 
 brook swollen by the recent rains, George pulled up 
 short. He took out his watch, and severed from its 
 chain the ring Mildred had given him before they 
 parted. One moment afterwards it had disappeared 
 in the angry torrent. "Farewell to the past!" were 
 his only words. 
 
 * * * * % 
 
 That same day, the well-known strains of Mendels- 
 sohn's Wedding March pealed forth to a "large and 
 fashionable" assembly gathered together at St. Peter's, 
 Eaton Square, to see Mildred Charteris wedded to 
 Lord Devereux. Hers was not the nature to turn 
 back from the decision she had come to, under the 
 impression — be it justified or not — that the obligation
 
 158 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 she was under to Lord Devereux for his spontaneous 
 act of generosity could be cancelled but in one way. 
 Her stern and unrelenting sense of duty never allowed 
 her to waver in the accomplishment of what was little 
 less than an act of self-immolation. 
 
 The whole truth was known by nobody save Mrs. 
 Garrard, to whom she felt a steadily growing attach- 
 ment. Needless to say, Mrs. Jack Arthur appeared 
 at the wedding in her very smartest attire. She 
 thoroughly approved of the arrangement, and credited 
 herself with having materially contributed to the ac- 
 comphshment of it. 
 
 The solemn words "I will" have been spoken 
 and the rings exchanged. A general feeling of relief 
 is prevalent that it is all "safely over," and people 
 are looking for their carriages, with feelings divided 
 between the wish of seeing the wedding presents 
 and misgivings at to sacrificing their luncheon by so 
 doing. 
 
 To adopt the style of the society chroniclers, we 
 will but add that in the afternoon Lord and Lady 
 Devereux left for Staplemoor Park, his lordship's 
 country seat in Leicestershire for the honeymoon.
 
 EUTHANASIA. 159 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 "I will be quiet and talk with you, 
 And reason why you are wrong; 
 You wanted my love — is that much true? 
 And so I did love, so I do: 
 What has come of it aU along ? 
 
 Oh, Love, Love, no, Love! not so indeed! 
 
 You were just weak earth, I knew; 
 
 With much in you waste, with many a weed 
 
 And plenty of passions run to seed. 
 
 But a little good grain, too." 
 
 Robert Browning. 
 
 A FEW months have gone by; the leaves are fall- 
 ing rapidly under the angry blasts of the autumnal 
 gales; people are beginning to talk over their plans 
 for the winter and the prospects of the forthcoming 
 hunting season. Mildred has settled down to her 
 new existence with cheerful resignation. She was 
 determined to fulfil all the duties of her position, 
 and before long the tenants on the large property, 
 as well as those in need, had learnt to appreciate 
 Lady Devereux's kind heart and the willingness with 
 which she lent her ear to their manifold grievances. 
 Thus, there was no lack of fresh occupations and 
 fresh subjects of interest in her life; perhaps the 
 social side of her duties was the one from which 
 she derived the least satisfaction. Lord Devereux
 
 1 60 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 was too proud of his handsome young wife in any 
 way to restrain his naturally very hospitable instincts, 
 so that the spare rooms at Staplemoor were scarcely 
 ever empty. Mildred was far less acquainted with 
 all the little intricacies of society than her Lord; so 
 she hardly took more than a formal part in the 
 framing of the lists for the parties, rapidly succeed- 
 ing each other. 
 
 Mrs. Jack Arthur watched Mildred's first steps 
 in her new line of life with concentrated interest. 
 As a near country neighbour, and from having been, 
 at least in her own estimation, more or less in- 
 strumental to the making up of the marriage, she 
 felt herself justified in claiming a certain amount of 
 intimacy. Any illusion she might have had on this 
 score was speedily dispelled. Many reports concern- 
 ing Mrs. Arthur, which Mildred had formerl}^ taken 
 little heed of, or put down to mere ill-natured gossip, 
 had taken more consistency now that conversation in 
 her presence had grown less guarded; and she was 
 fully determined not to let Mrs. Jack become what 
 she described as a "tame cat" in the house. On 
 the other hand, her friendship for Mrs. Garrard went 
 on steadily progressing, She liked her fearless, 
 straightforward contempt of all the little conventional 
 shams and falsehoods, and her refreshing disregard 
 of the higher or lower social status of people about 
 whom she expressed an opinion. 
 
 The two friends were sitting together one morning 
 after breakfast, in Mildred's boudoir, a room pleasing 
 to the eye in its simplicity, and suggestive of a
 
 EUTHANASIA. I 6 I 
 
 thoroughly cultivated taste on the part of its owner. 
 There was a sort of genuine look about everything 
 the room contained, and a scrupulous avoidance of 
 over decoration and repletion with the costly little 
 knick-knacks of doubtful taste with which we see too 
 many boudoirs crammed nowadays. 
 
 The last remnants of the week's party had just 
 left. Lord Devereux's broad-shouldered form was 
 seen vanishing down the avenue in his phaeton on 
 his way to a county magistrates' meeting, so the two 
 ladies felt sure of an undisturbed morning. 
 
 "Oh, what a comfort to have the place to our- 
 selves at last; isn't it, Maggie?" says Mildred. "I 
 don't think I could have stood another day of that 
 little Lady St. Austin, with her curls and her simper- 
 ing minauderies, and her sidling up to Captain 
 Drummond. And when she turns up those languish- 
 ing eyes to heaven, and talks about religion, and our 
 duties towards the lower classes, and all that, I feel 
 inclined to slap her. Much good the lower classes 
 will learn from following her example. Now, I am 
 going to read for half an hour, just to take the taste 
 away whilst you are writing your letters; and then 
 we will have a quiet talk." 
 
 "All right, dear child," says the other affec- 
 tionately; but if I were you I would not make myself 
 unhappy about Lady St. Austin. She is a harmless 
 little insect that flutters about in the sunshine, but 
 that I should not think worthy of a second thought." 
 
 A pause of some duration ensues, during which 
 
 Euthanasia, 1 1
 
 1 62 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 Mrs. Garrard's pen is hard at work. At last, Mildred 
 looks up from her book, and says: 
 
 "I wonder what is the matter with Mrs. Arthur. 
 I can see she can't bear me any longer. Have you 
 any idea?" 
 
 "Is that all the benefit you have derived from 
 reading about spiritual Hfe, to worry yourself about 
 what is going on underneath Mrs. Arthur's carroty 
 curls? Of course she does not love you any more. 
 She thought she had made your marriage, and was 
 going to what the Americans call 'run the show' ever 
 after. She finds out her mistake, and turns sulky in 
 consequence; that's all. In fact, I should not be 
 surprised if she were to try and let you feel it one 
 day, if she gets the chance. However, don't let us 
 waste our time talking about Mrs. Jack; we shall not 
 get such an opportunity again in a hurry, and my 
 letters can wait." She sits down close by her friend, 
 whose hand she takes in her own: ''Now, I want to 
 talk about you, and you only. I am not going to 
 ask you any questions that your father-confessor, 
 if you had one, might ask; but anyhow, you can 
 tell me this much: You don't regret anything, do 
 you?" 
 
 "Regret! No," said Mildred, slowly and thought- 
 fully; "I suppose if it was to be done over again I 
 should do the same thing. My object was to save 
 George from going to the bad, if I possibly could do 
 so. This, I trust, I have accomplished. Of course, 
 Devereux only paid all this money for my sake, 
 though he was too generous to say so. Never-
 
 EUTHANASIA. 1 63 
 
 theless, to all intents and purposes, it was a bargain, 
 and I have to fulfil my share of it. No; I am not 
 what you call unhappy, though it is much more 
 horrible being married to one man when you care 
 for another than I ever thought. Devereux is very, 
 very kind to me — far more so than I deserve; but I 
 am sure he is already beginning to realise that I 
 don't quite feel for him as I should, and that I never 
 will. Poor George! I wonder if he will ever know 
 the whole truth. How little he could have sus- 
 pected all this when he told me — so long ago, it 
 seems now — I had better marry 'Old Devereux,' as 
 he called him." 
 
 In her appreciation of Mrs. Jack Arthur's feelings 
 towards her friend, Mrs. Garrard had shown her 
 quickness of perception. Mildred's rather reserved 
 manner, and the want of alacrity with which she 
 received many of Mrs. Jack's suggestions, had left 
 a certain bitterness within the latter's mind, which 
 was stimulated by her putting down a slight diminu- 
 tion of einpressemcut in her friend Captain Ather- 
 stone's manner towards her, to the fascination exer- 
 cised quite unconsciously upon him by the fair hostess 
 of Staplemoor. 
 
 The time had been when slights and snubs had 
 been her daily bread, and when she could not 
 afford to resent them; but this was different now, 
 and she was not going to stand the "airs" Lady 
 Devereux might choose to give herself; for, had it 
 not been for her, Mildred might still be withering 
 away in some tumble-down old place in Hampshire.
 
 1 64 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 Anyhow, if her ladyship was going to be nasty, she 
 should soon learn that two could play at that game. 
 Without having any very definite object in view, she 
 thought it might very Ukely suit her purpose to 
 obtain some information concerning George Mans- 
 field's movements; and a far surer way of obtaining 
 this appeared to her to apply for it to Colonel 
 Greville, in Vienna, instead of writing to George 
 himself She had met the Colonel on and off, on 
 various occasions in London, and, knowing as he did 
 that George had been one of her "set," he could 
 not think it in any way surprising that she should 
 write to make inquiries about him. Besides, Mrs. 
 Jack was a pretty good hand at writing letters with- 
 out the recipient being any the wiser as to the par- 
 ticular object of her inquiries. 
 
 Before very long, Colonel Greville's answer reached 
 her: 
 
 "With regard to George Mansfield, all I can say 
 is that he is going well and strong. If he is broken- 
 hearted he is a better hand at concealing his feelings 
 than I ever gave him credit for. He does not often 
 come up to Vienna; in fact, very seldom; but the 
 report is^ that he is going on anyhow with a most 
 fascinating Hungarian countess. Of course, I cannot 
 vouch for the truth of the report, but I am inclined 
 to think there might be something in it. He talks 
 vaguely of going home for a few weeks, later on; 
 but I doubt his tearing himself away from Delilah 
 just yet." 
 
 This was all Mrs. Jack wanted to know, and
 
 EUTHANASIA. 165 
 
 she thought she saw her way towards having her 
 Uttle revenge. 
 
 An opportunity was not long in coming, for, 
 dining one night at Staplemoor, somehow George 
 Mansfield's name was mentioned in the course of 
 conversation. Lord Devereux at once joined in: — 
 
 "Capital fellow, George; and sure to get on, 
 from all I hear. Has anybody heard from him 
 lately? The last news I had was that he was doing 
 well, and was pretty hard-worked with the autumn 
 manoeuvres." 
 
 The subject might have dropped, had not Mrs. 
 Jack Arthur, in rather a slow, deliberate tone, and 
 closely watching the effect produced by her words on 
 Mildred's face, said: 
 
 "I am so glad to have such a good account — of 
 course, you never can believe half the things people 
 tell you ; but somehow I fancy I heard he had eloped 
 with some lovely foreign countess, or, at any rate, 
 was on the point of doing so. I was told the name, 
 but I really could not even attempt to pronounce it." 
 
 Rather an awkward pause ensued, and involun- 
 tarily, though, perhaps, for not more than a second, 
 everybody's eyes turned upon poor Mildred. Captain 
 Atherstone at once came to the rescue; his devotion 
 for Mrs. Jack had been cooling down of late, and 
 he considered this last move of hers a downright 
 shabby trick: 
 
 "Upon my soul! what a wonderful fountain of
 
 1 66 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 information you are, Mrs. Jack! Why, Dalziel and 
 the Central News put together are not in it with you ! 
 I wonder, though, where you got that last item from. 
 But I don't care who it was, for I don't believe one 
 word of it. George is the last man I know to do 
 that sort of thing." 
 
 It was all that Mildred could do to refrain from 
 showing, if only by a glance, her gratitude for Jim 
 Atherstone's timely relief. The remark was probably 
 shortly afterwards forgotten by most of those present; 
 but the poisoned shaft had nevertheless struck home 
 with Mildred. Even making allowance for a con- 
 siderable amount of exaggeration on Mrs. Arthur's 
 part. Lady Devereux could not credit her with 
 having altogether invented the story; and, know- 
 ing George's weak nature and the temptations his 
 life must expose him to, she could not but admit to 
 herself that there was, at the very least, some sort of 
 possibihty in it. 
 
 And was it for this that she had sacrificed her- 
 self — merely to furnish George with the means of 
 devoting himself to another woman, and of forgetting 
 in her company every fond memory of the past? 
 Was this the gratitude she had to expect from him? 
 After very few moments of reflection, she came to a 
 decision as to the course she would pursue. She felt 
 it altogether beneath her to question Mrs. Arthur as 
 to the source of her information, or as to any further 
 particulars the latter might possess. She would ad- 
 dress herself to George himself Let him misinterpret
 
 EUTHANASIA. 1 67 
 
 her motives in doing so, if he chose ; but she felt she 
 had almost a right to know the truth. 
 
 It was only when she had taken up her pen that 
 she realised the extreme difficulty and delicacy of 
 the task before her. Nearly an hour had elapsed 
 before she finally admitted her inability to improve 
 upon the following missive: 
 
 My dear George, — You have often told me I 
 am different from most other women. Perhaps I am 
 in some points, one of which is that when I write 
 with a particular purpose, I do not keep it for the 
 end of my letter; nor do I add it on as a postscript, 
 as if inspired with some after-thought. This letter 
 has a purpose, and this is what it is: 
 
 I was told a day or two ago by a friend of yours 
 — and I suppose I should say of mine — before a con- 
 siderable number of people, that you were on the 
 point of eloping with some foreign countess — if you 
 had not done so already. You may say that you 
 owe no account to anybody as to your actions, and 
 that it is no business of mine. It is no business of 
 mine as Mildred Charteris; but as Lady Devereux I 
 feel bound to speak. Were it otherwise, you know 
 me too well — whatever my feelings in the past may 
 have been — to think I would stoop to question you, 
 or to plead for the remembrance of a past, after all, 
 not so very distant. You will, I trust, discard that 
 notion, should it ever even present itself to your mind. 
 You little know me if you entertain it.
 
 1 68 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 The reason why I feel bound to write is, that I 
 am most anxious Lord Devereux should be able to 
 keep the regard, esteem and affection he had for 
 you. I leave it to you to judge, whether this could 
 be the case if you abandoned the profession which 
 he has — I am bound to say, most generously — as- 
 sisted, or rather enabled, you to remain in. To my 
 mind, nothing that could have happened to you, had 
 he not come to your assistance, could be much worse 
 than the life you seem to be bent upon preparing for 
 yourself. 
 
 I can but repeat, pray don't trouble to consider 
 my feehngs in the matter; but do not let me think 
 you could ever forget what is due to yourself. 
 
 If there is no truth whatever in the report, tear 
 up this letter and forget it was ever written. If I do 
 not hear from you within a reasonable time, I sup- 
 pose I shall know what conclusions to draw from it. 
 
 Good-bye ! 
 
 Yours, very sincerely, 
 
 M. D. 
 
 In telling her friend, Mrs. Garrard, that she did 
 not regret the step she had taken. Lady Devereux 
 had, no doubt, spoken the truth, though she purposely 
 understated the heavy burden which her sacrifice 
 had imposed upon her. 
 
 Her health of late had not been quite what it 
 used to be, and this also contributed to depress her 
 spirits; and hard as she might struggle against it.
 
 EUTHANASIA. 1 69 
 
 she felt herself slowly drifting into the part of the 
 femme incomprise. Lord Devereux, cheery, kind 
 hearted and easy-going, as he was, could not but, at 
 times, admit to himself that his handsome wife was 
 something of a white elephant to him; and his ab- 
 sences from home became more and more frequent.
 
 170 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 "Whilst skies are blue and bright, 
 "Whilst flowers are gay; 
 Whilst eyes that change ere night 
 
 Make glad the day; 
 Whilst yet the calm hours creep, 
 Dream thou — and from thy sleep 
 Then wake to weep." 
 
 Shelley, 
 
 It is a common theme that does duty over and 
 over again, Sunday after Sunday, from countless 
 pulpits and in every intelligible idiom, that real hap- 
 piness in this hfe is granted to the righteous only; 
 and when we see the "children of the world," whose 
 only law is the accomplishment of their own desires, 
 flourishing and basking in the possession of all the 
 good things this finite life can grant, we must not be 
 taken in by appearances, but must look below the 
 surface, etc., etc., that, to put it into homely language, 
 there is a skeleton in every cupboard and so forth. 
 The consensus of countless eminent theologians has 
 established this -as an axiom, though it might, with 
 some fairness, be questioned whence the information 
 is derived; since the "worldlings" who are depicted 
 in such striking colours are not much given to seek 
 the comfort of spiritual advisers or to make them
 
 EUTHANASIA. I 7 I 
 
 their confidants, should the presence of the gnawing 
 worm be temporarily felt beneath the glittering surface. 
 
 Be this as it may, the few months that followed the 
 moonlit night at Kisfalva, when Countess Szent Imre 
 had first listened to his passionate words of love, 
 were to George a time of almost unalloyed and 
 cloudless happiness. 
 
 His code of morals was at that time not very 
 different from that of most young men. He was free 
 — as far as Mildred was concerned — through her 
 marriage. To entertain any lurking affection for her 
 would, in fact, be far more guilty than to transfer 
 his affections to Countess Szent Imre. These and 
 similar sophisms did away with any feelings of 
 self-reproach that would occasionally rise to his mind. 
 His whole life was now entirely wrapped up in his 
 new love. There was not a moment in the day when 
 thoughts of her were not present in his mind. He 
 consulted her about every action in his life; had she 
 cared to do so, she could have seen every letter he 
 received or wrote. He was in that stage when the 
 lover's one wish appears to be to immolate his whole 
 personality, his Nvill, his judgment, his Ukes and dis- 
 likes, and to see them, so to speak, absorbed and as- 
 similated by those of the woman at whose shrine he 
 worships. 
 
 Needless to say, the response he met with was 
 hardly tuned to the same pitch, and Countess Szent 
 Imre's manner towards him was by no means effusive 
 and outwardly very little, if at all, different from what 
 it had been hitherto. At first this had caused con-
 
 172 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 siderable surprise and disappointment to George; 
 
 especially when, seeing her again for the first time 
 
 after he had confessed his passion for her, she greeted 
 
 him in the self-same listless, rather distrait manner 
 
 as before; but he was in the frame of mind in which 
 
 he would have found an excuse for whatever she 
 
 could have done. 
 
 Of Father Vincent he had begun to see less than 
 
 previously. His subscriptions towards the hospital 
 
 became more frequent in the measure in which his 
 
 requests for the priest's company diminished. The 
 
 latter carefully avoided anything that savoured of 
 
 intrusion; he could not but know by pubUc rumour 
 
 of George's incessant visits to Kisfalva, the motive 
 
 for which was palpable to less keen a student of 
 
 human nature. 
 
 ***** 
 
 The threatening cloud that some years ago hung 
 over a large part of the Continent seemed rather 
 closer than usual to the bursting point during the 
 summer of 188 — . There was some talk of the 24th 
 Lancers being moved towards the frontier, and un- 
 usual activity prevailed in riding-school and drill- 
 ground. Thus George's time was too much taken up 
 with his professional duties for him to have much 
 leisure, and sometimes a week would pass without 
 his setting eyes on the lovely Countess. The eagle 
 Saalburg, was upon him and eye of his captain. 
 Prince his troop with even more than usual diligence; 
 and as he felt sure that any shortcoming would no 
 doubt be attributed to his close vicinity to the fasci-
 
 EUTHANASIA. 1 7 3 
 
 nations of Kisfalva, George was doubly anxious not 
 to be found in fault. Thus he was seen one morning 
 about 6 A.M. scanning his troop with an eye that had 
 now grown thoroughly practised, before marching off 
 to the drill-ground where the six squadrons were 
 to work together, a force which, on the full war 
 footing on which the Austrian Cavalry is permanently 
 kept, is about equivalent to three regiments of 
 ours. 
 
 A lovely autumn morning; a slight haze was 
 gradually rising from the valleys, dispelled by the 
 rays of the sun, shining brightly in spite of the early 
 hour, and glistening on the lances and drawn swords 
 of the men. George was prepared for a long and 
 heavy morning's work, as the Colonel was to inspect 
 the regiment; but he knew he would have the after- 
 noon to himself, and his heart beat beneath his tunic 
 at the thought of her with whom he hoped to spend it. 
 One consideration only would now and then come 
 across his mind to mar his spirit of perfect content- 
 ment. His first charger had cast a shoe the night 
 before, and was not fit to come out, so he had to 
 content himself with a half-broken mare, quiet enough 
 when by herself, but rather nervous when at the 
 head of a troop. Having about five miles to ride at 
 foot's-pace to the drill-ground, he ordered his men to 
 ride at ease, and, lighting a cigarette, he let his 
 thoughts wander at their own free will. 
 
 He was riding alongside of his troop on the 
 grass, enjoying the brisk morning air, and, judging 
 from his countenance, his thoughts likewise were in
 
 174 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 harmony with the exhilariting influences that sur- 
 rounded him. At any rate, he was so much ab- 
 sorbed in them that he did not at first notice the 
 sound of horses' feet coming in the same direction 
 and rapidly overtaking him. One glance showed him 
 the familiar outUne of Countess Szent Imre on her 
 chestnut pony, cantering gaily up to him. He was 
 startled out of his reverie, for the mere sight of her 
 sent a thrill through him. Yes, it was she right 
 enough; the delicate figure gracefully swajdng to the 
 motion of her pony; the rich auburn hair tightly 
 coiled under a sailor's hat, which was trimmed with 
 a ribbon of the colours in which George won a 
 regimental steeplechase a month ago; her covert 
 coat was opened, and the snowy shirt-front faintly 
 indicated the beautiful outline of her figure. The 
 fresh morning air and her brisk canter had brought 
 a brighter colour than usual to her face, and her eyes 
 were sparkling with more than accustomed animation. 
 
 "Good morning. Lord George," she greets him, 
 as she pulls up. "I was told the Colonel was going 
 to give you a real old-fashioned field day this morn- 
 ing, so I curtailed my slumbers to admire you all in 
 your martial splendour. What is that you are rid- 
 ing?" 
 
 "She's only a four-year-old. I have hardly ever 
 had her out yet, for she caught influenza the moment 
 I got her. She is a nice one to look at, isn't she? 
 But this is indeed a treat, seeing you out at this un- 
 earthly hour! Have you taken to somnambulism, or 
 does your conscience keep you from sleeping?"
 
 EUTHANASIA. I75 
 
 "No, it is not that; though," dropping her voice, 
 "if it was, it isn't for you to remind me of it. But 
 don't imagine I have come out to see you, for I 
 really am very fond of soldiering, and the Colonel 
 sent me a note asking me to come out." 
 
 "Oh, he did, did he? He did not tell you by 
 any chance how long he was going to keep us out?" 
 
 "Very long, I fancy," says she, with a provoking 
 smile; "and anyhow you will be much too exhausted 
 to come over to Kisfalva in the afternoon. But here 
 we are; I can see the Colonel now. Oughtn't you 
 to salute or do something?" 
 
 "All right," says George. "You had better keep 
 a bit more to the left, for I am going to let them 
 form into line," and he rings out the word of com- 
 mand. 
 
 Not the oldest veterans could have carried out 
 the movement — a simple one, no doubt — with more 
 mathematical precision than did George's troop, one 
 third of which consisted of mere boys who had only 
 joined eight or nine months before. Having formed 
 into line, he took his place in the squadron, and 
 then cantered off to where the Captain was to give 
 him the usual report. In so doing he could not but 
 have some slight misgivings as to his mount's likely 
 behaviour during the course of the day, for the mare 
 was fighting for her head, and he had some little 
 difficulty in pulling up short in front of Prince Saal- 
 burg in order to salute and to utter the usual for- 
 mula: "Herr Rittmeister, ich melde gehorsamst den
 
 I 7 6 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 zweiten Zug, zweiunddreiszig Reiter, keine Hand- 
 pferde." 
 
 The Colonel arrived shortly afterwards and in- 
 spected the regiment in every detail; first every troop 
 singly and then in squadron line. The 6th squadron, 
 to which George belonged, took its turn after all the 
 others; and after a few movements had been gone 
 through the order to halt and dismount was given. 
 The Colonel then sent for the officers of the squad- 
 rons and expressed his satisfaction with what he 
 had seen. He now proposed going through an exer- 
 cise which, though not frequently practised in time 
 of peace, nevertheless forms part of the regimental 
 drill, and may be required in warfare. 
 
 Supposing a regiment should be attacked by sur- 
 prise when in bivouac and the horses picketed, one 
 squadron would be ordered to bridle at once and 
 to mount barebacked, in order to give the rest of 
 the force time and cover to saddle and turn out. 
 The sixth squadron would now unsaddle and mount 
 on the bugle call of "Alarm" being sounded, and 
 would advance against a marked enemy. 
 
 The officers rode back to their squadrons. Prince 
 Saalburg gave the order to unsaddle, together with a 
 few instructions as to keeping distances, and to the 
 manner in which the rear rank should hold their 
 lances which, in the case of a man's seat getting 
 unsteady, are apt to prove more dangerous to the 
 front rank than to the enemy. The Captain is de- 
 lighted that his squadron should have been selected 
 for what is considered rather a show performance.
 
 EUTHANASIA. 1 7 7 
 
 Quite incidentally he suggests to George tightening 
 his curb-chain a link or two, and adds: "I hope you 
 will be able to hold that mare; for remember you 
 are leading the second troop, and the whole squadron 
 goes by you. If you come closer up to me than 
 the thirty -two paces prescribed by regulations, of 
 course the squadron must follow." 
 
 George frankly admits to himself that he does 
 not quite like the duty he is about to perform, as 
 he is well aware that in the event of his steed be- 
 coming at all unmanageable, any vagaries of his 
 might spoil the entire effect of the movement to be 
 carried out by the squadron. A hot-tempered and 
 ill-furnished thoroughbred is an awkward conveyance 
 both to sit and to steer bare-backed with a drawn 
 sword, doubly so with the knowledge that any de- 
 viation from the direction given, or any acceleration 
 of speed must be followed by some hundred and 
 fifty horses following behind. If only George had 
 his old charger, he would have enjoyed the fun as 
 much as anybody: but under the circumstances he 
 rather dreaded making a fool of himself under the 
 eyes of his colonel — and another. Whilst the 
 sfjuadron had unsaddled and picketed, the marked 
 enemy had been told off, with orders to emerge from 
 the cover of a rather sparsely grown plantation of 
 beeches about three-quarters of a mile from where 
 the squadron had halted. The ground rose in a 
 gentle slope, beautiful turf throughout, uninterrupted 
 by anything save occasionally a few rabbit holes. 
 
 At last the sharp, shrill note from the silver 
 
 Euihanasta. ' 2
 
 178 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 trumpet is heard, followed instantly by the order to 
 bridle and mount. No time is lost in removing the 
 pickets — the head ropes only being undone and the 
 bridles slipped over the halters; there is no con- 
 fusion and very little noise. The favourite anathema 
 of "Psia krew!" is occasionally heard in guttural 
 tones, when the first attempt at mounting a charger 
 who persistently sidles away has proved abortive; but 
 in an incredibly short time every man is in his place, 
 and the squadron has formed into line, Prince Saal- 
 burg galloping through in between the two centre 
 troops just as they are forming; and without waiting 
 for his trumpeter, he rings out the word of command 
 to advance at a trot, indicating the direction of the 
 marked enemy's approach. 
 
 George was on the mare's back at the very first 
 sound of the bugle- call, and his voice is heard in 
 quick, sharp tones getting his men into line. This 
 is soon done, and he takes up his position at their 
 head, the squadron advancing in line at a brisk trot. 
 As soon as the "skeleton" of the approaching enemy 
 becomes more clearly defined, the word of command 
 "Gallop!" is given. It is by no means the pleasantest 
 sensation imaginable having a line of cavalry imme- 
 diately at one's heels, each man of which is armed 
 with a lance which describes rather alarming gyra- 
 tions, when the right hand is brought down to assist 
 the bridle-hand, which will soon become accessary 
 owing to the unavoidably unsteady seat on a bare- 
 backed horse; and the squadron now- advancing at a 
 gallop in no wise showed the unbroken line it did
 
 EUTHANASIA. 1 79 
 
 under ordinary circumstances, nor was the same ab- 
 solute silence maintained in the ranks. 
 
 George, at first, was fairly taken aback at the 
 good behaviour of his second charger. On breaking 
 into a gallop she no doubt threw up her head, fight- 
 ing to get it free, and made a rather wild bound for- 
 ward; but his light hands steadied her, and though 
 she was no doubt puUing a bit, he was well able to 
 keep at the regulation distance from the squadron- 
 leader. George was beginning to congratulate him- 
 self, but it was too good to last. The men repre- 
 senting the enemy had orders to approach within 
 sixty or seventy yards of the advancing squadron, 
 when the order to charge would be given, and they 
 would turn back and ride off. As the word 
 "Charge!" Was shouted by Prince Saalburg, and as 
 the deafening cheers rose from the ranks, every 
 man and every horse struggling for the foremost 
 place, the mare made a dart forward, and, by an 
 effort that almost pulled George over her neck, she 
 got her head free, and in another second her rider 
 knew that she had got entirely beyond his control. 
 He shot past his squadron-leader, who was then 
 about to have the call to rally sounded, and soon 
 was well clear of the squadron. He did not lose 
 his presence of mind, knowing full well that in the 
 terror-stricken state the mare was in, it would be 
 merely wasting his strength to attempt to stop her 
 there and then. She was making straight for the 
 direction whence the marked enemy had emerged. 
 The distance that separated him from the little group
 
 1 80 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 of trees was diminishing at an alarming rate; so 
 George thought it wisest to reserve his strength in 
 order to steer clear of the overhanging boughs. The 
 mare, to whom the scabbard beating her flanks was 
 an additional source of terror, showed no signs of 
 slackening speed. Her head was well up in the air, 
 with her clenched teeth tightly set on the bit. 
 
 George remembered having heard that the 
 ground beyond the beeches was rough and stony 
 and full of rabbit holes, and he began to wonder 
 what he had best do. His position struck him as a 
 ludicrous rather than a dangerous one; anyhow he 
 had the satisfaction of knowing that the misbehaviour 
 of his mount had not in any way interfered with the 
 complete success of the movement executed by the 
 squadron. He guessed that many eyes must be 
 fixed upon him with amusement, if not with anxiety, 
 for which there was not much apparent cause. Of 
 course, it would have been very easy for him to let 
 himself slip off the mare; but, firstly, he did not like 
 to run the risk of her breaking her knees galloping 
 riderless over the rough stony ground; and, secondly, 
 he did not fancy the prospect of trudging back the 
 best part of a mile on foot to where the Colonel and 
 Countess Szent Imre were posted. Had she not been 
 there, it might have been different; but his courage 
 failed at the idea of facing her possible sarcasms. 
 She had taken her place at the Colonel's side, and 
 the latter explained to her the movements of the 
 squadron, which was then rallying and returning at 
 a trot to its former position. Her eyes were fixed
 
 EUTHANASIA. I 8 I 
 
 on George's wild career, with a look more of interest 
 than of concern. Once only she turned to Count 
 Wartenstein: "What is there beyond those trees, sup- 
 posing he is not able to pull up before?" 
 
 "A nasty bit of rough, stony ground, full of 
 holes; but if he can keep this side of the trees and 
 bear to the left, he will be all right." 
 
 The Colonel has taken out his field-glasses and 
 is watching intently. He seems to be making straight 
 for the trees," he now says, speaking more to him- 
 self than to his companion; "I can see that animal 
 
 with its head high up in the air worse than ever 
 
 My God! what a nasty fall! She has rolled right 
 over him! Wehnski!" — this is to the regimental 
 surgeon, who is standing by the dismounted regiment 
 — "jump up and ride off over there. I am afraid 
 he is hurt; I can't see him move. Come with me!" 
 — this to Countess Szent Imre, and he gallops off to 
 where George was lying. 
 
 Feeling the mare tearing down the incline that 
 led to the clump of beeches at a madder pace than 
 ever, George now rallies whatever strength he has 
 left to make his supreme effort, and to pull her over 
 to the left clear of the trees. He just succeeds in 
 doing this; but the ground right round the little 
 plantation is burrowed out by rabbits. He bent for- 
 ward to avoid coming in contact with an overhang- 
 ing bough. It was the last thing he remembered 
 doing, for not the tenth part of a second afterwards, 
 the mare came down as if she had been shot, going
 
 1 82 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 head over heels, to remain lying motionless over the 
 nether limbs of her luckless rider. 
 
 Hurrying her pony along in the wake of Count 
 Wartenstein's charger, Countess Szent Imre galloped 
 up to the spot where George lay. Her face was of 
 a deadly pallor, but her self-possession never left her 
 for a moment. The surgeon and one or two of the 
 officers had reached the spot just before her, and 
 had extricated him from underneath the mare, who 
 lay apparently as lifeless as her rider. Countess 
 Szent Imre was off her pony almost before she had 
 pulled up. With the exception of a very slight graze 
 on the forehead, there were no external indications 
 of any injury. 
 
 "What do you suppose it is?" Countess Szent 
 Imre addressed the surgeon in a quick, abrupt tone; 
 "concussion of the brain? I hav^e a drop of port in 
 my flask if that can do any good." 
 
 The surgeon did not answer; he had unbuttoned 
 George's tunic and was endeavouring to feel the ac- 
 tion of the heart. His face wore a very grave ex- 
 pression, and once or twice he shook his head as if 
 speaking to himself 
 
 The mid-day sun was beating down on the group 
 that had collected round the man who, judging by 
 all appearances, was breathing his last. His head 
 was resting on a pillow improvised out of a cloak 
 rolled over a saddle. With his ear pressed closely 
 upon the breast of the reclining figure, the surgeon 
 leant over him, an anxious look upon his honest, 
 sunburnt face. In a semi-circle around stood, in the
 
 EUTHANASIA. 1 83 
 
 silence of suspense, his brother officers, watching 
 every expression upon the surgeon's countenance; 
 and just clear of the others, alongside the Colonel, 
 was the tall, graceful figure of the Countess, her face 
 white as a sheet, but only the very faintest motion 
 of her lips betrayed the tension of her nerves. Far 
 in the background, upon the brow of the slightly 
 rising ground, the long extended line of the dis- 
 mounted regiment stood out in bold relief against 
 the horizon. 
 
 The suspense was intolerable to all present, when 
 at last, with a sigh of relief, the surgeon spoke: "I 
 can just detect the action of the heart, but it is very 
 feeble; of course there is severe concussion of the 
 brain, and the right wrist is broken. I cannot yet 
 tell for certain about the spine." 
 
 The verdict having been pronounced. Count 
 Wartenstein, who shrewdly suspected the state of 
 things existing between his young subaltern and the 
 lovely woman who was standing by his side, thought 
 it his duty to spare her nerves too severe a test. He 
 therefore turned to her with an air of some author- 
 ity: "I do not think there can be any cause for im- 
 mediate anxiety; I have seen hundreds of cases of 
 concussion of the brain quite as bad as this without 
 any fatal result; but. Countess, this is no place for 
 you. I have sent for an ambulance waggon which 
 will be here directly to take him home. Please don't 
 stay any longer." 
 
 She saw the kind intention which the stern tone 
 of his voice could not disguise, and was proportion-
 
 184 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 ately grateful; for she felt the tension was so great 
 that she must soon break down; and, only adding, 
 with a voice to which she endeavoured hard to give 
 firmness, that she would inquire in the afternoon, 
 she let the Colonel put her on her pony. Her 
 shortest way home took her across the exercise 
 ground where the dismounted regiment was halted, 
 and as she cantered past the line, the dull, ex- 
 pressionless countenances lighted up just for a mo- 
 ment, one by one, suggestive of the effect produced 
 by a spark falling on the train of gunpowder; and 
 with a guttural murmur of admiration their eyes fol- 
 low^ed the dainty figure rapidly receding. 
 
 Once out of sight and hearing, Countess Szent 
 Imre pulled up her pony: nature refused to be ruled 
 any longer by her iron will, and she burst into a fit 
 of passionate sobbing.
 
 EUTHANASIA. 185 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 " With eloquence innate his tongue was anned, 
 Though harsh the precept yet the people charmed; 
 For, letting down the golden chain from high, 
 He drew his audience upwards to the sky." 
 
 John Dryden. 
 
 After the Countess had left, they examined the 
 exact spot where the accident had happened. The 
 mare had got her off leg, well over the fetlock, into 
 a rabbit-hole, which caught it like a trap. The joint 
 was broken, and a merciful bullet put an end to the 
 poor animal's sufferings. The ambulance waggon 
 was on the spot very soon afterwards, and George, 
 still utterly unconscious of all that was going on 
 around him, was conveyed home. 
 
 For three days and nights he remained in a state 
 of stupor, unaware of the anxious glances exchanged 
 around his bedside, and of the subdued whispers in 
 which every fresh symptom was discussed and ana- 
 lysed. One of the luminaries of the medical pro- 
 fession in Vienna had been summoned at the wish 
 of his colonel, and it had at last been ascertained 
 that the skull was not fractured, and that there was 
 no injury to the spine. The concussion of the brain 
 was obviously of an exceptionally severe character,
 
 1 86 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 and the fracture of the right wrist a most compli- 
 cated one. 
 
 Absolute quiet in the sick-room being one of the 
 most stringent injunctions of the doctor, it was not 
 difficult for Countess Szent Imre to come in at times 
 when she was sure of meeting nobody but the nurse 
 who attended the invalid and whose discretion she 
 could rely upon. Her husband had gone for his 
 annual cure to Carlsbad. Besides, she had by letter 
 applied for his consent to her visiting what appeared 
 to all intents and purposes to be a dying man. 
 
 It is the evening of the third day after the acci- 
 dent. The dim reflection of a shaded reading-lamp 
 lights up one side of her face, bringing into bold 
 relief the soft outline of her profile. Her expression 
 is more that of a sick nurse — tender, watchful and 
 attentive to every symptom — than that of the broken- 
 hearted woman sitting by her lover's bedside. In her 
 low, musical voice, the softness of which makes every 
 utterance from her fall upon the ear like words of 
 endearment, she addresses the nurse in her own 
 language: 
 
 "What did the doctor say this morning?" 
 
 With the volubility of her race the reply is given 
 that there are symptoms of consciousness returning 
 before long — such as increased restlessness and a 
 rise in the temperature. The doctor would call again 
 late in the evening. The Countess thereupon de- 
 cided to wait until his arrival. She sat down in the 
 most comfortable armchair she could find and looked 
 around.
 
 EUTHANASIA. 1 8 7 
 
 Beyond the narrow zone of light immediately 
 surrounding the lamp, the rest of the room was 
 buried in semi-obscurity, intensified by the gloomy 
 effect of the heavy oak rafters that formed the frame- 
 work of the ceiling. The plain deal boards of the 
 floor were only partially covered by Persian rugs 
 scattered about here and there. Coloured prints, 
 arms and sporting trophies enlivened the dulness of 
 the common, whitewashed walls; and on the ponder- 
 ous oak writing-table the Countess perceived a 
 coloured miniature of herself, done from a life-size 
 portrait in the boudoir where George saw her for the 
 first time. 
 
 While the nurse was absent preparing some 
 medicine the Countess took up the invalid's hand 
 and felt the feeble pulse. There were a few symp- 
 toms perceptible of returning life. The complete 
 stupor of the preceding days was gradually making 
 way to an increased restlessness, and the lips occa- 
 sionally parted for some half-muttered, unintelligible 
 words. 
 
 The reflection that in all probability, should a 
 state of delirium set in, George's first words would 
 betray the state of his relations to her did not weigh 
 heavily on the Countess's mind, for the thought of 
 "what the world will say" did not rank high among 
 her cares. As another relapse to the previous 
 comatose state set in, she leant back in her chair, 
 and, half-closing her eyes, allowed her thoughts to 
 wander. 
 
 By what strange freak of destiny had it been
 
 l88 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 ordained that this boy should cross her path, and 
 should be called upon to play a part in her exist- 
 ence? It all came back to her memory: the day she 
 had first made his acquaintance, the growing intimacy 
 and sympathy between them, and finally that moonlit 
 night with the Tziganes playing in the distance. And 
 looking now upon the shattered fi-ame that lay in the 
 narrow little bed close to her, the words of warning 
 she had addressed to him came back to her mind 
 — the warning not to bestow upon her a feeling she 
 was unable to return. She would willingly have made 
 any sacrifice for him; would have nursed him with 
 incessant care and devotion; but, in spite of all, how 
 different it all was from what she had- felt in old, by- 
 gone days! 
 
 And why had she allowed herself to drift further 
 and further onward? What right had she to take 
 into her keeping this boy's mind and soul and con- 
 science, when she had so little to 'give in return? 
 And, supposing he recovered, as she felt confident 
 he would, should she once more tell him the whole 
 truth, and sever the link that bound them together? 
 Or were things to go on again as they had been, 
 until, in her weariness, she cast him off? She shrugged 
 her stately shoulders as if in doubt, perhaps almost 
 in a state of gloomy indifference; and a fugitive 
 smile flitted over her countenance as the cynical old 
 adage flitted through her mind: ''Le temps fait 
 passer I'amour, et I'amour fait passer le temps." 
 
 She was thus musing, with her eyes half closed, 
 letting her thoughts wander at their own will, when
 
 EUTHANASIA. 1 89 
 
 a slight knock at the door interrupted her medita- 
 tions, but it was only when it was gently opened to 
 admit Father Vincent that she languidly turned her 
 head. There was not the slightest trace of embar- 
 rassment or self-consciousness in her manner when 
 she rose to greet the priest; she had met him before 
 now at various bedsides, and her eyes made no at- 
 tempt to avoid his earnest and almost reproachful 
 glance. 
 
 "Perhaps you are surprised at meeting me here, 
 Father Vincent," she began; "but your mission and 
 mine need in no way interfere with each other; con- 
 ventionalism ceases on the threshold of the sick- 
 room, and we meet here in our common anxiety for 
 the welfare of a poor sufferer." 
 
 Nothing could be more natural and self-possessed 
 than the manner in which these words were uttered, 
 Countess Szent Imre at the same time holding out 
 her hand to the. monk. Embarrassment and hesita- 
 tion were painfully visible on the pale and worn 
 countenance of the latter. His fingers just met the 
 proffered hand without closing round it; and it was 
 only after a few seconds of reflection that he put 
 into words the thoughts that were so palpably before 
 his mind. 
 
 "Yes, Countess, we have indeed met before now 
 at the bedside of many a poor suffering creature, and 
 your charity is well known for miles around. To- 
 day, however, the circumstances appear to me different. 
 It is no part of my duties, nor have I any right, to 
 inquire into the motives that brought you here. I
 
 1 90 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 know nothing about the social conventionalities you 
 refer to, nor whether your presence here is in ac- 
 cordance with them or not. 1 cannot agree with 
 you, however, when you say your mission and mine 
 need not clash. Should my services be required, 
 they will be proffered only too willingly at any time. 
 For the present, you will excuse me if I withdraw." 
 
 All trace of shyness and embarrassment had now 
 vanished from the priest's manner; the pale counten- 
 ance was lighted up by a look of intense and fervent 
 emotion, and the dark eyes shone like coals through 
 the semi-obscurity of the room. He had drawn him- 
 self up to his full height; the folds of his dark brown 
 cowl falling loosely round the spare, angular figure. 
 The Countess had resumed her seat; her eyes were 
 fixed upon the ground, as if studying the outline of 
 the highly-varnished little boot that appeared from 
 underneath her skirt; she listened apparently with 
 languid interest, but without betraying the faintest 
 emotion. Without raising her eyes she answered: 
 
 "Of course you will use your own discretion as 
 to remaining here or not. As I was not aware I 
 should have the advantage of meeting you here, I 
 could not truthfully say that your arrangements will 
 in any way affect mine." 
 
 The monk, after giving a glance to the bed where 
 the invalid lay, utterly unconscious of w^hat was tak- 
 ing place around him, was half through the door, 
 when — like a true woman — she called him back. 
 No prouder woman ever breathed than Countess Ilona 
 Szent Imre; yet the look that shone forth from those
 
 EUTHANASIA. IQI 
 
 deep eyes was one more of curiosity and interest 
 than of wounded pride. 
 
 "Father Vincent," she began, "do you reaHse 
 that your last words to me convey little short of a 
 direct insult, such as no living man has ever dared 
 address to me? I will not ask you what grounds 
 you have for speaking in that manner: I Avill make 
 your task easier, and will say the words that are on 
 your lips. You have heard reports about me and 
 the man who is lying here; you have, I dare say, 
 been told I was his mistress. Supposing it were 
 true, would you wish me to leave him to die here 
 alone and friendless? Are those the precepts of the 
 religion of charity and mercy that you profess to 
 teach?" 
 
 She had risen to her feet, and stood defiantly 
 facing the priest — the very incarnation of all that is 
 alluring, of all that has stirred man's heart since the 
 days of the Fall, be it to deeds of chivalry and 
 valour, or to felony and vice. Unwillingly the priest 
 relaxed his grasp of the door. A life of privation 
 and self-abnegation had extinguished in him every 
 vestige of passion; and his voice was now as calm, 
 addressing the lovely woman who stood before him, 
 as it would have been during the exercise of any of 
 his ecclesiastical duties. Slowly and deliberately the 
 words fell from his lips: 
 
 "I am not here to judge anyone's actions; I have 
 not the right to do so, had I the wish. My motive 
 for not wishing to remain here you have yourself 
 mentioned: my mission is to visit the sick who are
 
 192 
 
 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 left friendless and alone, not those who are visited 
 by " He checked himself abruptly. 
 
 "Pray go on," the Countess interrupted, her eyes 
 just for one moment sending forth a flash of light- 
 ning; "this is most exciting. I gather that the moral 
 atmosphere of this room is so vitiated by my pre- 
 sence that your sanctity might suffer from the con- 
 tamination. I doubt your speaking with quite so 
 much freedom were Lord George not lying here as 
 inanimate as a corpse; now , of course, you are per- 
 fectly safe." 
 
 The bitter taunt had scarcely passed her lips ere 
 she regretted it. The pallor on the monk's face took 
 an even more livid hue, but there was no faltering 
 in his voice when he replied: 
 
 "Forgive me. Countess, but it was you who forced 
 this conversation upon me, which I would have done 
 much to avoid. You tell me fear would close my 
 lips. What does life offer to me that I should cling 
 to it, do you suppose? or why should I look upon 
 death, did it threaten me, as anything but a welcome 
 release? But no more of these angry words; I do 
 not presume to interfere or to find fault with the 
 path you have chosen in life; let me go mine." And 
 once more he moved towards the door. 
 
 "One moment. Father Vincent," she resumed — 
 her voice had returned to its soft and almost plead- 
 ing tone — "I do not wish to part from you in anger. 
 My last words were unworthy of me; forget them. 
 I don't trouble much about people's opinions con- 
 cerning myself; but I should be sorry did you think
 
 EUTHANASIA. 1 93 
 
 more harshly of me than I deserve. What do you 
 know of me? What the idle gossip-mongers of a 
 little village choose to repeat to each other. You 
 know nothing of my life, my surroundings, the 
 temptations that beset me. Supposing I were to this 
 poor boy all that you imply I am; is it nothing, ac- 
 cording to you, that a woman's influence should 
 watch over him, should incessantly strive to rouse 
 and develop every good and noble sentiment within 
 him; that she should use his affection towards her as 
 a safeguard to himself against all that is lowering 
 and debasing and degrading? Does that count for 
 nothing in your eyes? 
 
 After a moment's hesitation the priest replied: 
 "Forgive me, Countess, if I cannot enter into 
 these intricacies. I dare say you may be right from 
 the point of view of the world you live in. My code 
 is a simpler one; it teaches me that wrong remains 
 wrong even if done with the problematical chance 
 of doing good thereby, or rather of avoiding other 
 evils. I know that falsehood and treachery, when 
 committed to screen a woman's name, become ac- 
 tions of chivalry and almost of self-abnegation; are 
 they for that less deteriorating to a man's nature? 
 This boy, as you call him; why, any child would see 
 that he is the very soul of honour and loyalty and 
 truth. Now, not a day passes without his telling 
 countless falsehoods — his very life is made up of 
 them — and this is what you call rousing his nobler 
 sentiments ! 
 
 "I am deeply attached to him; do you suppose 
 
 Euthanasia. 1 3
 
 1 94 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 I do not notice how gradually, from day to day, his 
 whole nature is becoming warped and poisoned by 
 the hourly practising of the art of deceit? Whose 
 influence do you imagine that is due to, if not yours? 
 He is now stricken down, perhaps never to recover. 
 Should he do so, is it too much to expect from a 
 nature, noble and generous as yours is, that you 
 will let that baneful influence cease; that you will cast 
 to the winds all that petty casuistry which least of 
 all you believe in yourself, and that you will, by an 
 act of renunciation, prove yourself superior to what 
 you would fain make me believe you are?" 
 
 The fervour of deep and heartfelt con\'iction now 
 lighted up the monk's countenance, and gave a 
 power to his utterances hardly warranted by the sim- 
 plicity of his words, pronounced with bated breath, 
 so as not to disturb the slumber of the invalid. 
 
 The Countess listened to the end in deep silence, 
 never raising her eyes from the ground. When he 
 had done speaking, she rose and held out her hand. 
 
 "I will bear your words in mind. Father Vincent. 
 It is a pity there are not more priests like you. The 
 doctor will be here in a very few minutes; so my 
 presence can be of no use. Good night! Much of 
 what you say is true, though I trust not all." 
 
 She left the room; and two big tears shone in 
 her eyes as she passed through the door, which the 
 
 priest respectfully held open for her. 
 
 ****** 
 
 George's splendid constitution, assisted by the 
 great medical skill which was placed at his dis-
 
 EUTHANASIA. 1 95 
 
 posal, enabled him to pull through. The return of 
 consciousness brought with it attacks of high fever 
 and delirium, during which he was watched with 
 incessant care and devotion by the Franciscan monk. 
 Night after night the latter would tell the nurse she 
 might retire, and he would remain at George's bed- 
 side; and somehow the soothing effect of the serene, 
 placid countenance of the priest, devoting himself to 
 the self-imposed labour of love with unsurpassed zeal 
 and judgment seldom failed to assert itself. 
 
 The invalid's face would suddenly brighten up 
 when he saw the monk returning to his room, for 
 no one else seemed to understand his wishes as he 
 did; and on awakening in the morning his eyes 
 would search in the dim light for the figure of Father 
 Vincent. 
 
 Countess Szent Imre's visits were but scarce, 
 once the critical stage was passed; the priest's words 
 had come apparently to strengthen a resolution which 
 until then had taken no definite shape, but which 
 was now gaining a deeper hold upon her from day 
 to day. 
 
 Months must necessarily elapse before George 
 would be able to resume his military duties, chiefly 
 on account of the difficulty he had in using the 
 fractured wrist; and he had already sent in an ap- 
 plication for six months' sick leave. On a chill, 
 dreary afternoon in November he once more betook 
 himself to Kisfalva to take leave of the Countess a 
 day or two before his departure. 
 
 He was looking thin and worn, and as he ap- 
 
 13*
 
 iq6 euthanasia. 
 
 proached the castle he smiled rather sadly, thinking 
 within himself that very likely he would never again 
 see those battlements that frowned over the archway 
 which now resounded with the echoes of his pony's 
 footsteps. 
 
 He found the Countess in her boudoir. A look 
 of intense weariness and depression was upon the 
 noble features that George now gazed at again after 
 so long a time, and he fancied he saw tears glisten- 
 ing in her eyes. She greeted him warmly, but not 
 effusively: and, after inquiring fully into the state of 
 his health, she said: 
 
 "You find me in the depth of woes to-day and 
 thoroughly out of liking with life. I have not been 
 well, either, lately, and your departure is a very real 
 additional grief to me. It is far better though, as it 
 is, believe me. I have been thinking a great deal 
 about it of late; Fate or Providence has decreed 
 that this unfortunate accident of yours should be a 
 landmark in the lives of both of us. I had intended 
 that, even had you not decided upon leaving im- 
 mediately, the past should be buried between us; 
 but this will make it so much easier. Forgive me; 
 I really have not the strength to wade through all 
 the commonplaces usual on such occasions, as to 
 meeting again as friends, and all that sort of thing; 
 though I devoutly hope we shall. But somehow the 
 beginning of our — friendship was not conventional, 
 was it? so let the end be worthy of the beginning. 
 I suppose I ought to say you will soon forget me. 
 I don't, for I don't beheve you will, or that you
 
 EUTHANASIA. 1 97 
 
 will be in the humour to say just yet: 'Lightly won, 
 and lightly lost; a fair good-night to thee.' Shall you 
 . — darling?" 
 
 The airy, rather flippant tone in which she had 
 begun speaking had gradually given way to an in- 
 tonation far more in keeping with the expression of 
 her face; and in the final question had melted into 
 the softest tones of passionate endearment. 
 
 "You must not mind me," she added, no longer 
 able to conceal the big tears gathering in her eyes; 
 "somehow I am not myself to-day, and my nerves 
 are out of order just now." 
 
 Alas for women's inconsistency and the frailty of 
 their resolutions! Let soured spinsters shrug their 
 angular shoulders and throw this book away in high 
 dudgeon — should they not have done so before now 
 - — the truth must be told; and the leave-taking of 
 Countess Szent Imre and her lover was very much 
 what that of other lovers is. 
 
 Refine human passion, distil it, spirituaHse it, 
 ennoble it as you will with every attribute of the 
 cultured soul and intellect; it alters it but little in 
 the end.
 
 igS EUTHANASIA. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 "Alas! I have nor hope, nor health, 
 Nor peace within, nor calm around; 
 Nor that content, surpassing wealth. 
 The sage in meditation found." 
 
 Thoroughly selfish though Lord Errington's na- 
 ture was, it must not be supposed that the news of 
 George's accident and of his impending return home 
 left him altogether unimpressed. His intellectual 
 faculties were in no respect above the average, and 
 his brain was not wont to work at any very high 
 rate of speed; nevertheless, on certain occasions it 
 could be roused to a somewhat remarkable quick- 
 ness of perception, and that was in gauging to what 
 extent any communication received about another 
 person would affect himself, his purse or his con- 
 venience. The practice of many years had given 
 him an almost unerring judgment in that respect. 
 The spontaneousness of warmer-hearted natures was 
 denied him; but once having accurately ascertained 
 in his own mind to what extent the misfortunes of 
 others could affect him, he was by no means in- 
 capable of a kind or even, apparently, a generous 
 action. 
 
 Thus, on hearing of his brother's accident, two 
 thoughts flashed across his mind all but simul-
 
 EirrHANASIA. 1 99 
 
 taneously: firstly, a feeling of real and genuine 
 anxiety, and the fervent wish for his recovery; 
 secondly, the reflection that supposing George were 
 invalided home, the burden of his maintenance would 
 in all probability fall upon himself. But his better 
 nature speedily asserted itself, and he wired out to 
 Hungary to express his willingness to come and 
 nurse his brother, should there be any urgent neces- 
 sity for so doing. He was much relieved when a 
 reply was received, signed by George, but written 
 by the Countess, who well knew how little comfort 
 the invalid would derive from his brother's company, 
 gratefully declining the offer. 
 
 However, when he was informed of George's re- 
 turning home on prolonged sick leave, he felt the 
 moment had come when he must hold forth a help- 
 ing hand. A small farm on one of his extensive 
 Leicestershire properties happened to be tenantless 
 just then, so he thought it could not do much harm 
 to let George try his hand in the capacity of gen- 
 tleman farmer, under the close supervision of a 
 trusted bailiff. Anyhow, this would give George a 
 semblance of an occupation, and would keep him 
 out of mischief, the latter being intimately associated 
 in Lord Errington's mind with life in town. That 
 the farm he was putting at his brother's disposal 
 lay within a few miles from Lord Devereux's country 
 seat, and that this close vicinity might not be al- 
 together free from objections, never even entered his 
 mind. 
 
 Thus it came to pass that not many weeks after
 
 200 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 George had taken leave of his regiment, for the time 
 at least, he was settled at "The Folly," deeply 
 interested in the selling of young stock and the 
 manifold other pursuits of the gentleman farmer. 
 Though apparently entirely restored to health — with 
 the exception of the stiffness of his wrist, which 
 caused him some anxiety — he was, nevertheless, in 
 most respects, an altered man. All interest in life 
 seemed somehow to have become extinct within him; 
 he showed an amount of perseverance in picking up 
 the necessary knowledge of farming that fairly took 
 the old bailiff by surprise, but, otherwise, he was per- 
 fectly content to spend his evenings at home, though, 
 needless to say, the doors of country houses would 
 have been thrown open to the prodigal son on his 
 home-coming, had he felt disposed to enter them. 
 
 He would sit sometimes for hours after dinner, 
 buried in thought, with a listless, despondent look 
 on his face, as if the mainspring of his vitality had 
 gone out of order and had stopped working. Soon 
 after his arrival at "The Folly," he had ascertained 
 that Lord and Lady Devereux were not expected to 
 come back from Scotland for some weeks; but even 
 that communication failed to rouse him out of his 
 languor. 
 
 Mrs. Jack Arthur was still on her annual trip 
 abroad, and the other neighbours were comparative 
 strangers to him, so there was no occasion for him 
 to give up his habits of solitude. He was himself 
 surprised to notice how little the prospect of meeting 
 Mildred again affected him. So much had taken
 
 EUTHANASIA. 20I 
 
 place since they had parted that it seemed hard to 
 him to realise what a part she had once played in 
 his life. 
 
 In the soft, mellow tints of that glorious painting, 
 which may ere long grace the walls of some American 
 plutocrat's mansion, Titian has contrasted, in a subtle 
 allegory, Love — Sacred and Profane. There was not 
 much of the divine spark in the passion which had 
 enthralled George's entire nature; there was scarcely 
 a vestige in it of that almost sacred feeling all but 
 too noble for the weak human clay that shelters it. 
 His love was sensual; not in the meaning of the word 
 to which some odium must necessarily be attached, 
 but merely inasmuch as all his senses had gradually 
 been enthralled, bewitched and subjugated. 
 
 Any doubts he might have had as to the future 
 footing on which he and the Countess Szent Imre 
 might meet again were removed by a letter he re- 
 ceived from her shortly after his return to England. 
 She wound up with the words: "Do not imagine 
 that because I once failed in my resolutions, I am 
 likely ever to do so again. The past is dead and 
 buried; try to forget me." 
 
 A few weeks after his arrival at Folly Farm, he 
 heard from his bailiff that the inmates of Staple- 
 moor were expected back within the next few days. 
 The communication gave but little satisfaction to 
 George; for different reasons, he, if anything, rather 
 dreaded his first meeting with both of them, and 
 anything that disturbed the groove of his quiet, 
 emotionless existence was to him the reverse of
 
 202 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 welcome. However, he would comfort himself by 
 thinking it was bound to happen, sooner or later, so 
 there was no use fretting about it. 
 
 Soon afterwards he received a note from Mildred, 
 informing him of their approaching return, and ask- 
 ing him to come and see her at luncheon, or any 
 other time, during the course of the week. He did 
 not wish to appear churlish in not responding to the 
 invitation, so one morning, a very few days after the 
 receipt of Lady Devereux's note, he started on his 
 sturdy cob in the direction of Stapleraoor. On 
 arriving there he was informed that Lord Devereux 
 had not yet returned from cub-hunting, but that her 
 ladyship would see him. 
 
 Lady Devereux was just sitting down to luncheon 
 when George was announced. Several additional 
 places were laid on the chance of anybody dropping 
 in; but she was still sitting alone at the table when 
 he was shown in. Though it happened to be 
 fortuitous, it would have been a stratagem worthy of 
 a more scheming feminine mind than hers was to 
 arrange that their first meeting should take place 
 under such thoroughly conventional circumstances, 
 when the presence of the servants and questions such 
 as "Hashed venison or roast chicken?" prevented the 
 conversation from leaving the ordinary range of 
 commonplace topics, thus taking off the rough edge 
 of whatever awkwardness a first interview might easily 
 have engendered. 
 
 On the big folding doors being thrown open to 
 admit him, his first impression was: How handsome
 
 EUTHANASIA. 2O3 
 
 she has grown ! This was the purely material, optical 
 impression similar to a negative taken by a camera; 
 the reflex action produced upon the mind by what 
 the eye saw was totally wanting. He could not but 
 notice, however, the many improvements that had 
 accompanied the transition from maiden to matron. 
 The outlines of her face and figure had softened; 
 her complexion had grown richer in tint, and the 
 natural gracefulness and repose of her manner seemed 
 thoroughly in keeping with the dignity of her new 
 station. Those dark, pensive eyes, with their expres- 
 sion of candour and fearlessness; that pure white 
 brow with the wavy hair growing low upon the fore- 
 head, all these were familiar enough to George; but 
 they evoked no other feeling within him than that 
 produced by a dispassionate gaze at a lovely work of 
 art. Somehow, all fond memory of days gone by 
 had vanished in the fiery furnace of passion through 
 which he had passed; and the weary, wistful expres- 
 sion of his eyes seldom left them. 
 
 Mildred rose to greet him and met him with a 
 look of friendly cordiality and sympathy. They had 
 not seen each other for so long, that a very natural 
 curiosity arose in her to judge for herself how fate 
 had dealt with him during this, to both of them, 
 eventful space of time. One glance sufficed for her 
 to realise the change that had come over him. The 
 bright, cheerful look, denoting self-confidence, hope- 
 fulness and enjoyment of life had departed; though 
 the weeks spent in a sick-room might account for 
 the shrunk, haggard expression of his face, the
 
 204 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 discouraged, almost dejected look, and the sadness 
 of the smile that greeted her, were clearly not due 
 to physical suffering alone. Her heart sank at the 
 sight, and every vestige of reproachfulness or bitter- 
 ness vanished to make room for a sentiment of un- 
 bounded sympathy and compassion. 
 
 He sat down opposite her, and the warmth and 
 geniality of her manner soon made him forget the 
 apprehension with which he had looked forward to 
 this first interview. Inquiries as to his health served 
 as an introduction to the conversation, which soon 
 flowed along easily and naturally on safe neutral 
 topics. She questioned him as to the last new phase 
 of his life, and to the amount of interest and occupa- 
 tion it afforded him, and expressed her satisfaction 
 at having him in her near neighbourhood, which 
 would enable her to enliven his solitude with what- 
 ever social resources Staplemoor might offer. 
 
 By the time luncheon was at an end all shyness 
 on either side had worn off, and an easy, conven- 
 tional footing had been established between the two. 
 No allusion was made to the past; and Mildred 
 discreetly avoided any questions as to his life in 
 Hungary, which might have been apt to lead on to 
 dangerous ground. When George took his leave, he 
 did so with the impression of having spent an hour 
 or two very pleasantly, but otherwise nothing was 
 altered, and his solitary evening was lighted up by 
 no remembrance of the meeting that would have re- 
 lieved the sombre cast of his meditations. 
 
 There is a singularly expressive word in the Ger-
 
 EUTHANASIA. 205 
 
 man language, the word Sehnsucht, which would best 
 describe George Mansfield's frame of mind at that 
 time — a sort of superlative of longing and desire 
 combined; that craving for but one more look at the 
 face, absent and yet ever present, which nothing can 
 satisfy or dispel but the actual presence of the ob- 
 ject beloved.
 
 206 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 "Look in my face; my name is Might-Have-Been ; 
 I am also called No-More, Too-Late, Farewell; 
 Unto thine ear I hold the Dead Sea shell 
 Cast up thy.life's foam-fretted feet between." 
 
 Dante Rossetti. 
 
 Far different and deeper had been the impression 
 which their first interview had produced upon Mil- 
 dred. That the vocation of the ministering angel is 
 innate in almost every woman is a trite truism. In 
 her it existed in a highly developed state, and feel- 
 ings of tender compassion would have been roused 
 within her even had no other sentiment for George 
 remained lurking in her heart. Whatever his wrongs 
 might have been, they were forgiven; for had they 
 not been too manifestly expiated? Her duty, there- 
 fore, was clearly to hold out a friendly and helping 
 hand, instead of sitting in judgment over him. She 
 did not stop to consider whether such a course might 
 not be fraught with some danger to herself, nor 
 would such a consideration have deterred her; so she 
 set herself the task of devising some scheme by 
 which George could be brought back to a more nor- 
 mal frame of mind and a more natural mode of 
 existence than the life of seclusion and monastic re- 
 tirement that he had for the time being selected.
 
 EUTHANASIA. 207 
 
 Though by no means overrating the very Hmited 
 amount of influence she could still hope to exercise 
 over him, she nevertheless felt confident that through 
 her instrumentality alone could the cure be effected. 
 She paused for a moment in her reflections. The 
 thought that, after her return, Mrs. Jack Arthur might 
 very likely be not only willing, but even anxious, to 
 relieve her of the self-imposed duty of bringing back 
 George Mansfield to society, flashed across her mind, 
 and did but confirm her in her resolution. 
 
 Her surmise with regard to the latter was speedily 
 justified by events. The fact that Captain Ather- 
 stone had some time back resigned his proud position 
 in her surroundings, as well as her former friendly 
 intimacy with George Mansfield, militated strongly in 
 favour of her not letting so valuable an opportunity 
 pass of "paying out" Lady Devereux for any real or 
 imaginary offences. 
 
 A note was consequently despatched by her very 
 few days after her arrival, reminding George of old 
 days, expressing her joy at his return, together with 
 a request to come and see her within the next two 
 or three days. The note was delivered to George 
 one evening when he was deep in his meditations. 
 The sight of the familiar writing only intensified the 
 expression of weariness upon his face, and a mut- 
 tered exclamation, that sounded very much like 
 "Why can't the woman leave one alone?" escaped 
 him. He was not in the humour to appreciate Mrs. 
 Jack's flippant style of conversation: and the vision 
 of the bright hue of her curls, her society jargon,
 
 2o8 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 her side-glances, and all the rest, almost sickened 
 him. 
 
 At that time no doubt was left him that his days 
 as a soldier were over, never to return again; for, 
 although he could use his hand for most ordinary 
 purposes, there was a stiffness left in the wrist that 
 incapacitated him for military service. His taste for 
 reading, temporarily subdued during his intimacy with 
 Countess Szent Imre, had now come to the fore 
 again. Many books which he had bought upon 
 Father Vincent's recommendation, and which had re- 
 mained untouched on their shelf for many months, 
 he now took up, originally, no doubt chiefly from 
 association of ideas that connected them with the 
 past, but soon also from the growing interest they 
 roused in his mind, sickened and wearied as it was 
 with the so-called pleasures of life. 
 
 One of these books, over which he would spend 
 many hours, was Thomas of Celano's quaint old 
 monastic tale of the life of St. Francis. The simple, 
 child-like faith that breathed from every line of this 
 series of legends — partly pathetic, partly almost verging 
 upon the grotesque, but all of them replete with the 
 spirit of the age of the Crusades, and having, so to 
 speak, as a background, the vine-clad, purple range 
 of mountains surrounding the quaint old city of Assisi 
 in its unique picturesqueness, and, above it, the 
 cloudless blue of an ItaUan sky, appealed to his 
 imagination and had a strange fascination for him. 
 
 The many long, solitary evenings he had spent 
 had taught him to think — an occupation not often
 
 EUTHANASIA. 20g 
 
 or easily indulged in in a life of which every hour is 
 mapped out beforehand for purposes of duty or 
 pleasure. That the current of his thoughts had been 
 led into a channel towards which they certainly had 
 never previously tended was undoubtedly, to a great 
 extent, due to the influence of Father Vincent. 
 
 At first George had felt little more than curiosity 
 concerning him, looking upon a man born and bred 
 a gentleman, who led a life of absolute self-abnega- 
 tion, poverty and lowliness, merely as a specimen of 
 morbid religious fanaticism little short of monomania. 
 It was only when he perceived what a wealth of 
 knowledge, not only acquired by poring over volumes 
 of paper and parchment, was buried under this 
 humble surface; when he realised that this poor 
 Franciscan monk was looked up to for miles around 
 as the Father of the poor and the distressed, and 
 that, so far from being, as he had anticipated, little 
 short of a harmless lunatic, he was endowed with a 
 clear and singularly penetrating gift of perception 
 and judgment, that he had felt himself attracted to- 
 wards him. Perhaps what impressed him more than 
 anything else was the priest's look of serene, placid 
 happiness, as if the cares of the world existed not 
 for him, and as if in his eyes toil meant pleasure. 
 
 They had seen less of each other once George 
 had given himself up, with all his heart and soul 
 and strength, to his love for Countess Szent Imre; 
 but during all the weeks that succeeded his accident, 
 the monk hardly left his bedside; and, at the time 
 of their parting, George could not but say to himself 
 
 Euthanasia. ' 4
 
 2 I O EUTHANASIA. 
 
 that he hardly had a better friend in the world than 
 Father Vincent. 
 
 With her intimate knowledge of him, and the 
 truly feminine tact which she possessed to a re- 
 markable extent, Mildred had not been long in dis- 
 covering the exact nature of the changes that his 
 absence abroad had wrought in George's nature. 
 She saw at a glance that the lighthearted man of 
 pleasure existed no more, and that his character had 
 gained in depth and earnestness. Far from regret- 
 ting these changes, she saw in them only so many 
 additional points of contact between all her inner- 
 most soul and that of her lost lover; and the only 
 bitter pang she felt was that it had not been granted 
 to her to be the means of effecting this change. All 
 that in former days had acted rather as a check 
 upon her feelings towards him: the apparently rather 
 superficial view he would take of things; his worldli- 
 ness and desire for pleasure and excitement, had 
 vanished; and all that was noble and good in his 
 nature had taken deeper root. She never questioned 
 that had Fate ordained that their paths through life 
 should be thrown together, the same result would 
 have been achieved by her without his bearing that 
 heavy burden of oppression and weariness. 
 
 All the shyness and restraint that had marked 
 George's manner to her during their first interview 
 had gradually worn off. Somehow, she appeared to 
 him under a different light from what she did be- 
 fore. Not that she had altered in any way; only he 
 was then far better able to appreciate many sides
 
 EUTHANASIA. 211 
 
 in her nature which formerly were but a sealed book 
 to him. With the utmost frankness he told her how 
 heavily his obligation towards Lord Devereux weighed 
 upon him, and how firmly resolved he was gradually 
 to liberate himself from it; though he little guessed 
 that this transaction had been the cause of Mildred's 
 acting upon his advice, and accepting Lord Devereux's 
 proposal. 
 
 The new line his thoughts had taken created 
 many topics of mutual understanding between the 
 two, and Mildred sometimes inwardly smiled when 
 she looked back upon the days when she had read 
 and re-read with the utmost attention the sporting 
 column of the daily papers, in order not to show her 
 utter ignorance of one of her lover's favourite pur- 
 suits. In all her numerous errands of charity that 
 frequently took her to different parts of the estate, 
 Lady Devereux found in George a most willing and 
 useful companion, not only able to carry out her 
 wishes, but full of suggestions of his own, and of 
 
 keen interest in her work. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Christmas was drawing near when they started 
 out one morning together in Mildred's pony-cart for a 
 village situated some six or seven miles from Staple- 
 moor. Lord Devereux troubled himself but little 
 about these excursions of his wife; he fully approved 
 of their purpose, which indirectly tended to increase 
 his own popularity in the country; but beyond that 
 he seldom questioned her as to her movements. 
 Whenever he met George Mansfield it was with the 
 
 14*
 
 2 I 2 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 Utmost cordiality, and the thought that any harm 
 might arise from his wife being frequently thrown 
 together with her lover of old days never even 
 crossed his mind. 
 
 Mildred's visit on that particular excursion was 
 destined to the wife of a poor cottager outside the 
 village of Brentham. The poor woman was only just 
 recovered from her confinement, and the distress was 
 increased by the fact of her husband — who, when 
 not incapacitated by drink, would go and work at a 
 neighbouring forge — being temporarily out of employ- 
 ment. After some inquiries, Lady Devereux and her 
 escort found the cottage. The handle of the bell 
 was broken, but a knock at the front door was soon 
 answered by a wizened, pale-faced little girl, who 
 stared in amazement at the stately figure descending 
 from the pony-cart. The child blushed crimson, and 
 dropping Mildred a curtsey, stammered out, in answer 
 to an inquiry as to her mother's health: "Beg your 
 pardon, milady, mother's very poorly indeed; the 
 baby keeps a fretting of her all night, so mother 
 don't get no sleep at all." 
 
 Mildred's manner towards the poor was the out- 
 come of her natural kind-heartedness and genuine 
 love of her suffering fellow- creatures. She was never 
 at a loss as to what to say to them, and her manner 
 was very different from that only too common when 
 "slumming" in the East-end of London came into 
 fashion. An apparition in gorgeous attire, evidently 
 extremely ill at her ease, and cracking her head 
 what to say, inwardly hoping there might be no in-
 
 EUTHANASIA. 2 I 3 
 
 fection about, and much pre-occupied by this con- 
 sideration; a few stereotyped questions as to number 
 and age of children; the hope expressed of speedy 
 recovery, together with a vague promise of coming 
 again; finally, half-a-sovereign left on the table, and 
 a rapid exit, are scarcely the characteristics of a 
 visit from which much lasting good can be expected. 
 The hamper containing Mildred's many little gifts 
 in the shape of baby linen, beef-tea and similar most 
 acceptable provisions having been duly unloaded, 
 George drove the pony round to the adjacent inn, 
 with instructions to join her again at the cottage. 
 The sight that met Mildred's eye on entering the 
 cottage was one that might have struck pity into a 
 heart less impressionable than hers was. In a narrow 
 iron bedstead, covered only with a blanket — the 
 sheets had gone to the pawnbroker's long ago — lay 
 the emaciated figure of a woman, who, until care 
 and privation had done their handiwork, must have 
 been by no means devoid of good looks. The pale, 
 hollow cheeks made the deep blue eyes seem un- 
 naturally large, and the fair hair that grew low upon 
 the brow was streaked with grey in many places, 
 though the woman could hardly be more than thirty. 
 The thin, transparent hand hung listlessly over the 
 bedside, intensifying the pathetic look of mute de- 
 spair caused by years of suffering, mental and physical, 
 and the knowledge that the return of health meant 
 little more than the relief of a slight part of life's 
 burden. The large eyes were turned anxiously, with 
 the look of a hunted deer, towards the door as
 
 2 14 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 Mildred entered. What ever crossed the poor friend- 
 less woman's threshold but care, in some shape or 
 other? Her husband reeling home from the public- 
 house; an errand boy to say the baker could not 
 give another loaf until he had received something on 
 account; before long, very likely the bailiff to seize 
 whatever scanty scraps of furniture were left. 
 
 A sigh of relief came from the poor invalid as, 
 instead of any of the dreaded visions, she saw Lady 
 Devereux coming in, gently and noiselessly, with a 
 sweet smile on her lips and the light of sympathy 
 and kindness upon her face. Mildred was too well 
 known in the neighbourhood not to be recognised at 
 the first glance, and, to the poor sufferer, she ap- 
 peared almost as an angel of light and charity. She 
 sat down by the bedside and, taking up the poor 
 feverish hand, inquired with earnest sympathy into all 
 the woman's troubles. 
 
 The tale was by no means an uncommon one. 
 The daughter of well-to-do people, she had married 
 against her parents' wish, and, after having seen 
 better days, she had rapidly gone down hill. Her 
 husband had taken to drink, and they had been 
 obliged to shut up the little business they had started. 
 With a rapidly increasing family and absolute misery 
 staring her in the face, exposed to her husband's 
 ruffianly brutality, her life had grown a burden al- 
 most too heavy to bear. 
 
 The tears glistened in Mildred's eyes as she 
 listened to this tale, pathetic in its simplicity and un- 
 mistakable truthfulness. Very few questions sufficed
 
 EUTHANASIA. 2 I 5 
 
 to show her that the poor woman was above all in 
 want of proper medical assistance; and, as soon as 
 George had returned, she sent him off at once in 
 search of the village doctor. The latter having 
 fortunately been found at home, he proceeded at 
 once, together with George, to where his services 
 were required. Much remained for Mildred to do 
 even after the doctor's visit. She suggested to 
 George his returning to Staplemoor and sending back 
 another carriage for her. This, however, he firmly 
 declined to do; the day was sinking, and he had no 
 intention of leaving her under the circumstances; so 
 he settled himself down in the little apology for a 
 parlour that adjoined the room in which the sick 
 woman lay, alone with his thoughts. 
 
 Before very long the train of the latter was inter- 
 rupted by a heavy footstep outside, and the door 
 was opened with a savage wrench to admit the bulky 
 form of the tenant of the cottage. Jim Styles — this 
 was the man's name — was admitted, even by his 
 friends, to be "a bit of an awkward customer when 
 he had had a glass, though not a bad chap, take 
 him all round." That he had, on the present oc- 
 casion, "had a glass," or probably a good many, was 
 palpable even to a less practised eye than George's 
 (soldiering is apt to sharpen the eye to a consider- 
 able extent in the detection of this infirmity), though 
 he had not yet reached the stage of reeling helpless- 
 ness. His glassy eye fixed with a decidedly nasty 
 expression upon the unexpected intruder, and before 
 George had time to explain his presence, he found
 
 2 I 6 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 himself rather gruffly accosted in a loud and some- 
 what quarrelsome tone: "Well, and who might you 
 be, if I may enquire? You seem to have made 
 yourself quite at home in the place, anyhow." 
 
 George's prominent idea, under the circumstances, 
 was to avoid anything in the shape of a quarrel on 
 account of the poor woman, separated only by a thin 
 door from the scene of the conversation. He there- 
 fore replied in the very meekest tone that he had 
 accompanied Lady Devereux, who had come to see 
 if she could offer any assistance to the invalid in the 
 next room. The answer was both in tone and mean- 
 ing so eminently conciliatory that quarrelsome as the 
 blacksmith's mood was, he could not very well 
 pretend to take offence at it; so he merely shrugged 
 his shoulders, muttering between his lips something 
 about fine folks minding their own business. At the 
 same time he made a move towards the door that 
 led into the room where Mildred was sitting by the 
 bedside of the sick woman. Seeing the state he was 
 in and guessing what effect his exceedingly ill-timed 
 intrusion would have upon both the inmates of the 
 room, George mildly interposed, remarking that the 
 doctor had recommended the most absolute quiet as 
 an indispensable condition for the recovery of the 
 invalid, at the same time suggesting that the other 
 should return in an hour's time, when Lady Devereux 
 would be leaving and the patient would very likely 
 have fallen asleep. 
 
 Excellent though his intentions no doubt were, 
 his interposition, under the circumstances, was
 
 EUTHANASIA. " 2 1 7 
 
 scarcely judicious, for it suited the other's purpose 
 of picking a quarrel; all the more so as George had 
 risen and placed himself in a quiet but resolute at- 
 titude in front of the door. No more was required 
 to rouse every savage instinct within the blacksmith, 
 whose blood was heated by copious libations that in- 
 creased tenfold the natural combativeness of the man. 
 Abandoning the slouching attitude which intemper- 
 ance had given him, he raised himself to his full 
 height, and throwing back his powerful shoulders, he 
 said, adorning his words with many vigorous and 
 vicious expletives: "And so you think you are going 
 to order me about in my own house, do you? Well, 
 all I can say you'll find yourself out of your reckon- 
 ing at that game. Perhaps you don't know Jim 
 Styles, and you'll think better of it when you do. 
 Stand aside there, you!" 
 
 George never moved an inch. When the other's 
 voice dropped for a moment, he could faintly discern 
 in the next room the plaintive, pitiful notes of the 
 poor sick woman and Mildred's words of comfort 
 and encouragement. He felt himself in a thoroughly 
 awkward position: if he admitted the man into the 
 room, blind with drink and frenzy as he was, it was 
 hard to tell upon whom his fury and his foul lan- 
 guage would vent itself Absolutely fearless as far 
 as he was concerned, he once more tried his powers 
 of persuasion, endeavouring to explain what his 
 motives were and recommending his adversary to re- 
 turn in an hour's time, when, if sober, he should find 
 the passage unimpeded. Surely he must be able to
 
 2 I 8 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 understand that Lady Devereux had come merely 
 from kindness towards his wife. These arguments 
 proved of no avail, for the blacksmith did not mean 
 to be done out of the fight he was longing for by 
 any amount of persuasion. 
 
 "That's all mighty fine," was the retort, "but if 
 her ladyship wanted to see my wife, what business 
 have you here? When fine ladies come and see us 
 poor folk, let them leave their sweethearts at home." 
 
 Before another word had escaped his lips George 
 interrupted him. He had turned as white as a sheet, 
 and his mouth was twitching with suppressed emo- 
 tion: "Look here, my good man, this sort of thing 
 won't do; you'll either keep a ci\al tongue in your 
 head or you will take the consequences." 
 
 "Consequences be d d!" said the other, at 
 
 the same time leading off with a heavy blow straight 
 at George's face. The latter had too much ex- 
 perience to have taken his eye off that of his op- 
 ponent for a moment, though he was determined to 
 avoid opening hostilities. Thus he was not taken 
 unawares, and ducked, thereby escaping a formidable 
 left-hander. At the same time he countered heavily 
 and landed his left on to his adversary's jaw. The 
 blow was a powerful one; George's blood was up, 
 and he put, perhaps, rather more "body" into it than 
 the circumstances absolutely demanded. Anyhow, 
 with a loud crash, that knocked over a table and 
 demolished the scant amount of crockery the cottage 
 could boast of, the blacksmith fell to the ground.
 
 EUTHANASIA. 2 I Q 
 
 There was nothing in his fall to cause any im- 
 mediate anxiety; so, before troubling himself about 
 him, George quickly entered the bedroom where 
 Mildred and the poor sick woman were. The look 
 of anguish on the latter's face went straight to his 
 heart, and he hastened to reassure her, explaining 
 matters as best he could. He then told Mildred in 
 very few words how the thing had happened, and 
 then returned to see how his late adversary was 
 doing. Still on the floor, though only in a half- 
 recumbent position, the blacksmith was rubbing his 
 head, which, in his fall, had come into collision with 
 some piece of furniture. There was a dazed ex- 
 pression about his face, and he was looking around 
 him with a stare as if endeavouring to collect his 
 thoughts. 
 
 All combativeness had left him, and his former 
 defiant tone was changed into one of plaintive 
 humility. He was beside himself, he said; privation 
 and the sickness of his wife had upset him alto- 
 gether. George was overjoyed that so little damage 
 had been done; he inquired into the man's ante- 
 cedents and endeavoured to offer whatever comfort 
 he could. 
 
 \Vhilst he was thus talking, Mildred came into 
 the room. Her beauty, added to the calm dignity 
 of her manner, would probably have disarmed the 
 man who now sat there, the picture of abject misery, 
 even in his most savage mood. He felt so thoroughly 
 ashamed of himself that he scarcely dared raise his 
 eyes from the ground, and avoided the gaze of those
 
 2 20 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 deep blue eyes that looked at him so earnestly and 
 compassionately. 
 
 "I think your wife is a little better now," she 
 said. "The doctor has prescribed for her; but he 
 says himself that all his prescriptions will do her no 
 good without rest and kind treatment. Surely you 
 would not wish to make her more miserable than 
 she already is; I cannot believe you to be so un- 
 manly. I mean to come and see her again in two 
 or three days; only, if you are once more as you 
 were to-day, Lord Devereux would not allow me to 
 come. Can I trust you? Would it be so very hard 
 to turn over a new leaf?" She held out her hand 
 to the man as she spoke. There was nothing of the 
 ruffian as he is seen on the stage in poor Jim Styles, 
 or he would have bathed the proffered hand with 
 tears and not unlikely have kissed the hem of her 
 skirt. Nothing of the kind entered his mind; but 
 with a vigorous grasp of the hand he only said, in 
 a voice that was husky, not solely from recent in- 
 temperance: 
 
 "I know you are right, milady, in all you say; 
 and I've been a shocking bad husband to poor 
 Lottie, and it's been a poor return for all she has 
 done for me; but I'll try and do as you say, for the 
 sake of you that has asked me to do it; and if I 
 don't keep my promise my name ain't Jim Styles. 
 And now shall I run and get your ladyship's trap 
 round?" 
 
 This offer Mildred declined, and so she and 
 George left together to fetch the pony-cart from the
 
 EUTHANASIA. 2 2 I 
 
 neighbouring inn, which was only some two or three 
 minutes' walk from there. Darkness was beginning 
 to set in when they started off for their long drive 
 honte. 
 
 For some time they sat silently next to each 
 other. At last George began: 
 
 "I should not be at all surprised if that man 
 were to keep his promise and lead a more decent 
 life in future. I wonder what occult charm you have 
 that gives you the power you have over all irien, even 
 when they are made of such tough fibre as our friend 
 the blacksmith?" 
 
 "Nonsense, my dear George! I have no power 
 over anybody; I often wish I had. That poor man 
 was so dazed after your rough treatment that he 
 would have promised anything to anybody. 1 fancy 
 it was more your fists than my eloquence that made 
 what you call the tough fibre rather more supple. I 
 only hope he may remember his promise when he is 
 quite sober again." 
 
 They were each of them following out the train 
 of their reflections, and another long silence ensued. 
 
 "How ungrateful it does seem of all of us," at 
 last said Mildred, "always being discontented and 
 fretful — inwardly, anyhow, even if we don't show it 
 to our surroundings— when we compare our life to 
 that of that poor woman. Now what has life been 
 to her but privation, disappointment, humiliation? I 
 suppose she cared for this man, or she could not 
 have married him; and see how he treats her! Yet
 
 222 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 she makes much less fuss about herself than I often 
 do about my more or less imaginary woes." 
 
 "But what are these woes, imaginary or other- 
 wise?" he replied, with perfectly unassumed ignorance. 
 
 "Oh, nothing particular," she answered. 
 
 The words that had been uttered barely an hour 
 ago by that drunken ruffian rankled in George's mind. 
 True, the source from which they came made them 
 almost beneath contempt; and yet, what this man 
 had said might only have been repeated from what 
 he had heard from others; and the mere notion of 
 any breath of slander attaching itself to Mildred's 
 fair name was in itself intolerable to him. Once 
 already he had wronged her, early in Hfe, no doubt 
 owing to no immediate fault of his. Was he now 
 deliberately, and with his eyes open, to inflict further 
 injury upon her? The current of his thoughts brought 
 him back to old times. 
 
 "My remark is a commonplace one," he said, 
 "I warn you beforehand, but the truth of the old 
 saying that a life's destiny may depend upon the 
 veriest trifle was brought home to me rather more 
 forcibly than usual. What could have been more of 
 a chance than 3^ou hearing about this poor woman, 
 or your going to see her? And now, if only that 
 drunken husband of hers, whom you have bewitched, 
 will be true to his word, it may be the turning point 
 in her existence. And again, in our own lives: you 
 remember the day of the Hunt Cup? Suppose Httle 
 Davis, who was riding Barrister, had for a moment 
 lost his own head and let go of his horse's when it
 
 EUTHANASIA. 22^ 
 
 came to the pinch — he had done it many a time 
 before, and I suppose he has since — the coup would 
 have been landed, and " 
 
 "And ?" 
 
 "Well, I suppose we should have been happy 
 ever after, like people in the fairy tale. Anyhow, 
 it's a comfort to think that I have been the only 
 loser by it." 
 
 There was no tone of bitterness in the remark; 
 but it stung Mildred nevertheless. 
 
 "And yet, if I am well informed, you did not 
 spend aH your time weeping over Paradise Lost 
 whilst you were out in Hungary." 
 
 "No; especially not after I heard of your en- 
 gagement." 
 
 It cost Mildred a violent effort to restrain herself 
 from telling him the whole truth there and then; but 
 her hps remained sealed. 
 
 "Don't let us spoil what has, after all, been a 
 very successful day by harping on things that belong 
 to a distant past; they will never be wiped out from 
 my memory"— she laid some stress on the "my" — 
 "but no good can come from referring to them. 
 Perhaps all is for the best as it is. When are you 
 going back to Hungary to take leave of your regiment 
 — soon, I suppose?" 
 
 "I was thinking of going out next week, but it 
 makes but little difference to anybody whether I go 
 sooner or later." 
 
 "I wish you would not talk in that desponding 
 way, as if there was nothing left in life to interest
 
 2 24 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 you. Surely, if you are bored with the monotony of 
 country Hfe, and your farm is not enough to occupy 
 your mind, you might create for yourself other sub- 
 jects of interest. Your life would no longer be a 
 blank, and you would not look so unhappy. Will 
 you try? It makes me quite sad to see you in your 
 present state." 
 
 "I will do my best," George replied laughingly, 
 "to be less of a wet blanket in future, if only to 
 please you; but you must allow I have been rather 
 unlucky, having to leave just as I was beginning to 
 get on nicely. However, I dare say I shall be all 
 right again — my spirits, I mean — before very long." 
 
 Their conversation was brought to a close as 
 they were driving up to the porticoed front door of 
 Staplemoor; and they parted with the mutual agree- 
 ment that the adventures of the day should remain 
 strictly between themselves. 
 
 Mildred felt tired and rather weary on returning 
 home, and she was rather glad to hear that Lord 
 Devereux was dining out at a bachelors' party; so 
 she would have the evening alone with her friend 
 Mrs. Garrard, who was the only guest at the time. 
 They were in Mildred's boudoir after dinner, dressed 
 in tea-gowns, seated in comfortable arm-chairs, each 
 of them with a book in her hand, though apparently 
 not much disposed to do more than glance listlessly 
 over the pages. 
 
 "How tired you look, Mildred," Mrs. Garrard 
 began. "You have made rather too long a day of 
 it; I should give anything to know what you and
 
 EUTHANASIA. 22 5 
 
 Lord George could have found to talk about during 
 all those many hours you spent together. Don't 
 you think people will find it rather odd, supposing 
 they met you? For, after all, nobody will believe 
 that if you take a big Guardsman with you when 
 you go and see a poor woman after her confinement 
 it is only for her benefit, will they?" 
 
 "What nonsense you do talk!" Lady Devereux 
 replied laughingly. "Of course he never even saw 
 her, or, at least, he was not meant to see her. No, 
 if I take him with me, it is for his sake, just to break 
 the chain of his broodings; all those numberless hours 
 he spends alone are so bad for him." 
 
 "You are quite sure it is not partly for your 
 own sake that you see so much of him, are you?" 
 Mildred coloured visibly; but the other went on in 
 her brisk, cheery manner: "And does he tell you 
 about the subject of his broodings, and are you ex- 
 pected to console him? Mind you, I always did like 
 Lord George, and I do now; but I don't want you 
 to get talked about because of your endeavour to 
 dispel the blue devils from out of him. Mrs. Jack 
 Arthur would tell you it is not worth while getting 
 talked about for nothing at all. However, that is 
 not the line of argument I mean to take with a high- 
 minded person like you." She had drawn nearer to 
 her friend and was leaning over the back of her 
 chair, her face nearly touching that of Mildred. "I 
 don't want to play the part of the croaking Cassandra, 
 but, believe me, dear child, you live too much up in 
 the clouds; I know men better than you do. Of 
 
 Euthanasia, 5
 
 2 26 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 course we know Lord George has had some sort of 
 romance out there, and has not yet got over it, 
 more's the luck. The day he does, beware!" Her 
 voice had dropped almost to a whisper. "I can see 
 you care for him as much as you ever did. Don't 
 tell me you don't. I can see it in a hundred little 
 things. Now, don't be angry with me." 
 
 Mildred sat perfectly immovable, never taking her 
 eyes from the fire, as if intently watching the little 
 blue flames that shot up now and then from between 
 the embers. 
 
 "Of course I am not angry with you, Maggie, how 
 could I be? But don't worry yourself about me; it is 
 all quite different from what you fancy; and even if 
 I did still like him it would make but little difference, 
 for he loves another woman with all his heart and 
 soul. Of course he has not told me so, but a child 
 could see it. In fact, I believe he is going back to 
 see her next week. It makes me miserable seeing 
 him so dull and depressed, that's all. As to people 
 talking, they will have to talk pretty loudly before it 
 affects his lordship; and if they did most of his 
 friends would only like me the better, and would find 
 me far more congenial than they do at present. Do 
 you suppose I care if Mrs, Jack .\rthur abuses me a 
 little more or less? Not I!"
 
 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 227 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 "I have had joy and sorrow; I have proved 
 What life could give; have loved and been beloved." 
 
 "I am sick and heartsore 
 And weary, let me sleep; 
 But deep, deep, 
 Never to wake more." 
 
 Mrs. Jameson. 
 
 Ten days later George Mansfield was once more 
 back in Hungary to take leave of his regiment. 
 
 The genuine ring of all the words of regret which 
 he heard from his Colonel and his brother officers 
 went straight to his heart. He had grown a general 
 favourite with them all, and his voice shook with 
 emotion when, at a farewell dinner, he got up to 
 thank them for all the expressions of good feeling 
 that had been used about himself. He could truth- 
 fully say that he would look back upon the time he 
 had spent with them as one of the happiest periods 
 of his Hfe. 
 
 On the following day he drove over to Erdelyi 
 to take leave of his troop. On re-entering the little 
 village and driving up before the humble cottage 
 so inseparably connected in his mind with all the 
 joys and sorrows of the past, he could hardly bring 
 
 15*
 
 228 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 himself to realise that this was really his final fare- 
 well. It seemed to him like returning to his own 
 home, and the friendly look of welcome with which 
 even the peasants greeted him as his carriage rolled 
 past made him look upon them as something more 
 than mere supernumeraries in a scene where he had 
 met with nothing but hearty goodwill and kindness. 
 In the afternoon the troop paraded before him for 
 the last time, just outside the village. A look of 
 heartfelt regret and sadness came over the honest, 
 stolid countenances of these rough fellows when 
 George, addressing them in their own language, in- 
 formed them that, owing to circumstances over 
 which he had no control, he was obliged to take 
 leave of the regiment; that no one could regret it 
 more deeply than he did, as it would have been his 
 pride and his ambition to lead into action a troop of 
 cavalry so thoroughly efficient as they were. Though, 
 of course, miUtary etiquette forbade any response on 
 the part of the men thus addressed, they made up 
 for it later in the day, and, at an out-of-door enter- 
 tainment which George provided for them in the 
 afternoon, his health was drunk over and over again, 
 the men lifting their pan porucznik (officer) upon 
 their shoulders in the true old pohsh fashion. 
 
 On inquiring after his friend and companion 
 during the weary weeks of his illness, George was 
 informed that Father Vincent had suddenly been 
 summoned to Rome, and it was doubtful when he 
 would return. The news came upon him as a real 
 disappointment; for the link that connected these
 
 EUTHANASIA. 2 29 
 
 natures, originally as distant from each other as the 
 poles, had not been severed by George's departure, 
 and at regular intervals a not infrequent correspon- 
 dence had keen kept up between the two. 
 
 He had received a note from Countess Szent 
 Imre asking him to come over in the afternoon and 
 stay for dinner, if he was able to face a very dull 
 party; for, not knowing the exact date of his return, 
 she had asked some very uninteresting country neigh- 
 bours; but they would be able to have a quiet talk 
 the next morning if he wished. George had for 
 some weeks back prepared himself and braced up 
 his nerves for this final interview. He had repeated 
 to himself, many and many a time, that it was 
 nothing more than a formal farewell visit to a very 
 dear friend, and he felt firmly resolved to avoid any 
 sort of reference to the past. Presumably he really 
 intended rigorously to carry out this programme, and 
 felt confident in his ability to do so, blind to the fact 
 that less than a glance — merely the raising of those 
 drooping eyelids with their curly fringe by the tenth 
 part of an inch, was required to upset the fabric of 
 his resolutions. 
 
 Dense black clouds had risen on the horizon 
 early in the day and, driven along by an easterly 
 wind that blew in great gusts, they had rapidly 
 spread and were beginning to discharge thick, heavy 
 snow-flakes that soon began to lie on the hard-frozen, 
 slippery roads. As George drove cautiously over the 
 little wooden bridge just outside the village, and the 
 long vista of the avenue of poplars that extended to
 
 230 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 the park gates of Kisfalva opened up once more be- 
 fore his eyes, his thoughts wandered back to a lovely 
 moonlit summer night when he had driven home 
 over that same bridge, his heart overflowing with 
 exultant joy, when he saw opening up before him a 
 cloudless horizon of love and blissful happiness; and 
 he could not help wondering whether at the bottom 
 of that now frozen brook the ring still lay which, on 
 that night, he had thrown away as a pledge to Fate 
 that the last link between himself and his former love 
 was severed. 
 
 Every landmark along that bleak avenue, swept 
 by fierce gusts of snow and sleet, was familiar to his 
 eye and seemed to greet him like an old friend re- 
 turned after a long absence; and as he drove past 
 the lodge and over the drawbridge that led into the 
 court, George felt his heart beating, however much 
 he might try to persuade himself that he was only 
 paying a commonplace visit of farewell. 
 
 The rules of Hungarian etiquette do not impose 
 upon the large array of retainers that form part of 
 every estabhshment the same stoHd, dispassionate ex- 
 pression and gaze which our servants seem to have 
 so little difficulty in acquiring, as if the joys and 
 troubles of their masters and their masters' friends 
 affected them no more than the vicissitudes of the 
 inhabitants of some other planet. The pleasant, 
 genial manner which George always adopted towards 
 his inferiors had made him exceedingly popular 
 amongst the vast retinue of the Kisfalva establish- 
 ment; and the expressions of respectful welcome.
 
 EUTHANASIA. 23 1 
 
 coupled with the hope that he would not have to 
 leave again, were plentiful. The bad state of the 
 road had delayed his arrival beyond the time he had 
 anticipated; nevertheless he was informed that none 
 of the other guests had arrived, and that he would 
 find the Countess in the library. The latter was a 
 long, narrow gallery rather than a room; the lofty 
 walls were covered throughout with bookcases con- 
 taining many valuable volumes, though of a com- 
 paratively recent date; for the original family library 
 had been destroyed in one of the many invasions of 
 the Turks. The deep recesses formed by the win- 
 dows in the walls of about six feet in thickness, con- 
 tained writing-tables, couches and a few arm-chairs, 
 chosen more with a view to the comfort of the ex- 
 hausted student than from any artistic merit. Huge 
 logs had been piled upon the grate of the monu- 
 mental fireplace, a masterpiece of carved oak, and 
 the fitful light from the fire was scarcely sufficient to 
 remove the impression of semi-obscurity upon enter- 
 ing the library. 
 
 Not far from the fireplace, in one of the further 
 recesses, a reading-lamp was burning, casting the 
 warm tints of its shaded rays upon Countess Szent 
 Imre's delicate features. She was writing busily, and 
 not until George stood close to the table did she 
 raise her eyes, without interrupting her writing: "That 
 is not really you, is it? I cannot believe it. I know 
 this sounds inhospitable, after writing to invite you, 
 but you know what I mean. You must not mind 
 my just finishing this letter, post goes in two minutes
 
 232 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 and I dare not miss it. Go and get warm by the 
 fire, or else look at some of these old books; I shall 
 not be half a minute." 
 
 George did not avail himself of the permission to 
 take down any of the grim, vellum-bound volumes 
 that frowned upon him as if only too conscious that 
 he had not come on their account. Noiselessly, so 
 as not to disturb her, he sat down on the side of an 
 arm-chair, and took a long, loving look at that serene 
 and placid countenance. The light was falling full 
 upon her face, bringing out in clear relief, Hke a 
 cameo, the delicate lineaments of her profile against 
 the sombre hue of the curtain beyond. The innate 
 gracefulness that stamped all her movements and 
 attitudes was never more clearly perceptible. She 
 sat perfectly erect, the delicate fingers of her left 
 hand resting lightly upon the paper over which the 
 quill pen was skimming at a rapid pace, the bold- 
 ness of her firm and rather upright characters dis- 
 pensing her from bringing her eyes into close 
 proximity with the paper. 
 
 After a few minutes she closed her letter with a 
 sigh of relief "Maintenant je suis a vous," she said. 
 "And now you are to tell me all about yourself — 
 mind you, all, ever since the day I saw you last." 
 
 George thereupon began to describe his life dur- 
 ing the past months, his various pursuits, and how 
 he had been trying to take some sort of interest in 
 his new occupations, etc. His account omitted no- 
 thing, except the large part she still played in his 
 existence : for of this he breathed not a word. She
 
 EUTHANASIA. 233 
 
 listened intently; "And how about Lady Devereiix? 
 I hope I am not treading on delicate ground; do 
 you often meet her? She is a near neighbour of 
 yours now, isn't she?" 
 
 "Yes, I see her pretty often." 
 
 "Have you ever spoken to her about me?" 
 
 "Your name has hardly ever been mentioned be- 
 tween us." 
 
 The Countess was determined to keep the con- 
 versation on safe neutral ground during this first 
 interview, so she rattled away lightly, telling him all 
 the trifling news of the neighbourhood — discussing 
 various changes that had occurred in the regiment 
 since his absence; informing him who the guests 
 were, whom she expected to dinner, etc. Thus the 
 half-hour before dressing time was passed entirely in 
 conformity with Countess Szent Imre's wishes, as 
 well as with those which George had been endeavour- 
 ing to inculcate upon himself 
 
 And yet, needless to say, before he had been in 
 her presence but a few minutes all his resolutions 
 had faded away, and a wild, passionate longing to 
 press those tempting lips but once more against his 
 own caused all his blood to course feverishly through 
 his veins. He sought his room thoroughly discon- 
 tented with the Countess, with himself and the world 
 in general. The effects of the mental discipline he 
 had been undergoing during the last few months had 
 vanished for the moment, swept away by an angry 
 tumult of passion, though it would have been dif-
 
 234 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 ficult for him to put the exact nature of his grievance 
 into words. 
 
 The company assembled for dinner when George 
 came down was larger than he anticipated; for 
 hitherto, owing to the Count's failing health, the 
 doors of the old castle of Kisfalva had been closed 
 against all but a very few intimate friends. It seemed 
 almost strange to him at last to see something of the 
 Countess' existence, of which, up to then, he knew 
 nothing; and he could not help noticing the grace- 
 fulness and distinction with which she did the 
 honours of her house; talking with the same listless 
 affability to a country curate pouring forth the woes 
 of his flock as she did to the handsome and cynical 
 Hungarian magnate sitting by her side, as he related 
 to her some highly flavoured anecdote that he had 
 picked up in the gilded salons of Monte Carlo. 
 George was told off to the daughter of a neighbour- 
 ing landowner, whom he had met once or twice be- 
 fore. It did not matter much to him whom he took 
 in, so long as no great conversational efforts were 
 required of him. Whatever his own views might be, 
 his neighbour had no intention of spending a dull 
 evening, or allowing herself to be bored by him or 
 anybody else. 
 
 Jet-black hair, and eyes as big as tea-cups, that 
 smiled even during the rare intervals when her lips 
 did not; teeth of almost unnatural whiteness, that 
 made people forget the mouth, which was scarcely as 
 small as perfect symmetry would have exacted — 
 these were the most striking points in Etelka Mol-
 
 EUTHANASIA. 235 
 
 nary's outward appearance. She thoroughly enjoyed 
 Ufe, of the intricacies of which she no doubt pre- 
 tended to know far more than she really could know 
 at the age of nineteen. Untroubled by any con- 
 stitutional shyness, she gave free vent to her natural 
 talkativeness. Thus time passed quickly enough for 
 George, who, like most men in his frame of mind, 
 betook himself somewhat assiduously to drowning 
 care with some of the excellent vintage which the 
 Kisfalva cellars still held. 
 
 "How handsome the Countess is looking to- 
 night," his neighbour said to him rather abruptly, 
 following the direction of his eyes. "I have not seen 
 her in a low frock for ever so long. And how well 
 she carries off all those heavy rows of pearls." 
 
 This remark gave George an excuse for allowing 
 his eyes to wander with more persistence towards his 
 lovely hostess. She was in black: a dress of great 
 simplicity, but for that very reason best suited to 
 enhance the beauty of the delicate outline of her 
 figure, and setting off the snowy whiteness of the 
 statuesque neck and shoulders. In her hair she 
 wore as only ornament a crescent of brilliants, which 
 stood off in bold relief from the thick auburn curls. 
 The listlessness of her manner had apparently dis- 
 appeared for the time being, and she seemed ab- 
 sorbed in conversation with her left-hand neighbour 
 — an elderly man, with a greyish beard and spec- 
 tacles. 
 
 "Who is that the Countess is talking to with so
 
 236 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 much animation?" George asked his neighbour. 
 "Somehow, I don't think I have ever seen his face 
 before; can you tell me?" 
 
 "Oh! don't you know? That is one of the 
 members of the Cabinet; they say he is shortly going 
 to resign on account of his health, and there is some 
 question of Count Kesthelyi's being his successor. 
 You have heard of him surely, haven't you? I be- 
 lieve he used to be very devoted to the Countess 
 some years ago; at least, so they say." 
 
 No need, indeed, to ask George if that name was 
 familiar to him? Had he forgotten it? The altered 
 expression, the unwonted animation brought about 
 by the mere thought of her former lover, and the 
 manner in which she listened with silent attention to 
 the replies which her neighbour gave her in grave 
 and measured tones would have sufficiently indicated 
 to him the subject of their conversation. However, 
 he was determined that nothing in his manner should 
 betray his preoccupation, either to his neighbour or 
 to his lovely hostess sitting opposite; so he responded 
 with some alacrity to the lively remarks of the pretty 
 girl next to him, though straining his ears now and 
 then to catch a passing remark of the conversation 
 on the other side of the table. 
 
 When dessert was being handed round. Made- 
 moiselle Molnary turned towards George and said 
 laughingly: "Well, I suppose all's well that ends well. 
 I hope you have not been too dreadfully bored, but 
 if you have I will allow you have borne it like a
 
 EUTHANASIA. 237 
 
 man. Do you suppose I don't know where your 
 thoughts were the whole time? Anyhow, your penance 
 is nearly over now, for of course you know we all go 
 out together." 
 
 George responded with the compliment, obvious 
 under the circumstances; and very shortly afterwards 
 the signal of departure for the drawing-room was 
 given. 
 
 In Hungary, as in many Continental countries, 
 cigarettes and cigars form a sine qua 71011 of post- 
 prandial conversation; and the ladies not joining in 
 the after-dinner smoke form an almost imperceptible 
 minority. The association between smoking and 
 manners, either fast, loud or otherwise unconventional, 
 so prevalent with us, is totally unknown in Hungary, 
 where it is the rule, and not the exception, and 
 where exemplary matrons, mothers of families, whose 
 worst enemies would not suspect them of being fast, 
 can be seen nightly enjoying their weed of five or 
 six inches long. 
 
 After half-an-hour's interval, devoted to rather 
 listless general talk, a stir was noticeable, and the 
 usual entreaty of "Do sing something!" was ad- 
 dressed to the Countess in the proper imploring tone. 
 She had fully anticipated this request, and expressed 
 her willingness to accede to it. For a few moments 
 her taper fingers, with the highly-polished nails, 
 wandered about listlessly over the keys; but her in- 
 decision was never of long duration, and, with a 
 rapid glance in the direction of where George was
 
 238 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 silting, she struck up, in her lovely contralto voice, 
 the opening bars of one of Grieg's softest melodies. 
 
 When the echo of the last strains had died away, 
 she rose, and no amount of entreaty prevailed upon 
 her to sing another note. By an almost imperceptible 
 raising of the eyebrows, she signified to George her 
 wish to speak to him; and, without attracting any- 
 body's attention, they soon found themselves together 
 in the boudoir adjoining the drawing-room. 
 
 "Did you recognise that song you have just 
 heard?" said the Countess, with her sweetest smile. 
 "I sang it on purpose to please you; I thought it 
 might remind you of something." 
 
 "So it did; it reminded me, to use a very hack- 
 neyed quotation from Dante: 'Nessun maggior do- 
 lore,' etc. 
 
 The terrible earnestness of his tone was in strik- 
 ing contrast with the perfectly placid look upon her 
 face, and the rather distrait manner in which she 
 occasionally glanced towards the heavy portieres that 
 separated them from the other room. 
 
 "Don't be afraid," he added; "I shall not detain 
 you many minutes, and your guests seem perfectly 
 happy listening to Mademoiselle Molnary; and surely 
 you must have had plenty of time all through dinner 
 to acquire all the information you wanted from that 
 old Cabinet Minister. It was satisfactory, I hope? 
 Do you remember telling me, not so very long ago, 
 that for you the past was buried, and that the re- 
 quiescat on the grave of your first love could never
 
 EUTHANASIA. 239 
 
 be moved? Are you sure the epitaph ought not to 
 be 'Resurgam'?" 
 
 "Perhaps you are right," she answered, in a low 
 tone, as if speal?ing to herself. And, after a short 
 pause, she added: "I never was deceitful, whatever 
 my other faults may have been. I look upon you as 
 the soul of loyalty and honour, and I owe you the 
 whole truth. Will you for a moment carry your 
 thoughts back to some six months ago? I told you 
 from the first not to care for me, and that I had 
 nothing to give you in return. I laid out before you 
 my whole life's history to read like an open book, 
 and withheld nothing. Of course I was weak — sadly 
 weak with you; but, if I was, it is scarcely for you 
 to reproach me with it, is it? You must allow that 
 never for a moment did I lead you to suppose you 
 could take the part in my life that he did. By 
 some strange fatality you were thrown across my 
 path at a very critical moment in my life. What I 
 had suffered no one — not even you — can ever 
 realise. I had no one in whom I could confide — 
 no one to whom to look for sympathy. Then I met 
 you. From the very first you seemed to understand 
 me: I felt I could trust you. I never meant you to 
 be more to me than a true and tnisting friend. I 
 did not wish you to care for me as you did. My 
 pride suffered intensely — you know through what; 
 and I saw how devotedly fond you had grown of 
 me. What more need I say? Soon after you left, 
 by the greatest chance I met once more the man 
 who has been the evil genius of my life. He begged
 
 240 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 hard to be forgiven; he swore he had never loved 
 any other woman than me. And shall I tell you the 
 whole truth? I felt lowered — dreadfully lowered — 
 m my own eyes, when 1 thought of you and all 
 these past months. I had once dreamt that I might 
 be different from other women, that I might have 
 kept myself wholly for the one great love of my Ufe. 
 I should have done so had it not been for you; and, 
 believe me, I have passed through many moments of 
 late when I hated and despised myself. Of course, 
 I grant that you have some cause to say or think all 
 sorts of unkind and ill-natured things about me. If 
 you are able to understand a woman's nature — or, 
 at least, if you can understand mine — I don't think 
 you will. Now, don't be too unhappy. I have told 
 you the whole truth; and now I must go and see 
 what those people are doing in there." And, hold- 
 ing out her little hand for him to kiss, she rose to 
 leave the room. 
 
 "Don't go just yet," was all he could find to say. 
 "You forget that these few moments may decide my 
 whole future life." 
 
 With a look of weariness and compassion more 
 than affection, she let herself drop once more into 
 the arm-chair she had been occupying. "What is 
 the good," she said in a low tone, "of going over 
 and over again the same ground? I am a poor 
 hand at making conventional speeches. Do you want 
 me to say I will not forget you, or that I will write 
 to you? Will that make you any happier?" Her 
 tone softened as she added: "I don't want us to part
 
 EUTHANASIA. 24 1 
 
 in anger, still less do I wish to give you more pain 
 than I can help. Believe me it is best as it is. I 
 sometimes feel I have absorbed far too great a part 
 of your thoughts, of your life, I may say. A woman's 
 love is not enough to fill a man's life. There is 
 much in you that could be devoted to a far nobler 
 pursuit than trying to win me — or to win me back, 
 I suppose I must say. Will you try for my sake? 
 And at least I shall feel my influence over you has 
 not been altogether a bad one, as your friend, Father 
 Vincent, always endeavours to persuade me .it has 
 been. By-the-bye, he left this letter for you in case 
 I were to see you on your return," and she rose to 
 open her despatch-box. 
 
 Taking the letter, George pressed her hand 
 devoutly to his lips and said: "Very well, be it as 
 you say. It will always be my greatest pride to 
 have won even the passing affection of the best and 
 noblest of women I have ever met. Bless you. 
 Good-bye ! " 
 
 Two or three seconds later they listlessly strolled 
 into the room where the assembled company was 
 frantically applauding a duet that had just come to 
 an end. 
 
 The next morning they parted, never to meet 
 again on this side of the grave. 
 
 When George Mansfield returned to his room 
 that evening there was a look on his face, not of 
 despair or weariness, but rather of resignation and 
 manly courage. He felt, not thai a phase of his life 
 
 Euthanasia, •"
 
 242 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 was at an end, but that the curtain had dropped on 
 all his past life. With feverish haste he opened the 
 letter the Countess had given him from the Fran- 
 ciscan monk. It was headed 
 
 OsPEDALE Di Santa Maddalena, Naples. 
 
 Dear Lord George, — I trust this may reach 
 you. My life here is a busy one, so excuse the 
 brevity of this letter. 
 
 Since the terrible outbreak of cholera six weeks 
 ago that is decimating the population here I have 
 been told off to this hospital. There is much work 
 to be done; the people are panic-stricken, and from 
 sheer terror fly into the very jaws of sickness and 
 death. We are now having up to one thousand 
 cases a day spread over every district of the town, 
 and we can scarcely collect the hands to bury the 
 dead. The staff of the hospital is reduced by sick- 
 ness and overwork, and the strain upon the survivors 
 is such that they cannot bear it long. If you have 
 any opportunity of collecting funds do so, for they 
 are sorely needed. 
 
 I trust you are well both in mind and body. 
 
 I am thankful to have been granted the oppor- 
 tunity of helping my suffering brethren. 
 
 Father Vincent. 
 
 When George Mansfield reached the end of this 
 letter every vestige of fretfulness or despondency 
 disappeared from his countenance to give place to
 
 EUTHANASIA. 243 
 
 an expression of calm determination. He had said 
 farewell to the world, its pomps and vanities; his path 
 lay clear and open before him. Within a few minutes 
 his decision was come to; what he longed for was 
 work, which alone would give him oblivion. He sat 
 up a great part of the night writing letters to his 
 brother, to Mildred, to Father Vincent, announcing 
 his arrival within a week, and finally to Countess 
 Szent Imre. To her he wrote: — 
 
 When this reaches you I shall have left Kisfalva, 
 never to see it again. 
 
 I can now say good-bye free from all bitterness 
 and rancour. Taking leave of you means to me 
 much more than you perhaps fancy. I know I was 
 nothing but a passing episode in your life. I say 
 this with no resentment. You did nothing to make 
 me care for you, and no woman could have behaved 
 more loyally or straightforwardly than you did from 
 first to last. 
 
 I am leaving almost immediately for Naples. 
 Father Vincent tells me there is much work to be 
 done in the cholera hospital, and they are terribly 
 short of hands. Do you remember once quoting to 
 me the words, taken I don't know whence: "En fait 
 d'hommes, je ne comprends que deux types: Don 
 Juan ou Saint-Francois d'Assise?" I am no good in 
 the capacity of the former, so I will, anyhow for a 
 time, strive to follow to the best of my ability in the 
 footsteps of the latter. 
 
 16*
 
 244 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 Bitterness as to the past, jealousy as to the future, 
 seem to me now like words of a half- forgotten 
 language. May every happiness be yours. 
 
 G. M. 
 
 Every line you have ever written to me is burnt. 
 Good-bye.
 
 EUTHANASIA. 245 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 "The air of death breathes through our souls, 
 The dead around us lie; 
 By day or night, the death-bell toUs 
 And says: 'Prepare to die.' " 
 
 John Wilson. 
 
 It is not very many years since the cholera 
 scourge visited Naples in its full severity. From the 
 lofty heights of the Castello down to where the pro- 
 montory of Posilippo stretches out far into the deep 
 blue surface of the Bay, there was scarcely a street 
 that escaped the visit of the Angel of Destruction, 
 carrying off indiscriminately young and old — men 
 of lofty rank, round whose bedside learned pro- 
 fessors sat in consultation, and the poor, half-starved 
 lazzaroni who, like the troglodytes of old, lived in the 
 damp grottoes of the Fondaci. As if in bitter 
 mockery of the puerile precautions that human in- 
 genuity could devise — the quarantines by land and 
 sea, the fumigations, domiciliary visits, etc. — the Fiend 
 took from week to week a firmer grip of the un- 
 fortunate city that lay prostrate at his feet, until 
 from those shores, once resonant with the sounds of 
 the mandoline and the joyous chorus of the barcaiuoli, 
 a wail of anguish rose to heaven clamouring for 
 mercy and deliverance. The ordinary hospital ac-
 
 246 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 commodation soon proved uttery inadequate; the 
 wooden huts on the heights of the Campo di Marte 
 used for barracks in ordinary times, were filled to 
 overflowing, and yet there were no signs of the scourge 
 relenting. Stimulated by the noble example of their 
 King, the authorities did all in their power to stem 
 the current; but the panic-stricken population paid 
 little heed to the deliberations of the wise men sitting 
 together in council. 
 
 When they felt the first symptoms of the brutto 
 morbo — the word cholera was superstitiously banished 
 — they would mutter a prayer to their guardian 
 saints; and amongst the lower classes many would 
 refuse to leave their underground dwellings, reeking 
 with damp and the effluvia of the drains. A childish 
 terror had seized their minds, for they feared that 
 the arrival of medical assistance meant certain death; 
 and in innumerable cases the physicians who came 
 to administer relief were refused admittance and 
 warned off the premises with sinister threats. 
 
 Nevertheless, and although struggling against al- 
 most insurmountable difficulties, the doctors stuck to 
 their work manfully and courageously, even when 
 their steadily diminishing number made the task of 
 successfully grappling with the epidemic an almost 
 hopeless one. The hospital nurses were dying off 
 rapidly, partly from the disease itself, partly from 
 overwork and sheer exhaustion; and even the men 
 required to take the dead to their last resting-place 
 were scarcely obtainable. 
 
 "Lei va a Napoli?" (You are going to Naples?)
 
 EUTHANASIA. 247 
 
 said, in a surprised tone, the station-master at Rome 
 to George, as the latter enquired when the next train 
 was leaving. On being answered in the affirmative, 
 the official blandly remarked that all trains but two 
 per diem had been taken off. "For," he added with 
 a smile, "there are not many people who want to go 
 to Naples just now." However, George's patience 
 was not put to a very severe test, and a few hours 
 afterwards the train for Naples drew up alongside 
 the platform, the officials looking with awe-struck 
 curiosity at the handsome young forestiere going, as 
 they considered, into the very jaws of death. "Dev' 
 esser Inglese" (He must be an Enghshman), said 
 one to the other, slightly raising his eyebrows, as if 
 this were a sufficient explanation of almost any form 
 of eccentricity. 
 
 Before the train started, George noticed a closely- 
 locked third-class carriage next to his, the sole oc- 
 cupant of which was a sinister-looking individual, 
 reeking of chloral acid and other disinfectants. On 
 enquiring after the purpose of this carriage, George 
 was informed it was reserved for any passengers 
 falling ill en route, who would then be entrusted to 
 the care of the individual he had noticed. "May 
 heaven preserve me from such a fate!" our friend 
 muttered to himself; and settling himself to rest in 
 his empty carriage, he was soon sound asleep. 
 
 The sun was shining brightly when he awoke 
 from his slumbers. One glance sufficed to show 
 him that he was approaching his destination; for 
 at the foot of the steep embankment on which the
 
 248 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 train was slowly steaming along lay the Bay of Naples 
 in its matchless glory, with the islands of Capri, Ischia 
 and Procida rising out of the veil of purple mist that 
 hung around them. A few minutes later the train 
 drew up at a platform deserted save by a few cara- 
 bi?iier? strutting about in their cocked hats and 
 closely scrutinising the only first-class passenger as 
 he alighted from his carriage. There was none of 
 the bustle and excitement common to most railway 
 stations; a gloomy silence reigned everywhere, and the 
 air was redolent of the acrid fumes of carbolic acid 
 with which the vast building reeked. 
 
 Collecting his scanty belongings, George made 
 his way to the exit and hailed the solitary cab within 
 sight. Upon being asked "A che albergo" (To what 
 hotel?), he replied: "All Ospedale de Santa Madda- 
 lena" (To the St. Magdalen hospital), at the same 
 time depositing his bag next to the driver. The 
 effect produced by these words was magical; for one 
 second the man stared at him with the expression of 
 terror clearly depicted in his face. He then flung the 
 bag to the ground and, whipping up his horse, de- 
 parted at a gallop. The incident was so unexpected 
 that George burst out laughing, and was thankful, 
 after much explanation, to find a porter who con- 
 sented, upon the promise of ample remuneration, to 
 carry his portmanteau as far as the gates of the 
 hospital. Following in the man's footsteps the traveller 
 threaded his way through the deserted streets. 
 
 In spite of the very early hour the church bells 
 were ringing, calling the faithful to their matinal
 
 EUTHANASIA. 249 
 
 devotions, and thither the few passers-by whom 
 George encountered were plainly directing their hur- 
 ried footsteps — otherwise no sign of life was per- 
 ceptible. But if the vast city, with its hundreds of 
 thousands of inhabitants densely packed together, 
 too many of them, in dwellings not worthy of human 
 beings, was endeavouring to find in its slumbers 
 oblivion of the horrors of the preceding day before 
 encountering those that were to follow, the Angel of 
 Death took no rest and respected neither time nor 
 circumstance. 
 
 Turning into one of the main thoroughfares, a 
 ghastly procession met George's eye. The impressive 
 solemnity of the funeral rites — the hearse bedecked 
 with wreaths and evergreens, followed by priests 
 chanting the sacred strains of the Dies irae, the 
 mourning coaches and all the other tributes of respect 
 and of loving memory to the dead had long been 
 done away with, and they were hurried off to their 
 last resting-place with scant ceremony and as little 
 delay as possible. Thus, what he saw was this: On a 
 low four-wheeled open cart or truck lay a coffin, a 
 black cloth carelessly flung over it, reeking with the 
 acrid odour of disinfectants. The cart was drawn by 
 a mule, with a man walking alongside as far from 
 the conveyance as the full length of the reins would 
 permit. At a distance of about fifteen yards behind 
 the improvised hearse, two or three relatives were 
 following at a brisk pace, palpably anxious to get 
 their painful duty over as (juickly as possible. 
 
 A few minutes' walk brought George up to the
 
 250 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 main entrance of the Hospital della Maddalena. He 
 was greeted almost immediately upon his arrival by 
 Father Vincent, who took him upstairs in a sort of 
 parlour or anteroom. The monk's outward appearance 
 was scarcely altered, though there was a briskness 
 and alacrity about his voice and manner that seemed 
 strange to George. 
 
 "I do not thank you for coming," were the monk's 
 first words; "for I feel I have but Providence to thank. 
 Of the motives that led you to this decision I know 
 nothing; but now that you are here, I feel sure it is 
 with a desire to work; and work there is, enough 
 and to spare. We are so much reduced in numbers 
 that I have now an entire ward under my immediate 
 superintendence. Of course you can have had but 
 little experience, if any, in hospital work, so I should 
 like you to remain with me for the present. You 
 will soon get to know all our different duties. But I 
 must tell you at once the work we have to do in- 
 doors is comparatively the easiest; what tries us most 
 severely is that so many of the sick refuse to leave 
 their own miserable homes, and prefer to die in 
 squalor and misery without any medical assistance. 
 They say the doctors poison them, poor deluded 
 creatures! And there they lie, spreading further 
 and further the germs of infection! We have oc- 
 casionally to drag them to the hospitals almost by 
 main force." 
 
 The imperturbable expression on George's face 
 soon reassured the friar. 
 
 "You will require a few hours' rest now," the
 
 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 251 
 
 monk continued; "and this afternoon, if you are 
 willing, we will go with one of the doctors of the 
 municipality to one of the poorest and most cholera- 
 stricken quarters, in what is called the Fondaci." 
 
 The scene that met George's eyes that afternoon 
 was one he never forgot. He found himself led 
 through a labyrinth of little streets into a reeking 
 alley, into which no ray of sun could ever penetrate, 
 shut in on either side by houses five to six stories 
 high. Situated below the level of the sea when the 
 tide was high, the most nauseous effluvia, finding no 
 outlet through the choked drains, would permeate 
 the street gutters, exhaling pestilential miasmata 
 which no breath of fresh air ever came to disperse 
 or purify. And in this atmosphere of pollution a 
 dense population swarmed like bees in a hive, every 
 square inch being appropriated by a poor, wretched, 
 squalid race of troglodytes, who lived and multiplied 
 and died more like wild beasts than human beings, 
 upon a soil black and putrid from the slow decompo- 
 sition of organic substances accumulated during suc- 
 cessive generations. 
 
 Going from door to door within this hotbed of 
 infection, inquiring into the number and nature of 
 the cases in each dwelling, frequently received with 
 jeers, threats and insults, George Mansfield saw a 
 side of life that, like so many of us, he had previously 
 ignored — human suffering in its hourly never-ceasing 
 intensity. 
 
 What originally was not much more than the 
 kind-heartedness so frequently found in a manly.
 
 252 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 healthy nature, gradually developed and became en- 
 nobled into a genuine, self-sacrificing love of his 
 suffering fellow creatures. All he had gone through 
 himself seemed almost to shrink into insignificance 
 when compared with the scenes of human misery 
 worthy of Dante's Inferno that incessantly struck his 
 eye. 
 
 With manly determination he threw himself into 
 his work; no task was too irksome or too repulsive 
 for him, and every errand of mercy among the seeth- 
 ing population in the subterranean grottoes, from 
 which many a stout heart might quail, he volunteered 
 for. The panic-stricken people in the poorer quarters 
 of Naples at the Porto and Mercato soon began to 
 know the "Frate Inglese," as he was called, and to 
 look upon him as a friend. They appeared to have 
 none of the distrust towards him that filled their 
 hearts against their compatriots who came with the 
 endeavour to relieve them. 
 
 His heart would grow soft towards these simple- 
 minded people, going from one extreme to the other 
 — from panic-stricken ferocity to child-like submission. 
 Father Vincent watched the change that so short a 
 space of time had wrought in George with intense 
 interest, thankful in his heart that what he looked 
 upon as little short of a miracle had thus been ac- 
 complished. He never questioned George as to the 
 motives that had prompted him: but the two friends 
 understood each other without many words being 
 exchanged. 
 
 Weeks went round without any signs of the
 
 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 253 
 
 epidemic relenting — weeks spent by George Mans- 
 field in incessant toil in an atmosphere poisoned by 
 miasmata and laden with the fumes of sulphur, huge 
 bonfires of which were nightly lighted throughout the 
 streets of Naples. The want of sleep and fresh air 
 was beginning to tell even upon his robust constitu- 
 tion. ^ There was a wan and haggard expression 
 about his face, and the deep black marks that en- 
 circled his eyes told an eloquent tale. As time went 
 on his name became a household word amongst the 
 poorer classes in the slums of the city. Many looked 
 upon him almost as a saint, and a marvellous im- 
 munity from infection which he apparently possessed 
 confirmed the popular belief. He had rapidly ac- 
 quired a smattering of the quaint Neapolitan patois, 
 which enabled him to be more independent of Father 
 Vincent's direction; and he was thus enabled to go 
 off unassisted on his errands of mercy. Wherever 
 help was most urgently required George was always 
 to be found; and even the authorities, though con- 
 stitutionally intolerant of any unofficial assistance, 
 presented him with a testimonial. 
 
 As the cooler weather set in and a diminution 
 in the spread of the disease became perceptible. 
 Father Vincent one day took George aside and spoke 
 to him earnestly and pressingly about the imperative 
 necessity of granting himself a few week's rest and 
 change of scenery. "The pupil has far outdone the 
 master," he said, with his quiet, sad smile; "and I 
 have now more to learn from you than you ever 
 could from me. But, say yourself, are you not far
 
 2 54 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 happier now than you were in days when" — he 
 faltered in search of a suitable expression — "your 
 face used to bear that restless, careworn expression?" 
 
 George burst out laughing: "I am sure I don't 
 know much about the expression of my face, but I 
 see what you mean. Was I happier then or now? 
 Who can tell? WTiat makes me happy now would 
 not have done so then, and vice versa. But as to 
 my health, don't worry yourself about that. I have 
 got a touch of fever; but otherwise I am all right, 
 and there is plenty of work left for me to do. Let 
 me be useful as long as I can — you see I have so 
 many years to make up for." And then he confided 
 to the monk that one of his patients, a poor fisher- 
 man's wife from the Mercato, who for many weary 
 days was hovering between life and death, had now 
 gone to join her poor husband, and before departing, 
 had confided to his care her Uttle curly-haired, dark- 
 eyed girl, aged five, and that he had not dared re- 
 fuse the prayer of the dying woman. 
 
 After some conversation between them, it was 
 decided that the child, who already loved George for 
 the devotion he had shown her parents, should be 
 placed in a convent in the neighbourhood of Rome. 
 As soon as George felt his work at Naples was at an 
 end, he proposed spending a few weeks at or near 
 Rome, to make the necessary arrangements. In order 
 to be in the more immediate vicinity of his charge, 
 he accepted Father Vincent's offer to give him letters 
 for the father superior of the monastery of the Tre 
 Fontane, situated close to the convent where the
 
 EUTHANASIA. 255 
 
 child, whose charge he had accepted, was to be 
 brought up. 
 
 There was nothing that savoured of bigotry or 
 narrow-mindedness in Father Vincent's reHgious views; 
 and, though he made no secret of his earnest long- 
 ing for George to join the Church to which he him- 
 self belonged, he never fell into the error of in- 
 judicious proselytism. Scant time was left George 
 for religious meditations; still he had grown too 
 familiar with the beautiful rites of the Catholic Church, 
 which he saw performed daily at more than one bed- 
 side, not to feel at times powerfully drawn towards a 
 faith which, even its opponents would hardly gainsay, 
 is maligned the most vehemently by those who are 
 most ignorant of it. Anyhow, no resolution had at 
 that time ripened in George's mind on the subject.
 
 256 EUIHANASIA. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 "Come, gentle Death, the ebbe of care, 
 The ebbe of care, the flood of life ; 
 The flood of Ufe, the joyful fare; 
 
 The joyful fare, the end of strife; 
 The end of strife : that thing wish I : 
 
 Wherefore come, Death, and let me die!" 
 
 Sir Thomas Wyatt. 
 
 There is scarcely a more weird and desolate- 
 looking spot in the vast expanse of the Roman Cam- 
 pagna than the Tre Fontane. Nature has baffled the 
 many attempts made by successive generations at 
 draining, cultivating and making permanently inhabit- 
 able a spot which she had marked out to be a desert 
 and a wilderness, shrouded m the dense vapours that 
 rise at sunset from the marshy soil. Extensive plan- 
 tations of eucalyptus, and drainage works carried on 
 almost incessantly by convicts in their picturesque 
 scarlet prison garb, have no doubt done something 
 latterly to improve the sanitary conditions in the 
 neighbourhood; nevertheless, the mortality is great 
 amongst the poor Trappist monks who have settled 
 there, as if anxious to reduce the span of time that 
 separates them from the transition to eternal bliss. 
 Pale and hollow-faced, they flit about more Hke spirits 
 than like beings not yet free from all the weaknesses
 
 EUTHANASIA. 257 
 
 and wants of human nature; nursing each other in 
 turn as the malaria scourge fixes first upon one and 
 then upon the other amongst them, but chiefly atten- 
 tive to the requirements of the scanty and indigent 
 population of contadini that, under the broiling mid- 
 day sun, endeavour to extract a wretched liveUhood 
 from the cultivation of a well-nigh barren soil. To 
 these poor frati the field labourers will look for as- 
 sistance when, stricken down by the malarial fever, 
 they have to return to their miserable little huts; and, 
 with never a word of complaint, day after day the 
 weary circuit is commenced by these humble apos- 
 tles of privation and self-abnegation, dispensing, as 
 much as their poor means will allow, food, medicine 
 and spiritual consolation. 
 
 But hark! Amongst these weird surroundings, 
 was not that the sound of the horn faintly discernible 
 just beyond the brow of the hill, and surely the 
 cheery notes of "Warrior! here. Warrior!" are from 
 the lips of Harry Reynolds, the jovial huntsman of 
 the Roman Foxhounds. Leisurely, at a slow jog trot, 
 he is bringing his pack to the meet at the Tre Fontane, 
 the desolate surroundings of which will for a short 
 time be awakened from their slumbers. Already the 
 refreshment tent that forms a prominent feature in 
 all the meets in the Roman Campagna has been 
 erected; grooms and second horsemen are appearing 
 on the scene in rapid succession, and a long string 
 of carriages is conveying the members of the Hunt to 
 the appiintamento. 
 
 The field is no doubt a small one, if we apply to 
 
 Euthanasia. '7
 
 258 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 it the standard of Kirby Gate or Badminton Park; 
 but, if numerically weak, there is certainly no lack of 
 quality, either in the stamp of hunters that are being 
 led around, or in the men and women gradually col- 
 lecting under the tent. And with what undeniable 
 pluck and judgment many of them will ride over a 
 country intersected, at rare intervals it is true, by 
 those most formidable impediments to rapid progress 
 known as staccionate , which will at first puzzle the 
 boldest and cleverest timber-jumper! With a look of 
 intense interest and curiosity in their emaciated faces 
 the Trappist monks are looking on, just outside the 
 gates that lead to the gardens of the monastery. In 
 Italy, and more especially in Rome, the monk is, as 
 a rule, rather a popular personage, and is always sure 
 of meeting with a hearty reception whenever he 
 emerges from his cell. Though, of course, debarred 
 by the rules of their Order from all but the most 
 transitory and fugitive intercourse with the outer 
 world, there is none of that unsurpassable barrier that 
 in most countries separates the monk from the lay- 
 man. A strange contrast it no doubt is to see the 
 burly figure of the whip, who has left his father's 
 little farm in Yorkshire so many years ago that the 
 Itahan has grown to him almost as familiar as his 
 own native tongue, bending over his horse's neck in 
 earnest conversation with a sallow-faced monk in his 
 rough brown cowl. And yet, strange though it may 
 seem, there is a common topic of interest between 
 the two; for the monks of the Tre Fontane have for 
 some years back been entrusted with the walking of
 
 EUTHANASIA. 259 
 
 a couple or two of hound puppies on their extensive 
 grounds \vith remarkable success. 
 
 A slight breeze, that tempers the heat of the sun 
 pouring down from a cloudless sky, is slowly rising, 
 swaying the long grass on the slopes beyond to and 
 fro, and rustling amongst the grey leaves of the 
 eucalyptus trees. Far in the distance the dome of 
 St. Peter's stands out boldly against the horizon, and 
 in the foreground the eye is attracted by the huge 
 white pile of the Basilica of S. Paolo fuori le Mura. 
 It is in that direction where lies the only road con- 
 necting the Tre Fontane with the City, that the eye 
 of the Roman M. F. H. is riveted. Repeatedly he 
 has pulled out his watch; and at last he is heard 
 muttering, half to himself and half to a friend stand- 
 ing within hearing: "How late Lady Devereux is 
 this morning! And yet I should like to give her 
 another few minutes' law, as we are almost sure to 
 find the moment we move off. What can have de- 
 tained her?" 
 
 But before the words were uttered the look of 
 expectation on the manly, weatherbeaten face of the 
 speaker disappeared; for his sharp eye had caught 
 sight of the familiar outline of a phaeton spinning 
 along over the ruts and stones of the Roman high- 
 road, and rapidly approaching the meet. 
 
 "Am I very late, Duke?" said Lady Devereux, as 
 she ahghted. "It was too kind of you, waiting for me; 
 but my husband was not very well this morning; so 
 that rather detained me. But don't trouble any more 
 about me; I shall overtake you in no time."
 
 26o EUTHANASIA. 
 
 No matter how hardy the constitution may be, 
 Nature will revenge herself, sooner or later, for any 
 liberties taken with her laws; and thus, acting upon 
 the stern commands of his medical advisers. Lord 
 Devereux had decided during the autumn of i88 — 
 to tear himself away from home comforts, sporting 
 and other pastimes, and to winter in the Sunny South. 
 Once he was obUged to go abroad, it mattered little 
 to him what his destination was, and he willingly ac- 
 quiesced in Mildred's suggestion of taking an apart- 
 ment in Rome for the winter. The report of George's 
 acts of devotion and downright heroism in the cholera 
 hospitals of Naples had sent a thrill through the 
 innermost depths of her nature and had thrown a 
 halo of romance around him. She felt at last that 
 all her early expectations concerning him had been 
 verified, and that the idol she had worshipped was 
 not — as at one time she had feared — simply common 
 clay. The numerous letters of introduction she 
 brought with her speedily enabled her to make 
 friends amongst the essentially hospitable Roman 
 society, where English visitors — once their credentials 
 have been found to pass muster — are always sure of 
 finding the most hearty welcome; and plenty of 
 mounts were always placed at her disposal whenever 
 she felt inchned for a gallop with the Roman Fox- 
 hounds. 
 
 Lord Devereux's hunting days were pretty nearly 
 over, but he would come out now and then, mounted 
 on a sturdy cob, chiefly with a view to basking in 
 the sun and talking to the ladies, whilst watching
 
 EUTHANASIA. 26 1 
 
 with a somewhat critical eye the general proceedings 
 around him. The months that had gone by had not 
 appreciably altered Lady Devereux's personal appear- 
 ance, though her manner had perhaps grown slightly 
 more absent, as if all that passed around her was 
 barely perceived, and left no impression on a mind 
 rising further and further above the little trivialities 
 of every-day life. 
 
 As the hounds are seen moving off, she nimbly 
 alights from her phaeton, assisted by Don Giovanni 
 Barozzi — a light-hearted, lady-killing Roman prince, 
 who had offered her a mount on a big, slashing bay, 
 warranted safe over any kind of timber, and with a 
 rare turn of speed over the top of the ground. 
 Though in every respect worthy of his patronymic 
 of Don Giovanni, he was too keen a sportsman to 
 waste time on pretty speeches when hounds are just 
 on the move; so, after a very short greeting, he 
 placed Mildred in the saddle. Whilst he was ar- 
 ranging the folds of her skirt, one of the monks, 
 who had been a silent observer of the scene, was 
 noticed to approach him with a bashful look upon 
 his face, as if doubting his own ability to acquit 
 himself of the errand entrusted to him. Nevertheless, 
 he summoned up sufficient courage, and almost in a 
 whisper, said a few words to Prince Barozzi in his 
 own language. The latter only shrugged his shoul- 
 ders with rather a curt reply, and was about to move 
 on, when Mildred quite accidentally asked him what 
 the confidential communication just imparted by the 
 monk had been. "It must be something very im-
 
 262 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 portant," she added vvilh a smile, "or 1 suppose 
 my presence would have kept him at a respectful 
 distance." 
 
 "Do you really want to know?" said Prince 
 Barozzi, slightly raising his eyebrows. "Well, what 
 he told me is this. There is a poor fellow, an Eng- 
 lishman, dying there from low fever; he is not ac- 
 tually a monk at present, it seems; he only came up 
 a few days ago after having worked in the cholera 
 hospitals at Naples, and has now caught malaria. 
 He is not very fluent in Italian, and the monk 
 thought that if some countryman of his happened to 
 be present it might help the poor fellow in his last 
 moments. I told him they had all gone on, and that 
 there was nobody left here but you and me." 
 
 Mildred's cheek had grown as white as marble. 
 "I think I ought to go and see the poor man," she 
 said. "Will you ask what his name is?" 
 
 Somewhat reluctantly, the request was acquiesced 
 in. "I can't quite make out the name; I make it 
 to be something like Manffy, or Manfell." 
 
 "Don't trouble about me. Prince; I will come on 
 later. Whoever this man is, I cannot let him die 
 here all alone, with nobody who can even understand 
 his last words. No, it would be no good your stay- 
 ing with me; I really would sooner you did not; and 
 your groom can look after the mare whilst I go in." 
 And without waiting for an answer, she slipped off 
 her saddle on to the ground. 
 
 A look of puzzled uncertainty lingered on Don
 
 EUTHANASIA. 263 
 
 Giovanni's handsome face. To be sure, how eccentric 
 these EngHsh people ahvays were! "Anyhow," he 
 said, "before you decide upon staying, let me find 
 out if they will allow you inside the monastery. I 
 should think most likely they won't;" and he ad- 
 dressed a few words in Italian to the monk who was 
 standing close by, anxiously awaiting a reply. "Yes;" 
 he turned to her once more; "he says you can go in, 
 for the man is not in Holy Orders as yet, and he is 
 in the infirmary, not in the monastery itself. But 
 are you quite sure you ought to go in? If you are 
 determined to do so, and would prefer my not re- 
 maining, of course I will do as you wish. I will 
 leave my second horseman here, and he will help 
 you to find the hounds again when you come on 
 later. They are not going very far just now, for they 
 have heard of an outlying fox near those ruins over 
 there." Aad lifting his hat, he trotted off in the 
 wake of the gradually disappearing horsemen. 
 
 For a few seconds after his departure, Lady 
 Devereux stood almost motionless. A voice within 
 her told her that her next few steps would bring 
 her face to iace with the man, now on his death- 
 bed, who had moulded her life's destiny. Her 
 courage, she well knew, was not likely to fail her; 
 but she was anxious to devise some means of avoid- 
 ing anything like a shock which her sudden entrance 
 might cause to the dying man. Not without some 
 difficulty she made the monk who accompanied her 
 understand her \nsh that he should precede her to 
 the sick-room and say that a countrywoman of the
 
 264 EUTHANxXSIA. 
 
 patient had come to inquire whether she could offer 
 him any assistance. "And say," she added, "that 
 perhaps it may be an old friend of his, but that 
 you do not know for certain." 
 
 Very few seconds afterwards she was in the sick- 
 room alone with George Mansfield. The blinds were 
 drawn to ward off the rays of the sun that were 
 beating down on the solitary window of the little 
 cell. With his face turned away from the light, the 
 sick man lay on a narrow little bed of most primitive 
 construction. The scanty furniture was of ciaustral 
 simplicity and austerity. But if his surroundings 
 were mean and humble — those of the veriest pauper, 
 in fact — there was no look of want or discontent 
 upon the pale, emaciated features that bore the 
 stamp of sublime resignation transfigured by suffer- 
 ing and awaiting rather than dreading a speedy 
 end. 
 
 A feverish flush rose to his cheeks as he turned 
 his head towards the door that admitted Lady De- 
 vereux. The look of tranquil composure upon his 
 face was intensified and lighted up by a pale smile, 
 but no trace of surprise was noticeable. His thoughts 
 had perhaps been wandering back to olden days — 
 the limits of time and distance vanish from the mind 
 as it looks onward and upward before taking leave 
 of this finite life of ours — and it seemed but natural 
 that she from whom he had been mentally taking 
 leave should now appear before Jiim. Noiselessly 
 Lady Devereux slipped into the room; she put her 
 finger to her lips as if to impose silence upon him.
 
 EUTHANASIA. 265 
 
 "I heard you were lying ill here; so I have come to 
 look after you. But you must not get feverish or 
 restless at my taking you by surprise in this manner. 
 I mean to come back very often, or rather I should 
 like to see you moved away to some healthier 
 spot." 
 
 He clasped the hand that was proffered him. 
 "It must, indeed, have been Providence that sent 
 you here to light my last few hours. No; you must 
 not think of moving me, or anything of the kind. 
 Believe me, it is not worth while." And a faint smile 
 flitted across his lips. He would not listen to her 
 remonstrance, and went on: "You must not pity me, 
 either; for, believe me, I am not unhappy at the idea 
 of dying — much less so now that I am able to see 
 you once more before all is over. There is so much 
 that I have to tell you, so much that I could hardly 
 tell you when full of life and strength. But the last 
 words of a dying man can compromise nobody, can 
 they? I am afraid I have wronged and injured you 
 throughout your whole life — unintentionally, God 
 knows; but still 1 have done so. I know you are not 
 happy— that all your noblest gifts are thrown away 
 and wasted; and often I have felt I was the cause 
 of much of this." 
 
 "I will not let you say that, George," she gently 
 interrupted. "My life at times has been a little 
 arduous; but all that is nearly over now. But don't 
 let us waste these precious moments talking about 
 me; I want to know all about yourself — all in your 
 past life that I do not yet know. I would like to
 
 266 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 hear it from your own lips; and, although I cannot 
 for a moment believ^e you are as ill as you say — tell 
 me, is there anything that you would wish me to do? 
 Any message, whatever it may be, shall be carried 
 out." 
 
 "I wonder what the poor old monks outside will 
 think," said George, with the bright look of olden 
 days returning once more, though only for a few 
 seconds, "when they hear of my deathbed confession 
 being made to a lovely vision, in the smartest of riding 
 habits? But, no matter!" And after a few moments' 
 reflection: "No; I don't think I have any very special 
 message for anyone. Of course, you will say something 
 to Errington; but I am afraid I shall not leave any 
 great blank with anybody. Just let me have a drop 
 out of that cup; I feel so terribly weak again. There, 
 that is better. And now, Mildred, before we part for 
 ever, let me once more thank you for all you have 
 been, and all you would have been to me, had an 
 evil Fate not kept us apart. Your influence would 
 have ennobled and sanctified my whole poor life. It 
 was not to be; but I want you not to think too 
 harshly of the woman who turned aside the current 
 of my destiny. Everything appears so different when 
 you are on the point of taking leave of this world; 
 and I can now look back dispassionately upon that 
 stormy period of my hfe. But when I do so, I really 
 think these last six months have been my happiest 
 time. One look of gratitude I saw in the tearful, 
 dark eyes of a poor Neapolitan fisherman's wife, when 
 I told her that her little girl, whom we were attend-
 
 EUTHANASIA. 267 
 
 ing to, was likely to recover, gave ine far more intense 
 happiness than any other moment in my life that I 
 can think of. I should like to hear you say before 
 it is too late that you forgive me all the wrong I 
 have done you, wittingly or unwittingly. When I 
 went out to Hungary, or rather soon after I got there, 
 the thought of your marrying another seemed to 
 haunt me day and night. That is how it all began. 
 And now, I know you would not wish me yourself in 
 my dying hour to trample upon what I have wor- 
 shipped. I will only say one word more about her. 
 Whatever you may have heard, beware what you be- 
 lieve! She had been sinned against more than she 
 had sinned, and her mind was pure and noble in 
 spite of all the temptations that beset her at every 
 step through life. How distant it all seems," he 
 added, his voice getting weaker and weaker. "But, 
 Mildred, can you say you forgive me? I should die 
 happier if I just heard that one word." 
 
 "Forgive you, darling!" Mildred answered in the 
 softest tones, close to the dying man's ear; "Have 
 I anything to forgive? Why go back to sad times 
 long past? Let us rather be thankful that we have 
 once more been brought together. Of course I did 
 suffer when I heard how soon and how completely 1 
 was forgotten, and that a few hours, so to speak, 
 sufficed to wipe out the memory of years. How 
 little you must know me really to have supposed 
 that I could have married another had it not been 
 that I saw no other way of saving you. How strange 
 that you should not have guessed that!"
 
 268 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 A deep tremor of emotion passed over the fea- 
 tures about which the shadow of Death was hover- 
 ing, and he answered, in a voice barely audible: 
 "So you have sacrificed yourself for me!" 
 
 "Don't say that, darling," she interrupted hmi. 
 "I am quite happy, in a way, and anyhow the worst 
 is over now. I have felt so happy thinking of you 
 all these last months — so proud of you." 
 
 "There is, indeed, nothing to be proud of: dozens 
 of others did as much, and more. At least, now 
 that all is over, I may say that I die in peace and 
 goodwill with all men, and with the thought that my 
 life has not been altogether wasted. Mildred, will 
 you do one last thing for me? That little Neapolitan 
 girl I was just telling you of — a sweet, dark-eyed 
 Httle thing, about five years old; Biba, they call 
 it — is at the convent on the Monte Oliveto near 
 here. Both of her parents died of cholera, and 
 I promised her mother that I would look after the 
 child. May I now transfer the trust upon you?" 
 
 "Of course, I will take care of her as if she was 
 my own. But hark! what is that?" 
 
 Roman foxes are not, as a rule, straight-necked; 
 their Hue is mostly a circuitous one, such as we are 
 accustomed to with harriers. Scent proved bad on 
 this particular morning, and much delay occurred 
 before a fox was found basking in the sun in an 
 osier-bed within only a short distance from the meet. 
 After a slow hunting run, Reynard was bearing back 
 to his old quarters, and the shrill note of the hunts-
 
 EUTHANASIA. 269 
 
 man's "Forrard, forrard away!" was plainly audible 
 in the room where George Mansfield was slowly 
 breathing his last. 
 
 His mind began to wander; the familiar sound 
 brought back recollections of days long gone by, and 
 visions of different phases of his life followed each 
 other in rapid succession across his feverish mind. 
 But life's candle was burnt out, and the last flicker- 
 ing of it only foreboded the rapid end. In a voice 
 hardly audible, and drawing Mildred closer against 
 him, he said: "Mildred, let my last words be a 
 blessing to you. I have lived and loved, and my 
 hfe has been one of self-indulgence and of sin; but 
 no one knows what I have suffered. I can now say 
 I die happily. Say once more you have forgiven 
 me." 
 
 These were his last words; for, with a short gasp, 
 his head fell back upon the pillow. 
 
 Within hardly more than a stone's throw from 
 the monastery a gallant old dog-fox had bravely met 
 his death, and the merry chatter of horsemen dis- 
 cussing the various episodes of the run, was filling 
 the deserted neighbourhood. With a look of sur- 
 prise and anxiety upon his handsome face, Don 
 Giovanni trotted up to the Tre Fontane and inquired 
 from his second horseman whether Lady Devereux 
 had returned to town. On being answered in the 
 negative, he rapidly dismounted and walked up to 
 the infirmary.
 
 270 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 A corpse lay on the little narrow bed, and kneel- 
 ing by it was the figure of a woman, sobbing and 
 praying the Angel of Death once more to stretch 
 out his wand and to unite within his cold grasp 
 what a Life's Destiny had kept asunder. 
 
 THE END.
 
 PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER.
 
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