At the 
 First Corner 
 
 and Other Stories 

 
 (LIBRARY ^j 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
 SAN DIEGO \
 
 573B
 
 AT THE FIRST CORNER 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES
 
 Copyrighted in the United State 
 All rights reserved
 
 At the First Corner 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES BY 
 
 H. B. MarriottC\Vatson 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 'DIOGENES OP LONDON' 
 
 London : John Lane, Vigo St. 
 Boston: Roberts Bros., 1895
 
 Edinburgh : T. and A. CONSTABI.B, Printers to Her Majesty
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 AT THE FIRST CORNER, . . . , . 1' 
 
 THE HOUSE or SHAME, 20 
 
 MR. ATKINSON, . . . .; 63 
 
 THE EDGE OF THE PRECIPICE, . . . . . 87 
 
 IN THE BASEMENT, ....... 106 
 
 AN ORDEAL OF THREE, 119 
 
 THE PORTRAIT IN THE INN, . . . . .132 
 
 AKBAR ALI'S COURTYARD, 159 
 
 THE LAST OF BLACKBEARD 196
 
 AT THE FIRST CORNER 
 
 MlLLICENT stood awhile with her hand on the 
 door. Now that she had come so far she was 
 disposed to turn back. A medley of superficial 
 sensations swarmed within her. She flushed 
 warm, and then a quick chill took her ; excite- 
 ment fluttered in her heart ; she felt the great 
 stream of light from the fanlight in the hall 
 play over her face pleasantly ; and at the last 
 arose a sudden fear. A certain feeling of 
 resentment too separated itself from among 
 the conflicting emotions, and was individualised 
 distinctly for a moment. She wondered if she 
 had not better put off the task until she were 
 more in her own control ; but to this mood 
 succeeded the thought that she must bring the 
 news sometime, and that concealment would 
 fret her. She opened the door and went in. 
 
 Rossiter looked up as the lock snapped, and 
 half- turning in his chair put his arms over his 
 A
 
 2 AT THE FIRST CORNER 
 
 head towards her. If it were an invitation she 
 ignored it, standing by him in silence. He 
 smiled in her face. 
 
 ' Finished all your work, little woman ? ' he 
 asked, stretching himself. 'Taking a spell? 
 You have interrupted a most desultory piece 
 of verse. I have no inspiration this morning. 
 I can't get the last two lines right. The first 
 verse is decent. 
 
 The grey clouds gathered in the skies, 
 
 And loud the west wind blew 
 With gusty sobs and long-drawn sighs, 
 
 And all for me and you. 
 It wailed round roof and tree, my dear ; 
 
 Too well its word I knew 
 Farewell 'twixt you and me, my dear, 
 
 Farewell 'twixt me and you. 
 
 The feeling I want to get is that all things 
 really shadowed my trouble, and were not, what 
 they were as a matter of fact, ordinary natural 
 phenomena. But I can't phrase it' 
 
 1 What was your trouble ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' Parting, dear the sudden knowledge of a 
 collapse, the most tragic accident in life. Isn't 
 that so ? ' She leaned over him and looked at 
 the paper on which he had been writing ; he 
 put up a hand and caught hold of her arm.
 
 AT THE FIRST CORNER 3 
 
 She rested her chin upon his head in an absent 
 manner. 
 
 ' I suppose so/ she said listlessly, ' I Ve not 
 gone through it' 
 
 ' Nor have I, Milly. But can't you imagine 
 it? Don't you know what it would be if we 
 were to part ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, yes.' 
 
 He looked at her inquiringly, and his eyes 
 fell. A tiny sigh escaped him, and for an 
 instant his face was wried with a clutch of 
 pain. ' I wonder what you would forgive,' he 
 said. ' I wonder if your love is strong enough 
 to forgive much.' 
 
 'You know that I am not very jealous by 
 nature.' 
 
 He made an angry movement. 
 
 'Pah! I don't mean sordid things like that. 
 You hurt me. I should never ask you to 
 forgive that. Good God, what do you mean 
 by saying you're not jealous? If you're not, 
 you can't care a rap you Milly, you make 
 me miserable. 1 
 
 She laughed softly. ' I 'm sorry, my dear 
 boy. You know I 'm fond of you. Wasn't it 
 proof enough when I gave up my own good
 
 4 AT THE FIRST CORNER 
 
 name for you ? It was very injudicious, I 
 suppose.' 
 
 ' You don't regret it ? ' he asked anxiously. 
 
 ' I never regretted it ; no/ she returned slowly ; 
 but ' 
 
 ' What ? ' he said under his breath. 
 
 ' Oh, nothing/ she exclaimed with some im- 
 patience ; ' nothing, nothing.' 
 
 She moved away. Once more the fear re- 
 turned to her, and the little cloud of anger 
 gathered in her heart. She did not know how 
 to tell him, and yet she had even a desire to 
 hurt him in the telling. He watched her with 
 distressed eyes. 
 
 ' Milly/ he pleaded ; * you did not mind 
 leaving your uncle and coming to me ? ' 
 
 ' It was necessary, I suppose, since I was so 
 impulsive. I wasn't wise enough to wait for 
 your wife's death ; and apparently I should be 
 waiting still.' 
 
 He winced as though a hand had struck him. 
 
 ' Would you have sooner waited ? ' he asked 
 in tones barely audible. She did not answer. 
 ' Milly, are you sorry you did not wait ? ' he 
 repeated. 
 
 'Oh, what is the use of talking? I don't
 
 AT THE FIRST CORNER 5 
 
 know. It's done with now, and we can't go 
 back.' 
 
 He laid down his pen, and the hand that 
 held it was trembling. 
 
 1 1 always was selfish,' he said sadly. 
 
 ' No, it was not your fault. It was mine. I 
 was a fool in impulse. What sort of creature 
 was I five years ago ? ' 
 
 'You were very charming,' he answered 
 softly. 
 
 ' Did you like me better then than now ? ' 
 
 ' Now, now ten thousand times now,' he said. 
 And rising suddenly, he put his arms round 
 her. She smiled, and leaned her face against 
 his. 
 
 ' That is flattering 1 to a woman and I think 
 I Ve developed my vanity lately.' 
 
 ' Is the life too dull for you, dear ? Do you 
 want more friends ? I Ve sometimes fancied it 
 must be.' 
 
 ' I don't know. Do I ? I don't think so. I 
 don't know. Perhaps I do.' 
 
 She answered vacantly. She did not know ; 
 she was conscious merely of unrest and that 
 growing resentment. 
 
 ' I hate to be shackled,' she burst out.
 
 6 AT THE FIRST CORNER 
 
 'Darling,' he said in dismay, 'you are not 
 shackled. You are not bound to me, even as 
 tightly as I could wish you bound.' 
 
 ' I am, I am,' she cried, and stamped her foot 
 with sudden passion. 
 
 He stood silent, discomfited. 
 
 ' Are you ill, dear ? ' he asked tenderly. 
 
 ' Yes, yes,' she murmured. 
 
 'What is it? A headache? Do lie down, 
 and I '11 get you some sal volatile.' 
 
 She laughed somewhat harshly, ' Oh, it 's not 
 going to be cured by sal volatile. It's more 
 serious than that, much more damnable. I 
 hate it,' she cried. ' I hate it,' and a sob rose in 
 her throat. 
 
 His eyes dilated with sudden understanding ; 
 the lines of his mouth tightened, and then as 
 swiftly relaxed ; a shade of horror flitted across 
 his face. 
 
 'Is it so ? ' he whispered. ' Is it really so, 
 dear ? ' She flamed red ; her eyes flashed with 
 some evil temper. ' It is you ; it is you who 
 have done this,' she said ; and with a cry half 
 of passion and half of pain, she fled from the 
 room. Rossiter remained with his eyes upon 
 the floor, the look of disquiet twisting his
 
 AT THE FIRST CORNER 7 
 
 handsome features askew. Then he sat down 
 in his chair and picked up his pen. 
 
 ' I saw the sobbing river flow, 
 
 I saw the sweeping rain ; 
 The wet vine, tossing to and fro, 
 
 Flapped loose upon the pane. 
 I looked out o'er the lea, my dear, 
 
 And all too well I knew 
 They wept for you and me, my dear, 
 
 They wept for me and you.' 
 
 He hid his face in the hollows of his hands and 
 sighed. Raising himself he looked at his verses, 
 but it was not the rhymes that held his attention. 
 From the experiments upon the page one word 
 leapt out and struck him fiercely, as it had been 
 a flash of lightning. ' Cheat ' swam in his vision 
 and sounded in his ears. The room buzzed 
 with it. But at this moment, with the echoes 
 of her voice still calling from the corners, the 
 pain of his humiliation was become twofold. 
 All these years he had locked the sullen spectre 
 in his heart, from which it had escaped at 
 intervals to gibe and mock at him. He had 
 endured the agony of one fear these five years 
 the fear of shame, and shame alone ; and now 
 must there be added also the horror of despair ? 
 He had been afraid that she should know with
 
 8 AT THE FIRST CORNER 
 
 how little love he had begun, how slight a risk 
 he had taken, how lightly he had regarded her. 
 But if she had begun to grow cold, if the 
 temper of her affection had altered, he must 
 take a new burden upon him. Surely she 
 could not have ceased to love him ; surely this 
 caprice of anger, of indifference, merely issued 
 from the derangement of her nerves, from a 
 temporary indisposition. 
 
 Since he had come to love her and seen 
 thereby the monstrous disloyalty of his sin, 
 Rossiter had never denied to himself the gross- 
 ness of his selfish nature. She was but twenty 
 when he had tempted her a wayward and 
 impulsive girl with quick instincts of affection. 
 He had played the coward when she deemed 
 him to be enacting the hero. Her face attracted 
 him, her voice enchanted him ; but the irre- 
 vocability of marriage frightened him. He was 
 by nature too indulgent to his own whims to 
 withdraw from the sphere of her fascinations ; 
 and when it became clear that she had gone 
 headlong into a passionate affection for him, he 
 sealed up his conscience and succumbed. He 
 had invented the fiction of an estranged wife ; 
 she pitied him, she wept for him. His life, he
 
 AT THE FIRST CORNER 9 
 
 had said, was at its close. She threw herself 
 upon him, and cried out against his sentence. 
 The narrow bonds of social convention were 
 chains too weak to bind her. She had no fears, 
 no doubts ; she would have no remorse. And 
 with the lie black and stark between them they 
 two embarked upon a hazardous new fortune. 
 
 Here in his abasement, knowing how full and 
 irretrievable was his love for her, the man could 
 find one plea only to abate his guilt. She had 
 come with a reputation worn by gossip gossip 
 since proved foul and false ; he had regarded 
 her only as lightly as he had thought she might 
 ask to be regarded. But there was no hope of 
 pardon in this ; there was no forgiveness even 
 from himself. 
 
 He should have to tell her the story now. 
 The terror of that necessity laid cold hands upon 
 his heart. For four years shame had kept him 
 from the confession. And now must he speak 
 with the new danger of her growing coldness ? 
 She would still be tied to him, were he even 
 now to turn the key upon his secret. The news 
 she had broken to him that morning would link 
 them together with stronger chains. Should he 
 be silent the wrong he had done her and her
 
 io AT THE FIRST CORNER 
 
 child would lie upon his conscience only. 
 Would it be best? He rose and paced the 
 room. Something moved on the floor overhead ; 
 his heart wept at the sound of her. Now that 
 the fact faced him so grimly, new currents of 
 tenderness ran through him. He wanted her as 
 his wife. All the bonds that society or conven- 
 tion or the sacred rites of religion could offer, 
 he desired to have secured upon them both. 
 Shame and fear must not stand between her 
 and her justification. If he had been a coward 
 once, he must to-day enact a newer, better part. 
 As he turned round in his chair, full of a 
 sudden resolution, his glance crossed the blue- 
 lined paper on 'which he had been scribbling. 
 The uncompleted verse met his eye and solicited 
 his attention 
 
 ' The voice of rain and wind and stream 
 
 Foretold our summer's fall, 
 Forecast the breaking of the dream 
 
 The ruined festival. 
 Oh, loud I heard the cold rain weep, 
 
 The mad wind cry and call ; ' 
 
 He stopped, and of a sudden the verse completed 
 itself. He seized his pen and wrote 
 
 4 But my heart's silence, dull and deep, 
 Was louder than them all.'
 
 AT THE FIRST CORNER u 
 
 He dropped the pen, and sat staring at the 
 lines. Then rising, he walked across the room. 
 The sunlight struck through the window and 
 fell in patches on the carpet. As he went the 
 spectre of his old sin stretched itself and 
 preceded him, gibbering, to the door. He 
 mounted the staircase, dully, a formless terror 
 gnawing at his heart. 
 
 Millicent locked the door of her room and 
 flung herself upon the bed. She wept at the 
 indignity that was still in her thoughts ; she 
 was angry with a resentment quite passionate. 
 But now and then a strange curiosity fluttered 
 in her heart. She hardly knew herself for the 
 Millicent of yesterday ; she was so torn with 
 her emotions. They came and went with the 
 speed of pulsations. Ere this horrible revelation 
 she had not been conscious of any change in 
 her attitude towards Rossiter. And now, 
 though the consciousness was thrust upon her, 
 she did not moralise upon it ; she did not even 
 pause to inquire whether it were transient or 
 something more fundamental. She was not a 
 woman of that kind ; she had spent all her life 
 in little runs and gushes of impulse, taken 
 forth-right and forgotten, times out of number.
 
 12 AT THE FIRST CORNER 
 
 It was in one of these reckless fits of abandon- 
 ment that she had come to Rossiter ; and that 
 she had not left him was only because she had 
 as yet felt no passion contrary to the connection. 
 She had fallen back upon a genuine friendliness 
 for him ; it was not the mad emotion, to the 
 delusion of which she had yielded in the first 
 instance, but it was an affection which had 
 worn well for five years, though it would fare 
 ill under a strain. She did not know she had 
 changed ; at no point in her life could she have 
 put her finger on a day in which she had 
 awakened to the shallowness of her feeling for 
 him. She did not realise it now. She merely 
 lay upon the bed with all the indolence of an 
 animal, while her consciousness was absorbed 
 in the sensations of her mood. 
 
 Presently she arose and went to the window. 
 Down below the streets streamed with cabs and 
 carriages, and the sunlight dashed them with 
 colour. Tranquilly she leaned her face against 
 the pane and looked out. There they went, 
 on and on incessantly, day by day, week by 
 week. How gruesome to settle into this dead 
 monotony ! While the fools might be doing 
 something new each day, they kept their noses
 
 AT THE FIRST CORNER 13 
 
 to the earth and crept along between blinkers 
 on the same old course, year in, year out. The 
 insularity and triviality of human life were 
 ridiculous. She wondered vaguely why she 
 was only now finding out the tiresomeness of 
 her existence. The thought of maternity re- 
 pelled her. She winced at the approach of 
 those unknown terrors. Her disgust was 
 lightened by no sentiment for Rossiter. When 
 she lost the sense of frightened anger, it was 
 with mere inquisitiveness that she dwelt upon 
 the future. 
 
 It was only when he had knocked twice that 
 she opened the door to him ; which done, she 
 straightway resumed her place at the window, 
 tapping her restless fingers on the pane. She 
 knew why he had come ; his heart was weltering 
 in pity, and he would put his arms about her 
 and offer consolation in soft tones. In her 
 imagination she could see him opening his 
 mouth, his eyes glistening with tenderness. 
 There was something too humble and unmanly 
 in his affection. Bah ! She shrugged her 
 shoulders with distaste. 
 
 Rossiter stood halfway to her ; the poise of 
 her head, the old familiar graces which had
 
 14 AT THE FIRST CORNER 
 
 grown to be a part of his life, touched him with 
 a sense of longing, even also with a sense of 
 fear. When he spoke, the harshness of his 
 voice made her turn round in surprise. 
 
 ' Milly, we must be married,' he said. 
 
 She stared at him. ' Oh, yes ' she said 
 indifferently, after a pause, ' when it is possible.' 
 
 ' It is possible now,' he replied abruptly. 
 
 'What on earth do you mean?' she asked. 
 ' Are any more tragedies going ? ' 
 
 She was leaving the window and making 
 for the arm-chair, when he took her hand in 
 his. 
 
 ' Oh, let me alone, please,' she said im- 
 patiently. 
 
 She looked into his eyes, but did not see 
 there what she had expected. They held no 
 pity for her, no tender light shone in them ; 
 only the shadows of fear and shame were there. 
 He patted her hand mechanically. 
 
 ' Do you remember just now that I asked you 
 how much you could forgive?' he asked in a 
 curious monotone. ' The time has come for me 
 to see. I do not expect you to forgive ; I only 
 hope for you to love me still. Perhaps even 
 that is too much. I don't know.'
 
 AT THE FIRST CORNER 15 
 
 She withdrew her hand, looking at him. He 
 interested her. She sat down in the chair. 
 
 ' For goodness' sake, get on,' she said. ' What 
 has happened ? ' 
 
 ' I want you to be married to me, to-morrow.' 
 
 ' Then your wife ' she broke out. ' She is 
 
 dead ? ' 
 
 ' No,' he answered very softly. ' I have never 
 had any wife, but you.' 
 
 The silence was broken only by the creaking 
 of the chair. He lifted his gaze from the 
 ground, and met hers. Before it, he quivered 
 and winced. Two large fires flashed out and 
 scorched into his very soul. 
 
 ' You never had a wife ? ' she asked in a slow 
 whisper. He made no reply. 'Let me hear 
 what it means,' she went on in the same tense 
 voice. ' I don't suppose I understand.' 
 
 He leaned against the foot of the bed, and 
 held his averted face between his hands. 
 
 1 1 deceived you. I was a selfish coward. I 
 did not think I loved you, and I allowed you 
 to come to me under the supposition that I 
 could not marry you.' She breathed very hard. 
 ' I have nothing more to say,' he continued. 
 4 Within the year I found out my passionate
 
 16 AT THE FIRST CORNER 
 
 love for you, and the impossibility of telling 
 you of my crime.' 
 
 ' Why do you tell me now ? ' she asked. 
 
 The blood was rising in her body ; it seemed 
 to ride round and round in her head, constraining 
 her slowly and surely to a cruel deed. 
 
 ' I have told you because it has become 
 necessary that we should be married.' 
 
 'Why?' 
 
 For the first time he looked up in astonish- 
 ment. Her eyes still dwelt upon him, burning 
 bright. 
 
 'The change what you said just now the 
 child / he stammered. 
 
 She threw herself back in her chair, and 
 laughed wildly and loudly. 
 
 ' Is that all ? My God, is that all ? The 
 mere reflection of a possible infant's possible 
 legitimacy ? You have disturbed the secret of 
 years for that ! It was quite needless, I assure 
 you.' 
 
 All the time the thought was repeating itself 
 in her mind, ' How can I hurt him most ? 
 What can I do or say to hurt him ? ' She 
 groped about for means ; she was talking at 
 random, without a perception that her voice
 
 AT THE FIRST CORNER 17 
 
 and words were stabbing him, feeling only that 
 she must do and say more. 
 
 ' I have no word of protest to say,' he said 
 quietly. ' You know I love you. I only wish 
 to know if you still can love me after this ? ' 
 
 ' Love you ! ' she replied, in a deliberate 
 voice. ' It makes no difference in my affection 
 for you. Of course I am angry at the deception. 
 It was, as you say, selfish and cowardly. But 
 you have, no doubt, suffered for it. I shall get 
 over my indignation. Oh no, there is no change 
 in my affection.' 
 
 His eyes brightened ; he straightened himself 
 from his bowed posture, and a sigh of relief 
 escaped him. He put out a hand to her. 
 
 ' Milly, you are very good to me,' he said 
 brokenly ; ' I will leave you now, and to-morrow 
 we can be married.' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 He stopped at the sharpness of his negative. 
 She leaned forward in her chair, her elbows 
 upon her knees, fixing him with feverish eyes. 
 1 You had better hear my story, as I have heard 
 yours. When I was a girl, an impulsive fool, I 
 imagined myself into a passion for you. I left 
 my home for the fancy, being a fool ; and like a 
 B
 
 i8 AT THE FIRST CORNER 
 
 fool I lived on with you for five years. This 
 morning I discovered my mistake. I might 
 have discovered it before if I had been given to 
 thinking. I might have known what was the 
 explanation of the boredom I endured, of the 
 restlessness, of the indifferent kindliness I had 
 for you. But I am not one who thinks ; I only 
 feel. And when I had made one accursed 
 discovery this morning, I made another more 
 pleasant. It was that I am tired of you.' 
 
 He gave a cry of pain. 
 
 ' I will not marry you.' 
 
 ' For God's sake, Milly ' he began. 
 
 ' I am not angry I am only awake,' she said. 
 ' You have given me the opportunity. I should 
 have been foolishly blind enough to stay with 
 you if you had not told me this. I am glad 
 you did. It destroys all the ties between us.' 
 
 ' But the child ? ' said Rossiter, in his whisper. 
 
 ' Bah ! ' she said. ' That 's the opportunity. 
 It is that that has brought me to my senses. 
 Though I hate it, I shall owe it a debt of 
 gratitude.' 
 
 She regarded him triumphantly her face 
 glowing, her eyes bright, her bosom heaving. 
 He stood in the centre of the room, his chin
 
 AT THE FIRST CORNER 19 
 
 fallen upon his breast, his fingers pressing 
 against his heart 
 
 ' I will go,' he said, in a low voice. 
 
 The door closed behind him. With a leap 
 she was on her feet, and pacing the room with 
 long strides of exultation. ' Free,' she said ; 
 ' free from now ! ' She looked out on the street, 
 where the traffic roared, ' Free, free, free ! Free 
 to go anywhere, be any one, do anything!' 
 The portals of her prison swung open, and the 
 world stretched before her. 
 
 Suddenly, and in the midst of her song of 
 triumph, she paused. A fear thrilled in her 
 bosom. A spasm of pain, of hatred, distorted 
 her face. With a short fierce cry, she flung 
 herself at full length upon the bed ; biting 
 the pillows with her teeth, and clutching the 
 blankets, she rocked to and fro. 
 
 ' It shall not be,' she said. ' No ; it shall not 
 be!'
 
 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 
 
 THERE was no immediate response to his knock, 
 and, ere he rapped again, Farrell turned stupidly 
 and took in a vision of the street. The morning 
 sunshine streamed on Piccadilly ; a snap of air 
 shook the tree-tops in the Park ; and beyond 
 the greensward sparkled with dew. The traffic 
 roared along the roadway, but the cabs upon 
 the stand rode like ships at anchor on a windless 
 ocean. Below him flowed the tide of passengers. 
 The dispassion of that drifting scene affected 
 him by contrast with his own warm flood of 
 emotions ; the picture the trees, the sunlight 
 and the roar imprinted itself sharply upon his 
 brain. His glance flitted among the faces, and 
 wandered finally to the angle of the crossway, 
 by which his cab was sauntering leisurely. 
 With a shudder he wheeled face-about to the 
 door, and raised the clapper. For a moment 
 yet he stood in hesitation. The current of his
 
 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 21 
 
 thoughts ran like a mill-race, and a hundred 
 discomforting impressions flowed together. The 
 house lay so quiet ; the sunlight struck the 
 window-panes with a lively and discordant 
 glare. He put his hand into his pocket and 
 withdrew a latch-key, twiddling it restlessly 
 between his fingers. With a thrust and a 
 twist the door would slip softly open, and he 
 might enter unobserved. He entertained the 
 impulse but a moment. He dared not enter in 
 that nocturnal fashion ; he would prefer ad- 
 mittance publicly, in the eye of all, as one with 
 nothing to conceal, with no black shame upon 
 him. His return should be ordinary, matter-of- 
 fact ; he would choose that Jackson should see 
 him cool and unperturbed. In some way, too, 
 he vaguely hoped to cajole his memory, and 
 ensnare his willing mind into a belief that 
 nothing unusual had happened. 
 
 He knocked with a loud clatter ; feet sounded 
 in the hall, and the door fell open. Jackson 
 looked at him with no appearance of surprise. 
 
 ' Good morning, Jackson,' he said, kicking his 
 feet against the step. He entered, and laid his 
 umbrella in the stand. ' Is your mistress up 
 yet ? ' he asked.
 
 22 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 
 
 ' Yes, sir,' said the servant placidly ; ' she 's in 
 the morning-room, sir, I think.' 
 
 There was no emotion in the man's voice; 
 his face wore no aspect of suspicion or inquiry, 
 and somehow Farrell felt already relieved. To- 
 day was as yesterday, unmarked by any grave 
 event. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' he said, and passed down the hall. 
 At the foot of the stairs he paused again, with 
 a pretence of dusting something from his coat, 
 and winced at the white gleam of his dress- 
 shirt. Nothing stirred in the house save a 
 maid brushing overhead, and for a while he 
 lingered. He still shrank from encountering 
 his wife, and there was his room for refuge 
 until he had put on a quieter habit of mind. 
 His clothes damned him so loudly that all the 
 world must guess at a glance. And then again 
 the man resumed his manliness ; he would not 
 browbeat himself for the mere knowledge of his 
 own shame ; and, passing rapidly along the hall, 
 he pushed open the door of the morning-room. 
 
 A woman rose on his entrance, with a happy 
 little cry. 
 
 ' George ! ' she said. ' Dear George, I 'm so 
 glad.'
 
 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 23 
 
 She put up her arms and lifted her face to 
 him. Farrell shivered ; the invitation repelled 
 him ; in the moment of that innocent welcome 
 the horror of his sin rose foul before him. He 
 touched her lightly on the cheek and withdrew 
 a little distance. 
 
 ' I 'm not a nice object, Letty,' he faltered, 
 ' see what a mess the beastly mud has made of 
 me. And look at my fine dress-clothes.' He 
 laughed with constraint. ' You 'd think I lived 
 in them.' 
 
 ' O dearest, I was so disappointed ! ' said the 
 girl. ' I sat up ever so late for you. But I was 
 so tired. I 'm always tired now. And at last 
 I yawned myself to sleep. Wherever have you 
 been?' 
 
 The colour flickered in Farrell's face, and his 
 fingers trembled on the table. 
 
 ' Oh, I couldn't get away from Fowler's, you 
 know. Went there after the club, and lost my 
 train like a fool.' 
 
 His uneasy eyes rose furtively to her face. 
 He was invested by morbid suspicions, sus- 
 picions of her suspicion ; but the girl's gaze 
 rested frankly upon him, and she smiled 
 pleasantly.
 
 24 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 
 
 * 'That dreadful club! You shan't go there 
 again for a week, darling. I 'm so glad you Ve 
 come. I was nearly being very frightened about 
 you. I Ve been so lonely.' She took him by 
 the arm. ' Poor dear, and you had to come all 
 through London with those things on. Didn't 
 people stare ? ' 
 
 ' I will change them/ he said abruptly, and 
 turned to leave. 
 
 'What!' she said archly. 'Would you go 
 without and I haven't seen you for so long.' 
 She threw her arms about his neck. 
 
 'For God's sake No, no, Letty, don't 
 
 touch me,' he broke out harshly. 
 
 The girl's lips parted, and a look of pain 
 started into her face. 
 
 ' I meant,' he explained quickly, ' I am so 
 very dirty, dear ; you 'd soil your pretty frock.' 
 
 ' Silly ! ' she returned smiling, ' and it isn't a 
 pretty frock. I can't wear pretty frocks any 
 longer,' she added mournfully. 
 
 He dropped his eyes before the flush that 
 sprang into her cheeks, and left the room 
 hurriedly. 
 
 His shame followed him about all day, 
 dogging him like a shadow. It lurked in
 
 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 25 
 
 corners and leaped out upon him. Sometimes 
 it crept away and hovered in the remoter dis- 
 tance ; he had almost forgotten its attendance ; 
 and then in the thick of his laughing con- 
 versation it fell upon him black once more. 
 It skulked ever within call, dwindled at times, 
 grey and insignificant. When he stopped to 
 exchange a sentence in the street, it slid away ; 
 he moved on solitary, and it ran out before him, 
 dark and portentous. Remorse bit deep into 
 him, remorse and a certain fear of discovery. 
 The hours with his wife were filled with uneasy 
 thoughts, and he would fain have variegated 
 the cheerless monotony of his conscience by 
 adding a guest to his dinner-table. But from 
 this course he was deterred by delicacy ; for, at 
 his suggestion, Letty looked at him, winced a 
 little, smiled ever so faintly, and, with an in- 
 effable expression of tender embarrassment, 
 drew her morning-gown closer round her body. 
 He could not press the indignity upon her 
 young and sensitive mind. 
 
 But the fall of night, which he had so dreaded, 
 brought him a change of mood. The table was 
 stocked with the fruits of a rare intelligence ; 
 the plate shone with the fine linen ; and all the
 
 26 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 
 
 comforts waited upon his appetite. It was no 
 gross content that overtook him, but the satis- 
 faction of a body gently appeased. His sin had 
 faded wonderfully into the distance, had grown 
 colder, and no longer burned intolerably upon his 
 conscience. He found himself at times regard- 
 ing it with reluctant equanimity. He stared 
 at it with the eyes of a judicial stranger. Men 
 were so wide apart from women ; they were 
 ruled by another code of morals. If this were 
 a pity, it fell at least of their nature and their 
 history. Was not this the prime lesson science 
 had taught the world? But still the shame 
 flickered up before him ; he could watch its 
 appearances more calmly, could reason and 
 debate of it, but it was still impertinently 
 persistent. And yet he was more certain of 
 himself. To-morrow the discomfort would 
 return, no doubt, but with enfeebled spirit ; 
 he would suffer a very proper remorse for some 
 time perhaps a week and then the affair 
 would dismiss itself, and his memory would 
 own the dirty blot no longer. As the meal 
 went forward his temper rose. He smiled upon 
 his wife with less diffidence ; he conversed with 
 less effort But strangely, as he mended, and
 
 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 27 
 
 the first horror of his guilt receded, he had a 
 leaning to confession. Before, he had felt that 
 pardon was impossible, but now that he was 
 come within range of forgiving himself, he 
 began to desire forgiveness from Letty also. 
 The inclination was vague and formless, yet it 
 moved him towards the subject in an aimless 
 way. He found himself wondering, with a 
 throb in his blood, how she would receive his 
 admissions, and awoke with the tail of her last 
 sentence in his ears. 
 
 ' I 'm so glad the servants have gone. I much 
 prefer being alone with you, George.' 
 
 ' Yes,' he murmured absently, ' they Ye a 
 nuisance, aren't they?' 
 
 She pushed the claret to him, and he filled 
 his glass abstractedly. Should he tell her now, 
 he was thinking, and let penitence and pardon 
 crown a terrible day ? At her next words he 
 looked up, wondering. 
 
 ' Had Mr. Fowler any news of Edward ? ' she 
 asked idly. 
 
 The direction of her thoughts was his ; he 
 played with the thought of confession ; his 
 mind itched to be freed of its burden. 
 
 'Oh no, we were too busy,' he laughed
 
 28 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 
 
 uneasily. ' The fact is, you see, Letty dear I 
 have a confession to make ' 
 
 She regarded him inquiringly, even anxiously. 
 He had taken the leap without his own know- 
 ledge ; the words refused to frame upon his 
 tongue. Of a sudden the impulse fled, screaming 
 for its life, and he was brought up, breathless 
 and scared, upon the brink of a giddy preci- 
 pice. 
 
 'What confession, darling?' she asked in a 
 voice which showed some fear. 
 
 The current of his ideas stopped in full flow ; 
 where a hundred explanations should have 
 rushed about his brain, he could find not one 
 poor lie for use. 
 
 ' What do you mean, dearest ? ' said his wife, 
 her face straightened with anxiety. 
 
 Farrell paled and flushed warm. ' Oh, nothing, 
 my darling child,' he said with a hurried laugh ; 
 ' we played baccarat.' 
 
 1 George ! ' she cried reproachfully. ' How 
 could you, when you had promised ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know,' he stumbled on feverishly. 
 1 1 was weak, I suppose, and they wanted it, 
 and God knows I Ve never done it before, 
 since I promised, Letty,' he broke off sharply.
 
 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 29 
 
 The girl said nothing at the moment, but sat 
 staring at the table-cloth, and then reached out 
 a hand and touched his tremulous fingers. 
 
 1 There, there, dear boy,' she murmured sooth- 
 ingly, ' I won't be cross ; only please, please, 
 don't break your word again.' 
 
 ' No, I won't, I won't,' muttered the man. 
 
 ' I daresay it was hard, but it cost you your 
 train, George, and you were punished by losing 
 my society for one whole night. So there it 's 
 all right.' She pressed the hand softly, her face 
 glowing under the candle-light with some soft 
 emotion. 
 
 Farrell withdrew his arm gently. 
 
 ' Have some more wine, dear,' said his 
 wife. 
 
 ' She raised the bottle, and was replenishing 
 his glass when he pushed it roughly aside. 
 
 ' No more,' he said shortly, ' no more.' 
 
 The wound broke open in his conscience, red 
 and raw. The peace which had gathered upon 
 him lifted ; he was shaken into fears and 
 tremors, and that devilish memory, which had 
 retired so far, came back upon him, urgent 
 and instant, proclaiming him a coward and a 
 scoundrel. He sat silent and disturbed, with
 
 30 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 
 
 his eyes upon the crumbs, among which his 
 fingers were playing restlessly. Letty rose, and 
 passed to the window. 
 
 ' How dark it has fallen ! ' she said, peeping 
 through the blinds, ' and the rain is pelting so 
 hard. I 'm glad I 'm not out. How cold it is ! 
 Do stir the fire, dearest.' 
 
 Farrell rose, and went to the chimneypiece. 
 He struck the poker through the crust of coal 
 and the flames leapt forth and roared about the 
 pieces. The heat burned in his face. There 
 came upon him unbidden the recollection of 
 those days, a year ago, when he and Letty had 
 nestled side by side, watching for fortunes in 
 the masses of that golden core. She had seen 
 palaces and stately domes ; her rich imagina- 
 tion culled histories from the glowing embers ; 
 while he, searching and searching in vain, had 
 been content to receive her fancies and sit by 
 simply with his arm about her. The thought 
 touched him to a smile as he mused in the flood 
 of the warmth. 
 
 Letty still stood peering out upon the street, 
 and her voice came to him, muffled from behind 
 the curtain. 
 
 ' Oh, those poor creatures ! How cold and
 
 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 31 
 
 how wet they must be ! Look, George, dear. 
 Why don't they go indoors out of the rain ? ' 
 
 Farrell, the smile still upon his lips, turned 
 his face towards her as he stooped. 
 
 'Who, child?' 
 
 'Why, those women,' said his wife pitifully, 
 ' why don't they go home ? They keep coming 
 backwards and forwards. I Ve seen the same 
 faces pass several times. And they look so 
 bleak and wretched, with those horrid tawdry 
 dresses. No one ought to be out to-night.' 
 
 The poker fell from Farrell's hand with a 
 clatter upon the fender. 
 
 ' Damn them ! ' he cried, in a fierce, harsh 
 voice. 
 
 The girl pulled the curtain back, and looked 
 at him. 
 
 ' Darling,' she said plaintively, ' what is it ? 
 Why do you say such horrible things ? ' 
 
 Farrell's face was coloured with passion ; he 
 stood staring angrily at her. 
 
 'George, George,' she said, coming to him, 
 ' why are you so angry with me ? Oughtn't I 
 to be sorry for them ? I can't help it ; it seems so 
 sad. I know they 're not nice people. They 're 
 dreadful, dear, of course. I Ve always heard
 
 32 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 
 
 that,' and she laid her face against his breast. 
 'But it can't be good for them to be out this 
 wretched night, even if they are wicked.' 
 
 She pressed against him as for sympathy, 
 but Farrell made no response. A fearful tension 
 held his arms and body in a kind of paralysis ; 
 but presently he patted her head softly, and put 
 her gently from him. 
 
 ' I 'm in a very bad temper to-night, dear,' he 
 said slowly. ' I suppose I ought to go to bed 
 and hide myself till I 'm better.' 
 
 She clung to him still. ' Don't put me away, 
 George. I don't mind if you are in a bad 
 temper. I love you, dearest Kiss me, dear, 
 kiss me ; I get so frightened now.' 
 
 A spasm contracted his features ; he bent 
 over and kissed her ; then he turned away. 
 
 ' I will go and read,' he said, ' I shall be 
 better then.' 
 
 She ran after him. ' Let me come too, George. 
 I will sit still and won't disturb you. You can't 
 think how I hate being alone now. I can't 
 understand it. Do let me come, for you know I 
 must go to bed early, I was up so late last night.' 
 
 The pleading words struck him like a blow. 
 ' Come, then,' he answered, taking her hand.
 
 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 33 
 
 'And you may swear if you want to very 
 much,' she whispered, laughing, as they passed 
 through the door. 
 
 The sun rose bright and clear ; the sky, 
 purged of its vapours, shone as fine as on a 
 midsummer day. With this complaisance of 
 the weather, Farrell's blacker mood had passed. 
 His weak nature, sensitive as it was to the 
 touch of circumstances, recovered easily from 
 their influences. Sleep had renewed the elastic 
 qualities of his mind, and the smiling heaven 
 set him in great spirits. Letty, too, seemed 
 better, and ate and talked with a more natural 
 gaiety. The nightmare of the previous evening 
 was singularly dim and characterless. He tried 
 to recall the terror of it, and wondered why it 
 had so affected him, with every circumstance of 
 happiness around his smiling wife, a comfort- 
 able house, and the pleasant distractions of 
 fortune. The gulf that opened between Letty 
 and himself was there by the will of nature. 
 He had but flung aside the conventions that 
 concealed it. It was a horrid gap, but he had 
 not contrived it. The sexes kept different laws, 
 and he himself, in all likelihood, came nearer 
 to what she would require of him than any 
 c
 
 34 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 
 
 other man. He assured himself with convic- 
 tion that he would forget altogether in a few 
 days. 
 
 The day was pleasantly rilled, but not too 
 full for the elaboration of these arguments. 
 They soothed him ; he grew philosophic ; he 
 discussed the conditions of love with himself; 
 he even broached the problem in an abstract 
 way over his coffee at the club. For the first 
 time he thought that he had clearly determined 
 the nature of his affection for Letty. It was 
 integral and single ; it was built upon a pack of 
 sentiments ; it was very tender, and it would 
 wear extremely well ; but it was not that first 
 high passion which he had once supposed. The 
 unfamiliarity of that earlier exaltation had 
 deceived him into a false definition of Love. 
 There was none such in circulation among 
 human bodies. There were degrees upon degrees 
 of affection, and Letty and he stood very high 
 in rank ; but to conceive of their love as some- 
 thing emanating from a superior sphere outside 
 relation to the world and other human beings 
 was the absurd and delightful flight of heedless 
 passion. 
 
 He had laid his ghost, and came home to his
 
 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 35 
 
 dinner in an excellent humour. The girl looked 
 forlorn and weary, but brightened a good deal 
 on his return. With her for audience he 
 chattered in quite a sparkling temper. Letty 
 said little, but regarded him often with great 
 shy eyes. He looked up sometimes to find 
 them upon him with a wistful, even a pleading, 
 gaze. She watched every movement he took 
 jealously. But she was obviously content, and 
 even gay in a sad little fashion. He did not 
 understand, but his spirits were too newly blithe 
 to dwell upon a puzzle. He noticed with scarce 
 a wonder little starts of pettishness which he 
 had never seen before. They flashed and were 
 gone, and the large eyes still followed him with 
 tenderness. She rested her arm across the 
 table in the middle of a story he was telling, 
 and rearranged his silver. 
 
 'You must not cross your knives,' she said 
 playfully. ' That's a bad omen.' He laughed, 
 and continued his narrative. 
 
 Left to himself, Farrell lit a cigarette, and 
 filled his glass with wine. The current of his 
 spirits had passed, but he felt extremely com- 
 fortable, and very shortly his mind stole after 
 his wife, who was playing softly in the further
 
 36 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 
 
 room ; he could see the yellow fabric of the 
 distant curtains gleaming softly in the lamp- 
 light. He had a desire for a certain air, but 
 could not bring himself to interrupt. An at- 
 mosphere of content enwrapped him, and he 
 leaned back lazily in his chair. Reflections 
 came to him easily. Surely there was no 
 greater comfort than this serene domestic happi- 
 ness, with its pleasant round of change. He 
 had set Letty's love and his in a place too low 
 for justice. It held a sweeter fragrance, it was 
 touched with higher light, than the commoner 
 affections of common people. A genial warmth 
 flooded his soul, and his heart nestled into the 
 comfort of desire. He was hot with wine, and 
 his whole being thrilled with the content of his 
 own reflections. He asked no better than this 
 quiet ecstasy, repeated through a suave un- 
 troubled life. The personal charm of that fine 
 body, the intimate distinctions of its subtle 
 grace, the flow of that soft voice, the sweet 
 attention of that devoted human soul these 
 were his lot by fortune. They conducted him 
 upon a future which was strangely attractive. 
 He had loved her for some months more than a 
 year, and earlier that day he had summoned his
 
 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 37 
 
 bridal thoughts down to a pedestrian level ; but 
 now in this hour of sudden illumination, flushed 
 with the kindly influence of his wine, his after- 
 noon fancy seemed to him ungenerously dipt 
 and tame. Letty stood for what was noble in 
 his narrow life ; she invited him upon a high 
 ideal way. If he were framed of grosser clay, 
 it was she who would refine the fabric. The 
 thought struck him sharply. He had learned 
 to dispose his error in its proper place, among 
 the sins, and he was not going to assign penalties 
 unduly ; but the bare fact came home to him 
 that he was unworthy of this woman's love, that 
 no man deserved it. He had evilly entreated 
 her, but he would rise to a new level in her 
 company, and with her aid. She should renew 
 in him the faded qualities of innocence and 
 pure-heartedness which as a child he had once 
 possessed. He would ask her mercy, and use 
 her help. Her pardon should purge him of his 
 dishonour ; she should take him to her heart, 
 and perfect faith should rest between them. 
 
 The vision he had conceived drew his atten- 
 tion strongly ; he seemed to himself, and in a 
 measure was, ennobled by this aspiration. Out 
 of the fulness of his penitence he now desired
 
 38 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 
 
 the confession he had feared but a little time 
 before. And, as he reflected, the notes of the 
 piano changed, and Letty shot into a gay 
 chansonnette, trilling softly over the sharp little 
 runs. The careless leisure of the air took off 
 his thoughts with it. It would be a bad world 
 in which they might not be happy. The story 
 would hurt her, he was sure ; indeed, he could 
 conjure before him the start of pain in her eyes. 
 But after the shock she would resume her trust, 
 and forget, as he was forgetting. He was 
 entirely certain of her love, and, that secure, 
 nothing could divide them. Perhaps she were 
 better left to herself till she recovered from the 
 blow ; he would go away for a day or two. It 
 might even take her worse than he expected, 
 and he would have dull faces and tearful re- 
 proaches for a week or more. If this fell out, 
 it was his punishment, and he would bear it in 
 humility. 
 
 As his thoughts ran he had not noticed that 
 the music ceased, and Letty's voice broke on 
 his reverie. 
 
 .' Mayn't I sit with you, dear,' she pleaded. 
 ' It 's so solitary in the big room ! ' 
 
 'Why, of course, sweetheart,' said Farrell
 
 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 39 
 
 gently ; ' come in, and close the door ; we '11 be 
 snug for a little while in here.' 
 
 Letty stood by his chair and stroked his 
 head. 
 
 'You never came to say good-night to me 
 last night,' she said reproachfully. 
 
 Farrell put up his hand and took hers. 
 
 ' Dearest, you must forgive me. I I was 
 very tired, and had a headache.' 
 
 ' Ah, that was the penalty for staying up so 
 late,' she replied playfully. 
 
 Farrell smiled and patted her hand. 
 
 ' But you will come to-night, won't you ?' she 
 urged. 
 
 ' Dear heart, of course I will,' he said, smiling 
 indulgently. ' I '11 come and have a long talk 
 with you.' 
 
 His wife sighed ; in part, as it seemed, with 
 satisfaction, and leaned her chin upon his hair. 
 
 'Life is very curious, isn't it, George?' she 
 said meditatively, her eyes gazing in abstraction 
 at the wall. ' There are so many things we 
 don't know. I never dreamed ' 
 
 Farrell patted her hand again affectionately, 
 reassuringly. 
 
 ' I couldn't have guessed,' she went on
 
 40 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 
 
 dreamily. ' It is all so strange and painful, and 
 yet not quite painful. I wonder if you under- 
 stand, George.' 
 
 ' I think I do, dear,' said he softly. 
 
 ' Ah, but how can you quite ? Girls are so 
 ignorant. Do you think they ought to be told ? 
 I shouldn't have liked to be told, though. I 
 should have been so afraid, but now somehow 
 I 'm not afraid not quite.' 
 
 A note of pain trembled through her voice ; 
 she drew a sharp breath and shivered. 
 
 ' George, you don't think I shall die, do you, 
 George ? O George, if I should die ! ' 
 
 She fell on her knees at his feet, looking into 
 his face with searching eyes that pleaded for 
 comfort. He drew her head towards him, a 
 gulp in his throat, and caressed her hair. 
 
 ' There, child, there ! ' he said soothingly, ' you 
 are frightening yourself. Of course not, silly 
 one, of course not.' 
 
 She crouched against his knees, and he stroked 
 her hair tenderly. Pity pulled at his heart, and 
 at the touch of her he was warmed with affec- 
 tion. He had no means of consolation save this 
 smoothing motion of the palm, but he yearned 
 for some deeper expression of his love and
 
 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 41 
 
 sympathy. In the silence his thoughts turned 
 to their former occupation, and he felt nearer 
 than ever to his wife. He would tell her when 
 she had recovered. 
 
 She raised her head at length and looked at 
 him. 
 
 ' Oh, you will think I 'm not brave,' she said 
 tremulously, ' but I am brave indeed, George. 
 It is only sometimes that I get this fit of 
 depression, and it overbears me. But it isn't 
 me ; it is something quite foreign within me : 
 I was never a coward, dear.' 
 
 ' No, darling,' he answered, ' of course you 
 are not a coward. You 're brave, very brave ; 
 you 're my dear brave wife ? ' She smiled at 
 him faintly. ' And you know, Letty,' he went 
 on, still with his hand upon her head. ' I think 
 we Ve been very happy together, and shall be 
 very happy together, always. There is so much 
 that binds us to one another. You love me, 
 dear, don't you? and you could never doubt 
 that I love you, could you ? ' 
 
 Letty shook her head. He cast down his 
 eyes, patting the tresses softly. 
 
 ' And I think you know that well enough and 
 are certain enough of that not to misjudge me,'
 
 42 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 
 
 he resumed quietly. ' If I have made a mistake, 
 Letty, it is not you who will be hardest on me, 
 I am sure. It is I myself. If I have fallen into 
 a seeming disloyalty, it is not I, as you will 
 believe and understand, but something, as you 
 said just now, quite foreign within me. For I 
 could only be true and loyal and ' 
 
 He hesitated, raising his shameful eyes to her. 
 
 'What what is it, George?' she asked 
 anxiously, 'what have you done?' His hand 
 rose and fell mechanically upon her head. He 
 parted his lips with an effort, and continued. 
 The task was harder than he had thought. 
 
 ' It is right,' he said slowly, ' that we should 
 have no secrets from one another ; it is necessary, 
 dear, that we should bear all things in common. 
 To be man and wife, and to love each other, 
 calls for this openness between us.' He 
 stumbled on the threshold of his confession ; 
 the pain of this slow progression suddenly 
 unnerved him ; all at once he took it with a 
 rush. ' Darling,' he cried quickly and on a 
 sharper note, ' I want to confess something to 
 you, and I want your forgiveness. That night 
 I was away, I did not spend with Fowler. I 
 spent it '
 
 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 43 
 
 ' You spent it gambling ? ' she asked in a 
 low voice. 
 
 ' No,' he said with a groan, ' I spent it in 
 another house I spent it I spent it in 
 shame.' 
 
 He breathed the better for the words, even 
 though a terrible silence reigned in the room. 
 At least the worst part of his penalty was 
 undergone ; the explanation was over. 
 
 But when she spoke he realised, with a sense 
 of dread, that he had not passed the ordeal. 
 
 4 1 don't understand, George,' she said in a 
 voice thick with trouble ; ' what is it ? Where 
 did you stay ? ' 
 
 The strain was too great for his weak nerves. 
 
 ' For God's sake, Letty,' he broke out, ' try to 
 understand me and forgive me. I dined too 
 well ; I was almost drunk. I left the club with 
 Fowler very late. Oh, it 's hideous to have to 
 tell you. I met some one I had never seen 
 since oh ! long before I loved you. I could 
 not pass her. I O God ! can't you under- 
 stand ? Don't make me explain so horribly.' 
 
 The tale ran from him in short and broken 
 sentences. His fingers twisted nervously about 
 a wisp of her hair ; his gaze had nowhere rest
 
 44 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 
 
 She looked full into his face with frightened 
 eyes. 
 
 ' Do you mean those women we saw ? ' she 
 asked at last, in a voice pitched so low that he 
 hardly heard. 
 
 * Yes,' he whispered ; and then again there 
 was silence. The agony of the suspense was 
 intolerable. 'You will never forgive me/ he 
 muttered. 
 
 He felt her trembling hands grow cold under 
 his touch ; and, as she still kept silence, he 
 dropped his slow, reluctant glance to meet hers. 
 At the sight of the terrified eyes, he put his 
 hands towards her quickly. 
 
 ' Letty, Letty, 1 he cried, ' for God's sake, don't 
 look like that ! Speak to me ; say you forgive 
 me. Dearest, darling, forgive me ! ' 
 
 She rose as if unconscious of her action, and, 
 walking slowly to the fireplace, stood looking at 
 the red flames. 
 
 ' Letty/ he called, ' don't spurn me like this. 
 Darling, darling ! ' 
 
 His attitude, as he waited for her response, 
 there, in the centre of the room, was one of 
 singular despair. His mouth was wried with 
 an expression of suffering ; he endured all the
 
 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 45 
 
 pangs of a sensitive nature which has been 
 always wont to shelter itself from pain. But 
 still she made no answer. And then she 
 seemed suddenly taken with a great convul- 
 sion ; her body trembled and shivered ; she 
 wheeled half-way round with a cry ; her eyes 
 shone with pain. 
 
 ' George, George ! ' she screamed on a horrid 
 note of agony, and swaying for a second to 
 and fro, fell hard across the fender and against 
 the live bars of the grate. 
 
 Farrell sprang across the intervening space 
 and swung her head away from the angry 
 flames. She lay limp and still upon the 
 hearthrug, a smear of black streaking her 
 white arm from the elbow, the smell of her 
 frizzled gown fusing with the odour of burned 
 hair. Her face was set white, the mouth 
 peaked with a spasm of pain ; the eyelids 
 had not fully fallen, and a dreadful glimmer 
 of light flickered from a slit in the uncon- 
 scious eyes. He stood, struck weak and silent 
 for a moment, and then flung himself upon the 
 floor, and hung over the body. 
 
 'Letty, Letty!' he cried. ' Letty, Letty ! 
 O my God ! have I killed you ? ' The flesh
 
 46 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 
 
 twitched upon the drawn face, and a moan 
 issued from her lips. Farrell leapt to the 
 bell-rope and pulled fast ; and away in some 
 distant depth the peals jingled in alarm. A 
 servant threw open the door and rushed into 
 the room. 
 
 * A doctor, a doctor ! ' cried Farrell, vehe- 
 mently. ' Get a doctor at once. Your mistress 
 is ill. Do you hear, Jackson ? God, man, don't 
 stare at me. Go, go ! ' 
 
 As the door closed Farrell's glance stole back 
 to the floor. His breath came fast as he con- 
 templated the body. It lay there as though 
 flung by the hand of death, and wore a pitiful 
 aspect. It forbade him ; it seemed to lower at 
 him ; he could not associate it with life, still 
 less with Letty. It owned some separate and 
 horrible existence of itself. The flames mount- 
 ing in the fire threw out great flashes upon the 
 recumbent figure, and the very flesh took on a 
 moving colour. Hours seemed to pass as he 
 stood beside her, and not until the quivering 
 eyelids denoted a return of life did he gain 
 courage to touch her. With that she became 
 somehow familiar again ; she was no more the 
 blank eidolon of a woman. He put his arms
 
 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 47 
 
 beneath her and slowly lifted the reviving 
 body to the sofa. The blood renewed its 
 course in the arteries, and she opened her eyes 
 dully and closed them again. 
 
 The entrance of the doctor dispelled for a 
 while the gloomy thoughts that environed him. 
 The man was a stranger, but was welcomed 
 as an intimate. 
 
 ' She has had a shock,' said Farrell, ' you will 
 understand. It was my doing,' he added. 
 
 The sharp change from the dreadful reveries 
 of his solitude turned Farrell to a different 
 creature. He was animated with action ; he 
 bustled about on errands ; he ran for brandy, 
 and his legs bore him everywhere, hardly with 
 his knowledge. And as the examination pro- 
 ceeded he grew strangely cheerful, watching 
 the face of the physician and drawing inferences 
 to his fancy. He laughed lightly at the doubt 
 if she could be lifted to her room. 
 
 ' Yes, of course,' said he. 
 
 ' The stairs are steep, sir,' said Letty's maid. 
 
 He smiled, and drew back the cuffs from his 
 strong wrists. Stooping, he picked up his wife 
 lightly, and strode upstairs. 
 
 As the doctor was leaving, Farrell waylaid
 
 48 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 
 
 him in the hall, and took him to the door. The 
 visitor drew on his gloves and spoke of the 
 weather ; the sky threatened rain again and 
 the night was growing black. Farrell agreed 
 with him hurriedly, adding a few remarks of 
 no interest, as though to preserve that air of un- 
 concern which the doctor seemed to take for 
 granted ; and then, with his hand on the door, 
 abruptly touched his subject. 
 
 ' Is there any danger ? ' he asked. 
 
 The doctor paused and buttoned his glove. 
 
 ' She is very sensitive/ said the doctor. 
 
 ' It was my doing,' said Farrell, after a moment, 
 dropping his eyes to the floor. 
 
 'It is a dangerous time,' said the doctor. 
 ' Very little may do damage. We can't be too 
 careful in these affairs.' 
 
 He finished with his gloves, and put out his 
 hand. 
 
 ' Have I,' stammered Farrell, ' have I done 
 irreparable harm ? ' 
 
 ' She is very delicate,' said the doctor. 
 
 'What will it mean?' asked the husband, 
 lowering his voice. 
 
 The doctor smiled and touched him with his 
 fingers. ' If you were to cut your finger, my
 
 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 49 
 
 friend, a doctor would never prophesy. Events 
 are out of all proportion to causes.' He put 
 his own hand upon the latch. ' I will call to- 
 morrow early, 1 he said, 'and will send a nurse 
 at once.' 
 
 Farrell took his arm in a hard grip. 
 
 ' Is she dying ? ' he asked hoarsely. 
 
 The doctor moved impatiently. ' My dear 
 sir, certainly not/ he answered hastily. He 
 threw open the door and emerged into the 
 night ' I would not distress myself with un- 
 necessary fancies, Mr. Farrell,' said he, as he 
 dropped down the steps. 
 
 Farrell walked down the hall to the foot of 
 the stairs. He laid a hand upon the balustrade 
 uncertainly. The house was engrossed in 
 silence ; then from the floor above came a 
 sharp cry, as of a creature in pain, and a door 
 shut softly. Trembling, he rushed into the 
 dining-room, and hid his face in his hands. 
 Yet that weak device was no refuge from 
 his hideous thoughts. His brain was crowded 
 with fears and terrors ; in the solitude of that 
 chamber he was haunted by frightful ghosts. 
 The things stood upon the white cloth, like 
 spectres ; the lamp burned low, and splashes 
 P
 
 50 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 
 
 of flame rose and fell in the ashes. He rose 
 and poured some brandy into a glass. The 
 muscles jumped in his hands, and the liquor 
 spilled over the edges and stained his shirt, 
 but the draught strung up his nerves, and 
 brighter thoughts flowed in his mind. He 
 pulled out a chair before the fire and sat 
 down, meditating more quietly. 
 
 An hour later he was disturbed from his 
 reflections by the passage of feet along the 
 hall. His ears took in the sound with a fret 
 of new anxiety ; it portended fresh horrors to 
 him. But in a little he realised from the 
 voices without that the nurse had arrived, and 
 a feeling of relief pervaded him. The foot- 
 steps passed upstairs. He sat passive within 
 the arms of his chair and listened. A fresh 
 hope of succour lay in those feet. The doctor 
 and the nurse and the maid were doing what 
 was vital ; in their attentions was the promise 
 of rescue. It was as if he himself took no part 
 in the tragedy ; he sat as a spectator in the 
 stalls, and viewed the action only with the 
 concern of an interested visitor. He filled 
 another tumbler with spirit. 
 
 The alcohol fired his blood, and raised him
 
 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 51 
 
 superior to the petty worry of his nerves. He 
 drank and stared in the embers and considered. 
 Letty was ill in a manner not uncommon ; even 
 though it threatened the sacrifice of one life the 
 malady was not inevitably mortal. He had 
 been bidden to discharge his fears, and brandy 
 had discharged them for him. He turned to 
 fill his glass again ; the fumes were in his head, 
 but at that moment the recollection of his last 
 excess flashed suddenly upon him, and, with an 
 inarticulate scream of rage, he dashed the bottle 
 to the floor, and ground the glass under his 
 feet. Rising irresolutely he made his way 
 upstairs, and paused before Letty's door. At 
 his knock the nurse came out and greeted him 
 a strange tall woman with hard eyes. 
 ' My wife ' he asked, ' Is Mrs. Farrell better ? ' 
 She pushed him gently away. ' I think so,' 
 she said ; ' we shall see. The worst is over, 
 perhaps. You understand. Hush, she is 
 sleeping now at last.' He lingered still, and 
 she made a gesture to dismiss him, her voice 
 softening. ' Doctor Green will tell you best 
 to-morrow.' 
 
 Farrell entered his room and took off his coat. 
 His ears, grown delicate to the merest suspicion,
 
 52 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 
 
 seemed to catch a sound upon the stillness, 
 and opening the door he looked out. All was 
 quiet ; the great lamp upon the landing swung 
 noiselessly, shedding its dim beams upon the 
 panelled walls. He shut to the door, and once 
 more was in the wilderness of his own thoughts. 
 
 The doctor came twice that next day. In 
 the morning a white and anxious face met him 
 on the stairs and scanned him eagerly. 
 
 ' She is going on, going on/ said he de- 
 liberately. 
 
 ' Then the danger is past ? ' cried Farrell, his 
 heart beating with new vigour. 
 
 'No doctor can say that,' said the doctor 
 slowly. ' She is as well as I expected to find 
 her. It was very difficult. 1 
 
 ' But will she ' began Farrell, stammering. 
 
 ' Well ? ' exclaimed the doctor sharply. 
 
 ' Will she live ? ' 
 
 The doctor's eye avoided his. ' These things 
 are never certain,' he said. ' You must hope. I 
 know more than you, and I hope.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes,' cried Farrell impatiently. ' But, 
 my God, doctor,' he burst forth, ' will she die ? ' 
 
 The doctor glanced at him and then away 
 It is possible,' he said gravely.
 
 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 53 
 
 Farrell leaned back against the handrail and 
 mechanically watched him pass the length of 
 the hall and let himself out. Some one touched 
 his arm, and he looked up. 
 
 ' Come, sir, come,' said the nurse. ' You 
 mustn't give way. Nothing has happened. She 
 is very weak, but I Ve seen weaker folk pull 
 through.' 
 
 He descended the stairs and entered the 
 drawing-room. The room looked vacant ; the 
 inanimate furniture seemed to keep silence and 
 stare at him ; he felt every object in that place 
 was privy to his horrible story. They regarded 
 him sternly ; he seemed to feel the hush in 
 which they had talked together, ere he entered. 
 He could not bear the condemnation of that 
 silence, and sat down at the piano, softly 
 fingering the notes. But the voices of those 
 chords cried to him of Letty. It was her 
 favourite instrument, the purchase of her own 
 means, and every resonance reminded him of 
 her. It was by her hand that melodies had 
 been framed and fashioned from the strings ; 
 his was an alien touch. They wept for their 
 mistress underneath his fingers ; he struck at 
 random, and melancholy cadences mourned at
 
 54 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 
 
 him. They knew his secret, too. With a 
 horrid, miserable laugh he got up, and putting 
 on his hat, went forth and down to his club. 
 
 The change did not distract his thoughts ; 
 the burden lay as heavy upon his mind, but at 
 least the walk was an occupation. He came 
 back with a bundle of letters which his indolent 
 nature had allowed to accumulate with the 
 porter, and, retiring to his smoking-room, made 
 a manful effort to re-engage his attention. With 
 this work and the hour of lunch, the time 
 passed until the doctor's second visit. He 
 heard the arrival, and, putting down his pen, 
 waited in a growing fever for the sound of feet 
 descending on the stairs. The smoking-room 
 lay back from the hall, but Farrell flung open 
 his door and listened. The day was falling in 
 and the shadows were deepening about him, 
 but still the doctor made no sign. At length 
 he left his chair and called Jackson. The 
 doctor had gone. He must have left without 
 noise, and he, Jackson, had not heard him ; it 
 was the maid who had seen him go. The 
 discovery threw Farrell into fresh agitation ; 
 his anger mingled with terror. He had wanted 
 a report of the illness ; he would have the
 
 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 55 
 
 doctor back at once ; he had a thousand 
 questions to put. Rushing up the stairs he 
 rapped at the door of the sick-room, softly and 
 feverishly. When the nurse presented herself 
 he burst out impetuously. He must come in ; 
 he would see his wife ; he was persistently held 
 in ignorance of her condition, and he demanded 
 admittance as a right The nurse stood aside 
 and beckoned him forward without a word. 
 Her face was set harder than ever ; she looked 
 worn and weary. 
 
 Parrel 1 entered softly, and with furtive fears. 
 
 ' You may stay if you will be still,' said the 
 nurse. Farrell looked at her inquiringly, be- 
 seechingly. ' No,' she added, ' you will not 
 disturb her. She has been put to sleep. She 
 suffered a good deal. It is a bad case.' 
 
 ' Will she live ? ' whispered Farrell. 
 
 The nurse shook her head. ' She will not 
 suffer much more. She will sleep. But the 
 doctor will come in the morning. We have 
 done everything.' 
 
 Farrell shuddered, and drew near the bed. 
 The lamp burned low upon the dressing-table, 
 and the chamber was in a soft twilight. He 
 could not see her face, but her dark hair was
 
 56 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 
 
 scattered over the white pillows. A slow slight 
 breathing filled the room. The window rattled 
 with a passing noise. Farrell sat down upon a 
 chair beyond the bed, and the nurse resumed 
 her place by the fire, warming her hands. Out- 
 side the traffic passed with low and distant 
 rumbling. 
 
 ***** 
 
 At the sound the nurse stole stealthily to the 
 door and opened it. 
 
 * It is your dinner,' she whispered turning to 
 Farrell. 
 
 He shook his head. ' I will stay here,' said 
 he in a monotone. 
 
 'You had better go,' she urged. 'You will 
 want it. You can do nothing.' He shook his 
 head again impatiently. She yawned, closed 
 the door, and, with a little sigh of weariness, 
 retraced her steps to the hearth. Farrell rose 
 and followed her. 
 
 ' Come,' he said, bending over her, ' you are 
 very tired. Go and rest in the next room. 
 There is nothing to be done. I will call you. 
 Let me watch. I wish it.' She looked at him 
 in doubt. ' Yes, yes,' he pleaded. ' Don't you 
 see ? I must be here, and you want sleep.'
 
 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 57 
 
 She glanced round the room, as if to assure 
 herself that there was nothing to require her. 
 
 ' Very well/ she assented, ' but call me soon ; ' 
 and she vanished through the doorway like a 
 wraith. 
 
 Farrell took his seat and regarded his wife. 
 The breathing came gently ; the masses of 
 dark hair swarmed over the head that crouched 
 low upon the pillow ; one arm, crossing the 
 face with shadow, lay reaching toward the brow. 
 The room glowed with luminous gloom rather 
 than with light. The figure rested upon its 
 side, and the soft rise of the hip stood out from 
 the hollows of the coverlet. In the grate the 
 ashes stirred and clinked ; the street mumbled 
 without ; but within that chamber the stillness 
 hung heavily. Farrell seemed to hear it deepen, 
 and the quiet air spoke louder to him, as though 
 charged with some secret and mysterious 
 mission. He followed the hush with a mind 
 half vacant and wholly irrelevant. But pre- 
 sently the faintest rustle came with a roar upon 
 his senses, and he sprang to his feet, stricken 
 with sudden terror. The body moved slightly 
 under its wrappings ; the arm dropped slowly 
 down the pillow into the darker hollows of the
 
 58 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 
 
 counterpane ; the hair fell away ; and the face, 
 relapsing, softly edged into the twilight. 
 
 Farrell stood staring, mute and distracted, 
 upon this piteous piece of poor humanity. Its 
 contrast with the woman he had known and 
 loved appalled him. His jaw fell open, his 
 nails scored into his palms, his eyes bulged 
 beneath his brows. The face rested, white and 
 withered, among the frillings of her gown ; 
 unaccustomed lines picked out the cheeks ; the 
 mouth was drawn pitifully small and pinched 
 with suffering. Even as he looked she seemed 
 to his scared gaze to shrink and shrivel under 
 pain. This was not the repose of sleep, releasing 
 from the burden of sickness ; surely he could 
 see her face and body pricked over with starts 
 and pangs under his eyes. It seemed to his 
 morbid thoughts that he could read upon her 
 moving features the horrible story of that slow 
 disintegration. In his very sight the flesh 
 appeared to take on the changing colours of 
 decay. He withdrew aghast from the proximity ; 
 he blanched, and was wrung with panic. In 
 what place within that breathing human fabric 
 was death starting upon his dreadful round? 
 She respired gently, the heart beat softly, the
 
 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 59 
 
 tissues, yet instinct with life, were rebuilded 
 piece by piece. Wherein lay the secret of that 
 fading life ? 
 
 The counterpane stirred faintly, and drew 
 his attention. His wandering glance went down 
 the centre of that swathed body. The limbs 
 still beat warm with blood, and yet to-morrow 
 they must stretch out in stiff obedience to 
 strange hands. The fancy was horrible a cry 
 burst from him and rang in the still and 
 changeless chamber. The sound terrified him 
 anew, breaking thus rudely upon the silence. 
 He feared that she would awake, and he 
 trembled at the prospect of her speechless eyes. 
 And yet he had withal a passionate desire to 
 resolve her from this deathly calm, and to see 
 her once more regarding him with love. She 
 hung still upon the verge of that great darkness, 
 and one short call would bring her sharply 
 back. He had but to bend to her ears and 
 whisper loudly, and that hovering spirit would 
 return. He stood, a coward, by the bed. 
 
 And now the lips in that shrunken face 
 parted suddenly, the bosom quickened, and the 
 throat rattled with noises. It flashed upon him 
 that this at last was the article of death, and
 
 60 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 
 
 vainly he strove to call for help ; his voice 
 stifled in his mouth. She should not so dissolve 
 at least ; she should breathe freely ; he would 
 give her air and, springing with an effort to 
 the window, he flung it back. The cool air 
 flowed in, and, turning quickly, he looked down 
 upon the bed. 
 
 The eyes had fallen open, and were set upon 
 him, full and wide. Unnerved already as he 
 was, the change paralysed him, and he stood 
 for a moment stark and motionless. The fire 
 flared up and lit the face with colour ; the eyes 
 shone brightly, and he seemed to see into their 
 deepest corners. There was that in them 
 from which he recoiled at length slowly and 
 with horror. They fastened upon him mutely, 
 pleading with him for mercy. They were like 
 the eyes of a creature hunted beyond a prospect 
 of defence. Dumbly they dwelt on him, as 
 though in his presence they had surrendered 
 their last hope. They seemed to wait upon him, 
 submissive to their fate, yet luminous with that 
 despair. He tried to speak, but the wheels of 
 his being were without his present rule, and he 
 might only stand and shudder and give back 
 glance for glance. He looked away, but his
 
 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 61 
 
 fascinated gaze returned again to those re- 
 proaching eyes. They did not waver; it was 
 as if they dared not lose their sight of a pitiless 
 enemy. They recognised him as their butcher. 
 Even through her sleep this poor weary 
 soul had come to understand his proximity, 
 and had woke up, in fright at his unseemly 
 neighbourhood. 
 
 The lamp sputtered, a tongue of flame shot 
 up the chimney, and the rank smell of smoke 
 stole through the room. Farrell retreated to 
 the table, and dressed the wick with trembling 
 fingers. The act relieved the strain, but when 
 he turned the eyes were watching still. They 
 bereaved him of his powers, and under the spell 
 of their strange and horrible attraction he 
 sweated in cold beads. They burned upon him 
 from the distance, two great hollows of light, 
 like shining stars, holding that awful look of 
 wistful fear. There was no room in his mind 
 for any sensation save the one ; he could not 
 think ; he had no reckoning of the time his 
 agony endured. But outside, at last, the bell of 
 a clock-tower boomed far away and some hour 
 was struck. And suddenly it seemed to him 
 that the lustre of those great eyes grew dimmer ;
 
 62 THE HOUSE OF SHAME 
 
 the look of sad expectation died slowly away. 
 They stared with a kinder light. It was his 
 fancy, perhaps, but at least it seemed that no 
 strange creature now regarded him with un- 
 familiar terror, but his own dear Letty watched 
 him again with soft affectionate eyes. His 
 limbs grew laxer under him ; and, with a little 
 sob of relief, he stole forward, an uncertain smile 
 of greeting growing round his mouth. 
 
 ' Letty,' he whispered, ' my darling, are you 
 better?' 
 
 He drew near the bed, and put out his arm 
 eagerly and gently ; but in an instant a start 
 rose quickly in her face, the eyes kindled with 
 a horrible look of panic, and with a faint re- 
 pulsive gesture of the hands she shrank deeper 
 into the wrappings. A little sigh followed : 
 the limbs fell slowly back, and the eyes, with 
 their dreadful terror, stared vacantly into Farrell's 
 ghastly face. 
 
 The coverlet went on rustling as the bed- 
 clothes settled down.
 
 MR. ATKINSON 
 
 WHEN she looked round again the young man 
 was still staring at her. She watched him fur- 
 tively, and though at intervals his attention 
 wandered to the stage, it strayed back to her 
 with a persistence that set her heart beating 
 under the vain little bodice. She felt his 
 admiration to be distressing, but there was 
 nothing impudent in the stare, and tiny thrills 
 of satisfaction played throughout her body. 
 Between the turns she heard Jack talking in 
 jerks of conversation, but with that eloquent 
 tribute to her charms at hand, her mind was 
 too vagrant for more than fragmentary intelli- 
 gence. He was very superior, she reflected, 
 quite the gentleman in quality ; his moustache 
 betrayed a fine acquaintance with the world ; 
 and still he had the wit to adore with discre- 
 tion and a proper feeling of respect. Her 
 
 obvious distraction at last drew Jack's attention. 
 
 es
 
 64 MR. ATKINSON 
 
 'What yer looking at?' he asked. 'Ain't 
 he turned out, too? Reach-my-dovvns at five 
 bob!' 
 
 Chuckling, he turned to join in the welcome 
 of a popular dancer. Laura made no answer ; 
 but, as the young man's eyes were now upon 
 the performer, regarded his dress with more 
 care. The gibe dropped pointless ; he had 
 beyond doubt the air of distinction, and his 
 clothes were 'bespoke' to the most indolent 
 observation. Jack's wit was rough of edge, 
 and, though it was as a rule the gift for which 
 she most admired him, it jarred now upon her 
 taste. She retired from mental touch with 
 him, and grew dreamful in her isolation. She 
 watched a shadow in the corner of her eyes, 
 and from it learned the movements of the 
 stranger. She would have liked to meet his 
 gaze, but shrank from the audacity with the 
 diffidence of her conscious admiration. 
 
 The serio sent Jack choking into laughter, 
 and he was fain to share his amusement with her. 
 
 'Did y' hear that?' he asked. 'Wasn't it 
 good? We'll have him again. Didn't you 
 hear?' 
 
 Laura grimaced with some disdain. ' I thought
 
 MR. ATKINSON 65 
 
 it was rather vulgar,' said she, and concealed as 
 it were, in the thick of the applause, sent a shy 
 glance at her admirer by the pillar. 
 
 ' That chap 's had about enough o' standing, 
 strikes me,' remarked Jack, following her gaze. 
 ' Wants to show hisself off as a swell.' 
 
 In the lull that succeeded the exit of the 
 favourite he professed an intolerable thirst, and 
 forthwith made for a distant bar. Scarce con- 
 scious of his departure Laura held her eyes a 
 moment full upon the young man, who left his 
 pillar and lounged along the promenade towards 
 her. A thrill took her at the heart, but she con- 
 templated the footlights with a fixed vision. 
 Something dropped into an empty seat beside 
 her ; she turned with a self-conscious start, and 
 found the stranger looking at her. He raised 
 his hat and took the cigar from his mouth. 
 
 ' Pretty 'ot here, Miss ? ' he said. ' Wouldn't 
 you like some refreshment ? ' 
 
 ' He 's gone for some,' said Laura in a flutter. 
 The young man made no immediate reply, but 
 after a pause remarked 
 
 ' I spotted you soon as ever you come in.' 
 
 Laura smiled timidly and shifted her bangle 
 about her wrist. 
 
 E
 
 66 MR. ATKINSON 
 
 ' It 's a nice programme, ain't it? ' she said. 
 
 ' I dunno now,' responded the stranger with 
 a note of sadness. ' I haven't heard much, I Ve 
 been too busy ever since you come in.' He 
 halted, while Laura tried to direct her attention 
 upon the stage. 'That ain't your brother?' 
 said the young man hopefully. 
 
 'No, only a friend,' returned Laura with a 
 show of hesitation. 
 
 ' I suppose I shan't see you again ? ' said the 
 stranger gloomily. 
 
 Laura had nothing to answer. At this 
 moment she was aware that some one was 
 pushing hastily past the occupants of the seats 
 upon her left, and of a sudden Jack stood 
 before her. 
 
 ' Come on,' he said curtly, ' let 's get out of 
 this.' 
 
 She rose obediently and followed him, but as 
 she passed the intruder some shaft from his 
 eyes made her pause. She put out her hand. 
 
 ' Good-bye,' she said, and gave a little laugh. 
 
 Withdrawn from the neighbourhood of the 
 stranger Jack stopped. 
 
 ' What did you talk to him for ? ' he asked in 
 a tone of annoyance.
 
 MR. ATKINSON 67 
 
 ' I didn't ; he talked to me,' was her answer. 
 
 ' Thinks a lot of hisself/ he went on, ' but he 
 ain't going to insult my girl fat-head ! ' 
 
 Laura was filled with indignation at his con- 
 duct, but the excitement of the incident had 
 thrown her at his mercy, and had rendered her 
 incapable of original action. She was too stirred 
 by the occasion to express her feelings in sulks ; 
 she took a seat at his dictation, and tried to 
 resume her interest in the programme. She 
 would have liked to peer into the crowd for the 
 disconsolate stranger, but was forbidden by her 
 own visible emotions ; and it was by a pure 
 accident that she espied him drinking at the 
 bar almost within hand-reach of her dainty 
 skirts. Jack, too, had noticed this proximity, 
 and she glanced at him fearfully. He made 
 a step as though to address the obnoxious 
 young man, but suddenly turned and took 
 Laura's arm. 
 
 ' I 'm off out of this,' he said. * Come along.' 
 
 She made no protest ; her feelings were too 
 strong for words. She left with her sweetheart, 
 but, as they issued by the doors, could not 
 refrain a glance behind her. It was so preci- 
 pitate that she got only a confused sense of
 
 68 MR. ATKINSON 
 
 the audience, and the next instant they were 
 in the street. Jack went at a rush, an angry 
 colour in his face. 
 
 ' I believe you meant encouraging him ! ' he 
 said. She answered nothing, and he broke out 
 rudely. ' Don't you see, he wanted you to give 
 yourself away, you fool ! ' 
 
 In the cool air, and removed from the em- 
 barrassment of a public audience, she was able 
 to steady her indignation into words. 
 
 ' I '11 trouble you not to call me a fool, Jack 
 Atki'son,' said she ; ' and if you '11 please leave 
 go of my arm I '11 be obliged.' 
 
 ' Got the hump now, I s'pose,' he replied. 
 
 For answer she wrenched her arm from him 
 and walked on in silence. Jack moved by her 
 side uncomfortably. Now that the incentive 
 of his jealousy was gone he was returning to 
 his normal mood of affectionate good-nature, 
 and was disturbed by his sweetheart's anger. 
 Once or twice he made an effort to catch her 
 hand as she swung along, but each time was 
 repulsed, and retreated with an awkward sense 
 of shame. 
 
 'Look here, Laura,' he said at last. 'This 
 ain't going on, is it ? You don't mean to make
 
 MR. ATKINSON 69 
 
 anything out of this ? I didn't mean any harm 
 straight, I didn't.' 
 
 ' You 're a nice sort of chap to come out with,' 
 was her reply. ' No one 's to look at a girl, or 
 it 's as good as an insult. Think I can't take 
 care of myself, I s'pose ? Think I dunno what 's 
 proper for a lady ? ' 
 
 ' Well,' said Jack, a sense of injury mounting 
 at this rebuff, ' and I know what 's proper con- 
 duct for a gentleman so there.' 
 
 There seemed nothing more to be said, and 
 without further conversation they accomplished 
 their journey. At the shop door, Laura rang 
 with an irritated jerk. She had not offered 
 him her lips, and he stood irresolutely on the 
 pavement. 
 
 ' I s'pose you 're going on ? ' she said in- 
 differently. 
 
 ' Yes, it ain't my practice to force my wel- 
 come,' was his moody answer. 
 
 With a curt good-night Laura closed the 
 door, and he strode angrily down the street. 
 A moment after, it stole softly open and she 
 was looking into the darkness. Jack's foot- 
 steps were sounding on the flags, and a lamp 
 flickered unsteadily across the way.
 
 70 MR. ATKINSON 
 
 As she shut the door again she caught sight 
 of a blacker shadow clinging beneath the cover 
 of the gaslight. Something jumped into her 
 heart ; she ran upstairs, and entering her room 
 threw open the window. The breath of the 
 night touched her hot cheeks, and over the 
 road fanned the gas aslant into a flare. The 
 shadow leaning against the post started into 
 sudden life under the blaze, and took off its hat. 
 
 Laura closed the window with a start, and sat 
 down on her bed quickly. She had come in 
 with a sullen sense of annoyance, but had no 
 desire to discuss Jack with herself. Outside 
 stood that shadow watching her window, and 
 in her thoughts was no room save for the magic 
 of this devotion. She tingled with such sensa- 
 tions as she had not felt since Jack had suddenly 
 put his arm round her waist some six months 
 before ; and in the resumption of this forgotten 
 and exulting thrill she fell asleep triumphant. 
 
 On his passage to his work next morning, 
 Jack, as was his custom, halted before the 
 grocer's shop to whistle his early serenade. 
 No signal answered his devout performance, 
 at which he repeated the air with misgivings. 
 Thereupon a face appeared at the window on
 
 MR. ATKINSON 71 
 
 the second floor, and a white frilled arm, thrust 
 through the aperture, waved at him a hand- 
 kerchief. She had been wont to kiss her 
 fingers to his salutation, and, as he reflected 
 upon the change, his head sank sulkily on his 
 shoulders, and he slouched along the street at 
 a furious pace. All day was he held from sight 
 of her, and the quarrel lay heavy on his heart ; 
 but in the evening he went round to the shop 
 to patch at once that horrible breach. Laura 
 met him pleasantly, and suffered his embrace 
 without remonstrance. 
 
 Neither made any reference to the misunder- 
 standing of the previous night ; it seemed that 
 it had dropped into oblivion in this renewal of 
 their love. The shadow had been too im- 
 material, too visionary ; her fancy stirred and 
 settled ; for this substantial, measurable devo- 
 tion the flimsy fabric of her dream was too 
 poor an exchange. 
 
 For the next few days Laura did not fail at 
 the window with her morning greeting ; and 
 Jack, wholly recovered from his fears, had 
 fallen back upon his old temper of facetious 
 affection. But one evening, within a week of 
 the untoward incident, he called unexpectedly
 
 72 MR. ATKINSON 
 
 upon his sweetheart, and entering the small 
 parlour with some precipitancy, stopped aghast 
 in the doorway; for there, in the laughing 
 company of Laura and her mother, was the 
 obnoxious stranger of the music-hall. In the 
 thick of some jest he ceased, and met Jack's 
 eyes uneasily ; but Laura started alertly to her 
 feet. Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks flushed 
 red ; she was plainly under some unusual 
 excitement. For a moment she stammered 
 with an access of confusion, but recovering, ran 
 on gaily. 
 
 * O Jack,' said she, ' you did rush us ! We Ve 
 been laughing fit to split. This is a friend of 
 mine, Mr. Atki'son Mr. Field.' 
 
 'Go along, sit down, Jack,' said Laura's 
 mother. 
 
 Jack took a seat in silence, fixing his eyes on 
 the vacant wall. 
 
 ' You was telling us ' began Laura's mother. 
 
 ' P'raps Mr. Atki'son has heard it,' said the 
 stranger politely. 
 
 ' Oh no, he ain't,' returned the mother. 
 
 Jack made no response, and she pushed 
 jocularly at his shoulder, ' Where Ve you left 
 your tongue ? ' she inquired.
 
 MR. ATKINSON 73 
 
 ' Leave him alone. It ain't his day out. You 
 go on, Mr. Field,' said Laura, bending her 
 shining eyes upon the young man. 
 
 Mr. Field resumed his narrative, which was 
 broken at points by the women's laughter, while 
 Jack sat staring blankly at the wall. About 
 him the talk grew livelier, but though every 
 word and action of the party burned into his 
 jealous soul, he was at the elaborate pretence of 
 hearing nothing. 
 
 ' What sulks you Ve got ! ' remarked Laura's 
 mother. 
 
 Laura herself was in gay spirits, and to all 
 outward showing free of embarrassment. She 
 was not in the habit of closely inspecting 
 her feelings, and the delicacy of the situation 
 escaped her notice. She joined her mother in 
 rallying her sweetheart upon the temper he was 
 displaying. 
 
 ' Oh, this is stupid behavin',' said she im- 
 patiently. 'Why don't you talk, Jack? It's 
 my go to-day.' 
 
 'Seems to me,' said Mr. Atkinson, sullenly, 
 ' there 's been enough of talking. I can't gab 
 all day like some people.' 
 
 ' Hark at him,' said the mother, laughing.
 
 74 MR. ATKINSON 
 
 ' Ain't he in a bad temper ? That 's one for 
 you, Mr. Field.' 
 
 Jack's mouth relaxed ; he had a vague sense 
 that he had discomfited his rival, and the 
 thought improved his mood. His eyes wan- 
 dered all over the stranger contemptuously, and 
 rested on his patent leather boots. 
 
 'You oughter wear them, Jack,' said the 
 mother, placidly, noticing his gaze. 
 
 ' Pooh ! ' returned he, and looked at 
 Laura. 
 
 * Well, haven't you got something what you 
 can tell us ? ' she asked. 
 
 Jack mumbled inaudibly. 
 
 ' What say ? ' said Laura. 
 
 Jack got upon his feet 
 
 ' Look here, I 'm going off,' he said brusquely. 
 ' I 've got some one waiting for me, and I can't 
 afford to hang on any longer.' 
 
 * You go on,' said Laura's mother, staring at 
 him with amiable laughter. 
 
 Jack set his eyes on Laura, who said nothing. 
 He took a step to the door, but even in his 
 sore irritation the strain of so cold a departure 
 was too severe for his discipline. He turned 
 and went up to her.
 
 MR. ATKINSON 75 
 
 ' Good-night/ he said, and endeavoured to 
 draw her to him. 
 
 ' Leave go, Jack,' said she, withdrawing from 
 the menace of a kiss, ' don't be stupid. You 
 do fool me. I was just all to rights. Leave 
 go, I say.' 
 
 She snapped away her hands with some 
 asperity, and made a show of smoothing her 
 dress. Mr. Field looked on with embarrassed 
 eyes, and the mother was back in her chair 
 shaking with merriment. Jack left the room 
 quickly. 
 
 The window was shuttered close and vacant 
 as he went by next morning, and the jealous 
 anger hardened upon him ; he made no call 
 at the house that evening, according to his 
 unbroken habit since their engagement. But 
 upon the second day of this abstinence love 
 wore his pride into rags, and he plaintively 
 betook himself to the little shop. Laura's 
 mother was serving a customer across the 
 counter, and greeted him with affable indiffer- 
 ence. He stopped. 
 
 ' Where 'd Laura pick up that fellow?' he 
 asked bluffly. 
 
 ' That you ? ' inquired the woman. ' I dunno,
 
 76 MR. ATKINSON 
 
 Jack. He come in to buy something, and she 
 seen him and reco'nised him.' 
 
 Jack snorted. 
 
 ' He 's a polite chap quite the gentleman,' 
 went on the mother. ' Why didn't you come 
 in last night?' 
 
 ' Did he come ? ' asked Jack. 
 
 ' Yes. He come to ask us to go to the 'all. 
 He 's in the linen-drapery,' said Laura's mother 
 irrelevantly. 
 
 Jack pushed through the shop and went into 
 the parlour. Laura, at her ease on the sofa, 
 was reading the Family Herald, and flashed 
 upon him after his long absence with so sudden 
 a charm that his heart melted within him. He 
 went up and threw his arm round her. Laura 
 struggled. 
 
 'Don't!' said she crossly, and pushed him 
 away. 
 
 Cowed and dejected, he stood in the middle 
 of the room, while she continued her reading 
 with an ostentatious air of inattention. 
 
 ' I say,' he said at last ; ' come and see the 
 Brothers German, Laura.' 
 
 She shook her head, her eyes still upon her 
 page.
 
 MR. ATKINSON 77 
 
 ' I ain't got time,' she replied. 
 
 ' You Ve got time to go with that fool of a 
 linen-draping chap,' retorted Jack furiously. 
 
 Laura started. 
 
 ' Who told you I was going with him ? ' she 
 asked. 
 
 ' Your mother did,' was his answer. 
 
 'She don't know anything about it,' said 
 Laura with embarrassed dignity. 
 
 Jack made no answer ; he was kicking the 
 leg of the sofa viciously. His blood ran fiercely, 
 but he did not clearly see his way to any 
 retort or action. Under feint of absorption 
 she watched him anxiously out of the narrows 
 of her eyes. 
 
 ' You won't come ? ' he said at length. 
 
 ' I got too much to do,' she answered ; and 
 added presently, ' I '11 go another night.' 
 
 He went out and slammed the door with an 
 oath. 
 
 Events marched rapidly for them both. 
 Though he paid no visit to the grocer's shop 
 during the next few days, Jack hung about 
 the neighbourhood from the fall of evening, 
 and once or twice he saw the linen-draper 
 enter by the door of which he had once
 
 78 MR. ATKINSON 
 
 had the liberty. All day the jealous thought 
 pursued him at his work, and at night entered 
 into his soul and gnawed upon it. He dashed 
 home at midnight embittered and reckless. 
 Hour after hour he sat in the public-house 
 across the way, drinking himself into a dull 
 and vacant animal, and watching the light in 
 her bedroom window. He wrote a letter in 
 terms of the wildest love and indignation, 
 to which no answer was vouchsafed. Some 
 two nights later, as he kept his faithful guard, 
 flushed and agog with whisky, he saw the 
 door open over the way, and Laura and his 
 rival passed into the street He rose and 
 went out. They walked towards the main 
 thoroughfare that ran at the bottom of the road, 
 and he stole after them. Upon their track he 
 followed into the thick of the town, and entered 
 behind them at the doors of a music-hall. 
 
 From the promenade he watched them with 
 the eyes of a lynx. No expression of their 
 features, no turn of their heads, escaped his 
 jealous gaze. He drank at the bar and spied 
 upon them still. Their relations seemed 
 intimate ; she giggled and nudged him, he 
 looked affectionately upon her ; she tapped his
 
 MR. ATKINSON 79 
 
 cheek with her programme ; he insinuated his 
 arm behind her seat. The wretched creature 
 could refrain no further; the spirit clouded 
 his remaining senses ; the arteries beat in 
 his forehead. He pushed swiftly forward, 
 white with rage, and emptied his glass in the 
 face of the linen-draper. The victim spluttered 
 and jumped to his feet and Laura gave a little 
 shriek but on the one instant Jack was in 
 the hands of a tall policeman and the next 
 was panting hatless in the drizzle without 
 
 ' What a coward ! ' said Laura with trepi- 
 dation, and earnestly scanning the face of her 
 companion for traces of the injury. 'Did he 
 hurt you?' 
 
 * No,' said the linen-draper complacently. ' It 
 ain't much. Spoilt my collar and tie though, 
 dirty beast ! ' 
 
 ' Brute ! ' assented Laura. 
 
 4 Look here,' said Mr. Field, who had seen 
 in this accident a divine opportunity. 'What 
 d'you say? Now's the time to tell him it's 
 off see ? ' 
 
 Laura looked anxious. 
 
 ' You never liked him, you know,' he ex- 
 plained.
 
 8o MR. ATKINSON 
 
 ' No,' said Laura taking courage, ' only him 
 and me kept company. I didn't know anything 
 then. You ain't responsible for that, are you ? ' 
 
 * No, might as well be for all you do when 
 you 're a kid,' answered Mr. Field. ' You write 
 him a letter to-night.' 
 
 Laura made no answer ; he took hold of her 
 hands, and she met his look with a smile. 
 
 Jack crept home miserably. His passion 
 had flown out in that one pitiful exhibition, 
 and his mind had come to a stage of decrepi- 
 tude. He threw himself upon his bed, damp 
 and dishevelled. Giddy with the spirit he had 
 taken, his head went round and round, and when 
 he closed his eyes he had a sick sensation of 
 falling in space. His mind declined to fix 
 itself; no definite impression did he get from 
 his thoughts. The linen-draper, Laura, the 
 policeman who had thrust him forth, swam 
 in his brain together. He realised that he had 
 been ousted from the affections of his sweet- 
 heart, but the fact conveyed no meaning to 
 him, touched upon no emotion. A carcass 
 of vague thoughts, he lay and let the hours 
 go by, until at length he fell asleep from the 
 sheer fatigue of his rude passions.
 
 MR. ATKINSON 81 
 
 But in the morning his misery came back to 
 him, active, unappeased. Indeed, almost ere he 
 definitely awoke rifts opened in the vacancy of 
 his brain through which his trouble lowered 
 upon him. He had the intermittent sense of a 
 horror somewhere close and imminent. When 
 he arose he looked out of his window upon a 
 smiling street ; the sun shone brightly, and the 
 primroses in the window-sill across the way blew 
 softly in the morning air. He was abandoned 
 by this jocund world, and might only sit and 
 watch it from afar. A pain stirred dully in his 
 heart, and when he thought upon his rejection, 
 cut into him with a sharp point Mechanically 
 he took his breakfast, and departed to his work, 
 a chaos of distractions. Nothing fell into its 
 proper place in his mind ; the rude street cries 
 and noises of the traffic touched him on the 
 raw ; at each interruption upon the dizzy 
 course of his brain he would start the intrusion 
 grew for a moment into monstrous significance, 
 the one fact in his environment ; and then the 
 fluttered imagination sank and fell, and the 
 ceaseless round was resumed. As he performed 
 his duties at the counter, one of his fellows 
 chaffed him upon his melancholy. 
 F
 
 82 MR. ATKINSON 
 
 ' I Ve 'ad a bad time,' he answered listlessly. 
 ' This world ain't all skittles. I dunno but what 
 I 'd like to do for myself.' 
 
 The circling anguish for it was nothing 
 more definite than that deadened his brain 
 and left him stupid over his work ; and at 
 midday without warning he vanished and made 
 his way home. For hours he lay upon his bed, 
 silent and consumed with pain, until the sun 
 fell over the city and the grey twilight diffused 
 about the streets. At last in his heart there 
 rose suddenly a flood of pity for himself, and 
 he burst into tears. The pain had grown so 
 taut that in the end it had snapped, and he 
 looked out on the shouting road with eyes that 
 saw now and ears that heard. The soft air 
 brushed his face, and with wet eyes he hummed 
 a pathetic ditty of the halls. Wait till the 
 clouds roll by, Jennie, rang in his hearing most 
 melancholy, with a peculiar gratification. He 
 sang it through persistently, over and over 
 again, crooning the refrain with sad gusto. 
 By and by, as the lights started up in the 
 lamps, a voice hailed him from the pavement. 
 
 ' Chi-yike ! ' it called, ' Chi-yike ! ' 
 
 He looked down upon a chum with whom
 
 MR. ATKINSON 83 
 
 he had been wont to undertake many jovial 
 adventures. He shook his head at the beckoning 
 finger. 
 
 ' I ain't coming out,' he said ; and, swelling 
 with a miserable pride, ' I 'm smashed up, Jim,' 
 he added. 'Don't you be surprised what yer 
 'ear of me.' 
 
 ' You are a crock ! ' commented the friend, 
 and then as Jack made no movement to descend, 
 ' So long ! ' he added and slipped off, whistling. 
 
 Jack sang on drearily. All the sentimental 
 songs in his repertory were called to his service. 
 One after the other he crooned them in the 
 growing darkness, and when he had exhausted 
 his list he began it again. He had no doubt, 
 now that he could think, that his was the most 
 tragic fate in the world, and that this music was 
 his swan song, wherein his passion and his love 
 were for the last time expressed. 
 
 At nine a letter was pushed beneath the door. 
 At a glance he saw it was from Laura, but so 
 extreme a stage had he reached in his self- 
 commiseration that, so far from clutching at 
 a last hope, he had even a desire that the 
 communication should consort with his gloom. 
 Indeed, it was so ; for the letter had been
 
 84 M R. A T K I N S O N 
 
 inspired by his rival the linen-draper, and 
 rounded the tragedy to a conclusion. 
 
 'After such behaviour as last night,' she 
 wrote in her sprawling characters, 'you won't 
 be surprised at me breaking it off.' 
 
 No, he was not surprised ; he was even 
 conscious of a trivial gladness that the reverse 
 should be so complete. His blood ran senti- 
 mentally ; he could indulge at once his love 
 and his supreme misery. His passion could 
 meet no return from Laura, but at least he had 
 the right of neighbourhood, the privilege of 
 possession. He had no animosity in his heart 
 against her ; he had not even an active feeling 
 of jealousy for his supplanter. But he should 
 like to be near her with her pretty ways, 
 her lovely hair, the manifold attractions upon 
 the memory of which he lingered at this 
 moment. 
 
 The melancholy ditties reminded him of his 
 final part in the drama, and as he breathed them 
 softly he could see her in the little parlour, 
 alert, so sweet, listening for a footstep. The 
 handle turned at the door, and the linen-draper 
 entered. She flew to meet him ; Jack's plaintive 
 murmur ceased suddenly. He rose, took from
 
 MR. ATKINSON 85 
 
 the mantelpiece his cheap revolver, and went 
 out. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Laura's mother looked up in mild astonish- 
 ment as he entered the shop. 
 
 ' Well, you are a stranger, Jack/ she said ; 
 ' 'bout time you did make it up, I should say.' 
 
 He passed through with a mechanical saluta- 
 tion, and entered the house beyond. Laura sat 
 alone in the parlour as he had pictured her in 
 his thought. When he entered she started to 
 her feet, coloured, and sat down again. 
 
 ' I got your letter,' he said quietly enough. 
 
 ' I wonder you come,' she answered without 
 looking at him. 
 
 ' You Ve taken him on ? ' he asked. 
 
 She made no answer. His eyes glittered and 
 his pulse throbbed heavily. 
 
 'S'pose you think you've done better,' he 
 said. 
 
 'You ain't a gentleman, or you wouldn't 
 come here after all what I said,' she answered. 
 
 He was drinking in all her actions with 
 perfervid gaze. She looked so sweet and fresh, 
 and she had now passed into the hands of his 
 rival. She rose and made for the door.
 
 86 MR. ATKINSON 
 
 4 If you ain't going, I am,' she said shortly. 
 
 He put out a hand and stopped her. 
 
 'You leave me be, Mr. Atki'son,' she cried 
 indignantly. ' Don't you touch me now.' 
 
 For answer he pulled her to him quickly, 
 and drew his revolver from his pocket. In her 
 struggle she saw the weapon and gave a sharp 
 scream. A fierce pulse of exultation thrilled 
 through him ; he put the barrel to her forehead 
 and pulled the trigger. Her fingers fastened 
 convulsively on his arm, and, ere the report 
 died away, it was followed by another. The 
 sounds brought Laura's mother to the door, 
 her face white, her eyes bulging from her head. 
 Motionless, she stared fearfully at the two 
 bodies.
 
 THE EDGE OF THE PRECIPICE 
 
 GALWORTHY threw open the window and 
 
 looked down. The street was very still and 
 
 dark, but a black patch of deeper shadow 
 
 rilled the doorway. 
 
 1 Who is it ? ' he called. ' Is it Moreton ? ' 
 ' Please let me in,' said a voice from below. 
 
 It rang tremulously in the quietude, and his 
 
 pulse quickened at the recognition. 
 
 ' Why,' he said, ' it is surely ' 
 
 * It is Betty Verinder. Oh, be quick, be quick ! ' 
 He sprang from the window, and, flinging 
 
 back his door, ran down the stairs precipitately. 
 
 A woman stepped out of the portico into the 
 
 twilight of the hall. 
 
 'You are astonished,' she said, with a little 
 
 laugh. ' No wonder. How late is it ? Never 
 
 mind. Take me upstairs.' 
 ' Nothing has happened ? ' he asked eagerly. 
 
 ' There is no one ill ? ' 
 
 87
 
 88 THE EDGE OF THE PRECIPICE 
 
 ' Oh, let us go upstairs ! No,' she gasped 
 impatiently ; ' I Ve come on a midnight adven- 
 ture. Don't you ever ? ' 
 
 A queer sense of elation possessed him as 
 he led the way to his rooms, but he could 
 not have determined whether it was wholly 
 pleasant or in part compounded of pain. The 
 girl flung herself excitedly upon a sofa. She 
 put her hands over her eyes, and the cloak 
 slipped from her shoulders, leaving bare her 
 soft white neck and arms. His brain whirled 
 at the sudden apparition, and for a time he 
 merely looked at her, speechless. 
 
 ' Why don't you ask why I have come ? ' 
 she said at length from between her fingers ; 
 and then, tossing back her head, she faced him 
 boldly, as it were resolutely, a spot of scarlet 
 burning in either cheek. 'Don't you think it 
 very bad and mad ? I 'm sure you do. But 
 I I think I was made to break all laws all, 
 every one of them Commandments and all.' 
 And she leaned back deeper into the sofa. 
 
 ' I 'm very glad to see you, Miss Verinder,' 
 said Galworthy, contriving at last to recall his 
 wits. ' It was a happy thought of yours to call 
 and cheer my loneliness.'
 
 THE EDGE OF THE PRECIPICE 89 
 
 His words were stupidly conventional, but 
 he could not take his eyes from her, and she 
 winced before him. 
 
 ' Yes,' she replied, and ran on impetuous : 
 ' I was at the Ormerods. You know them. 
 Bessie 's a silly girl, but I 'm fond of her. She 
 took too much champagne to-night I didn't, 
 though you might think it' 
 
 ' I didn't think it at all,' he stammered, ' I 
 assure you.' 
 
 He met her glance, and she seemed as 
 though she would have spoken, but forbore. 
 She shifted uneasily ; her feet stirred incessantly 
 beneath her dress. He had always particularly 
 admired her eyes, so large and full of light ; 
 and now they looked upon him, he fancied, 
 with dumb and private entreaties. What they 
 would have said he could not have phrased : 
 he was but conscious that they pleaded with 
 him. She rose with a little shiver, and went 
 forward to the fireplace. 
 
 ' Mr. Galworthy, may I just look in your 
 glass ? ' she said. ' I hope my hair is more 
 or less orderly. Oh, how dreadful ! ' 
 
 He turned away with a quick instinct of 
 intelligence, and fumbled among his books.
 
 90 THE EDGE OF THE PRECIPICE 
 
 The girl stared mutely at her own reflection 
 in the mirror ; she parted her lips and sighed ; 
 she pushed her hair back from her high fore- 
 head. Her breath came easier ; she patted 
 her cheeks softly, and drew her fingers across 
 her weary eyelids. Then she resumed her 
 seat, and at the sound of her voice he came 
 forward. 
 
 ' I want you to come and dine with us on 
 Friday/ she began ; ' my mother is very anxious 
 that you should, and you have never come to 
 see us for ages. I wonder why ? ' 
 
 Her voice was calm and deliberate ; her face 
 subdued into an appearance of quiet interest ; 
 her whole aspect breathed now of serene self- 
 possession. 
 
 He stammered a little in his reply 
 
 1 1 should be delighted. Your mother is very 
 kind. Yes ; it 's a long time since I saw you.' 
 
 c How long have you known me ? ' she asked 
 abruptly. 
 
 ' I think it 's a year.' 
 
 ' Yes, a year. You don't know me very well, 
 or you wouldn't have been surprised at seeing 
 me. I don't like my friends to leave me, and 
 I thought I would take you by storm. I did.'
 
 THE EDGE OF THE PRECIPICE 91 
 
 He laughed softly, reassured by her self- 
 possession. After all, it was not so wonderful, 
 but it was very pleasant. 
 
 ' And now,' said he gaily, ' do let me offer 
 you some refreshments.' 
 
 ' Refreshments ! ' she cried, throwing up her 
 hands. ' Have I not dined, and in state ? And 
 have we not had champagnes and wines in- 
 numerable ? ' She looked at him quizzically ; 
 then she stopped suddenly, and her smile died 
 away. ' Yes ; perhaps I might I Ve not really 
 had much champagne, though you mayn't be- 
 lieve me not nearly so much as the Fenton 
 girls.' And she tittered with a return of her 
 former embarrassment. 
 
 He poured her out a glass of wine ; but he 
 did not see her hand tremble as she took it. 
 
 ' The Fenton girls were bold and noisy,' she 
 resumed. ' You should have heard them. I 
 know my own reputation pretty well, I think : 
 Society is a kind of whispering- gallery. But, 
 my dear Mr. Galworthy, Betty Verinder re- 
 treated from the field to-night, buying an 
 ignoble peace by surrender. Lady Wilmot 
 simpered and stuck in the palate for all the 
 world like a stale sweetmeat. She wears the
 
 92 THE EDGE OF THE PRECIPICE 
 
 airs of a rose blowing in a wilderness. Reputa- 
 tions went up in smoke with the cigarettes, 
 and Kitty's favourite Canon was distracted 
 between her sentimental eyes and prayers for 
 the company.' 
 
 Galworthy laughed oddly. He had not known 
 her long, and she was given to shocking him. 
 He took her for a most audacious wit, with the 
 talk of the town in her ears. She ceased, and 
 rose unexpectedly from her seat. 
 
 ' I must go,' she said hurriedly. ' I don't 
 know what possessed me to come in.' 
 
 ' Please don't,' he urged. ' At any rate, finish 
 your wine.' 
 
 She met his look for a moment, and sank 
 slowly back into the chair. An unusual sparkle 
 animated his sober eyes ; his colour had quick- 
 ened as he spoke. For a moment she said 
 nothing, and then 
 
 'Why have you not been to see us ?' she asked. 
 
 He put his arm upon the mantelpiece and 
 looked into the empty grate. 
 
 ' Has it been long? ' he inquired. 
 
 * Ages/ she returned, and encountered his 
 eyes once more. The sparkle spread into 
 broader waves of light.
 
 THE EDGE OF THE PRECIPICE 93 
 
 1 1 'm sorry, but I ' 
 
 ' Why didn't you come last week when we 
 asked you ? ' 
 
 ' I was afraid,' he said simply. 
 
 ' Afraid ! ' she echoed, with a feint of levity. 
 ' Afraid ! and of what ? ' 
 
 It was as though she had put the question 
 without the expectation of a reply, and indeed 
 with but partial consciousness of her own 
 words. But he answered, shading his eyes 
 with his hand 
 
 1 Afraid of meeting you again, afraid of caring 
 for you too much.' 
 
 He spoke in low tones ; and she answered 
 in tones as low, her eyes fluttering over the 
 patch of carpet towards which she had bent 
 her head 
 
 ' Why not ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' There are so many others. I haven't much 
 opinion of myself. I know how stupid I am. 
 Who am I to have any confidence? I was 
 afraid, Miss Verinder.' 
 
 A spasm contracted her shoulders, as if she 
 had felt a sudden chill. She bent her head still 
 lower. 
 
 ' You needn't have been afraid,' she said.
 
 94 THE EDGE OF THE PRECIPICE 
 
 With a quick movement he took her hand, 
 and she felt his fingers trembling. 
 
 ' Please look at me,' he whispered ; ' please 
 look at me. I don't understand.' 
 
 She raised her face. Passion and entreaty 
 leaped forth from his deep-lit eyes upon her; 
 to him hers were as a sky of stars. He stooped 
 upon his knees. 
 
 ' May I kiss you ? ' he asked brokenly. She 
 winced, moved her foot restlessly upon the 
 carpet, and sighed. 
 
 ' Yes,' she replied abruptly. 
 
 ' Dearest,' he said softly, caressing her. ' It 
 was some kind god surely that sent you here 
 to-night.' She laughed, and in her laugh rang 
 a note of harshness. 
 
 ' Perhaps it was only the champagne,' she said. 
 
 ' Hush ! You mustn't say that. You make 
 yourself out so bad, and I know you better.' 
 
 In his speech he was as awkward as in his 
 actions. He put out a clumsy hand as though 
 to touch her again, but she drew back uncer- 
 tainly. 
 
 ' Do you think you really do ? ' she asked, 
 with a suspicion of weary scorn in her voice. 
 ' How wonderfully you men read women ! '
 
 THE EDGE OF THE PRECIPICE 95 
 
 ' Don't make fun of me,' he pleaded ' Just 
 after you have given me the greatest and most 
 unexpected happiness in life, don't let a false 
 note be struck.' 
 
 She made no immediate answer, but suffered 
 him to take and kiss her hand. 
 
 ' I think you have probably made a mistake/ 
 she said slowly. ' You are so young.' 
 
 ' I am as old as you, dear.' 
 
 ' We don't look at life from the same corner.' 
 
 ' All the better for us,' he retorted cheerfully. 
 
 1 You don't understand me.' 
 
 ' I love you.' 
 
 She smiled and regarded him pitifully ; he 
 bent forward and kissed her full upon the lips. 
 She covered her face with her hands and shook 
 with little sobs of emotion. 
 
 ' Are we really going to be married, then ? ' 
 she asked. ' Shall we be married to-morrow ? 
 Next week? When? Oh, let us be married 
 yes, and be done with misgivings ! Hush ! 
 What 's that ? ' She broke off in the midst of 
 the hysterical sentences, and, starting to her 
 feet, listened, her face pale and rigid. 
 
 ' It 's only a cab passing, dear.' 
 
 ' Has it passed ? Listen ! '
 
 96 THE EDGE OF THE PRECIPICE 
 
 They waited, erect and silent, until the 
 wheels rattled into the distance. Then she 
 turned to him quickly. 
 
 ' Let me go now/ she said breathlessly. 
 
 ' Please ' he urged. ' It 's not late. Just 
 
 five minutes more, and then I '11 put you into 
 a cab.' 
 
 She yielded slowly to the gentle pressure of 
 his hands, and declined into a chair, where she 
 sat very still, her eyes fastened upon the floor. 
 A little timorously he stroked her hair, as 
 though he were not sure yet of his liberties. 
 Indeed, it might have seemed so, for presently 
 she stirred and pushed his hand from her head. 
 
 ' What is the time ? ' she asked feverishly. 
 
 ' It wants still ten minutes to twelve,' said 
 Galworthy. ' But you 're not going yet ? ' 
 
 A tiny sigh of relief escaped her. She 
 moistened her lips and looked him square in 
 the face. 
 
 ' Do you think you 're quite in earnest ? ' she 
 asked. ' And do you love me as much as you 
 seem to ? ' 
 
 He made an eager protest which fell harm- 
 lessly before her dispassionate calm. It was, 
 he could not help thinking, as though she sat
 
 THE EDGE OF THE PRECIPICE 97 
 
 and judged him upon some quite remote and 
 impersonal matter. 
 
 1 We have nothing in common,' she said 
 sadly. ' It would be a great disappointment. 
 We should come to hate each other.' 
 
 ' No ! ' he said hotly. 
 
 ' I have both temper and talent,' she con- 
 tinued. ' I will be frank. You have neither. 
 The world amuses me ; save for your books 
 and pictures, it bores you. You would never 
 have the bad taste to take an interest in life. 
 You are a dilettante ; I am of the profession 
 of livers. Anything great, an indignity, a 
 sudden blow, a sharp surprise, would turn your 
 interests sour for you ; me it would leave un- 
 touched. You lack vitality as a wraith in your 
 own dreams. I have no remorse, and you have 
 a sensitive conscience.' 
 
 'What does all this mean, darling?' said 
 Gal worthy with an astonished little laugh. 
 ' What nonsense you talk ! We love each 
 other.' 
 
 ' I have every impudence in the world ; and 
 
 you are a stack of modesties,' she pursued. 
 
 ' I should be a bitter grief to you.' She rose 
 
 and laid her trembling fingers on the mantel- 
 
 G
 
 98 THE EDGE OF THE PRECIPICE 
 
 piece, as though for support. ' I think within 
 the year,' she said slowly, ' we should find each 
 other out' 
 
 ' My dearest ' he began. 
 
 She put her arm on his shoulder laughing. 
 
 'Do you love me so much? Would you 
 marry me to-morrow ? ' she asked impetuously. 
 
 ' Yes, yes \ ' he cried, kissing her. 
 
 She put back her head and laughed, and the 
 laugh rang through the room like the tinkling 
 of a sweet bell. 
 
 ' " Yes, yes," you say,' she cried. ' The phan- 
 tom has clothed himself in flesh and blood. 
 " Yes, yes." And yet I 'm sure I should get 
 to hate you. Oh, what a pity ! I 'm afraid 
 we Ve been talking fearful nonsense. We could 
 never marry. Don't tell any one you kissed 
 me. It was the champagne got into my head. 
 Good-bye.' 
 
 She drew her cloak hurriedly around her, 
 and made a dart across the room, but Gal- 
 worthy clutched her arm, and held her strain- 
 ing from him, at arm's-length. 
 
 ' What do you mean ? ' he asked hoarsely. 
 1 Let me go,' she whispered. * There is some 
 one coming. For Heaven's sake '
 
 THE EDGE OF THE PRECIPICE 99 
 
 A tap fell on the door from without, and 
 silence spread through the room, as it were 
 audibly. Galworthy's heart thumped in his 
 side ; Miss Verinder drew herself up quietly, 
 and, covering her head, leaned gently on the 
 window-sill. 
 
 ' No one shall come in,' he said at length. 
 
 The door clamoured under the heavy hands 
 of the impatient visitor. 
 
 ' Let him knock,' growled Galworthy. 
 
 1 Why not let him in ? ' said Betty softly. 
 
 Galworthy stared confusedly at her and made 
 no answer. The door shook again. 
 
 ' Galworthy ! ' called a voice. 
 
 ' It's Hampton,' muttered Galworthy. 
 
 Miss Verinder moved swiftly from the win- 
 dow, and, gliding noiselessly by him, stood 
 for one moment with her hand on the door- 
 knob. Her eyes met Galworthy's. 
 
 ' For God's sake ! ' he cried, under his breath. 
 
 She shot back the bolt, and the door flew 
 open, admitting a tall man with a fair beard, 
 who wore his hat on the back of his head and 
 smoked the stump of a cigar. 
 
 ' Hulloa, Galworthy ! ' he said ; ' why the 
 devil didn't '
 
 ioo THE EDGE OF THE PRECIPICE 
 
 He paused as his glance lighted on Betty. 
 
 ' Miss Verinder ! I beg your pardon ! ' he 
 exclaimed, snatching vaguely at his hat and his 
 cigar. ' I didn't know any one was here. I ' 
 
 Betty broke into her silver laugh. 
 
 Galworthy, recovering from his confusion, 
 stepped forward. 
 
 'Miss Verinder stopped to leave a note at 
 my door, and and ' 
 
 Betty threw herself back in a chair, and 
 laughed louder than ever. 
 
 ' My dear Sir Edward,' she said, ' you who 
 know me want no explanations. I 'm here, 
 Voila ! What more do you want ? ' 
 
 Hampton stared at her curiously, and in his 
 expression admiration and surprise were blent 
 with a certain shadow of annoyance. 
 
 ' It 's delightful to see you so unexpectedly,' 
 he said slowly. ' Galworthy is fortunate to ' 
 
 Galworthy stood confounded and irresolute. 
 The girl alone seemed undisturbed. She rose 
 and tied the strings of her cloak ; with a pretty 
 motion of her shoulders she withdrew her white 
 arms beneath it. 
 
 ' Were you going ? ' asked Hampton politely. 
 * I will find a cab for you.'
 
 THE EDGE OF THE PRECIPICE 101 
 
 Galworthy came forward. 
 
 ' No,' he said ; ' stay here ; I will go." 
 
 Betty shook her head. ' I think Sir Edward 
 will do it quickest. He has often found cabs 
 for me. You shall tell me your news as we 
 go,' she went on, turning to Hampton. ' How 
 is Lady Hampton ? Is she still well ? ' 
 
 He started and a puzzled frown contracted 
 his forehead. 
 
 ' She was in excellent health when last I 
 heard,' he replied coldly. 
 
 ' Thanks. I am wonderfully interested in 
 Lady Hampton's health.' Hampton shrugged 
 his shoulders and looked at Galworthy. The 
 latter was still and dumb. ' Come, Sir Edward, 
 I am waiting,' she added. 
 
 He tried to meet her eyes, but she had turned 
 towards the door. 
 
 ' I think, perhaps, Galworthy ' he began. 
 
 She stamped her foot. ' If you will not, 
 of course, I can go by myself,' she said 
 shortly. 
 
 ' Delighted, if Galworthy will excuse me. I '11 
 be back directly.' 
 
 ' Oh, you 're coming back, are you ?' she 
 asked.
 
 102 THE EDGE OF THE PRECIPICE 
 
 'Yes/ he answered deliberately. 'There's 
 something I want to talk to Galworthy about.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' She paused, and fumbled at her 
 throat. She laughed. ' By all means come 
 back,' she said, and her voice had a curious 
 quaver in it. ' Mr. Galworthy requires con- 
 soling. It is not every engagement that is 
 made and broken in half an hour.' 
 
 Galworthy leaped forward at the words, and 
 glared fiercely and foolishly at Hampton. The 
 latter stopped suddenly on his way to the door, 
 murmured something indistinctly, and then 
 swung slowly out behind her. The sound of 
 their departure faded down the stairs ; the front 
 door shut with a bang. Galworthy threw open 
 the window and listened stupidly to the steps 
 receding down the footpath. 
 
 It was not until they had reached the corner 
 of the street that Hampton spoke. He stopped 
 and turned upon her quickly. 
 
 'Will you tell me what all this means?' he 
 asked coldly. ' Did he ask you to marry him ?' 
 
 ' He did me that honour.' 
 
 ' And you refused ? ' 
 
 ' On the contrary,' she said with a laugh, ' I 
 accepted gratefully. We never imagined our
 
 THE EDGE OF THE PRECIPICE 103 
 
 fine little scheme would have been so antici- 
 pated, did we? Your presence was quite un- 
 necessary, Edward.' 
 
 ' Then it is all right ? ' he inquired eagerly. 
 
 ' Quite. I have jilted him.' 
 
 The man made an exclamation of anger. 
 
 ' You are intolerable/ he said. 
 
 ' I really cannot converse all night at street 
 corners,' she replied nonchalantly. ' I have not 
 come to that yet' 
 
 ' Betty ! ' he said imploringly. ' Betty ! Why 
 have you done this ? ' 
 
 She gave him no answer. 
 
 ' Why ? ' he insisted. 
 
 4 Indeed, I Ve no mind to marry ; that 's all.' 
 He groaned. She burst out laughing. ' What 
 a pretty little plot was ours ! and how well you 
 acted ! But I did not give you the proper cues. 
 I saw you were put out, but it was a clever per- 
 formance, a very clever performance. He will 
 never guess.' 
 
 ' I will see him to-night.' 
 
 ' I think you will not,' she said smiling. 
 
 He looked at her anxiously. 
 
 ' What are you going to do, Betty ? ' 
 
 ' Walk home. The air does me good. It is
 
 104 THE EDGE OF THE PRECIPICE 
 
 a fine night. And is every one quite well ? ' 
 She gave a little burst of hysterical laughter. 
 ' How did you say Lady Hampton was when 
 you heard ? I 'm mightily interested in Lady 
 Hampton's health.' 
 
 'Betty, Betty! do not talk like that,' he 
 pleaded earnestly. ' Galworthy was your only 
 hope, and you've thrown it away. Why 
 good Heavens, why ? ' 
 
 She sang a little snatch of song, and put her 
 hand on his arm. 
 
 ' Good-bye/ she said. 
 
 'What are you going to do,' he asked 
 anxiously. 
 
 ' Oh, I don't know.' She laughed again. ' I 
 think I '11 spend the night out of doors, Edward. 
 Better go home.' 
 
 He seized her hand. 
 
 ' Betty, you are mad. Come with me, dear, 
 and let everything go.' 
 
 She looked at him, and burst into her flute- 
 like laughter ; then nodding, broke away and ran 
 up the steps of the house before which they had 
 paused. Halfway up the steps she threw back 
 the hood from her face, and her laughter pealed 
 up to the stars unrestrained and meaningless.
 
 THE EDGE OF THE PRECIPICE 105 
 
 ' Good-bye,' she said. ' There 's always that 
 Adelphi river, you know.' And pulling up her 
 skirts with one hand, she ran up the remainder 
 of the steps and vanished laughing into the 
 doorway.
 
 IN THE BASEMENT 
 
 Two lights contended with the darkness of the 
 room. From the street above the gas shone in 
 a yellow shaft through the dirty little window 
 that peeped upon the area ; and from the fading 
 ashes in the hearth the coals glowed obscurely 
 and suffused a timid light. The room itself was 
 full of black corners into which the eyes might 
 peer in vain. The furniture if indeed the pieces 
 deserved the name partook of the general 
 blackness. The three chairs were shambling 
 ruins. Each wanted a leg, and the bottom was 
 out of the only one that had ever been proud in 
 cane. Rackety and discoloured past the hue 
 even of floor and ceiling, which were grim with 
 grime, a table rattled to the rumbling of passing 
 carts. The place was thick with evil smells. 
 Odours, veteran and stale with years, clung 
 about the walls ; while newer odours of food 
 and spirits and medicine rose as it were from 
 
 106
 
 IN THE BASEMENT 107 
 
 the floor together. On the darkest side of the 
 room remote from the tiny window the fabric 
 of a broken bed emerged faintly. Outside and 
 overhead the stamp of feet along the flags 
 echoed and faded ; the coal-man called ; and 
 the noise of screaming children rose in the 
 December air. 
 
 A sound came suddenly from the squalid bed 
 along the wall. The two women paused in 
 their conversation, and looked towards it. 
 
 ' Poor soul ! ' said the elder. ' It 's a shame 
 they shouldn't go off more easylike.' 
 
 ' I dunno when it 's goin' to happen,' returned 
 her companion despondently. 'The doctor 
 he says it '11 be to-night But I dunno.' 
 
 Her friend sympathised with her. ' It 's a 
 deal o' trouble when you get 'em like that, Mrs. 
 Williams, and nuthin' coming in. I always says 
 it 's a mercy to be took sudden that I do.' 
 
 ' Like what my Jim was,' acquiesced Mrs. 
 Williams. 
 
 ' Which one was Jim ? ' 
 
 ' Fourth after Bessie Jane. He was a quiet- 
 like chap too, on'y for the women. He took on 
 so. I never hardly seen 'im without a collar 
 round his neck. He fell off of a dray when 'e 'd
 
 io8 IN THE BASEMENT 
 
 'ad a drop too much, and the wheel went over 
 'im. He warn't a bad lad, Jim. That was when 
 we lived Camberwell,' she added meditatively. 
 
 ' How long was you living Camberwell ? ' in- 
 quired the other woman, with more interest. 
 ' I 'ad a nephew lived there four years.' 
 
 ' Me and 'im lived there let 's see now. We 
 was there when I was in bed of my seventh 
 that 's Sarah ; and we left when my old man 
 took the fever. That must 'a' bin a good ten 
 years, Mrs. Pentecost.' 
 
 A low moan issued from the sickbed again, 
 and the speaker got up and stooped over it. 
 
 ' Lie still, dearie,' she murmured, and she 
 tucked the blanket round the man and patted 
 the pillow soothingly. Then taking her seat 
 once more, she stared reflectively into the fire. 
 
 ' It 's a good thing,' she began after a pause, 
 ' that them insurances was paid up all right last 
 week.' 
 
 Mrs. Pentecost assented. 'And the buryin' 
 society too,' she added. 'You ain't lost that 
 either?' 
 
 Mrs. Williams was restless ; her gaze shifted 
 to the dirty window, and she strained her ears 
 to catch the noises in the street.
 
 IN THE BASEMENT 109 
 
 ' You don't 'ear nothink ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' Was you expecting the doctor ? ' 
 
 ' No ; it 's Rebecca Susan she 's coming 'ome 
 to see him 'fore he dies.' 
 
 ' She done well, has Rebecca Susan,' said Mrs. 
 Pentecost with emphasis, smoothing her lap and 
 edging nearer the fire. 
 
 ' She 's bin parlour-maid three years now in 
 one fambly,' said her mother with some pride. 
 
 Mrs. Pentecost rose. ' I '11 'ave to be getting 
 back, Mrs. Williams,' said she. 
 
 'You ain't goin' yet,' protested her friend. 
 ' There 's plenty o' time. Set down and 'ave a 
 drop o' something.' 
 
 ' I didn't ought to take it,' said Mrs. Pentecost 
 feebly. ' But I 've heard that it 's good for 
 as'ma.' 
 
 ' Law, it '11 do you a world of good,' said Mrs. 
 Williams cheerfully. She rose and bustled 
 about in the darkness. Somewhere in the 
 recesses of the room a glass clinked. Mrs. 
 Pentecost's mouth opened, and she moistened 
 her lips. A fat squat figure wrapt in antic 
 shadows, her hostess crept wheezing out of the 
 gloom, laden with a square bottle, a glass, and 
 a cup without a handle.
 
 no IN THE BASEMENT 
 
 ' It 's comforting to take a drop,' Mrs. Pente- 
 cost explained to herself and her friend. Mrs. 
 Williams poured the spirit into the glass and 
 the cup. The sick man murmured in his sleep. 
 
 ' He cries like as he 'ad wind,' said Mrs. 
 Pentecost compassionately, sipping her gin. 
 
 ' I s'pose she '11 be here direckly,' said Mrs. 
 Williams, breaking the silence which ensued. 
 
 ' There 's some one stamping on the airey flags 
 now. That '11 be her/ said the other woman. 
 
 Both listened ; and then Mrs. Williams got 
 up, and opening the door of the room, trudged 
 heavily up the stone stairs. There were sounds 
 of voices above, the one of a man laughing ; 
 and clumsy boots descended again into the 
 basement. 
 
 ' It 's on'y Tom,' said his mother, as she 
 entered the room. 
 
 * On'y me ! ' said Tom with a silly laugh, as 
 he followed at her heels. He was a tall young 
 man, in the dress of a porter ; his face was 
 flushed, and he stooped a little, so as to keep 
 his head from brushing against the low ceiling. 
 
 'This is bleedin' dark,' he said presently. 
 ' 'Ow 's the old man ? He ain't kicked over 
 yet, 'as 'e?'
 
 IN THE BASEMENT in 
 
 ' No/ said his mother. ' But 'e ain't going to 
 be here long.' 
 
 ' Coin' to 'ear the angels,' laughed Tom 
 stupidly, and bent over the bed. ' 'E ain't goin' 
 to last out much,' he said at length. ' 'Ullo, 
 father! 'ow d'ye feel? You 'aven't 'ad him 
 shaved ? ' 
 
 The sick man stirred and raised himself 
 weakly on his elbow. 
 
 ' Jist you lay down, father,' said the woman. 
 ' You ain't fit to set up.' 
 
 1 'Old on, mother ; let 'im set up, if he wants 
 to,' said Tom cheerfully. ' He won't be able to 
 get much of what 'e wants, soon enough. You 
 let 'im set up and have a nip of somethink.' 
 
 He put his arm round the sick man, and 
 propped him against the wall into a sitting 
 position, while the woman drew the blankets 
 carefully about the withered body. 
 
 ' 'Ow d' ye feel yourself, father?' shouted Tom. 
 
 ' They don't feel much not so near as this,' 
 commented Mrs. Pentecost thoughtfully. 
 
 The invalid opened his mouth as if to answer, 
 but only emitted a hoarse and inarticulate 
 sound 
 
 ' Why, 'e ain't got a damn left in 'im, 1 said
 
 112 IN THE BASEMENT 
 
 Tom, and turning suddenly to the woman, 
 ' Gawd ! you oughter seen me and old Joe this 
 afternoon. We 'ad a pretty sort of row on, we 
 did. Strike me, I was in a bloomin' rage. 
 There was a chap come up as we was standin' 
 outside The Sailors damn his eyes ! and says, 
 whining-like, " Lend me 'arf-a-brown, governor, 
 I 'm starvin'." So I looks at 'im, and he seemed 
 pretty blowed up, so I outs with a copper and 
 claps it into 'is 'and. Then I goes off with Joe 
 into the Three Sailors, you know, just to wet 
 up. And presently who should come in but 
 the bloke 'isself. He didn't see me, so he orders 
 a noggin of gin, and whips out a 'arf-crown, 
 plain as you like. Well, I couldn't stand that. 
 I says to Joe, " I 'm going for 'im," I says. " You 
 bleedin' little tyke," I says, "what d'ye come 
 snivellin' around for a 'a'penny when you got a 
 'arf-crown in your linings ? " I give him beans, 
 I tell you ! And I offered to stuff my fingers 
 in his bloomin' face. But he wasn't takin' any 
 said 'e could get as much as 'e wanted o' 
 that at 'ome. If 'e 'adn't a slipped out, I 'd 'a' 
 laid 'im out and Joe can tell you.' 
 
 'Them fellers has no conscience,' said Mrs. 
 Pentecost sympathetically.
 
 IN THE BASEMENT 113 
 
 ' The dirty dog ! ' ejaculated Tom. ' Got any 
 gin, mother?' 
 
 ' No, there ain't no more. Mrs. Pentecost 
 and me 'ad the last.' 
 
 ' Well, tip us the colour of it, and I '11 fetch 
 in some, old woman.' 
 
 ' Tom, you bring in that shaver, too,' called 
 out Mrs. Williams as he went out of the door. 
 ' If 'e goes off first, we '11 'ave to pay more 'n we 
 like. Them barbers always charges a shilling 
 for a dead,' she explained to Mrs. Pentecost as 
 she took her seat again. 
 
 Her friend sighed in sympathy, and there was 
 a temporary silence in the darkening room. 
 Then a thin hoarse voice broke across the 
 stillness. 
 
 ' D' ye mind that there drive to Peckham Rye, 
 Sally?' 
 
 ' Gawd love your old bones, course I do,' said 
 Mrs. Williams with emphasis, turning towards 
 the bed. 
 
 ' Lord, 'ow 'e did startle me ! ' said Mrs. 
 Pentecost. 
 
 'You was that blind drunk afore we got 
 'ome ! And me fallin' out of the shay through 
 laughin',' said the wife. 
 H
 
 114 IN THE BASEMENT 
 
 Something that might have stood for a cackle 
 of laughter came from the sick man. 
 
 ' That was nigh about thirty-three year ago,' 
 Mrs. Williams confided to her friend. 
 
 ' 'Ow they do remember! ' said Mrs. Pentecost. 
 
 ' I can't move my 'ead,' said the same hoarse 
 voice. 
 
 'You stay up there, father, till the shaver 
 comes. And then we'll let you lay down. 
 Don't you try and move your 'ead.' The man 
 muttered unintelligibly to himself for a little, 
 and then silence fell once more, till it was 
 broken by Mrs. Williams. 
 
 ' Yes,' she said reflectively. ' It ; s Gawd's 
 truth. I Ve seen many of 'em dead, and some 
 die easy and some don't.' 
 
 ' It ain't as bad as 'avin' a baby, I believe,' 
 said Mrs. Pentecost. 
 
 ' I dunno, I ain't no opinion about it,' said the 
 wife dully. 
 
 ' Well, you 'ave your 'usband,and your fambly ; 
 and there 's a drop of liquor, and a bit o' bread, 
 and a scrag o' mutton, I s'pose that 's what it 
 all comes to/ returned her friend despondently. 
 
 ' It ain't much more.' 
 
 ' Not as I want to go just yet not yet a bit.
 
 IN THE BASEMENT 115 
 
 And it won't be so 'ard for you 'avin' that buryin' 
 money.' 
 
 ' I '11 give 'im a bit o' gold on 'is coffin,' said 
 Mrs. Williams with some satisfaction. 
 
 The noise of feet was heard upon the stairs, 
 and she got up. 
 
 "Ere's Tom back with the shaver.' The 
 barber who entered behind her son in an unob- 
 trusive way was a pale young man with hair 
 carefully curled and oiled, and a jaunty appear- 
 ance of dissipation. 
 
 'You ain't got much light,' he remarked, 
 glancing about the room. 
 
 ' Mother '11 light a candle,' said Tom. The 
 woman bustled into the darkness of a corner, 
 and Tom looked at the barber. The young man 
 still glanced about, and his eye lighted on the 
 glass which stood at Mrs. Pentecost's elbow. 
 
 ' 'Ave some along of us ? ' said Tom cheerily. 
 
 ' I don't mind,' said the young man. He 
 drank at a draught the gin which Tom poured 
 out The old woman struck a match, and 
 a feeble light streamed over the bed from a 
 sickly candle. 
 
 ''E looks pretty groggy,' said the barber 
 doubtfully. ' I dunno but I ought to wait.'
 
 ii6 IN THE BASEMENT 
 
 4 Oh, 'e 's all right. You walk in,' said Tom. 
 
 The young man produced his strop and his 
 razor and approached the sick man. 
 
 ' Sally, I can't move my 'ead,' whispered the 
 thin voice. 
 
 ' You shall lay down, father, in a minute,' said 
 his wife encouragingly. 
 
 The barber shaved. 
 
 Tom took his seat near the fire, and emptied 
 some gin into a tumbler. 
 
 4 'Ave some more, Mrs. Pentecost ? ' he said. 
 
 The woman declined. 
 
 4 Mother, you come along and 'ave some,' he 
 called. 
 
 The wife moved from the bedside and came 
 to the fire. 
 
 4 I won't 'ave none,' she replied abstractedly. 
 She sighed. "Ow people do change! He 
 ain't a bit like what 'e was when we was 
 married.' 
 
 4 That 's a tidy long time ago, mother.' 
 
 4 Thirty-five year and four months.' 
 
 4 You got it straight enough.' 
 
 4 Well, it ain't what one would be likely to 
 forget, any more'n the first baby,' said Mrs. 
 Pentecost
 
 IN THE BASEMENT 117 
 
 1 'Ow old was Jim when 'e fell off of the dray ? ' 
 asked Tom, sipping his gin. 
 
 ' Nigh on twenty-five, he was.' 
 
 The sound of the razor ceased, and Tom 
 looked round. 
 
 ' Finished ? ' he asked. 
 
 'Yes,' said the young man doubtfully, and 
 stood looking down upon his subject. 
 
 Tom and his mother approached the bed. 
 
 1 You lay 'im down again sideways,' said the 
 mother. * It '11 be easier for 'im. Why, 'e 's 
 fell over a bit,' she said in surprise. 
 
 Tom looked at the barber. His mother bent 
 down and took hold of her husband's hand. 
 
 ' What are you layin' down like that for, old 
 man ? ' she asked. ' What you got your 'ead so 
 tight agin' that nasty board for ? Just you set up, 
 and we '11 lay you down. You '11 ketch cold.' 
 
 ' You shut up, mother ! ' said Tom roughly. 
 ' 'E '11 never want no more layin' down, but one. 
 'E '11 never ketch no more cold 'e won't.' 
 
 The woman started and raised herself, staring 
 upon the body in silence. 
 
 ' I knowed 'e was dead,' said the barber. ' I 
 knowed 'e was dying when I come in. That 
 makes it a bob.'
 
 u8 IN THE BASEMENT 
 
 ' You better get out ! ' said Tom angrily. ' It 
 ain't going to be a bob, and so I tell you flat. 
 You better look slippy ! ' 
 
 The dissipated young man mumbled, glanced 
 at the tall figure, and finally disappeared through 
 the door. 
 
 Tom sat down opposite Mrs. Pentecost. 
 
 ' Damned cheek ! ' he muttered. 
 
 ' Ain't you better cover up his face ? ' whis- 
 pered Mrs. Pentecost hoarsely. 
 
 Tom shook his head. ' I dunno. Mother '11 
 do that.' 
 
 The woman stood by the bed ; she reached 
 down and chafed the stiffening fingers of the 
 dead man's hand. Then she left the bedside, 
 and moved towards her two companions. 
 
 ' 'E ain't much like what he used to be when 
 I knew 'im first,' she said in a vague voice. 
 
 ' Sit down, now do,' pleaded Mrs. Pentecost. 
 'Rest yourself, and 'ave a drop more. It'll 
 stiddy your nerves. 1 
 
 Mrs. Williams paid no attention to this 
 request. She looked vacantly into the fire. 
 
 ' Rebecca Susan ain't come after all,' she said. 
 
 Tom poured himself out another glass of gin.
 
 AN ORDEAL OF THREE 
 
 I COULD not be mistaken. The breath of the 
 soft air was in my hair and on my forehead, but 
 a softer breath still lingered on my face. The 
 warm sun glowed upon my cheeks, but my lips 
 were burning with a fresher warmth. The long 
 culms of the grasses rustled in my ears, but 
 something more delicate and gracious still 
 stirred about me. I could have no possible 
 doubt of some presence by my side. Slowly 
 the drowsy wits came back to life, with this 
 subtly sweet impression, and with a start were 
 suddenly alert and anxious. I sat up and 
 listened ; the swish of skirts sounded distantly ; 
 and in a second I had realised the event The 
 place was still fragrant as from some new-blown 
 flower. I leapt to my feet and darted into the 
 little wood. 
 
 When I came out breathless upon the high- 
 walled garden, I stopped in perplexity at the 
 division of the pathways. I had not been 
 
 119
 
 120 AN ORDEAL OF THREE 
 
 prepared for so bewildering an answer to my 
 puzzle ; for there before me were all three, 
 equally dispassionate, as it seemed, and equally 
 unalarmed. Her stately form invested with 
 fresh green leaves, Dorothy caressed the holly- 
 hocks, as tall and royal as herself. On the 
 mid-path stood Cynthia smelling at the roses, 
 her white gown blowing in the breeze ; while 
 dainty Joan was bent low over the carnations, a 
 very mirror of pensive meditation. It was into 
 this atmosphere of still repose I burst in rude 
 excitement Joan glanced up quickly at my 
 voice ; Cynthia turned to meet me ; Dorothy 
 remained motionless beside the hollyhocks. 
 The problem at once grew grave and im- 
 portunate. Which of the three had it been ? 
 
 Cynthia greeted me with a smile and a 
 charming little toss of her head. 
 
 ' So you are awake at last,' said she. ' I saw 
 you sprawling from a distance. 'Twas not of 
 your proper courtesy to leave us so ungenerously 
 upon a fine afternoon.' 
 
 She made a tiny grimace, in which it seemed 
 I must read something more significant. My 
 heart thumped. Could it be then that she of 
 her grace had condescended so? She broke
 
 AN ORDEAL OF THREE 121 
 
 into laughter that wrinkled her eyes. I felt I 
 could be content it should be Cynthia. 
 
 ' Heavens, what a serious face ! ' she cried. 
 ' If you have no conversation to save us from 
 moping it shall not be I will keep you company. 
 You were best rubbing your eyes.' 
 
 She turned on her heel and left me, and I 
 sighed with a sudden doubt. She was scarce 
 likely to make so bold with her tongue had she 
 indeed been guilty. Soberly I took my way to 
 Dorothy across the borders. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said she, with a glance from her flowers. 
 'You have come in the hour of my need. 
 Would maids were of & size convenient ! Pray 
 reach me the topmost flower.' 
 
 I did her bidding, and she smiled upon me 
 graciously. 
 
 ' And where have you been ? ' said she, 
 wrapping her nosegay round. 
 
 'This,' thought I, as I gave her some op- 
 portune answer, 'is surely but the ignorance 
 of knowledge. Her attitude of ease, and her 
 aspect of indifference are too severe and careful 
 to be natural. She speaks calmly out of her 
 many tremors, and could I inspect her heart I 
 should find it quaking and ashamed.'
 
 122 AN ORDEAL OF THREE 
 
 ' You are dull to-day,' she said presently ; ' a 
 useful servant, but a cheerless companion. Do 
 you admire my nosegay ? Oh ! this garden is 
 afire ; I '11 seek the orchard,' and with that she 
 faded away. 
 
 I watched her go, but she betrayed no haste, 
 and her gait was as queenly and secure as ever. 
 Could it, indeed, be that one who wore this 
 dignity of embarrassed kindliness had so far 
 stooped from her frigid height? I dared not 
 think it and went off, all ashamed of my in- 
 solent thought, to pretty Joan, the last of the 
 three. The last but the likeliest ? I thought 
 she flushed slightly as I stayed beside her with- 
 out salutation. The silence seemed even to 
 disturb her. She shifted uneasily under my 
 gaze. 
 
 ' Oh, 'tis hot, 'tis hot,' said she, smoothing back 
 the tumbled hairs from her brow. 'And I to 
 feel it so who have this moment come from the 
 house ! ' 
 
 I assented that it was hot, and mopped my 
 own forehead, as I meditated upon the import 
 of this speech. She has confessed, I reflected 
 exultantly ; she has confessed by her very 
 anxiety to disprove her neighbourhood. Plainly
 
 AN ORDEAL OF THREE 123 
 
 it was she ; and as I regarded her closely, 
 I could be glad that it was no other. She 
 threw a sly glance at me. 
 
 ' You have lost your tongue,' said she. ' You 
 are as much confounded as though you had just 
 risen ;' and she shook her head smilingly at me. 
 
 But this again set me back wandering among 
 doubts, as one might not be so bold and yet so 
 timid in a breath. No, I reflected, gazing after 
 her, it was surely not this demure creature, 
 whose soul is ever in her eyes, whose innocence 
 is as conspicuous as the dimple in her cheek. 
 She had not so far dared even for the love of me. 
 And here I was brought to pause by a primary 
 consideration in my problem. Was the act of 
 love, of malice, or of accident ? If of love, per- 
 chance after all it was Joan ; but if of malice, 
 then Cynthia for a crown ; while if it were 
 Dorothy, I could conceive it nothing but the 
 unexpected outcome of some odd mischance. 
 And yet if love, why not any of the three, since 
 love will venture anything, and betray into the 
 most wonderful surprises ? ' Let us say it was 
 love,' I said, 'certainly some guilty mark will 
 suddenly reveal her to me.' And to that end 
 throughout the summer day I kept a watch
 
 124 AN ORDEAL OF THREE 
 
 upon them. Did one look at me I was still 
 contemplating the sky, indifferent-wise, to out- 
 ward seeming, every sense strained to interpret 
 that glance. Did one laugh, out of the corner 
 of my eye I observed every line and wrinkle of 
 her smile. I beset them with careless atten- 
 tions ; they might not move without my regard : 
 each little exhibition of human emotion I tracked 
 to its original and lawful home. But, alas ! I 
 made nothing by my persistence, for every act 
 of all refuted its predecessor. There was no 
 order in my conclusions ; the one perverted an- 
 other ; and half a dozen times an hour I must 
 form and reform my verdict. A thousand 
 kisses had not cost me so much embarrassment. 
 Dorothy's eyes were placidly content, and never 
 rested upon me of premeditation ; I suspected 
 her. Cynthia laughed full and meaningly into 
 my face : of her too I had grave suspicion. 
 Joan shot bashful glances from below her droop- 
 ing lashes : I could have sworn it was she. 
 
 ' She who loves me,' said I, ' will take my gift 
 in some intimate manner.' I made each the 
 offer of a flower a rose to Cynthia, a passion- 
 less lily to Dorothy, a red carnation to blushing 
 Joan. Dorothy gave me a gentle smile and
 
 AN ORDEAL OF THREE 125 
 
 fingered her lily prettily ; Cynthia pressed her 
 rose to her lips ; Joan hid her blossom in her heav- 
 ing bosom. Was there then nothing by which 
 she might be known? By this I was grown 
 desperate, and determined upon bolder measures. 
 I dared not put the question to them patently, 
 but I might lead each slowly to some situation 
 of my contrivance, and perchance confronting 
 her with the ghost of her own impertinence 
 might convict the offender of her dear offence. 
 
 We sat in the falling light around the table. 
 Dorothy looked out of the window upon the 
 lawn, and Joan admired the eglantine. Cynthia 
 yawned and played with her knife. I took a 
 glass of wine. 
 
 ' I love not a prude,' said I, breaking the 
 silence. ' I have always had a distaste for un- 
 timely modesty. Women,' I said, 'have no 
 quality more delightful than the tact which will 
 instruct them when to dispense with reserve. 
 Should they choose to condescend from their 
 imperial reticence, the liberty does them infinite 
 service ; it is a parcel of their sovereignty. I 
 would make no complaint, though one were to 
 strip herself of all the modes and manners of 
 society and come habited in audacities of her
 
 126 AN ORDEAL OF THREE 
 
 own. Nay, the act would be individual in 
 her.' 
 
 Dorothy stared at me ; Cynthia stared at me ; 
 they stared at me all three. 
 
 ' This is to prove, sir?' says Cynthia roguishly. 
 
 'Proprieties are odious on occasion/ I ob- 
 served. ' I would have you understand that 
 this is my creed. I am all for a free spirit.' 
 
 ' Indeed,' says Dorothy with a smile. ' It is 
 good of you to inform us of this.' 
 
 ' Heigho ! a sermon,' quoth Cynthia with a 
 pretty yawn ; ' and to-morrow Sunday ! ' 
 
 Joan dimpled. ' Is there no more?' she asked 
 with gentle archness. 
 
 ' For a man to kiss a maid,' I resumed with- 
 out wincing, ' is natural and just. Why, then, 
 serve not a maid with the same sauce? If the 
 chance befall her and fit her humour, in God's 
 name let her kiss and be merry.' 
 
 Dorothy shifted her chair and drummed her 
 foot upon the floor ; Joan blushed and glanced 
 away ; Cynthia burst into a peal of laughter. 
 
 ' You are too kind ! ' she cried. ' But 'tis well 
 we have your permission. We owe you thanks. 
 Perhaps also we have now the liberty to with- 
 draw.'
 
 AN ORDEAL OF THREE 127 
 
 The door clapped to behind them. I sat 
 staring moodily into my wine. 
 
 ' If this will not serve,' I said angrily, ' then 
 shall they have it in all seriousness, and the 
 Devil take the responsibility. I will make love, 
 and be damned to it ; and I '11 wager the pretty 
 maid that loves me will come tumbling into 
 my arms this very evening. So surely shall I 
 discover and unmask her.' 
 
 When I leaned across the window-sill and 
 murmured into Dorothy's ear, the dusk was 
 falling, and the odour of fir-trees was in the 
 air. I spoke of courtly queens and royal 
 maidens, of golden hair and quiet, serious eyes. 
 ' Those things,' I said, ' are dear to me, con- 
 stituents of my high ideal. I have the desire 
 to be done with the dolorous delights of way- 
 ward days. There comes a time in the affairs 
 of youth when the man must discard unworthy 
 follies, and steal home to the heart that loves 
 him.' 
 
 Much more I said, being now astride my 
 counterfeit passion. She heard me silently, 
 and sighed. 
 
 'Ah, to live and love!' she murmured. 'It 
 completes the serenity of life,' and sighed again.
 
 128 AN ORDEAL OF THREE 
 
 I took her hand. She looked into my face ; 
 smiling beatitudes sighed from her lips. She 
 rose and glided gently from the room. 
 
 And now it seemed that I was at last at the 
 solution of my problem ; but yet I must go the 
 round rather from a sense of logic than out of 
 any lingering doubt. And so it came to pass 
 that in the mellow twilight I sat watching 
 Cynthia's scarlet lips part and close and part 
 again. I had thought to have no taste for the 
 encounter, but the sight somehow set me aglow 
 to be nearer her. I fell in with the chase of 
 her mad whims, and together we raced about 
 a tiny world which for the nonce was all our 
 own. Then at a pause I broke into the hot 
 words of my declaration. 'For me,' quoth I, 
 'no staid and sluggish spirit. I love a full- 
 souled ardent gaze, of a warm and ruddy 
 passion, lithe jocund limbs, and the fretting 
 fever of desire. An I were sure of such, how 
 much happiness were mine ! ' 
 
 She returned me my look of longing, her 
 eyes sparkled, the light danced over her face. 
 
 ' Yes,' said she suddenly, ' and such love were 
 worth all to a woman.' 
 
 Her hand dangling by her chair, I seized and
 
 AN ORDEAL OF THREE 129 
 
 bore half-way to my lips. I thought the pressure 
 was returned ; she rose and fled the terrace. 
 
 Left to myself, I passed up and down in per- 
 plexity. Was mortal man ever so horribly dis- 
 traught ? By all the signs it should be this one 
 that had loved me and embraced me in the 
 meadows. Now I thought upon it, Dorothy's 
 smile struck me as something impartial, her 
 sigh as merely dutiful, her words as wholly 
 tolerant. The fervour of Cynthia's mood seized 
 openly upon me. In Joan I looked for nothing 
 save maybe a little exhibition of panic at the 
 bold advertisement of love. But she must still 
 be tested according to my vow, and forthwith 
 I set out to find her. 
 
 It was in the tail of the gloaming that I 
 stooped over her chair and drew slowly into in- 
 timacy by sundry words of sympathy. She was 
 all bashfulness and virgin modesty, moved from 
 me gently, turned her glance aside, fidgeted 
 with her flower, and finally, when I had ex- 
 hibited in full my affection for a shy and cling- 
 ing nature, and had grown emboldened to touch 
 her fingers, withdrew softly from my vicinity. 
 
 ' I wish you good fortune,' she whispered. 
 ' Such an one would be very happy with her.' 
 I
 
 130 AN ORDEAL OF THREE 
 
 Dumfounded I sat upon the terrace and 
 blinked stupidly at the stars in a maze of con- 
 flicting opinions. If ever the tokens of a tender 
 affection were anywhere visible, they were worn 
 upon the embarrassment of this maid. The 
 last venture had left me no less confident than 
 the others ; and Cynthia's lips had faded with 
 Dorothy's eyes. The more I reflected the more 
 serious and difficult did the paths of my deduc- 
 tion grow, the further was I from any disen- 
 tanglement. I had tried all the avenues of 
 knowledge and was now no wiser. I raised my 
 hands to heaven in my disgust to be no better 
 judge of feminine conduct. Had I been dis- 
 cerning there was certainly some mute witness 
 to convict the dainty sinner. But I had gone 
 hunting all the day with all my wits and senses 
 and still was at a loss to find it. 
 
 ' The Devil take it ! ' said I in my chagrin, ' I 
 will yet be at the end of this puzzle. Not a 
 sign of embarrassment that may discover her, 
 but she shall wear it by my contrivance. I 
 have been long-suffering, I have taken the task 
 with too great a patience, and too signal a 
 modesty. I will now dare all and meet her 
 with her own audacity.'
 
 AN ORDEAL OF THREE 131 
 
 In this resolve I spent the morning, but it 
 was late ere I had mustered spirit for the new 
 enterprise. A thousand considerations blocked 
 the way. I must secure each apart, and in a 
 proper disposition. To each I must approach 
 in a different fashion ; with each must renew 
 my confidences of the twilight And again, I 
 was beset by prickings of my conscience, lest 
 what I was to undertake should be an act dis- 
 courteous, should lay too onerous an obligation 
 on the lady. But these doubts and difficulties 
 vanished at last ' It is only meet,' I mused, 
 ' to inflict on her her own penalty ; and if in the 
 process of justice two innocents be involved 
 also in the sentence, why, they suffer for their 
 company, and have no cause of complaint, 
 and this is how I shall know her. She will 
 surely return,' said I, ' my kiss, and as she kissed 
 me in the meadow, so will her lips touch mine, 
 responsive to my caress.' . . . 
 
 I sought my room distracted. Alas ! Con- 
 ceive me plunged deeper and deeper in the toils 
 of wonder, further and further in the recesses 
 of despair. I know not which lips were the 
 softer ; I know not which were the warmer ; I 
 know not which of the three returned me my 
 kiss the most readily or the most tenderly.
 
 THE PORTRAIT IN THE INN 
 
 His extreme resemblance to myself struck me 
 anew as I looked at him. The identity in our 
 personal appearance had been wont to bother 
 me from time to time, as one who continually 
 saw his double mimicking before him. As boys, 
 I remember, we were both indifferent to our 
 likeness, and I fancy that he carried his dis- 
 regard into his adult life. If he reflected upon 
 it at all, it was certainly with amusement, for 
 he had a trick of inconsequent laughter and 
 took the accidents of the world with a very 
 smiling gaiety, which I had always envied. 
 But for myself the knowledge of this twin, 
 when I had him to my face, was a vague 
 discomfort. It seemed preposterous that Nature 
 should have stooped to the jest, when her 
 devices were so prodigal elsewhere. We had 
 the self-same smile ; the self-same expressions 
 marked the self-same features. We were cast 
 
 132
 
 THE PORTRAIT IN THE INN 133 
 
 in one mould with a nicety foreign to her 
 general practice ; and if we diverged it was in 
 some private particulars undiscovered even of 
 our friends. The set and habit of our frames 
 and countenances were in perfect unison, and 
 yet I think in every direction our characters 
 had taken opposite courses. This disparity 
 within so close a resemblance had given me 
 a grudge against the coincidence, as I could not 
 but think of it as a grotesque freak whereby we 
 were more for the amusement than the wonder 
 of our friends. Something of this annoyance 
 possessed me as I noted the merry manner and 
 complacent temper with which he dwelt upon 
 his news. 
 
 ' I wish you luck,' said I, ' the best of luck, 
 Philip. I suppose the thing was inevitable. 
 At thirty-two this sort of fact is very near. If 
 you had got beyond that age safely, you might 
 have gone to your grave a decent bachelor.' 
 
 ' You are still there/ said he with a grin. The 
 reminder irritated me, but I had never the 
 heart to visit my peevishness upon him. I 
 smiled. 
 
 ' True,' I answered, ' I 'm not a braggart 
 yet ; it is only the voice of philosophy speaks in
 
 134 THE PORTRAIT IN THE INN 
 
 me. As for myself, I have imagined the grand 
 passion, as you will phrase it, and have its 
 dimensions pretty well by heart But that, I 
 take it, is the safest insurance against it.' 
 
 ' I don't see it,' he replied, as though he would 
 dispute my point, but, having little of a head 
 for argument, struck out impulsively upon a 
 theme that was more to his liking. ' I can't 
 see your prejudice against love. It's divine; 
 it 's immortal. Heaven ! how it thrills a man, 
 Dick ! You have only got to furnish yourself 
 with my soul for a day, and you '11 spend the 
 rest of your life eating your words.' 
 
 ' Love,' said I, ' is admirable after dinner.' 
 
 ' It 's an infamy,' he broke out, ' it 's a sacri- 
 lege, a blasphemy. That I should have a 
 brother born to such feelings ! And outwardly 
 we are replicas,' he ended with a laugh. 
 
 ' I believe in your love,' said I, ' but I can't 
 fit it into my life. I think I should ask a 
 miracle with mine. I have, my dear fellow, 
 every desire and ambition to be married, but 
 the thing hangs fire ; there is no Prometheus.' 
 
 ' Well, well ; you will have it one day,' he 
 concluded, and fell to his raptures again. I let 
 him run on, scarcely heeding his enthusiasms,
 
 THE PORTRAIT IN THE INN 135 
 
 for my thoughts had turned inwards upon my- 
 self and my own flat life. I had but newly 
 recovered from a long illness, and had come 
 back to the world with no particular zest for 
 living. The convalescence to which in my 
 extremest hours of pain I had looked forward 
 with delight had been fulfilled drearily enough ; 
 and now that once more I had the liberty of 
 the streets the occupations and interest of the 
 prospect seemed stale and empty. It was 
 perhaps a condition of the body ; I know, at 
 least, it was no healthy, natural distaste that 
 possessed me. But the effort of existence 
 appeared too severe for the reward, and I 
 could not imagine myself informed with any 
 individual interest I drew out of these miser- 
 able reflections to find him silent, and scanning 
 me with some affectionate concern. 
 
 ' Are you quite yourself now ? ' he asked. 
 
 ' In excellent health,' I answered ; ' only a 
 little astonished at the zeal with which I fought 
 for life. Is there anything worth the struggle, 
 my dear Philip ? Is there anything save this 
 love of yours ? ' I added with a smile. 
 
 He invited me cheerfully to be his companion 
 on his journey. He was going, it appeared, to
 
 136 THE PORTRAIT IN THE INN 
 
 Paris for a few weeks ; thence returning to his 
 lady-love with all the hot-foot ardour of his 
 kind. I excused myself with my best grace ; 
 his vigour promised to appal me, and I was 
 best unembarrassed, I thought. Ere he left he 
 had resumed his extravagant mood of happi- 
 ness, was pressing me with invitations to call 
 upon the lady's family, and was begging me 
 to follow his wise example. And when he 
 finally got away it was to run down the steps 
 with a peal of laughter, and all the light-hearted- 
 ness of a schoolboy. 
 
 The matter of his visit was not of inordinate 
 moment, and yet thoughts induced by it strayed 
 persistently through my brain. What, I re- 
 flected, if it were possible, after all, to acquire 
 a fresh interest in the world by this simple 
 procedure of marriage ? I had made an experi- 
 ment over many years in the single state, and 
 at the end could not boast my fortune. I could 
 scarcely see how, at the close of an equal term, 
 it were easy to be in a worse case. Indeed, the 
 change, since it was to something, might import 
 some new faiths and feelings with its facts ; 
 might indue me with a novel vitality ; might 
 arrest that decline upon a mechanical round in
 
 THE PORTRAIT IN THE INN 137 
 
 which there were few distractions and fewer 
 pleasures, and which now seemed to be my 
 prospect. The fancy struck suddenly to my 
 heart, as a flash ; for one second of time I felt 
 the warmth of the convert thrilling through 
 my body, and then the sensation trailed off in 
 incredulity. There had been a point of fascina- 
 tion in it, but it came only to a chance of the 
 instant, as it were, through a chink from an 
 invisible, imaginary world full of light and 
 mystery. Forthright it faded from my mind 
 without restraint, and there was the world again 
 before me, as dull and as indifferent as ever. 
 
 But the dog-days were hard upon us, and I 
 must needs be packing for some fresher air than 
 London's. It would have saved me a score of 
 small worries had I fallen in with Philip's in- 
 vitation, and several times in the next fortnight 
 I recalled it with regret. I had no desire to be 
 off, but the change grew inevitable as the days 
 wore on, and after all the disposition of my 
 body mattered little ; I should be s,till in the 
 possession of the same disconsolate spirit. I 
 scarcely knew what had directed my choice of 
 the seaside. For one thing I was averse from 
 a trip abroad, merely, I think, because the
 
 138 THE PORTRAIT IN THE INN 
 
 distance would put me to a longer discomfort. 
 And the sea, at this time, should be full of 
 breezes pleasant enough to face. But it was 
 with little elation I got aboard my train, and 
 turned my attention idly to the morning papers, 
 in which I had already failed to discover a 
 single thread of interest. The sun shone hotly 
 upon the meadows, and within the narrow con- 
 fines of my carriage I grew clammy and restless. 
 Three hours of such a passage seemed likely to 
 drive me frantic. I had no fellow-passengers ; 
 not a page in my volumes drew my interest ; 
 the landscape with its flying monotony of 
 hedges, elms, and fields became as obvious and 
 as unassertive to the sight as the rattle of the 
 train to my ear. The telegraph poles, shooting 
 past at settled intervals, as it were with per- 
 ceptible sound, at first an amiable interruption, 
 came soon to be a part of the mechanical mono- 
 tony by which I was surrounded. At the close 
 of an hour I had lost the passive resignation 
 with which I had set out, and was fretting 
 against the limits of my position. We had 
 reached Northorpe, I think, when I half formed 
 the resolution to abandon my journey. I was 
 out on the platform with my baggage, my mind
 
 THE PORTRAIT IN THE INN 139 
 
 rocking somewhat irresolutely betwixt the two 
 ideas, when the train suddenly took the decision 
 upon itself and slipped out of the station. 
 
 It was a mean and petty village at which 
 I had alighted ; how it had achieved the dignity 
 of a station I cannot say. There was no house 
 had a look of consequence in the place. The 
 country ran into many ridges in the neighbour- 
 hood, and deep woods lay in patches on the 
 summits of those heights. But saving for this 
 outlook upon a broken landscape the village 
 itself lacked beauty. I found a fair inn of a 
 rustic sort, at which I stored my property ; 
 and then set out for a walk upon the hills. 
 
 It was late in the evening ere I returned, 
 pretty tired, from my ramble. The landlord, 
 who had, it appeared, fallen from a better posi- 
 tion, served me himself, and grew talkative over 
 his task. The house was but little frequented, 
 I was informed ; was larger than it should be ; 
 but had fulfilled other purposes in the coaching 
 days. He had only the village from which to 
 draw his custom, and some such stray visitor 
 as myself. He commended to me a bottle of 
 his best wine, which I found he had hardly over- 
 praised, and left me, finally, to it and my own
 
 140 THE PORTRAIT IN THE INN 
 
 thoughts. The dusk had fallen ere I finished 
 my meal, and throwing open the window which 
 overlooked a pretty strip of garden, I turned 
 up the lamp and lay back in my chair with 
 my cigar. The light shone diffusely upon the 
 walls of the long room, which I perceived were 
 adorned with numerous prints, most of old date, 
 mainly pictures of horses and masters of hounds, 
 but some of more recent and German origin 
 rude oleographs and terrible engravings. But 
 one there was, of a different character from its 
 neighbours, that arrested my wandering atten- 
 tion. The thing was not ill-done, though it 
 was by no means good ; but it was the face 
 that held my eyes. The girl was dressed in 
 summer white, her collar loosened about her 
 throat as though the day were sultry ; and she 
 looked forth at me, leaning upon the gate of a 
 meadow. The expression of her features was 
 wistful and silent ; it was as though she desired 
 to speak and was yet dumb ; her eyes searched 
 me ; her lips were parted in a rift of eagerness. 
 The face was of a beauty so delicate that it 
 caught and stayed my breath ; out of the flat 
 paper it regarded me with its immeasurable 
 eyes. The gaze haunted me.
 
 THE PORTRAIT IN THE INN 141 
 
 The wine I had drunk had lifted me from 
 my dreamy state of indifference, and the pro- 
 spect of the morrow did not rise so blackly in 
 my mind. There was a kind of pleasure even 
 in the green trees, the quiet pool, the slow 
 rustling of the elms before the inn. I rose 
 from my chair and moved to the window. 
 Outside, the night, which had fallen thick with 
 stars, was very peaceful. A cool wind played 
 about the garden plot ; a cow was lowing over 
 the meadows from some byre. For the first 
 time for a twelvemonth I had the feeling of 
 content. I turned and looked about the room, 
 and the eyes of that picture were watching me 
 softly, appealingly. The flame sank in the 
 lamp, and, diverted by the accident, I crossed 
 to the table and turned up the wick. As I did 
 so I raised my head, and the eyes looked to- 
 wards me beseechingly. A little thrill passed 
 down me; I went straight to the wall and 
 stared into the picture. I could have fancied 
 that the parted lips were opened a little further, 
 that the eyes beamed a little brighter, that the 
 air of that face grew more sprightly. The 
 fancy was strong upon me. I sat down at the 
 table.
 
 H2 THE PORTRAIT IN THE INN 
 
 ' Here,' said I, turning to her with my lifted 
 glass ' Here, sweet, I will drink to your eyes. 
 I have come to this place, a stranger in need of 
 sympathy, and they have given me welcome. 
 Your face has smiled down upon me at my 
 solitary meal ; your lips have striven to con- 
 verse with me ; your eyes have watched me 
 incessantly throughout this evening. Dear, 
 you have kept me company with the prettiest 
 of faces. I should be a boor to deny you this 
 toast. To you, sweetheart, even to you, who 
 have come betwixt me and the devil this night, 
 I drain this glass. To your eyes, my beloved, 
 to your eyes.' 
 
 The picture smiled at me ; but still the 
 bosom leaned upon the gate, the hands still 
 clasped each other over the topmost rail ; still 
 the eyes searched me wistfully and dreamily, 
 as though they were looking for some one that 
 came not. I rose in my seat. 
 
 1 Dear,' said I, ' I will come. Is it for me 
 you keep so steadfast a watch ? Is it for me 
 your pensive eyes look out into the dusk ? 
 You shall wait no longer. You have, my 
 dearest, turned a doubter into the most ardent 
 of lovers.'
 
 THE PORTRAIT IN THE INN 143 
 
 I burst into laughter. The wine seemed to 
 have gone to my head, and yet I had drunk 
 but little. The blood rushed along the arteries 
 and my pulse ticked in my forehead like a 
 clock. The face watched me slowly from the 
 room. 
 
 I had the whim to bid her good-bye in the 
 morning, which I did with equal ceremony. 
 I had thought that the peculiar impression I 
 had taken from so common a print would have 
 worn off by daylight, that the face would con- 
 vince me merely of an indiscretion in my wine, 
 not of its own distinctive qualities. And I got 
 a little queer shock to find the pleasure renewed 
 a shock not disagreeable, but very sudden 
 and odd. When I left Northorpe later in the 
 day, I had settled upon no destination. As it 
 chanced I took the train a little further towards 
 my seaport, got half an hour or so upon my 
 way, and finally descended upon a hamlet in 
 the thick of some forest-land. Its name I have 
 forgotten, but that is of little consequence. 
 I had the choice of inns on this occasion, and 
 decided for one that stood at the foot of a 
 black strip of pine-wood, on a certain elevation, 
 somewhat remote from the noises of the village.
 
 144 THE PORTRAIT IN THE INN 
 
 It put me in a better temper to be spending my 
 holiday after so eccentric a fashion ; and, more- 
 over, the air was fine, the roads were excellent, 
 and here, too, I had an admirably wholesome 
 dinner. The lights faded out from the west, 
 the skyline of which was ragged with waving 
 trees ; and after the inns had emptied and the 
 sounds of the departing villagers retired into 
 silence, I took another stroll through the church- 
 yard. The moon was rising very gravely ; the 
 stars shone like jewels ; a stream ran with a 
 soft music at the bottom of the acre. I leaned 
 over the footbridge and stared into the water. 
 In this running brook I could see faces gather- 
 ing and dissolving ; many stories glinted out 
 of the mirror upon me. My own face lay upon 
 the water in a black patch of shadow, seeming 
 to take part in these drifting histories. But it 
 was in vain that I tried to follow one to its end. 
 No sooner had I the glimpse of its motive 
 than the tale itself was gathered into the eddies 
 and floated down the stream in a tangle of 
 lights and shadows. The clock in the belfry 
 struck eleven ; a rook complained from its 
 neighbouring colony ; I yawned and went 
 back to bed.
 
 THE PORTRAIT IN THE INN 145 
 
 The moonlight was striking direct through 
 my window, and lay so brightly on the floor 
 that I did not trouble to use my candle, but 
 undressed by the pale glamour. I had been, 
 I suppose, an hour asleep when I awoke with 
 a feeling of restlessness. The night had grown 
 warmer, and I rolled about in my bed to find 
 a position cool enough for stillness ; but my 
 efforts were vain, and at last I lit a candle and 
 read. It must have been some ten minutes 
 later that, glancing up from my book, I found 
 myself staring at the picture. It hung upon 
 the wall at the foot of my bed, and the eyes 
 were bent upon me with the self-same wistful- 
 ness that had touched my fancy on the previous 
 evening. I started at the sight and the volume 
 dropped upon the floor ; but the eyes rested 
 upon my face. A warm flush of sensation, 
 something between pain and desire, throbbed 
 through my body. It was, of course, but a 
 coincidence ; these prints were the common 
 property of the countryside. Yet the instant 
 repetition of a face that had made so deep and 
 so recent a mark upon my mind filled me with 
 a kind of awe. That face was sacrosanct and 
 virgin, and it yearned for me. I gazed intently 
 K
 
 i 4 6 THE PORTRAIT IN THE INN 
 
 for awhile, and then a sort of tenderness in- 
 spired my blood. I kissed my hand with a 
 little laugh under my breath. 
 
 ' Good-night,' said I, ' fair mistress. And so 
 you will even keep ward upon me here too. 
 Dear, you have been much in my thoughts ; 
 your face has crept about with me all day, and 
 now you are here in the flesh to comfort me. 
 How long have you waited ? ' I asked ; ' how 
 many weary hours have you watched for your 
 coming lover ? ' 
 
 I blew out the light and fell asleep in a 
 curious content. The night passed lightly, 
 but in my dreams the face came and went. 
 I could scarcely say I had been dreaming, for 
 there was no sense of time or sequence in my 
 visions; only that face recurred at intervals, 
 lighting and fading, as a magic portrait cast 
 upon a screen. I have slept more soundly, but 
 never, I think, with a greater possession of 
 pleasure. 
 
 The re-apparition dwelt in my thoughts the 
 best part of the following day. A feeling of 
 pure delight kept occupying my soul. I seemed, 
 in a word, to have taken some strange elixir 
 by which I was lifted quite out of my apathy.
 
 THE PORTRAIT IN THE INN 147 
 
 The face made its home with me ; I had it as 
 surely printed upon my memory as it was upon 
 the artist's paper. And what was more, with 
 these two surprises I was in secure expectation 
 of another. I should meet it again for certain ; 
 at my next inn it would confront me as pathe- 
 tically and as sweetly as now. I had the whim 
 that it mattered nothing where I went, where 
 I was to rest next the picture would greet me 
 there without fail. I laughed cheerfully to my- 
 self as I considered my plans for the day, and 
 finally made my next stage a place exceedingly 
 distant, a tiny village in the west, picked out 
 at a guess on the maps, at which I arrived late 
 in the evening, very dusty and overtired. You 
 may not conceive my disappointment when I 
 found my picture was not here. The sense of 
 vacancy that fell numb upon me was a witness 
 to the sorry condition of my nerves, showed 
 how far the mad humour had got into my blood. 
 There was no sign of her in the house, and 
 with a grimace at my own folly I strove to 
 dismiss the absurd fantasy from my mind. 
 
 The place was pretty enough, and was in the 
 height of summer perfection. Rain had fallen 
 overnight, and the pleasant smell of earth was
 
 148 THE PORTRAIT IN THE INN 
 
 abroad in the air. The day I spent in wander- 
 ing without special intention, listening to the 
 gossips, and half finishing plans for the future. 
 I had walked out upon the common, which ran 
 on a pretty steep incline to the hills, and near 
 about five in the afternoon was feeling some- 
 what of fatigue. At the border of the common 
 were some smiling meadows, in one of which 
 I took refuge from the sun, throwing myself 
 under the shelter of a grove of ash-trees. I 
 must have fallen asleep, for when I awoke the 
 westering sun was retiring from the valley, 
 and the air was much cooler. The prospect 
 of golden lights was so fine, and I had re- 
 covered so much from my snatch of sleep, 
 that I sat up, the better to take in its beauties. 
 As I did so I grew aware of a neighbour, and 
 turning my head saw some one at the gate. 
 
 The sudden impression of my discovery upon 
 me was so startling that my eyes were held by 
 the vision while you might have counted a 
 minute. She had taken off one glove, as she 
 was shown in the picture ; her hands were 
 clasped together ; her face, bent forward, was 
 turned a little from me, with the familiar aspect 
 of that visiting print. There was not one
 
 THE PORTRAIT IN THE INN 149 
 
 particular 1 could note to divorce her from 
 the portrait An exclamation sprang from my 
 lips as I rose to my feet, and at the sound she 
 moved her head and saw me. Just as it had 
 happened in my dreams these past two days, 
 so now she gave a little cry of welcome, a smile 
 ran over her features, she made as though to 
 open the gate that stood between us. As she 
 fumbled with the latch I drew near like one 
 walking in shadowland, watching her face with 
 fearful admiration. But at this the wraith, as 
 I had half imagined her, broke into a merry 
 laugh. 
 
 ' How you have stared ! ' said she ; then 
 stopped and regarded me anxiously. 
 
 The fall of her voice on the soft evening air 
 stirred me from my reverie, and I perceived her 
 on a sudden to be truly corporeal and very 
 proximate. There was no spark of wonder 
 lit my eyes as I took her hand and gazed into 
 her blue orbs steadfastly ; no flash of awe held 
 me silent The event had come, it seemed, as 
 of nature ; that she and I should be there 
 together, that she had waited for me at the 
 gate as she had waited in the picture, seemed to 
 me as right and inevitable as life itself, or death.
 
 ISO THE PORTRAIT IN THE INN 
 
 ' Dear,' I said, ' I have come at last.' I took 
 her face between my hands and scanned it 
 closely, drinking from the deeps of its gay 
 beauties. ' How I have dreamed of you ! How 
 often have I seen your face like this ! ' 
 
 She laughed, a trifle nervously, as though 
 struck with a sudden diffidence ; but nestling 
 to me the next moment met my look with 
 happy rapture. 
 
 ' You were so long,' she murmured tenderly. 
 I kissed her lips. The valley was full of soft, 
 burning scents ; the light stood on the highest 
 hill-tops. Her skirts shook in the breeze, and 
 her breaths rustled the bodice on her bosom. 
 There was a deep and peaceful silence about 
 us. I held her to me tightly, my hand smoothing 
 the warm flesh of her cheeks. 
 
 ' How long you have been away ! ' she said ; 
 ' and was Paris so very full of attractions ? ' 
 
 The words fell upon dull ears. I scarcely 
 took their meaning. She continued 
 
 'You are strange,' she said, 'and changed, 
 Philip.' 
 
 I started, but I still held her face to me. 
 ' You have grown more serious,' she went on. 
 ' Is anything wrong, dear ? ' and looked up at
 
 THE PORTRAIT IN THE INN 151 
 
 me with so enchanting a timorousness as to set 
 my heart throbbing heavily. 
 
 * Nothing,' I said, ' nothing ; but I love you, I 
 love you.' 
 
 Her voice rose and sank through my dreams 
 sweet and gay ; the while I had her folded 
 to me, listening as some one far away to her 
 talk and the confidences of her pure soul. In 
 truth I had fallen suddenly from heaven upon 
 hell. The gift that some providence or benign 
 chance had sent me I had taken without 
 question or wonder, for it had seemed to issue 
 straight from my precedent surprises ; I had 
 risen to the proper emotion as one prepared 
 and forewarned. And now in an instant I had 
 lost my pre-eminence, my joy fled from me at a 
 stroke, and I perceived that I was but a factor 
 in a grotesque and horrid joke played upon me 
 by coincidence. And as I stood there upon 
 the margin of the field, with all high heaven 
 singing above me, and the fairest scene ever 
 set by nature spread before my eyes, the 
 memory of Philip's rapture, the rush of his 
 eager words, the name and praise of his lady- 
 love, returned to me as vividly as though I 
 were listening to his voice. I knew her name
 
 152 THE PORTRAIT IN THE INN 
 
 this ardent miracle of beauty ; her descent, 
 her private history, the details of her environ- 
 ment were all now in my knowledge. She was 
 twenty some three months back ; she was the 
 only daughter of the squire ; she had a devout 
 attachment to her lover; she was the most 
 innocent, the most bewitching of her sex. As 
 these thoughts burned in me like molten lead I 
 laughed in my bitterness and pushed her from 
 me roughly. Her face took on a look of quick 
 perplexity and distress. How her emotions 
 ran upon her features ! 
 
 * You are changed, Philip,' said she. 
 I pulled her to me, laughing wildly. 
 ' My dearest, changed only in this, that I love 
 you now with the heat of fever.' 
 
 I kissed her in my madness, and she sur- 
 rendered herself shrinkingly to me. ' This 
 thing,' I cried in my heart, 'has gone beyond 
 me. I will see the end, whatever it be.' Philip 
 and his merry laughter vanished out of my 
 mind. I took her arm and we went forth 
 together, happy and unafraid. She babbled 
 sweetly of the flowers, of some pets, old friends 
 of mine, of her generous father, of different 
 people of that vicinity with whom I was
 
 THE PORTRAIT IN THE INN 153 
 
 acquainted. And wrapt in my happiness I 
 listened, walking by her side, filling my soul 
 with her loveliness, and thinking nothing of the 
 morrow. I can remember how the squire met 
 me, with his cheerful face. His talk was simple, 
 of dogs and horses, and his garden ; but it 
 seemed to me he was speaking deep wisdom. 
 I must try ' Crusader ' again, he declared ; my 
 feat had been the wonder of the countryside. 
 Poor Dorothy had flown into a fury when he 
 had vowed I should take the jump again ; and, 
 that availing nothing, into tears. He laughed. 
 I looked at Dorothy. Her face, surmounted 
 with a hot flush, met my eyes as though en- 
 treating me to pardon and humour her frailty. 
 
 'I think,' said I, '"Crusader" must look for 
 another rider.' 
 
 She thanked me with a clap of her hands and 
 a smile. And I I laughed sardonically, for 
 Philip, gay and reckless, came debonairly across 
 my vision. 
 
 That evening was one of superlative charm. 
 My bags were fetched (from the station, I ex- 
 plained), and we dined in state in the merriest 
 of humours. My return must be celebrated, 
 quoth the squire, clinking his glass gleefully
 
 154 THE PORTRAIT IN THE INN 
 
 against Dorothy's ; the old wine was produced 
 from the deepest cellar, and we drank to our 
 common happiness and devotion. I cannot 
 recall that I had one single twinge of conscience 
 that night. How was it possible, with Dorothy 
 laughing in her arm-chair, and despatching 
 glances of singular sweetness and intimate con- 
 fidence across the room to me ? I talked as I 
 had never talked for years ; all my old wit and 
 knowledge came back to my service. I felt I 
 held the room, nor was I mistaken. The squire 
 stared and winked over his glass. I had more 
 in my head, he confessed, than he had ever 
 fancied ; I was eloquent that 's what he would 
 say ; and upon his soul I should stand for the 
 county. And Dorothy clapped her hands and 
 listened, with her head against her father's arm, 
 watched me with eyes of deep and growing 
 affection. Now and then she would peep into 
 the squire's face, as though to remark his 
 astonishment at my talk, and her own glance 
 sparkled with admiration. And when the hours 
 had worn on, and she rose to leave us, she took 
 me to the door. 
 
 ' Philip,' she whispered, ' you have made me 
 very happy, dear very happy '
 
 THE PORTRAIT IN THE INN 155 
 
 Very happy ! cried the room from all its 
 corners ; very happy ! murmured the elms out 
 on the lawn ; very happy ! said my heart, in 
 answer. I sat down to keep the squire com- 
 pany, the words ringing in my ears. If only 
 this had been from the first ! If only it were 
 now to continue ! I drank that night deeply, 
 and the old man kept me in countenance. But 
 the joy had intoxicated me more than the wine, 
 and I went to bed singing a snatch of some 
 glad old love-song of the South. 
 
 The morning brought me no sobriety. At 
 dawn I was wandering upon the lawn under 
 her window, picking the freshest rose for her 
 bosom. We rode and walked that day, each 
 wrapt in the other's fellowship. The squire 
 troubled us little, being a master of small cere- 
 monies on his estate, and there was no one to 
 put an embargo upon our reckless impulses. 
 At times I strove to turn and face my position, 
 but the efforts ended without a definite achieve- 
 ment. I reasoned, too, with myself, and per- 
 suaded my own conscience. She loved me, it 
 was clear, and, indeed, more dearly than ever, 
 as she confessed. The trick had been played 
 us both by a whimsical fate, and were I to
 
 156 THE PORTRAIT IN THE INN 
 
 discover my proper individuality, she still loved 
 me. An extreme resemblance had started her 
 on the mistake, and now who was to say 
 whether her love was Philip or I ? Were both 
 to stand before her, would she not choose at a 
 venture, haphazard ; if indeed she did not hit 
 upon me, in whom she had discovered new 
 virtues and larger powers ? So I consoled my 
 scruples, with no thought for the tragedy that 
 was at hand. 
 
 It was on the second day, midway between 
 noon and the fall of dusk, that the end came. 
 We were upon the lawn, near the little arbour 
 of trees that overlooked the heath. She had 
 plucked some forget-me-nots and was fastening 
 them into my coat when I heard the sound of 
 feet, and, looking up, saw him coming down the 
 garden walk with his sprightliest manner. But 
 she heard and saw nothing, for she was chatting 
 prettily as she inserted the flowers, and at that 
 moment he turned off upon the grass and his 
 approach was noiseless. I think he did not 
 take us in at the outset, but presently, pulling 
 up with a start when some twenty paces away, 
 stared open-mouthed upon me. She chattered 
 sweetly in my ears ; my eyes watched him
 
 THE PORTRAIT IN THE INN 157 
 
 unflinchingly ; I made no sign of recognition. 
 I can feel now the haze that crept over my wits, 
 the hollow that formed quickly in my heart. 
 But he threw up his hands, nodded once or 
 twice swiftly, as though he had at last found 
 some clue to the mystery of our relations ; 
 signalled to me privately, and then, stalking 
 stealthily along the lawn, made towards us 
 without a sound. My gaze was fixed on him, 
 scarcely understanding. I was conscious that 
 Dorothy had stopped, and was looking at me 
 inquiringly. 
 
 ' You are in a dream,' she said, and laughed. 
 She turned her head and followed the direction 
 of my eyes. Philip rose suddenly to his full 
 height and sprang upon her playfully. She 
 gave a piteous cry and shrank back back from 
 both of us ; her eyes moved with a terrible look 
 of fear from him to me, from me to him. 
 
 ' Dolly, Dolly,' he cried, ' what 's the matter ? 
 Have I startled you too much ? I 'm so sorry ! ' 
 
 I can scarcely say I had any feeling, now, 
 but the one a numb, dull pain throughout my 
 body. I kept my eyes on her, but I was only 
 vaguely conscious of my actions. I know I 
 had the knife which I had used for the flowers,
 
 158 THE PORTRAIT IN THE INN 
 
 full open in my palm, and was pressing my 
 fingers fiercely upon it ; the blood was trickling 
 from my hands. I said no word. She looked 
 at me, her face white and startled. 
 
 ' Dolly, Dolly ! ' cried Philip in distress. ' Dick, 
 what is this ? What are you doing here ? How 
 came you here ? ' 
 
 I still made no answer ; and then she spoke. 
 ' Is it true ? ' she said in a low, fierce voice. ' Is 
 it true ? You are not Philip ? ' 
 
 I laughed. 
 
 ' Philip ? ' I answered. ' No, not Philip, only 
 his brother, who has the misfortune to be his 
 double.' 
 
 She trembled like a reed. 
 
 ' O you coward ! ' she cried ; ' you coward ! ' 
 
 I clenched my hand ; the blood gushed from 
 my fingers. Turning upon my heel I walked 
 slowly down the pathway to the gate. As I 
 lifted the latch I looked back and saw that she 
 had fallen upon the sward, and that Philip was 
 bending over her caressingly.
 
 AKBAR ALTS COURTYARD 
 
 HER head was bent as if in deep reflection, and 
 for the moment I wondered if my eyes had 
 played a trick upon me. But as she passed me 
 for the third time she repeated the mute signal, 
 and I turned and looked after her. When she 
 had reached the corner she stopped, held up 
 her hand, and beckoned. My doubts dispelled 
 with the flash of that white arm, I started after 
 her at a leisurely pace. Here, then, out of the 
 wonderful night, and in this silent city, was 
 some adventure quite to my liking. The 
 thought of my inn fled forthwith, and though 
 the hour was now late I felt my spirit rise 
 freshly at this promise of romance. The lights 
 were twinkling faintly in heaven, and in that 
 soft gloaming I could see her white robes 
 flitting before me in the dusk. So set was I 
 in speculation upon the drift of my strange 
 encounter that I did not particularly remark 
 
 159
 
 i6o AKBAR ALTS COURTYARD 
 
 the direction of our course. It ran through 
 narrow streets unknown to me, and into the 
 hinder parts of the city, where the sultry air 
 hung a little cooler, owing, doubtless, to the 
 neighbourhood of the bay, which here cut the 
 town in a heavy jag. Once or twice my guide, 
 as I could perceive, glanced over her shoulder 
 as though to discover if I were still pursuing ; 
 but in the main we continued as we had set 
 forth at a respectable distance, and with a 
 feint of independence. At length, in some 
 quiet street, she halted before a massive gate 
 which seemed to give access to a large and 
 handsome house. But even so I had no speech 
 with her, for as I hurried forward to inquire my 
 mission she disappeared into the darkness of 
 the open gateway, and I caught but a flying 
 glimpse of her. I should have gained little, it 
 appeared, by a closer view, for she was heavily 
 veiled ; but at least I had seen she was of a 
 lithe and youthful figure. 
 
 At the door I stood for a second irresolute. 
 The suspicion that I had been misguided into 
 a common intrigue rose frankly in my mind, 
 but the next moment I discharged it and 
 plunged into the blackness of the entrance. A
 
 AKBAR ALTS COURTYARD 161 
 
 passage of some sort, along which I groped, 
 led into a spacious room lighted very partially 
 by a swinging lamp. My guide had vanished, 
 and I was the solitary tenant of a magnificent 
 chamber. It was well-nigh bare of furniture, 
 but most handsomely designed and decorated. 
 Though the light was shed so faintly I could 
 still make out the noble proportions of the 
 pillars which sustained the ceiling, and were 
 carven into strange erotic figures. Somewhere 
 from the mistiness beyond I caught the plash 
 of falling water, and a pleasant coolness per- 
 vaded the atmosphere. The floor, which was 
 bare save for a square of carpet in the centre, 
 was of mosaic work in red and silver, and 
 seemed to my eyes prodigiously fine. The 
 whole aspect of the place was witness to an 
 owner of extreme wealth. 
 
 I had waited some time, impatient after my 
 observations were over, but still a good deal 
 curious, when a noise of slippered feet fell softly 
 on my ears. Was it, I wondered, my fair guide 
 returning to explain her odd invitation? A 
 moment more, and I was disappointed by the 
 entrance through the pillared corridor of an old 
 man, dressed in the loose robe worn by the better 
 L
 
 162 AKBAR ALTS COURTYARD 
 
 classes in those parts. He advanced to the 
 patch of carpet, made me a low bow, and 
 squatted carefully upon the floor, motioning me 
 to do likewise. I obeyed his gesture, crossing 
 my legs as comfortably as I was able after his 
 own fashion, and we regarded each other for a 
 while in silence. Then suddenly he clapped 
 his hands, and at the sound there entered a tall 
 black with coffee and narghiles, which he 
 placed upon two dwarf tables at our elbows. 
 When he had withdrawn, the old man, with 
 another salaam of extreme courtesy, handed 
 me a pipe, and by his example invited me to 
 the coffee. We smoked and sipped without a 
 word. This entertainment lasted but a brief 
 time briefer, indeed, than accords with the 
 customs of the country. It was plain he was 
 in haste, and (I judged) equally plain he had 
 something upon his mind. For all his dignity 
 he looked troubled, and a nervous twitching 
 showed upon his face ; his hand trembled as he 
 lifted his cup. 
 
 ' I think, sir/ said I at last, ' you owe me 
 some explanation of this visit. I was conducted 
 to your door by an emissary from your house- 
 hold, and am here awaiting your pleasure,'
 
 AKBAR ALTS COURTYARD 163 
 
 He laid his pipe upon the table and stroked 
 his white beard. 
 
 ' Sir,' said he, ' you are a stranger in this city, 
 and a Giaour, but you are known to the faithful. 
 I, at least, my son, have heard of you in the 
 bazaars. You are wise ; I am foolish. When 
 a disease arises you go forth and destroy it 
 with your arts. I, my son,' he said mournfully, 
 ' I shut up my house and bow my head.' 
 
 ' There is some one ill ? ' I asked, my romance 
 flitting like a dream o' nights. 
 
 He assented with a gesture. 
 
 '111!' he exclaimed; 'ah, smitten with a 
 thousand devils ! I cannot keep silence. The 
 light of my eyes is fading. My dove, the apple 
 of my heart, is in the grip of a mortal disease. 
 How can I bow my head to Allah, my son ? ' 
 
 He leaned his face upon his hands, and his 
 frail old body shook with emotion. The sight 
 of such a demonstration in one of so impassive 
 a race and so resigned a creed stirred my 
 surprise. I think he noticed it, for when he 
 lifted his head again he took a puff at his pipe 
 and resumed more calmly. 
 
 'You will wonder, my son,' he continued, 
 4 that I, who am of the faithful, should intrust
 
 164 AKBAR ALTS COURTYARD 
 
 you, a Giaour, with my secret grief. But it is 
 the will of Allah. I dreamed a dream. Allah 
 is good. It shall be as he wills it.' 
 
 I made a movement to rise, and be done 
 with what seemed merely a duty of my lost 
 profession. 
 
 ' Allah's will be done/ I said ; ' if it be urgent, 
 let me see this sick man.' 
 
 He raised his hand as though to deprecate 
 my haste ; his anxiety had made him prompt, 
 but it was still the promptness of the Oriental 
 only. 
 
 ' Listen, my son,' he said. ' I am a merchant 
 of this city, Akbar Ali by name, and a faithful 
 servant of our Prophet, whose name be blessed. 
 From my youth up I have lived among riches, 
 and behold, if wealth can buy back my beloved 
 from death I will pour out my gold as water.' 
 He leaned forward to me ; his face stiffened ; 
 suspicion, cunning, and greed lurked in his 
 eyes. 'The presence of the Giaour in my 
 household and among my women is a taint for 
 ever; but this, too, shall be as Allah wills. 
 You shall see her stretched upon the couch, 
 veiled, and sleeping to her death. This shall 
 you do in the presence of my slaves, who will
 
 AKBAR ALTS COURTYARD 165 
 
 bear me a report of all things. Go now, I 
 beseech you, and heal her.' 
 
 He clapped his hands three times, and the 
 black stole noiselessly out of the twilight. To 
 him the merchant spoke in an undertone, and 
 the slave with a bow begged me to follow him. 
 From the corridor we passed into a large court- 
 yard, open to the sky, and thence into a passage 
 through the left wing of the house. Presently 
 we arrived at a small antechamber, in which 
 the black threw off his slippers, and whence, 
 with his finger at his lips as for silence, he 
 passed into a lofty room that overlooked part 
 of the courtyard. It was lighted, as the other 
 had been, by a swinging lamp, and was fur- 
 nished luxuriously. Innumerable signs be- 
 trayed the sex of its inhabitant, and had these 
 been wanting, the prime fact lay there and 
 stared me in the face. The couch upon which 
 she was recumbent was very richly embroidered, 
 like all else in the room, and at our entrance 
 she made no movement, but remained supine 
 and with a certain rigidity beneath her wrap- 
 pings. The lamp illumined her fully, and I 
 could perceive the bosom heaving slowly, but 
 of face or body nought was visible. Save this
 
 166 AKBAR ALTS COURTYARD 
 
 indication of life it might have been some 
 profusion of fine garments upon which I was 
 gazing. 
 
 'This will never do,' said I to myself; and 
 forthwith turned on the black. 'You must 
 remove these coverings,' I said. 
 
 He looked at me quickly, salaamed, and 
 stamped smartly on the floor. In an in- 
 stant from everywhere about the room, as it 
 seemed to me, issued a stream of women, all 
 veiled and mute, who approached the couch 
 like spectres. As my eyes went round the 
 circle they lighted upon one a little apart from 
 her fellows, whose slender body and gracious 
 bearing I thought I recognised for those of my 
 fair guide in the streets. I pointed to the 
 couch. 
 
 ' Let me see the face of your mistress,' said I. 
 
 There was a faint murmur from the bevy, 
 but I repeated my request with authority. 
 
 ' Would you have the Light of your master's 
 life go out?' I said. 'Remove the veil. It is 
 I that hold the keys of her life. These be my 
 orders.' 
 
 At that one came stealthily forward and 
 withdrew the heavy veil from before the face
 
 AKBAR ALI'S COURTYARD 167 
 
 of my patient. Instantly a melancholy wail 
 went round the waitmg maidens. I stooped 
 and looked into two shining eyes, black and 
 lustrous as a night of stars. The face was 
 beautiful, but pallid, and the jaw was tightly 
 clenched ; the lashes rose stirless, as the eyes 
 stared into mine. A little shiver sprang up 
 at the shoulders, and I traced its course through 
 the drapery downwards along the contour of 
 her body. I turned to the group of girls, some 
 of whom, in their excitement, had discarded 
 their veils. 
 
 ' What is this sickness of your mistress ? ' I 
 asked. 
 
 Then broke out at once a soft babble of 
 liquid sounds, as one and all, with the incoher- 
 ence of their kind, made answer together. The 
 multitude of those silver voices rained confusion 
 upon me, and with an impatient gesture I bade 
 them begone. They vanished, I know not how, 
 through the silken hangings about the walls, 
 but as the last was flitting after her companions 
 I stopped her. She turned to me. The face 
 was still shrouded, but the whole aspect of 
 the draped figure was familiar. I felt sure this 
 was my stranger of the streets.
 
 168 AKBAR ALI' ; S COURTYARD 
 
 'Come,' said I, 'little one, tell me of this 
 sickness/ 
 
 She stood near by the couch from which 
 those prostrate eyes were still fixed upon me, 
 and her soft voice rang very sweetly in my 
 ears. 
 
 ' Sir,' said she, ' I am a maid from the distant 
 mountains, and have little knowledge. But the 
 wife of my lord, my mistress, has been stricken 
 sorely these many weeks. Day by day she 
 lies upon the couch as you now see her, neither 
 eating nor drinking, only staring with wide 
 eyes. Night by night do the devils take her 
 out into the courtyard, where she wanders alone 
 in her madness. Nothing avails against the 
 evil. Alas ! the rose of the garden is fading 
 away.' 
 
 She wrung her hands and appeared to weep 
 behind her veil ; and, shooting an accidental 
 glance at the pale face on the pillows, I caught 
 a gleam of the white teeth, a flash of the black 
 eyes, and (I thought) a tiny smile, something 
 mocking and malevolent. I bent down and 
 examined my patient carefully. If here was 
 madness there were a few symptoms patent 
 now ; if here was an somnambulist or a cata-
 
 AKBAR ALTS COURTYARD 169 
 
 leptic she showed no visible sign of ailment. 
 Indeed, one thing was plain from my scrutiny, 
 that Akbar Ali must look deeper for the mys- 
 tery than any physical ill ; for I would be sworn 
 that I recognised every appearance of impos- 
 ture in my invalid. The body was warm with 
 generous life, the pulse as full as that of a 
 healthy child, and the breath flowed naturally, 
 with no trace of discomfort ; of malady there 
 was not the slightest evidence. The girl 
 covered up the face, and I left the chamber 
 in wonder. I think I was relieved to find that 
 my adventure was to exact more of me than 
 a mere professional attendance. When I sought 
 Akbar's presence I had resolved what conduct 
 to adopt in this case. I would not throw it 
 up as outside my skill ; indeed, I was already 
 very curious and anxious at all hazards to 
 pursue my inquiry to any end. And had there 
 been any doubt in my mind as to my proper 
 behaviour, Akbar himself would have confirmed 
 my determination. I did but hint the illness 
 was trifling and might not require my services, 
 when he sprang into a passion of entreaty that 
 I should stay and relieve it, cried that his 
 pearl was slipping from him ; and, when I still
 
 1 70 AKBAR ALTS COURTYARD 
 
 seemed to hesitate, conducted himself as a man 
 frantic with gloomy fears, offering me the 
 utmost reward I should name. It was certain 
 that he was utterly devoted to his wife ; certain, 
 also, that he had been thoroughly frightened 
 by her feint of insanity. 
 
 ' Well,' said I, as though with reluctance, 
 ' I will undertake her cure upon two conditions 
 my orders must be obeyed, and I must be 
 free of the house.' 
 
 He accepted the terms with an alacrity from 
 which I might estimate his anxiety. It was a 
 very barbarous and novel experiment to place 
 a Giaour in practical control of his household, 
 but he was willing to go any length in the 
 moment of his terror. 
 
 'Then/ said I, 'my first demand is a room 
 to myself. Give me a chamber to which I 
 shall have access day and night.' 
 
 He summoned the black and gave him some 
 instructions, and I found myself at once in the 
 possession of a comfortable apartment over- 
 looking the courtyard, and in the wing of 
 the buildings remote from the quarters of the 
 women. 
 
 Next day I visited my mock-patient again,
 
 AKBAR ALTS COURTYARD 171 
 
 and was the more convinced of her imposture. 
 She was as well as I was myself, and far 
 healthier than the shaking old man, her lord 
 and master. She was, beyond question, an 
 exceedingly handsome woman, young and 
 vigorous, and if ever I saw passion in any eyes, 
 it was in hers as she lay supine and seemingly 
 unconscious, staring up into my face with great 
 round orbs, impudent and unashamed. I could 
 almost think that she enjoyed the novelty of 
 thus confronting the Feringhi with her naked 
 face. Her maid for it was my graceful guide 
 that waited upon us declared she took no 
 food ; but this idea was preposterous, and I was 
 pretty sure she had an excellent appetite, and 
 ate like a healthy human being. I had no 
 doubt but that there was some sort of con- 
 spiracy among her women to hoodwink the 
 husband, but the reason for it I had yet to 
 discover. My resolution to solve the problem 
 was heightened by an incident that befell after 
 I had left the room. For I was no sooner in 
 the courtyard than I was attracted by the noise 
 of a falling stool, and, glancing quickly back, 
 I caught one glimpse of two black mocking eyes 
 as they vanished from the window behind me.
 
 i;2 AKBAR ALTS COURTYARD 
 
 In the evening I visited the house again, and 
 took up my quarters in my private chamber. 
 A little later I perceived the girl from the 
 mountains drawing water in the courtyard, and 
 I strolled out and met her. Her veil irritated 
 me, for it pleased me to fancy that behind its 
 soft meshes was hidden a face as beautiful as 
 her gait and figure. One may fall in love with 
 well-nigh any attribute of a woman, provided 
 the others make no interference, and I have 
 often been charmed by some miracle of moving 
 grace, until a sudden turn of the head has 
 thrown the features into view, and the picture 
 has fallen into ill proportions. But of Zuleika 
 (for such I found was her name), who kept 
 her plainness or her beauty private, I had no 
 thoughts but were pleasant and romantic. Her 
 eyes, which were deep brown, peeped over the 
 silk at me, but gave no clue to the rest of her 
 features. She was from a remote part of the 
 country, and came of a house of chieftains ; 
 but, having fallen into the hands of brigands 
 in some raid upon her father's village, had 
 passed into slavery, an orphan of very tender 
 years. She had subsequently been purchased 
 by Akbar to gratify Sulima my patient, as it
 
 AKBAR ALTS COURTYARD 173 
 
 appeared whose caprice it was to have about 
 her person one of noble birth. She was com- 
 municative enough about her own fortunes, which 
 she related in her sweet, soft voice ; but when 
 I questioned her as to her mistress she was at 
 once overtaken by agitation and embarrass- 
 ment. If she did not actually know Sulima's 
 secret (which I suspected), she had clearly an 
 inkling of it, but with the fidelity of her calling 
 she kept her suspicions to herself, repeating her 
 original tale of lamentable illness. And that 
 in its superficial facts at least the story was 
 true I had proof that night Somewhere about 
 nine o'clock, and in the midst of a great silence, 
 there sprang up a loud wailing in the court- 
 yard. Hurrying out, I saw, under the light of 
 the rising moon, the figure of a woman march- 
 ing round the square and beating her breasts 
 with her hands. Scattered about at a little 
 distance stood a number of other figures, that 
 wept and wrung their hands, and called upon 
 Allah to rid their mistress, the Queen of 
 Beauty, of this sevenfold devil that was robbing 
 her of sense and life. As I watched her 
 curiously from the doorway I felt a grip upon 
 my arm, and the stricken face of old Akbar
 
 174 AKBAR ALTS COURTYARD 
 
 appeared at my shoulder. He was trembling 
 with alarm. 
 
 ' Do you see ? ' he cried excitedly, ' the 
 devils are killing her. My pearl, my pearl ! 
 Mahmoud, deliver us ! Sir, this is what, under 
 Allah's mercy, you shall cure. Ten thousand for- 
 tunes shall be yours if you will lay these devils.' 
 
 I gave him some words of comfort and dis- 
 missed him to his room. 
 
 ' I will give myself a week,' I said, ' in which 
 to destroy the devils. If at the end of that 
 time she has still the malady, you may rank 
 me as a common charlatan.' 
 
 He was quieted by my confidence, and 
 tottered off muttering prayers and curses in 
 alternation. 
 
 Soon the wailing died away, and the figure 
 sank upon the stones of the courtyard, which 
 seemed a signal for the disappearance of the 
 maidens. They vanished simultaneously, and 
 Sulima, her head bowed upon the flags, alone 
 remained under the moon. Presently she rose, 
 and walking vacantly, melted into the darkness 
 of the women's wing. I hastened across the 
 courtyard, but she was already gone ; and 
 silence once more pervaded the house.
 
 AKBAR ALTS COURTYARD 175 
 
 ' Here,' I thought, ' begins the mystery, and 
 this must be my point of departure for its 
 solution.' 
 
 The next day was appallingly hot ; the sun 
 struck into the white courtyard with the glare 
 of a tiger, and the house of Akbar AH was 
 wrapt in slumber. No one ventured out, and 
 after a perfunctory visit to Sulima I myself 
 yielded to the languor of the air and took a 
 noontide siesta. But later in the afternoon I 
 threw off my lethargy and went out into the 
 open. It seemed to me that now, if ever, was 
 my chance of exploration ; when no one was 
 about to interfere with me, or to spy upon my 
 actions. I entered the quarters of the women, 
 and wandered through the rooms unchallenged. 
 Now and then a prostrate figure upon a couch 
 met my eye, but the place was singularly dead, 
 and my slippered feet made no noise sufficient 
 to arouse the dreamers. In my round I made 
 but one discovery, and for that I forgave Sulima 
 all my tedious hours of waiting. In one of the 
 chambers I came upon the sleeping form of 
 Zuleika, and she was unveiled. At the first 
 sight of her face I fell back astonished, and 
 then made an eager movement as though at
 
 176 AKBAR ALTS COURTYARD 
 
 once to take possession of it. I think it was 
 the loveliest God has ever designed for poor 
 humanity ; certainly it outstripped the creations 
 of my nimble imagination as much as those 
 had hitherto surpassed my experience. I had 
 never dreamed of such a face, so perfectly 
 fashioned, so exquisitely coloured, so soft and 
 radiant with beauty. In an instant it shot 
 home into my heart, and I have the picture of 
 that prostrate loveliness to-day as clear as the 
 reality of that enchanted moment. Passion 
 broke boisterously into my soul, and my blood 
 went leaping through my body as though I 
 had suddenly been transfigured by some divine 
 glory ; the exhilaration of the feeling was like 
 nothing else on earth. I was drawn down to 
 that recumbent face with an attraction well- 
 nigh irresistible. I thank Heaven I stopped 
 short of the sacrilege in my thoughts. Instead, 
 I wrenched myself away and remained gazing 
 upon her from a distance ; and then, with a 
 quick inspiration, tearing the golden ring from 
 my finger, I stealthily slipped it upon her left 
 hand. It was an impudent action, but I declare 
 I had no thought of liberty, much less of insult. 
 It was almost with childish glee that I noted
 
 AKBAR ALTS COURTYARD 177 
 
 the effect of the transference, and then, fearing 
 lest better counsel should prevail over my im- 
 pulse, I fled precipitately from the room. 
 
 That evening Sulima went through her per- 
 formance in the courtyard as before, and, as 
 before, retired into the blackness of the passages 
 beyond. This time I was upon the alert, and 
 followed almost at her heels ; but, in spite of 
 my precautions, I lost her somewhere in those 
 intricate and gloomy mazes. She vanished 
 soundlessly, and I was left to grope my way as 
 best I might back through the ill-lit rooms into 
 the freer air of the night. I was chagrined at 
 my failure, and saw plainly that I must take a 
 more heroic way with my impostor. 
 
 All the next day I saw no sign of Zuleika ; 
 hour after hour I sat watching the courtyard 
 from my couch ; but she did not appear, and 
 when, restless and ill at ease (for it was come to 
 that), I paid two visits to Sulima in the hope 
 of finding her, my mission was still fruitless 
 another maid attended on her mistress. By the 
 evening I gave up in despair, and turned my 
 thoughts sadly upon the construction of a plot 
 to track the mock-invalid. 
 
 As was his custom, the black brought me 
 M
 
 i;8 AKBAR ALI'S COURTYARD 
 
 some coffee at the fall of night, set it upon the 
 inlaid stool by my couch, and retired with a 
 salaam. For some time I smoked in peace, 
 revolving my plan. The lamp had remained 
 unlit, and the room was now tolerably obscure, 
 but the stool rose out of the gloom, a dim lump 
 of whiteness. As I meditated I must have 
 closed my eyes, and fallen drowsy, for suddenly 
 I was startled by a soft sound as of breathing 
 at my elbow, and this was followed immediately 
 by a slight crash. I was up in a moment, and 
 as I rose a white-clad figure melted softly into 
 the mysteries about the doorway. The chamber 
 was profoundly silent. I got off my couch, lit 
 my lamp, and found my cup upset, and my 
 coffee spilt to the dregs. To this I paid little 
 heed, for my glance passed at once from the 
 disaster to a ring that lay beside the sprawling 
 cup upon the stool. It was that which I had 
 so audaciously bestowed upon Zuleika's finger. 
 A pang shot through me, for I perceived that 
 my gift had been rejected, my overtures had 
 been denied, and my hopes were broken. By 
 this return I was taught a lesson in manners ; 
 she had put me in my proper place ; her loveli- 
 ness was not for me, and I must know it from
 
 AKBAR ALI'S COURTYARD 179 
 
 the outset. These dismal reflections occupied 
 me for some while, and the picture of Zuleika, 
 as I had seen her in her sleep, stabbed me as it 
 had been a knife. A sort of vague bitterness 
 seized upon me. The East would have nothing 
 to do with the West. 
 
 ' At least,' I said, with a moody attempt at 
 nonchalance, ' at least I 'm not to be cheated of 
 my coffee ' ; and forthwith I clapped my hands 
 for the black. 
 
 He entered, and at sight of me I thought he 
 started. I pointed to the overturned cup, from 
 which the liquid was dripping to the floor. 
 Instantly he had a fit of trembling, and fell 
 upon his knees, praying for his life and pro- 
 testing his innocence. It was his order, he 
 explained with chattering teeth. For a moment 
 I was puzzled at the exhibition of genuine 
 terror, and then, enlightened by a quick sus- 
 picion, I stooped and examined the dregs of 
 the coffee. The lees were shot with horrid 
 green streaks. Whether it had been poisoned 
 or merely drugged, I never knew, but at 
 once I understood the significance of the 
 design. 
 
 * This is your mistress's work ! ' I said sternly.
 
 i8o AKBAR ALTS COURTYARD 
 
 ' Dog, I will have you sliced in pieces and 
 dropped into the bay for sharks to eat ! ' 
 
 He still asserted his innocence with manifest 
 alarm. 
 
 ' You shall learn,' I continued, ' that I am not 
 to be trifled with. Bring me another cup.' 
 
 He obeyed with alacrity, and on his return I 
 took it from his hands. 
 
 ' Drink,' I said ; ' drink, dog from the deserts, 
 or I will force it down your throat' 
 
 He sipped the coffee without hesitation, and, 
 a look in his face convincing me, I snatched it 
 from him and drained it at a draught. 
 
 ' And now,' I continued, ' you shall await my 
 return in security, monkeyface.' 
 
 He eyed me fearfully as I bound his hands 
 with my handkerchief, but was in too great a 
 state of trepidation to resist. Taking a curved 
 dagger from the wall, I passed out and secured 
 the door behind me. I was now on the eve of 
 my adventure. On this night it was clear that 
 Sulima was to undertake whatever enterprise 
 she had in her mind, and (as she imagined) she 
 would be free of the Giaour's eyes. I waited 
 on the threshold of the corridor that com- 
 municated with the courtyard.
 
 AKBAR ALI'S COURTYARD 181 
 
 It was not long ere I perceived her issue from 
 her room into the square. She went through 
 her counterfeit of madness with her customary 
 skill, but as it was not played for my benefit, 
 the act was briefer than usual. Then she made 
 off towards the lower part of the yard, and I 
 followed stealthily in the shadows. Having no 
 fear of pursuit, she went leisurely enough, and 
 I found no difficulty in keeping her in sight. 
 We entered a dark doorway, traversed a suc- 
 cession of passages noiselessly, and presently 
 came into a small room, barely lighted, in the 
 centre of which she halted and stooped to the 
 floor. I shrank into the hangings about the 
 entrance and watched her. She put her face 
 well-nigh to the stone, and murmured softly 
 
 ' Little slave,' she said, ' open ! It is the Star 
 of Evening.' 
 
 At the words a thin rumble fell on my ear, 
 a slab of stone slid gently back, and a gap 
 yawned slowly in the floor. Into this Sulima 
 descended, and as her head sank below the level 
 of the hole, the stone leisurely stole out of its 
 socket and crept over the aperture. It was the 
 crisis of my adventure. Should that lid close 
 upon the crevice, I was shut off for ever from
 
 182 AKBAR ALTS COURTYARD 
 
 my quarry, and must needs retreat impotently to 
 my bed. I took the decision in a moment, and 
 stepping lightly forward thrust the tip of my 
 dagger into the vanishing slit. The stone met 
 the steel and rested, and to my joy there was 
 no click of a latch. Thus I stood impatiently 
 for some minutes, in fear lest my action had 
 been detected ; but as nothing happened I bent 
 low, and, inserting my fingers in the crack, 
 pulled at the lid with all my strength. Gradu- 
 ally it yielded, and, sliding with a soft, grating 
 sound, disclosed a square black patch of space. 
 After a momentary hesitation I dropped my 
 feet into this and hit upon a ledge, which 
 proved to be the topmost step in a stone stair- 
 way. I descended quietly, and at the bottom 
 of the flight found myself in a passage of 
 some sort. Along this I felt my way until 
 at length I burst out into a lighted corridor, 
 supported on either side by pillars. When I 
 had reached the end of this, I stumbled upon 
 another staircase which curved upwards and 
 finished before a heavy curtain. And here, 
 cautiously peering through a chink, I perceived 
 that I was on the threshold of a large chamber. 
 It was quite bare and untenanted, and at the
 
 AKBAR ALI'S COURTYARD 183 
 
 further side another curtained doorway gave 
 entrance to a small and very dark antechamber. 
 When I had got so far I could hear from some- 
 where in the darkness the sound of murmuring 
 voices, and towards these I groped my way. I 
 now discovered that the antechamber was but 
 an alcove to a more spacious room from which 
 it was shut off by a mass of silken hangings. 
 Through these I peeped, and my eyes alighted 
 on Sulima. 
 
 The secret was out at last. The room before 
 me was daintily furnished, after a sensuous 
 Oriental fashion, and upon one of the couches 
 in the centre sat my patient, clinging about her 
 lover's neck. He was a young man, tall and 
 dark, and, to judge by his face, of fierce emo- 
 tions. This was striking enough, and even 
 handsome after a barbaric pattern. A jewelled 
 sword hung by his side, and he seemed from 
 his dress and his bearing to be a soldier indeed, 
 one of high authority at the Court, I guessed. 
 He caressed her with many endearments, and I 
 think I never saw a greater abandonment to 
 passion marked upon any woman's face. She 
 was whispering softly in his ear, but not so softly 
 that I could not catch something of her speech.
 
 184 AKBAR ALTS COURTYARD 
 
 'They set a watch upon me, beloved,' she 
 murmured, ' but I was strong in my love ; I 
 was not to be chained. The Evening Star 
 shall rise whatever be their poor tricks. O my 
 beloved, I love thee ! ' 
 
 Her cooing grew too inarticulate for my ears, 
 and presently she broke into a melodious laugh. 
 
 ' I have cheated them, heart of me. The 
 fool, my husband, is distraught with terrors for 
 my health. He thinks me mad, and mad I am 
 for love of thee. He set the Giaour to heal 
 me; but the Giaour was wise and frowned 
 upon me ; and another moth is shrivelled and 
 gone. Such and such is the fate of those that 
 would cross me and my beloved ! ' 
 
 As I stood listening, I know not through 
 what clumsiness of movement, my dagger 
 dropped from my hand and clattered on the 
 stone floor. The man seized his sword and 
 jumped to his feet, and Sulima, with a cry of 
 alarm, clung to his arm. And then, in recovering 
 my weapon, I must needs tread awkwardly upon 
 the curtain, and, tripping myself, fall heavily to 
 my knees. Instantly the man ran forward with 
 his raised weapon, while Sulima, terror in her 
 eyes, burst through the hangings with a shriek,
 
 AKBAR ALTS COURlYARD 185 
 
 and, rushing across the antechamber, fled out 
 of sight. I had scarce time to notice this out 
 of the tail of my eye when my enemy was 
 upon me. I stepped back into the darkness, and 
 saw him break through the curtain. I heard 
 his sword singing as he swept it blindly about 
 him, and then a clamp of feet made for me. I 
 cannot tell by what miracle his weapon missed 
 me ; it is possible he had no notion of my 
 position, and was merely coming at a venture ; 
 for the curtains had fallen to, and the alcove 
 was pitch dark. Even so it is a mystery that I 
 should have escaped the circles of his sword. 
 But the bare fact is that as I instinctively held 
 my dagger at arm's-length before me, by way 
 of protection, he ran upon it. I had a sudden 
 shock as his body struck the point, and then 
 felt something give ; a slight groan followed, 
 the weapon was jerked from my hand, and there 
 was the dull sound of a falling body. The 
 affair was over in a moment, and with little 
 noise ; and I stood by the side of the dead 
 man, bewildered and unnerved. I must have 
 remained thus for some minutes, for I was 
 aroused from my stupefaction by a whisper out 
 of the surrounding quiet.
 
 186 AKBAR ALTS COURTYARD 
 
 ' You must go at once,' it said. ' Mustapha 
 is awaking from his sleep. What is this you 
 have done ? Oh ! you will be slain ! you will 
 be slain ! ' 
 
 The voice trembled with tears, and though 
 I could make out nothing in the darkness, I 
 recognised it in an instant for Zuleika's. I put 
 out my hands, and, happening upon her, drew 
 her into the lighted room beyond. 
 
 ' How did you come here ? ' I asked. ' What 
 is this place ? ' 
 
 Her lovely face, frightened and wonderstruck 
 as it was, dropped suddenly upon her bosom. 
 
 ' What is this place ? ' I repeated. She raised 
 her head quickly and looked at me tearfully ; she 
 put an arm towards me in the utmost agitation. 
 
 4 You must go,' she cried ; ' you will be killed, 
 
 and I .' She put her hands to her face and 
 
 wept. 
 
 A strong emotion surged through me. I 
 took her hand again. 
 
 'I will not go,' I said, 'until you have answered 
 my questions. Why are you here ? ' 
 
 ' I came,' she whispered, ' to warn you. I 
 watched you enter the pit ; I followed you. I 
 have been at your heels all the way.'
 
 AKBAR ALTS COURTYARD 187 
 
 I was illumined by a flash of intelligence. 
 
 * And the coffee,' I asked breathlessly, ' what 
 of that ? ' 
 
 She made no answer. 
 
 'It was you saved me, then,' I continued. 
 4 You knew. Alas ! dear one, why did you 
 return me the ring ? Of what use is my life 
 without you ? My beloved, why are you here ? ' 
 
 I drew her towards me ; she looked up with 
 her wide and shining eyes. 
 
 ' Give it me back,' she murmured. ' I left it 
 for a sign. Give it back to me.' 
 
 In an ecstasy at her unexpected words I 
 slipped it off my finger upon hers, and put my 
 arms about her. She clung close, and I kissed 
 her from my soul. Upon the very spot which 
 a few moments before had been the scene of the 
 illicit passions of Sulima and the hapless dead, 
 there we exchanged the mutual ardours of our 
 pure affection. 
 
 ' My beloved,' I said, ' light of my life, my 
 pearl, I love you ! ' 
 
 Zuleika sighed, and then hastily withdrew 
 herself from me. 
 
 ' But you must go,' she cried ; ' my heart beats 
 a warning. I hear the voice of my own heart
 
 i88 AKBAR ALTS COURTYARD 
 
 talking. O my beloved, and my lord, you 
 must fly ! Mustapha is at the door, and, behold, 
 the sleep is lifting from his eyelids. Come.' 
 
 I followed her to the doorway of the big 
 chamber that led upon the stairway. 
 
 ' Hush ! ' she whispered, pointing with her 
 finger ; and there, upon the very margin of the 
 room, squat against the curtain that defended 
 the stairway, I perceived what seemed to me at 
 the first glance a monstrous toad. 
 
 ' It is Mustapha,' she explained, ' step lightly.' 
 And, sure enough, when we reached the object, 
 which was rolling uneasily in its slumber, and 
 breathing stertorously, my eyes fell on the most 
 horrid and grotesque black dwarf that may be 
 conceived. It lay in a misshapen lump, like 
 nothing earthly, and its hideous appearance, 
 together with the ugly noises it was making, 
 made me shudder and shrink as from a species 
 of devil. As we passed, its heavy-lidded eyes, 
 sodden with opium or hasheesh, fell open and 
 stared at us without intelligence. Once in 
 the corridor, I breathed without alarm, and we 
 began to move between the pillars by the aid 
 of the dim light. I now saw that the place we 
 were traversing extended much further upon
 
 AKBAR ALTS COURTYARD 189 
 
 either side than I had previously imagined. 
 Indeed, it seemed to be a vault of considerable 
 dimensions, and the columns that supported 
 it ran off into the darkness of the remoter 
 parts, from which they peeped like a row of 
 stationary ghosts. 
 
 When we had got about halfway along this 
 Zuleika halted, and put her hand out to detain 
 me. 
 
 ' There is something beyond,' she whispered. 
 ' Rest, beloved, and I will go forward.' 
 
 I protested against this rashness, but she 
 enjoined upon me silence, murmuring, ' I have 
 no fears. I am safe, jewel of my eyes. Here I 
 have freedom to come and go.' 
 
 She left me, fading imperceptibly from my 
 eyes, and I waited, a prey to anxiety. The 
 sound of a low voice reached me from the 
 distance, a tiny cry followed ; and in high 
 agitation I ran forward, fearing for her safety. 
 But at that moment a form glided into view, 
 and I stepped swiftly to it. I seized her hand. 
 
 'Zuleika/ I said. 
 
 Instantly the figure started back, trembling 
 under my touch ; and, looking closer, I saw 
 that I had hold of Sulima. She winced from
 
 AKBAR ALTS COURTYARD 
 
 me as from a spirit ; evidently she had thought 
 me drugged or dead long since. 
 
 'The game is played out, my pretty mad- 
 woman,' I said sternly. ' Pray allow me to 
 conduct you to your husband's house.' 
 
 She stared at me, and at last spoke. 
 
 'So you have tracked me then, spy of a 
 Giaour,' she said scornfully. 'It is a generous 
 trade, this of yours. And now fly to your 
 master and obtain your reward.' 
 
 I tightened my grasp upon her. 
 
 ' I at least have not deceived a fond old 
 husband,' I answered. 'Go you, and Allah 
 pardon you, for this is the end of your trickery.' 
 
 She examined me attentively for a few 
 seconds. 
 
 ' You will tell him all ? ' she said. ' There is 
 the sack and the bay for me,' and she laughed 
 bitterly ; but in a moment changed her tone, 
 and, clasping my arm, fell into the most piteous 
 entreaties. ' Let me go,' she pleaded, ' O 
 Giaour, let me go. Hadst thou never a lover ? 
 Dost thou know what passion may be ? Thou 
 wouldst tie me to this silly dotard, with a brave 
 and noble lover waiting at my gate? And 
 thou thyself hast felt the pangs of love ! Ah !
 
 AKBAR ALTS COURTYARD 191 
 
 let me go! Return to thy country; turn thy 
 feet free of this city, and leave him to his 
 illusions and me to my happiness.' 
 
 ' I have no intention of betraying you,' I 
 replied. ' That is for the spy, with whom you 
 have compared me. But this sham is at an end.' 
 
 She looked at me craftily. 
 
 ' I swear it,' she said ; ' it is at an end if you 
 will keep my secret O wise and faithful ! I 
 swear by our Prophet it shall end.' 
 
 I said nothing, for suddenly I remembered 
 that she was in ignorance of the tragic conclusion 
 of her intrigue, and that what she protested she 
 would accomplish was already taken from her 
 hands by the act of death. 
 
 ' Come, then,' I said ; ' let us leave this place.' 
 
 She obeyed me, and together we completed 
 the remainder of the journey, and remounted 
 the stairs to the lid of the pit. It was at this 
 point that my thoughts flew to Zuleika. Where 
 had she gone? Whither had she fled? Re- 
 calling the voices I had heard in the corridor, I 
 turned to my companion. 
 
 ' Where is Zuleika ? ' I asked abruptly. She 
 gazed at me curiously, and then a smile danced 
 in her eyes.
 
 192 AKBAR ALTS COURTYARD 
 
 ' Ah ! ' she said, ' you have, then, a heart. 
 You will pity me ; you will not condemn. It 
 is to this I owe my pardon. O Giaour ! I 
 thank you.' 
 
 And, with a gleam of her liquid eyes, she 
 was gone. 
 
 In the morning I had an interview with 
 Akbar, who received me eagerly. 
 
 ' Akbar AH,' I said, ' last night did I accom- 
 plish the cure your heart desires. And look, 
 here is the course this disease will run. This 
 day once more will she lie prostrate among her 
 weeping maidens ; this night for the last time 
 the devils will seize her in the courtyard. But 
 they will then leave her. Two days she will shut 
 herself up, refusing food, and lamenting with a 
 great sorrow, till the weakness be past. But on 
 the third day she will rise and go about the 
 house as was her wont before the malady took 
 her. And thus you shall be free of your fears.' 
 
 The man was quite overcome with this 
 prospect, and displayed his joy in a way quite 
 unprecedented in my Oriental experience. He 
 shook my hand in both his own, and declared 
 he was under the deepest debt of gratitude, 
 called down the blessings of Allah and his
 
 AKBAR ALI'S COURTYARD 193 
 
 Prophet on my head, vowed he would intercede 
 for me in Paradise, and wound up by offering me 
 as much of his treasure as I should ask in 
 payment for my services. I bade him keep 
 calm, and part with nothing till my predictions 
 should be fulfilled ; and then, promising to 
 return on the third day, left him, and set forth 
 for my inn. I had hoped to see Zuleika before 
 I went, but the disappointment fed the pleasures 
 of anticipation. I should be three days without 
 sight or touch of her, and for this denial the 
 coming reunion would be all the sweeter. I 
 had made up my mind long since what reward 
 I would exact of the merchant, and during my 
 voluntary absence from the house the thought 
 of it kept me in the blithest temper. When I 
 arrived on the appointed day Akbar Ali gave 
 me an effusive welcome. My prophecy had 
 come true, he said ; Sulima was about her 
 quarters, as of old ; but she was in poor spirits, 
 and had been very melancholy ; her maids said 
 she would weep bitterly in the night. I ex- 
 plained that this would pass, and she would return 
 to him again ; and Akbar, nothing doubting, 
 drew me into the women's wing, and bade me 
 peep through the curtains and behold my cure. 
 N
 
 194 AKBAR ALTS COURTYARD 
 
 Sulima was sitting on her couch, her elbows 
 on a little ivory table, gazing before her at the 
 window. She turned at the sound of her 
 husband's whisper, and looked towards the 
 doorway. I think I have never seen a face so 
 stricken with sorrow, so marked and delineated 
 by utter grief. But the next second, as her 
 eyes caught mine, the whole aspect changed ; a 
 flash lit up her sad eyes, and every feature was 
 transfigured with a malignant passion of cruelty 
 and hate. I had no need to wonder if she 
 knew. 
 
 I put my demands before the merchant with- 
 out delay. 
 
 ' I ask one little thing,' I said, ' and you have 
 sworn by your Prophet that you will give 
 me my price. Neither gold nor jewels do I 
 want, but one thing only. Give me Zuleika, the 
 little mountain maiden that waits upon your 
 wife.' 
 
 He smiled all over his yellow face, and was 
 disposed in his good temper to be even facetious. 
 He stroked his beard and chuckled. 
 
 'Allah be my witness,' he answered. 'Yes, 
 you shall have her. For, O Giaour ! there is 
 but one way with Giaour or Believer, and that
 
 AKBAR ALTS COURTYARD 195 
 
 is a worthy way. You have given me back my 
 wife. It is meet I should give you yours.' 
 
 He clapped his hands, still chuckling, and 
 the black obeyed his summons. 
 
 ' Bring me,' said he, ' the slave-girl, Zuleika.' 
 The black hesitated. ' Quick,' he cried, ' or by 
 the beard of the Prophet ' 
 
 The black salaamed low. 
 
 ' Lord of our lives,' he answered, ' the girl is 
 not here.' 
 
 I sprang to my feet, and the stool crashed 
 upon the mosaic. The merchant lifted his hand. 
 
 'My son,' he said, 'be still.' And then to 
 the black : ' Thief of a slave and dog of an 
 alien pack, what is this story you bring me ? ' 
 
 The black bowed deeper. 
 
 ' It is true, O Presence ! ' he muttered. ' The 
 girl is gone. There is no trace of her within 
 the gates of this house. She vanished two 
 days ago.' 
 
 I stared at him, horrorstruck ; my body 
 trembled from head to foot For at that instant 
 I saw, not the impassive face of the black, nor 
 Akbar's wrathful countenance, but the fierce 
 flash of malignant hatred lighting up the eyes 
 of Sulima.
 
 THE LAST OF BLACKBEARD 
 
 THE sunlight streamed through the blue-gums 
 on the slant, and lay in waving patches upon 
 the carpet. The passion-flowers that mantled 
 the verandah nodded in the little airs of even- 
 tide, and the many scents of the bush suffused 
 the room. Frere eased his holland coat upon 
 his shoulders, and threw a glance out of the 
 open windows on the west. 
 
 ' Mutton,' said he, ' is preposterous to-night, 
 my dear.' 
 
 ' I gave you your choice,' returned his wife 
 playfully. ' Beef or mutton or pork our three 
 staples, Mr. Gray,' she added, turning to the 
 young man on her left 
 
 The cadet laughed. 
 
 * Cold roastbeef and salad,' he muttered. 
 
 'You're not in Paris, my boy,' said the 
 squatter. ' Mayonnaise and such things belong 
 to a different world than ours. There 's plenty 
 of food, but little variety here.' 
 
 196
 
 THE LAST OF BLACKBEARD 197 
 
 'It's a comfort to have learnt you're not 
 cannibals/ said the cadet. 'That's the pre- 
 valent opinion at home.' 
 
 The door creaked a little on its hinges, and 
 the manager looked up then down again. 
 
 'No, we're civilised to a point/ responded 
 Frere thoughtfully. 'The ladies will tell you 
 this is an error, but it 's a fact. Our barbarism 
 takes only the form of monotony and hospitality. 
 There's always a seat for a stranger in this 
 country.' 
 
 ' Glad to hear it.' 
 
 The door closed sharply ; all turned swiftly 
 from the table and beheld a man of middle 
 height, with a short black beard, standing in 
 the doorway. He was attired after the rough 
 bush habit, and wore a wide felt hat on the 
 back of his head. Frere started to his feet. 
 
 ' What the devil ' 
 
 The breeze blowing in the trellis of the 
 verandah opened a peep-hole for the dying 
 sun, and a beam fell sharply upon a nozzle 
 of steel. The squatter stopped and stared, 
 and the cadet and the manager did likewise. 
 
 * I 'm particularly peckish/ said the new- 
 comer, 'and there's a vacant seat beside the
 
 198 THE LAST OF BLACKBEARD 
 
 missis. Reserved for an honoured guest, I 
 s'pose,' he added with a grin ; and playing 
 ostentatiously with his weapon, he marched 
 round the table with the long stride of one 
 accustomed to the saddle. 
 
 'Who are you?' asked the cadet angrily, 
 staring in astonishment from the man to the 
 squatter, whose face had turned ashen. The 
 manager pulled him down. 
 
 'For God's sake, sit still,' he whispered. 
 'It's Blackbeard.' 
 
 The man, overhearing the tragic whisper, 
 grinned and nodded, ' A young man out from 
 England, I s'pose. Mister, your servant,' and 
 with his left hand he whipped his chair adroitly 
 to the table. Mrs. Frere shrank away, and 
 Gray made a sensible movement towards her. 
 Blackbeard stuck his arm upright upon the 
 board, and leaned his head upon the hand 
 that held the revolver. Grabbing his plate 
 with the other hand, he pushed it into the air 
 with an extravagant gesture of bravado. 
 
 ' Mutton '11 suit me to a /,' he said. ' Frere, 
 some mutton.' 
 
 The squatter's hands trembled a little ; his 
 eye wandered from the bushranger to his wife,
 
 THE LAST OF BLACKBEARD 199 
 
 and her sister, who was gazing with set eyes of 
 horror at the intruding apparition. He laughed 
 an uneasy laugh, and cut some meat. 
 
 ' I didn't know you were in these parts,' 
 he said nervously. 'They said you were up 
 Moolara way.' 
 
 ' Moolara 's played out,' said the bushranger. 
 1 But Frere 's always good for a poor devil.' 
 
 He laid his weapon on the table, and seizing 
 his knife and fork, began his meal. For some 
 time there was silence, and then the man spoke 
 again. 
 
 'You keep good sheep, Frere Esquire,' he 
 said. ' Half-bred Leicester, ain't it ? I thought 
 I knew the breed.' 
 
 Frere made no answer, but looked expec- 
 tantly at the door. 
 
 ' Damn it, don't let 's have an unsociable 
 meal,' said the man in aggrieved tones. ' Speak 
 up, Frere. You 're good enough on the 
 stump. The bully-faced Garrod never had a 
 tongue.' 
 
 He leered at the manager, who mumbled in 
 his beard. Frere looked at the door. 
 
 ' I suppose you 've managed this affair all 
 right,' he said presently. ' The men '
 
 200 THE LAST OF BLACKBEARD 
 
 ' Shut up in the barns, with Crusoe standing 
 guard/ broke in Blackbeard. ' I ain't the sort 
 to make a miss on the racket I Ve played so 
 long, mate. Got 'em all in a corral, with Crusoe's 
 lead to frighten 'em. My God/ he said, swell- 
 ing in his swagger, ' I 'd do any job of this sort 
 in half an hour with a boy behind me. Crusoe 
 and me 's fit for a stationful.' 
 
 Frere said nothing, but still glanced at the 
 door. The bushranger turned to the white girl 
 on his right, and mincing with his face, bobbed 
 his head. 
 
 ' Charming weather/ he asserted. ' A trifle 
 hot, but seasonable, seasonable.' 
 
 ' Very hot/ said Frere, pulling the girl's chair 
 towards him. ' Some more mutton ? ' 
 
 ' Thank ye, Frere. As you press me ' 
 
 The cadet, who had been struck dumb with 
 wonder and indignation, now made a movement, 
 but the manager, fearful of an accident, put 
 out his hand, and whispered, ' Don't move. 
 One of the hands will be here directly. He 's 
 been over to Forsyth. If he comes up the long 
 track Crusoe '11 miss him. Frere 's watching 
 the door.' 
 
 ' Now, young gimcrack, you Ve a voice/ said
 
 THE LAST OF BLACKBEARD 201 
 
 the stranger suddenly ; ' what 's your senti- 
 ments ? ' 
 
 ' You 're the blackest-looking ruffian I 've 
 seen in my day,' returned the cadet promptly. 
 
 Blackbeard laughed. ' It ain't exactly polite,' 
 he said. ' There 's heaps worse than me. I 'm 
 genteel in my own line, ain't I, ladies ? ' 
 
 He leered round the table, and Frere rose to 
 his feet. 
 
 ' Good heavens, man,' he cried, ' let the ladies 
 leave the room, at any rate.' 
 
 ' Sit down, Frere,' said the bushranger. ' Let 
 'em stop and see the play, you cruel chap. 
 It '11 be over directly.' 
 
 Frere sat down. 
 
 ' Well, well, let us go to business, then,' he 
 said impatiently. ' What do you want ? ' 
 
 Blackbeard sat back in his chair, and re- 
 garded his host carelessly. 
 
 ' If I 'd known you were so sensible, I 'd have 
 been here long ago,' he said. ' I won't cut you 
 down for the sake of the dinner and the ladies, 
 but I '11 take the blessed haul, minus ten per 
 cent, and a couple of horses, and the young 
 gimcrack's gold watch. I "m damn sure he 's 
 got a gold watch they all have when they
 
 202 THE LAST OF BLACKBEARD 
 
 come out from England and mine's gone 
 wrong.' 
 
 ' Then take it and go,' said Frere, whose eyes 
 suddenly lighted up. A sound came in from 
 the verandah ; Blackbeard made no movement, 
 but kept his keen eyes on his host, whose flurry 
 was now perceptible. The cadet turned, and 
 stared at the door, which creaked. The manager 
 eyed Blackbeard across the table. In another 
 moment there was a footstep, and the door 
 opened. Blackbeard did not rise. The new- 
 comer, a station hand, hot and dusty with travel, 
 broke into the room, then stopped with his eye 
 on the bushranger. There was a general move- 
 ment The new-comer backed to the half-open 
 door. 
 
 ' Don't go, mate/ cried Blackbeard. 
 
 ' Damn you, you 're copped,' cried the hand 
 in answer, taking the doorway at a stride. 
 
 Blackbeard raised his hand. ' By God, you 
 don't,' he said. There was a crack of a re- 
 volver, and the man staggered and fell halfway 
 across the threshold. 
 
 ' You accursed hound ! ' yelled the manager. 
 The ladies shrieked ; Frere darted forward, and 
 in a moment Gray had his hands at the bush-
 
 THE LAST OF BLACKBEARD 203 
 
 ranger's throat. The black barrel gleamed in 
 his face, in which the sulphur still fumed, and 
 he shrank away. 
 
 ' Remember, gentlemen, there are ladies 
 present,' said the bushranger sardonically. 'Sit 
 down and go on grubbing.' He walked to the 
 door, and bent over the fallen man. ' A bit of 
 poultice '11 do him right enough, and I '11 look 
 in on the road, and send a doctor from Moolara. 
 Very sorry, matey, but there ain't afterthoughts 
 in my profession.' 
 
 ' Out, you black scoundrel ! ' said Frere 
 fiercely. 
 
 ' Going, going, boss,' returned he ; ' but first 
 you and I do this business together.' 
 
 Frere threw down a purse with a gesture of 
 impatience. The bushranger scrutinised it and 
 winked. 
 
 ' I fancy I ain't come for this,' he said. ' Frere 
 Esquire paid a visit to his bank last week, and 
 said bank ain't empty. I ought to know the 
 size of a cashbox when I see it by this time.' 
 
 He indicated a bureau at the bottom of the 
 room. Frere laughed harshly. 
 
 'You're mighty smart, Blackboard. Why 
 didn't you take to politics ? '
 
 204 THE LAST OF BLACKBEARD 
 
 ' I would make a good Attorney-General, 
 Frere, wouldn't I ? ' 
 
 The squatter unlocked his bureau and took 
 out an iron box. 'Take it and go,' he said 
 irritably. 
 
 ' Hold on a bit ; my mount 's a bit groggy, 
 and I '11 take the liberty of borrowing a horse 
 from you, Frere. Just you come along and help 
 me choose him. I shall want a fast one to 
 get this blamed doctor for you. There's two 
 women,' he said, looking round, 'and a lame 
 
 man. They can look after him. I '11 take 
 
 No, sonny,' he said, with a grin at the cadet. 
 ' Hang it, I ain't come to being scared of a 
 new chum. Stop and take care of the women, 
 sonny ; we '11 manage the horses.' So saying, 
 he took Frere's arm with one hand, and Garrod's 
 with the other, and marched out between his 
 unwilling attendants. The door shut to 
 sharply. 
 
 As they vanished through the doorway there 
 was a moment's silence, and then Gray stepped 
 forward and pulled at the handle. 
 
 'Why, it's not locked,' he exclaimed in 
 surprise. 
 
 ' Oh, please don't go. Shut it again,' cried
 
 THE LAST OF BLACKBEARD 205 
 
 Mrs. Frere anxiously. ' He '11 do some more 
 harm if you follow.' 
 
 'Yes, let him alone, and he'll go away 
 quietly,' said her sister, who had bent down 
 over the wounded man. 
 
 Gray stood in thought. The frank contempt 
 of the bushranger for all new chums, as for 
 something ignoble and ludicrous, rankled in his 
 bosom. 
 
 ' I can't let him go off like this,' he said at 
 last. ' If I knew where there was a gun ' 
 
 ' There 's a revolver in the kitchen, Mr. Gray,' 
 said the hand. ' Shoot the brute right away.' 
 
 ' No, no/ said Mrs. Frere. 
 
 But Gray was already gone. The wounded 
 pride of manhood smarted bitterly ; and as he 
 crossed the verandah and passed into the yard, 
 he was resolved to prove himself the superior of 
 this bragging bully. The hacks were loose in a 
 paddock beyond the stables, and he knew that 
 Blackbeard was taking his companions in that 
 direction. But over a piece of kitchen-garden 
 and along a line of young blue-gums, a shorter 
 track led to the stables of which it was not at 
 all likely that the bushranger was aware. To 
 pursue this was to cut him off, and come out in
 
 206 THE LAST OF BLACKBEARD 
 
 concealment ere he reached the paddock. He 
 leapt over the little fence beyond a patch of cab- 
 bages, and struck off through the next paddock 
 as fast as he might. Twenty yards further he 
 crawled through the hedge of furze, and was 
 in the open yards about the stables. He came 
 out immediately at the back of a building, and, 
 having no fear of being seen, and being anxious 
 to arrive in time, he crept round the corner and 
 dashed into a run. Halfway across the stable- 
 yard a man hailed him suddenly. 
 
 ' Say, mister, have you got a light ? ' 
 
 He stopped, and turning quickly in the 
 direction of the sound, saw a mean-looking 
 little man, clad in very foul corduroys, but 
 otherwise after the ordinary fashion of the 
 station hands. He had a broken cutty pipe 
 in his mouth, and was stuffing down the black 
 tobacco with his fingers as he approached the 
 cadet. 
 
 'Lend me a match, mate,' he asked in a 
 squeaky voice. 
 
 Gray, in the full swing of his breathless ex- 
 citement, took him by the arm. 
 
 ' Come on/ he said eagerly ; ' come and give 
 me a hand. There 's a bushranger about.'
 
 THE LAST OF BLACKBEARD 207 
 
 ' Blackboard ? ' queried the dirty little man. 
 
 ' Yes, I 'm on his trail ; follow me.' 
 
 ' Hold on ! If it's Blackbeard, seems to me, 
 matey, you 'd better quit. He 's a rare one, is 
 Blackbeard. Taken much?' 
 
 Gray nodded, with his eyes roaming anxiously 
 about the horizon. 
 
 'Who'll he have with him?' asked the 
 stranger. ' Why, Crusoe, I s'pose.' 
 
 Gray nodded. ' Yes, yes ; I believe so.' 
 
 ' Well, better stop and get breath,' said the 
 little man soothingly. ' Crusoe's a smart chap, 
 too. I heard tell how he stuck up a place with- 
 out a mate, and no more ammunition than an 
 old gin-bottle. Oh, he 's a smart chap.' 
 
 ' Look here, my man,' said Gray impatiently, 
 ' are you coming with me or not ? ' 
 
 ' Not much,' was the answer, followed by a 
 chuckle. 
 
 ' Why, there they go,' said the cadet excitedly ; 
 'see him moving down to that paddock with 
 the white gate. I '11 just be in time.' 
 
 ' Not much, you fool,' said the squeaky voice. 
 ' You just got to stay here and be friendly like.' 
 
 Gray turned slowly to his companion, struck 
 mute with astonishment, and looked into the
 
 208 THE LAST OF BLACKBEARD 
 
 barrel of a revolver. Suddenly the truth flashed 
 upon him. ' Crusoe ! ' he stammered. 
 
 ' That 's about it,' said the other complacently ; 
 ' and you 're a new chum, I '11 lay.' 
 
 ' How infernally ignominious,' thought Gray, 
 as he contemplated the pigmy figure of his 
 gaoler. 
 
 ' No go, guv'nor. Put down your 'ands.' 
 
 Gray bit his lips. 'What do you intend to 
 do ? ' he asked. 
 
 'Nothin', Johnny, nothin'. Sit still, that's 
 all. Me and Blackbeard don't like making a 
 mess.' 
 
 ' He 's made a mess down at the house,' said 
 Gray sharply. 
 
 ' Oh, has he ? ' said Crusoe thoughtfully. 
 ' Then I suppose we '11 have to lay low a bit' 
 
 As he spoke there was the report of a gun, 
 and a bullet sang in Gray's ears. 
 
 ' What the devil ! ' cried Crusoe, whipping 
 round upon his prisoner ; but Gray was staring 
 towards the house in wonder. 
 
 ' Oh, some one over there ! ' said Crusoe. 
 ' Well, this looks like getting too hot for me ; 
 we '11 go behind the stable.' 
 
 He seized Gray by the arm, but as he turned
 
 THE LAST OF BLACKBEARD 209 
 
 threw up his hands suddenly and gasped. A 
 loud report followed. The bushranger fell 
 against the cadet, and slipped awkwardly to 
 the ground in a heap. The cadet looked with 
 curious terror on the body, and then back 
 towards the house. The gorse on the hedge 
 through which he had crept parted, and for a 
 moment he saw the glint of a gun and the face 
 of the wounded hand. He had hardly time to 
 make the discovery when he heard the sound of 
 voices behind him, and the footsteps of some 
 people running drew nearer. 
 
 ' Blackbeard,' he thought, and darting across 
 the yard, crept into a patch of scrub which had 
 not been cleared from before the stables. He 
 was no sooner in hiding than the bushranger, 
 with his two reluctant hosts, turned the corner 
 and came into the yard. 
 
 'By God !' said Blackbeard, as his eyes fell on 
 Crusoe's body, ' shot, and shot in the back.' He 
 looked slowly round. ' To think it should be 
 that new chum of yours, Frere. A long shot, 
 a straight shot, and a damned shabby shot.' 
 
 Frere turned away with a movement of dis- 
 gust. 
 
 ' You 'd better go,' he said. ' Here 's more 
 o
 
 210 THE LAST OF BLACKBEARD 
 
 bloodshed than I want to deal with. Take the 
 horse and be off.' 
 
 Blackbeard said nothing, but handling his 
 revolver, turned slowly round, scrutinised all 
 the quarters of the yard. His eyes rested 
 uneasily upon the patch of scrub. 
 
 'Going, Frere, going,' he said at last, and 
 appeared to meditate. ' That cadet of yours is 
 too good a shot, and I don't hold with scurvy 
 righting. I like to know where my man is.' 
 His eyes returned to the scrub, and he backed 
 behind Garrod. ' Look here, Frere,' he said at 
 last, 'let's call a truce. We've bungled this 
 business, and it 's my fault. Let 's set the clock 
 back. You take the swag again, and give me a 
 hundred paces. I don't like that shot in the 
 back, and it 's a fact. Make a bargain with me, 
 and I '11 trouble you to make it at the top of 
 your voice, too.' As he spoke he raised his 
 own fast voice, still with his eye on the scrub. 
 ' Here 's the gold again, and now you take your 
 oath to let me go free from any darned sharp- 
 shooter to the corner of the paddock. After 
 that he may go to the devil.' 
 
 ' I agree,' said Frere. 
 
 ' Shake hands on it, mate,'
 
 THE LAST OF BLACKBEARD 211 
 
 Blackboard gripped the squatter firmly, and 
 then ostentatiously stuck his revolver back into 
 his belt, and with one final glance at the scrub, 
 turned his back upon his companions and strode 
 out of the yard. His way lay very close to the 
 scrub, and as he passed it, a movement was 
 discernible in the bushes. 
 
 ' Lie down, man,' said Frere angrily. Black- 
 beard said nothing, but kept his eye on the 
 spot and his hand on the weapon. Suddenly, 
 and with a spring, Gray stood on the pathway 
 before him. Bang went Blackbeard's revolver 
 in a moment, and the next instant the new 
 chum grappled with him. The two men 
 wrestled together, and Frere, running up, heard 
 Gray's voice shouting breathlessly and per- 
 sistently, ' Surrender, you ruffian ! Surrender, 
 you ruffian ! ' 
 
 The struggle endured for some minutes, but 
 neither man got any material advantage over 
 the other, and then the bushranger suddenly 
 flung himself clear of his adversary, and levelled 
 his weapon. Gray fingered stupidly for his 
 revolver, but could not find it. There was an 
 instant's hesitation, and then he had rushed 
 with lifted fist upon Blackbeard. As he did
 
 212 THE LAST OF BLACKBEARD 
 
 so the latter pulled his trigger, but the same 
 moment there came a crack from Garrod's 
 direction, and the bushranger fell over on his 
 side. Gray stumbled and fell upon the pro- 
 strate man, who swore feebly. 
 
 ' Who shot me ? ' he asked faintly. ' Bully- 
 faced Garrod, by God! That was damned 
 mean, too;' and his body shook and settled 
 into silence. 
 
 Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty 
 at the Edinburgh University Press
 
 John Lane 
 
 5Tfje Eofclcg pjeati 
 VIGO STREET, LONDON, W. 
 
 THE KEYNOTES SERIES. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth. Each volume with a Title-page and Cover 
 
 Design by AUBREY BEARDSLEY. $s. 6d. net. 
 i. KEYNOTES. By GEORGE EGERTON. Sixth Edition. 
 ii. THE DANCING FAUN. By FLORENCE FARR. 
 in. POOR FOLK. By FEDOR DOSTOIEVSKY. Translated 
 from the Russian by LENA MILMAN. With an 
 Introduction by GEORGE MOORE. 
 iv. A CHILD OF THE AGE. By FRANCIS ADAMS. 
 v. THE GREAT GOD PAN AND THE INMOST LIGHT. 
 
 By ARTHUR MACHEN. Second Edition, 
 vi. DISCORDS. By GEORGE EGERTON. Fourth Edition. 
 vn. PRINCE ZALESKI. By M. P. SHIEL. 
 vin. THE WOMAN WHO DID. By GRANT ALLEN. Ninth 
 
 Edition. 
 
 ix. WOMEN'S TRAGEDIES. By H. D. LOWRY. 
 x. GREY ROSES. By HENRY HARLAND. [Immediately. 
 xi. AT THE FIRST CORNER AND OTHER STORIES. By 
 H. B. MARRIOTT WATSON. [Immediately. 
 
 xn. MONOCHROMES. By ELLA D'ARCY. 
 
 [In preparation. 
 xin. AT THE RELTON ARMS. By EVELYN SHARP. 
 
 [In preparation, 
 xiv. THE GIRL FROM THE FARM. By GERTRUDE Dix. 
 
 [In preparation. 
 
 xv. THE MIRROR OF Music. By STANLEY V. MAKOWER. 
 
 [In preparation. 
 xvi. YELLOW AND WHITE. By W. CARLTON DAWE. 
 
 [In preparation. 
 xvii. THE MOUNTAIN LOVERS. By FIONA MACLEOD. 
 
 [In preparation. 
 xvin. THE THREE IMPOSTORS. By ARTHUR MACHEN. 
 
 [In preparation. 
 
 Copyright Editions of the volumes of the KEYNOTES 
 SERIES are published in the United States by 
 Messrs. ROBERTS BROS, of Boston.
 
 THE KEYNOTES SERIES 
 
 Sixth Edition, now ready. 
 
 KEYNOTES. By GEORGE EGERTON. With Title-page by 
 AUBREY BEARDSLEY. Crown 8vo, cloth, 35. 6d. net. 
 
 'Emboldened, doubtless, by the success of " Dodo," the author of " Key- 
 notes " offers us a set of stories written with the least amount of literary 
 skill and in the worst literary taste. We have refrained from quotation, 
 for fear of giving to this book an importance which it doe's not merit.' Pall 
 Mall Gazette. 
 
 'The sirens sing in it from the first page to the last. It may, perhaps, 
 shock you with disregard o_f conventionality and reticencies, but you will 
 all the same have to admit its fascination. There can be no doubt that in 
 Mr. George Egerton his publishers have discovered a story-teller of genius. 
 Star. 
 
 ' This is a collection of eight of the prettiest short stories that have ap- 
 peared for many a day. 1 hey turn for the most part on feminine traits of 
 character ; in fact, the book is a little psychological study of woman under 
 various circumstances. The characters are so admirably drawn, and the 
 scenes and landscapes are described with so much and so rare vividness, 
 that one cannot help being almost spell-bound by their perusal.' St. James's 
 Gazette. 
 
 ' A rich, passionate temperament vibrates through every line. . . . We 
 have met nothing so lovely in its tenderness since Mr. Kipling's " Without 
 Benefit of Clergy. " ' Daily Chronicle. 
 
 ' For any one who cares more tor truth than for orthodox mummery, and 
 for the real flood of the human heart than for the tepid negus which stirs 
 the veins of respectability, this little book deserves a hearty welcome.' 
 Sketch. 
 
 ' Singularly artistic in its brilliant suggestiveness.' Daily News. 
 
 ' This is a book which is a portentous sign of our times. The wildness, 
 the fierceness, the animality that underlie the soft, smooth surface of 
 woman's pretty and subdued face this is the theme to which she again and 
 again recurs.' T. P. in Weekly Sun. 
 
 ' To credit a new writer with the possession of genius is a serious matter, 
 but it is nevertheless a verdict which Mr. George Egerton can hardly 
 avoid at the hands of those who read his delightful sketches.' Liverpool 
 Post. 
 
 ' These lovely sketches are informed by such throbbing feeling, such in- 
 sight into complex woman, that we with all speed and warmth advise those 
 who are in search of splendid literature to procure " Keynotes " without 
 delay. 1 Literary World. 
 
 ' These very clever stories of Mr. Egerton's.' Black and White. 
 
 ' The reading of it is an adventure, and, once begun, it is hard to tear 
 yourself from the book till you have devoured every line. There is im- 
 pulsive life in every word of it. It has passion, ardour, vehement romance. 
 It is full of youth; often enough the revolt and despair of youth.' Irish 
 Independent. 
 
 ' Every line of the book gives the impression that here some woman has 
 crystallised her life's drama ; has written down her soul upon the page. 
 Review of Reviews. 
 
 'The work of a woman who has lived every hour of her life, be she young 
 or old. . . . She allows us, like the great artists of old, Shakespeare and 
 Goethe, to draw our own moral from the stories she tells, and it is with no 
 uncertain touch or faltering hand that she pulls aside the curtain of con- 
 ventional hypocrisy which hundreds of women hang between the world and 
 their own hearts. . . . The insight of the writer into the curious and com- 
 plicated nature of women is almost miraculous.' Lady s Pictorial. 
 
 ' Not since the " Story of an African Farm " was written has any woman 
 delivered herself of so strong, so forcible a book.' Queen.
 
 THE KEYNOTES SERIES 
 
 ' She is a writer with a profound understanding of the human heart. She 
 understands men ; and, more thnn this, she understands women. . . . For 
 those who weary of the conventional fiction, and who long for something 
 out of the ordinary run of things, these are tales that carry the zest of 
 living.' Baton Beacon. 
 
 ' It is not a book for babes and sucklings, since it cuts deep into rather 
 dangerous soil ; but it is refined and skilful . . . strikes a very true and 
 touching note of pathos.' Westminster Gazette. 
 
 'The author of these able word sketches is manifestly a close observer of 
 Nature's moods, and one, moreover, who carefully takes stock of the up- 
 to-date thoughts that shake mankind.' Daily Telegraph. 
 
 'Powerful pictures of human brings living to-day, full of burning pain, 
 and thought, and passion. 1 Bookman. 
 
 'A work of genius. There is upon the whole thing a stamp of down- 
 right inevitableness as of things which must be written, and written exactly 
 in that way.' Speaker. 
 
 ' " Keynotes " is a singularly clever book.' Truth. 
 
 THE DANCING FAUN. By FLORENCE FARR. With 
 Title-page and Cover Design by AUBREY BEARDSLEY. 
 Crown 8vo, 35. 6d. net. 
 
 'We welcome the light and merry pen of Miss Farr as one of the deftest 
 that has been wielded in the style of to-day. She has written the cleverest 
 and the most cynical sensation story of the season.' Liverpool Daily Post. 
 
 'Slight as it is, the story is, in its way, strong.' Literary World. 
 
 ' Full of bright paradox, and paradox which is no mere topsy-turvy play 
 upon words, but the product of serious thinking upon life. One of the 
 cleverest of recent no vels. ' Star. 
 
 ' It is full of epigrammatic effects, and it has a certain thread of pathos 
 calculated to win our sympathy.' Queen. 
 
 'The story is subtle and psychological after the fashion of modem 
 psychology ; it is undeniably clever and smartly written.' Gentlewoman. 
 
 ' No one can deny its freshness and wit. Indeed there are things in it 
 here and there which John Oliver Hobbes herself might have signed with- 
 out loss of reputation.' Iranian. 
 
 ' There is a lurid power in the very unreality of the story. One does not 
 quite understand how Lady Geraldine worked herself up to shooting her 
 lover, but when she has done it, the description of what passes through her 
 mind is magnificent.' Athen&um. 
 
 ' Written by an obviously clever woman.' Black and White. 
 
 'Miss Farr has talent. "The Dancing Faun " contains writing that is 
 distinctively good. Doubtless it is only a prelude to something much 
 stronger. ' Academy. 
 
 ' As a work of art the book has the merit of brevity and smart writing ; 
 while the denouement is skilfully prepared, and comes as a surprise. If 
 the book had been intended as a satire on the "new woman" sort of litera- 
 ture, it would have been most brilliant ; but assuming it to be written in 
 earnest, we can heartily praise the form of its construction without 
 agreeing with the sentiments expressed.' St. James's Gazette. 
 
 Shows considerable power and aptitude.' Saturday Review. 
 
 'The book is extremely clever and some of the situations very striking, 
 while there are sketches of character which really live. The final denovt- 
 tnent might at first sight be thought impossible, but the effect on those who 
 take part in it is so free of exaggeration, that we can almost imagine that 
 such people are in our midst.' Guardian.
 
 THE KEYNOTES SERIES 
 
 POOR FOLK. Translated from the Russian of FEDOR 
 DOSTOIEVSKY. By LENA MILMAN. With an Intro- 
 duction by GEORGE MOORE, and a Title-page and Cover 
 Design by AUBREY BEARDSLEY. Crown 8vo, 35. 6d. net. 
 
 ' The book is cleverly translated. " Poor Folk " gains in reality and pathos 
 by the very means that in less skilful hands would be tedious and common- 
 place. ' Spectator. 
 
 ' A charming story of the love of a Charles Lamb kind of old bachelor 
 for a young work-girl. Full of quiet humour and still more full of the 
 lachryma reritm.' Star. 
 
 'Scenes of poignant realism, described with so admirable a blending of 
 humour and pathos that they haunt the memory.' Daily News. 
 
 ' No one will read it attentively without feeling both its power and its 
 pathos. ' Scotsman. 
 
 ' The book is one of great pathos and absorbing interest. Miss Milman 
 has given us an admirable version of it which will commend itself to every 
 one who cares for good literature.' Glasgow Herald. 
 
 ' These things seem small, but in the hands of Dostoievsky they make 
 a work of genius.' Black and White. 
 
 ' One of the most pathetic things in all literature, heartrending just 
 because its tragedy is so repressed.' Bookman. 
 
 ' As to novels, the very finest I have read of late or for long is ' ' Poor Folk, 
 by Fedor Dostoievsky, translated by Miss Lena Milman.' Truth, 
 
 ' A book to be read for the merits of its execution. The translator by 
 the way has turned it into excellent English.' Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 ' The narrative vibrates with feeling, and these few unstudied letters con- 
 vey to us a cry from the depths of a famished human soul. As far as we 
 can judge, the English rendering, though simple, retains that ring of 
 emotion which must distinguish the original.' Westminster Review. 
 
 ' One of the most striking studies in plain and simple realism which was 
 ever written." Daily Telegraph. 
 
 '"Poor Folk" is certainly a vivid and pathetic story.' Globe. 
 
 ' A triumph of realistic art a masterpiece of a great writer.' Morning 
 Post. 
 
 'Dostoievsky's novel has met with that rare advantage, a really good 
 translator. ' Queen. 
 
 ' This admirable translation of a great author.' Liverpool Mercury. 
 
 ' " Poor Folk" Englished does not read like a translation indubitably a 
 masterpiece.' Literary World. 
 
 ' Told with a gradually deepening intensity and force, a pathetic truth- 
 fulness which lives in the memory.' Leeds Mercury. 
 
 'What Charles Dickens in his attempts to reproduce the sentiment and 
 pathos of the humble deceived himself and others into thinking that he did, 
 that Fedor Dostoievsky actually does.' Manchester Guardian. 
 
 ' It is a story that leaves the reader almost stunned. Miss Milman's 
 translation is admirable.' Gentlewoman. 
 
 ' The translation appears to be well done so far as we have compared it 
 with the original.' W. R. MOKFILL in The Academy. 
 
 'A most impressive and characteristic specimen of Russian fiction. 
 Those to whom Russian is a sealed book will be duly grateful to the trans- 
 lator (who has acquitted herself excellently), to Mr. Moore, and to the 
 publisher for this presentment of Dostoievsky's remarkable novel.' Times.
 
 THE KEYNOTES SERIES 
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE. By FRANCIS ADAMS. Title- 
 page and Cover Design by AUBREY BEARDSLEY. Crown 
 Svo, 33. 6d. net. 
 
 ' English or foreign, there is no work among those now before me which 
 is so original as that of the late Francis Adams. " A Child of the Age " is 
 original, moving, often fascinating.' Academy. 
 
 ' A great deal of cleverness and perhaps something more has gone to the 
 writing of " A Child of the Age." ' Vanity Fair. 
 
 ' It comes recognisably near to great excellence. _ There is a love episode 
 in this book which is certainly fine. Clearly conceived and expressed with 
 point.' Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 1 Those whose actual experience or natural intuition will enable them to 
 see beneath the mere narrative, will appreciate the perfect art with which 
 a boy of nineteen this was the author's age when the book was written 
 has treated one of the most delicate subjects on which a man can write 
 the history of his own innermost feelings.' Weekly Sun. 
 
 ' The book possesses a depth and clearness of insight, a delicacy of touch, 
 and a brilliancy and beauty of style very remarkable in so young a writer.' 
 Weekly Scotsman. 
 
 ' " A Child of the Age " is as fully saturated with the individuality of its 
 author as " Wuthering Heights " was saturated with the individuality of 
 Emily Bronte.' Daily Chronicle. 
 
 ' I am writing about the book because it is one you should read, for it ia 
 typical of a certain sort of character and contains some indubitable excel- 
 lences.' Pall Mall Budget. 
 
 ' Not faultless, indeed, but touched with the magjc of real poetry ; with- 
 out the elaborate carving of the chisel. The love incident is exquisite and 
 exquisitely told. "Rosy" lives; her emotions stir us. Wonderfully sug- 
 gested in several parts of the work is the severe irony of nature before 
 profound human suffering.' Saturday Review. 
 
 'There is a bloom of romance upon their story which recalls Lucy and 
 
 Richard Feverel It is rarely that a novelist is able to suffuse his 
 
 story with the first rosy purity of passion as Mr. Adams has done in this 
 book.' Realm. 
 
 ' Only a man of big talent could have produced it.' Literary World. 
 
 ' A tale of fresh originality, deep spiritual meaning, and exceptional 
 power. It fairly buds, blossoms, and fruits with suggestions that search 
 the human spirit through. No similar production has come from the hand 
 of any author in pur time. It exalts, inspires, comforts, and strengthens 
 all together. It instructs by suggestion, spiritualises the thought by its 
 elevating and purifying narrative, and feeds the hungering spirit with 
 food it is only too ready to accept and assimilate.' Boston Courier, U.S.A. 
 
 ' It is a remarkable work as a pathological study almost unsurpassed. 
 It produces the impression of a photograph from life, so vividly realistic is 
 the treatment. To this result the author's style, with its fidelity of micro- 
 scopic detail, doubtless contributes.' Evening Traveller, U.S.A. 
 
 ' The story by Francis Adams is one to read slowly, and then to read a 
 second time. It is powerfully written, full of strong suggestion, unlike, 
 in fact, anything we have recently read. What he would have done in the 
 way of literary creation, had he lived, is_, of course, only a matter of con- 
 jecture. Wh.it he did we have before us in this remarkable book.' Boston 
 Advertiser, U.S.A.
 
 THE KEYNOTES SERIES 
 
 Second Edition now ready. 
 
 THE GREAT GOD PAN AND THE INMOST LIGHT. 
 By ARTHUR MACHEN. With Title-page and Cover 
 Design by AUBREY BEARDSLEY. Crown 8vo, 33. 6d. 
 net. 
 
 'Since Mr. Stevenson played with the crucibles of science in "Dr. 
 Jekyll and Mr. Hyde " we have not encountered a more successful experi- 
 ment of the sort.' Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 ' Nothing so appalling as these tales has been given to publicity within 
 our remembrance ; in which, nevertheless, such ghastly fictions as Poe's 
 " Telltale Heart," Bulwer's "The House and the Brain," and Le Fanu's 
 " In a Glass Darkly" still are vividly present. The supernatural element 
 is utilised with extraordinary power and effectiveness in both these blood- 
 chilling masterpieces.' Daily Telegraph. 
 
 ' He imparts the shudder of awe without giving rise to a feeling of disgust. 
 Let me strongly advise anyone anxious fora real, durable thrill, to get it." 
 Woman. 
 
 'A nightmarish business it is suggested, seemingly, by " Dr. Jekyll and 
 Mr. Hyde" and capital reading, we should say, for ghouls and vampires 
 in their leisure moments.' Daily Chronicle. 
 
 ' The rest we leave for those whose nerves are strong, merely saying that 
 since " Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde," we have read nothing so uncanny.' 
 The Literary World. 
 
 'The literature of the "supernatural" has recently been supplemented 
 by two striking books, which carry on with much ability the traditions of 
 Sheridan Le Fanu: one is "The Great God Pan," by Arthur Machen.' 
 Star. 
 
 Will arouse the sort of interest that was created by " Dr. Jekyll and 
 
 is not superfluous.' Birmingham Post. 
 
 'The coarser terrors of Edgar Allen Poe do not leave behind them the 
 shudder that one feels at the shadowed devil-mysteries of "The Great God 
 Pan." ' Liverpool Mercury. 
 
 ' it any one labours under a burning desire to experience the sensation 
 familiarly known as making one's flesh creep, he can hardly do better than 
 read "The Great God Pan.'" Speaker. 
 
 ' For sheer gruesome horror Mr. Machen's story, "The Great God Pan," 
 surpasses anything that has been published for a long time.' Scotsman. 
 
 ' Nothing more striking or more skilful than this book has been produced 
 in the way of what one may call Borderland fiction since Mr. Stevenson's 
 indefatigable Brownies gave the world "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde." 1 
 Glasgow Herald. 
 
 ' The mysteries he deals with lie far beyond the reach of ordinary human 
 experience, and as they are vague, though so horror-producing, he wisely 
 treats them with a reticence that, while it accords with the theme, im- 
 mensely heightens the effect.' Dundee Advertiser. 
 
 'The author is an artist, and tells his tale with reticence and grace, 
 hinting the demoniac secret at first obscurely, and only gradually permit- 
 ting the reader to divine how near to us are the infernal powers, and how 
 terribly they satiate their lusts and wreak their malice upon mankind. It 
 is a work of something like genius, fascinating and fearsome.' Bradford 
 Observer.
 
 THE KEYNOTES SERIES 
 
 ' They are fitting companions to the famous stories by Edgar Allan Poe 
 both in matter and style,' Boston Home Journal, U.S.A. 
 
 ' They are horror stories, the horror being of the vague psychologic kind 
 and dependent in each case upon a man of science, who tries to effect a 
 change in individual personality by an operation upon the brain cells. 
 The implied le.sson is that it is dangerous and unwise to seek to probe the 
 mystery separating mind and matter. These sketches are extremely 
 strong, and we guarantee the shivers to anyone who reads them.' Hart- 
 ford Courant, U.S.A. 
 
 Fourth Edition now ready. 
 
 DISCORDS. By GEORGE EGERTOX. With Title-page and 
 Cover Design by AUBREY BEARDSLEY. Crown 8vo, 
 35. 6cl. net. 
 
 ' We have the heights as well as the depths of life. The transforming 
 touch of beauty is upon it, of that poetry of conception beneath whose spell 
 nothing is ugly or unclean.' Star. 
 
 'The writer is a warm-blooded enthusiast, not a cold-blooded 
 "scientist." In the long run perhaps it will do some good.' National 
 Observer. 
 
 'The power and passion which every reader felt in "Keynotes" are 
 equally present in this new volume. But there is also in at least equal 
 measure that artistic force and skill which went so far to overcome the 
 repugnance which many felt to the painful dissection of feminine nature.' 
 North British Daily Mail. 
 
 ' Force of conception and power of vivid presentment mark these sketches, 
 and are sure to impress all who read them.' Birmingham Post. 
 
 'Written with all "George Egerton's" eloquence and fervour.' York- 
 shire Herald. 
 
 ' It almost takes one's breath away by its prodigious wrong-headedness, 
 its sheer impudence.' MR. A. B. WALKLEY in The Morning Leader. 
 
 ' The wonderful power of observation, the close analysis and the really 
 brilliant writing revealed in parts of this volume . ... . "George Egerton" 
 would seem to be well equipped for the task.' Cork Examiner. 
 
 ' Readers who have a leaning to psychological fiction, and who revel in 
 such studies pf character as George Meredith's " Diana of the Crossways " 
 will find much to interest them in these clever stories." Western Daily 
 Press. 
 
 'There is no escape from the fact that it is vividly interesting.' The 
 Christian World. 
 
 'With all her realism there is a refinement and a pathos and a brilliance 
 of style that lift the book into a region altogether removed from the merely 
 sensational or the merely repulsive. It is a book that one might read with 
 a pencil in his hand, for it is studded with many fine, vivid passages.' 
 Weekly Scotsman. 
 
 ' She has many fine qualities. Her work throbs with temperament, and 
 here and there we come upon touches that linger in the memory as of things 
 felt and seen, not read of.' Daily News. 
 
 1 Mrs. Grundy, to whom they would be salutary, will not be induced to 
 read either " Keynotes" or "Discords." Westminster Gazette. 
 
 4 What an absorbing, wonderful book it is : How absolutely sincere, and 
 how finely wrong ! George Egerton may be what the indefatigable Mr. 
 Zangwill calls a one-I'd person, but she is a literary artist of exceptional 
 endowment probably a genius.' Woman.
 
 THE KEYNOTES SERIES 
 
 ' She has given, times without number, examples of her ripening powers 
 that astonish us. Her themes astound ; her audacity is tremendous. la 
 the many great passages an advance is proved that is little short of amaz- 
 ing.' Literary World. 
 
 ' Interesting and skilfully written." Sunday Times, 
 
 'A series of undoubtedly clever stories, told with a poetic dreaminess 
 which softens the rugged truths of which they treat. Mothers might benefit 
 themselves and convey help to young girls who are about to be married by 
 the perusal of its pages.' Liverpool Mercury. 
 
 ' They are the work of an author of considerable power, not to say genius. 
 Scotsman. 
 
 ' The hook is true to human nature, for the author has genius, and, let us 
 add, has heart. It is representative ; it is, in the hackneyed phrase, a 
 human document." Speaker. 
 
 ' It is another note in the great chorus of revolt ... on the whole 
 clearer, more eloquent, and braver than almost any I have yet heard.' 
 T. P. (' Book of the Week '), Weekly Sun, December 30. 
 
 1 These masterly word-sketches.' Daily Telegraph, 
 
 'Were it possible to have my favourite sketches and stories from both 
 volumes (" Keynotes " and "Discords") bound together in one, I should 
 look upon myself as a very fortunate traveller ; one who had great pleasure, 
 if not exactly happiness, within her reach.' Lady's Pictorial. 
 
 'But in all this there is a rugged grandeur of style, a keen analysis of 
 motive, and a deepness of pathos that stamp George Egerton as one of the 
 greatest women writers of the day." Boston Traveller, U.S.A. 
 
 'The story of the child, of the girl, and of the woman is told, and told 
 by one to whom the mysteries of the life of each are familiarly known, In 
 their very truth, as the writer has so subtly analysed her triple characters, 
 they sadden one to think that such things must be ; yet as they are real, 
 they are bound to be disclosed by somebody, and in due time." Boston 
 Courier, U.S.A. 
 
 Ninth Edition just ready. 
 
 THE WOMAN WHO DID. By GRANT ALLEN. With 
 Title-page and Cover Design by AUBREY BEARDSLEY. 
 Crown 8vo, 35. 6d. net. 
 
 'There is not a sensual thought or suggestion throughout the whole 
 volume. Though I dislike and disbelieve in his gospel, I thoroughly 
 respect Mr. Grant Allen for having stated it so honourably and so bravely." 
 Academy. 
 
 ' Even its bitterest enemies must surely feel some thrill of admiration for 
 its courage. It is, once more, one philosopher against the world. Not in 
 our day, perhaps, can it be decided which is right, Mr. Grant Allen, or the 
 world. Perhaps our children's children will some day be canonising Mr. 
 Grant Allen for the very book for which to-day he stands a much greater 
 chance of being stoned, and happy lovers of the new era bless the name of 
 the man who, almost single-handed, fought the battle of Free Love. 
 Time alone can say. . . . None but the most foolish or malignant readej 
 of ' The Woman Who Did ' can fail to recognise the noble purpose which 
 animates its pages. . . . Label it as one will, it remains a clever, stimu- 
 lating book. A real enthusiasm for humanity blazes through every pag< 
 of this, in many ways, remarkable and significant little book. ' Sketch. 
 
 'The book is interesting, as embodying the carefully thought-ouv 
 theories of so distinguished a writer.' Literary World.
 
 THE KEYNOTES SERIES 
 
 ' Mr. Grant Allen has undoubtedly produced an epoch-making book, and 
 one which will be a living voice when most of the novels of this generation 
 have passed away into silence. It is epoch-making in the sense that 
 " Uncle Tom's Cabin" was; the literary merits of that work were by no 
 means great, but yet it rang like a tocsin through the land, arousing mankind 
 to a sense of the slavery under which a large portion of humanity suffered. ' 
 Humanitarian. 
 
 ' Interesting, and even absorbing.' Weekly Sun. 
 
 ' His sincerity is undeniable. And in the mouth of Herminia are some 
 very noble and eloquent passages upon the wrongs of our marriage sys- 
 tem.' Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 ' A tale of purity and innocence unparalleled since the " Garden of 
 Eden " or " Paul and Virginia. 1 " Daily Express. 
 
 ' A remarkable and powerful story. It increases pur respect for Mr. 
 Allen's ability, nor do we feel inclined to join in throwing stones at him as 
 a perverter of our morals and our social institutions. However widely we 
 may differ from Mr. Allen's views on many important questions, we are 
 bound to recognise his sincerity, and to respect him accordingly. ' Speaker. 
 
 ' The story is as remarkable for its art as its daring, and well deserves a 
 place in the remarkable series in which it has been published.' The 
 Scotsman. 
 
 ' Herminia is a rare and fine creature.' Daily Chronicle. 
 
 ' An artist in words and a writer of deep feeling has lavished his best 
 powers in the production of "The Woman Who Did." The story is 
 charmingly told. Delineated with a delicacy and strength of touch that 
 cannot but delight the most fastidious reader. Mr. Grant Allen draws a 
 picture of a sweet and pure and beautiful woman. The book is very 
 beautiful and very sad.' Liverpool Mercury. 
 
 ' The book (for it is well written and clever) ought to be the last note in 
 the chorus of revolt. For it proves to demonstration the futility of the 
 attempt. ' Sun. 
 
 ' We cannot too highly commend the conspicuous and transparent purity 
 of the handling.' Public Opinion. 
 
 ' He conclusively shows that if the marriage laws need revision, yet the 
 sweetness and seemliness of home, the dignity of woman as mother or as 
 man's helpmeet, are rooted in the sanctity of wedlock.' Daily News. 
 
 ' Mr. Grant Allen deserves thanks for treating with such delicacy a 
 problem which stands in such pressing need of solution as the reform of 
 our stern marriage laws.' Echo. 
 
 ' Its merits are large and its interest profound.' Weekly Scotsman. 
 ' It may not merit praise, but it merits reading.' Saturday Review. 
 
 Just published. 
 
 PRINCE ZALESKI. By M. P. SHIEL. With Title-page 
 by AUBREY BEARDSLEY. Crown 8vo, 33. 6d. net. 
 
 'Mr. M. P. Shiel has in this volume produced something which is 
 always rare, and which is every year becoming a greater rarity a work 
 of literary invention characterised by substantial novelty. We have 
 I'oe's analysis and Poe's glamour, but they are no longer distinct ; they 
 are combined in a new synthesis which stamps a new imaginative impres- 
 sion. A finely wrought structure in which no single line impairs the 
 symmetry and proportion. One of the most boldly-planned and strik- 
 ingly-executed stories of its kind which has appeared for many a long
 
 THE KEYNOTES SERIES 
 
 day. We believe there is nothing in "Prince Zaleski" which that great 
 inventor and masterly manipulator of the spoils of invention (Poe) would 
 have disdained to father." Daily Chronicle. 
 
 ' Should obtain popularity. Written in an easy and clear style. The 
 author shows an amount of ingenuity and capacity for plot considerably 
 above the average. The reader will find it difficult to put the book down 
 before he has satisfied his curiosity to the last page.' Weekly Sun. 
 
 ' The Prince was a Sherlock Holmes, with this difference : that while 
 yielding nothing to Conan Doyle's hero in mere intellectual agility, he 
 had that imaginative insight which makes poets more frequently than 
 detectives. Sherlock Holmes was a clever but essentially commonplace 
 man. Prince Zaleski was a great man, simply. Enthralling . . . once 
 begun they insist on being finished. Broadly and philosophically con- 
 ceived, and put together with rare narrative skill, and feeling for effect.' 
 Woman. 
 
 ' There is a strange, fantastic ingenuity in all the stories, while a strong 
 dash of mysticism gives them a peculiar flavour that differentiates them 
 from the ordinary detective story. They are clever and curious, and will 
 appeal to all lovers of the transcendental and improbable.' The Scotsman. 
 
 ' Thoroughly entertaining, and the chief figure is undeniably pic- 
 turesque.' Yorkshire Post. 
 
 ' An abundance of ingenuity and quaint out-of-the-way learning mark 
 the three stories contained in this volume.' Liverpool Mercury. 
 
 ' He has imparted to the three tales in this volume something of that 
 atmosphere of eerie fantasy which Poe knew how to conjure, proceeding 
 by the analysis of a baffling intricacy of detail to an unforeseen conclusion. 
 The themes and their treatment are alike highly imaginative.' Daily 
 News. 
 
 ' Manifestly written by one of Poe's true disciples. His analytical skill 
 is not that of the detective, even of so brilliant a detective as Mr. Sherlock 
 Holmes. Probably his exploits will interest the public far less than did 
 those of Mr. Doyle's famous character ; but the select few, who can 
 appreciate delicate work, will delight in them exceedingly.' Speaker. 
 
 'Truth to tell we like our Sherlock better in his new dress. The 
 book will please those who love a good old-fashioned riddle, and a good 
 new-fangled answer.' National Observer. 
 
 ' Has genuine literary merit, and possesses entrancing interest. A kind 
 of Sherlock Holmes, though of a far more finished type than Mr. Conan 
 Doyle's famous creation. The remarkable ingenuity of Mr. Shiel worthy 
 of Edgar Allen Poe at his best in tracing out the mystery surrounding 
 the death of Lord Pharanx, the Stone of the Edmundsbury Monks, and the 
 Suicide Society, constitutes a veritable tour de force. We have nothing 
 but praise for this extraordinarily clever and interesting volume.' White- 
 hall Revie-w. 
 
 ' Worked out very ingeniously, and we are thoroughly impressed by the 
 Prince's mental powers.' Sunday Times, 
 
 'A clever, extravagant, and lurid little book.' Westminster Gazette.
 
 List of Books 
 
 in 
 
 gelles Jettres 
 
 IOHN LANE PUB 
 USHERS BELLES 
 LETTR.ej-*V* 
 
 THCGOOLEY HEAD 
 
 ALL BOOKS IN THIS CATALOGUE 
 ARK PUBLISHED AT NET PRICES 
 
 Telegraphic Address 
 BODLEIAN, LONDON'
 
 i95> 
 
 List of Books 
 
 IN 
 
 BELLES LETTRES 
 
 (Including some Transfers') 
 
 Published by John Lane 
 
 VIGO STREET, LONDON, W. 
 
 N. B. The A uthors and Publisher reserve the right of reprinting 
 any book in this list if a new edition is called for, except in cases 
 where a stipulation has teen made to the contrary, and of printing 
 a separate edition of any of the books for America irrespective of the 
 numbers to which the English editions are limited. The numbers 
 mentioned do not include copies sent to the public libraries, nor those 
 sent for review. 
 
 Most of the books are published simultaneously in England and 
 America, and in many instances the names of the American 
 Publishers are appended. 
 
 ADAMS (FRANCIS). 
 
 ESSAYS IN MODERNITY. Crown 8vo. 55. net. [Shortly. 
 Chicago : Stone & Kimball. 
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE. (See KEYNOTES SERIES.) 
 
 ALLEN (GRANT). 
 
 THE LOWER SLOPES : A Volume of Verse. With Title- 
 page and Cover Design by J. ILLINGWORTH KAY. 
 600 copies. Crown 8vo. 55. net. 
 
 Chicago : Stone & Kimball. 
 THE WOMAN WHO DID. (See KEYNOTES SERIES.)
 
 THE PUBLICATIONS OF JOHN LANE 
 
 BEARDSLEY (AUBREY). 
 
 THE STORY OF VENUS AND TANNHAUSER, in which is set 
 forth an exact account of the Manner of State held by 
 Madam Venus, Goddess and Meretrix, under the 
 famous Horselberg, and containing the adventures of 
 Tannhauser in that place, his repentance, his jour- 
 neying to Rome, and return to the loving mountain. 
 By AUBREY BEARDSLEY. With 20 full-page illus- 
 trations, numerous ornaments, and a cover from the 
 same hand. Sq. i6mo. los.6d.net. [In preparation. 
 
 BEDDOES (T. L.). 
 
 See GOSSE (EDMUND). 
 
 BEECHING (REV. H. C.). 
 
 IN A GARDEN : Poems. With Title-page designed by 
 ROGER FRY. Crown 8vo. 55. net. 
 New York : Macmillan & Co. 
 
 BENSON (ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER). 
 LYRICS. Fcap. 8vo., buckram. 55. net. 
 New York : Macmillan & Co. 
 
 BROTHERTON (MARY). 
 
 ROSEMARY FOR REMEMBRANCE. With Title-page and 
 Cover Design by WALTER WEST. Fcap.Svo. 3s.6d.net. 
 
 CAMPBELL (GERALD). 
 
 THE JONESES AND THE ASTERISKS. With 6 Illustra- 
 tions and a Title-page by F. H. TOWNSEND. Fcap. 
 8vo. 35. 6d. net. [In preparation. 
 
 CASTLE (MRS. EGERTON). 
 
 MY LITTLE LADY ANNE : A Romance. Sq. i6mo. 
 2s. 6d. net. [In preparation. 
 
 CASTLE (EGERTON). 
 
 See STEVENSON (ROBERT Louis). 
 
 CROSS (VICTORIA). 
 
 CONSUMMATION : A Novel. Crown 8vo. 45. 6d. net. 
 
 [/ preparation. 
 DALMON (C. W.). 
 
 SONG FAVOURS. With a specially-designed Title-page. 
 Sq. i6mo. 45. 6d. net. [In preparation.
 
 THE PUBLICATIONS OF 
 
 D'ARCY (ELLA). 
 
 MONOCHROMES. (See KEYNOTES SERIES.) 
 
 DAVIDSON (JOHN). 
 
 PLAYS : An Unhistorical Pastoral ; A Romantic Farce ; 
 Bruce, a Chronicle Play ; Smith, a Tragic Farce ; 
 Scaramouch in Naxos, a Pantomime, with a Frontis- 
 piece and Cover Design by AUBREY BEARDSLEY. 
 Printed at the Ballantyne Press. 500 copies. Small 
 410. 73. 6d. net. 
 
 Chicago : Stone & Kimball. 
 
 FLEET STREET ECLOGUES. Fcap. 8vo, buckram. 53. 
 net. [ Out of Print at present. 
 
 A RANDOM ITINERARY AND A BALLAD. With a Fron- 
 tispiece and Title-page by LAURENCE HOUSMAN. 
 600 copies. Fcap. 8vo, Irish Linen. 55. net. 
 
 Boston : Copeland & Day. 
 
 BALLADS AND SONGS. With a Title-page and Cover 
 Design by WALTER WEST. Third Edition. Fcap. 
 8vo, buckram. 55. net. 
 Boston : Copeland & Day. 
 
 DAWE (W. CARLTON). 
 
 YELLOW AND WHITE. (See KEYNOTES SERIES.) 
 
 DE TABLEY (LORD). 
 
 POEMS, DRAMATIC AND LYRICAL. By JOHN LEICESTER 
 WARREN (Lord De Tabley). Illustrations and Cover 
 Design by C. S. RlCKETTS. Second Edition. 
 Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d. net. 
 
 New York : Macmillan & Co. 
 
 POEMS, DRAMATIC AND LYRICAL. Second Series, uni- 
 form in binding with the former volume. Crown 8vo. 
 55. net. 
 New York : Macmillan & Co. 
 
 DIX (GERTRUDE). 
 
 THE GIRL FROM THE FARM. (See KEYNOTES SERIES.) 
 
 DOSTOIEVSKY (F.). 
 
 See KEYNOTES SERIES, Vol. in.
 
 JOHN LANE 5 
 
 ECHEGARAY (JOSE). 
 
 See LYNCH (HANNAH). 
 EGERTON (GEORGE). 
 
 KEYNOTES. (See KEYNOTES SERIES.) 
 DISCORDS. (See KEYNOTES SERIES.) 
 YOUNG OFEG'S DITTIES. A translation from the Swedish 
 of OLA HANSSON. Crown 8vo. 35. 6d. net. 
 Boston : Roberts Bros. 
 
 FARR (FLORENCE). 
 
 THE DANCING FAUN. (See KEYNOTES SERIES.) 
 
 FLETCHER (J. S.). 
 
 THE WONDERFUL WAPENTAKE. By 'A SON OF THE 
 SOIL.' With 18 full-page Illustrations by J. A. 
 SYMINGTON. Crown 8vo. 55. 6d. net. 
 
 Chicago : A. C. M'Clurg & Co. 
 GALE (NORMAN). 
 
 ORCHARD SONGS. With Title-page and Cover Design 
 by J. ILLINGWORTH KAY. Fcap. 8vo, Irish Linen. 
 5s. net. 
 
 Also a Special Edition limited in number on hand-made paper 
 bound in English vellum, ^i, is. net. 
 
 New York : G. P. Putnam's Sons. 
 
 GARNETT (RICHARD). 
 
 POEMS. With Title-page by J. ILLINGWORTH KAY. 
 350 copies. Crown 8vo. 55. net. 
 
 Boston : Copeland & Day. 
 
 DANTE, PETRARCH, CAMOENS, cxxiv Sonnets, rendere ' 
 in English. Crown 8vo. $s. net. [In preparation. 
 
 GEARY (NEVILL). 
 
 A LAWYER'S WIFE: A Novel. Crown 8vo. 45. 6d. 
 net. [In preparation. 
 
 GOSSE (EDMUND). 
 
 THE LETTERS OF THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES. Now 
 
 first edited. Pott 8vo. 5s. net. 
 
 Also 25 copies large paper. 125. 6d. net. 
 
 New York : Macmillan & Co.
 
 THE PUBLICATIONS OF 
 
 GRAHAME (KENNETH). 
 
 PAGAN PAPERS : A Volume of Essays. With Title- 
 page by AUBREY BEARDSLEY. Fcap. 8vo. 55. net. 
 Chicago : Stone & Kimball. 
 
 THE GOLDEN AGE. Crown 8vo. 35. 6d. net. 
 
 Chicago : Stone & Kimball. * [In preparation, 
 
 GREENE (G. A.). 
 
 ITALIAN LYRISTS OF TO-DAY. Translations in the 
 original metres from about thirty-five living Italian 
 poets, with bibliographical and biographical notes. 
 Crown 8vo. 55. net. 
 
 New York : Macmillan & Co. 
 
 GREENWOOD (FREDERICK). 
 
 IMAGINATION IN DREAMS. Crown 8vo. 55. net. 
 New York : Macmillan & Co. 
 
 HAKE (T. GORDON). 
 
 A SELECTION FROM HIS POEMS. Edited by Mrs. 
 MEYNELL. With a Portrait after D. G. ROSSETTI, 
 and a Cover Design by GLEESON WHITE. Crown 
 8vo. 53. net. 
 
 Chicago : Stone & Kimball. 
 
 HANSSON (LAURA MARHOLM). 
 
 MODERN WOMEN : Six Psychological Sketches. [Sophia 
 Kovalevsky, George Egerton, Eleanora Duse, Amalie 
 Skram, Marie Bashkirtseff, A. Edgren Leffler]. Trans- 
 lated from the German by HERMIONE RAMSDEN. 
 Crown 8vo. 33. 6d. net. [In preparation. 
 
 HANSSON (OLA). See EGERTON. 
 
 HARLAND (HENRY). 
 
 GREY ROSES. (See KEYNOTES SERIES.) 
 
 HAYES (ALFRED). 
 
 THE VALE OF ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS. With a 
 Title-page and a Cover designed by E. H. NEW. 
 Fcap. 8vo. 35. 6d. net. 
 Also 25 copies large paper. 155. net 
 
 HEINEMANN (WILLIAM) 
 
 THE FIRST STEP A Dramatic Moment. Small 410. 
 35. 6d. net.
 
 JOHN LANE 7 
 
 HOPPER (NORA). 
 
 BALLADS IN PROSE. With a Title-page and Cover by 
 WALTER WEST. Sq. i6mo. 55. net. 
 Boston : Roberts Bros. 
 
 HOUSMAN (LAURENCE). 
 
 GREEN ARRAS : Poems. With Illustrations by the 
 Author. Crown 8vo. 55. net. [In preparation. 
 
 IRVING (LAURENCE). 
 
 GODEFROI AND YoLANDE : A Play. With three Illus- 
 trations by AUBREY BEARDSLEY. Sin. 410. 5s. net. 
 
 [In preparation. 
 JAMES (W. P.). 
 
 ROMANTIC PROFESSIONS : A Volume of Essays. With 
 Title - page designed by J. ILLINGWORTH KAY. 
 Crown 8vo. 55. net. 
 
 New York : Macmillan & Co. 
 
 JOHNSON (LIONEL). 
 
 THE ART OF THOMAS HARDY : Six Essays. With Etched 
 Portrait by WM. STRANG, and Bibliography by JOHN 
 LANE. Second Edition. Crown 8 vo. 55. 6d. net. 
 
 Alto 150 copies, large paper, with proofs of the portrait. i, is. 
 net. 
 New York : Dodd, Mead & Co. 
 
 JOHNSON (PAULINE). 
 
 WHITE WAMPUM : Poems. With a Title-page and Cover 
 Design by E. H. NEW. Crown 8vo. 55. net. 
 
 [In preparation. 
 JOHNSTONE (C. E.). 
 
 BALLADS OF BOY AND BEAK. Sq. 321110. 2s. 6d. net. 
 
 [In preparation. 
 KEYNOTES SERIES. 
 
 Each volume with specially designed Title-page by AUBREY 
 
 BBARDSLEY. Crown 8vo, cloth. 35. 6d. net. 
 Vol. i. KEYNOTES. By GEORGE EGERTON. 
 
 [Sixth edition now ready. 
 
 Vol. ii. THE DANCING FAUN. By FLORENCE FARR. 
 Vol. III. POOR FOLK. Translated from the Russian of 
 F. Dostoievsky by LENA MILMAN. With 
 a Preface by GEORGE MOORE. 
 Vol. iv. A CHILD OF THE Ar-K. By FRANCIS ADAMS.
 
 THE PUBLICATIONS OF 
 
 KEYNOTES SERIES continued. 
 
 Vol. v. THE GREAT GOD PAN AND THE INMOST 
 LIGHT. By ARTHUR MACHEN. 
 
 [Second edition now ready. 
 Vol. vi. DISCORDS. By GEORGE EGERTON. 
 
 [Fourth edition now ready. 
 Vol. vii. PRINCE ZALESKI. By M. P. SHIEL. 
 Vol. vin. THE WOMAN WHO DID. By GRANT ALLEN. 
 [Eleventh edition now ready. 
 
 Vol. ix. WOMEN'S TRAGEDIES. By H. D. LOWRY. 
 Vol. x. GREY ROSES. By HENRY HARLAND. 
 Vol. xi. AT THE FIRST CORNER AND OTHER STORIES. 
 
 By H. B. MARRIOTT WATSON. 
 The following Volumes are in rapid preparation. 
 Vol. xn. MONOCHROMES. By ELLA D'ARCY. 
 Vol. xin. AT THE RELTON ARMS. By EVELYN SHARP. 
 Vol. xiv. THE GIRL FROM THE FARM. By GERTRUDE 
 
 Dix. 
 Vol. xv. THE MIRROR OF Music. By STANLEY V. 
 
 MAKOWER. 
 Vol. xvi. YELLOW AND WHITE. By W. CARLTON 
 
 DAWE. 
 Vol. xvn. THE MOUNTAIN LOVERS. By FIONA 
 
 MACLEOD. 
 Vol. xvni. THE THREE IMPOSTORS. By ARTHUR 
 
 MACHEN. 
 
 Boston : Roberts Bros. 
 LANDER (HARRY). 
 
 WEIGHED IN THE BALANCE: A Novel. Crown 8vo. 
 45. 6d. net. [In preparation. 
 
 LANG (ANDREW). 
 
 See STODDART. 
 LEATHER (R. K.). 
 
 VERSES. 250 copies. Fcap. 8vo. 35. net. 
 
 Transferred by the Author to the present Publisher. 
 LE GALLIENNE (RICHARD). 
 
 PROSE FANCIES. With Portrait of the Author by 
 WILSON STEER. Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo. Purple 
 cloth. 55. net. 
 
 Also a limited large paper edition. las. 6d. net. 
 New York : G. P. Putnam's Sons.
 
 JOHN LANE 9 
 
 LE GALLIENNE (RICHARD). 
 
 THE BOOK BILLS OF NARCISSOS, An Account rendered 
 by RICHARD LK GALLIENNE. Third Edition. With 
 a Frontispiece. Crown 8vo. Purple cloth. 35. 6d. net. 
 Also 50 copies on large paper. 8vo. IDS. 6d. net. 
 
 New York : G. P. Putnam's Sons. 
 
 ROBERT Louis STEVENSON, AN ELEGY, AND OTHER 
 
 POEMS, MAINLY PERSONAL. With Etched Title-page 
 
 by D. Y. CAMERON. Cr. 8vo. Purple cloth. 45. 6d. net. 
 
 Also 75 copies on large paper. 8vo. izs.6d.net. [In preparation. 
 
 Boston : Copeland & Day. 
 
 ENGLISH POEMS. Fourth Edition, revised. Crown 8vo. 
 Purple cloth. 45. 6d. net. [In preparation. 
 
 Boston : Copeland & Day. 
 
 RETROSPECTIVE REVIEWS, A LITERARY LOG, 1891-1895. 
 Crown 8vo. Purple cloth. 55. net. 
 
 [In preparation. 
 
 GEORGE MEREDITH : Some Characteristics. With a Biblio- 
 graphy (much enlarged) by JOHN LANE, portrait, etc. 
 Fourth Edition. Cr. 8vo. Purple cloth. 53. 6d. net. 
 THE RELIGION OF A LITERARY MAN. 5th thousand. 
 
 Crown 8vo. Purple cloth. 35. 6d. net. 
 Also a special rubricated edition on hand-made paper. Bvo. 
 IDS. 6d. net. 
 
 New York : G. P. Putnam's Sons. 
 
 LOWRY (H. D.). 
 
 WOMEN'S TRAGEDIES. (See KEYNOTES SERIES.) 
 
 LUCAS (WINIFRED). 
 
 A VOLUME OF POEMS. Fcap. 8vo. 45. 6d. net. 
 
 [In preparation. 
 LYNCH (HANNAH). 
 
 THE GREAT GALEOTO AND FOLLY OR SAINTLINESS. Two 
 Plays, from the Spanish of Jos ECHEGARAY, with an 
 Introduction. Small 4to. 55. 6d. net. 
 
 [In preparation. 
 MACHEN (ARTHUR). 
 
 THE GREAT GOD PAN. (See KEYNOTES SERIES.) 
 THE THREE IMPOSTORS. (See KEYNOTES SERIES.) 
 
 MACLEOD (FIONA). 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN LOVERS. (See KEYNOTES SERIES.)
 
 THE PUBLICATIONS OF 
 
 MAKOWER (STANLEY V.). 
 
 THE MIRROR OF Music. (See KEYNOTES SERIES.) 
 
 MARZIALS (THEO.). 
 
 THE GALLERY OF PIGEONS AND OTHER POEMS. Post 
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 Transferred by tht Author to tht present Publisher. 
 
 MATHEW (FRANK). 
 
 THE WOOD OF THE BRAMBLES : A Novel. Crown 8vo. 
 43. 6d. net. [In preparation. 
 
 MEREDITH (GEORGE) 
 
 THE FIRST PUBLISHED PORTRAIT OF THIS AUTHOR, 
 engraved on the wood by W. BISCOMBE GARDNER, 
 after the painting by G. F. WATTS. Proof copies on 
 Japanese vellum, signed by painter and engraver. 
 i, is. net. 
 MEYNELL (MRS.), (ALICE C. THOMPSON). 
 
 POEMS. Fcap. 8vo. 3s.6d.net. [Out of Print at present. 
 A few of the 50 large paper copies (First Edition) remain, 125. 6d. net. 
 
 THE RHYTHM OF LIFE AND OTHER ESSAYS. Second 
 
 Edition. Fcap. 8vo. 35. 6d. net. 
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 See also HAKE. 
 
 MILLER (JOAQUIN). 
 
 THE BUILDING OF THE CITY BEAUTIFUL. Fcap. 8vo. 
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 Chicago : Stone & Kimball. 
 
 MILMAN (LENA). 
 
 DOSTOIEVSKY'S POOR FOLK. (See KEYNOTES SERIES.) 
 
 MONKHOUSE (ALLAN). 
 
 BOOKS AND PLAYS : A Volume of Essays on Meredith, 
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 Philadelphia : J. B. Lippincott Co. 
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 See KEYNOTES SERIES, Vol. in. 
 
 NESBIT (E.). 
 
 A POMANDER OF VERSE. With a Title-page and Cover 
 designed by LAURENCE HOUSMAN. Crown 8vo. 
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 NETTLESHIP (J. T.). 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING : Essays and Thoughts. Third 
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 New York : Chas. Scribner's Sons. 
 
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 THE SONNET IN ENGLAND AND OTHER ESSAYS. Title- 
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 O'SHAUGHNESSY (ARTHUR). 
 
 His LIFE AND His WORK. With Selections from his 
 Poems. By LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. Por- 
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 Chicago : Stone & Kimball. 
 
 OXFORD CHARACTERS. 
 
 A series of lithographed portraits by WILL ROTHENSTEIN, 
 with text by F. YORK POWELL and others. To be 
 issued monthly in term. Each number will contain 
 two portraits. Parts I. to VI. ready. 200 sets only, 
 folio, wrapper, 53. net per part ; 25 special large 
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 adapted by MARGARET RUST, being a printed manu- 
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 in Epping. Edition limited to 70 copies, each num- 
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 PLARR (VICTOR). 
 
 IN THE DORIAN MOOD : Poems. Crown 8vo. 53. net. 
 
 [In preparation. 
 RADFORD (DOLLIE). 
 
 SONGS AND OTHER VERSES. Fcap. 8vo. 45. 6d. net. 
 
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 RAMSDEN (HERMIONE). 
 See HANSSON. 
 
 RICKETTS (C. S.)AND C. H. SHANNON. 
 
 HERO AND LBANDER. By CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE 
 and GEORGE CHAPMAN. With Borders, Initials, and 
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 A LONDON ROSE AND OTHER RHYMES. With Title-page 
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 New York : Dodd, Mead & Co. 
 
 ROBINSON (C. NEWTON). 
 
 THE VIOL OF LOVE. With Ornaments and Cover design 
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 [In preparation. 
 
 ST. GYRES (LORD). 
 
 THE LITTLE FLOWERS OF ST. FRANCIS : A new ren- 
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 SHARP (EVELYN). 
 
 AT THE RELTON ARMS. (See KEYNOTES SERIES.) 
 
 SHIEL (M. P.). 
 
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 STACPOOLE (H. DE VERE). 
 
 DEATH, THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY. Sq. i6mo. 
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 STEVENSON (ROBERT LOUIS). 
 
 PRINCE OTTO. A Rendering in French by EGERTON 
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 Also 100 copies on large paper, uniform in size with the Edinburgh 
 Edition of the Works. 
 
 STODDART (THOS. TOD). 
 
 THE DEATH WAKE. With an Introduction by ANDREW 
 LANG. Fcap. 8vo. net. [In preparation.
 
 JOHN LANE 13 
 
 STREET (G. S.)- 
 
 THB AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A BOY. Passages selected by 
 his friend G. S. S. With Title-page designed by 
 C. W. FURSE. Fcap. 8vo. 33. 6d. net. 
 
 [Fourth Edition now ready. 
 Philadelphia : J. B. Lippincott Co. 
 
 MINIATURES AND MOODS. Fcap. 8vo. 35. net. 
 
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 SWETTENHAM (F. W.). 
 
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 [In preparation. 
 TABB (JOHN B.). 
 
 POEMS. Sq. 32010. 45. 6d. net. 
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 TENNYSON (FREDERICK). 
 
 POEMS OF THE DAY AND YEAR. Crown 8vo. 53. net. 
 
 [In preparation. 
 THIMM (C. A.). 
 
 A COMPLETE BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THE ART OF FENCE, 
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 [In preparation. 
 THOMPSON (FRANCIS). 
 
 POEMS. With Frontispiece, Title-page, and Cover Design 
 by LAURENCE HOUSMAN. Fourth Edition. Pott 
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 Boston : Copeland & Day. 
 
 SONGS WING-TO- WING : An Offering to Two Sisters. 
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 TYNAN HINKSON (KATHARINE). 
 
 CUCKOO SONGS. With Title-page and Cover Design by 
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 MIRACLE PLAYS. [In preparation. 
 
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 VESPERTILIA AND OTHER POEMS. With a Title-page 
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 WATSON (H. B. MARRIOTT). 
 
 AT THE FIRST CORNER. (See KEYNOTES SERIES.)
 
 THE PUBLICATIONS OF 
 
 WATSON (WILLIAM). 
 
 ODES AND OTHER POEMS. Fourth Edition. Fcap. 8vo, 
 buckram. 45. 6d. net. 
 
 New York : Macmillan & Co. 
 
 THE ELOPING ANGELS : A Caprice. Second Edition. 
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 EXCURSIONS IN CRITICISM : being some Prose Recrea- 
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 THE PRINCE'S QUEST AND OTHER POEMS. With a 
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 THE LAW'S LUMBER ROOM. Fcap. 8vo. 35. 6d. net. 
 
 [In preparation. 
 WATTS (THEODORE). 
 
 POEMS. Crown 8vo. 55. net. [In preparation. 
 
 There will also be an Edition de Luxe oj this volume printed at 
 
 the Kelmscott Press. 
 WELLS (H. G.). 
 
 SELECT CONVERSATIONS WITH AN UNCLE, SINCE 
 DECEASED. With a Title-page designed by F. H. 
 TOWNSEND. Fcap. 8vo. 35. 6d. net. [In preparation. 
 WHARTON (H. T.). 
 
 SAPPHO. Memoir, Text, Selected Renderings, and a 
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 With three Illustrations in photogravure, and a Cover 
 designed by AUBREY BEARDSLEY. Fcap. 8vo. 
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 THE YELLOW BOOK 
 
 An Illustrated Quarterly 
 
 Vol. I. Fourth Edition, 272 pages, 15 Illustrations, Title-page, 
 and a Cover Design. Cloth. Price $s. net. Pott 4/0. 
 
 The Literary Contributions by MAX BEERBOHM, A. C. BENSON, 
 HUBERT CRACKANTHORPE, ELLA D'ARCY, JOHN DAVID- 
 SON, GEORGE EGERTON, RICHARD GARNETT, EDMUND 
 GOSSE, HENRY HARLAND, JOHN OLIVER HOBBES, HENRY 
 JAMES, RICHARD LE G^LLIENNE, GEORGE MOORE, 
 GEORGE SAINTSBURY, FRED. M. SIMPSON, ARTHUR 
 SYMONS, WILLIAM WATSON, ARTHUR WAUGH.
 
 JOHN LANE 15 
 
 The Art Contributions by Sir FREDERIC LEIGHTON, P.R.A., 
 AUBREY BEARDSLEY, R. ANNING BELL, CHARLES W. 
 FURSE, LAURENCE HOUSMAN, J. T. NETTLESHIP, JOSEPH 
 PENNELL, WILL ROTHENSTEIN, WALTER SICKERT. 
 
 Vol. II. Thtrd Edition. Pott 4*0, 364 pages, 23 Illustrations, 
 and a New Title-page and Cover Design. Cloth. Price 5 s. net. 
 
 The Literary Contributions by FREDERICK GREENWOOD, 
 ELLA D ARCY, CHARLES WILLEBY, JOHN DAVIDSON, 
 HENRY HARLAND, DOLLIE RAD FORD, CHARLOTTE M. 
 MEW, AUSTIN DOBSON, V., O., C. S., KATHARINE DE 
 MATTOS, PHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON, RONALD CAMP- 
 BELL MACFIE, DAUPHIN MEUNIER, KENNETH GRAHAME, 
 NORMAN GALE, NETTA SYRETT, HUBERT CRACKAN- 
 THORPE, ALFRED HAYES, MAX BEERBOHM, WILLIAM 
 WATSON, and HENRY JAMES. 
 
 The Art Contributions by WALTER CRANE, A. S. HARTRICK, 
 AUBREY BEARDSLEY, ALFRED THORNTON, P. WILSON 
 STEER, JOHN S. SARGENT, A.R.A., SYDNEY ADAMSON, 
 WALTER SICKERT, W. BROWN MACDOUGAL, E. J. 
 SULLIVAN, FRANCIS FORSTER, BERNHARD SICKERT, 
 and AYMER VALLANCE. 
 
 A Special Feature of Volume II. is a frank criticism of 
 the Literature and Art of Volume i. by PHILIP GILBERT 
 HAMERTON. 
 
 Vol. III. Third Edition. Now Ready. Pott 4/0, 280 pages, 
 1 5 Illustrations, and a New Title-page and Cover Design. 
 Cloth. Price $s. net. 
 
 The Literary Contributions by WILLIAM WATSON, KENNETH 
 GRAHAME, ARTHUR SYMONS, ELLA D'ARCY, JOSE MARIA 
 DE HEREDIA, ELLEN M. CLERKE, HENRY HARLAND, 
 THEO MARZIALS, ERNEST DOWSON, THEODORE WRATIS- 
 LAW, ARTHUR MOORE, OLIVE CUSTANCE, LIONEL JOHN- 
 SON, ANNIE MACDONELL, C. S., NORA HOPPER, S. 
 CORNISH WATKINS, HUBERT CRACKANTHORPE, MORTON 
 FULLER-TON, LEILA MACDONALD, C. W. DALMON, MAX 
 BEERBOHM, and JOHN DAVIDSON. 
 
 The Art Contributions by PHILIP BROUGHTON, GEORGE 
 THOMSON, AUBREY BEARDSLEY, ALBERT FOSCHTER, 
 WALTER SICKERT, P. WILSON STEER, WILLIAM HYDE, 
 and MAX BEERBOHM.
 
 THE PUBLICATIONS OF JOHN LANE 
 
 Vol. IV. Second Edition. Now Ready. Pott 4*0, 285 pages, 
 1 6 Full-page Illustrations. With New Title-page and 
 Cover Designs and a Double-page Supplement by Aubrey 
 Beardsley. Price 55. net. 
 
 The Literary Contributions by RICHARD LE GALLIENNE, 
 HENRY HARLAND, GRAHAM R. TOMSON, H. B. MARRIOTT 
 WATSON, DOLF WYLLARDE, MENIE MURIEL DOWIE, 
 OLIVE CUSTANCE, JAMES ASHCROFT NOBLE, LEILA MAC- 
 DONALD, C. S., RICHARD GARNETT, VICTORIA CROSS, 
 CHARLES SYDNEY, KENNETH GRAHAME, C. NEWTON 
 ROBINSON, NORMAN HAPGOOD, E. NESBIT, MARION HEP- 
 WORTH DIXON, C. W. DALMON, EVELYN SHARP, MAX 
 BEERBOHM, and JOHN DAVIDSON. 
 
 The Art Contributions by H. J. DRAPER, WILLIAM HYDE, 
 WALTER SICKERT, PATTEN WILSON, W. W. RDSSELL, 
 A. S. HARTRICK, CHARLES CONDER, WILL ROTHENSTEIN, 
 Miss SUMNER, P. WILSON STEER, and AUBREY BEARDS- 
 LEY. 
 
 Vol. V. Now Ready. Pott 4(0, pages, 16 Full-page Illus- 
 trations and New Title-page and Cover Designs. Price $s. 
 net. 
 
 The Literary Contributions by WILLIAM WATSON, H. D. 
 TRAILL, RICHARD LE GALLIENNE, ELLA D'ARCY, ROSA- 
 MUND MARRIOTT- WATSON, KENNETH GRAHAME, HENRY 
 HARLAND, DAUPHIN MEUNIER, MRS. MURRAY HICKSON, 
 EDMUND GOSSE, CHARLES KENNETT BURROW, LEILA 
 MACDONALD, HUBERT CRACKANTHORPE, ERNEST WENT- 
 WORTH, C. S., G. S. STREET, NORA HOPPER, JAMES 
 ASHCROFT NOBLE, B. PAUL NEUMAN, EVELYN SHARP, 
 W. A. MACKENZIE, MRS. ERNEST LEVERSON, RICHARD 
 GARNETT, MAURICE BARING, NORMAN GALE, ANATOLE 
 FRANCE, and JOHN DAVIDSON. 
 
 The Art Contributions by E. A. WALTON, R. ANNING BELL, 
 ALFRED THORNTON, F. G. COTMAN, P. WILSON STEER, 
 A. S. HARTRICK, ROBERT HALLS, WALTER SICKERT, 
 CONSTANTIN GUYS, and AUBREY BEARDSLEY. 
 
 Prospectuses Post Free on Application. 
 
 LONDON : JOHN LANE 
 BOSTON : COPELAND & DAY
 
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