.
 
 ; Alice, come awav !" the old man cried 
 
 Page 355
 
 MADAME 
 BOHEMIA 
 
 By 
 
 FRANCIS 
 NEILSON 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY CHARLOTTE HARDING 
 
 PHILADELPHIA 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 
 1901
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1900 
 
 BY 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 
 
 ' BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA, U.S.A.
 
 TO 
 
 ALWINE EDENBOROUGH 
 
 2228407
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 "Alice, come away !" the old man cried . . Frontispiece 
 
 The great fortissimo rang out 89 
 
 "Don't try to explain," she said firmly but quietly . . . 182 
 
 Listening for a moment 280
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 BATTISTA GUARINI'S dive was a warm cellar near 
 Bleeker Street, down a flight of eight narrow steps to 
 swinging doors on the top step of a shorter flight ; the 
 doors, opening, showed a room which, though sixty 
 feet long and thirty broad, was less than eight feet 
 high; on each side were seven tables, and each table 
 was flanked by four chairs. In the centre of the room 
 stood a large stove, the pipe from which, suspended 
 by wires, ran back half the length of the room to the 
 kitchen chimney. 
 
 Guarini said the ceiling was already black when 
 he turned the cellar into a restaurant. Caricatures 
 of political notorieties and of celebrated artists, and 
 curious anatomical studies, were sketched by the aid 
 of sticks and umbrellas on the ceiling, which in con- 
 sequence had a reputation equal to that of Guarini's 
 famous dinner. 
 
 Twelve years ago, in New York, this was the favour- 
 ite rendezvous of the hungry subjects of the Nine. 
 Guarini said he was a descendant of the Italian poet 
 who wrote "The Faithful Swain." No one doubted 
 this, for Battista was worthy of any ancestor, poet or 
 otherwise. 
 
 New Year's night, 188 , will not be forgotten by 
 
 8
 
 4 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 Guarini's customers. It had been snowing all day; 
 night brought a biting frost. Few were abroad that 
 night, and the few that were seemed to be like dead 
 things the old year had left. But the stove in Gua- 
 rini's cellar was burning brightly, and it warmed the 
 almost empty place, waiting in silence for its cus- 
 tomers, who had stayed away through fear of the 
 storm. 
 
 Two men were partaking of the celebrated dinner. 
 One was drunk and noisy, not a regular customer; 
 the other, by his appearance and conversation, seemed 
 to be out of place there, though he chatted familiarly 
 and pleasantly with Guarini. Near the stove Gari- 
 baldi, the cat, sat watching the rowdy, who cursed at 
 the storm, swore at Battista, and damned mankind. 
 
 Cyril Gower, who, having thoroughly enjoyed his 
 dinner, was now chatting in Italian to Guarini about 
 Mascagni and the new school of Italian composers, 
 was about twenty-three years old, five feet eleven 
 inches high, thin and fair, with blue eyes which seemed 
 ever to be looking and reaching for the indefinable. 
 Gower made most things suit him ; he seldom adapted 
 himself to conditions. A superb indifference gave him 
 the appearance of a modern Stoic, but all this was ac- 
 quired of hard experience. 
 
 He was a musical prodigy at the age of seven. 
 Having been a spoiled child, he became a wearied 
 youth, and was now a disappointed man. 
 
 For five years he had eaten the bitter fruit of early 
 triumphs. He did not complain, but he hated the in- 
 strument which had been the means of his early re- 
 nown. He regarded it as the bane of music, one of
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 5 
 
 the modern infantile vices, an adjunct of sciolism, and 
 a thing to be avoided. After hearing a recital by 
 Joseph Raphael, Gower said it was dreadful to think 
 that every school-girl was pounding the key-board just 
 because her papa had been foolish enough to buy a 
 piano to furnish the drawing-room. 
 
 Gower and Guarini continued their conversation, 
 and forgot the drunken fellow across the room. 
 
 The drunken fellow pushed away his spaghetti. 
 
 " It is too lonesome to eat," he roared, " and that 
 lingo is enough to drive a mule mad. Hey, speak 
 English and be sociable." 
 
 " What can I get you?" asked Guarini, going to the 
 rowdy's table. 
 
 "Have a drink?" 
 
 " No, thank you, I never drink." 
 
 " Well, ask your stuck-up friend to have one." 
 
 " The gentleman has half a bottle of wine before 
 him," Guarini replied, casting a furtive glance at 
 Gower. 
 
 " Well, I'm damned if this isn't a nice world ! 
 New Year's night, and not a soul to say ' How are 
 you?'" 
 
 Guarini collected the plates and disappeared behind 
 the partition which screened the kitchen. The rowdy 
 began to sing an obscene song. Gower's mouth be- 
 trayed a smile of disgust, and his eyes turned to the 
 sketches on the ceiling. 
 
 " I'd talk to the cat, but he's used to Italian," said the 
 disconsolate fellow. " Come here, puss, and purr. 
 What ! You won't ? Now I come to think of it, you 
 haven't purred since I sat down."
 
 6 MADAME BOHEMIA 1 
 
 The door was thrown open and a man entered. His 
 clothes were covered with snow. 
 
 The appearance of another human being, after so 
 many vain attempts to get into conversation with 
 Guarini and Gower, caused the rowdy to belch out an 
 exclamation of joy. 
 
 " A friend, at last a friend !" and his face beamed. 
 
 " Is this Battista Guarini's ?" asked the newcomer 
 as he shook the snow off a threadbare spring overcoat, 
 which he did not attempt to take off. 
 
 " Yes ! Come over here ! Sit down ! Have a 
 drink !" shouted the overjoyed inebriate. 
 
 " No, thank you, I prefer to be alone as much as 
 possible," replied the man. 
 
 " Well, I have never seen anything like it," the fel- 
 low whined ; " it beats solitary confinement. Not 
 even a confounded jailer to damn you." He was 
 utterly crushed, and too disappointed to blaspheme. 
 
 Guarini came from the kitchen. 
 
 " What may I get for you ?" he asked, eyeing his 
 new guest from his worn-out hat to his broken shoes. 
 
 " Franco Sacci told me I could get a good dinner 
 here." 
 
 " Ah, Franco ? I have not seen him for months." 
 
 " I met him a week ago. He has been very ill." 
 
 " Indeed ? Poor Franco ! Ah, what a talent !" 
 
 " May I take off this coat? The heat is melting the 
 snow." 
 
 " Of course, sir," Battista readily assented, surprised 
 at the request. 
 
 " But I have no coat on under this. Your guests 
 don't object to me eating dinner in my shirt-sleeves ?"
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 1 7 
 
 " No, no, no ! Take off the coat. I sail dry it at 
 the stove. You look hum tired, sir. I go at once 
 for ze soup." 
 
 The tired stranger gave his coat to Battista, who 
 threw it over the back of a chair near the stove. The 
 stranger drew up to his table and leaned his head upon 
 his hands. His appearance, when he took off his coat, 
 touched the well-spring of pity in Battista's heart, and 
 he was brought face to face with hunger and suffering, 
 summer and winter. The object of his sympathy now 
 was a man of twenty-five years of age, tall, fully six 
 feet, of large, athletic frame, but thin, pale, almost 
 emaciated. So interesting was the man's face that 
 one could not resist a second look at it, for the ex- 
 pression of the eyes sought other eyes, not for pity or 
 admiration, as the eyes of beggars or beautiful women 
 do, but for the soul-glance which stirs many a faint 
 heart and revives a kindlier spirit when all seems awry 
 and the fight not worth the exertion. A sensitive 
 mouth, which sometimes seemed severe only to be 
 changed by a gentle smile, for humour's expression was 
 ever in parenthesis above his firm, round chin. His 
 hair was dark and long, and his beard sadly needed 
 trimming. He had been so busily employed trimming 
 his mind that he had forgotten his appearance; what 
 was on his back and what his stomach craved were 
 secondary matters. 
 
 Gower had not taken his eyes off Lexham (the new- 
 comer) since he entered the place. It was not often 
 Gower let his mind go back to days when he was a 
 celebrated youth, but he could not now resist the re- 
 viving past. He smoked his cigar, and through the
 
 8 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 quiescent dreaminess which its magic brought floating 
 round him waited for recollection to flash a sudden 
 illumination of this man, who, he felt, was linked with 
 the long ago. 
 
 Guarini placed a large plate of soup before Lexham. 
 The drunkard snored ; Garibaldi purred ; and Gower's 
 unfettered mind was flying through the golden alleys 
 of his past. 
 
 Suddenly the doors crashed open and something 
 struck the floor and with great impetus rolled full 
 against the feet of the sleeping drunkard. The noise 
 and the collision awakened the sleeper, who sprang 
 up, without looking down, and gathered his arms above 
 his head as if he expected the cartooned ceiling to fall 
 on him. Garibaldi jumped upon the drunkard's table, 
 and with beautifully arched back and perpendicular tail 
 glared at the twisting, wriggling form. 
 
 Lexham ran to assist the fallen one to rise. Gower 
 for a moment was interested in the sudden appearance, 
 but did not stir, and soon resumed his smoking as if 
 nothing had happened. 
 
 Lexham helped to his feet the man who had broken 
 the quiet by his noisy fall. The rowdy had had time 
 to gather his scattered wits. They made a strange 
 group, the three. 
 
 " Where am I ?" asked the one who had fallen in. 
 
 " Where in thunder did you come from?" inquired 
 the rowdy. 
 
 "Heaven, I suppose I was so long falling; and 
 if it hadn't been for your small feet I should now be 
 rolling off the end of the earth." 
 
 " I hope you are not hurt," said Lexham.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA g 
 
 " Hurt ! No ! One fall more or less doesn't bother 
 me, though it is a deuced long time since I fell into 
 the place I was looking for and could not find." 
 
 " This is Guarini's restaurant." 
 
 " Thanks ! I have come to get a dinner on trust. 
 Guarini knows me. I owe him nothing, so I don't 
 think he will mind even giving away a meal on such 
 a night." 
 
 " Come to my table," said Lexham, " I have enough 
 money to pay for two dinners." 
 
 " Do you" he paused and looked at Lexham in 
 slow inquiry " do you know me?" 
 
 " No, but I hope you will let me know you, and have 
 the pleasure of your company." 
 
 " I used to be Dick Drake." 
 
 "Drake?" 
 
 " Yes, of course ; I see the name seems familiar. 
 You read and write : I see all that in the colour of your 
 eyes and the shape of your right hand. Yes, I am all 
 that is mortal of Dick Drake. I don't represent a very 
 healthy dividend, but you may make my acquaintance 
 if you want it." 
 
 " I do." 
 
 " Well, I hope it will be more serviceable to you 
 than it has been to me." 
 
 " Sit down." 
 
 Lexham turned to Guarini, who had brought the 
 second course of the celebrated dinner. 
 
 " This gentleman will dine with me. Bring the 
 soup." 
 
 The rowdy had stood watching Lexham and Drake 
 during their conversation. When he saw the latter
 
 io MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 v 
 
 accept Lexham's invitation and seat himself at the 
 table, his indignation knew no bounds. He tried to 
 stammer out a new stock of oaths, but articulation 
 failed him. 
 
 " Hey, you Drake ! Come over here. I'll stand 
 you a dozen dinners." The rowdy lurched half-way 
 across the room. " Hey, you without a coat, you, 
 you long-haired pauper, what right have you to take 
 my friend Drake? He fell at my feet. Providence 
 sent him to me." With this the rowdy clutched at 
 Drake and dragged him over to his table. Drake 
 struggled to free himself, but his poor, frail form in 
 the grasp of the rowdy seemed as powerless as a mouse 
 in a cat's jaws. 
 
 " Sit there!" roared the ruffian. The indifference 
 of Gower had turned his half-drunken joviality into 
 a sullen brooding. To decline an invitation to drink 
 on New Year's Day was an insult. Then when Lex- 
 ham preferred another table to his, the rowdy took 
 the action as a direct snub, and felt that Lexham had 
 singled him out above all men as a thing to be shunned. 
 
 Drake was for a moment dumfounded by the force 
 and ferocity of the rough. The poor, frail fellow 
 crouched in the chair, afraid of the fierce stare of the 
 stalwart bully who stood over him. The bully's wicked 
 glance seemed to pin Drake to the chair. 
 
 " Now, damn you ! sit there. I must have some- 
 thing to talk to. Those cursed dudes don't need you. 
 Have a drink?" 
 
 Drake shrank farther into the chair and blurted, 
 " I don't want a drink." 
 
 " Yes, you do."
 
 II 
 
 " I do not, and I object to sitting here and being 
 bullied by you." 
 
 " What's the matter with me? Have I got a con- 
 tagious disease?" 
 
 " I am not a health inspector ; besides, if you were 
 the healthiest of mortals, that would be no inducement 
 to know you." 
 
 Drake had got upon his feet, and was about to re- 
 turn to Lexham's table when the rowdy, who seemed 
 to have enjoyed the few words which had passed be- 
 tween him and his victim, stretched out his arm, caught 
 Drake before he was half-way across the room, pulled 
 him back, and thrust him against the chair. The chair 
 turned over and Drake along with it. His head struck 
 a neighbouring table. In another moment Lexham 
 was at his side. The rowdy tried to push Lexham 
 away, but failed, for Lexham quickly dodged his out- 
 stretched hand. Drake, half-stunned by the fall, tot- 
 tered when Lexham placed him on his feet. The room 
 seemed to revolve and close in on him, and he raised 
 his hands to wipe away the whirling sight. In so doing 
 one hand brushed across a wound on his forehead, 
 which began to bleed. 
 
 " You've hurt him !" cried Lexham. 
 
 " I'll hurt you in a minute !" roared the rowdy, " if 
 you don't get to your own table. It was all your 
 fault!" 
 
 "My fault?" 
 
 ; ' Yes, damn you !" and the rowdy struck fiercely at 
 Lexham. There was a terrible crash of overturning 
 chairs and tables. The great, hulking bully was struck 
 between the eyes and sent rolling down the room.
 
 12 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 Lexham had warded the rowdy's blow, returned it 
 with a force which his physical condition in no way 
 indicated, and huddled up his antagonist in an inex- 
 tricable tangle of furniture. 
 
 Even Gower was astonished. He got up and walked 
 down the room to see if it was really the bully who 
 had fallen. Guarini, with Drake's plate of soup in one 
 hand and Lexham's second course in the other, ran up 
 the room, shouting, 
 
 " Gentlemen ! Gentlemen !" 
 
 " We shall have some quiet now," murmured Gower 
 as he strolled back to his table. Lexham bathed the 
 wound on Drake's brow and found his new friend was 
 not much hurt. The rowdy emerged from his igno- 
 minious position and, to Guarini's amazement, began 
 to set the tables and chairs in their proper upright 
 positions. His conqueror and Drake were quietly 
 finding their appetites overcoming the perturbation 
 caused by the fracas. 
 
 "How is that?" asked the bully, pointing with 
 grotesque pride to the part of the room he had set in 
 order. " No damage done, eh, Guarini ?" 
 
 The Italian could not understand the change that 
 had taken place. He had in a moment conjured up 
 mental photographs of pistol-firing men, burly police- 
 men, and all the frightful details of a brawl, an in- 
 quest, and an execution. 
 
 " Say, you're a wonder," remarked the bully, going 
 to Lexham and looking with admiration on his late 
 foe. " I have been looking and aching for a fight, 
 but didn't know it till you smashed me. Now, have 
 a drink."
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 13 
 
 " With pleasure. Sit down," and Lexham gave his 
 chair to the bully turned man. 
 
 " Do you know there's many a man goes round with 
 hell in him, and gets himself into trouble for want of 
 a sharp, hard rap to knock the hell out of him and re- 
 store reason?" 
 
 " I'm glad you take it in that spirit." 
 
 " Why, I'd take anything from you, barring your 
 valuables and character. I'm not such a bad kind, 
 but this is the first time I've been East for fifteen 
 years. I've been out in Wyoming, where I've got 
 going a nice, refined euchre party, sort of continuous 
 performance, with a good liquor business on the side. 
 I came on here to see my old mother, but they told 
 me she'd been dead these five years, and that's why I 
 felt so damn lonesome. Say, a Western prairie during 
 a drought seemed a highly populated, congenial garden 
 party, compared to this dive, before you arrived." 
 
 Drake looked at the man and felt the spirit of for- 
 giveness rise within his breast. The dull ache of the 
 wound on his brow ceased to remind him of his fall. 
 But an ugly lump above the bridge of the Wyoming 
 man's nose seemed to frown at him and taunt him. 
 The silent reproof was swelling and changing colour. 
 Drake thought of Lexham's sympathetic touch, and 
 of the cold, wet handkerchief which was now bound 
 around his head. He quietly untied the handkerchief, 
 dipped it in a tumbler of water, and handed it to his 
 assailant. 
 
 " You have a bruise on your brow. Take this," 
 said Drake. Lexham's attention was for the first time 
 drawn to the place his blow had struck.
 
 14 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 " Oh, I didn't mean to strike so hard," he cried in 
 a tone of half-sorrow. 
 
 " Let it alone," said the man, with a smile, which 
 seemed to soften the hard lines of his tanned face, 
 " I'm proud of it." 
 
 Guarini brought a bottle of Chianti and filled three 
 glasses. 
 
 " Bring another glass. You're in this, Guarini. 
 Come on, now, just to show there's no ill-feeling," 
 and the man grew warm, for he felt that Drake and 
 Lexham had accepted him. Even his hoarse voice 
 was changed; it was now not unpleasant to 
 hear. 
 
 A silent toast was drunk. 
 
 Gower was forgotten. 
 
 He had not succeeded in identifying Lexham; in- 
 deed, he had forgotten the purpose for which he had 
 let his mind explore the past. For Drake was now 
 here and, for a time, seemed to be master of his thought. 
 This man, he felt, had been connected with a great 
 crisis in his life, when two terrible things happened 
 which turned the tide of his future. He had never 
 understood those incidents, though his young mind 
 had been troubled by the affliction and distress they 
 brought to persons near and once dear to him, and 
 he could not visualise the vague, shadowy events which 
 mystified him more now than they did when he was 
 a boy. But Drake seemed to him to have been either 
 an actor in those scenes, or a witness who could relate 
 ^the circumstances. 
 
 Memory held full sway, and soon had Gower wholly 
 under its influence; he could no longer resist its po-
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 15 
 
 tency ; opium could not have so affected him ; he gave 
 himself up to it and found a new delight in yielding 
 to teeming visualisations. 
 
 As round an impregnable prison in which were hid- 
 den the events and persons he wished to call vividly 
 to mind, hundreds of the acquaintances of his youth 
 seemed to pass, without giving any clew to what he 
 insatiably sought to discover. At last he realised that 
 further striving would not unveil the tantalising secret. 
 He cast off the clinging past, and with a sigh of dis- 
 satisfaction looked up the room, trying to read on 
 Drake's and Lexham's faces all that the uncommunica- 
 tive long ago would not disclose. 
 
 " I wonder if they would know me. I have not 
 seen a look of recognition from either, and each has 
 several times looked at me;" this he murmured almost 
 aloud, and he tried to catch Lexham's eye. 
 
 He arose, paid his bill, and struggled into a warm 
 common overcoat. 
 
 " Good-night, Mr. Gower," Guarini called. 
 
 Drake turned and looked at the owner of the name. 
 Lexham raised his eyes and met those of the parting 
 guest, who was moving towards him. Gower stopped. 
 Drake and Lexham rose. For a moment each hesi- 
 tated. 
 
 " Is your name Lexham ?" 
 
 "Yes. Are you Cyril Gower?" 
 
 "Yes. How are you?" 
 
 "Cyril Gower! Cyril Gower! Well, I'm damned 
 if it isn't funny!" and Drake laughed; "why, you 
 were one of the wonders of the age when I last saw 
 you."
 
 16 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 " Wonders and ages change, and Guarini's restau- 
 rant epitomises the world," said Gower. 
 
 " Yes, it is strange," Lexham remarked, " that we 
 should first meet when we were lads at school in Eng- 
 land, then as youths in Dresden, and now " 
 
 " Well, I have never in my life felt so inquisitive, 
 and if it were not for Guarini's delicious spaghetti I 
 should ask a thousand questions; but I see you do' 
 not remember me," said Drake, and an amused smile 
 lingered round his mouth. 
 
 " No, I am puzzled. In fact, I have been cudgel- 
 ling my brains without success. I cannot place you, 
 yet your face no, not your face, but there is some- 
 thing oh, I don't know what it is." 
 
 " Don't you remember Mr. Drake?" 
 
 "Drake?" Gower muttered. 
 
 " Yes, I was almost a foster-father to you. How 
 unfilial of you wholly to forget one who shielded you 
 from the ear-cuffing hand of your adoptive father!" 
 and Drake heartily laughed at some reminiscence. 
 
 " Of course, now I remember you. The secretary" 
 this Gower said as if he snapped gladly at the words, 
 though a moment after he learned the fact no beam of 
 satisfaction lighted up his face; something like a sneer 
 came and passed. Neither Drake nor Lexham noticed 
 the expression, and Gower soon recovered his usual 
 composure. Still, he felt that circumstance had played 
 him a trick, for many references would surely be made 
 to the time he had for so long shut out of his mind. 
 It irritated him beyond measure to realise how little 
 he really knew of the events which happened while he 
 was imprisoned in the anteroom of youth. He had
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 17 
 
 never known the history of those matters which it now 
 seemed his right to learn, and that Drake should laugh 
 when he spoke of his adoptive father incensed and 
 stung him. His vanity was pierced by a laugh which 
 he thought had the envenomed point of innuendo. It 
 rankled and further increased the agitation of his 
 mind. 
 
 Drake had taken more than his share of the Chianti, 
 and his memory needed but that spur to set it speed- 
 ing through the past. He lolled on his chair, stretched 
 his thin legs, threw one foot over the other, thrust his 
 hands into his trousers' pockets, and viewed the swift- 
 moving panorama of scenes in other lands. As he 
 viewed he marvelled, and wondered why he had not 
 dug up the splendid material and made history of it, 
 so real, stirring, and full of the dramatic it all now 
 seemed to him to be. 
 
 " Do you know I had the pleasure of seeing that 
 drunken scoundrel of an adoptive father of yours 
 soundly thrashed," said Drake with great zest, as if he 
 had just turned his eyes from a mental reproduction 
 of the scene. 
 
 " Did you ?" sneered Gower. " I thought he was a 
 fine shot?" 
 
 "At clay pigeons. Plucking birds of rich plumage 
 was more in his line. But you can't know much about 
 his criminal accomplishments, for / had to turn nurse 
 and take you for nice long walks. One day you did 
 something which annoyed him; he chased you round 
 and round the room; you were screaming, he was 
 cursing and flinging articles of vertu at you when I 
 entered and caught a vase on my head. See, here is
 
 i8 MADAME BOHEMIA' 
 
 the mark; I can almost bury the point of my finger 
 in it," and Drake brushed back his hair and showed 
 an ugly scar on his forehead. 
 
 Gower with compressed lips sat motionless, fearing 
 the slightest movement would shake the fury now 
 raging in his heart and almost on the point of bursting. 
 The heat of his passion was distilling a fearful hatred 
 for Drake. Gower felt an acute pain in the back 
 of his head, a pain which seemed to come from the 
 tightening of his jaws and the strain upon the cervical 
 nerves. All this contributed to his vague sense of 
 self-pity. 
 
 " How that thing hated you ! I don't think a child 
 was ever so hated by anything in human shape. I 
 never cared for youngsters till I learned the anatomy 
 of his hate. You were a prodigy, and prodigies were 
 to me freaks of nature, most uncanny things. You, 
 with your golden curls and pretty face, looked like a 
 doll of high-class German workmanship enclosing a 
 unique mechanism. But only a human toy could be 
 so hated and terrible. Hate breeds pity in the be- 
 holder, and in your case pity was the husk of love. 
 How strange it all was; for when I first met you I 
 disliked you, you were so petted and spoiled by your 
 adoptive mother " 
 
 " By God ! you leave her out of this. I'll not Have 
 her name dragged through your cursed reminis- 
 cences," said Gower, whose fury burst like a fierce fire 
 through the walls of a building. The iron bands of 
 Stoicism he had spent years in welding were torn apart 
 and twisted like girders after terrific heat. His face, 
 which was cynically pleasant, was now furrowed and
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 19 
 
 frightfully changed. Malignancy was stamped on 
 every feature. He shook with uncontrollable anger. 
 Lexham was astounded, for he had listened to Drake's 
 reminiscences without any thought of how Gower 
 would take them. What Drake had related seemed 
 impersonal and in no way aspersive or aimed to taunt 
 Gower. 
 
 " Well, Gower, I'm sorry you're offended. I thought 
 you looked like one made impervious by such events 
 as those I have recounted/' Drake explained in a half- 
 apologetic tone. 
 
 " Impervious ! No, I have on my soul the scars 
 of too many wounds, which have never sufficiently 
 healed to let me think of that dreadful man without 
 my heart quailing. I do not know why and how it 
 happened. It is a Haunting mystery to me. It blunts 
 the edge of my reason and stirs all my worst impulses ; 
 I have never asked her to explain the loathsome past 
 no, no matter how much I craved to learn the cause 
 of our careers suddenly terminating." Gower's voice 
 now sank to a harsh whisper which anger made terribly 
 distinct : " For five years my young mind knew no 
 present or future ; the past, octopus-like, fastened ten- 
 tacles on it and sucked out ambition and what little 
 good was in me." 
 
 The apathy whicH Had possessed him at the time 
 of which he spoke was now reproduced sympathetically 
 in his voice as he spoke of it his intent eyes seemed 
 to be far away looking at it. And in and through this 
 dull, hoarse tone of voice there was at the same time 
 audible a fierce present anger at the recollection. The 
 effect of the anger speaking through that obsessed voice
 
 20 MADAME BOHEMIA 1 
 
 was uncanny in the stillness of the cellar. Lexham 
 looked at him with a curious wonder the man had 
 been so self-possessed, so calm, so cynical almost, when 
 he accosted him at first. 
 
 The Wyoming man slept, half his form sprawling 
 over the end of the table. Poor Drake's mind was sur- 
 charged with all Gower did not know, the why and 
 wherefore of it all. Lexham's heart was flooded with 
 pity for Gower, and a yearning came upon him to 
 meet once again the woman who had adopted him 
 that beautiful woman he once saw when her name was 
 on every music-lover's tongue. 
 
 Drake arose and went in search of his hat, which' 
 he found under the table on which the sleeping man 
 had eaten his dinner. 
 
 " I'm sorry, Gower, very sorry," said Drake, as He 
 returned to Lexham's table. 
 
 Gower made no reply. Perhaps he did not hear 
 Drake's voice. 
 
 "Are you going?" asked Lexham. 
 
 " Yes, I have a lot of work to do." Then He said 
 to Lexham in almost a whisper, " I'm full of it, and 
 must set it all down before the wheels get clogged. 
 Good-night. Many thanks for the dinner. Hope I 
 shall soon meet you again. I'll tell you about it 
 Spiendid tragedy, and it's all mine. Good-night." 
 
 Gower stood near the stove in deep thought. Drake 
 turned and looked at him, smiled, shrugged his shoul- 
 ders, and said in a sympathetic tone, " Good-night." 
 
 Gower did not move. Lexham was almost tempted 
 to make Drake stay and tell Gower the whole truth, 
 for good or ill, for he thought there was something
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 21 
 
 unjust in the knowledge of the one and the ignorance 
 of the other, and that Drake should unhesitatingly 
 show his pleasure in withholding the truth from Gower 
 filled Lexham with feelings of pity and indignation. 
 But Drake turned, and Lexham saw tears in his eyes. 
 
 " If you should be here when our Western friend 
 awakes, tell him I thought sleep more to his purpose 
 than my good-night," said Drake, and he went down 
 the room. 
 
 The doors swung back, and Drake was soon hurrying 
 to his garret, debating whether he should make short 
 stories of it or a long novel. 
 
 Gower with a weary sigh turned to Lexham and 
 stood at the foot of the table. He looked long and 
 curiously at his old school-fellow. There was pain in 
 the searching eyes, and there was nothing to set them 
 at rest or ease his fretful mind. He shook his head 
 in a slow, despondent way. 
 
 " Won't you sit down?" Lexham said. 
 
 " No, what's the good ? Come home with me, or 
 I shall be tempted to refer to what Drake mentioned. 
 Come ! I'm sure she will be glad to meet you again," 
 pleaded Gower. 
 
 " She would not remember me ; besides, I never 
 go out to meet people, and I haven't spoken to a woman 
 for so long. . I would rather not." 
 
 " But you must come." 
 
 " Not to-night. Please let me off. I should like 
 to see her, but somehow I feel I ought not to go. I 
 can't explain why, still, a peculiar sense of " 
 
 " What ? There is nothing of which you can be 
 superstitious," said Gower with a slight smile. " Come
 
 22 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 on. Here is your coat. You'll say she hasn't changed. 
 She doesn't look a day older," and Cower* helped Lex- 
 ham on with his coat. 
 
 " Hasn't changed ; doesn't look a day older," Lex- 
 ham murmured to himself. A fear was in his heart. 
 He was half-alarmed, but why he knew not. He paid 
 his bill and bade Guarini good-night. 
 
 "Is it far?" he asked. 
 
 "No," replied Cower; "five minutes' walk. You 
 will come?" 
 
 " Yes," said Lexham ; " but only for an hour."
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 ELINOR KEMBLETON had two large rooms on trie 
 second floor of a good lodging-house near Sixth 
 Avenue. The front room was hers, and though the 
 carpets, furniture, and hangings were the property of 
 the good lady who owned the house, an hundred and 
 one artistic things which were Elinor's own made 
 pretty a place which without them would have seemed 
 dowdy. 
 
 She sat in a low large chair busily embroidering a 
 cloth. A large fire threw flashes of light on her beau- 
 tiful face, and a cheerful glow across the centre made 
 darker the two ends of the room. On a table near her 
 chair stood a lighted lamp, a small painting of a golden- 
 haired boy, and several old quaint articles, one a fan 
 of peculiar workmanship which had been several times 
 mended. The table and the things upon it seemed 
 to belong to Elinor, and as she sat near it one could 
 at a glance see how things sometimes look like the 
 owner, particularly if the owner be a woman. 
 
 In an alcove near the door of the room, behind a 
 Japanese screen, which did not belong to Elinor, were 
 a folding-bed, a wash-stand, and small dressing-table. 
 All toilet articles usually found in bedrooms were 
 during the day hidden behind the screen. 
 
 From over the mantel-piece a painting of Liszt 
 looked sternly across the room at a photograph of 
 Wagner. Near one of the two windows stood a desk- 
 
 23
 
 24 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 bookcase, which contained perhaps fifty volumes of 
 good novels. The open desk, most neatly kept, had 
 pigeon-holes full of letters, bills, and contracts. A 
 brass Atlas stood upon a pile of letters to be answered. 
 Hanging behind the inkstand was a miniature of a 
 fair-haired young man. 
 
 Mrs. Pollack, the landlady, knocked on the door and 
 entered. 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Kembleton, I have come to wish you a 
 happy New Year," was the greeting of the landlady. 
 " I did not see you during the day." 
 
 " Thank you, Mrs. Pollack," returned Elinor, and, 
 rising, took the landlady's hand, which she pressed. 
 ' The same to you, and many more happy years." 
 
 " Mr. Gower is out ? Have you been alone all 
 day?" 
 
 " No, not all day," she pleasantly replied. 
 
 " Should I light the fire in Mr. Gower's room ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, please. I thought it was brightly burn- 
 ing," said Elinor, and she looked quite concerned. 
 
 " It is a bitter night, but the room will soon be 
 warm. Good-night." 
 
 " Good-night." She listened and heard Mrs. Pol- 
 lack go into the next room, strike a match, and soon 
 the crackling of the burning wood satisfied her. She 
 went to one of the large windows, pulled aside the 
 blind and looked out. The snow was being blown 
 up the street in great drifts, to the accompaniment 
 of shrill and mournful sounds caused by the wind 
 rushing through the telegraph-wires encrusted with 
 ice. Elinor shuddered and felt cold, though her 
 hands and face were warm. She had been all even->
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 25 
 
 ing alone, and it was now about ten o'clock, still her 
 heart was free from sadness, and her mind was at 
 rest. It was the first New Year's evening she had been 
 alone. 
 
 She returned to the table near her chair, took up the 
 painting of the golden-haired boy, and looked long 
 and earnestly at the face. A smile, so sweet, warmed 
 her soul, and the tears that came into her eyes when 
 she stood at the window fell upon the face of the boy's 
 portrait. 
 
 The thud of the front door closing echoed through' 
 the house. Elinor replaced the portrait and walked 
 to her door. The sound of men's voices and the 
 shaking of clothes made her heart beat fast. One 
 voice she knew. She returned to the fire, for she 
 heard the men talking as they mounted the stairs. 
 
 Gower and Lexham entered the room. 
 
 " I have brought Lexham ; you haven't seen him 
 since he was a boy," said Gower, going to her and 
 touching her cheek with his lips. 
 
 " Lexham !" murmured Elinor. 
 
 " Yes. We were at the same school, and you met 
 him afterwards in Dresden." 
 
 She had put out her hand to Lexham, who took it. 
 A grateful, warm thrill passed through him as he felt 
 her fingers close around his own and saw her eyes 
 resting on his face, while a look of inquiry took pos- 
 session of her brow and mouth. 
 
 " Yes, I remember. I'm glad to see you, Gilbert. 
 Yes, Gilbert is your name. Sit in my chair. You 
 look very cold; your hands are almost frozen," she 
 said, and pushed her chair nearer the fire.
 
 26 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 Gower had thrown himself into a comfortable chair, 
 and began to take off his shoes. 
 
 " Where are my slippers ?" he asked, stretching out 
 his legs and placing his feet on the fender. 
 
 " In your room; I'll -get them, dear." 
 
 " Do. I'm very tired ; ploughing through the snow 
 was hard work, wasn't it, Lexham?" 
 
 Elinor went for the slippers and stayed a moment in 
 his room to poke the fire. 
 
 Lexham was surprised to find her quite as beautiful 
 as she was when he first saw her. He could not 
 imagine why he hesitated when Gower asked him to 
 spend an hour in her society. He was at times con- 
 scious of his ill-clad appearance, but it did not occur 
 to him when he met Gower at Guarini's. His vague 
 alarms were now dissipated. He had not for several 
 years been long in the company of such a woman, 
 and the sweet sense of her presence when she held 
 his hand in greeting filled him with a pleasant sen- 
 sation of intimacy. His life since he landed in Amer- 
 ica had been one of privation, almost of solitude. He 
 had made very few friends, and his natural inclinations 
 were those of the student for love of study. Still he 
 knew his heart often ached for the balm of an intel- 
 lectual woman's companionship. He had met many' 
 actresses, journalists, and boarding-house lodgers, but 
 never a woman to love. He had for some years played 
 the part of a woman-hater and made himself imper- 
 turbable to their silly flatteries and fondnesses. He 
 was afraid of his susceptibilities, and knew he would 
 surely be the one to suffer, for the women he had met 
 were mentally incapable of lasting affection.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 1 27 
 
 Elinor returned and gave Gower his slippers. As 
 she stood before the fire, Lexham marvelled at her 
 beauty, though he would have said her beauty was 
 not all that attracted him. There was something so 
 warm, firm, and soulful about her form. Her un- 
 studied grace and soft voice irresistibly charmed the 
 senses. She seemed to soften all the hard effects in 
 the room, and even Gower's brooding face caught some 
 of her radiance, and he looked up, smiled and caught 
 her hand, which he pressed with an air of condescen- 
 sion. 
 
 Lexham wondered why she had not again married. 
 He thought she could not be more than thirty-five, 
 if she were that. The question why she had not mar- 
 ried seemed unanswerable. 
 
 He had not thought of the dreadful past Drake had 
 spoken of. 
 
 " Take off your coat, Gilbert," she said ; " you will 
 surely stay for an hour." 
 
 " My coat. Oh, I must not stay. I have a lot 
 of work to finish," said Lexham, rather embar- 
 rassed. 
 
 " He has on only that coat. But Diva will not 
 mind." Diva was Gower's pet name for Elinor. 
 
 " No coat under that," she muttered to herself. 
 " Cyril, you can lend Gilbert a coat for an hour. 
 Take him to your room." 
 
 " Of course. Come, Lexham," said Gower, osten- 
 tatiously. 
 
 " I would rather not. I shall have to go in a 
 minute or two," said Lexham, as he rose. 
 
 " Nonsense, you will stay to have a bite of supper
 
 28 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 with us. Come, you may have my smoking-jacket," 
 and Gower led the way to the door. 
 
 " No coat," thought Elinor. She sank into her 
 chair, and wondered why Lexham had but one coat. 
 Gower had five coats, and he had often said he could 
 not do with less. She had noticed Lexham did not 
 have the appearance of a man who gave much attention 
 to his attire, and she now remembered he looked pale 
 and far from well. 
 
 " I wonder why he left England," she said to her- 
 self. 
 
 Gower returned with Lexham, who wore the 
 smoking-jacket, which did not fit him. It covered 
 his back and arms, and he strove to forget he had 
 it on, for he disliked wearing another's coat. If it 
 had been a royal cloak he could not have been more 
 uncomfortable. Lexham's antipathy to garish ap- 
 parel or fashionable clothes amounted to abomina- 
 tion. 
 
 Elinor was seated in front of the fire between the 
 men. The clock struck eleven. Gower yawned and 
 pushed his head into a cosy corner of the chair. 
 
 " When did you leave England, Gilbert?" she asked. 
 
 " Nearly five years ago," he replied. 
 
 " Lexham has had the devil's own time of it since 
 then. He told me of some of his experiences. 
 Ulysses could not have survived such hardship," said 
 Gower, without moving his head. 
 
 " Hardship," repeated Elinor, and she leaned 
 towards Lexham, her face all tender inquiry and 
 anxiety. 
 
 " Tell her about some of your travels," said Gower ;
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 29 
 
 " she is already inquisitive, and her appetite for hor- 
 rors is an insatiable one." 
 
 "Where did you and Cyril meet?" she asked. 
 
 " At Guarini's," grunted Grower. " He was dining 
 with that idiot of a Drake " 
 
 "Drake! what Drake?" asked Elinor, turning 
 quickly from Lexham to Gower. The latter thought 
 he had done the very thing which he wished to avoid, 
 but to Elinor Drake was only a familiar name. It 
 did not awaken the memories Gower for his own mind's 
 sake was loath to arouse. 
 
 "A great big bully insulted Lexham, so he knocked 
 him down," Gower quickly interposed. 
 
 "A fight?" said Elinor anxiously. 
 
 " No ; Lexham didn't give him a chance to fight." 
 
 " Did it happen in Guarini's place?" 
 
 ;< Yes ; but it is not worth speaking about. The 
 poor fellow was not wholly to blame; I was churlish 
 and he was irritable," Lexham explained. 
 
 " Look here, Diva, I'm deuced hungry. Guarini's 
 dinner was good but not satisfying, and Lexham must 
 be hungry too, for he was interrupted during dinner 
 knocking down and picking up fellows. Have you 
 got a bite?" asked Gower, who sat up in his chair. 
 
 " My dear Cyril, you said you would probably have 
 supper at the Studio," said Elinor, surprised at Gower's 
 inopportune request. 
 
 " I know I did," said Gower, testily; " but you know 
 I like an omelette if I have to work at night." 
 
 " Well, dear, I'm sorry the larder is bare," she re- 
 torted, in a tone which struck Lexham as being rather 
 resentful.
 
 30 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 " Please don't consider me, Mrs. Kembleton ; I could 
 not eat any supper," he interposed. 
 
 " You could if supper were on the table," Gower re- 
 turned. " It's always the way when I bring in a fel- 
 low. Diva is so confoundedly economical, and if I 
 did not sometimes complain she would forget I have 
 an appetite." 
 
 " Yes, I suppose so," she said, with a quick sigH. 
 
 Elinor had had two eggs and some bread and butter 
 for her dinner. 
 
 " I think I shall put on my boots and go to the Studio 
 for an hour," said Gower. 
 
 " No, Cyril, don't go out. It is a terrible night," 
 she pleaded, in a grieved tone. 
 
 Lexham was surprised at Gower's sudden decision. 
 He could not believe it possible that a man should 
 dream of leaving that room on such a night, no matter 
 how hungry he might be. Gower's form seemed to 
 shrink to the size of the boy he knew at school, and the 
 man's clothes changed to those he first saw on his 
 school-fellow. A complete metamorphosis seemed in 
 a moment to take place. There before him stood a 
 peevish boy, surely not a man, a boy spoiled and blind 
 to all the good gifts near him. 
 
 Gower went to the window and looked out. The 
 miserable lamp on the opposite side of the street made 
 a dirty yellow disk-like light, in and around which the 
 heavy snowflakes whirled. 
 
 Elinor had watched him go to the window, and as 
 he closed the blind and turned she went to him, and 
 said, 
 
 "It is not a fit night for anyone to be abroad."
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 31 
 
 " Haven't you got anything at all to eat?" he asked. 
 
 " Cyril, I could not go out to market to-day. I have 
 not been well. It has not ceased snowing since morn- 
 ing. I am sorry, dear, but I can't help it," she said, 
 taking his hand and gently leading him to his chair. 
 
 " I think I shall do some work. You have a chat 
 with Lexham. I don't feel sociable. You understand, 
 Lexham. That row at Guarini's upset me. Look into 
 my room before you leave. We rarely go to bed be- 
 fore one o'clock." 
 
 The door closed behind him. Elinor stood for a 
 moment in deep thought. How tall she seemed to 
 Lexham as he sat in the low chair! Turning aside 
 her head she listened for a sound from the next 
 room. As if from an immeasurable distance came the 
 regular tread of Gower as he paced up and down his 
 room. Lexham's soul went out to the patient woman, 
 and a sob of pity rose to his throat. A thousand ex- 
 pressions came to his mind, expressions of solicitude, 
 compassion, excuse, and explanation, but not one did 
 he dare to utter. 
 
 Then he thought, " What tragedy is this ?" but no 
 reasonable solution could he find. He felt a sudden 
 impulse to rush out, find Drake, and ask " Why, why 
 does she suffer? What mystery enfolds her?" The 
 world seemed to close in on him and leave in a small 
 space four pitiable figures, three alien to one another, 
 the fourth, Drake, with a sneer-like smile hiding the 
 knowledge of it all and deaf to entreaty. 
 
 Her breast rose and fell as she smothered a great 
 sigh. She turned to the chair and was about to sit 
 down, when she looked at Lexham.
 
 32 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 Neither had spoken since Gower left the room. 
 
 " Do you smoke ?" she asked, breaking a long 
 silence, in which heart communications were far too 
 deep for words, and the powers of language were in- 
 adequate. 
 
 " Yes," said Lexham ; " but I can afford only a pipe, 
 and that I left in my room." 
 
 Elinor went to her desk, and from it took a box of 
 cigarettes, which she placed on the table at Lexham's 
 side. 
 
 He took one and lighted it. She sank in the chair 
 Gower had occupied. 
 
 Lexham could not speak. Words were then as rare 
 to him as jewels, and far beyond his finding or pur- 
 chase. The cigarette was forgotten. All his mind 
 gathered in his eyes, and they were fastened on her 
 face, which, in all its wondrous phases, told of a deep 
 buried emotional storm. 
 
 Softly from the other room came the mediating noc- 
 turne, one of Liszt's. The melody seemed to rise 
 like a heart-throb and fall as a soothing palm upon an 
 aching brow. The echoes seemed drenched with tears. 
 It lingered in its haunting passage and left in its wake 
 the mist of tears. 
 
 The effect of the music on Lexham was peculiar, 
 and he at first did not associate Gower with what he 
 heard. He did not once look at Elinor's face during 
 the first part. The potency of the theme's own charm 
 was undeniable. But he knew the nocturne, he had 
 heard it played by many eminent pianists ; and though 
 it was not now played so well as many he could name 
 had played it, still he had never before been so moved.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 33 
 
 What was the cause ? Lexham was exceedingly criti- 
 cal when his ideal conception of anything was in any 
 way assailed. The theme had never before seemed 
 so haunting, so pleading. There was now no great 
 love crying ; the theme was full of pity, pity with an 
 anger in behind it demanding satisfaction. The noc- 
 turne was transformed. The pianist was lending to 
 it another and far different meaning than Liszt's. 
 Lexham did not realise all this till the second part of 
 the theme was nearly at end. Then he looked at 
 Elinor's face, and was surprised to see it wear an ex- 
 pression of sorrow. Was this in some strange, sub- 
 conscious way a part of the tragedy? Lexham was 
 now sure the memory of his former hearings of the 
 theme had been stirred, and that it was not this read- 
 ing that had affected him as he at first imagined. But 
 the pianist was now repeating the first theme, and still 
 he was again moved almost to tears. 
 
 Surely Gower could not give such exquisite ex- 
 pression to the melody. What strange influence 
 prompted him to touch the piano? What memory 
 gently led him to the instrument he disliked, but kept 
 merely as a necessary medium? 
 
 "Have you ever loved anything, Gilbert?" asked 
 Elinor, without looking at him. 
 
 " Yes, but it did not last," said Lexham, not in the 
 least surprised at the question. 
 
 "Was she worthy?" 
 
 " She had a child's mind, not a woman's. I met 
 her in Boston three years ago. Her parents were well 
 to do, and I was then a clerk in a large dry-goods store. 
 Misfortune sent me away to better my position with a 
 
 3
 
 34 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 i 
 
 view to marrying her, but a firm of swindlers left me 
 penniless far from a large town. Necessity again 
 turned me to the dry-goods business in Worcester. 
 She came to the annual ball of the employes of the 
 store in which I worked. A long-desired meeting it 
 was, for we had been five months separated. She 
 did intend to return to Boston by the late train, but 
 a happy night made us forgetful, and not until long 
 past the hour of that train's departure did I realise 
 she could not leave Worcester till the next morn- 
 ing." 
 
 " What did you do ?" asked Elinor, who had be- 
 come deeply interested in the story Lexham hardly 
 knew he was relating. He might have been telling a 
 story in which he had played no part. 
 
 "A fellow-employe and I had two rooms in a house 
 where we did not board. She passed the night in my 
 room, and my friend shared with me his bed." 
 
 "How old was she?" murmured Elinor, touching 
 his arm. A generous action, which Lexham hardly 
 noticed. 
 
 "About nineteen, and young for her age. Next 
 morning I was surprised to see her father walk into 
 the store, some time after she had left for her home. 
 In a moment I knew his errand. He was angry and 
 said many abusive things, and then wanted me to 
 marry her. My friend and I at length succeeded in 
 half-convincing him that he had on his daughter's 
 account no cause for alarm. I have never seen her 
 since that morning." 
 
 She had watched Lexham's face during the latter 
 part of his story. With a sigh she turned in her chair
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 35 
 
 and looked into the fire, and said, " Why did you leave 
 England, Gilbert?" 
 
 " My father and I did not agree. I was a wild 
 youth always in trouble," he said, and shrugged his 
 shoulders, then added, " but, I suppose, I was never 
 understood. My mother, I think, instinctively felt my 
 nature was rather peculiar. She bore with me, and 
 sometimes succeeded in prevailing upon me to please 
 my father." 
 
 " But when I met you you were a well-behaved 
 youth and had won many honours at school." 
 
 " Yes, but those honours I won to please my father. 
 I made a clever parrot of myself, that was all. They 
 sent me to London to take up medicine, but association 
 with men several years older than myself saved me 
 from a life of misery. One night a man read and ex- 
 plained to me the chapter on Pedagogy from ' Sartor 
 Resartus.' There, as in a mirror, I saw my wretched 
 self, and after that night I plunged headlong into the 
 whirlpool of distraction. During two years in London 
 I ran the gamut of natural vices." 
 
 Elinor's chair had drawn closer to Lexham. He 
 did not stop to think why he should tell her parts of 
 his history. It did not occur to her that he was un- 
 burdening much he could not tell to others. That he 
 was a youth when she last saw him, and was now a 
 man whose life had been full of vicissitude and events 
 which would probably shock good society, did not 
 in any way cause the slightest apprehension. If one 
 had then asked her why she listened to the reprehensi- 
 ble experiences of a young man, she would not have 
 been able to find a reason.
 
 36 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 Her eyes filled with tears when he hinted more than 
 told of his distraction, but he did not think it strange 
 that she should not hide her compassion. The com- 
 munication was spontaneous and direct. Each mind 
 absorbed the other. Time, place, and mood combined, 
 and all formalities held aloof and dared not trespass. 
 
 The little clock upon the mantel struck the quarters, 
 but their ears were deaf to the tale of time. The 
 under embers in the fireplace fell and left no support 
 for the heaped-up coals which, formed a bridge across 
 the top of the deep grate. The black bridge gave way, 
 and with a roar the flames flashed through the inter- 
 stices in the coal and wrapped their figures in a warm 
 glow of light. 
 
 She thought of Gower's youth and how she had con- 
 trived to shield him from all taat Lexham had suffered. 
 He was at Weimar with Liszt when Lexham was in 
 London running through the lane of distraction. How 
 far removed they were! She did not even subcon- 
 sciously make comparisons. The antithesis was too 
 great. Gower had been, and now was, the recipient 
 of all the love she had ever given. 
 
 Gower had several times during Lexham' s story been 
 attacked by a fit of coughing, but she did not hear the 
 sound. 
 
 " What are you now doing, Gilbert ?" asked Elinof. 
 
 " I am a super at the Broadway Theatre, where 
 Booth and Modjeska are appearing," Lexham replied, 
 and he smiled at her surprise. 
 
 "A super?" she repeated. 
 
 " Yes. I earn a few dollars a week ; that is all I 
 at present require. You see I have to relearn one-
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 37 
 
 tenth of the studies I swallowed. I need whole days, 
 and supering is the easiest and best paid work, for, 
 excepting Saturdays, when two performances are given, 
 I am free till eight in the evenings." 
 
 " Would you care to be an actor ?" 
 
 " No !" replied Lexham, with great emphasis. "A 
 year or two ago, when everything I tried failed, I 
 thought I might join a travelling company, so I wrote 
 to a manager who had several provincial companies. 
 One day I called upon him at his theatre in town. 
 He seemed to think I had the necessary qualifications, 
 and to my surprise he introduced me to Dion Boucicault, 
 who had a school of acting. He told me not to waste 
 my time, but I do not regret the months I spent at 
 his school, for from him I learned a thousand things 
 which have been, and will be, of great service. Many 
 were the delightful talks we had, and though he paid 
 more attention to the pupils who paid for tuition (I 
 was a protege of the manager's), he gave me his con- 
 fidence and advice. Since I have been a super the 
 opportunities for observing the methods of actors and 
 stage-managers when rehearsing have been many. Yes, 
 I like the stage, but have no desire to be an actor." 
 
 "What do you wish to be?" asked Elinor. 
 
 " I don't know. I have been such a miserable failure, 
 I dare not seriously think of adopting any particular 
 profession or trade. Perhaps I have studied my own 
 weaknesses too much. I may ask of myself more than 
 it would really be necessary to give." 
 
 " One may be too exacting, and I feel sure you 
 would be generous to all but yourself. Do you live 
 alone?" she asked, with wistful eyes.
 
 38 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 " Yes, quite alone. I go from my room straight to 
 the theatre and return as I went." 
 
 " Have you no friends ?" 
 
 " No, no friends. Men do not find me what they 
 call sociable, and the fellows I work with at the theatre 
 shun me; I think they look upon me as a joke. Of 
 course my clothes are shabby and I cannot afford the 
 luxuries of the bar-room. I sometimes forget I haven't 
 money when I want to buy food. But then I make 
 myself think it is all for a purpose, and that when 
 money is hard to get I have only myself to think of 
 and to blame." 
 
 A sigh of great weariness escaped him. He passed 
 his hand across his brow. Elinor thought she had 
 never seen on any face so hopeless an expression. The 
 whole man seemed to her quite changed to a figure of 
 despair. 
 
 Her hand fell on his. It was so warm and soft 
 he dared not move or notice her kind, spontaneous 
 action. The touch of her hand, the gentleness of her 
 manner, and again that wistful look from her eyes for 
 a moment brought rest to his heart. 
 
 He felt no passionate thrill, and she must have in- 
 stinctively known her action could not be misconstrued, 
 for it was all so simple, so unstudied. 
 
 " Have you no ambition ?" Elinor pleaded more than 
 asked, and unconsciously took away her hand from his 
 and drew her chair nearer. 
 
 " No," he answered, " I have no ambition, save that 
 of living to read and think. Since I left London the 
 word failure has incessantly rung in my ears. When 
 I reached New York I found employment in a whole-
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 39 
 
 sale fruit store in Washington Street. There I worked 
 with the scum of the earth. We began at midnight, 
 and I continued all day till six and sometimes eight 
 o'clock in the evening. I heard one of my employers 
 once say it was a dog's life. Dog's life ! It was worse 
 than a Siberian convict's life, for he knew his crime 
 and accepted the punishment. I was a convict of neces- 
 sity, and not until my health was shattered did I realise 
 the awful punishment of labour. When I left the hos- 
 pital I searched in vain for light work. Of book- 
 keeping and office-work I knew nothing. What was 
 open to me? Only such work as that which nearly 
 killed me. The winter came before I found a perma- 
 nent position. Strikes were prevalent. The curse of 
 capital fell upon labour, and millionaires closed the 
 doors of factories on millions of starving men, women, 
 and children. Crime and bloodshed went hand in hand 
 with cold and hunger. What chance had I? One 
 day I found myself in the stoke-hole of a steamer bound 
 for the West Indies, and for a time escaped the dread- 
 ful winter. When I returned to New York the winter 
 was far advanced, but for several weeks I had great 
 difficulty in finding meagre food and bare lodging." 
 
 " How terrible !" was all Elinor could say. 
 
 Lexham had never before told anyone of his ex- 
 periences. He had suffered in silence. Many times 
 his soul had been stirred by righteous indignation at 
 the misery of others, but he had never one jot of pity 
 for himself. He never saw himself in the fight. He 
 saw around him the warring parties, but never realised 
 he too was fighting. 
 
 Elinor suddenly remembered the storm ; she started,
 
 40 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 rose, and quickly left the room. He heard her open 
 and close the door of Gower's room. It was nearly two 
 o'clock. Lexham sank back in his chair and felt the 
 languor of weariness come upon him, a strange lassi- 
 tude of mind and a numbness of the limbs. He felt 
 as if he had journeyed from afar to reach a goal of 
 rest and happiness, and that then when he had gained 
 the threshold of the long desired paradise, the exertion 
 had been too much for his impoverished body, it 
 collapsed before he could enjoy the benefits of realisa- 
 tion. He struggled with the torpor and feared his 
 weakness. He tried to rise, but some unseen power 
 held him down. The awful vague sense of a great 
 weight slowly falling over him made the last chaotic 
 moments of semi-consciousness terrible. His eyes 
 closed and chaos was swallowed up in death-like sleep. 
 
 Gower was at his work-table poring over the score 
 of an opera on which he had for some months been at 
 work. He had forgotten Lexham. When Elinor 
 entered his room he started and looked bewildered to 
 see her at such an hour. 
 
 " Cyril, Lexham is in no fit condition to leave the 
 house to-night. He must stay here !" she said. 
 
 There was a peremptoriness in her voice, a tone 
 which Gower had never before heard. He looked in 
 amazement at her. 
 
 "Stay here?" he repeated. 
 
 " Yes ; the storm is getting worse. He can sleep 
 on your sofa/' Elinor explained, as she began to clear 
 the vocal scores and sheet music off the dingy article, 
 which she afterwards pulled away from the window. 
 
 " He can't stay here. I'm going to work, and you
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 41 
 
 know I can do nothing when not alone," said Gower, 
 and he pushed back the sofa to its former position. 
 
 " But, Cyril, it would be most inhuman of us to let 
 him go. I am sure the streets by now are almost im- 
 passable," she said, and grief softened her tone. 
 
 " The streets were not so bad when we walked from 
 Guarini's. You imagine too much. Leave me alone. 
 I have found several mistakes in my score, and I must 
 correct them before I send it away." 
 
 " But what am I to do ?" she asked, and great tears 
 stood in her eyes ; but Gower had a way of not always 
 looking at the person speaking. 
 
 "Do? Tell him you are tired and I have gone to 
 bed. Here is his coat," he said, handing Lexham's 
 coat to Elinor. 
 
 " I shall do no such thing. It would be a cruel lie." 
 
 "Well, I cannot be bothered with him. I'm very 
 sorry I met him, and if it had not been for that cursed 
 Drake " 
 
 "Drake! What Drake?" 
 
 " Oh, you know that sneering little devil of a secre- 
 tary. It's all very well for you. You can forget any- 
 thing. I can't. Isn't it bad enough for me to know 
 we have next to nothing to live on ?" 
 
 Gower rumbled on in a fit of discontentment, but 
 Elinor's ears were used to his upbraidings, and she 
 heeded not. The name of Drake stirred up memories 
 of the time when she first saw Gower, of the day on 
 w r hich she determined to adopt him. 
 
 " Was this the child whose dear love I won ? Has 
 that child changed and become this man?" These 
 questions some strange voice within her kept repeating.
 
 42 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 " Diva ! How much longer are you going to stand 
 there ? I can't get on with anyone in the room. Please 
 leave me alone," said Gower, going to his table and 
 throwing himself on his chair. 
 
 A surge of profound sorrow almost burst her heart. 
 The years of self-denial and absolute unselfishness 
 seemed to have been spent for nothing. She turned 
 away her head, afraid he would see her tears. She 
 stifled a moan, and gathered enough strength to carry 
 herself from the room. She closed the door and stood 
 in the passage, but she felt che dared not go in to 
 Lexham. On the foot of the staircase she sank, and 
 the darkness vibrated from her stifled sobbings. The 
 darkness holds the past ; and though her hands covered 
 her tear-wet face, a cruel light in her palms revealed 
 all that her love for the boy had hidden for so many 
 years and through so many misfortunes. She had been 
 blind to his extreme selfishness. On that very day 
 when she had counted out forty dollars, the amount 
 due for rent, and had lightly told him that after the 
 rent was paid they had only three or four dollars left, 
 he complained because she could not spare him more 
 than two dollars to spend at his club. He had been 
 away for ten hours, without a thought of what food 
 or comfort she had, no thought of how she would pay 
 for the coming week's necessaries. The little money 
 she earned barely made both ends meet. Good rooms 
 in a decent neighbourhood they were bound to have, and 
 the payment of forty dollars a month often deprived 
 her of many a much-needed article of dress and food. 
 He had four pupils from whom he received twelve
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 43 
 
 dollars per week, but never a penny did he contribute 
 to the general expense. 
 
 Elinor suddenly realised she had ceased crying, and 
 that she was looking into the darkness. An acute pain 
 in the throat recalled to her the purpose for which she 
 had left Lexham. She thought her heart was numb 
 and cold. Though grief had been the meed of her 
 early years, years of bitter disappointment and cruel 
 adversity, she had never known any calamity leave so 
 poignant a sense of desolation and hopelessness. The 
 words Lexham had spoken when he referred to his 
 repeated failures echoed in her ears. Failure! Fail- 
 ure ! The darkness seemed to have a thousand muffled 
 tongues which whispered the dreadful word till a hor- 
 rible roaring took possession of her ears, and she 
 thought they would surely burst, as the noise seemed to 
 penetrate her aching brain. 
 
 She arose, opened the door of her room, and walked 
 into darkness. She strained her startled eyes. She 
 heard the clock ticking. 
 
 " Gilbert !" she softly called, but no reply came. 
 
 She moved to the centre of the room, and realised 
 that both the lamp and the fire had died out. In 
 searching for the matches her hand struck Lexham's 
 head. A strange awe took possession of her soul. She 
 felt in the darkness and passed her hand over his face. 
 Quickly she struck a match and tried to light the lamp, 
 the wick of which was hard and dry. Again she struck 
 a match, but could find only the lamp of her chafing- 
 dish, which she lighted and placed on the little table 
 near Lexham's chair. 
 
 " .What a strange position !" she half -muttered, and
 
 44 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 was aware of an extraordinary calm which took pos- 
 session of her. She bowed her head and placed her 
 ear near his mouth, but failed to detect any breathing. 
 In that stooping position she remained, and her eyes 
 wandered to an abrasion on the knuckles of his right 
 hand. She remembered the fight Gower had spoken 
 of. Had Lexham been hurt ? she wondered. He was 
 cold and his face was deathly pale. 
 
 She picked up an old paper, which she pushed into 
 the grate, and on it threw a bundle of sticks. This 
 she quickly lighted ; and heaped over the fast igniting 
 wood shovelfuls of coal. 
 
 In another moment she was in Gower's room. 
 
 " Cyril ! Come ! Something has happened to Lex- 
 ham," she said in a tone of command, without ex- 
 citement. 
 
 " Confound it ! Isn't he gone ?" Gower asked, show- 
 ing much temper and irritability. 
 
 " No! He has fainted. What is to be done?" and 
 Elinor going to the door shook her head in the direction 
 of her room. " Come !" 
 
 " I can't come, I hate sick people. You know I 
 am useless when anything is the matter. Can't I be 
 left alone? You know I'm all upset to-night. You 
 don't need me. You know what to do for him." 
 He whined all this in a sing-song way, and threw him- 
 self on the sofa. 
 
 Elinor closed the door and soon regained Lexham's 
 side. 
 
 To her surprise she found him breathing gently. 
 Beads of sweat were on his brow. The pained ex- 
 pression of his face was gone.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 45 
 
 " He sleeps," she muttered, as she wiped the per- 
 spiration from his brow. 
 
 A sense of sweet relief gently thrilled through her 
 whole being. She knew sleep would not come to her, 
 and that to waken him would be as cruel as to send 
 him out into the storm.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 ELINOR sat near Lexham's side till he awakened. 
 It was then near eight o'clock. She helped him to 
 rise, but he was too weak to walk, so she assisted him 
 to a sofa and arranged some cushions for his head. 
 
 " I think I am in for a serious illness," he said ; " if 
 I am not soon strong enough to leave the house, 
 please send a message to Dr. Brydone, St. Luke's 
 Hospital." 
 
 " Are you in pain ?" she asked. 
 
 " My head aches. I have a fever. But it will soon 
 pass," said Lexham, with a faint smile. " What is 
 the time? Have I been long asleep?" 
 
 The room was still dark, the only light being the 
 glow from the fire, which she had kept brightly burn- 
 ing. * 
 
 " It is morning. Do you want anything, a drink ?" 
 
 " Morning ! What, have I been " He looked 
 
 .at her, and for a moment seemed bewildered. " You 
 have not been to bed." 
 
 She went to the table for some water; when she 
 returned to him, his face was buried in the cushions 
 and his whole body shook with convulsive sobs. He 
 had vaguely caught the meaning of it all. He half 
 understood why he was there, in her room, and she 
 had not been to bed. 
 
 The fever rapidly increased, and at noon Elinor sent 
 for Dr. Brydone. 
 
 It was late in the evening before the doctor came, 
 46
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 47 
 
 He said he feared a bad attack of pneumonia. In a 
 little room at the top of the house Lexham was put to 
 bed, for Elinor pleaded she would nurse him, and 
 finally the doctor had to give his consent. 
 
 Dr. Brydone was a good friend of Lexham's, and he 
 relieved her mind of all anxiety about medical attend- 
 ance. 
 
 She had shouldered the responsibility before she 
 realised how great it would be even at the best. 
 After the doctor left the house and Elinor was alone, 
 she found herself beset by a thousand difficulties, but 
 her courage was invincible, and her heart beat fast at 
 the thought of nursing him back to health. She felt 
 she had a dear duty to perform, and one she would not 
 let the hospital snatch from her, nor should death carry 
 off the prize if she could help it. 
 
 When she told Gower of Lexham's illness and that 
 the patient was to remain under her charge, he said in 
 a cold tone how sorry he was, but added how foolish 
 she must be to undertake so much when hospitals were 
 numerous. 
 
 A good little Irish servant assisted Elinor and did 
 all she could to lighten her duties. Mrs. Pollock, too, 
 was kind. 
 
 Four anxious weeks passed before the doctor told 
 her that Lexham would recover. Many times in de- 
 lirium he incoherently spoke of events which she tried 
 to connect with his life during the time he had been 
 without work. The more she saw of his suffering 
 the greater became her determination to claim him and 
 make his future bright. Night after night she tried 
 to plan how she could bear the expense of another
 
 48 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 room, in addition to the cost of those she had already 
 much difficulty in keeping. 
 
 She had incurred many new debts and saw no way 
 of paying them till the spring. For several years she 
 had given readings, for which she was well paid by 
 agents who engaged lecturers, singers, and readers for 
 associations and lyceums. Her last tour had not been 
 quite so successful as her agents had expected. She 
 gave twenty readings in and about Chicago, which 
 brought in the sum of four hundred dollars, but after 
 she had paid her railway fares and other expenses, the 
 sum had dwindled down to less than three hundred. 
 That was in the November before she undertook to 
 care for Lexham. WRen the first of February came, 
 she had no money to give to Mrs. Pollock, and her 
 stock of jewelry was nearly all pawned. 
 
 Near the end of February matters looked very black 
 for Elinor, but desperation brought an old friend, who 
 in a small measure relieved her anxieties. 
 
 One evening this old friend, a Miss Dalston, called 
 to ask her to give a reading at the house of a wealthy 
 Bostonian. Jane Dalston had often helped Elinor when 
 the latter little knew her friend guessed how much she 
 was in need. 
 
 " Elinor, you are not looking well. You are tired. 
 I do believe you're getting thin," said Miss Dalston, 
 after she had got Elinor's promise to go to Boston and 
 give the reading. 
 
 " I have been much worried of late, Jane. It has 
 been a hard winter," she half-explained, afraid that 
 the observant Miss Dalston would read her heart. 
 
 " I've a good mind to tell Mrs. Sefton to keep you
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 49 
 
 for a few days in Boston. The change would do you 
 a lot of good. She has a beautiful house near Brook- 
 line, and after the party you would enjoy perfect rest. 
 I'm mighty glad Mrs. Sefton wrote to me about her 
 musicale. I thought of you, and instantly wrote the 
 dear old thing. Elinor, now much will you ask? Or 
 should I name the terms? Yes, I'll name the terms. 
 You're such a 'fool at that sort of thing. If you knew 
 how wealthy Mrs. Sefton is I do believe you'd want to 
 read for nothing." ' 
 
 Miss Dalston rattled on and chuckled. She was 
 happy only when doing some good service for Elinor 
 and at the same time giving her a bit of her mind. 
 She was about fifty-five years of age, and never 
 dreamed that Elinor was a day older than she was 
 when Jane first heard her sing Juliette, and afterwards 
 met her at a supper-party given to the singer by some 
 members of the first musical society of New York. 
 
 " Well, that is settled. For goodness' sake don't 
 look so glum! I'll look after Cyril, the lazy genius. 
 It will be good for him to learn to miss you. I do 
 believe you spoil him. Come, don't talk any more. 
 I must go. I suppose you would forget Jane Dalston 
 
 if she didn't root you out of your Elinor, you do 
 
 look ill ! I must send you a case of that old port. No, 
 I'll not, you'll give it to Cyril, and it is certainly not 
 port he needs. Bless you, my beautiful. Good-bye. 
 Take pity on an old spinster and look her up when you 
 have nothing better to do. Don't forget. It's all set- 
 tled. Good-bye." 
 
 Jane was gone and Elinor full of tears. Gower 
 came in to ask who the caller was. .When he heard 
 
 4
 
 50 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 that Miss Dalston had undertaken to arrange the terms 
 for the prospective reading, he resolved to order some 
 clothes for the spring. 
 
 " How is Lexham ? Any better ?" asked Grower. 
 He had seldom troubled about the man who had been 
 fighting for life near the threshold of death. 
 
 " The doctor says all danger is past, but it will be a 
 long convalescence before he is strong enough to go 
 out. He often asks about you." 
 
 " I'm glad he is all right," Gower said, in a way 
 which implied he was not then thinking of Lexham. 
 
 " I haven't had a decent cigar this week. I sup- 
 pose your purse is empty, eh, Diva?" The remark 
 and the question were spoken in a hopeless tone. 
 
 " I'm sorry, Cyril, but I don't even know where I 
 shall get the money from to take me to Boston," she 
 said. " But never mind, dear, don't you trouble about 
 it; I'll manage to find it." 
 
 "All right. It would be a pity to miss such a good 
 thing just for the want of a few dollars to buy a rail- 
 way ticket. Good-night. I shall walk over to the 
 Players. I owe a good bit, but a few good cigars will 
 not add much to the bill," said Grower. And he left 
 her to wonder how she would get money to pay her 
 expenses to Boston, and at the same time leave with 
 Mrs. Pollock enough to buy food for Cyril and Lexham 
 during her absence. 
 
 She decided to pawn her watch, for she would need 
 the few articles of jewelry she had left, which were 
 some rings, a bracelet, and a necklace. Once before 
 she had to raise money on her watch, and to her sur- 
 prise the pawnbroker lent her twenty-five dollars.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 51 
 
 As she sat planning her trip to Boston, it occurred 
 to her that Gower had not once asked about Lexham's 
 affairs during his illness. She had not told him she 
 was for the time being responsible, and paid for every- 
 thing but the doctor's attendance and the rent of the 
 patient's room. 
 
 Still, she readily found excuses for Grower's lack of 
 thought and indifference. When some unkind act of 
 his hurt her to the quick she called to mind some tender 
 memory to alleviate the pain. For every harsh* word 
 and selfish motive the storehouse of her memory yielded 
 dear incidents which were as sweet as the kisses the 
 child's lips had been ever ready to give. But Elinor 
 seemed to think she never before saw in him so many 
 faults, and she continued for many minutes to worMer 
 and question herself why she had of late been prone 
 to criticise his words and actions. It grieved her to 
 think she should notice such trivialities. It did not 
 occur to her that one seldom appreciates the virtues 
 or observes the faults of a person or object till the 
 contrast or antithesis appears. 
 
 Since Lexham had passed the dangerous stage of 
 his illness, she had moments of reflection when her 
 mind would become full of the memories of the room 
 in which she had witnessed his struggle with disease. 
 The man's placidity and patience in the most racking 
 stages of his ailment; his thoughtfulness and constant 
 inquiry about her; the gentle way he would prevail 
 on her to rest ; his unuttered heartfelt thanks and looks 
 of gratitude when he was far too weak to speak, went 
 straight to her heart and gave her sweet recompense 
 for all her care.
 
 52 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 On the day she left for Boston Lexham was much 
 improved and able to sit up in his bed. She spent an 
 hour with him, and was surprised to find he was eager 
 to get to work; that his views of the future were 
 entirely changed. In gaining new strength he seemed 
 to acquire what he before dared not dream of, he was 
 full of inclination to write. He told Elinor as she 
 sat by his bedside of the plot of a play which had 
 for a long time possessed his mind. He had not 
 written down a single scene, yet to Elinor he seemed 
 to be reciting whole scenes which were not only dra- 
 matic but sequential. When he had finished telling 
 his scenario, Elinor expressed her wonder that he had 
 not written the play. 
 
 * I was often tempted to write it and get it pro- 
 duced, but though I thought that my material was 
 good and had some of the essential elements of drama, 
 my mind would contract the moment I put my pen to 
 paper. I have been passing through a peculiar mental 
 phase. My brain absorbed and carried on all the pro- 
 cesses necessary to the development of ideas, but it 
 would not radiate when the subject was ripe. This ill- 
 ness has perhaps saved me from mental afflictions from 
 which many suffer. I have heard men say, ' Oh, if 
 I could but produce what I think!' One friend of 
 mine used to have terrible fits of despondency and 
 would sometimes say, * I shall go mad if I don't find 
 someone to listen to me, for I can't write a sentence.' ' 
 
 Elinor felt that Lexham was speaking of his own 
 bitter experience, and she was perhaps right, for after 
 a pause he added, " One should not live too long 
 alone."
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 53 
 
 Gower knocked on the door, and for the first time 
 since Lexham's illness entered the room. Elinor was 
 perplexed and felt that he had no right to be there. 
 She could not understand why such a feeling should 
 possess her, though it vexed her that his coming un- 
 asked caused her to think of him in the light of an 
 intruder. 
 
 " How are you, Lexham ? Better, eh ? I suppose 
 you'll be glad to get out," said Gower, standing as 
 far from the bed as the wall permitted. 
 
 " I'm all right, thank you," Lexham replied, and 
 smiled at Gower's evident discomfort. " Won't you 
 sit down for a few moments?" 
 
 " No, thanks. Come, Diva, if you want to catch 
 that train. Good-bye, Lexham," he stammered, and 
 left the room. 
 
 She soon followed, but had to stop for a minute or 
 two on the staircase to wipe away some rebellious 
 tears. Mrs. Pollock promised to be careful of the 
 patient and each day write a line about his convales- 
 cence. Elinor left twenty dollars with the landlady 
 and instructions that Lexham should not want for 
 anything. The pawnbroker had lent on the watch the 
 sum Elinor had asked, thirty-five dollars. She gave 
 Gower five and kept the remaining ten for a single 
 ticket and for the incidental expenses of the trip. 
 
 " Cyril, do go up to Lexham when you can spare the 
 time," she said, when they reached the station. 
 
 "Are you sure he is quite better?" Gower asked, 
 in a tone which struck her as being unsympathetic and 
 hard. 
 
 " No. Don't go. It will be perhaps better for him
 
 54 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 not to talk or see anyone," she replied. She felt pained, 
 though, as he stooped to kiss her, she succeeded in 
 hiding the grieved expression of her face. 
 
 " Good-bye," he said as his lips touched her cheek. 
 
 " Good-bye, Cyril. Do write, and be sure to ask 
 Mrs. Pollack how Gilbert is getting on, and let me 
 know all the news." 
 
 "All right. Good-bye." 
 
 He did not wait till the train left the station. 
 
 Elinor's journey to Boston soon came to an end. 
 She was there before she realised the terminus was 
 reached. Her mind had been too full of the events 
 which had happened since the night Gower brought 
 Lexham to her for her to notice her surroundings. 
 A sense of relief swept all harassing things out of her 
 mind. A new prospect seemed to extend before her. 
 The future was bright with shining plans of great sig- 
 nificance. Lexham wanted to work, to write, and had 
 already the inclination to finish a play. She felt a 
 great strength within her heart, and knew her com- 
 panionship would be the medium of spurring him to 
 great things. Great things they were to be. No or- 
 dinary stuff just written to catch the eye of a publisher 
 or theatre manager. Money would not be the object 
 of their productions. Good honest work just high 
 enough above the public's head for them to reach up 
 to. No more days of privation and want of food. 
 No more nights of despair and want of lodging. No 
 more dreadful scenes of misery, destitution, and ill- 
 ness, but a quiet, tranquil future of literary labour 
 without the anxieties of those who must feed the press 
 and at the best rise for a space on the wave of popu-
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 55 
 
 larity, tr;en sink to the trough of the wave, to remain 
 forgotten and dejected. 
 
 She had met many young men in whom she had de- 
 tected talent, friends of Gower's, men without posi- 
 tion or reputation who worked only when necessity 
 compelled them. She had a wonderful knack of get- 
 ting an indolent fellow to interest himself in work 
 he had slighted through want of purpose and encour- 
 agement. Her discernment was peculiar in selecting 
 a young man's vocation. She seldom failed in point- 
 ing to the right path for the right man, and once she 
 had determined on the branch of art for which her 
 subject was fitted her energy was untiring, and her 
 interest never flagged till a substantial result proved 
 the accuracy of her determination and crowned her 
 protege's production with success. 
 
 Gower had been her only failure.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 ELINOR'S circle of friends was not a large one. In 
 the days when she was Signora Valenza, the famous 
 soprano, and toured through America, she met many 
 lovers of music who courted the singer's acquaintance 
 but not the woman's friendship. But there were some 
 good people who succeeded in really knowing the 
 woman apart from the singer. Those who then won 
 her love and respect continued to correspond with her 
 long after she returned to Europe, where the tragedy, 
 which began when she married, closed its first act on 
 the stage of a great opera-house. It was on the occa- 
 sion of her reappearance in a beautiful town on the 
 Riviera. Before admiring thousands she was to create 
 a new role. Rounds and rounds of applause greeted 
 her, but she did not seem to acknowledge the hearty 
 welcome; she swayed and seemed to be in great dis- 
 tress. The conductor had twice to go back. She 
 seemed to try to sing, but she could not produce a note. 
 Her voice was gone. Many in the house had not be- 
 fore heard her. A storm of hisses from the strangers 
 was met by cheers from those who knew her and saw 
 that something terrible had happened. She fell, and 
 the curtain dropped. An announcement was made. 
 She was seriously ill and would not appear again that 
 season. 
 
 The gossips circulated libellous stories of the cause 
 of her loss of voice. Some said she was drunk ; others 
 said she was not in a fit condition to appear in public ; 
 56
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 57 
 
 but one ugly story was told and discussed which had 
 fact to support its many different versions. A man 
 was found at her bedroom door shot through the heart. 
 This was the fact. One version had it that the dead 
 man was her lover, killed by her husband, and though 
 this allegation was by many half-believed, no charge 
 was brought against her husband. A verdict of sui- 
 cide was returned, but that did not stop the head- 
 wagging crowd nor satisfy the many. It was known 
 the dead man had lost large sums of money at the 
 gaming-tables, and that the suicide was often seen with 
 her husband, but why he shot himself at her bedroom 
 door was a mystery never cleared. 
 
 Only two persons knew why the dead man chose 
 that spot for the self-inflicted deed. One was Elinor's 
 husband, who two years after that event died in an 
 inebriates' asylum. The other was Drake, Drake who 
 had been the secretary and acting-manager, Drake who 
 had to take the boy Gower out of reach of Elinor's 
 husband's ear-cuffing hand. 
 
 After a long illness she took her adopted son to 
 Dresden. Her husband deserted her, and thereby 
 proved he was capable of one generous act towards 
 the woman he had cruelly treated for so long. She 
 never saw him after he left the Riviera. Drake re- 
 turned to America, and though he was for some time 
 after his arrival often tempted to give away the true 
 version of an affair which interested so many of Eli- 
 nor's American admirers, he steadily refused one jot 
 of information. He pleaded ignorance, and to his 
 dearest friends said he knew no more of the matter 
 than had been published.
 
 58 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 Elinor had been from her first appearance an un- 
 usually successful singer. Her youth (she was nine- 
 teen when she made her debut), beauty, and glorious 
 voice conquered all. Though her dissolute husband 
 spent fully half of all she earned, Drake from the be- 
 ginning of her American tour was clever enough to 
 urge her to send each week a share of her salary to 
 a London bank. When Elinor reached Dresden she 
 decided to reside there for several months and send 
 Gower to a famous master of the piano, but after 
 three months the youth lost interest, complained of 
 headaches, and would not study. 
 
 Gower was nine years of age when Elinor adopted 
 him. She had then been on the operatic stage about 
 two years. A long and arduous season in Italy had 
 been followed by several attacks of nervous prostra- 
 tion. She rested with some relatives who lived near 
 a pretty little village in Kent. One night to favour the 
 vicar she attended a concert given by the members of 
 the church choir. At that concert sh'e first saw and 
 heard the young pianist Cyril Gower, who was then 
 the village prodigy. 
 
 A child of poor parents in an out-of-the-way place 
 has very little chance of reaching the world of art. 
 
 Elinor was surprised and delighted. The boy 
 played two Chopin studies in a way which proved 
 he possessed great talent. Many evenings he spent at 
 the house where Elinor was staying, and she soon 
 found the boy lovable and interesting. Her heart was 
 desolate, for she was then beginning to understand 
 how little happiness for her there would be in married 
 life. Her husband gambled away her money and drank
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 59 
 
 to excess. During the season in Italy he had suffered 
 from several attacks of delirium tremens, and on one 
 occasion threatened to strike her. She bravely bore 
 it all, and found relief and consolation in singing and 
 success. Still, she knew her marriage had been a 
 most immoral one, and she felt the need of someone 
 near to help her bear an aching heart. Her husband 
 was a baronet, and Elinor's parents thought it would 
 be such a good match, so they gave away their daughter 
 to one whose private life was extremely wicked and 
 despicable. She was a mere child, a quiet country 
 girl of eighteen years of age, when she became a wife, 
 and at twenty-one she was disgusted and feared her 
 detestable husband. 
 
 Two happy months were spent in Kent. Her hus- 
 band was losing her money at gaming-tables in the 
 South of France. The boy Gower had completely 
 won her affection, and she saw him every day. She 
 had learned from the vicar that Cyril was the fifth 
 child of a young family of ten. The organist had taken 
 an interest in the boy and gave him free instruction. 
 
 One morning she heard from her manager that he 
 had signed contracts for an American tour, and that 
 her husband desired him to book several concerts to 
 be given in London before her departure. Her heart 
 sank, and her courage, which had formerly carried 
 her through many awful scenes, seemed to desert her. 
 Cyril came in while she was in her fit of despair. She 
 threw her arms about the boy and wept long and 
 bitterly over him. Never had such a surge of feeling 
 burst from her. The boy looked up at her face and 
 murmured some words of affection. .When she told
 
 60 MADAME BOHEMIA 1 
 
 him she would soon have to leave him and go to far- 
 off America, he asked her to take him with her, not 
 to leave him at home with all his brothers and sisters, 
 for whom his parents could scarcely find sufficient 
 food and clothing. 
 
 That night Elinor called on Cyril's father and 
 mother. She asked them to let her have Cyril for 
 good and all. What arrangements she made are -not 
 known, but Cyril left Kent with Elinor when she went 
 to London to fulfil her concert engagements.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 " You must be very tired after your journey," said 
 Mrs. Sefton, taking Elinor's small satchel. 
 
 " No, not very tired. I did not really notice the , 
 hours pass, though I have often found them very tedi- 
 ous." 
 
 " I do not like trains, fof though forty or fifty 
 people one has never met before may be in the same 
 car, one imagines the railway company restricts con- 
 versation and forbids sleeping in their comfortable 
 chairs," Mrs. Sefton observed, and at the same time 
 prepared a cup of tea for Elinor, who had sunk into 
 a great old Chippendale arm-chair before the blazing 
 logs. 
 
 What a sense of absolute freedom! How sweetly 
 fell the tranquillity of the room and its quiet refine- 
 ment upon her! 
 
 Mrs. Sefton had for thirty years been a widow. 
 Her husband left her a large income, and her nieces 
 had married wealthy men. Without a child of her 
 own, she had given love and generosity to her sister's 
 children, but had never to spend much of her own 
 fortune on anyone but herself. She lived usually alone, 
 in the large house in which Elinor was to give the 
 reading. Sometimes a niece or grandniece would stay 
 for a few days, but rarely for a week or two. Mrs. 
 Sefton was liked but not loved by many of her rela- 
 tions, but she did not much mind her lonely state, for 
 she had a happy disposition and found many things 
 to occupy her mind. 
 
 61
 
 62 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 One was the piano. She was sixty-five years of age 
 and practised four hours each day. She had not had 
 one lesson from a teacher since her girlhood. But 
 the piano was not her only accomplishment. She 
 began to keep a diary on the day of her marriage and 
 had not missed writing down the events of each day. 
 Her life had been full of interest, and the many 
 changes of art, science, and society which came before 
 her were faithfully set down in her Doomsday Book. 
 
 Elinor was delighted to find Mrs. Sefton even more 
 entertaining than Miss Dalston had described. The 
 old lady was an expert hostess and appreciated Elinor's 
 silence. 
 
 A tall woman entered the room. She was twenty- 
 six years of age and possessed the graceful form of 
 a girl of eighteen. Her face could not have been 
 called handsome. It was far too expressive. The 
 brow, eyes, nose, and mouth seemed to be excellent 
 examples of different types of beauty. Her hair was 
 dark red flecked with a peculiar gold, which in a strong 
 light glistened and made darker the red. 
 
 "What hair!" Elinor could not help half-mutter- 
 ing to herself. " It is glorious !" 
 
 " Oh, Gertrude, Mrs. Kembleton is here. Let me 
 introduce you, dear. My niece, Mrs. Laird," said 
 Mrs. Sefton, in her usual fussy way, a way which 
 placid people would find annoying, but it was due 
 only to her desire to please and make those around her 
 happy. Mrs. Sefton's manners were those of her 
 grandfather's period. 
 
 She looked like a portrait by Reynolds. Her dress 
 and a peculiar demureness which was half-hesitancy,
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 63 
 
 half -good-humour, gave her a sweet distinction which 
 was warm and charming. Her hair was not powdered, 
 but a black cosmetic covered a small quantity of hair 
 which had for a long time been grey, and the addi- 
 tion of some plaits and switches made a good founda- 
 tion for her cap. It did not seem at all impossible that 
 Mrs. Laird should some day look very like her aunt, 
 for their features were from the same mould, and 
 heredity had stamped the same hall-mark upon both 
 women. 
 
 " I am so glad to meet you, Mrs. Kembleton," said 
 Mrs. Laird, as she took Elinor's hand, " I've heard 
 so much about you from aunt and Miss Dalston." 
 
 " I'm afraid Miss Dalston knows only my virtues," 
 Elinor said, and she felt slightly perturbed as she 
 looked at Mrs. Laird. 
 
 " Well, it is refreshing to hear of one's virtues, for 
 nowadays it seems to be the fashion to look only for 
 one's faults," Mrs. Sefton said, and she laughed at 
 her clever remark. 
 
 " Yes, aunt, virtue seems to be a fast-declining 
 quality and not conducive to the modern idea of hap- 
 piness. Conversation has given place to gossip and 
 notoriety has superseded honour. Goodness only 
 knows what will happen if the world goes on wagging 
 at such a pace. I believe a social revolution must 
 surely come and wipe out the present effete age. Don't 
 you think so, Mrs. Kembleton?" asked Mrs. Laird, 
 who had not only made her aunt uncomfortable, but 
 caused Elinor to wonder why a simple reference to 
 herself should be followed by such a remarkable out- 
 burst.
 
 64 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 " I must confess I'm quite ignorant of the matter. 
 Perhaps the difference in our surroundings may ac- 
 count for that; still, I have seen little to make me 
 think people have changed for the worse," Elinor ex- 
 plained with some uncertainty and reluctance. 
 
 " Indeed ! you surprise me. From what Jane Dais- 
 ton said I thought you were quite a Bohemian. As 
 for me, I see nothing but two kinds of people. One 
 lot eat, sleep, speak, dress according to the book, be- 
 cause they haven't the courage to rebel, though they 
 sometimes feel how foolish and inane their lives are. 
 To the other lot it never occurs to help themselves, 
 for they don't know any better and have become part 
 of the system," said Mrs. Laird, in a tone in which 
 contempt and discontent were evident. 
 
 " My dear Gertrude, I do believe you have been 
 reading Herbert Spencer or John Ruskin. When did 
 this attack of socialism take you ?" asked Mrs. Sefton, 
 who was half-shocked, but could not hide a smile as 
 she leaned forward as if expecting her niece would 
 resume the dissertation. 
 
 " When ? Oh, since my children have been old 
 enough to question me," Mrs. Laird replied. 
 
 " Well ! I hope you don't intend to instil such 
 teachings into your innocents. If you do, I shall be 
 really afraid to have them here. They're bad enough, 
 goodness knows, and such natural imps would be be- 
 yond all taming and restraint. Oh, dear, Gertrude, it 
 would be terrible !" 
 
 " I shall use discretion. Don't be afraid, dear aunt, 
 your grandnieces and nephews will do you more hon- 
 our than their parents. They shall not have any of
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 65 
 
 the prejudices of our class nor be little slaves of con- 
 vention," said Mrs. Laird in a firm voice. 
 
 Elinor began to admire the woman's courage, and 
 what she at first thought was mere raillery carried 
 now all the force of earnest determination. But there 
 was a great something behind all she said which Eli- 
 nor could not quite understand. Why a woman pos- 
 sessing such riches should cavil at her sphere and hold 
 society in contempt was a mystery to Elinor. There 
 was some good reason prompting Mrs. Laird, and 
 Elinor concluded the reason was a domestic one. 
 
 " Have you any children, Mrs. Kembleton?" 
 
 Elinor, who had been musing during a pause, started 
 at the unexpected question and looked in surprise at 
 Mrs. Sefton. 
 
 " I have an adopted son. But he is twenty-three 
 years of age," she said, and the old proud tone asserted 
 itself. 
 
 " So old ? Pardon me, you do not look a day older 
 than I do," Mrs. Laird remarked, giving Elinor a 
 glance of admiration. 
 
 " I must be quite ten years your senior," she ven- 
 tured to state, though she felt Mrs. Laird might be 
 nearer thirty than twenty-five. " I adopted Mr. 
 Gower when he was nine years old." 
 
 " Is he in America?" Mrs. Sefton asked in a pecu- 
 liar diffident tone, not sure of the propriety of such a 
 young woman having so old an adopted son. 
 
 " Oh, yes ; he is in New York. Didn't Jane Dalston 
 tell you about him ?" asked Elinor, with some surprise. 
 
 " No. She had often spoken of you, but never men- 
 tioned Mr. Gower. I'm afraid Jane thinks I'm an 
 
 5
 
 66 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 old baby and should know only half of what she 
 knows," said Mrs. Sefton, who for a moment had been 
 embarrassed. 
 
 " Why didn't you bring him with you, Mrs. Kem- 
 bleton ? I'm sure aunt would like to meet him, wouldn't 
 you, dear?" Mrs. Laird was evidently interested in 
 Cyril. 
 
 " Yes, Gertrude. I should have been delighted to 
 see him," said Mrs. Sefton, who had recovered her 
 good-humour. 
 
 " It is not too late to telegraph and invite him. He 
 could easily catch the midnight train. May I send a 
 message, Mrs. Kembleton? I'm sure you would like 
 to have him with you," said Mrs. Laird, rising and 
 going to the bell. 
 
 " Really, you embarrass me. I'm afraid, Mrs. Sef- 
 ton, Cyril may be out and would not get your tele- 
 gram till long after the train should leave New York. 
 He is so fond of his club," Elinor said, wondering 
 whether Cyril had the money to pay his fare. 
 
 " Then let us send two telegrams. One will surely 
 catch him," and Mrs. Laird got from Elinor the ad- 
 dresses and wrote out the invitations, which were has- 
 tily sent to the nearest telegraph-office. 
 
 " We must do all we can to make you happy, Mrs. 
 Kembleton, not only for the kindness of coming to 
 read and giving us the pleasure of your company, but 
 to protect ourselves from the wrath of Jane," Mrs. 
 Sefton explained in a laughing, pleasant way. " We 
 all fear Jane, don't we, Gertrude ?" 
 
 " Yes, I suppose we do. I wish I had some of her 
 grit and confidence."
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 67 
 
 Elinor liked Mrs. Laird for her last remark. 
 
 "What is Mr. Gower? An artist? I don't know 
 why I should say an artist, but one has sometimes pre- 
 conceived ideas about particular names. His name has 
 an artistic ring about it," said Mrs. Laird, as she leaned 
 towards Elinor and seemed to become more and still 
 more interested. 
 
 " Mr. Gower is a musician," she said with more 
 pride. 
 
 "A musician!" echoed Mrs. Sefton, with delight, 
 and clasping her hands. " Does he play the piano ?" 
 
 " Yes ; he was once an excellent pianist, but of late 
 he has not taken much interest in the piano. He has 
 begun to compose, and is now at work on an opera," 
 said Elinor. 
 
 " Oh, how delightful ! I hope he will come ! Do 
 you think he will? Dare we ask him to favour us 
 to-morrow evening? Gertrude, dear, did you ask in 
 the message for a reply?" asked Mrs. Sefton, who was 
 hugely pleasing Elinor by the interest she was show- 
 ing. 
 
 " No, I didn't ask him to reply. I think he will 
 come," said Mrs. Laird in a tone which implied more 
 than mere suggestion. But the tone gave Elinor a 
 slight shock of irritation, and for a moment she hoped 
 Gower would get neither message. Mrs. Laird's man- 
 ner was peculiar. There was something ominous in 
 it which was hardly noticeable, still Elinor was aware 
 of it, though she could not define its quality. She had 
 a vague notion that Mrs. Laird was a woman whose 
 discontent had turned to cynicism. Elinor did not re- 
 prove herself for not liking her. Her first impressions
 
 68 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 had so often proved right in the end that she rarely 
 doubted their accuracy. She had never found them 
 lead her astray or cause her to do wrong, and in Mrs. 
 Laird's case she was sure that the secret promptings 
 were meant to put her on her guard. Elinor's mind 
 was so free from superficial prejudices that her natural 
 senses were never thwarted, but always alert and quick 
 to act. 
 
 Still, as the evening passed she found many delight- 
 ful virtues in Mrs. Laird. One which seemed particu- 
 larly well developed was thoughtfulness. She antici- 
 pated so much her aunt and Elinor wished. At dinner 
 Mrs. Laird was voluble and humorous. Her vivid 
 descriptions of Boston society leaders and their fol- 
 lowers were the cause of much merriment, for the 
 humourist did not let slander or vindictiveness prompt 
 the telling of her anecdotes. 
 
 When Mrs. Laird retired her aunt was loath to part 
 with Elinor, who was at ten o'clock feeling the effects 
 of the journey and the change. 
 
 " Before you go to bed I should like to tell you why 
 poor Gertrude is sometimes perverse. She has much 
 to put up with, for her husband is a downright scoun- 
 drel. She has not lived with him for over a year, and 
 though she has good cause for a divorce, her parents 
 and relations do all they can to oppose her. Her chil- 
 dren are old enough to ask questions which she dare 
 not answer. So do not think it strange if she should 
 break out at any time. Of course, I think it is a cruel 
 shame she should be bound to the scamp. It's all very 
 well for the disinterested to prate of the holy bonds, 
 but I notice few hold the for-better-and-for-worse view
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 69 
 
 of marriage when just cause for separation comes to 
 themselves." 
 
 When Mrs. Sefton had finished the explanation of 
 the cause of her niece's peculiar moods, Elinor lay 
 back in her chair and was for a long time silent. The 
 old lady had spoken in such a firm, convincing tone 
 that Elinor had not the slightest doubt of the truth of 
 her story. She felt it was not the one-sided view of 
 relatives who are sometimes prone to find excuses for 
 kin and none for kind. 
 
 " I am glad you have taken me into your confi- 
 dence," said Elinor when she rose to retire ; " I thought 
 something troubled Mrs. Laird. How easy it is to 
 entertain erroneous opinions and to misjudge people! 
 I like to learn lessons, and you have taught me to be 
 not easily beguiled by impressions. The cause of many 
 actions that appear questionable is often beyond our 
 ken, and the reason why we dislike people who have 
 never done us harm is often equally obscure. Thanks. 
 Good-night," said Elinor as she kissed Mrs. Sef- 
 ton. 
 
 Though it was but eleven o'clock when she reached 
 her room she did not undress till long past one. She 
 wondered how many lives were affected by marital 
 woes similar to those which had marred her early life 
 and which now threatened Mrs. Laird's. What a 
 world of laws without justice, systems without order! 
 One rule for millions of different temperaments. How 
 futile it all seemed to Elinor as she looked from her 
 bed to the moonlit scene without her bedroom window, 
 the blinds of which she' had pulled aside before she 
 turned off the electric light ! The moon, the trees, and
 
 70 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 the dark lines of a near hill's rim seemed to have a 
 world of pity for the poor people who govern them- 
 selves so badly. Their laws were not of man's mak- 
 ing, were not designed to protect man's greed and 
 desire.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 ELINOR was an unusually early riser. Even the 
 first morning at Mrs. Sefton's quiet house the thought 
 that she had no breakfast to get ready for Gower was 
 no inducement to sleep after she was once awake. She 
 had enjoyed a night's perfect rest, and though it was 
 a cold March morning, she hastened to dress and take 
 a walk in the grounds around the house before break- 
 fast. The trees were bare, and Nature was cold and 
 sad, but the air was bracing and Elinor's blood was 
 warm beneath its sharp caress. As she turned into the 
 drive an approaching figure caught her attention. A 
 man muffled up in a great-coat drew near. 
 
 " Cyril !" she called. It was Gower who looked 
 out above the turned-up collar of his coat. 
 
 " Hullo ! You're out early enough. Isn't it beastly 
 raw?" he said, without the slightest surprise or pleas- 
 ure. 
 
 " How is Lexham ?" she asked in a quick tone. 
 
 " Oh, he's all right. Deep in some play. By Jove, 
 if it had not been for him I shouldn't be here," said 
 Gower with a chuckle. 
 
 " What do you mean ?" Elinor was all anxiety for 
 the crumbs of news to fall from the reticent Gower. 
 
 " Well, when I got the telegram I had deuced little 
 money, no more than a dollar. It was about nine 
 o'clock, and I had been to see Hector D'Erblet. I 
 didn't know where to turn, till a happy thought struck 
 me. Why, it was absurd not to think first of Lexham.
 
 72 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 111 for so long and no chance to spend money. Off 
 upstairs I went, and he gave me eight dollars! All 
 he had! And, well, here I am. Deuced good thing 
 I thought of Lexham, wasn't it?" 
 
 Elinor could not speak. Her heart seemed to rise 
 and swell till she felt like choking. He strode along 
 beside her, asking question after question about Mrs. 
 Sefton and what the affair was to be. When they 
 reached the house the bell for breakfast sounded, and 
 Mrs. Laird stood in the hall. 
 
 Elinor introduced them. 
 
 " Mr. Gower ! I'm so glad to meet you. My aunt 
 will be down directly," said Mrs. Laird, who had ex- 
 tended her hand to him. 
 
 Elinor moved away to meet Mrs. Sefton. 
 
 He seemed to show a slight embarrassment, and Mrs. 
 Laird was quick to detect it. She was not disap- 
 pointed, for he was more than she had pictured, besides, 
 his voice and manner of speaking pleased her, and she 
 thought he was a distinguished-looking man as he 
 walked at her side up the hall. Mrs. Sefton was fussy 
 and glad to see Elinor's adopted son, and he exerted 
 himself to please, showing more diplomacy than Elinor 
 gave him credit for in being particularly attentive to 
 his hostess. 
 
 He told many anecdotes of Liszt and Rubinstein, 
 and completely charmed Mrs. Sefton by promising to 
 play the piano. 
 
 " But I'm not in practice," he added after consent- 
 ing to play. " I don't much care for the piano. I 
 think it takes away much of the interest when one has 
 to teach stupid people."
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 73 
 
 " Have you many pupils ?" Mrs. Laird asked. 
 
 " No, not many, but more than enough to make life 
 irksome," Gower replied, with some sarcasm. " It is 
 an awful grind to teach people who haven't a bit of 
 talent." 
 
 After breakfast the women went to their rooms and 
 left Gower to find his way to the library. It was not a 
 large room, but it contained all the comforts necessary 
 for body and mind. The glow from a great log fire 
 dispelled the shadows winter had left, and if he had 
 not glanced out at the bare gardens the effects of 
 evening would have been perfect. On a table he found 
 excellent cigars and cigarettes. He could not read; 
 the sense of complete satisfaction was too new, too 
 enjoyable; it was a thing to be enjoyed for itself. 
 He stretched himself in a large chair and waited for 
 Mrs. Laird to fill his mind. His had not been an 
 amorous life. He had seldom experienced the cravings 
 of most young men, and love had often passed him by 
 when he never knew of its nearness. Once in Weimar 
 he met a Scotch girl whose talent, broad mind, and 
 good looks attracted him, but he never realised her 
 yearnings for something more than good fellowship. 
 A peculiar shyness arose with each thought of love. 
 He would blush and henceforth shun the object which 
 caused the self-conscious thrill. To him there was al- 
 ways a feeling of dread when he met a woman of a 
 strong sensuous nature. Mrs. Laird appealed to him, 
 so at breakfast he invented stories and kept the con- 
 versation going in self-defence. He knew a moment's 
 silence would be the opportunity for their eyes to meet, 
 and without the aid of words to cover embarrassment
 
 74 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 he would at the very beginning reveal what he wished 
 to hide. He felt Mrs. Laird's eyes upon him, and he 
 strove to look at every other object in the room rather 
 than at the beautiful cause of his uneasiness. But he 
 did not dislike the agitation which she, all unconscious, 
 awakened. 
 
 For a long time he sat musing and speculating, won- 
 dering if he dare try a flirtation with Mrs. Laird. His 
 experience had not been a large one, but he knew music 
 would do much to aid him. Gower was fully aware 
 of the effects to be gained from music on a mind per- 
 plexed and tired, particularly if sentiment was already 
 there. He knew little about her, but he felt she was 
 worth trying for, and the more he thought of the mat- 
 ter the better he liked the notion. 
 
 Elinor had told him nothing of Mrs. Laird's do- 
 mestic affairs. 
 
 He felt a strange thrill of pleasure warm him from 
 head to foot. He arose and walked up and down the 
 room, smiling at the audacity of his plan. The notion 
 of such an attempt added to his pride, and though he 
 was almost penniless, no gift would have made him feel 
 more satisfied or happy than did the possession of that 
 delicious thought which stirred his very soul. 
 
 A new world opened its gates, and he passed in to 
 revel, delighting to see old things in new lights and 
 feeling the magnetism of the power he had won. 
 Matters that were formerly beyond his comprehension 
 were now clear to him. The small things of love and 
 life grew large and throbbed with the joy he felt in 
 that moment when the scales fell from his eyes, and 
 the bonds which had held his heart were burst.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 75 
 
 He realised the great change which had taken place 
 within him, and he marvelled at the power of a single 
 thought. 
 
 He had failed to make good the promise of his early 
 days as a pianist. His technique was all the severest 
 critic could wish for, but there was no soul in his play- 
 ing, no warmth, it was all the cold, hard expression 
 of a man untouched by the pulsating ringers of love 
 
 and life. 
 
 ******** 
 
 Mrs. Laird was with her aunt while Gower was in 
 the library. Mrs. Sefton had used the Virgil clavier, 
 so that no sound of her practising would reach the 
 ears of Gower. 
 
 " What do you think of him?" Mrs. Sefton asked, 
 as she turned from the instrument. 
 
 " Of Mr. Gower? I don't really know," said Mrs. 
 Laird, shrugging her shoulders. " He seems to be 
 quite possible, still I thought he was over-anxious to 
 please. Didn't you, dear?" 
 
 " I thought he was delightful. So full of charming 
 reminiscences. I'm dying to hear him play. I won- 
 der if you could persuade him to let us hear something 
 before evening. Do try at lunch. I'm sure you have 
 captivated him, my dear Gertrude. You know you 
 never fail," said Mrs. Sefton, and she touched her 
 niece on the shoulder, and laughed at her idea of get- 
 ting music from Gower before the evening's entertain- 
 ment. 
 
 " What a strange couple they are ! Do you know 
 he did not address one remark to her? You seemed 
 to be his especial audience. I think you should ask
 
 76 MADAME BOHEMIA 1 
 
 him, he was so attentive to you, aunt. Yes, he was, 
 and you know it, you dreadful flirt." Mrs. Laird 
 entered into the spirit of fun and teased her aunt, till 
 both laughed and joked for the pleasure it gave them. 
 
 " Gertrude, I do believe you're jealous and trying 
 to hoodwink me, but I shall cut you out, see if I don't. 
 And to spite you I shall at lunch ask him to play," said 
 Mrs. Sefton, with mock seriousness. " I am a widow, 
 and a young man is my natural prey. So beware." 
 
 " Oh, you terrible aunt, to set me such an example. 
 I shall be no party to your scheme, so that if anything 
 happens my conscience will be light, and I shall not 
 have to blame myself or earn the displeasure of your 
 relatives and friends," and Mrs. Laird frowned upon 
 her aunt, who was heartily laughing. 
 
 Mrs. Sefton and her niece understood each other as 
 few women do between whom there is such a difference 
 in years. Mrs. Laird was her aunt's favourite niece, 
 and many times she had been Gertrude's sole comforter 
 and friend when life with Mr. Laird was unendurable. 
 Mrs. Laird's mother was a society leader, and had not 
 much time to spare for such ordinary matters as those 
 which distressed her daughter. It was only when Ger- 
 trude told her that she must apply for a divorce that her 
 mother for the first time declined to go to some after- 
 noon affair, dismissed her carriage, and gave time and 
 attention to her daughter. 
 
 After she had heard Gertrude's story she said, " I 
 can't sympathise with you, my dear, for I really don't 
 think you have tried to manage the man. He was a 
 good chap when you married, and a practical woman 
 would have made a model husband of him. You are
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 77 
 
 far too sentimental, and you take the ordinary matters 
 of every-day life too seriously. . A divorce would cause 
 no end of chatter and put me in an awful pickle. You 
 don't seem to realise all such a mad action would en- 
 tail. Think of me and my position. One has to bow 
 to good form and keep a stiff upper lip when tears are I 1 
 on one's lashes. Do be ruled. Take up with some- 
 thing interesting. I suppose you have all the children 
 you're likely to have and the worries of maternity won't 
 have to be feared. Let George drink himself to death 
 if he prefers that kind of suicide. It needn't bother 
 you. He may perhaps succeed in freeing you before 
 the horrid divorce court could try the case. Do cheer 
 up and take up with something interesting." 
 
 After the interview with her mother Gertrude Laird 
 knew her fate was in her own hands. She neither 
 looked for sympathy from her parents nor accepted 
 the advice of her friends who were opposed to a divorce. 
 Her husband went away on a yacht with a party of men 
 and women whose reputations were, to say the least, 
 slightly tarnished. 
 
 Taking her three children with her she left the house 
 and had it closed. When Mr. Laird returned and 
 heard from his wife's mother what Gertrude had done 
 he was alarmed, and, for a week, penitent and sober. 
 But his entreaties and promises failed to bring back his 
 wife, who had taken refuge with Mrs. Sefton, who was 
 then staying at her summer cottage near the sea. When 
 he found temporary sobriety and penitence of no avail * 
 he resorted to other measures, he threatened to institute 
 legal proceedings, hinting that his wife's action had 
 another motive than that of escaping his misconduct.
 
 78 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 But Gertrude's indifference and contempt were beyond 
 his uprooting. All his threats and efforts failed to 
 move her. 
 
 She could not have found a better friend than her 
 aunt. Her house was always open to Gertrude. Mrs. 
 Sefton's interest in her niece's domestic troubles was 
 not only due to sympathy, though her sympathy was 
 great, it was also due to harmless curiosity, and to 
 a frank desire to know how the world went even though 
 the ways of the world were a little sinful. Nothing 
 gave her so much unconscious pleasure as the details 
 of Gertrude's affairs, and pleasant were the hours she 
 spent listening to the current stories about Mr. Laird's 
 misbehaviour. The old lady's appetite for hearing 
 scandal was insatiable, but she was seldom known to let 
 slip one word of what she was told, and to try the pro- 
 cess of worming anything out of her would have been 
 
 a hopeless exercise for the cleverest cross-examiner. 
 ******** 
 
 " I'll dare you to go down to the library and ask 
 him to play before lunch," said Mrs. Sefton, with a 
 mischievous gleam in her eyes. 
 
 " Dare me, you dare me to go down and ask?" said 
 Mrs. Laird, not quite sure her aunt meant the chal- 
 lenge. 
 
 " I do," said Mrs. Sefton, whose eyes were dancing 
 with delight at the idea. " But remember, I did not 
 ask you to go." 
 
 Mrs. Laird was for a moment or two silent. She 
 leaned her head upon her hand and quickly summed 
 up what method she would employ. A smile of pleas- 
 ant determination settled round her mouth. Her aunt
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 79 
 
 sat waiting for some action of Gertrude's to indicate 
 what she would do. The sparkle of the old lady's 
 eyes, the comic expression of anticipation, and the 
 keen delight which absorbed her were too ludicrous; 
 and Gertrude, once she saw the humour of her aunt's 
 attitude, burst into a peal of laughter which was as 
 musical as it was merry. She ran to her aunt, threw* 
 her arms about her, and the two swayed to and fro, 
 caressing each other and both laughing till they wrung 
 tears from mirth. When they could speak distinctly, 
 Gertrude said, 
 
 " Do you mean it ? You wicked old aunt to think 
 of such a shocking proceeding. Am I not already os- 
 tracised by the mighty of fashion?" 
 "Ah, now you are trying to get out of it. I have 
 dared you, for you provoked the challenge; and now 
 you show the white feather," said Mrs. Sefton with 
 well-feigned contempt. 
 
 "What! White feather! I'm off to the library, 
 and if you like I'll bet you anything I get him to play 
 before lunch." Gertrude was at the door waiting for 
 some more words of provocation. 
 
 Something like fear made her hesitate for a mo- 
 ment. 
 
 " What will you bet ? Name the stakes," Mrs. 
 Sefton called in a voice quite squeaky from laughter. 
 
 " Garters ! I saw some beauties last week. Gold 
 silk and torquoise buckles. They will cost you two 
 hundred dollars," Mrs. Laird whispered in a sanguine 
 tone. 
 
 " Well, it's worth them. Good luck ! Off you go !" 
 
 She was gone.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 GOWER had smoked several cigars. Being tired a 
 little by so much speculation and the experience of 
 sensations quite new to him, his mind fell into a rev- 
 erie. He had decided that an ordinary flirtation would 
 be a waste of time. He had guessed from bits of con- 
 versation at breakfast that Mrs. Laird had children, 
 but no reference was made to a Mr. Laird. She was 
 dressed in black. He thought she was perhaps a 
 widow, but he felt that was hardly probable, and it 
 was not fortune's way of late to favour him. The 
 more he compared the dreary years since he had lived 
 in America with the possibilities of life with a rich 
 handsome young wife, the more he felt convinced that 
 he had set himself no easy task in trying to win her. 
 Perhaps a subtle expectation that victory would crown 
 his efforts in the end encouraged him in his plans. 
 
 Never once did a thought of Elinor occur to him. 
 
 The door of the room was pushed open and in 
 walked Mrs. Laird. He was quickly out of the chair 
 and on his feet, awkwardly striving for an easy atti- 
 tude. She walked to the table in the centre of the 
 room and picked up a book. She looked aside at him. 
 Their eyes met. She smiled at the thought of her 
 errand. He was at a loss to find a word. 
 
 " I hope I've not disturbed you, Mr. Gower," she 
 said in what seemed to him a casual tone. 
 
 " Oh, no. I felt tired after the journey. Hasn't 
 it got dark since breakfast? I think we shall have 
 80
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 81 
 
 more snow," he half-stammered, walking to the win- 
 dow to hide his agitation. 
 
 " I hate this season of the year. One can never tell 
 when spring really begins," she said, pretending to 
 look for something she did not want, though she had 
 in her hand the book she had picked up but forgotten. 
 In passing round the table the book to her surprise 
 fell from her hand. He was quick to stoop and take 
 it up and offer it to her. In so doing he noticed the 
 title," Tristan and Isolde." 
 
 " Do you like Wagner ?" he asked, all his agitation 
 fled. 
 
 " Yes. But I am in the elementary stage. I like 
 the music, but the librettos are beyond my understand- 
 ing. The Grand Opera Company were in Boston two 
 weeks ago, and I witnessed a performance of ' Tristan 
 and Isolde.' " 
 
 " How were you affected ?" 
 
 Both were quite at ease. 
 
 " Oh, I suppose you would laugh if I were to tell 
 you," she said with a smile, as she quickly glanced at 
 him. 
 
 " Laugh. Indeed I should not, for I'm deeply in- 
 terested in the first impressions of people who hear 
 the Wagner works. I know you must have great musi- 
 cal intelligence and the necessary temperament. Wag- 
 ner can never appeal to the frigid herd, that is why so 
 many phlegmatic people call him mad. The artistic 
 intelligence of the individual is limited according to 
 the nervous temperament and experience." 
 
 " I'm glad to hear you say that, for I myself thought 
 ' Tristan and Isolde' called for a higher apprecia- 
 
 6
 
 82 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 tion than such works as * Trovatore' and ' Mari- 
 tana.' " 
 
 " There you hit the nail on the head," he said, and 
 off he plunged into a long dissertation on criticism, 
 and in closing said, " Half the books and criticisms 
 written in praise of Wagner have done more to mis- 
 lead people of ordinary intelligence than all the asperi- 
 ties of Nietszche and Nordau." 
 
 " Nietszche and Nordau," she replied ; "I don't 
 know of them. Are they composers ?" 
 
 " Oh, dear, no. The one is usually considered a 
 great philosophical lunatic and the other a fin de siecle 
 crank. I'm glad you don't know them, for both would 
 warp your musical intelligence and lead you nowhere." 
 Gower was on his pet subject. "I'm a great believer 
 in musical intelligence unhampered by technical knowl- 
 edge. Wagner was too vain and too eager for univer- 
 sal applause to forget the multitudes who never see 
 an orchestral score. The totality of effect was in the 
 main his great desire. Thus, in the actual execution 
 and performance of the work he could not get suffi- 
 cient preciseness and minute attention to detail. How- 
 ever, he did not ask from his audience the comprehen- 
 sion of all these particulars. He was a wise man over 
 and above his vanity and love of applause. All, there- 
 fore, one need know thoroughly to enjoy his works is 
 a clear understanding of the subjects, the wedding of 
 the subject to the music, the motives and characterisa- 
 tion, and the dual actions. Don't bother about the 
 symbolism." 
 
 " Dear me !" sighed Mrs. Laird, " you set me no 
 simple task," and she ran her fingers through the
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 83 
 
 libretto she had been bending and twisting out of 
 shape. 
 
 " Simple! What great work is simple? Is Shake- 
 speare simple? Beethoven! Goethe! Brahms! 
 Browning! Simple? Name a work of real genius 
 to which you can apply the word simple. You can't !" 
 and Gower laughed without scoffing, he felt so proud 
 of his knowledge and the effect he was making. 
 
 He had been a great student. For five years, in 
 which time he did not touch the piano, or give the 
 slightest attention to music, he devoured volumes of 
 fine literature. But then in after-years, when he found 
 he understood little of what he had read, he returned to 
 many volumes which he knew he had only glanced 
 through before. He once said he could rarely get 
 interested in any kind of novel. Perhaps that was a 
 reason why people and affairs seldom interested him. 
 
 " I'm afraid you have a poor opinion of the unini- 
 tiated," said Mrs. Laird after one of Gower's tirades. 
 " You dishearten me, for if all you say be necessary 
 for a perfect understanding of Wagner, I think his 
 works will remain mysteries to me," she added, in a 
 low tone of disappointment. 
 
 " Ah, you're now making the excuse lovers of light 
 music conveniently find," he retorted before he weighed 
 his words. 
 
 " Well, I'm no match for you. I had no idea you 
 were such a loyal disciple of Wagner," she said. 
 
 " Please don't think I'm Wagner mad. I'm not a 
 bit. Candidly, I prefer the earlier works, ' Lohengrin* 
 and ' Tanhauser' to the'* Ring,' though I must confess 
 ' Tristan' and ' Meistersingers' are superb works.
 
 84 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 Still, I have yet to see truly good performances of the 
 music-dramas. Tradition seems to me to be the great 
 drawback. The singer must stand on a certain spot 
 to sing a certain number of bars; first one arm is 
 raised, then the other, and so on till anyone that looks 
 for flesh and blood characters must conclude that in 
 many cases automata would serve the purpose and save 
 the impresario thousands of dollars. Wagner must be 
 acted" 
 
 " There I agree with you, for the performance I saw 
 of ' Tristan' and ' Isolde' was an imposition." 
 
 " There is hope for you. I wish I were always near 
 you so that I could go through the works with you," 
 he said quite frankly, having for the time forgotten 
 his original purpose. The subject made him sincere, 
 for the love of music superseded his passion for the 
 woman. 
 
 " Yes. I, too, wish you lived in Boston. I know 
 no one I could rely on to enlighten me and explain 
 away the great difficulties. There are many who pro- 
 fess much, but few who know. I have attended lec- 
 tures on Wagner, but I never get much good from 
 them. Is it a world of charlatans?" Mrs. Laird had 
 forgotten her aunt and the bet she had made. He had 
 drawn close to her, near enough to see her beautiful 
 skin under the gauzy mesh of the lace which encircled 
 her throat. 
 
 " Charlatanry has become something of a virtue 
 nowadays. I mean, of course, in the cases we're talking 
 of, for I think any man who applauds what he doesn't 
 understand is more or less of a charlatan. The name 
 of a great singer covers many dramatic deficiencies,
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 85 
 
 for I have seen vocalists attempt Brunhilde and Isolde 
 without the slightest knowledge of the dramatic art, 
 without the temperamental gifts, or any of the quali- 
 fications of the actor, and still win the plaudits of a 
 presumably intellectual audience and the praise of 
 lenient critics, thereby aiding to fill the pockets of the 
 manager. All such people, audiences and critics, are, 
 to my way of thinking, charlatans. Besides, I know 
 several men of sound musical judgment who through 
 friendship and other external influences have com- 
 mended performances which have sorely tried their 
 consciences." In all he said there was an echo of 
 his own failure as a pianist, still the truth was there, 
 made perhaps caustic by the bitterness he had 
 known. 
 
 " Then where must one look for truth?" she asked 
 in a sympathetic tone which was affected by his man- 
 ner of speaking, for his voice and face and whole de- 
 meanour all denoted something personal to himself, 
 something which she felt was due to wounded pride 
 and lack of opportunity. 
 
 " Where must one look for truth ? Within ! In 
 one's self! But this is an age of repression. All our 
 grand instincts must be repressed and stultified, so 
 says the code of society, but Art never came from 
 society. Convention is the enemy of Art, and so 
 long as fad and fashion prevail a work's intrinsic merit 
 will never be understood by the many." He was aware 
 of a flux of new ideas which seemed to be easily 
 reasoned and expressed. The old difficulty of putting 
 his thoughts into lucid sentences was gone. He was 
 pleased with his own volubility.
 
 86 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 "Do you sing?" he asked, taking up the libretto 
 from the table on which she had replaced it 
 
 " No. I have no voice, and I'm sorry to say what 
 little I knew of the piano is forgotten. How I have 
 wished for a great voice !" she said, and a great force 
 impelled the gesture she made with her clenched hand. 
 It seemed to him that she felt all the Isolde had lacked 
 and that her nature thrilled at the idea of the role. 
 
 " What an Isolde you would make !" he exclaimed. 
 
 " Do you think so ?" she said, so earnestly that he 
 could hardly suppress a smile. 
 
 " Think so? I'm sure, that is, if you have a voice; 
 nothing else is lacking." 
 
 " Oh, I'm so glad you think that. It is dreadful to 
 feel one's helplessness, and that one can never be of 
 any use. I would give anything to be a great singer 
 and act Isolde. Oh, the * Liebestod,' what music !" 
 she cried out. Her face was all aglow with joy and 
 something akin to pain. Her breast rose and fell like 
 the surge of the music of the first act. Her eyes shone 
 with a new fire which came from a new-stirred soul. 
 A tremor passed through her, she clenched her hands, 
 and burst out in a half-smothered hysterical laugh, 
 which brought the tears. 
 
 " Where is the piano ?" he asked, overjoyed at her 
 emotion. 
 
 " In the drawing-room, across the hall. Come !" 
 she said, leading the way to the door. He followed 
 her and saw new graces in her moving figure. The 
 gleam of the peculiar gold in her hair seemed to beckon 
 him and give him sweet encouragement. 
 
 She opened the instrument and drew a chair near
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 87 
 
 the keyboard. He sat down, placed his feet over the 
 pedals, rubbed his fingers and touched the keys. She 
 was sitting facing the door, looking at him, waiting 
 for the first sound. A great sigh of exquisite relief 
 escaped him as he began Liszt's transcription of the 
 " Liebestod." 
 
 She sat enthralled. He was thrilled by a new emo- 
 tion. A sweet melancholy touched him. He knew 
 he had never played the opening bars with such ten- 
 derness, and the yearning of the melody was a reflex 
 of all he himself felt, soothed by the presence of the 
 woman whose breath seemed to caress him. A sense 
 of gratitude in each breast tranquillised the ecstasy 
 each crescendo would have wrought. The effect of 
 the music would have been poignant in its sadness had 
 it not been for the perfect communication of two souls 
 finding at last a paradise of new joy. So safe were 
 they under the great internal influences that no sensual 
 thought arose in their minds. Her face, mirror-like, 
 caught all the wondrous expressions of his own. At 
 the last great fortissimo a smile of triumph shone from 
 him, and he realised the new power within him. All 
 that had been imprisoned was free, all that was hard 
 and cold was now soft and warm. Something callous 
 had been taken from him, and a generous spirit 
 throbbed joyously in his breast. The old vanity gave 
 way to a new pride. He was a new man, and a giant 
 strength entered his being. 
 
 ******** 
 
 Mrs. Sefton had opened the door of the room in 
 which her niece had left her. She stood with her ear 
 turned to meet the sounds which floated through the
 
 88 MADAME BOHEMIA' 
 
 passages of the house. She at first thought Gertrude 
 had failed, and for a joke had gone to the piano to 
 delude her, but on opening the door to let in the full 
 sound she quickly realised that Gertrude was not the 
 player. No thought of the bet occurred to her. She 
 stood and listened. The mighty influence fell upon 
 her. She was rooted to the spot. 
 
 In another room the first faint sounds of the piano 
 reached Elinor's ears. She had been sewing some 
 lace on the bodice of the dress she was to wear in the 
 evening. Of late years she had not often heard him 
 play pieces of his old repertoire. He had used the 
 piano not for practice or pleasure, and many times 
 when she yearned for some consolation and had asked 
 him to play a favourite sonata or study, he had refused 
 her even that much. But now she soon detected the 
 difference in his playing. What was it, she thought, 
 that stirred him? She had never heard him play like 
 that before. Mrs. Sefton had told Elinor that Mrs. 
 Laird once played very well, but what she now heard 
 was not the outpouring of a once clever amateur. 
 Elinor arose and pulled wide open her door, which 
 had not been quite closed. She stood for a few mo- 
 ments, listening to the music which brought no feeling 
 of joy to her. A strange doubt which she could not 
 solve took possession of her mind. She turned back 
 into the room and stood at the table at which she had 
 been sewing, but she did not sit down. Her ears were 
 full of the music, and every bar brought a deepening 
 sense of mystery. She dropped her bodice and the 
 lace on the chair and walked again to the door. She 
 could no longer remain with that peculiar doubt tap-
 
 The great fortissimo rang out
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 89 
 
 ping on her heart. She was urged by a strong desire 
 to see him at the instrument. Down the stairs she 
 went, passing through the increasing volume of sound, 
 and, as she passed, mingled feelings of doubt and pleas- 
 ure thrilled through her. Up the hall she walked 
 straight to the door of the drawing-room. The great 
 fortissimo rang out. 
 
 She stood at the half-open door and looked in. 
 
 Mrs. Laird's face was transfixed. Elinor at once 
 saw in her face that no mere enthusiastic admirer of 
 the pianist was at his side. Mrs. Laird's eyes were 
 eloquent of love, her attitude's expression was redo- 
 lent of far more than admiration and delight. Elinor 
 could not look at Gower. Her eyes were fixed on Mrs. 
 Laird. In a moment she knew and felt that a great 
 contingency was enveloping the two. 
 
 Elinor withdrew and quietly closed the door.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE dinner-party and the musicale were great suc- 
 cesses. Gower delighted everyone present. Elinor for- 
 got for the evening the scene she saw that morning in 
 the drawing-room. She had never before been so dis- 
 turbed in mind, and not until Mrs. Sef ton's guests be- 
 gan to arrive could she put out of her mind all the 
 agitating thoughts of what might happen if Mrs. Laird 
 and Cyril were often to meet. 
 
 After breakfast on the second morning Gower went 
 to the library to smoke. He had not been long there 
 when Mrs. Laird walked in. Although no words of 
 affection had passed between them, there seemed to 
 be a tacit understanding, and the night before both 
 had succeeded in assisting each other to hide all that 
 might have caused Elinor or Mrs. Sefton to suspect. 
 
 They little knew what Elinor had seen. The sense 
 of a venial guilt brought them closer than vows of love. 
 Both felt they had much to hide, though all was yet 
 to be said. He had for hours lain awake that night 
 thinking of her beauty. He had not dreamed she 
 would appear so handsome in a low-cut gown. It 
 seemed to him that her bust gave to her face all it 
 had lacked when she wore her day dress. He now 
 looked upon her with tender eyes and saw she had not 
 slept well. His heart beat fast, and he felt a great 
 yearning to tell her all the wondrous change she had 
 caused in him. He now knew that it was all due to 
 her. He could have fallen in gratitude at her feet. 
 90
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 91 
 
 She looked at him and felt the fire of his eyes. Her 
 head fell slightly forward, and she in a languid way 
 supported herself by leaning on the back of a chair. 
 
 "Have you nothing to say to me?" she said in a 
 low, soft voice. 
 
 " Yes ; but this room no, not here. I feel the 
 need of a great open place, far away from habitation, 
 somewhere where earth, sea, sky, and you could hear 
 my voice." He stood near her and saw her head droop 
 low, till the whiteness of her neck below the coil of 
 her hair brought back the pleasure he felt when the 
 night before he saw her in evening dress. 
 
 " What have you done to me ? Have you bewitched 
 me ? I have never felt like this. I never before played 
 as I did yesterday for you," he said in a voice full of 
 emotion and joy. 
 
 She raised her head and sweetly smiled at him. She 
 was about to speak when she checked herself with a 
 great sigh, and walked away with her head thrown back 
 and her hands clasped behind her. A sense of absolute 
 triumph flashed through him. 
 
 He did not follow her. Then came the thought that 
 he must within a few days leave Boston. 
 
 " It is cruel !" he said, with great bitterness in his 
 voice. 
 
 " Cruel," she echoed as she turned, surprised at his 
 exclamation and tone. 
 
 " Yes, cruel. My life has been nothing but rebuff 
 and disappointment. All those pleasures I set my 
 heart on were by some insistent fate far removed from 
 me. In a few days I shall leave Boston, and you I 
 may never see again. All my joys have been stultified
 
 92 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 by fear of the demon of mockery. The first great 
 emotion of my life came through you. In a few hours 
 I have realised a need I never before knew. For the 
 new spirit I have gained from you I feel the yearning 
 necessity of your presence. I know that what you have 
 given life to will cry out for you when I shall be alone. 
 I now know why I failed. The truth all comes rush- 
 ing upon me. It is as clear as day. I never knew and 
 felt what I now know and feel. What shall I do ?" 
 
 It was the cry of a man who had been for years de- 
 feated and scathed by misfortune and his own nature. 
 
 " Oh, please, please, don't say so ! You will make 
 me grieve." There was in her voice a tone of plead- 
 ing that went straight to his heart, yet he wished she 
 had used any other tone. 
 
 " You grieve? Why should you grieve? What 
 have you to wish for? You must have all a woman 
 can desire," he said, with bitter emphasis. 
 
 " Oh, don't, please, please, don't ! You do not un- 
 derstand. You have given me great happiness ; please, 
 please, do not take it from me !" She had almost im- 
 perceptibly moved near him, yet he seemed to think 
 she had been shrinking from him, her attitude was so 
 full of despair and love. He grasped her outstretched 
 hand, which she had raised in a helpless way to warn 
 him of her defencelessness. Her mind was actively at 
 work, telling her of the danger of her position, but a 
 greater force was impelling her. She knew she could 
 leave the room, but she would not He drew her to 
 him and held her in his embrace. She felt all the little 
 strength she had desert her. He did not attempt to 
 kiss her. She looked up in his face and saw great tears
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 93 
 
 in his eyes. She raised her arms and let them fall 
 about his head, which she drew down and kissed in 
 the great pity he had stirred in her. A sudden pas- 
 sionate impulse prompted him to kiss her, but another 
 thought checked his desire. He took her hands in his 
 own and laid his face upon them. She felt the hot 
 tears rolling in her palms, and all the mother spirit 
 in her awoke. She led him to a chair, then she went 
 to the door and for a moment listened. She closed 
 the door and returned to him. He had said he knew 
 the reason of his failure, and now as he lay weak and 
 unstrung in the chair he remembered the words of a 
 candid friend to whom he played parts of his opera 
 on which he had long been at work. The scene was 
 now before him in his palms. He had turned from 
 the piano to his friend. " Yes, Gower," his friend 
 said, " it's all very nice, but unsatisfying. It means 
 nothing. Take my advice and put it aside. Your 
 pretty themes do not move me. The things you think 
 are big and dramatic are really artificial and noisy. 
 The real impulses are not there. You haven't found 
 the ripening influences. Some men inherit tempera- 
 ment, and all the great things necessary to the poet 
 and composer are natural to them, others acquire the 
 essential elements, and through love and vicissitude 
 develop them. Wait a bit. A woman may work the 
 change in you." 
 
 He now felt the moment had come. She was kneel- 
 ing at his side, murmuring words she would have found 
 for an ailing child. His head lay on her shoulder, 
 and her fingers regularly fell upon and passed across 
 his brow. The soft caressing motion of her hand
 
 94 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 seemed to relieve him of the pain which a strong emo- 
 tion usually leaves. 
 
 " If you need me, be content. Leave me only for a 
 little while. I shall come to you. I have much to 
 think about and much to do." Her voice was low but 
 clear. A smile of sweet resignation chased away the 
 expression of sorrow. She wondered at the sense of 
 relief that fell upon her, and the fact that no regret 
 
 came puzzled her and brought gladness to her heart. 
 ******** 
 
 " I shall let this place when I leave in July for my 
 cottage at Manchester-by-the-Sea," said Mrs. Sefton 
 to Elinor, who had been in the old lady's room since 
 breakfast. 
 
 "Let it!" Elinor ejaculated in surprise, as if she 
 feared a monetary reason was behind Mrs. Sefton's 
 declaration. 
 
 " Yes. Good gracious, it is far too large for me. 
 I gave that affair last night to please Gertrude; she 
 has of late been so low-spirited," Mrs. Sefton explained 
 in her charming manner of half-hesitancy. " I think 
 I shall go to New York next autumn and enjoy my- 
 self. I am inclined to coddle myself and imagine I'm 
 older than I feel," she added. 
 
 " I think you are younger than the majority of 
 middle-aged women," said Elinor, with a light laugh. 
 
 " You do ? Well, will you take pity on me when I 
 reach New York and show me the sights? I promise 
 you I'll keep you busy, for I've been a regular recluse 
 for a longer time than has been necessary," and she 
 laughed at the prospect of enjoying a winter in New 
 York with Elinor for a companion.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 95 
 
 "Ah, I'm afraid you will find me a sad friend. I 
 seldom go out," said Elinor, thinking of the depriva- 
 tions of many winters. 
 
 " Do you know I'm seriously thinking of asking Mr. 
 Gower to take me under his wing and give me lessons ? 
 Do you think he would look upon me as an old fool 
 if I should ask him?" 
 
 Elinor showed no surprise, though she had great 
 difficulty in keeping from laughing. The idea of the 
 old lady asking Gower to teach her was too ludicrous, 
 and Elinor's mental picture of the comic scene was 
 almost too much for her to take seriously. She could 
 hardly believe Mrs. Sefton meant her to give a sedate 
 reply. But Elinor did not know that Mrs. Sefton was, 
 for an old woman, a remarkably good pianiste. 
 
 " I'm sure Cyril would be delighted to have you for 
 a pupil, but I'm afraid you would find him a dreadful 
 taskmaster. He is sometimes so irritable and severe 
 that I have to console his poor pupils when he lectures 
 them for inattention," said Elinor, thinking she had got 
 out of the difficulty. 
 
 " That would be delightful, and I should not care 
 how much severity he used if you were near to soothe 
 me. I shall ask him." 
 
 The old lady fully appreciated her own joke. 
 
 " Do you think he will ask me to play something to 
 show my mettle?" she asked, and her eyes seemed 
 to dance with glee. " I think some Chopin waltzes 
 and nocturnes may be passably well played for an old 
 woman. I'll shut this door and give you a sample of 
 my quality. Come into the other room where my 
 darlings are, my old and young children. One is
 
 9 6 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 much older than its present mother. It was the piano 
 I first touched," she explained, as she shut the door 
 and turned the key in the lock in a comic, mysterious 
 way. 
 
 She pulled aside a heavy drapery, opened a door, 
 and beckoned Elinor into another room. Refixing the 
 drapery she closed the door, and Elinor looked in gen- 
 uine astonishment round a very beautiful room con- 
 taining four pianos and many fine works of art. 
 
 " Now sit down and give an old woman a chance," 
 commanded Mrs. Sefton, as she opened a splendid 
 Steinway grand and began a Chopin waltz. 
 
 Elinor was completely taken by surprise, and her 
 delight soon found spontaneous expression. The old 
 lady's playing was excellent and had qualities many 
 a younger pianist would have given much to pos- 
 sess. 
 
 " Well, do you think I shall pass ?" she asked after 
 the last bar of the waltz was finished. 
 
 " Pass ? Cyril will be delighted. It is quite won- 
 derful. I had no idea you could play," she said. 
 
 " I should be able to play a little. I've been prac- 
 tising regularly for over fifty years. Long time, isn't 
 it?" 
 
 "A long time! Yes. But how firm your touch!" 
 Elinor remarked, and she began to feel that there was 
 something uncanny in it all. 
 
 " Do you know, you are the only person, excepting 
 Gertrude, I have played to since I was fifty. Don't 
 you feel honoured?" she said, laughing at her success 
 and Elinor's surprise. " I should have been long ago 
 in my grave had I not kept up interest in the piano.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 97 
 
 It makes me feel younger and lighter hearted. Do 
 you think Mr. Gower will have me for a pupil ?" 
 
 " I shall speak to him if you wish," said Elinor. 
 "Shall I find him?" 
 
 " Oh, good gracious, not now. Wait. I'm afraid 
 he will think me very foolish. My sister once said it 
 was high time I gave up the piano and started to prac- 
 tise the harp," said Mrs. Sefton, quite seriously. 
 
 Elinor laughed so heartily that the old lady forgot 
 the prospective ordeal of having to play to Gower, and 
 she too began to laugh. 
 
 " Oh, my sister says the most dreadful things. The 
 idea of her saying I should practise the harp. I'm 
 sure I have a long time to live, and that I shan't find 
 the celestial instrument so difficult as she imagines. 
 I told her she would have no chance of criticising my 
 virtuosity." 
 
 Mrs. Sefton delighted in making Elinor laugh at her 
 stories about her relatives, and not till the morning 
 was nearly gone did she wonder why her niece had not 
 been in to see her. 
 
 " Oh, that dreadful flirt, I do believe she has found 
 Mr. Gower," she exclaimed, with a merry start. 
 
 " I'm afraid she will find Cyril a poor subject for 
 her wiles if what you say of her be true," said Elinor, 
 with a sigh, but a feeling of doubt came with the 
 thought of what she saw in the drawing-room when 
 he played the " Liebestod." She had been quite happy, 
 but a premonition of misery for him now caused her 
 some mental unrest. 
 
 " Poor Gertrude. How different it would be if she 
 had married a man of "
 
 98 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 Elinor started and arose. 
 
 " I think Cyril must be waiting to see me, and I'm 
 sure Mrs. Laird is not blessing me for monopolising 
 you. Shall I speak to him about the lessons?" 
 
 She felt she could not stay another moment in the 
 room. There was a strange dread in her heart. 
 
 " Oh, no, please don't speak, not yet. Wait till 
 after lunch; I should feel so confused if I thought 
 he knew about my whim. Please don't tell him," she 
 pleaded. 
 
 " No, no, I won't tell him till you give me permis- 
 sion," Elinor promised. 
 
 " Not even a word about my playing ? Now, I 
 shan't go down to lunch till you come up and swear 
 he knows nothing about it. I shan't. The idea of 
 eating roast beef and all the while thinking he is 
 summing me up for an old fool would choke me. You 
 won't tell?" 
 
 " No, no, I promise," she said, and quickly left the 
 rooms. 
 
 She saw Mrs. Laird slowly ascending the stairs. 
 Both women stopped when they reached the middle of 
 the staircase. Mrs. Laird was not aware the descend- 
 ing figure was Elinor's till she stopped and stood aside 
 to let the younger woman pass. It was something 
 threatening in Elinor which caused Mrs. Laird to start, 
 stop, and look up. Their eyes met. Elinor's eyes 
 were fixed ready to read what she suspected in Mrs. 
 Laird's face. Gower's adopted mother's mind was 
 alert and prepared to learn the cause for the suspicion 
 which was torturing her. Mrs. Laird had much to 
 hide, but she was not prepared. She did not dream
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 99 
 
 that subterfuge was at that moment necessary. Her 
 eyes fell beneath Elinor's searching glance, and an in- 
 voluntary sigh which had in it all the vibration of a 
 sob escaped her. Elinor trembled from head to foot. 
 She felt her heart contract and harden. A low cry 
 like a moan came from Mrs. Laird and her arms wound 
 round Elinor, who felt a kiss upon her cheek and 
 heard a voice in pain say, 
 
 " Do try to love me. I want you to." 
 
 Elinor felt she had been standing for hours on the 
 stairs, but only a few seconds had passed since they 
 stood face to face. 
 
 A servant ascended and handed her three letters. 
 Whether she would have spoken the words which were 
 on her tongue, or whether by some gesture of repug- 
 nance she would have shown the bitterness and hate 
 which for the moment possessed her, cannot be af- 
 firmed, but the servant's appearance was timely, and 
 Mrs. Laird turned and left Elinor to her letters. One 
 was from Jane Dalston, another from Mrs. Pollack, 
 and the third from Lexham. She opened them as she 
 descended the stairs. The library door was half open. 
 Mrs. Laird had left her with a great desire to hasten 
 to Gower, but Lexham's letter fluttered in her hand. 
 She knew the handwriting of Jane Dalston, and the 
 almost illegible scrawl of Mrs. Pollack, therefore she 
 had no curiosity to prompt her to open their envelopes. 
 Though she guessed from whom the third came, she 
 tore open the envelope to satisfy the desire to see the 
 inscription at the close of the letter. 
 
 " God bless you for all your kindness. I shall never 
 forget what you have done for me."
 
 ioo MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 She read and re-read the words till every nerve in 
 her body seemed to repeat them. 
 
 There was a large window at the end of the hall, 
 and past the library door she went to where the winter 
 sun shed some warm rays on a settee within the em- 
 brasure of the window. She sat there and soon began 
 to realise how cold she had been since Mrs. Laird's 
 sigh told her more than oral confession. The first few 
 lines of Lexham's letter reproved her for undertaking 
 the responsibility of nursing him. He had learned that 
 she had borne the expense of his illness and that he 
 was deeply in her debt. All that she had striven to hide 
 from him was revealed, and his letter seemed both a 
 paean and prayer, for it rang of gratitude, confidence, 
 and success. Every hour he gathered new strength, 
 and he had now found a stimulus which brought with it 
 hope and determination. 
 
 Elinor was pleased with Lexham's letter, but she read 
 it a second time, and sought in vain for something 
 more than gratitude. The more she read the letter 
 the less she seemed to want his thanks. She did not 
 know what was unsatisfying about it, nor did she really 
 know for what she sought. The letter seemed to be 
 carefully written, but it lacked a suggestion, a word, 
 or phrase, something to break its formality, its deep 
 sense of obligation. 
 
 From Mrs. Pollack's letter she learned that Lexham 
 had questioned the Irish servant-girl, who had, no 
 doubt, let her tongue run away with her discretion, for 
 Dr. Brydone had told Mrs. Pollack that Mr. Lexham 
 was not to be bothered about the expense of his illness, 
 and that the servant-girl was not to wait on him.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 1 101 
 
 Jane Dalston in her letter said she had called to see 
 Cyril, and was surprised to hear from the servant that 
 he had received a telegram from Boston, and had left 
 the night before by the midnight train. From the ser- 
 vant she also learnt much about a Mr. Lexham, who 
 had been for many weeks ill and cared for by Elinor. 
 She thought Elinor an awful fool for bothering about 
 strange young men. Had she not enough to do in 
 looking out for herself and lazy Cyril? Would she 
 never have sense enough to save her from doing such 
 unusual things? Jane hoped that when Elinor re- 
 turned to New York she would let Mr. Lexham go 
 about his business and not permit him to take advan- 
 tage any longer of her generosity and soft heart. 
 She was shocked and grieved, but loved her all the 
 more for her pluck and courage in nursing a fellow- 
 being back to health and strength, though the fellow- 
 being was a man. 
 
 As she sat musing she saw Gower come from the 
 library, cross the hall, and enter the drawing-room. 
 He looked like a spectre. His head was half-bowed 
 and his eyes were fixed. Elinor thought he was in 
 some strange way changed. 
 
 The sound of a melody new to her ears came from 
 the drawing-room piano. A plaintive passion like the 
 cry of a yearning soul, full of love's mystery and an- 
 guish, first persuasively soft and low, which a subtle 
 crescendo agitated till a very tempest vehement in de- 
 sire and longing rose fortissimo on fortissimo, crash- 
 ing above the theme in deep bass octaves. 
 
 From where Elinor sat she saw the bottom part of 
 a woman's skirt on the top of the flight of stairs which
 
 102 MADAME BOHEMIA 1 
 
 rose straight before her at the end of the hall. The 
 edge of the hall ceiling hid the upper part of the 
 woman's form, but Elinor knew who it was standing 
 there listening to the great cry from the piano. She 
 thought Mrs. Laird was about to descend. She arose and 
 quickly passed down the hall and entered the drawing- 
 room. Grower's passion was past, and the theme had 
 sank to a pianissimo in the bass, which seemed to denote 
 despair and futility. Great tears fell from his staring 
 eyes and his bent head was almost touching the music- 
 rack. * 
 
 Elinor stood just within the room and looked in great 
 pity on him. All her anger fled, and a sudden impulse 
 to throw her arms about him moved her. She saw the 
 boy who cried and pleaded for her not to leave him 
 with his brothers and sisters in the little village in 
 Kent. She walked towards him and stretched out her 
 arms as she had not done since he was a boy. 
 
 The moving figure startled him. He arose, turned, 
 and disappointment flashed from his eyes. 
 
 " Confound it, Diva, what a way to come in a room ! 
 You know I don't like to be disturbed when I am in 
 the mood," he said in a harsh, petulant tone; but 
 neither the tone nor the words were necessary, the look 
 that flashed from his eyes was enough. It stabbed 
 Elinor. 
 
 "I am very sorry, Cyril, but now I've disturbed 
 you, I should like to have a few words with you," she 
 said, going to the door, which she closed. She stood 
 for a moment with her back against it, as if she were 
 waiting for strength to begin an ordeal she knew would 
 be painful and perhaps sad. There was a look of in-
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 103 
 
 tense determination in her set face as she left the door 
 and approached him. 
 
 "Well, what is it?" he asked, as he flung himself 
 on the piano-stool. 
 
 " I have an excuse to offer Mrs. Sefton " 
 
 "An excuse. For what?" he interrupted, and a 
 peculiar feeling of fear crept into his heart. 
 
 " For our hurried departure. We leave this place 
 as soon after lunch as possible," Elinor stated in a 
 firm voice. 
 
 " Why ? What silly idea have you now got hold 
 of?" 
 
 " No silly idea. I think it will be best for us to go 
 home. I came to read, there is now nothing to keep 
 us. I have made up my mind." 
 
 " Well, you can go. We were asked to stay for 
 one week. I have been here about twenty-eight hours, 
 and such a chance I don't often get. The place suits 
 me, and I intend to remain till the week expires." 
 
 " No, you won't. I don't think you will care to let 
 me go back alone to New York. Mrs. Laird would 
 not think it respectful," said Elinor, without sarcasm. 
 
 " Mrs. Laird ? What has she to do with it? What 
 do I care what Mrs. Laird may think?" he whined, 
 rising and walking about in a nervous, jerky way, 
 growing more and more uncomfortable under Elinor's 
 steady glance. 
 
 " Cyril, I should not like to hear you lie or have you 
 resort to subterfuge. My reason for finding an ex- 
 cuse is, I think, a good one, and though you may be 
 vexed with me for taking these steps to prevent a scan- 
 dal, I feel it is my duty to do all in my power to get
 
 104 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 you away from here." Elinor did not raise her voice, 
 but her tone was bolder and full of conviction. She 
 watched him as he turned and twisted here and there 
 among the pieces of furniture. He punctuated her 
 remarks with a " Bah !" but did not face her or even 
 cast a furtive glance at her eyes, which seemed to make 
 him writhe. 
 
 " You can bah ! and treat what I say with your usual 
 contempt, but I may tell you I'm in earnest. I shall 
 not stay another night under this roof. If you have 
 no thought for me, I must shield myself. Besides, 
 Mrs. Laird has quarrelled with her husband. Though 
 she is not living with him, they are not divorced, and 
 I think it best you should not be the cause of any 
 further misunderstanding." 
 
 " How dare you mention these things to me? What 
 have I to do with her affairs? Do you mean to infer 
 that my friendship for her is not all it should be?" 
 
 He had stopped pacing up and down the room and 
 stood before her. There was a sneer on his face and 
 his head was thrust forward in a threatening way. 
 In his heart there was a dread of Elinor trying to frus- 
 trate his plans, and the new sensations he had experi- 
 enced were now doubly dear, for he thought there was 
 a chance of losing all he had counted on winning. 
 The moments he had felt of real emotion and passion 
 now sustained him, and what had been imaginary now 
 became real. 
 
 " You shall not interfere. You have been the cause 
 of half the disappointments of my life, but now I 
 mean to let nothing blight this chance. Am I to go 
 on with you forever, living from hand to mouth f"
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 1 105 
 
 " You can please yourself about that, Cyril, but so 
 long as you remain with me you will have first to con- 
 sider and pretend to esteem me." 
 
 " Haven't I stuck to you through everything that 
 has happened? You think only of yourself! Here 
 you try to thwart the best chance I have had ! Think ! 
 She has lots of money, and when she gets her divorce 
 I shall marry her, then we can live without fear of 
 starvation " 
 
 "Cyril!" 
 
 Elinor sank upon a chair and burst into tears. 
 
 " Oh, Diva, Diva, I love her ! Upon my soul I do ! 
 I was a brute! Forgive me! I did not know what 
 I was saying, I am all unstrung. Listen! Listen! 
 Diva! Don't push me away from you. I know I 
 deserve kicking, but have patience, I do love 
 her!" 
 
 He tried to console her, but his words did not reach 
 her ears. Her grief alarmed him. He went to the 
 door and listened, but a hissing noise in his ears shut 
 out all other sound. He opened the door and peered 
 up and down the hall, but saw no one about. Con- 
 flicting emotions racked him. His throat was dry and 
 his head ached. He went again to her, penitent and 
 ashamed. 
 
 "Won't you forgive me? I'm willing to go with 
 you," he said, in a hoarse, tremulous voice. 
 
 " Leave me. Get ready. I'll be all right in a little 
 while," she sobbed, but did not raise her head. 
 
 " I can't tell you how sorry I am," he murmured, 
 as he stooped to kiss her head. 
 
 " Don't say any more. Don't kiss me." She shud-
 
 io6 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 dered and shrank from him. " I'm getting over it. 
 Go!" 
 
 He left her. As he stood in the hall and closed the 
 drawing-room door, he saw through the half-open door 
 of the library someone move. He knew who it was. 
 Across the hall he went, pushed wide open the library 
 door and walked in. 
 
 " She knows ?" said Mrs. Laird, in a quick low tone. 
 
 " Yes, she knows," he sighed. 
 
 " What is to be done?" she asked, in a voice shaken 
 by emotion. 
 
 " I go with her this evening back to New York." 
 
 She started and trembled. 
 
 " Oh, must I leave you ! You said you would come 
 to me! If you do not come I shall fall back to the 
 state of misery I had learned to endure before I saw 
 you. If you do not come, now I have known the 
 need of you, I shall never be able to work. The fail- 
 ure will be complete."
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 WHEN Elinor sought Mrs. Sefton to offer the ex- 
 cuse for the sudden change in her plans Mrs. Laird 
 was with her aunt, who had told her of the notion 
 which she had in mind of asking Gower to give her 
 lessons. Since Elinor had left the old lady in the room 
 where she had played the Chopin waltz Mrs. Sefton 
 had quite made up her mind to go in the autumn to 
 New York, and all her plans she told in confidence to 
 her niece. 
 
 Elinor was not sorry to see Mrs. Laird with her 
 aunt. She felt her presence would strengthen her re- 
 solve in case Mrs. Sefton might try to persuade her 
 to stay. Elinor was quite calm, self-possessed. She 
 had got over the effects of the scene with Gower in the 
 drawing-room. Her mind was so free from regrets, 
 and from the possibility of affecting memories return- 
 ing to soften her purpose, that she felt soulless. It was 
 as if her heart's warmth had been drawn off. Still, 
 she was glad Mrs. Laird was present to hear the ex- 
 cuse she was then about to make. 
 
 " I'm sorry, Mrs. Sefton, circumstances have arisen 
 which are so important that I must ask you to excuse 
 Mr. Gower and myself. We must return to New York 
 immediately," she said, in a quiet tone, with just a 
 vague sense of regret for leaving the old lady. 
 
 " Oh, dear me, surely you will not leave us so soon ! 
 What is the matter? Nothing serious, I hope. Dear 
 me, I shall be so sorry to lose you," said Mrs. Sefton, 
 
 107
 
 io8 MADAME BOHEMIA 1 
 
 with genuine disappointment and sorrow in her tone, 
 her gentle face expressing her anxiety for Elinor. 
 
 " I am afraid it may prove serious if I do not re- 
 turn at once," said Elinor, who had to exert all her 
 strength to resist the old lady's loving solicitude. 
 
 " Oh, Gertrude, do help me to dissuade her. She 
 mustn't leave us to mope about this place, now that 
 she has completely won our hearts. Gertrude, tell 
 her what we were talking about before she came in 
 with this dreadful news," she said, turning to her niece 
 for help, and then to Elinor, who felt she dared not 
 take her eyes off Mrs. Laird. 
 
 " I'm afraid it is not in my power to persuade Mrs. 
 Kembleton, dearly as I wish her to stay with us," said 
 Gertrude, meekly, though she seemed to lay some stress 
 on the pronoun her. 
 
 The tone surprised Elinor, the emphasised word 
 startled her. Mrs. Laird's eyes were dim with unshed 
 tears, and Elinor could see how overwrought the 
 woman was whom Gower had said he so deeply loved. 
 
 " Please do not think I am obstinate and overesti- 
 mate the importance of what calls me back to New 
 York. No light matter would compel me to leave you 
 so hurriedly, Mrs. Sefton," said Elinor, and she felt 
 afraid of losing her grip. 
 
 " Gertrude, I'm afraid it is something very serious. 
 Forgive me and don't think me a meddling old woman, 
 but is it anything I could in a way help you to, 
 a well, you know, Mrs. Kembleton, I should love to 
 be of some service to you," stammered Mrs. Sefton, 
 in a jerky, confused way. 
 
 " Dear Mrs. Sefton, how good of you, but it is
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 109 
 
 nothing your kindness could obviate. Believe me, I'm 
 sure it is best not to delay my return. I am not think- 
 ing of myself nor of anyone near and dear. My sole 
 thought is for one who does not realise a danger which 
 threatens perhaps her future, her happiness and good 
 name," said Elinor, with her eyes on Mrs. Sefton. 
 She felt Mrs. Laird rise from her chair and go to the 
 window, where she stood during a long pause. 
 
 " It sounds very dreadful and so mysterious," said 
 Mrs. Sefton, sinking in her chair. " You're a very 
 extraordinary woman, and everything you do makes 
 me like you so much. I can't quite understand it. 
 However, I thought you must be quite unusual to have 
 Jane Dalston for such a friend. Jane seldom gives 
 people her friendship, much less her love," the old 
 lady muttered, as if she were talking to herself, and 
 had forgotten that her niece and Elinor were in the 
 room. 
 
 " No, no, I'm a very ordinary person. If you saw 
 me every day and knew the inner workings of my 
 mind and life you would perhaps find me a creature 
 without purpose or will. But my lesson has been diffi- 
 cult, and I have still much to learn, and not until now 
 have I known how dear is the good opinion of a good 
 woman. God bless you ! I must go !" 
 
 Her voice was broken, and tears blurred the things 
 which seemed to be whirled round her. She had a 
 sensation of being swept off her feet and caught in 
 the circling storm which appeared to make chaos of 
 the room. She felt her body lose its weight. She 
 had a dull sense of trying to move towards Mrs. Sef- 
 ton to embrace her, but the storm seemed to whirl her
 
 no MADAME BOHEMIA 1 
 
 round and round. She felt as if she was all mind 
 without physical strength. 
 
 Mrs. Sefton arose and went to her. Gertrude turned 
 and saw the woman she had asked to love her sway, 
 and by a great effort strive to overcome the weakness 
 which her trembling figure indicated. Mrs. Laird was 
 heart-struck by the strange appearance of loneliness 
 Elinor's form seemed at that moment to have. She 
 was quite apart! She was alone! 
 
 The sound of a servant in the passage, coughing, 
 reverberated through the house and pierced the awful, 
 painful stillness which had filled Mrs. Sefton's room. 
 
 Elinor felt the dear old lady's arms about her, and 
 her throbbing head fell upon a soft and loving breast. 
 She had never known the balm a human breast can 
 breathe. To her there seemed to come an indefinable 
 vapour wjiich fell upon her hair and face with a sweet, 
 soothing caress. 
 
 " My dear, you're quite upset. You must not think 
 of going," softly murmured Mrs. Sefton, as her right 
 hand patted Elinor's shoulder. " Don't worry yourself 
 about other people's troubles; I'm sure you have 
 enough to do without doing that." 
 
 " Ah, you don't know what this means. It is not 
 right to think of remaining here," Elinor sighed, in a 
 wearied tone, and tightened her arms about the dear 
 old lady's form. " I must go ! I must go to-night !" 
 
 She knew she must carry out her intention, but the 
 haven of rest she had found was irresistibly sweet; 
 she did not wish to raise her head from the soft pillow 
 of the dear breast rising and falling beneath her head, 
 a rise and fall which had all the movement of a lullaby.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA in 
 
 " Well, dear, you know best. But remember you 
 have no fair weather friend in me. Do not hesitate 
 to come to me if you think it in my power to help you. 
 Jane told me some things I'm sure she did not wish me 
 to let you suspect I knew of, so there is no wretched 
 barrier of formality," said Mrs. Sefton, her voice full 
 of sympathy and sorrow. 
 
 " Thank you, thank you," murmured Elinor, as she 
 raised her head to turn her other cheek upon the only 
 place of real rest she had ever known. 
 
 Mrs. Laird had stood at the window and watched 
 the scene. Her desire to go to Elinor and lay her 
 hands upon her was almost poignant in its intensity. 
 She envied her aunt. So great was her sorrow for 
 Elinor, she could have torn from her heart all the joy 
 she had gained from Gower, but another sense claimed 
 all that and opposed her better nature. She felt she was 
 eager to give all her sympathy and affection to the 
 woman who seemed to suffer so much, but she knew 
 there was something which caused that suffering which 
 she could not give up or sever from her nature. 
 
 She had drenched a handkerchief with some violet 
 water and passed it to her aunt. She had rilled a glass 
 with water and placed it on a tea-table near Elinor's 
 side, and then she was lost to know what next she 
 could do. She stood in the middle of the room and 
 looked anxiously about for something to relieve Eli- 
 nor's distress, but she could see nothing more that 
 would be of use, and in despair she went back to the 
 window, where she clutched the middle sash and leaned 
 her head upon her wrists. 
 
 " How foolish of me !" said Elinor, raising her head.,
 
 ii2 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 and moving away from Mrs. Sefton. " I am getting 
 quite childish. Forgive me, dear, I have not been 
 well, and this news has alarmed me." 
 
 " Hush ! S-sh ! Try to keep quiet for a little while," 
 murmured Mrs. Sefton, and she glanced at Gertrude, 
 who was looking at Elinor striving to recover her 
 composure. 
 
 " Perhaps Mrs. Kembleton would like to lie down 
 for a little while," said Mrs. Laird in an almost in- 
 audible voice. 
 
 " Will you lie on my bed for an hour or so ?" 
 
 " No, no, thank you, I shall go to my room, and get 
 ready to leave as soon after lunch as possible," said 
 Elinor in a quick, nervous manner. She feared they 
 would succeed in persuading her to stay now she had 
 betrayed her weakness. 
 
 " You know best, dear," the old lady assented, and 
 her gentle voice had a slight tremor in it as she turned 
 from Elinor to her chair. " I think there is a fast 
 train which leaves Boston about three o'clock. Ger- 
 trude, ring for Jenkins. I shall have him telephone to 
 the station for a state-room, so that Mrs. Kembleton 
 may be alone and get a rest during the journey." 
 
 Gertrude rang for the butler, and the three women 
 seemed to listen for the sound of the electric bell. 
 Elinor was standing near the fireplace, over which 
 was a large mirror, in which she saw her face. She 
 started at its look of sadness, and was surprised to 
 see her hair was disordered. As she gathered the 
 loose strands and pinned them in the coil, the sound of 
 a sweet melody reached her ears. It seemed to come 
 from so far away, an echo from the dying past. She
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 113 
 
 Stood quite still and waited for the theme to continue 
 and explain its vagueness. The soft andante move- 
 ment tranquillised the perturbations of her breast and 
 soothed the conflicting emotions of her overwrought 
 mind. But memory had not yet made clear the remi- 
 niscent theme. 
 
 " How beautiful 1" Mrs. Sefton murmured. She had 
 been quietly listening to the almost indistinct sound 
 from the piano. 
 
 Elinor suddenly remembered what it was. THe 
 first theme Gower composed, years before, in Dresden. 
 And he called it Diva's tune. She had not heard him 
 play it since the battle with poverty began. It needed 
 but that simple air to reach her ears and bring with it all 
 the memories of happy moments spent in Dresden, 
 after the dreadful catastrophes which happened in the 
 Riviera, to strip her heart of all the bitternesses 
 Gower's selfishness and cruel words had left. 
 
 She burst into a paroxysm of tears and rushed out 
 of the room.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 IT was a painful leave-taking. The dear old lady 
 was quite alarmed. She was also perplexed. She 
 could not guess the reason of Elinor's strange be- 
 haviour, and Gertrude's silence and bewildering man- 
 ner was the cause of further anxiety. The excuse 
 Elinor made seemed to Mrs. Sefton to be not the 
 real motive for her sudden desire to return at once 
 to New York. The old lady felt there was some other 
 and more serious matter which had arisen, but being 
 too sensitive and proud to inquire, she could not find 
 in her own mind any true clue to the mystery. 
 
 Elinor did not go down to lunch. She asked to 
 be excused, and though Mrs. Sefton herself attended 
 to the tray which was sent up to Elinor's room, the 
 lunch was afterwards found uneaten, untouched. 
 
 It was a dreary meal. Mrs. Laird strove in vain 
 to find answers to Gower's desultory questions and 
 follow his make-believe conversation, which every now 
 and then flagged, with disquieting results. They had 
 met for a moment in the dining-room before Mrs. 
 Sefton came in, and only a few words passed their 
 lips. 
 
 " I'm so sorry Mrs. Kembleton is not well," she 
 said. 
 
 ' You will come ?" he asked, as he looked at her, 
 and felt he could have taken her in his arms and defied 
 Elinor and all those proprieties which he knew were 
 114
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 115 
 
 up in afrms against him and his now determined de- 
 sire. 
 
 " Yes, I will come, but be kind to her. / love her !" 
 
 " I, too, love her, but you you have come into my 
 life. It is beautiful." 
 
 She looked inquiringly at him. 
 
 "Yes!" he affirmed, emphatically, "beautiful, but 
 sad. Now I shall work!" 
 
 Elinor had found enclosed with a note from Mrs. 
 Sefton two tickets for New York and two bills, eacK 
 of fifty dollars. She went to the old lady and refused 
 to take so much money for reading, but Mrs. Sefton 
 insisted that Elinor had given her ten times the value ; 
 besides, she had gained a new friend, and one who 
 would be to her a source of great pleasure when she 
 reached New York to spend there the next winter. 
 
 " Good-bye," said Elinor, as she embraced the old 
 lady. " I shall always remember your kindness." 
 Then she turned to Mrs. Laird, who had extended her 
 hand. Elinor took it and could not resist Gertrude's 
 supplicating glance. She kissed Gertrude and quickly 
 entered the carriage, followed by Gower. 
 
 She was glad of the seclusion of the state-room, 
 and the sense of relief was pleasant. Still she had 
 learned so much since the morning that many sweet 
 regretfulnesses tempered her triumph in getting Gower 
 away from Mrs. Laird. She knew that Mrs. Sefton's 
 friendship for her would last, and she also knew she 
 would not hesitate to go to her if Gower's conduct 
 to Mrs. Laird should threaten her niece's happiness. 
 Elinor had no pity for him, and the more she thought 
 of the matter the more she excused Mrs. Laird's part
 
 n6 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 in the affair. It seemed to her that Gower was wholly 
 to blame, and that Mrs. Laird had been only foolish 
 in perhaps betraying an affection which she should 
 have controlled and hidden. 
 
 There was no precedent in Elinor's life to guide 
 her. She could not understand why Mrs. Laird should 
 have so far forgotten her position as to let him know she 
 even cared for him. He was a young man who, as far 
 as Elinor's knowledge of his life went, had never even 
 been in love. She, in a vague way, thought their pre- 
 carious existence had had something to do with any 
 want of inclination he might have had for an affair. 
 At any rate, she could not call to mind one woman 
 they had known for whom he had shown the slightest 
 predilection. 
 
 Elinor wondered why she had never thought of 
 loving someone. Four men had proposed marriage, 
 but she had never thought of marrying. The four 
 men were dear friends, and completely surprised her 
 when they broached the subject of matrimony. She 
 sometimes thought, " Well, I've been married, and 
 that must be all." One man, a cousin of Jane Dais- 
 ton, really loved Elinor, and did not cease perse- 
 cuting her, as Jane put it, for three years, but he never 
 awakened the slightest flutter of love in her breast. 
 Elinor was now thirty-five years of age, and still had, 
 in many particulars, the mind of a girl. She had 
 never been one of Nature's passionate children. When 
 she was a great singer critics found her cold, and one 
 tenor who had been more than attentive to her once 
 told her she was too cold, and would not be a great 
 artiste till someone thawed out her iciness.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 117 
 
 Gower had left her alone in the state-room. He had 
 gone to the buffet-car. The train stopped at a station 
 half-way between Boston and New York. 
 
 A telegraph boy passed through the car calling his 
 name. He took from the boy a telegram which con- 
 tained the words : " My soul goes with you. I must 
 follow it. Be kind to her." 
 
 Mrs. Laird had walked down to the nearest tele- 
 graph-office ten minutes after Elinor and Gower left 
 the house. 
 
 Elinor had given Gower ten dollars; she had 
 changed one of the bills at the station. When Gower 
 had read and re-read the telegram over and over again, 
 he was seized with a fit of impatient joy. He ordered 
 more whiskey and soda than he habitually took and 
 smoked the best cigars he could buy. He timed the 
 train between stations, and counted the minutes that 
 must elapse before reaching New York. He was in 
 a fever of delicious excitement. He might have been 
 going to meet her. 
 
 When the journey was nearly at its end, Gower 
 strolled through the cars to Elinor's state-room. 
 
 " I shall put you in a cab, Diva," he said, " and then 
 I'll go to the club for an hour or so. I want to see a 
 man about a libretto." 
 
 ******** 
 
 Mrs. Pollack was glad to see her and had a great 
 budget of news to tell her, but Elinor found a pretext 
 to get her to go downstairs, for her impatience to see 
 Lexham would not tolerate second-hand what she 
 would rather hear from his own lips. 
 
 Lexham was dressed and sitting in a big easy-chair
 
 n8 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 before the fire in his little room at the top of the house. 
 He had a drawing-board on his knees, and on the 
 board were paper, ink, and pens. When Elinor en- 
 tered he was deep in thought. He had nearly reached 
 the end of the second act of his play. He had been 
 incessantly at work during the two days she had been 
 away. She closed the door and was surprised he did 
 not look round. Then she left the door and approached 
 him. The rustle of her dress drew his attention to 
 her. If she had no other memory of him to cherish, 
 the look of gladness on his wan face when he saw her 
 would suffice. She sank down on the rug beside his 
 chair before he had time to remove the board from his 
 knees that he might rise to greet her. 
 
 " You're glad to see me ?" she murmured, and did 
 not dare look up. 
 
 " Glad ! I have spent the two dreariest days of 
 my life," he said, as he took her hand and kissed it. 
 Her head leaned against his side; she closed her eyes 
 and gave herself up to the joy of the moment. 
 
 " How much have you done ?" she asked, without 
 changing her position. He still held her hand pressed 
 between his own. 
 
 " I've nearly finished two acts. I shall have com- 
 pleted it within the week. It is so easy, but I don't 
 know what it is worth," he said in a cheerful voice, 
 with some confidence. 
 
 " Read it to me," she said. He moved to reach 
 the first act, which lay near by on the floor. 
 
 " Don't move if you're comfortable," she said. " I'll 
 stay here, as quiet as a mouse." She did not raise her 
 head.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 119 
 
 He passed his hand across her brow and over her 
 hair. 
 
 " Oh, Gilbert, what hands you have ! How gentle 
 your touch is! My head has seemed to ache for the 
 touch of your hands. Do that again before you begin 
 to read." 
 
 The sense of perfect happiness and calm fell upon 
 her. She felt like a child that had been all a long day 
 peevish and tearful, and in the twilight's soothing hour 
 had found rest upon a tender mother's breast, and 
 smiling, asked for sleep. 
 
 " Shall I read? Or would you rather rest awhile? 
 I feel happy now you are here again," he said, quietly, 
 and continued smoothing her hair with his hand. " It 
 was so disappointing to look up each time the door 
 opened and not see you come in. It was all I could 
 do to keep at work yesterday. Brydone stayed for 
 an hour. He is such a good fellow, and extolled you 
 till I felt like running off to Boston after you." 
 
 " Gilbert, did you love that girl who stayed that 
 night in Worcester?" she asked in a quiet tone of 
 anxiety. 
 
 " I thought I did. But now I think I did not then 
 know love at all," he said, without surprise at her 
 strange question. 
 
 " Does love affect different people differently?" 
 
 " Yes, I think so. No two persons are alike." 
 
 " Is there any excuse for a woman who cannot con- 
 trol a great passion?" she quickly asked, with some 
 impatience. 
 
 " I don't know. Many historians and biographers 
 have condoned the great passions of the celebrated, but
 
 120 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 I believe it is not given to nonentities to have rebellious 
 passions," he said. 
 
 " Do you mean Georges Sand, George Eliot, and 
 others who outraged the ritual and laughed at conven- 
 tion?" she asked. 
 
 '' Yes, and those great women we seldom if ever 
 hear of; the women who inspired the great passions 
 of Shakespeare, Goethe, and Liszt, not to mention hun- 
 dreds of others whose works bear all the traces of love's 
 vicissitudes," he said, not knowing why her mind was 
 so possessed with such ideas. 
 
 " Suppose a young man who had never really loved, 
 and all his work lacked warmth and life, met a woman 
 a little older than himself, and she had quarrelled and 
 left her husband, but was not divorced. Suppose her 
 artistic tastes ran in the same channel with the man's, 
 and he suddenly realised that her companionship in- 
 spired him, and that from her he gained all that which 
 his work had lacked. Suppose his lower as well as 
 his higher instincts were stirred and he imagined he 
 loved her, and she felt sure she loved him, would she 
 be justified in doing what many other women have 
 done? Tell me, Gilbert, would it be right?" 
 
 " I cannot tell. Though you put the case quite 
 clearly, I should prefer not to give an opinion," he 
 said. 
 
 "Why? I ask you, for I feel sure your mind is 
 not bound to conventionalism, and your opinion would 
 be just, if it were not regular," said Elinor, as she 
 raised her hand and caught his, still leaning her head 
 against his side. 
 
 " I have of late years ceased judging people and
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 1 121 
 
 their actions. There are so many important causes 
 which can never be brought to light, causes that have 
 perhaps conspired and prompted men and women to 
 actions and deeds, causes that would go far to exon- 
 erate, if not to justify, what is usually contemned and 
 punished. Your case has all the brevity and barren- 
 ness of a brief, and briefs to me are nothing more than 
 prejudiced statements." 
 
 "You never judge?" Elinor murmured in a low 
 tone. 
 
 " Not unless I feel absolutely sure of not only what 
 are called facts, but also of causes, and even then I am 
 loath to give an opinion ; I don't think I have done so 
 for five years. Of course I refer to such cases as the 
 one you have presented." 
 
 They were for a long time silent. He sank back in 
 his chair, and his arm lay down the side of her head 
 and his hand clasped her arm. Her hand still lay 
 within the palm and thin fingers of his other hand. 
 A great sigh shook her breast, and the hand upon her 
 arm gently pressed her. 
 
 " Now read," she said, and she for the first time 
 looked up at him. A sweet smile was on her face, and 
 the careworn look he had first noticed, but had not 
 referred to, was gone. 
 
 In a clear voice slightly weak from his condition 
 he read the first two acts of his play. He had not the 
 strength to give full voice to the strong scenes, but 
 Elinor sat aside from him and commanded a view of 
 his full face, so that its expression would give her 
 what his voice could not. She followed every line, 
 and became more and more deeply interested as he
 
 122 
 
 read on. Here and there he would for a moment stop 
 to change a word or underline something to be empha- 
 sised, but she did not stir or once interrupt him. She 
 did not speak till he had finished, she was so absorbed 
 in the story and its unfolding. 
 
 " It is excellent," she said, without being at all 
 demonstrative. 
 
 It was by no means a great play, and Lexham knew 
 it, but it was good enough for critics to praise in the 
 usual stereotyped way. Elinor thought it was of the 
 class likely to find a producer among theatre managers 
 who bought the plays of good dramatists, and as she 
 had met two well-known men, she determined to pre- 
 sent it to their notice when Lexham should have 
 finished it. 
 
 " But, Gilbert, you are not going to spend your 
 future writing plays?" she said, with some decision in 
 her voice. 
 
 " No, no, but we shall see. I'm not quite sure of 
 myself. I have had little or no practice one way or 
 the other," he said. 
 
 " I know, but if this were successful and brought 
 in lots of money, that would not induce you to con- 
 tinue this class of work, would it?" she asked, and 
 looked at him in a peculiarly anxious way, as if she 
 were not sure of his bent. 
 
 " Of course not, but this may be worthless. I have 
 written newspaper stories, but never tried the class of 
 work you imagine I should do. Don't expect too 
 much," he said and laughed. 
 
 " Too much," she echoed, as if it were impossible 
 to expect too much from him.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 123 
 
 " You must remember I am an untried man. I have 
 not attempted to do more than ordinary work," he 
 asserted. 
 
 " Ah, but if you were to be all I hope for, your 
 dramas would never be produced in America or Eng- 
 land. What chance has a really fine play in this coun- 
 try? Very few plays above the average succeed. We 
 have had some that have been highly praised, but those 
 have not paid for the cost of production, and managers 
 are becoming more and more wary. Think of some 
 of the plays the German company produce at their 
 theatre. Could you get an American or English 
 manager to put on regularly such plays as they pro- 
 duce?" 
 
 " What you say is true," said Lexham, " but it is not 
 altogether the fault of the managers. Actors have 
 told me that stage-directors have to answer for many 
 failures. An English critic who knows both the Ger- 
 man and American drama told me a good reason why 
 Ibsen, Hauptmann, and Lindau are not popular here 
 or in London. This critic says the English-speaking 
 actor can only act words, for he seldom searches for 
 the organic idea, the essential elements, and subleties 
 of characterisation. Of course, he does not intend his 
 assumption to be a sweeping one, for he himself knows 
 several actors who are intellectually conscientious and 
 devote all their spare time to study and observation, 
 and do not stoop to the modern practice of finding 
 popularity at tea-parties and other social functions." 
 
 " Cyril meets a great many actors, and though he 
 has become quite intimate with some of them, he says 
 they are, as a rule, a superficial lot," said Elinor ; then
 
 124 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 * 
 
 she asked in a quick, emphatic tone, " but you don't 
 
 think so, do you?" 
 
 " No ; but the stage is little different to other pro- 
 fessions. There are hundreds who have no right to 
 practise; but that is hardly their fault. They never 
 for a moment think that by accepting parts above their 
 capacities they not only defraud the manager and the 
 public ; they fail to see that they delude themselves also, 
 and become nothing more than mediocrities. You see, 
 nowadays the stage and politics are the only two pro- 
 fessions in which the illiterate and unskilled can thrive. 
 It is sad, but I'm afraid it is true." 
 
 " But suppose audiences and constituencies say they 
 are satisfied, what then?" she asked, with a laugh at 
 the serious expression on Lexham's face. 
 
 " Then only the crank can complain. All men who 
 want a little of the absolute are by those easily satisfied 
 called cranks." 
 
 " I like cranks," she said. " I hope you will never 
 be easily satisfied. But come, I am taking up your 
 time. I am impatient to see your play produced. I 
 wonder what the critics will say." 
 
 " Not much one way or the other. What is there 
 to say? It will either please or displease; no critic 
 of reputation would bother much about such a trifle," 
 he said, and laughed when Elinor started back in sur- 
 prise. 
 
 " Oh, so you pander to the easily satisfied, eh?" she 
 exclaimed, half-tauntingly, " and you, too, wish to de- 
 lude yourself, and be set down by others as a mere 
 mediocrity. Gilbert, I'm surprised. I thought you 
 were above such methods."
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 125 
 
 " I am, but we must set aside all our big intentions 
 and coax the dollar, the coy cash, which I hate worse 
 than cant. I thought I could subsist on ideals, I did 
 for many years, but now I find myself beset on every 
 hand by difficulties insuperable without the aid of 
 money. Isn't it a pig-headed, contrary world, this 
 world of food, beds, and roofs?" 
 
 "And what will you call this bait for gold? This 
 object of charity in three acts?" she asked. 
 
 " ' The Fame of Fools,' I think," he suggested; " it 
 is all about a man's hard-earned failure. Do you like 
 the title?" 
 
 " No ; but a better couldn't easily be found. * The 
 Fame of Fools/ " she muttered to herself, then drew 
 near him and laid her head upon his arm. 
 
 " It is nearly all about myself, but I suppose many 
 will say some of it is quite impossible. People are 
 shy of accepting for truth strange matters which 
 have never been part of their own experience," he 
 said, with a sigh, and let his head fall back, as if he 
 saw again some of the episodes of his early struggles 
 passing panoramically before his eyes. What epi- 
 sodes ! 
 
 * * * * * * * * 
 
 Gower did not return till late that night, and Elinor 
 had tea with Lexham. She seemed to be trying to 
 learn from him whether there was real cause for alarm 
 in Cyril's affair. She dared not mention the names 
 of the persons whose happiness she thought was in 
 jeopardy, nor did she dare to make the case any clearer 
 than she had already done. A sense of being unequal 
 to this emergency caused her many disquieting mo-
 
 126 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 ments, though she felt she could confide in Lexham and 
 ask his advice if matters came to a crisis. 
 
 She did not realise that quite another crisis was at 
 hand, a crisis in her own life. As for Lexham, he 
 never dreamed of what would soon overwhelm them 
 both before they had time to reflect on its irrevocable 
 consequences. 
 
 It was past ten when Elinor bade Lexham good- 
 night. She sat in her room reading for an hour when 
 Gower entered. 
 
 "Hullo, Diva," he cried, "not in bed? I thought 
 you would be quite tired out." 
 
 He had dined well, and his flushed face showed he 
 had been drinking more than one should who was not 
 addicted to intoxicants. 
 
 "Where have you been?" asked Elinor, surprised 
 to see him lurch into his chair. 
 
 " To the club. Best night I've spent for years." 
 Elinor looked at him with startled eyes. " What's the 
 matter? You look frightened, Diva. Anything gone 
 wrong?" 
 
 " I think you should go to bed. I'm tired and must 
 be up early in the morning. I have to run around and 
 pay some bills " 
 
 " Oh, that reminds me. What did the old lady give 
 you for reading?" he asked, in a tone of jolly expecta- 
 tion. 
 
 " One hundred dollars. Why?" she asked. 
 
 He tried to slap his knee but struck the arm of his 
 chair, an accident which turned his bibulous smile to 
 a momentary expression of pain. 
 
 " I say, Diva, you know I want a new coat, and "
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 127 
 
 " The coat you have will surely last for two months 
 more. It was new last winter," she exclaimed. 
 
 " I know it was, but I never liked the shape of it. 
 It's a hideous thing," he said, with an impatient gest- 
 ure. 
 
 " Well, I'm sorry, Cyril, but I can't see how I'll be 
 able to spare any money for a coat just at present," she 
 said. 
 
 " Then you shouldn't have let me order it," he 
 blurted out, in an injured tone, and hung his head on 
 one side, showing his disappointment by short grunts 
 and twists of his body. If he had intentionally tried 
 to displease Elinor he could not have done it more 
 effectively. 
 
 She arose and began to put away the screen which 
 hid her bed. She was too disgusted, too hurt to speak. 
 He got on his feet and tried to walk up and down the 
 room with some dignity, but he only succeeded in 
 bumping into pieces of furniture. 
 
 Elinor pulled out her folding-bed and arranged the 
 nook in which she slept. It was an alcove, about ten 
 feet long and seven feet wide. Gower lurched about 
 the room muttering to himself. At length, surprised 
 that Elinor had not spoken for, as it seemed to him, 
 a long time, he went to the entrance of the alcove, and 
 saw her sitting on the side of her bed. 
 
 " What are you doing?" he asked. 
 
 " Waiting for you to leave the room," she said in 
 a peremptory tone. 
 
 " Why did you let me order it?" he whined. 
 
 " I knew nothing about it. Please go " 
 
 " You knew I didn't like the horrid thing I had to
 
 128 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 wear this morning when we left Boston. Didn't you 
 see Mrs. Laird and Mrs. Sefton look at it?" 
 
 " No, I did not, and I don't believe them capable of 
 being so rude. You imagined that," she said, hurt 
 beyond measure at the thought of him thinking such a 
 small thing possible. 
 
 She felt that neither Mrs. Sefton nor Mrs. Laird 
 would notice the cut of his coat. Elinor thought it was 
 a good warm winter covering, and though it was a 
 ready-made article, he looked very well in it, and Eli- 
 nor felt that if she were satisfied, all others who could 
 not be half so proud as she was of his appearance must 
 surely be satisfied too. He had never complained to 
 her about the coat till now, and another thought, that 
 it was not so much a matter of his dislike for the coat 
 as it was a new desire to look as handsome as possible 
 in Mrs. Laird's eyes, rankled in her tortured mind till 
 ishe began to wish Jane Dalston had never known Mrs. 
 Sefton. 
 
 Elinor had many times given him small sums of 
 money which she had with much difficulty saved to get 
 a new dress, and these sums he had never hesitated 
 to take, having a vague idea that if he were well- 
 dressed Providence would provide gowns for Diva. 
 
 He leaned against the arch of the alcove and 
 searched his pockets for a letter. In taking out some 
 papers a telegram fell unnoticed to the floor. He 
 opened a note and read something to the effect that 
 the coat would be ready the next day. 
 
 " What am I to do ? I particularly want it for Fri- 
 'day. This tailor doesn't know me. I can't go to him 
 and say I've changed my mind, or well, if you can't
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 129 
 
 spare the money I shall look an awful fool/' he mum- 
 bled, and held out the letter from the tailor for Elinor 
 to read. 
 
 " How much will the coat be?" she asked, without 
 noticing the letter. 
 
 " Oh, forty or forty-five dollars, I suppose," he an- 
 swered, in rather a shamed way. 
 
 Not until he mentioned the price did the absurdity 
 of his thoughtless action in ordering so expensive a 
 coat strike him. He felt afraid to look at Elinor. She 
 flashed an angry glance at him. Tears filled her eyes 
 and stole down her face, leaving an expression of 
 sorrow. 
 
 " It is a bit stiff, I know, Diva, but I shan't want 
 another coat next winter," he said in excuse for his 
 prodigality, of which he was now beginning to be 
 heartily ashamed. 
 
 " Cyril, I will give you the money for your coat. 
 But I must tell you we are in debt, and I haven't the 
 slightest idea from where I am to get money to pay 
 our expenses till my tour of readings in May. People 
 are getting tired of me, and I am not getting younger ; 
 in fact, the agents have been obliged to reduce my 
 terms to get societies to give me an engagement." 
 
 Her voice was quite firm and never once quavered 
 in making this admission. She thought she never felt 
 so practical, though she had been wounded to the quick 
 when her agent first notified her of the difficulty he 
 now had in obtaining dates for her. 
 
 " What !" Gower shouted, when he realised what 
 she had said. " What ! It's monstrous ! You shall 
 not read any more ! I always thought the Lyceum and 
 
 9
 
 130 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 Christian Association people a lot of thick-headed 
 prigs!" 
 
 :< You know nothing about it," said Elinor calmly, 
 after a moment's pleasure to see him fired to anger at 
 the unintentional insult. 
 
 " Don't I? Well! Haven't I had to play to such 
 people?" he cried, the memory of his piano recitals 
 coming back to him. " But wait, Diva ! I'll start prac- 
 tising to-morrow and get your man to book a tour for 
 me. Don't you worry, dear, about debts. I'll show 
 the idiots. I'll not bother you again about coats. I've 
 hated the piano, as you know, but somehow of late I've 
 got to like it; it doesn't sound half so harsh and me- 
 tallic as it did," he said, with a low chuckle, as he 
 shook his shoulders and wagged his head with a know- 
 ing air. 
 
 Elinor remembered the difference in his playing, and 
 now something in his manner seemed to convince her 
 that Mrs. Laird had in some strange way worked a 
 great change in him. What influence it was she could 
 not divine, still, the change happened in Boston, and 
 she saw Mrs. Laird seated near him at the keyboard. 
 
 " Good-night, Diva ; I've got some work to do. I'll 
 go to that tailor and have a talk with him about the 
 coat," he said, with swaggering magnanimity, as if 
 she were the one who had ordered it. 
 
 " No, say nothing more about it. I'll give you the 
 money. Pay for it. We shall have to manage in some 
 way or another. I'll find a way," she said. 
 
 " Just as you like, dear, but I'd rather not have the 
 coat if the money is really needed for something else. 
 But, of course, Mrs. Pollack can wait, can't she? and
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 131 
 
 I can't work if I'm constantly thinking I shall have to 
 wear that wretched thing every time I go out. Good- 
 night." 
 
 Elinor knew she had done wrong. She knew that 
 it would be very unjust to ask Mrs. Pollack to wait 
 any longer, and that many small tradesmen had been 
 more than usually kind to her. It never entered her 
 mind to ask Cyril to write to the tailor and offer him 
 a fourth of the cost of the coat to keep it for a week 
 or two till he could get the rest of the money to pay 
 him. 
 
 She walked her room till midnight, wondering how 
 it was possible to meet the difficulty, which seemed to 
 swell to gigantic proportions as the minutes passed 
 and brought no semblance of a solution. She went to 
 her desk, examined the many unpaid bills, and found 
 she was in debt to the extent of over two hundred and 
 fifty dollars. She had little jewelry left that was pawn- 
 able. Her plight was indeed serious. She had only 
 ninety dollars in hand. Forty of these, at least, she 
 had promised to Gower for his new coat. She could 
 not see how to divide the remainder among six trades- 
 men to each of whom she owed different amounts of 
 over twenty dollars and at the same time leave some- 
 thing for Mrs. Pollack. 
 
 At last, tired of juggling with figures which baffled 
 her wits, figures which were turning, twisting, swell- 
 ing, and gambolling on ceiling, floor, and walls in the 
 flickering light from the dying fire ; at last, thoroughly 
 wearied and worn out, she began to undress. In pass- 
 ing into the alcove she saw the telegram Gower 
 dropped when he was searching his pockets for the
 
 132 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 tailor's letter. Elinor picked it up and read it before 
 she realised what it was and to whom it was ad- 
 dressed. 
 
 Elinor trembled from head to foot and sank on the 
 side of her bed. She could hear Gower humming 
 Walter's prize song. He was not in bed. Should she 
 go to him ? She thought it was impossible to think of 
 attempting to sleep with the knowledge which that 
 telegram conveyed burning her brain and racking her 
 heart. To keep silent was a torture she felt incapable 
 of enduring. She arose and opened the door which 
 led to the landing at the end of which was Gower's 
 room. The landing was dark, but through the keyhole 
 and under the door Elinor could see gleams of light, 
 which led her to believe Cyril was at work. She 
 stepped into her room, closed her door, and found a 
 dressing-gown, which she slipped on. Then she 
 thought it would be useless to appeal to his sense of 
 honour. She went to the fire, sat down and smoothed 
 out the crushed telegram, which was now stained from 
 the sweat of her palms, in which she had tightly held it. 
 
 " Send no more telegrams. Aunt curious. No 
 cause to doubt. Will meet you New York Central 
 Depot Friday, four o'clock." 
 
 Elinor thought it was all as plain as day. They had 
 by telegraph planned an elopement, she imagined, and 
 no mental puzzling could give the telegram any other 
 meaning. She arose at last, sure in her mind that she 
 could confront Cyril and try to bring him to a state of 
 reason. She reopened her room door, stepped on to 
 the landing, and started for Gower's room. A sound 
 from upstairs stopped her.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 133 
 
 It was a cough which pierced the darkness. It 
 seemed to go through her heart. 
 
 She stood quite still and listened. 
 
 Again the cough she knew so well reverberated 
 'down the silent passages and staircase of the house. 
 
 Heavens! she thought, how still it all seemed be- 
 tween the sounds of coughing, and yet that soft roar 
 from the vibrations of the outer night! She remem- 
 'bered how one morning very early she sat on those 
 stairs and dared not go into her room where Lexham 
 was. 
 
 Silently she crept up the long flights of stairs and 
 stood near the door of the room which death threat- 
 ened not long ago. 
 
 A gleam of light round the ill-fitting door told her 
 \Lexham was awake. 
 
 She knocked gently and drew back. 
 
 " Come in," said a weak voice, rather wearily. 
 > She opened the door, entered, and closed it.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 IN a Vienna cafe, near Grace Church, on Broad- 
 way, three men sat at a table in a room at the top of 
 a broad flight of stairs. These men were in earnest 
 conversation which was not intended to reach the ears 
 of other habitues. It was a simple room of fair size 
 above a large hall, which on fine afternoons was filled 
 with beautiful women, richly dressed, and with de- 
 bonair men of business. The room upstairs was the 
 rendezvous of musicians, critics, and literary men. 
 Sometimes leading actors were* seen there, but they 
 never seemed to be integrant parts of the company. 
 
 The three men referred to at the beginning of this 
 chapter were Naton Silde, Hector D'Erblet, and Drake. 
 Silde was the man above all others who had done most 
 for music in America, D'Erblet was a 'cellist and an 
 excellent musician, and Drake poor Drake a genius 
 and a nobody. His pallid face and lustrous eyes, his 
 sensitive mouth and nervous brow, the long thin mous- 
 tache and delicately chiselled nose, were so interesting 
 that Silde once said he would rather look on his face 
 for ten minutes than hear him speak for an hour. Yet 
 Drake was not only a famous raconteur, he was one of 
 the best informed talkers among the many brilliant 
 habitues of the cafe. 
 
 At another table, in a corner of the room, near a 
 window overlooking Broadway, sat a man and a 
 woman, Gower and Mrs. Laird. Gower was the 
 subject of Drake's conversation. 
 134
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 135 
 
 " Who is the woman?" D'Erblet inquired of Drake. 
 
 " I don't know. She seems to be breathing affection 
 on Gower. Could anything be more beautiful than 
 the expression of her face. I'd give away my soul a 
 la Faust to know for one moment the mystery of bliss 
 which makes that face beatific/' said Drake, repressing 
 a thrill of exultation. 
 
 " There should be more in his music than I have 
 found/' said Silde. 
 
 " Yes/' said D'Erblet, " this is quite a surprise for 
 me. I can't understand why his work should be so 
 academic." 
 
 "Has he done anything?" Drake asked. 
 
 " Oh, yes," D'Erblet replied, " but I'm afraid he 
 will meet with disappointment. He has composed an 
 operatta on a Hindoo subject. The treatment is fair, 
 but it is thematically weak, and he has to learn much 
 about the orchestra yet." 
 
 " What a life !" exclaimed Drake. " I wonder how 
 they live. It seems to me like a dream. Her glorious 
 voice gone, her fame almost forgotten. His talent as 
 a boy come to nothing and his popularity vanished 
 with his youth. He played to kings and queens when 
 he was a lad, and was a pet of Liszt and Rubenstein. 
 Small wonder that this is an age of scepticism. He 
 showed great promise, says the charitable biographer, 
 which to the younger generation implies he was a harm- 
 less failure." 
 
 " He has time," murmured Silde, with a kind nod 
 of his leonine head. " They cannot all be Schuberts 
 and Wagners. Gower scores very well. He did some 
 of Greig's piano pieces for me."
 
 136 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 " Yes, but that Liszt ballade was not well done," 
 D'Erblet said. 
 
 " That is the reason why I cannot understand the 
 scene in yonder corner. He should be able to under- 
 stand a Liszt ballade if he feels all that is in his beauti- 
 ful companion's heart," said Silde, dreamily, after a 
 long look at Gower and Mrs. Laird. 
 
 " Look," said Drake, " she can hardly keep her 
 yearning hands off him. I'm glad I've seen this. 
 Such a scene softens the hard lines of life and fills my 
 vision with roseate hues. There is poetry in life, and 
 not all the beautiful scenes are only for the rhapsodist's 
 eye." 
 
 He rubbed together his nervous hands and gave a 
 low laugh of exultation. The expression of his face, 
 which had been beaming with pleasure, suddenly 
 changed. Almost a weird, fantastic delight shone in 
 his eyes, which seemed to darken. Silde looked at 
 him in mute astonishment. D'Erblet's great big eyes 
 threatened to leave their caves under his heavy brows 
 and to roll down his fat cheeks. 
 
 " But the other scene," Drake whispered, with fiend- 
 ish joy. " The crack of that pistol and the thud of 
 that soulless body, stark in violent death across the 
 threshold of her bedroom door. And her piercing 
 shriek, the last grand note of her superb voice, the 
 terror-stricken face of the boy. The confusion and 
 babel of voices in the passage. I'm glad I didn't miss 
 that scene. By accident I walked through her room 
 just as the shot was fired. She thought it was her hus- 
 band, the besotted gambler, but it wasn't. No, it 
 wasn't her husband. It was Roderigo, penniless, dis-
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 137 
 
 "honoured and cast off by her husband, for the Des- 
 demona of the tragedy was in this case not Othello's 
 wife, but lago's own. But they don't know why 
 he shot himself; no, no! that's the beauty of it 
 all. They don't know. What is more beautiful 
 than horrible mystery? It is the fascination of the 
 cobra. Think of knowing the tragedy of two lives. 
 No one else knows. All my secret! All mine! 
 And I wouldn't let a single soul share it with me, 
 
 " Drake, Drake, stop for Heaven's sake !" D'Erblet 
 cried. " What the devil has it to do with Gower?" 
 
 "Gower! Who said anything about Gower? I 
 didn't mention his name. Yes, what the devil has it 
 to do with Gower? You are dreaming, D'Erblet," 
 said Drake, who laughed at his friend's face, which 
 wore a serious expression. 
 
 " Dreaming !" exclaimed D'Erblet. 
 
 " He has been trying a scene on you from his new 
 book of short stories," Silde interposed, " and it seemed 
 to go very well, very well, Drake. D'Erblet is a good 
 public what d'you call it? audience? Well, never 
 mind, he was deeply interested." 
 
 " Interested ! I should say I was. I thought he 
 was telling us something about the affair at Monte 
 Carlo and the reason why Mrs. Kembleton lost her 
 voice," D'Erblet remarked. 
 
 There was something in the way in which he spoke 
 of Monte Carlo, a peculiar stress on the name of the 
 Mecca of gamblers, which struck Drake with force 
 and caused him some uneasiness. He was sure that 
 he alone knew the true story of Mrs. Kembleton's
 
 138 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 husband and the suicide. His knowledge of it all was 
 so precious to him that since the night he met Gower 
 and Lexham at Guarini's dive he frequently rehearsed 
 in the privacy of his room the whole affair lest he 
 should forget the smallest detail. He was aware that 
 many of his acquaintances knew that he was on the 
 spot when the tragedy occurred, and that even if he 
 had not been an eye-witness, still, he knew much more 
 than the newspapers and the gossips of the time had 
 published and whispered. Drake did not like the ex- 
 pression of assurance on his fat friend's face, at which 
 he flashed swift, angry glances; and a feeling of dis- 
 trust led him to imagine D'Erblet was cognizant of 
 some of the facts, but how much D'Erblet really knew 
 puzzled Drake. He became unduly exasperated at his 
 own absurd exuberance, and soon began to regret his 
 over-confidence and want of discretion. He felt he 
 could not leave D'Erblet until he ascertained what he 
 knew. That another should in any way share the 
 secret with him belittled that sense of proprietorship 
 which had been to him sometimes more stimulating 
 than brandy. 
 
 " Did you know her before she lost her voice ?" 
 Silde asked. 
 
 " Know her !" D'Erblet repeated, " why, I was in 
 the orchestra that last night she appeared on the stage. 
 From my desk I could see her desperate efforts to 
 sing, and was the first to realise her distress and tell 
 Geritello, the conductor, that the curtain should be 
 lowered?" 
 
 " What had happened ?" Silde inquired. 
 
 " On that evening before she left her hotel to go to
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 139 
 
 the opera-house a man shot himself at her bedroom 
 door." 
 
 " But surely that was no reason why she should lose 
 her voice." 
 
 " No, perhaps not ; but she was terribly agitated 
 and overwrought when she reached her dressing- 
 room. 
 
 Drake with a wild anxiety watched D'Erblet's face, 
 and listened to every word which fell from his lips. 
 A smile gradually began to relieve the strained anx- 
 ious look on his face, and now a feeling of confidence 
 in himself relaxed the tension under which his nerves 
 and brain had suffered so keenly a few moments before. 
 He now felt sure that D'Erblet knew no more than the 
 newspapers had recounted at the time, yet, he did not 
 like D'Erblet for having been an eye-witness of what 
 had that night occurred on the stage. 
 
 " I think there must have been some other reason 
 for her losing her voice," said Silde in his slow but 
 emphatic manner of speaking, a manner which was 
 peculiar to himself, and gave one the impression that 
 he was not only speaking what he was deeply thinking, 
 but at the same time reading what was going on in the 
 listener's mind. The multiplicity of ideas never seemed 
 to bewilder Silde. He argued with the same perti- 
 nacity and thoroughness of reasoning which he always 
 devoted to the intricacies of an orchestral score. 
 
 " Some other reason?" said Drake in a tone of in- 
 quiry. 
 
 :< Yes. Who was the man found at her bedroom 
 door?" Silde murmured. 
 
 Drake leaned back in his chair, rubbed his chin with
 
 140 MADAME BOHEMIA 1 
 
 the back of his hand, and made a moue, which ex- 
 pressed botH dubiety and indifference. 
 
 " Oh, the man was a gambler who had lost all his 
 money," D'Erblet said, and added, " he was a friend of 
 Mrs. Kembleton's husband. Some said he had gone 
 to her husband to borrow a large amount, but in this 
 he failed, and had no other avenue of escape but sui- 
 cide." 
 
 " Yes ; still that is no reason why she should lose 
 her voice," Silde reiterated. 
 
 " You forget the man shot himself at her bedroom 
 "door," D'Erblet interposed. 
 
 " No, I don't forget. Why did he select that spot 
 of all places in Monte Carlo?" 
 
 Drake did not like this questioning and began to 
 fidget nervously. " I suppose a man can please himself 
 where he parts with his soul. If I wished to rid my- 
 self of all the burdens of to-morrows why shouldn't 
 I take this knife and walk to yonder woman's side, that 
 beautiful creature facing Gower, and plunge this unro- 
 mantic weapon into my heart?" Drake said. His 
 tone and demeanour were marked by an irritability 
 which his friends could not understand. 
 
 " There may be no reason why you should wish to 
 do so, but there are many reasons why we should do 
 all in our power to prevent such an outrage," Silde 
 retorted with some emphasis. 
 
 " The deuce ! Proprieties be damned. I'm a free 
 agent. I agree with Baudelaire, and on the point of 
 man's right of going hence he was particularly sane. 
 Of course you may have the right to restrict my choice 
 of spot for such an act, but though inconvenience may
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 141 
 
 be the result, a man in his last act on earth should surely 
 have a right to seek the conditions that suit himself." 
 
 "Bosh!" D'Erblet growled. "If a lunatic can't 
 wait till death comes along in a natural manner " 
 
 " With a doctor and an undertaker on each si'de," 
 Drake put in with a derisive leer. 
 
 D'Erblet was confounded, and in his annoyance he 
 could not pick up the thread of his speech, which Drake 
 had so rudely broken. 
 
 " Do you mean to tell me that a man must neces- 
 sarily be a lunatic to commit suicide? Why, D'Erblet, 
 I'm sure you will find that it is only the gentleman of 
 meagre intellect who fears to do so, the man who takes 
 a salutary interest in life only because he fears death, 
 the man who dies in bed from disease and frequently 
 has to endure before release such tortures as Societies 
 for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals won't tolerate 
 in quadrupeds even for the advancement of science." 
 
 Drake was delighted, and now that he thought he had 
 so dexterously led his friends from the former discus- 
 sion of Mrs. Kembleton's affair at Monte Carlo, he gave 
 himself up to teasing D'Erblet with an ardour which 
 impressed Silde so much that he doubted whether Drake 
 was in earnest or merely having fun with D'Erblet. 
 
 " Do you mean to infer that a man is a lunatic to 
 suffer from a painful illness?" D'Erblet cried, now 
 absurdly irate and hopelessly confused. 
 
 Drake and Silde burst into hearty laughter, which 
 so surprised D'Erblet that he stared in silence for a few 
 moments, doubtful of the cause of their hilarity. 
 
 " Bah ! I've no patience with such notions," D'Erblet 
 said indignantly and with much spluttering.
 
 142 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 " Now do be reasonable," Drake said, with a solemn 
 face. " Suppose I wish to end my life to-night, and 
 should decide to go hence to the accompaniment of 
 wild strains of weird music. Would you be so churl- 
 ish as to turn me out of your house because I might 
 wish to execute devilish gyrations on the top of your 
 piano while you thumped the ' Mephisto Waltz,' and 
 then finally before your benign countenance to end the 
 dance and my life with a bare bodkin?" 
 
 D'Erblet's face was a study. Amazement, in- 
 credulity, and bewilderment passed across his ample 
 features as shadows move in a garden on a breezy 
 moonlight night. 
 
 Silde shook with unexploded laughter, but Drake 
 held his countenance, and with mock solemnity waited 
 for D'Erblet to reply. Suddenly the expression on 
 D'Erblet's face changed to one of startled surprise, 
 and for a moment his eyes were fixed on Drake, whose 
 head was turned from Silde, who had not ceased laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 D'Erblet arose, and quickly gathered his parcels, 
 hat, and umbrella. " Victor," he cried to the waiter, 
 " my bill." 
 
 "Are you going?" Silde asked, surprised to see 
 D'Erblet struggling into his overcoat. 
 
 "Going? Heavens, yes, I should say so," he re- 
 plied in rather a frightened tone, as Silde thought. 
 
 The waiter gave the bill, and while D'Erblet waited 
 for his change he cast another furtive glance at Drake, 
 in whose eyes there was a wicked gleam. A malicious 
 grin distorted his fine mouth. He did not seem to 
 notice anything or to heed D'Erblet's glances. The
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 143 
 
 waiter brought the change, and in another moment the 
 parting guest was hurrying down the stairs. 
 
 What had startled D'Erblet? Why did he fly 
 from a scene where a few minutes before some ex- 
 aggerated but good-natured raillery on a serious topic 
 had taken place? Silde was sure D'Erblet looked 
 scared, to say the least, but he knew of no reason for 
 such a sudden change and for so hasty a leave-taking. 
 
 " Hum ! He is vexed, Drake," said Silde, but his 
 companion did not turn to him or speak. 
 
 " What a strange look there is in that man's eyes !" 
 said Mrs. Laird to Gower, who had, now that D'Erblet 
 was gone, an unbroken view of Drake. Gower turned 
 and looked. In rapt attention he held his eyes steadily 
 on Drake, then he rose, crossed the room, nodded to 
 Silde, and said, " Drake, are you ill ?" 
 
 " No," said Drake, in a pitiful tone, " no, but I've 
 forgotten the name of the man who shot himself at her 
 bedroom door." 
 
 Gower shrank back in indignant surprise. 
 
 " What was his name ? Ssh ! Whisper it. Don't 
 let anyone hear it. No one but me," he almost whined. 
 All the assertive, arrogant Drake was gone, and now he 
 seemed like a sick child, tired, wearily crying for a 
 lost toy. 
 
 Silde had watched the scene, since Gower reached the 
 table, in sorrow and alarm. He placed his hand on 
 Drake's arm and looked into his eyes, which could see 
 nothing tangible; their focusses seemed to diverge 
 and reach infinity. Tears swam in Silde's eyes as he 
 turned and looked at the astounded Gower. 
 
 " Tell me his name !" cried Drake, " tell me !" Sud-
 
 144 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 denly he seemed to recognise Gower. He jumped up, 
 leaned forward, and peered into Gower's startled face, 
 then with a wild laugh he turned and exclaimed, 
 " Gower ! just the very man who doesn't know." 
 Another weird laugh and down the stairs he rushed in 
 mad haste. 
 
 "What is it? What is the matter with him?" 
 Gower asked. "Is he mad?" 
 
 " No, not insane. He frequently suffers from fits 
 of morbidity. I had no idea he was so far gone," 
 Silde remarked. " He has been quite rational for 
 three months, working steadily and soberly on one of 
 the weekly papers. I didn't know till to-day that he 
 knew you." 
 
 " Yes, I knew him when I was a boy. I've seen him 
 only once since then. He behaved strangely," said 
 Gower, who had not quite recovered his composure. 
 
 Some time before D'Erblet left the room many of the 
 afternoon loungers had taken their leave, and only 
 one other man was present when Drake broke the 
 ,'silence by his wild laugh and mad rush down the stairs. 
 
 Gower rejoined Mrs. Laird, and they soon left the 
 cafe. Silde picked up an evening paper and began 
 to read, when the man from a table near that at which 
 Mrs. Laird and Gower had been sitting came across the 
 room and sat down on a chair opposite Silde. 
 
 " Pardon me, Mr. Silde, was the man who sat here 
 Richard Drake?" he asked. 
 
 " Yes," Silde answered, good-humouredly. People 
 who knew him by sight often stopped him on the street 
 and spoke to him. There was something inviting in 
 his manner.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 145 
 
 i 
 
 " Well, I should like to know his address," said the 
 stranger, " for I've got some work for him. I don't 
 know that he wants any, but if he is the same Dick 
 Drake I knew eight or ten years ago, a remunerative 
 job might do him some good. My name is Windham, 
 of Blackstons', the publishers." 
 
 "Ah, I don't know where he is to be found. He 
 sometimes comes to my house. Let me think. Yes, 
 he used to live somewhere on Sixth Avenue, near Tenth 
 or Eleventh Street." 
 
 "Just the same wandering customer, I suppose," 
 said Windham, sorrowfully shaking his head. " I did 
 not notice him till he turned on that gentleman who 
 was with the lady. I didn't like his laugh. He some- 
 times laughed like that when I knew him years ago. 
 Does he hit the pipe?" 
 
 " Hit the pipe," Silde repeated, not catching the 
 meaning of a once familiar phrase. 
 
 " Smoke opium, I mean. He was addicted to that 
 means of temporary oblivion. Brandy was also a pet 
 solution of his troubles. He could drink brandy as 
 if it were common lager beer. Everybody liked Drake. 
 We published one of his short stories in one of our 
 magazines. Many said it was one of Edgar Allan 
 Poe's lost stories. Well, it was quite in Poe's best, 
 and for horror * The Murders in the Rue Morgue' 
 could not be compared to it. It was a marvellous bit 
 of the arabesque. He has done nothing worth men- 
 tioning since he sprang that devilish horror on the 
 public ten years ago." 
 
 "Ah, I did not know he had published tales," said 
 Silde, now deeply interested in Windham's story of 
 
 10
 
 146 MADAME BOHEMIA 1 
 
 Drake. " He has often told me he was writing, or 
 thinking of writing some short stories, but of late I 
 have been thinking he meant long stories. Poor fel- 
 low, I like him so much." 
 
 " Yes, it is a great pity," said Windham, rising and 
 taking a card from his pocket-book. " Will you kindly 
 give him this and tell him I shall be glad to see him, 
 if he will look me up, or send an address where I may 
 see him? I'm afraid he's breaking up. Good-night. 
 If I find a copy of that short story of Drake's I'll send 
 it to you. Good-night." 
 
 "Afraid he's breaking up" Silde murmured to him- 
 self. Could it be possible that the young man who had 
 so often caused him to laugh till he had been obliged 
 to leave the room to get out of earshot was now in 
 the toils of lunacy? No, no, not that bright, happy 
 fellow who scorned to mention the deprivations he 
 suffered. He was not well. A temporary indisposition 
 which required only care and rest. 
 
 What a world of surprises! he thought, as he sat 
 alone in that room where he met so many young men 
 of great repute. Little did he think at that time how 
 sudden would be his own last summons. One evening 
 in a March to come he would leave that room never 
 to return, and die just as his best years were beginning. 
 Die just as he was realising one of his great ambitions. 
 Die on the scene of many of his proudest triumphs. 
 Pass quickly away in the heart of the city which loved 
 him so well, leaving sorrowing thousands to mourn 
 his irreparable loss, the master, conductor, and man !
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 WHEN Drake left the cafe he crossed Broadway 
 and went west. The evening was fast deepening and 
 people were hurrying to their homes. The great stores 
 were closing, and many sounds of delight rose from 
 the crowds of liberated men, women, boys, and girls, 
 glad once more to breathe the fresh and precious air. 
 Drake rushed on past the employes' entrance of a great 
 dry-goods store. His head was thrust far forward, 
 the strange light which had so shocked D'Erblet shone 
 in his eyes; his hands were clasped upon his breast, 
 and in an audible voice he spoke many surnames. 
 
 " Holden ! Cassett ! Telford ! Cas no, no, Olden- 
 burg ! no ! His name !" Making many vain attempts 
 to regain the lost name he sped on, on to no definite 
 place. 
 
 The throng of employes parted and left a narrow 
 lane down the centre of the footpath. Some were 
 startled by his strange appearance, others more robust 
 in health laughed at him, and a gang of urchins at his 
 heels chanted "Jones, Smith, Brown," and many 
 other common names which their fresh wits readily 
 supplied. Drake heeded them not, for there was some- 
 thing damnable urging him on. The name, the name 
 of the dead man whose memory he had for so long 
 cherished. The name he had so often spoken only 
 to earless things and illimitable space. The name of 
 all names unforgetable. What! had memory played 
 him so ill a turn as to let that name stray beyond recall ? 
 
 147
 
 148 MADAME BOHEMIA 1 
 
 The more he exerted his faculties, the longer he strove 
 to visualise the scenes in which the owner of the lost 
 name once moved, the greater became his distress, and 
 a sudden thought that the name would never occur 
 again to him made the half-crazed fellow almost 
 yell. 
 
 " Old, Old ! Muncaster ! Caster ! no, no!" 
 
 For a moment he stopped and the following crowd 
 gathered round him. He threw back his head and 
 stared wildly at the western sky. The last faint gleams 
 of day were almost gone. The dark clouds of night 
 were fast gathering. 
 
 " D'Erblet! Does He know? AH, the sly devil, of 
 course he knows. Gower doesn't; no, no, Gower 
 doesn't!" 
 
 A smile came as a new name for a moment lightened 
 his mind. 
 
 " Newcastle !" he cried in triumph. 
 
 " No, no ! Curse the fiend ! The mocking thief of 
 memory !" he yelled, lost in dreadful anger. Back fell 
 the crowd, which by this time had gathered numbers 
 of curious men. Some looked up and down the street, 
 but no policeman was in sight. No one dared ap- 
 proach Drake. At a safe distance the crowd had 
 formed a circle round him. No one laughed. The 
 frightened throng was appalled at the fury of his mad- 
 ness. 
 
 An old man of quite threescore years and ten, ac- 
 companied by a beautiful girl of about seventeen, drew 
 near just when Drake yelled " Newcastle." Pushing 
 gently through the crowd the old man and his com- 
 panion gained Drake's side.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 149 
 
 " Alice," said the old man, addressing the girl, " the 
 poor fellow is in great distress." Then he laid his hand 
 upon Drake's arm. " Come with me," he said in a 
 voice full of pity and gentleness. 
 
 Drake looked at the kind old man and shook his 
 head, with a hopeless expression on his furrowed face. 
 Again he looked earnestly at the gentle figure before 
 him. The pitiful look in the young girl's face was 
 ineffably tender. 
 
 " Grandfather, he did not understand you," she 
 said, without taking her eyes off Drake, who was now 
 quiet. " Ask him again to come with us." Then she 
 leaned forward to catch Drake's eye, and said, " Will 
 you come home with us ?" 
 
 Drake turned his head, looked at the girl, and 
 started. He did not know he really saw in her sweet 
 countenance the lineaments of the dead man's face. 
 Again he started and trembled, tried to speak, then 
 passed his hand across his brow. 
 
 " No, no, not that. His name. I know his face," 
 he said in a melancholy tone. 
 
 " What name?" the old man asked. 
 
 " Cas ! Cas ! Old !" his voice then sank to an in- 
 coherent mumble. In wonderment the girl and her 
 grandfather looked at each other. 
 
 " Old ! Oh, that name !" Drake cried aloud. 
 
 " Can he be possibly thinking of our name?" mur- 
 mured the old man. He turned to Drake and said, 
 " Are you thinking of Oldcastle?" 
 
 " Oldcastle !" Drake yelled in terrible ecstasy, and 
 with a frightful laugh darted through the startled 
 crowd, which fell back, stumbling and struggling in
 
 150 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 fear. Before they could collect their wits Drake was 
 lost to view. 
 
 Adam Oldcastle stood fully five feet ten inches in 
 height. The bitter disappointments of a long life had 
 not left a visible mark upon him. His sorrows had 
 been many, but Alice, his fair grandchild, had softened 
 the heart which he once thought would turn to stone. 
 After he recovered from the shock of Drake's ecstatic 
 yell of delight, he took Alice's arm in his and started 
 to move away from the bewildered throng. They 
 walked along in silence, and passed along Fifth Avenue 
 towards Washington Square. 
 
 " It is very strange," Oldcastle remarked, " very 
 strange. I never saw him before. If I had ever 
 known him I shouldn't forget his face. Why should 
 our name be the cause of his distress ?" 
 
 " He seemed to be trying to remember it. I wonder 
 who he is?" Alice murmured, as she assisted her 
 grandfather up the steps of a fine old house which 
 overlooked the Square and Fifth Avenue. 
 
 Adam Oldcastle, publisher and printer, one of the 
 best-known men in the trade, began his business of 
 publishing religious and philosophical works when this 
 present century was completing its fiftieth year. No 
 man was more highly esteemed, and by his intimates 
 loved, than Adam. During the sixties and seventies 
 his firm rose to rank with the largest business houses 
 of its kind, but the financial prosperity of his house 
 did not interest him so much as did the increase of 
 good work which he loved to see his presses yield. 
 That the books he published were widely read and 
 carried their earnest purposes abroad, reaching the
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 151 
 
 hearts of people, and leaving lasting impressions of 
 good, pleased him above all things else. To excellent 
 purposes he put the vast sums of money his thriving 
 business yielded; and though he was considered a 
 very wealthy man, he was, in fact, only moderately 
 rich, for he was always glad to help his fellow-men, 
 many times when the petitioner for help was by no 
 means worthy. 
 
 Adam had one child, a son. He was the man 
 whose name Drake was so desperately trying to re- 
 member when Alice and her grandfather came upon 
 him in his mad distress. 
 
 Alice was the motherless child of Adam's only son. 
 
 Gower and Elinor were not the only persons in that 
 drama which so fascinated Drake, the. details of which 
 he hoarded in his poor unbalanced mind as no miser 
 ever cherished gold. No, Elinor and her adopted son 
 were not the only persons who, according to Drake, 
 " did not really know the facts." To others quite as 
 closely connected with the principal actors as were 
 Gower and Elinor much lay in the dreadful shadow of 
 mystery. 
 
 Had Drake known he was looking upon the father 
 and the daughter of the man whose name they restored 
 to his mind he would perhaps have left the spot hope- 
 lessly mad, and then time would not have brought the 
 hour when enlightenment dissipated the shadows from 
 
 many hearts and minds. 
 
 ******** 
 
 It was long past midnight when Drake reeled down 
 a dark passage which led to the entrances of several 
 houses that, over small shops, fronted on Sixth Ave-
 
 152 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 nue. At the end of that passage was a door leading 
 to the staircase up which Drake had to climb to reach 
 his two garret rooms. Thomas Paulton, the pro- 
 prietor of the grocer's shop below, occupied four rooms 
 and let those on the floor above to Drake. The grocer 
 was a fat, jolly fellow, and, in many ways, one of 
 Nature's own, but his wife, poor woman ! was a great 
 invalid and a very impatient sufferer. 
 
 " Tom," said Mrs. Paulton, nudging her snoring 
 spouse, " Mr. Drake's not in yet, so you needn't make 
 up your mind to go right off to sleep." Another 
 nudge she gave Tom. " Did you hear me, Tom Paul- 
 ton?" 
 
 " Eh ? My dear, cough bad, eh ? Medicine. Right 
 you are. Fast asleep. Very tired, Jane. We'll soon 
 stop that cough," Paulton grunted in fits and starts, 
 struggling to rouse himself. 
 
 " Cough, no. You do go on so if anybody wakes 
 you up," said his wife in a grieved tone. 
 
 " Why, my dear, what's the matter, eh ?" he asked, 
 turning over and seeing his wife sitting up in the bed. 
 
 " I say that Mr. Drake's not in yet. You do take 
 so much telling, Tom," she said, in a nagging way. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Drake not in, eh ? Wonder what's hap- 
 pened to him. He's been very reg'lar of late. Hush !" 
 
 They listened for a few moments, then looked in- 
 quiringly at each other. 
 
 " Did you hear anything?" she asked. 
 
 " No, but I thought I did. Sounded like something 
 bumping against the door," Paulton muttered, and 
 yawned. 
 
 "There you go, startling me again. You don't
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA! 153 
 
 care if I die at any minute, and sitting up in bed, too," 
 she feebly snarled. 
 
 " Oh, Jane, dear, how can you say such cruel things ? 
 What would become o' me if you was to go first, I 
 should like to know ?" said Paulton, genuinely grieved 
 at his wife's remark. 
 
 " Marry one o' them good-looking young women 
 you're so nice about serving. Never mind, Tom, I 
 know I'm a burden on you ; never mind, though. But 
 there was a time when you had only eyes for me, and 
 then you wouldn't have gone off to sleep and left me 
 sitting up beside you waiting to hear the lodger come 
 in," she whined till a fit of coughing shook her frail 
 form. 
 
 Paulton got out of bed and gave her a dose of physic, 
 all the time muttering many terms of endearment. 
 
 " Tom, that Mr. Drake must go, for we can't 
 have him any longer," she said, in gasps, after the 
 coughing had stopped. 
 
 " Very well, my dear. We've had him six years 
 off and on like, and if he did let money matters fall 
 back a bit, he always paid us up ; but just as you say, 
 Jane, dear, if he's got to go well, if he's got to go- 
 he's got to, that's all," Paulton stammered, and tried 
 to hide a rather long face from his wife. 
 
 " He scares me, Tom. I can't abide his always 
 talking to himself. He isn't safe, Tom Paulton," she 
 said. 
 
 Paulton stood at the side of the bed and scratched 
 his head, but could not find anything to say in refuta- 
 tion. 
 
 " Well, of course," Paulton drawled, " I know he's
 
 154 MADAME BOHEMIA! 
 
 not always clear-headed, but he'll never do any harm, 
 my dear; he'll never be worse than he was four years 
 back." 
 
 " Never be worse ? I should hope not, Tom Paul- 
 ton. Anyway, not in this house while I'm alive," said 
 his wife, with an emphatic gesture and a knowing shake 
 of her head. " What you see in him to care for beats 
 me." 
 
 " It's not that, Jane. You see, if he goes from here 
 he'll never be able to finish his great long book on which 
 he's always writing, morning, noon, and night," Paul- 
 ton remarked, and tried to look befittingly serious upon 
 the subject of Drake's work. 
 
 " Why, what book's that?" she asked, with a sneer. 
 
 " I think he calls it " Tom cleared his throat and 
 
 lifted up his shoulders for the effort. " It's 'A Com- 
 pendium of Useful Axioms and Excerpts from the 
 Oblivious Literature of the Anthropophagi.' ' 
 
 " Well, if you're going to let him stay here till he 
 finishes that you'll be beyond collecting his rent in this 
 side of Jordan," interposed the surprised woman, who 
 could hardly repress a faint smile of admiration at her 
 husband's heroic efforts in pronunciation. 
 
 " Hush, Jane !" said Paulton, throwing his head on 
 one side. " There ! I'm sure I heard someone bump 
 against our door in the passage." Paulton slipped on 
 his trousers and a coat. " I'll go down and see if he's 
 forgotten he has his keys in his pocket. Don't be 
 scared, Jane, I'll be beside you in a minute." 
 
 Paulton took a lighted candle and went downstairs. 
 The door opened out from the bottom step. It was an 
 awkward arrangement, for one had to stoop to turn the
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 1 155 
 
 knob. As Tom stooped he heard sounds of heavy 
 breathing. He tried to push open the door, but some 
 obstacle was against it. Setting the candle down on 
 a step above the height of his head, Paulton got closer 
 to the door, and placed his feet on the last step. At 
 first gently, then with increasing strength, he pushed 
 the door open some four or five inches, but fearing 
 either to damage the obstacle without, or strain the 
 light hinges of the door, for a moment or two he relin- 
 quished his efforts. When he peered through the 
 opening, nothing but impenetrable darkness was seen 
 in the passage. Keeping his shoulder against the door, 
 he kneeled; shooting his fat arm out, he groped in 
 the gloom with his hand, which struck a pair of shoes, 
 toes up. 
 
 "Ah, he's sitting down in the corner with his back 
 against the hinges," Tom muttered. " I'll have to give 
 him a bit of a squeeze," he said, with a sad shake of 
 his head, after a vain attempt to pull Drake by his feet 
 out of the corner. 
 
 Rising from his cramped position, Paulton pushed 
 with more force, and wriggled himself through a space 
 of twelve or fifteen inches, then tripped and stumbled 
 against the opposite wall. Bang slammed the door 
 as soon as Tom lost his hold. It was quite a minute 
 before Paulton realised his plight. He was shut out 
 with Drake. Suddenly he remembered that only his 
 wife was in the house. 
 
 " Damn the luck !" he muttered; " poor Jane'll have 
 to come down." 
 
 Then he thought it was quite possible to find Drake's 
 latch-key in his pocket. Leaning over the sound
 
 I5'6 MADAME BOHEMIA! 
 
 sleeper, Paulton got a stifling whiff of his lodger's 
 breath, strong with alcohol. 
 
 " Drunk, eh ?" the good-natured grocer murmured. 
 " I shall have to carry him up." Then he began to 
 search Drake's pockets for the key. This he had much 
 difficulty in doing, and only by rolling the drunken 
 fellow flat over could Tom get his hands into the hip- 
 pockets of his lodger's trousers. A flash of light from 
 close behind Paulton illumined him and Drake just as 
 he succeeded in getting his hand into a pocket. 
 
 " What's this ?" said a rather Irish voice behind the 
 lantern. Paulton had never been so surprised and 
 frightened; if a ball of fire had dropped on Drake's 
 head under Tom's highly-coloured nose he could not 
 have been half so startled. Stammering and splutter- 
 ing, the scared grocer tried to make answer, and at 
 the same time see the features of the person with the 
 lantern. 
 
 " Oh, it's you, is it?" Paulton said at length", with 
 some distinctness. 
 
 "Yes, it's me. And who the devil are you?" de- 
 manded the policeman, with a policeman's marvellous 
 sagacity wholly misconstruing the scene before him. 
 
 " Why, you know me, don't you ?" Paulton asked in 
 a very suspicious manner. He had not recovered from 
 the fright of the unmasked lantern's swift flash. The 
 policeman was in the passage, not attending to his 
 duty, when the grocer's door suddenly slammed and 
 shut him out. The noise at the door startled the 
 policeman; then when he heard Tom muttering, he 
 quietly approached, his sneakers favouring the stealthy 
 movement, and flashed his dark lantern.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 157 
 
 " No, I don't know you ; but I'll introduce you to 
 a gentleman at Jefferson Market police-court who'll 
 ask yer name and the reason why you're going through 
 that man's pockets," snarled the myrmidon of law. 
 
 " I'm Paulton, the grocer, and this is Mr. Drake, my 
 lodger," said Tom, getting nettled at the policeman's 
 hasty reflection. 
 
 " None a' that now. Don't try to pull my leg on 
 ye'll find it made of lead." 
 
 " Oh," Tom cried, " I see you're not the regular 
 bobby, are you? This is O'Conor's beat." 
 
 "And what if it is? O'Conor's sick, and ye can't 
 gimme no bluff about bein' a very intimate friend of 
 his, for I'm not takin' no bluff," the policeman affirmed, 
 with decision. 
 
 " I'm not bluffing," Tom snapped, and raising his 
 voice, " I'm Tom Paulton." Then he opened his coat 
 " See, I've got my night-shirt on. Come down to 
 let Mr. Drake in and the door slammed and shut us 
 out. You saw me trying to get his key out of his 
 pocket so that I could unlock the door and not have to 
 ring and fetch my wife down." 
 
 " Oh, that's different," said the policeman, as the 
 truth of Paulton's statement slowly dawned on his 
 midnight intelligence. "That's different. Excuse 
 me." 
 
 Tom, very vexed and disgusted, turned to Drake 
 and produced the key, opened the door, and tried to 
 rouse Drake out of his drunken stupor. Alas ! Tom's 
 efforts to revive his lodger's senses were futile. Drake 
 murmured incoherent words and struggled in a feeble 
 way to remain on the floor asleep. The long patient
 
 I 5 8 MADAME BOHEMIA 1 
 
 'Paulton began to lose his temper. The draught from 
 the other end of the passage was extremely icy, and 
 Tom felt the cold in his bones. Even the warmly-clad 
 policeman began to stamp his feet and make forcible 
 remarks on the weather. 
 
 Paulton looked up the steep narrow staircase and 
 saw his wife descending. She was a pathetic figure 
 in her night-dress. Her hair was loose, and her neck 
 bones having long since lost their covering of flesh, 
 seemed to shine through the almost transparent skin. 
 
 " Tom, Tom," she cried, " what's the matter? I'm 
 tired calling you. .Come to bed, do. I never was so 
 scared." 
 
 " Right, Jane. I locked myself out, and only just 
 got Mr. Drake's key out of his pocket to open the door. 
 Go up, dear," Tom pleaded, " I'll be with you in a 
 minute. Don't stand there." 
 
 She turned and slowly passed up the stairs. 
 
 " Here, officer, help me to get him on my shoulders," 
 said Tom, taking hold of Drake's arms. The police- 
 man soon had that wasted form on the strong grocer's 
 broad back. 
 
 " I'll follow you with the candle," said the police- 
 man, picking it up with one hand, while he kept the 
 other on Drake, as they passed up. Drake was soon 
 deposited on his bed. Paulton thanked the policeman 
 for his kind assistance and saw him out, locked the 
 door, and rejoined his trembling wife.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 DRAKE'S rooms consisted of a kitchen and bedroom. 
 The latter overlooked Sixth Avenue, and was a little 
 above the level of the Elevated Railroad. The bed 
 occupied more than half the widest part of the room; 
 it nearly fitted into an alcove formed by the landing 
 at the top of the staircase. A large kitchen-table in the 
 opposite front corner left a passage between it and the 
 bed to the small window. On the table neatly piled were 
 many books. Bundles of manuscripts lay about the 
 place, on and under the table. In the corner above the 
 table there was an oil lamp, with a bright tin sKade 
 so tilted that it threw its light on the writing-pad, which 
 was a gift from Mrs. Kembleton on Drake's twenty- 
 second birthday. Down the centre of the room, which 
 was more than twice as long as it was broad, were sus- 
 pended from a lath seven vari-coloured lamps, just 
 an inch or two above Drake's height. On the wall, 
 above the head of the bed, were two Algerian swords 
 crossed, over which, perpendicularly, hung a fine Sebas- 
 tian Hernandez rapier. Six curious oil paintings, the 
 subjects of which at close inspection were grossly re- 
 volting, seemed from a distance of six feet to be nothing 
 more than meaningless splashes of colour. The head, 
 in pencil, of a beautiful woman, in a very large finely 
 carved black oak frame, nearly covered the part of 
 the opposite wall above the writing-table. The ink- 
 stand was a dragon's head, around which tongues of 
 flame in brass formed many holders for pens of peculiar 
 
 159
 
 i6o MADAME BOHEMIA 1 
 
 design and workmanship. Over an old threadbare 
 carpet lay a Bagdhad rug of blood-red hue. Red 
 curtains nearly covered the dingy window. In front 
 of a disused fireplace stretched an old sofa, which had 
 not since Drake occupied the place been fit to sit upon. 
 There was a door from the bedroom to the landing, 
 but the foot of the bed prevented anyone who wished 
 to enter from without. It was only to avoid the 
 woman who came each morning to cook his breakfast, 
 make the bed, and set the place straight that Drake 
 pulled out the bed and made his exit by that door. 
 His charwoman was engaged because of her notorious 
 ugliness. That had been caused by her husband mash- 
 ing her face with a bottle for trying to save her son 
 from his fury. Her efforts had been vain, for he was 
 hanged for filicide. Drake was once asked why he 
 had such a woman about the place, and he said in reply 
 that no one else would give her a job. At her hus- 
 band's trial Drake was a reporter for a well-known 
 newspaper, and after sentence on the culprit had been 
 passed, he found the wretched man's wife and offered 
 her the work of attending to his small wants. This 
 she gladly accepted, and since then she had been a faith- 
 ful slave to him. Sometimes he used to go into the 
 kitchen and speak to her, but one morning she told 
 him that she was a very good-looking young woman 
 before she married. To imagine that the mutilated 
 face before him was once fair to look upon was too 
 much for Drake's fantasy, and since that hour he had 
 studiously avoided her. She was never permitted to 
 enter the bedroom when he was there, and when he 
 wished to go into the kitchen he sent her on some er-
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 161 
 
 rand, the purpose of which he would call out to her 
 through the closed door between the rooms. If he 
 thought there was the slightest chance of meeting the 
 woman on the stairs or in the passage, he would 
 tightly close his lids and feel his way in or out. 
 
 The woman's face had for quite a year intermittently 
 haunted Drake, yet he had not the heart to discharge 
 her. She was a frightful sight, and he could not over- 
 come the feeling of disgust which even the thought of 
 her unsightliness too frequently aroused. At one time, 
 when he first engaged her, he could have looked at any 
 horror without feeling the slightest qualm, but brandy 
 and opium had wrought fearful havoc with his highly 
 imaginative mind. The grossest murder fascinated 
 him beyond all normal reason. He had, in fact, as a 
 reporter entered into the details, and the solving, of 
 frightful mysteries with a zest which astounded his 
 colleagues of the press. Many ominously shook their 
 heads and predicted a terrible end to his career. That 
 he had for so long kept out of an asylum baffled the 
 minds of his few friends. His enemies had long since 
 given him up as a vampire and as a menace to all that 
 is usually considered rational. Many spoke of his 
 great short story as evidence of his saneness, others 
 referred to it as conclusive proof of his madness. He 
 was the subject of many discussions and quarrels, and 
 his contempt for what he called the mediocrities earned 
 for him the displeasure of men who had often been 
 loyal when his arrogance and ill-behaviour had given 
 them just cause for indignation. Because others could 
 not live as he did, and read and study with his vora- 
 cious persistence, and had not a superlatively tenacious 
 
 ii
 
 i62 MADAME BOHEMIA] 
 
 memory and his Swift reasoning faculties, He rele- 
 gated them to the ranks of mediocrity, and only some 
 brilliant literary effort on the part 'of the contemned 
 could convince him of his unreasonable error and fal- 
 sity of judgment. Such mistakes he was the first to 
 condemn in others. 
 
 It was near noon when Mrs., Paulton heard Drake 
 moving about in the room above her parlour. She 
 had passed a sleepless night coughing and bemoaning 
 her fate, making her inconsiderate lodger the cause of 
 all her woes, till at last she got her husband to promise 
 he would tell Drake to vacate his rooms at the end 
 of the week. Trade was bad with Paulton, and he could 
 ill afford to lose Drake's four dollars a week for rent, 
 still, he knew his wife would not rest till she saw and 
 heard the last of the lodger. Tom could hardly give his 
 duties in the store the little attention they required 
 for thinking of the ordeal his wife had set for him. 
 
 When he went up to the kitchen for his frugal mid- 
 day meal he hoped his wife would have relented, but 
 her first words were, " He's up, Tom. I've heard him 
 stirring about." 
 
 " So I've got to tell him, eh ?" Paulton said in a 
 low tone. 
 
 "Yes; I can't abide him any longer. Why, even 
 that awful-looking woman is getting tired of him. 
 When she went up this morning she found he had 
 drawn her photograph on the top of the stove in the 
 kitchen with chalk. He's even hurt her feelings, Tom." 
 
 Unfortunately for Paulton he had a mild sense of 
 humour, but not mild enough for this absurd com- 
 plaint. He tried to smother a laugh just as he was
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA' 163 
 
 swallowing a spoonful of hot soup, but his efforts were 
 vain, and the soup from the force of the laugh squirted 
 through his few teeth and soiled a clean table-cloth. 
 He shook and roared with laughter till he caught his 
 wife's cold glance. This checked his hilarity, and he 
 tried to assume a rather sober expression, which did 
 not seem to fit his jolly face. 
 
 " Tom Paulton, we've been married twenty-seven 1 
 years," said the grocer's wife in a tone of sorrow, 
 " and this is the first time you've ridiculed my feelings. 
 I wouldn't have believed it possible, I wouldn't." 
 
 " Jane ! Jane ! don't, dear, don't go on so," Paulton 
 cried, trying to catch his breath. " I didn't laugh at 
 you, indeed, I didn't." 
 
 " Then what else was there to laugh at, I should like 
 to know?" 
 
 " Why, dear, I was laughing at Mr. Drake trying to 
 draw the charwoman's face on the top of his black 
 stove. Why, there isn't anything to draw. She hasn't 
 got no right eye, she hasn't got no nose, and I think 
 she's got only one ear; besides, if anyone can call her 
 chin a chin, why, that let's me out, for the bottom of 
 her face is nothing with a gash in it." 
 
 Paulton found his excuse for unseemly laughter did 
 not have the desired effect. 
 
 " Go right upstairs, at once, and tell him to clear 
 out !" she cried, with some anger. " Go on now. I'll 
 not eat another bite till you do." 
 
 Tom hesitated ; for a few moments he did not seem 
 to realise that his wife was in earnest. Mrs. Paulton 
 had many whims, which he half-humoured because of 
 her ill-health, but now he felt that this was no whim
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 1 
 
 which would soon pass and be forgotten. Suddenly 
 she crossed the kitchen and passed into the parlour, 
 slamming the door after her ghost-like figure. Tom 
 rose from his chair and hastened after her. 
 
 He found her in tears and suffering from a parox- 
 ysm of coughing. 
 
 "All right, Jane, all right; I'm going. I'll tell 
 him/' he murmured, trying to soothe her. " Just you 
 wait a minute, dear. I'll settle it, see if I don't. I'll 
 tell him he's got to go. No two ways about it." 
 
 When Drake opened his- eyes and consciousness 
 partly returned, he was surprised to find himself lying 
 on his bed. Frightful dreams had possessed him; 
 dreams he could not forget nor dissociate from the 
 incidents of the day before; the day before, chaotic 
 and unfathomable. Heterogeneous things, so strange, 
 never before parts of either dreams or hours of un- 
 troubled waking, now shook his understanding. On 
 an ever-swelling body, the form of which was that of 
 his charwoman's, was set the beautiful head of a young 
 girl, whose long fair hair fell about the bent shoulders 
 and breasts of the loathed woman. Over this a long 
 bony arm swung the mutilated head of the filicide's 
 wife, through the gashes of which streamed rays of 
 blood-red light. An old man and Mrs. Kembleton 
 held Gower, who, with a knife in his hand, stood over 
 the form of a beautiful woman, whose dishevelled hair 
 seemed like tongues of flame leaping up and around the 
 struggling Gower. Such phantoms of his amorphous 
 mind seemed to pass within the precincts of his room. 
 The dread procession came at last to an end. He 
 .sprang from the bed and rushed to the door between
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 165 
 
 the kitchen and the bedroom. Suddenly he thought 
 of the charwoman, and dread rilled his quailing heart. 
 Upon a chair he sank and wept bitterly, wept till rea- 
 son came and dispersed the hideous visions of the 
 night. 
 
 He found no water in his pitcher for his bath. His 
 body burned and his throat was like a furnace. He 
 went to the door and listened, but heard no sound. He 
 called to the charwoman, but got no answer. Timidly 
 he opened the door and peeped into the kitchen. The 
 wretched woman was not there. With a lighter mind 
 he took up the pitcher and went to the rather primitive 
 pump at the kitchen-sink. In returning to the bed- 
 room, he noticed the chalk sketch of the charwoman's 
 head upon the stove. To his shaken mind his own 
 drawing seemed like a grinning apparition. He 
 started, trembled, and turned cold. With fearful haste 
 he found in a cupboard a black-lead brush; over the 
 stove he bent, and spitting on the hideous sketch, He 
 brushed out the revolting chalk-marks. 
 
 From that moment the doings of the day before be- 
 gan to take proper shape and sequence. Slowly he 
 traced each incident and the actions of each hour till 
 he arrived at the scene in the cafe when D'Erblet left 
 Silde and him. Then several hours were a blank to 
 him, and he next remembered that he sat upon his 
 favourite seat perched on a hill in Central Park. There 
 a policeman reminded him of the hour. It was past 
 nine and time to leave that place where he had found 
 surcease of many sorrows, that seat where he had often 
 gazed upon the setting sun and forgot the pains of 
 hunger. Then he remembered leaving the park by a
 
 i66 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 western gate. He was tired, worn-out. Mind and 
 body ached. His feet were sore and burned in his 
 thin shoes. He felt as if he had been running, run- 
 ning, mile after mile over broken ground, chased by 
 demons whose pace had been hardly less terrific than 
 his own. 
 
 A woman walked at his side and murmured some of 
 her stock terms of endearment in his ear. She was so 
 persistent that he had to stop and find in his pockets 
 a silver coin to give her. This he did, and bade her 
 try some other business less desperate and precarious. 
 That he should be molested in that way filled his heart 
 with pity for the wretched woman who from his ap- 
 pearance could for a moment imagine him a possible 
 customer. His weariness and fatigue weighed heavily 
 upon him. He felt he must sit down or fall. He 
 had reached a busy part of Ninth Avenue. A bril- 
 liantly lighted saloon attracted him. Into the bar he 
 limped, sat down, and ordered a sandwich and a glass 
 of lager beer. 
 
 Drake had not tasted brandy for ten weeks. A kind 
 friend had done wonders in getting him to live a fairly 
 decent, sober life. Not for many years had he been so 
 long abstemious. 
 
 When the waiter brought the sandwich and the beer, 
 Drake remembered that he had not eaten since break- 
 fast. He took a mouthful of the sandwich and spat 
 it out. It was not fresh. A draught of the beer had 
 quite a disastrous effect on his empty stomach. After 
 a complicated attack of vertigo, he asked the waiter to 
 take away the remaining portions of the sandwich and 
 beer. He picked up an evening paper and pretended
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 167 
 
 to read. It was the paper on the staff of which he had 
 in a subordinate position been working of late so 
 steadily. Suddenly he realised that he had not that 
 day been near the editorial office. The editor, on 
 giving him work for the third time, had told him that 
 he would never permit him to work for the paper 
 another day if he again started drinking and could not 
 attend to his duties. His editor's words came back 
 to him, and now he concluded that his doom had been 
 sealed, as far as that paper was concerned. 
 
 But, instead of remorse, a spirit of devilry took hold 
 of him, and pitching aside the paper, he called for 
 brandy. And there he drank brandy till the bartender 
 was afraid to sell him more. 
 
 All this he distinctly recalled as he sat on the side 
 of his bed, but how he reached home and got to bed 
 was a mystery to him. 
 
 He could not help but wonder why he survived year 
 after year of drink and opium. Even at the moment 
 when he was reflecting on his protracted life he was 
 half-amazed to find how well he was after the night's 
 debauch. Five years before a doctor who had attended 
 him in an hospital through a serious illness told him 
 he would not live twelve months if he did not stop 
 drinking. 
 
 He filled his cup with bitter draughts of hrs own dis- 
 tilling, but he never hesitated to drain it to the very 
 lees. 
 
 A knock on the door aroused him. He went through 
 to the kitchen, and was about to open the door, when he 
 started back and felt it might be the charwoman. Then 
 he thought she would not knock.
 
 ii68 MADAME BOHEMIA! 
 
 "Who's there?" he cried. 
 
 " Paulton," replied the grocer. " I want to see you 
 for a minute, Mr. Drake." 
 
 Drake opened the door, and in his landlord passed 
 with a very serious face. He stood in the centre of 
 the kitchen floor and looked at his lodger, then sadly 
 shook his head. 
 
 " What's the matter, Tom ?" Drake asked, noticing 
 the grocer's embarrassment. Paulton turned and shut 
 the door. 
 
 " Well, you see, my wife is " Paulton did not 
 
 know how to begin. He had never before given a 
 tenant notice to quit. His eyes roamed round the 
 cheerless place and rested on the stove. 
 
 " Hullo !" he cried. " Why, that's funny." 
 
 "What's funny?" said Drake, glancing at the spot 
 on which the grocer's eyes were fixed. 
 
 " Why, where's that face?" Paulton asked in a tone 
 of mystery. 
 
 Drake pretended to know nothing about it, but this 
 only heightened Paulton's curiosity and wonder. 
 
 " Well, I'll be blessed ! My wife said there was a 
 face on top of that there stove yesterday," Paulton 
 exclaimed. 
 
 " It is not there now," Drake said. " But did you 
 come up to see me, or to look for a head on top of the 
 stove?" 
 
 " Well, to tell the truth, I did come to see you, Mr. 
 Drake," Paulton muttered, half-abashed. 
 
 " What about, eh ?" Drake felt there was something 
 wrong. 
 
 " You see, my wife is a very sick woman, and some-
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA! 
 
 How sHe's got a notion in her head that she doesn't 
 want to let any more rooms any more, and well, 
 
 I " Paulton faltered; he could not find suitable 
 
 words for the rest of his speech. 
 
 " Oh, she has had enough of me, eh ?" said Drake, 
 quite unmoved. 
 
 " Well, I guess that's just about the way it is," said 
 the grocer, much relieved. "You see she's fidgety 
 and gets scared about nothing. I'm mighty sorry, for 
 I should 'a' liked you to finish the" he cleared his 
 throat and lifted up his shoulders " 'A Compendium 
 of Useful Axioms and Excerpts from the Oblivious 
 Literature of the An Anthro oh, yes, Anthro- 
 pophagi.' ' 
 
 "What is that?" Drake asked, with an amused 
 smile. 
 
 " Why, the big book you're writing on, of course. 
 You wrote the title down on the back of one of our 
 bills so as I could learn it off by heart to paralyse old 
 MacDougal, the undertaker across the way," Paulton 
 cried, raising his voice, and looking at Drake with an 
 expression of half-pity and half-disappointment. 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes, I had forgotten. Never mind, Paul- 
 ton. How much do I owe you?" 
 
 " How much do you owe me ? Owe me ? Why, 
 nothing. All I want of you is for you to give me a 
 copy with my name on it of that there" he cleared 
 his throat and lifted up his shoulders " 'A Com- 
 pen- 
 
 "Ah, I'm afraid you'll have to wait a long time for 
 that. I may not live to finish it. I would rather pay 
 you what I owe you," said Drake.
 
 170 MADAME 'BOHEMIA 1 
 
 " I'll not hear of it. Why, aren't we turning you 
 out and putting you to a deal of inconvenience? Not 
 likely. I'm mighty sorry poor Jane's got that foolish 
 Idea in her head. But if you do finish that, you will 
 give me a copy, won't you?" 
 
 " Yes, yes, if I finish it," said Drake. He put his 
 hand to his head. 
 
 Paulton noticed the gesture, and a broad grin spread 
 over his face. He was about to speak when he sud- 
 denly thought that Jane might be listening. He turned, 
 opened the door, leaned over the banisters, and called, 
 "All right, Jane, dear, Mr. Drake is going to go." 
 He listened for a moment and heard Jane begin to eat 
 her dinner. Drake had gone into his bedroom when 
 Paulton returned and closed the kitchen door. 
 
 " Come in, Tom," Drake called. 
 
 . " I suppose you've got a pretty bad head this morn- 
 ing, Mr. Drake," Paulton remarked, casting a rather 
 sly glance. " You gave me lots to dream about last 
 night." 
 
 " Did I ? How so ?" Drake asked, with some in- 
 difference. 
 
 " Had to go down and let you in. You were plumb 
 up against the door, on the ground, fast asleep," the 
 grocer began to explain. 
 
 "I was?" 
 
 " Yes ; and the devil of it was I shut myself out ; 
 then I'm blessed if a bobby didn't sneak down the 
 passage and flash his lantern on us just as I was get- 
 ting your keys out of your pocket. It was awkward, 
 for the bobby was a new policeman and didn't know 
 me from a hole in the ground. O' Conor, the big
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 171 
 
 fellow that used to look after you, was ill. Well, he 
 wanted to arrest me. Me, you know, as if I was a 
 regular tough ! Lord, how I laughed after Jane went 
 off sound asleep!" Paulton explained, grinning and 
 smothering his inclination to laugh out loud. 
 
 "Oh, that was how it was, eh?" said Drake, half- 
 ashamed that he should have caused the good-natured 
 grocer so much trouble. 
 
 " Yes, that was it. I I carried you up here on 
 my back." 
 
 " You're a good sort, Tom, and I'm very grateful, 
 though my behaviour has not been appreciative," said 
 Drake, giving Paulton's hand a good grip. 
 
 " Bah, Mr. Drake, that was nothing. You would 
 'a' done the same for me," Tom interposed, not taking 
 his bulk and Drake's slim figure into consideration. 
 " But it was a pity Jane was kind a wakeful. Never 
 mind, though, you'll find lots of better places than this. 
 Are you sure there's nothing I can do towards fixing 
 up another place near by for you? There's plenty of 
 nice rooms round this neighbourhood." 
 
 " Don't you bother about that. I've been for a long 
 time thinking of taking a trip to Spitzbergen or Terra 
 del Fuego," said Drake sardonically. 
 
 "Lord! what for?" cried the surprised grocer. 
 "That's a devil of a long way off, isn't it?" 
 
 " No, not so very far. But distance doesn't matter ; 
 it all depends on how you get there. Will you let that 
 woman know I have left here? I'll send you some 
 money to give her; poor soul, I'm afraid she won't 
 get much to do," said Drake, quite concerned about 
 her future.
 
 172 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 " Wouldn't give her a damn cent. She's been tell- 
 ing my wife a lot of lies about you. Said you chalked 
 her face on top of the stove out there." 
 
 " Well, it's true, Tom. I did make a bit of a sketch, 
 but I'm sorry she saw it," Drake admitted. 
 
 " Gosh ! Should 'a' liked to have seen it. Draw 
 another, Mr. Drake," the grocer requested, all excited 
 at the prospect. 
 
 " Oh, no." 
 
 " Do." 
 
 " No ; I'm afraid I hurt her feelings, Tom." 
 
 " She'll not see it. Come, I'm mighty anxious to 
 see how you draw that eye which she hasn't got, and 
 most particular the bottom of her face where there 
 ain't anything at all." 
 
 Drake was astonished to see Paulton so curious. It 
 was quite grotesque to see how the jolly face of the 
 grocer seemed to beam with delight. His eyes sparkled 
 and his excitement increased. They went into the 
 kitchen, where Drake found a piece of pipe-clay. The 
 two were soon bending over the stove. As Drake 
 made the sketch Paulton's expression changed to 
 one of amazement and horror. The white lines on 
 the black stove seemed to twitch with life. There 
 was something so frightfully repugnant in the sketch 
 when it was finished that Paulton shrank back, cast 
 a look of terror at Drake, and said, " Rub it 
 out!" 
 
 But Mrs. Paulton, having lost what little patience 
 she had, had gone up and walked into the kitchen be- 
 fore the men were aware of her presence. 
 
 " Well, I do declare," the grocer's wife exclaimed,
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 " that's disgusting, I do think, Mr. Drake. She's not 
 half as ugly as that." 
 
 Tom heard his wife's voice before he noticed her. 
 So it was useless trying to cover his surprise and em- 
 barrassment. Drake stood calmly looking at the 
 emaciated figure of the grocer's wife. 
 
 " Have you got nothing else to do but watch Mr. 
 Drake draw horrible things on the top of my stove?" 
 she demanded. 
 
 " Why, yes, dear, of course I have. But it is won- 
 derful, Jane, isn't it? Why, there ain't anything at 
 all where her chin ought to be, and so there ain't in 
 the picture, but there's no mistaking that's her face," 
 said Paulton, scratching his head. 
 
 " Come and eat your dinner, do," said Mrs. Paulton, 
 going to the door. 
 
 " I'm coming, but I don't want any dinner," cried 
 Tom. Turning to Drake, he said in a low tone, " Call 
 in the shop as you go out, will you, Mr. Drake?" 
 
 " Yes. But I shall be some time, for I have a few 
 things to pack up," Drake replied. 
 
 "All right. It was a pity Jane was so wakeful," 
 Paulton muttered as he left the kitchen. 
 
 Drake went into his bedroom and forgot to rub out 
 the sketch. From under his bed he pulled out a long 
 box and threw his papers and books into it. Taking 
 from the wall the picture of the beautiful woman's 
 head, he laid it on his bed and stood for several min- 
 utes gazing at it. 
 
 " Mother," he murmured. 
 
 When he was two weeks old an aunt took him away 
 from the dying woman who had lived only to give him
 
 374 MADAME BOHEMIA 1 
 
 \ 
 
 birth. Before he completed the first month of his life's 
 journey his mother reached her goal. His distracted 
 father, who had for years before his marriage been a 
 drunkard, forgot the puny little thing, his son, and 
 assisted by the demon of drink, two years of delirium 
 were enough to end all his woes. 
 
 Mother and father slept in the same grave. Drake 
 had often spent an hour in the little churchyard which 
 overlooked the Hudson River, where in the distance 
 the Catskills frowned and the wild birds swooped over 
 crested peaks to the music of myriad pines. He won- 
 dered if it were possible for his body at last to rest 
 under the shadow of the quaint, squat spire, the clock 
 of which faced the sunset gates which seemed to lie 
 just over the horizon of the beautiful valley, far away 
 at the base of the great steep cliffs. As he stood looking 
 upon the picture of his mother, the long checkered past 
 of his life, like phantoms of a frightful dream, con- 
 fronted him. Drake was seldom given to hours of re- 1 
 flection ; regret was futile and hope a mockery. Still, 
 he often thought that he had never been given a chance. 
 His aunt told him when he was a little boy of twelve, 
 sickly and uninteresting, that his father and mother 
 loved each other beyond all reason, and, furthermore, 
 that his father could never keep away from the drink, 
 the horrible stuff that killed him. 
 
 " What does it matter ? There's no escape/' was 
 Drake's comment on himself. He knew the refining in- 
 fluence of a kind friend frequently did wonders for 
 him. But the terrible periods when the craze came 
 upon him were absolutely irresistible.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 WHEN Elinor went into Lexham's room on that 
 night when she found the telegram which Gower 
 dropped, she was surprised to see the invalid sitting 
 up in his bed at work on his play. For a while she 
 forgot her errand about the telegram and thought 
 only of the risk Lexham was taking in trying to do 
 too much in his weak condition. She persuaded him 
 to lay aside his manuscript. 
 
 " I'm glad you looked in. I'm not at all tired. 
 The long sleep I take at noon prevents my sleeping 
 again before midnight," he said. 
 
 "Are you sure you are not tired? I want your 
 advice, Gilbert, on a matter which alarms me." 
 
 "What is it?" he asked, glancing at the telegram 
 which she held in her hand. 
 
 " Read this." She gave him the message. 
 
 He read it and handed it back to her. 
 
 " Well," he said, " what is it all about?" 
 
 " This is a message from Mrs. Laird to Cyril. He 
 must have dropped it. I found it on the floor in my 
 room." 
 
 She was in such a state of anxiety that it was some 
 time before he contrived to get her to explain clearly 
 why the telegram was the cause of her agitation. 
 
 Elinor briefly stated all that had taken place during 
 the visit to Boston. 
 
 "Do you think they mean to elope?" she asked, 
 
 175
 
 1 76 MADAME BOHEMIA 1 
 
 after the silence which usually follows an important 
 revelation. 
 
 " No," he replied, with some emphasis. 
 
 "But, don't you think this telegram very strange? 
 What can it mean ?" 
 
 She was rather disappointed at Lexham's calmness. 
 
 " The telegram may mean a good many different 
 things, but hardly what you think it does. If Cyril 
 thinks he has a chance of marrying her after she is 
 divorced from Mr. Laird, he wouldn't be such a fool 
 as to endanger his prospects by a rash action which 
 all her people would condemn." 
 
 There was something so reasonable about his reply 
 that Elinor was surprised she had not seen the matter 
 in that light before she gave way to her fears. Still, 
 she was not quite satisfied. She thought it was all 
 too momentous for such a simple elucidation. 
 
 " And you don't think there is cause to fear ?" 
 
 " Not a bit," he interposed. " If, as you say, she 
 will be wealthy when her aunt dies, I think Cyril must 
 know his wisest plan is to wait till she is free." 
 
 " But she is a very charming woman, Gilbert." 
 
 " Pretty ?" he asked, with a smile. 
 
 " Handsome, and such a figure," she said, quite in- 
 genuously. " Quite clever, too." 
 
 " Then Cyril, I think, will, for the present, be quite 
 safe, and, no doubt, in very good hands. Don't let 
 the matter worry you, for, if she is handsome and 
 clever, Cyril will be, at once, attracted and restrained." 
 
 It was then long past midnight, and the effects of 
 the long day began to show on her pale face. What a 
 long day it had been! She thought that no day in
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 her life she could remember had been crowded with so 
 many joys and fears. But Lexham had succeeded 
 in allaying her fears. The telegram fell from her 
 hand as she reclined easily in the large comfortable 
 chair. She could not help wondering how sweet was 
 the peace she had found in this little room where Lex- 
 ham had lain for so long. She turned in the chair 
 and looked towards him. His eyes were fixed upon 
 her. She thought she had never seen such a look of 
 gratitude and devotion as that he then poured upon her. 
 
 " I'm so tired, Gilbert," she said, with a smile, for 
 she had noticed that he tried to look unconcerned after 
 she unexpectedly turned and caught his glance. 
 
 He raised his eyes and looked again at her. Sud- 
 denly she felt conscious of her flushed cheeks and the 
 fast beating of her heart. She trembled and turned 
 restlessly in her chair. Her eyes dropped. 
 
 It was the first moment they had been in the slight- 
 est degree aware of any embarrassment. 
 
 She arose, bade him sleep well, and left the room. 
 
 I**T*^KT*T*T^'P*I* 
 
 Gower had met Mrs. Laird at the station on the day 
 when they were together at the cafe on Broadway. 
 After Drake's strange behaviour they went to another 
 restaurant, where they dined. Gower had received 
 from Elinor forty dollars to pay for his new coat, but 
 the bill was receipted for only twenty-eight. 
 
 As they walked up Broadway from the cafe to the 
 restaurant, where he had ordered an early dinner, he 
 felt proud and happy. The thrill of pleasure he felt 
 when an acquaintance passed and looked with admira- 
 tion at his handsome companion made him happier 
 
 12
 
 178 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 than he knew how to express. He had bought for her 
 an expensive bunch of violets ; it lay on her breast just 
 beneath her chin, which, as she moved her head, 
 seemed to be half-buried in the fragrant blossoms. 
 When they reached the restaurant he was delighted 
 to find the place quite empty; they were the only 
 diners. Once the dinner began he wished it would 
 never end. He was too happy to eat, and she merely 
 nibbled at the dainty courses. 
 
 " I'm so sorry you must return to Boston so soon," 
 he said, when the waiter brought the ices. " Can't 
 you wait till a later train?" 
 
 " No, no ; it will be near midnight before I reach 
 home. You know I did intend to take the five o'clock 
 train, but it was so pleasant at the cafe that I quite 
 forgot about the time." 
 
 She looked at her watch, and began to put on her 
 gloves. 
 
 " Did you tell Mrs. Sefton where you were going?" 
 he asked, wondering if any excuse could be found for 
 protracting her visit. 
 
 " Tell auntie? Dear me, no! She would have had 
 a fit. I said I was going into town and should be 
 late." 
 
 She did not seem to feel the slightest compunction 
 in deceiving her aunt, and he did not like the casual 
 way in which she spoke of it. He was suspicious, 
 and wondered if Mr. Laird had had cause for his 
 quarrels with her. 
 
 " How I wish you could live in Boston !" she said, 
 so earnestly that his suspicion vanished. 
 
 " I don't know what I shall do till you come again
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 179 
 
 to New York. I know of no business reason I could 
 invent to take me to Boston," he said, trying to take 
 Her hand. 
 
 She thought he looked despondent. 
 
 " Don't," she whispered, as she picked up her veil. 
 
 " I can't let you go " 
 
 " Ssh ! Listen !" She leaned across the table. 
 " I've been seriously thinking of persuading auntie 
 to spend a few weeks here before we go to the sea- 
 side," she murmured, and her soft, merry laugh made 
 Gower almost forget he was observed by several 
 waiters. 
 
 " That would be delightful ! Do get her to come," 
 he pleaded. " If she will spend April here, I will con- 
 sent to give her piano lessons." 
 
 "A magnanimous promise ! Really !" She laughed 
 at his earnestness. 
 
 " Yes, anything to see you, anything" 
 
 " And will you give me lessons ?" 
 
 " Ah, that would be a pleasure too great for me to 
 imagine!" he exclaimed. 
 
 "Oh, how delightful!" 
 
 " Do you think it's at all possible?" he asked. 
 
 :< Yes, I think so," she said, after a moment's re- 
 flection. " Well, at any rate, I will try. But wouldn't 
 it be a good idea? Besides, if we were to come, I'm 
 sure auntie would invite Mrs. Kembleton and you 
 to spend a week or so with us at her summer cottage." 
 
 This was almost too much for Gower's lively sense 
 of anticipation. Had it not been -for a waiter ap- 
 proaching at that moment with some coffee he would 
 have caught her hands and kissed them.
 
 i8o MADAME BOHEMIA 1 
 
 " There, I've forgotten the time again, and now I've 
 only fifteen minutes to catch the train," she said, rising 
 and quickly putting on her veil. 
 
 " We can jump into a cab," Gower said, helping her 
 on with her coat. The bill was paid, and soon they 
 were speeding towards the station. 
 
 " Gertrude, I love you with all my heart and soul. 
 I cannot tell you all you have already done for me. I 
 know I shall do good work now, and I shall have to 
 thank you for it all." 
 
 She let her head rest on his shoulder. He kissed 
 her again and again. They hastened from the cab, 
 and she was. not a minute too soon, for he had barely 
 time to see her seated in the train before it began to 
 move. 
 
 He stood upon the platform for some minutes after 
 the train passed out of sight, and wondered where he 
 should go to think over all the incidents of the happy 
 afternoon. Clubs had no attraction for him that 
 night. 
 
 It did not enter his mind to go home and spend the 
 evening with Elinor. He went for a long walk through 
 the Park, and having made several calls, he did not 
 return to the busy thoroughfares till nearly ten o'clock. 
 He was sauntering home, when he suddenly stopped 
 before the window of a fine delicatessen shop. He 
 remembered that he had not eaten much of the fine 
 dinner for which he had paid nearly eight dollars. He 
 was now Hungry. He thought a pate and some bis- 
 cuits would make a dainty supper. In he went, and 
 looked up and down the counter spread with delicious 
 viands. He did not notice a woman standing in the
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 181 
 
 corner near the cashier's desk in earnest conversa- 
 tion with a short man dressed in a white coat and 
 apron. 
 
 " I'm very sorry, Mr. Simon," the woman in the 
 corner was saying, " but the ten dollars I paid you two 
 days ago was all the money I had. It is no use for 
 me to tell you I shall soon have the balance of the bill 
 I owe you, for I can't see where I'm to raise more till 
 May." 
 
 " I wouldn't dream of troubling you, madam," the 
 really good-natured Mr. Simon said, " if it were not 
 for my partner, who won't consent to your having 
 anything more till you pay up." 
 
 " Well, I'm sure I don't know what to do. I've 
 always paid you, and I have owed you larger amounts 
 than this," was the troubled woman's reply. 
 
 She stood with her back turned to the busy 
 counter, and she did not see Gower buy a pate, 
 some cooked veal, and a pound of lunch biscuits. 
 Just as he reached the cashier's desk to pay his bill, 
 the woman who had been talking with Mr. Simon 
 turned. 
 
 " Hullo, Diva !" Gower cried, and tried to hide his 
 parcel. 
 
 " Cyril !" Elinor exclaimed, looking at Gower's hand 
 full of silver pieces. 
 
 He turned to pay his bill; when he received his 
 change she was gone. He could not quite understand 
 why she vanished so quickly. When he reached home 
 he found her in tears. 
 
 " What's the matter, Diva ?" he asked, in rather a 
 tone of disappointment. He had been so happy all
 
 182 MADAME BOHEMIA 1 
 
 day that He now felt annoyed to reach home and find 
 tears. 
 
 She soon dried her eyes, but she did not reply to 
 his question. 
 
 " I thought you might need some little things for 
 supper, so I went in to Simon's to save you a journey, 
 and " 
 
 He suddenly remembered that he could not account 
 for the money which she must have seen in his hand 
 when he was at the desk. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I suppose you are wondering where on 
 earth I got the money from, eh?" 
 
 She did not speak. 
 
 " Well, you see, my coat did not come to quite forty 
 dollars, and so I a " 
 
 " Don't try to explain," she said firmly but quietly. 
 
 " But I insist," he whined. 
 
 " Please don't. You paid for the coat yesterday 
 afternoon, for you wore it when you came in here this 
 morning. I told you we hadn't much to eat, yet you 
 cared so little that you went away with money in your 
 pocket and left me without a penny. If you have 
 ceased to care all right, so have I." 
 
 She tried to laugh lightly. That pained him more 
 than her earnestness did. 
 
 " Cyril, I've had nothing to eat since breakfast, and 
 that was sent up by Mrs. Pollack. I have nothing for 
 to-morrow. Good-night, I'm very tired. Leave me 
 alone." 
 
 " But " He was pale with anger and humilia- 
 tion. 
 
 " Don't say any more. Please go 1"
 
 Don't try to explain," she said firmly but quietly
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 183 
 
 " I shan't. I've got a lot of things in this parcel, 
 and I insist on you eating something before you go 
 to bed. I'm damn sure I'll not leave the room till 
 you do." 
 
 It was the first time she had heard him swear. 
 
 " Cyril, you are very forgetful." 
 
 " I can't help it. You've got to eat something." 
 
 He was enraged. He stalked up and down the room 
 in a very tempest of passion. 
 
 " I couldn't eat a bite. Take it away," she said. 
 
 "You won't eat?" he demanded. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " I'll pitch the things on the fire if you don't." 
 
 " Don't lose your temper, Cyril. I can't eat be- 
 cause I have gone past it. I'm a little disgusted and 
 very tired. Your thoughtlessness has put me in a 
 bad fix with Simon. The moment before I saw you 
 at the desk with a handful of silver about to pay your 
 bill I had told Simon that I had no money. He saw 
 you, and he must think it strange that I should almost 
 beg for provisions when you had money and were buy- 
 ing delicacies." 
 
 He was completely humiliated. A vague sense of 
 shame was in him, but this he suppressed with a 
 thought that Elinor was indirectly blaming Mrs. 
 Laird, that he was not wholly to blame. 
 
 " I think you forget that you have not given a piano 
 lesson since this year began," she said, without any 
 sarcasm. 
 
 " Piano lessons, bah ! As if I ever made enough 
 to buy food for a rabbit. I didn't know you were in 
 any way dependent on the few dollars I made at that
 
 1 84 MADAME BOHEMIA' 
 
 idiotic game. You know I hate teaching. A dollar 
 a lesson ! Um ! Rot ! Well, I'll start teaching again 
 in April," he blurted out. 
 
 " In April ?" she repeated. 
 
 " Yes ; I suppose Mrs. Sefton and her niece will 
 come here for a few weeks, and I believe they want 
 me to give them lessons." 
 
 " Indeed ! How do you know that ?" she asked. 
 
 " Well, a Mrs. Laird a mentioned it in a let- 
 ter," he replied in a jerky, confused way. 
 
 " You write to each other ?" 
 
 " Well, what if we do ? Confound it, there's no 
 harm in that, is there?" 
 
 " I don't know. I hope not," she murmured. 
 
 " Well, harm or no harm, I shall continue to write. 
 She is old enough to know her own mind, and so long 
 as we're sane enough to do nothing to prejudice her 
 case, I think it is nobody's business but our own." 
 
 " Then was she insane enough to come here to-day 
 to see you?" Elinor said. Her eyes flashed and she 
 shook with indignation. 
 
 He turned swiftly upon her, and his angry gesture 
 and fierce expression made her heart for a moment 
 almost quail. She thought he was ready to strike 
 her. 
 
 " You followed me !" he hissed. 
 
 " Followed you !" she said, in a helpless way, not 
 knowing just what his accusation meant. 
 
 " How did you know Mrs. Laird was here to-day? 
 How did you know?" he yelled, trembling with rage. 
 His clenched fist shook ominously at his side. His 
 whole attitude was menacing and wicked.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 185 
 
 " I didn't know she was here/' Elinor said in almost 
 a whisper. She was white and ghost-like. Her eyes 
 had a far-away look. Nothing but the sweet face of 
 a fair-haired child filled her vision. The little Cyril 
 she saw at the piano long years before when she first 
 heard him play the Chopin Studies. How her poor 
 heart yearned for that dear child ! How a voice some- 
 where deep in her heart cried for one more clinging 
 embrace of that tender-hearted child's soft arms! 
 Something snapped. There she saw left before her a 
 threatening, heartless man scowling upon her. She 
 reeled and fell. 
 
 He was soon at her side. He raised her head, but 
 he could think of nothing to do for her. He looked 
 helplessly around. The bitterness still in his heart 
 made him think his plight was far worse than it was. 
 He left her and rang the bell. He cursed at the thought 
 that it was necessary to call Mrs. Pollack. He walked 
 to the door and opened it. The servant was coming 
 slowly up the stairs. 
 
 " Tell Mrs. Pollack that Mrs. Kembleton is not well, 
 and ask her if she'll come up at once," he said quickly, 
 in a hoarse voice. 
 
 He went back into the room and saw the parcel of 
 food on the table. He picked it up and hid it under 
 the sofa. 
 
 Elinor had fainted from worry and lack of food 
 more than from the shock she had suffered from Gower. 
 She had revived before Mrs. Pollack reached the room, 
 and to Gower's surprise he saw Elinor try to rise, just 
 as he succeeded in hiding the delicacies he had bought 
 from Simon. As he went to her assistance Mrs. Pol-
 
 186 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 lack rushed in. She arranged a pillow on the sofa, and 
 soon had Elinor resting there. 
 
 "What's the matter? What's the matter?" cried 
 the landlady. 
 
 " I think she fainted," Gower said, trying to over- 
 come his anger. 
 
 " It was nothing, Mrs. Pollack. I shall be all right 
 in a minute. Good-night, Cyril; I'm tired." Elinor 
 did not look at him. She saw his reflection in the 
 mirror. He moved towards her. 
 
 " Don't bother," she said ; " I shall be quite well in 
 the morning." 
 
 " I hope you " he began. 
 
 "Yes, yes, good-night." She felt she could not 
 let him speak. His voice was hard and his face was 
 stern and set. She was afraid to hear him say the 
 insincere words which the presence of Mrs. Pollack 
 made him think necessary. 
 
 " Good-night," he murmured ; and habit, so strange 
 and strong, forced him to bend down to kiss her. This 
 she avoided by raising her handkerchief to her face. 
 He left her for the first time without the pretence of a 
 kiss. 
 
 Mrs. Pollack was too busy looking for restoratives 
 to notice what was taking place, but she was startled 
 by the noise he made in shutting the doors of the 
 rooms. 
 
 " It is so good of you, Mrs. Pollack," Elinor said, 
 " but I'm not ill, really, I'm only over-tired. Don't 
 worry. A good night's rest will do me much good." 
 
 " Yes, yes ; but let me get your slippers," the kind 
 landlady said, searching under the chairs.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 187 
 
 "No, no; I'll get them." 
 
 " Do lie still, Mrs. Kembleton," Mrs. Pollack said, 
 as she thrust her arm under the sofa and placed her 
 hand on the parcel Gower had put there a few minutes 
 before. 
 
 " Dear me, what's this !" she cried, looking at the 
 parcel, which was now covered with large grease-stains 
 from the jelly of the cooked veal, which was begin- 
 ning to melt from the heat of the room. 
 
 " Oh, that, I think, belongs to Mr. Gower," Elinor 
 said. " Please take it to him ; he may want it." 
 
 But Mrs. Pollack had not found the slippers, so she 
 thoughtlessly put Gower's parcel on a small ottoman 
 which stood near the fireplace. At length she found 
 the slippers behind the screen in the alcove. After 
 she had done all she thought she could do for Elinor, 
 she picked up the parcel, without noticing the further 
 damage done by the heat from the fire, and left the 
 room. She knocked on Gower's door, and when he 
 opened it, handed the parcel to him, saying, " Mrs. 
 Kembleton told me to give this to you, sir." 
 
 Gower shut the door. He had grasped the parcel 
 so tightly that the thin paper burst and the contents 
 were spilled on the floor. His hands were soiled. 
 Grease upon his hands! It was too disgusting. He 
 gathered the pieces together on his fire-shovel, opened 
 the window, and threw the lot into the back garden 
 below,
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 ONE fine day late in April Dr. Brydone sent his car- 
 riage to Lexham. In this the convalescent and Elinor 
 went for a long drive through the Park and over be- 
 yond Grant's tomb. It was a glorious day, and Lex- 
 ham could not help but feel the same joy Coleridge 
 was conscious of when he wrote, " I am much better, 
 and my new and tender health is all over me like a 
 voluptuous feeling." What a scene of contrasts ! The 
 heavenly blue unbroken by even the fleeciest of clouds ; 
 before them the Palisades, straight and gaunt, like 
 dreadful shadows above the peaceful Hudson; the 
 tolling of the bell and grinding of the trucks of a loco- 
 motive and freight train reminded him of the great 
 city of commerce which lay behind them in startling 
 piles, monotonous and glaring in the strong noon 
 light. 
 
 The winter of illness and strife was past. The 
 warmth of awakening spring came like the breath of 
 a sweet companion, presaging days of happiness and 
 peace. Since he first read his play to Elinor he had 
 entirely rewritten it. She had taken it to a friend, 
 a well-known manager of theatres, and after leaving 
 it there for a week which seemed to her almost inter- 
 minable, she received a note asking her to present the 
 author; for though the manager liked the play, he 
 would prefer that the dramatist should read it to him 
 rather than read it a second time himself. 
 1 88
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 189 
 
 The play was accepted and was soon to be put 
 into rehearsal. The company of players had been 
 carefully chosen. In another week all the mechanics 
 of preparation for a production would be set in mo- 
 tion. 
 
 Gower's time was so taken up by the arrival of Mrs. 
 Laird and her aunt that he had quite iprgotten the 
 scene which had caused Elinor so much pain on the 
 night after Mrs. Laird's clandestine visit to New York. 
 Elinor had been so busy superintending matters con- 
 nected with the production of Lexham's play that she, 
 too, had not time to brood over the heartlessness of 
 Gower's conduct. 
 
 The night after Mrs. Sefton and her niece were 
 comfortably ensconced in a quiet hotel Elinor enter- 
 tained them in her rooms. Somehow she did not 
 feel in the least averse to meeting Mrs. Laird. She 
 thought she had lost interest in her. She had ex- 
 plained to Gower how she found the tell-tale telegram 
 and had laid it on his desk without at the time speaking 
 of the matter. Mrs. Laird, who sincerely tried to show 
 her much attention and good feeling, did not succeed 
 in stirring her one way or the other. Mrs. Sefton 
 was delighted to find Elinor looking so well. The dear 
 old lady did not know what new happiness Mrs. Kem- 
 bleton was experiencing in attending to the business 
 detail of the new play. 
 
 To Lexham it was an interesting gathering. He 
 found Mrs. Laird to be all Elinor had said of her. 
 Gower was very happy and quite naive. He played 
 the piano without persuasion, talked volubly, and sur- 
 prised Lexham with his knowledge of modern litera-
 
 190 MADAME BOHEMIA 1 
 
 ture, his good taste, and the catholicity of his opin- 
 ions. 
 
 Mrs. Sefton had settled with Gower for piano les- 
 sons. Four lessons a week, two for Mrs. Laird, two 
 for herself, at five dollars each lesson. 
 
 Elinor was a little disgusted when Gower told her 
 about the arrangement he had made with Mrs. Sefton 
 for the piano lessons. She could not help but think the 
 terms were more charitable than just. Still, she re- 
 membered that she, too, had accepted a much larger 
 sum for her reading than her work was worth. Be- 
 sides, she had by much strategy and excellent. business 
 tact got an advance royalty of five hundred dollars from 
 the theatre manager on Lexham's play. But Lexham 
 endorsed the cheque and handed it back to Elinor, and 
 no argument or persuasion on her part could make him 
 accept a part of it. He would not listen to her. The 
 money did not accrue to him. She had saved his life, 
 influenced him, had been the sole cause of the play's 
 existence. Besides, he would not know what to do 
 with so much money. He insisted and she had to 
 obey. 
 
 The public went to see " The Fame of Fools," and 
 the theatre was well filled for nine weeks, when the 
 weather became so hot and humid that the piece was 
 taken off with the intention of resuming the run in 
 August. 
 
 Elinor and Gower spent two weeks with Mrs. Sefton 
 at her cottage near the sea. Gower was full of work. 
 He had found a libretto to his liking. Elinor had lost 
 much of her sensitiveness, and nothing more than 
 formal words of greeting and ordinary conversation
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 191 
 
 passed between her and Gower. Mrs. Laird tried in 
 many ways to show how sincerely she loved her, but 
 a peculiar reserve was at the bottom of all her ways 
 which Mrs. Laird could never quite fathom. The 
 younger woman appreciated the other's tact and reti- 
 cence, and began in some measure to rely on Elinor's 
 knowledge of a world, distant and strange, which was 
 beyond her own ken and experience. Mrs. Sefton 
 never tired of letting Elinor know how fond she was 
 of her charming companion, and Elinor now loved the 
 dear old lady for all her sweet sympathy and kindness. 
 During the summer holiday a mutual understanding 
 seemed to exist, which, without either word or look 
 from one another, held them all in a deep esteem which 
 friendship seldom ripens so soon. There was an under- 
 standing quite apart from the usual intercourse of 
 companionship, and it was noticeable that Mrs. Laird 
 in talking alone with Elinor would not mention Gower's 
 name only in the most casual manner. She never 
 showed that she took any more than the remote interest 
 in him that refined but phlegmatic people take in men 
 who do something artistic. No undue enthusiasm, no 
 exceeding interest, escaped her by word or mood during 
 the holiday. And though Mrs. Sefton felt that Gower 
 and her niece were something more than friends, she 
 never referred to the matter when alone with Elinor, 
 in whom her confidence was absolute. 
 
 Gower was hard at work scoring his new opera, and 
 love, no matter how great, could not distract him, or 
 for any length of time woo him from his work. 
 
 After the excitement and long rehearsals of his play 
 Lexham was far from well. He lived in the little room
 
 IQ2 MADAME BOHEMIA 1 
 
 at the top of Mrs. Pollack's house till she had a larger 
 room vacant. Near the end of the first run of his play 
 he was comfortably lodged in a fine large room just 
 above Elinor's. He had received two orders for new 
 plays from different managers, but owing to his still 
 precarious state of health, Brydone advised him to de- 
 cline any such work of excitement. Lexham was by 
 no means eager to accept the offers, which were gener- 
 ous enough, for the nine weeks' royalties at five per 
 cent, had yielded a considerable sum, and after sharing 
 with Elinor two thousand dollars he had a sufficient 
 sum to permit of a long holiday. 
 
 To the grand Adirondacks he went early in July, 
 and among those beautiful mountains and lakes he 
 spent eight weeks. Elinor and Gower paid him a visit 
 and stayed several days. She had given her tour of 
 readings and was now free of debt. It had long been 
 Lexham's great desire to write a novel on his experi- 
 ences in New York, and that novel which afterwards 
 made his name famous for a few years was started 
 during that holiday in the Adirondacks. Never had he 
 known so much peace and real enjoyment. The far-off 
 scenes of his terrible vicissitudes were easily recalled, 
 and though they had lost most of their poignancy, he 
 still could live them over again without the physical 
 pain they were wont to cause when memory vividly 
 pictured them to him before he was free from their 
 environment. In no place could he have found all 
 he yearned for in himself and Nature so closely allied 
 as in that beautiful district. We take our experiences 
 subconsciously with us, and the benefit we derive from 
 recollection largely depends on the intellectual work-
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 193 
 
 ing of our minds. Many forget and seldom recall till 
 chance leads them to the very place of suffering, and 
 even then they hardly understand what it is that stirs 
 within them. 
 
 For one whole week Lexham roamed far and wide 
 up and down mountains, and dreamed for long hours 
 in drifting boats, but could not bring himself to start 
 the first chapter of the book he had planned years be- 
 fore, when for sheer lack of confidence he stifled all 
 desire to write a serious book of great length. It was 
 late one beautiful night when he returned to his hotel 
 after a long day in the woods. He was tired but not 
 fatigued when he entered his little room on the top 
 floor of the hotel, which was built upon the crest of 
 a high hill. Below, a sleeping lake lay full of sombre 
 shadows of the wild scene round about. From his 
 window he could see the distant shore. A great sense 
 of loneliness fell upon him. He had put out the light 
 in his room, and there near the window he sat. He 
 was deeply stirred by the beauty of the scene and the 
 vastness of it all. All that was beyond! All he had 
 left behind! The years of travail and penury, years 
 of loneliness in the midst of a great city. How strange'! 
 Was Man always lonely? Nature smiles and frowns 
 upon the exertions of the race, and though invention 
 continues to progress for man's acquired needs till at 
 last he lives not only by machinery but as a machine, 
 Nature will in itself remain unimpaired, superb, su- 
 preme. 
 
 Lexham sought in himself for something of the 
 great Spirit which he always felt to be in Nature when 
 contemplation of such a scene as that which now lay 
 
 13
 
 194 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 before him stirred his deepest impulses. The great 
 strength of the one, silent and formidable, and the 
 weakness of the other, fretful and perverse. Strange, 
 strange! And yet he had read not many days before 
 that once, long years ago, a traveller stood and looked 
 upon a scene of similar beauty. The sun was setting 
 and not a breath of air stirred a leaf. All was still, 
 when suddenly an Indian appeared upon the crest of 
 a distant hill, and though the traveller's whole desire 
 had been to contemplate the view as it was before the 
 Indian came, he found his eyes could dwell only on 
 the small majestic figure, far off, that dominated all 
 and stole his attention from the beauty at which he had 
 a moment before marvelled. 
 
 That night he began to write, and at dawn he had 
 almost finished his first chapter. He was afraid to 
 rest lest he should lose the thread and the mood. He 
 was afraid to re-read what he had written lest the little 
 confidence he had gained should fail him. In a min- 
 gled state of exultation and fear he worked assidu- 
 ously for ten or twelve days. When Elinor and Gower 
 came he was afraid to speak of what he had done, 
 and they left without any knowledge of his work. But 
 he was surprised at the rapidity of his progress, and 
 that very rapidity often caused him to think ill of what 
 was done. He did not stop to turn and polish start- 
 ling phrases. There was no straining after style. No, 
 there was too much dramatic incident for him to 
 heed anything but the perspicuity of the narrative. 
 If he had halted to think of fine literary qualities 
 he would have been lost. All this He realised and 
 feared.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 195 
 
 When he left the Adirondacks he had completed 
 quite half of his novel. 
 
 " The Fame of Fools" was revived in August, and 
 though several weeks passed before the theatre was as 
 well filled at each performance as it was during the 
 preliminary season, the play at length gained in popu- 
 larity and a successful run of some months was as- 
 sured. 
 
 It was midwinter when Lexham finished his novel. 
 He had learned to re-read his work with care, but the 
 more he perused the pages of his manuscript the less 
 he liked his first effort. One night after spending 
 many hours of revision he fell into an utterly de- 
 spondent mood. He had corrected little, yet he im- 
 agined there was so much to change. It all seemed so 
 trite, so ordinary, but do what he would he could not 
 see how he could better it. His mood became so 
 desperate that he was on the point of burning the 
 whole manuscript when Elinor knocked on his door. 
 He threw the unbound pages on a table. 
 
 Six months free from the worries of debt and all 
 the vexatious matters concerning Gower which had 
 beset her during the spring and summer had worked a 
 great change in Elinor. She now looked not a day 
 older than twenty-six or twenty-eight. Her great 
 eyes had regained their brightness, her beautiful com- 
 plexion had returned to set off her fine features. Lex- 
 ham remembered that she looked thin and worn after 
 the production of his play, but now, as he looked upon 
 her, he could not help but notice that her figure was 
 quite as firm, warm, and graceful as it was on that 
 night when Gower urged him to meet her. A little more
 
 196 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 than a year had passed, and what a year of change it 
 had been ! Poverty, illness, success, and peace. Was 
 it all real? Did it all take place? Perhaps all those 
 events, he thought, would seem trite if he set them 
 down, as he had set down the early struggles of his 
 American experiences. What is that peculiar glamour 
 which enhances our life's history when it lives only in 
 the mind? Is it the physical pain and joy revived by 
 memory which awakens the past and makes it all alive 
 again? Does that history so near and vivid under 
 mental reminiscence lose its throb and reality when 
 the autobiographer sets to work? Who can tell? 
 
 " Well, Gilbert, I have waited since early morning 
 for a glimpse of you, but as the recluse wouldn't come 
 out, the pilgrim has had to resort to this intrusion. 
 Why have you shut yourself up so much of late, eh?" 
 
 " I've been idiot enough to try to write a novel, 
 and " 
 
 "What? A novel? Gilbert!" she ejaculated, all 
 her face full of wonder and pleasant surprise. 
 
 " Yes, a novel, and I've come to the conclusion that 
 all my labour has been wasted. It's a stodgy, trite 
 affair. I felt like burning the thing just before you 
 came in." 
 
 "Where is it?" she eagerly asked. 
 
 He nodded his head in the direction of the table 
 on which he had thrown his manuscript in disgust. 
 She picked it up, threw herself into a chair before the 
 fire, and began to read the first chapter. 
 
 " Don't attempt to read it, Elinor," he pleaded ; " I'm 
 sure you will not like it." 
 
 She raised her hand in remonstrance, but did not
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 197 
 
 speak nor raise her eyes from the closely-written 
 pages. 
 
 In silence they sat near each other for many minutes. 
 Page after page she read, swiftly comprehending every 
 sentence, and never halting at what he imagined were 
 obscure passages. 
 
 An hour passed, and still in silence she read on and 
 on. She broke the spell by stretching out her hand and 
 laying it on his arm. 
 
 " Why didn't you tell me you were at work on 
 this?" she asked. 
 
 " I was afraid of it. I thought I would first see what 
 it was worth before letting you know," he confessed. 
 " If you had not come in I should never have men- 
 tioned it." 
 
 " How foolish you are, Gilbert ! And you would 
 have let me go in ignorance of what you have done? 
 When will you gain some confidence and get over your 
 absurd shyness?" 
 
 " Shyness ! Confidence ! Elinor, if you could know 
 what I suffer the moment I put my pen to paper you 
 would in some measure understand why I did not tell 
 you I was at work on that. It is no use, I can't get 
 wholly over the old feeling of incompetence, and do 
 what I will I'm baffled on every hand by difficulties 
 of my own making." 
 
 " But you were not at all discouraged or disap- 
 pointed when you read the criticisms of your play." 
 
 " Oh, that was nothing. This is quite a different 
 matter. I wish I were either hero or coward enough 
 to burn it." 
 
 "Burn it? Gilbert, what is the matter with you?
 
 198 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 What do you want ? I'm sure the book is all you pre- 
 tend it to be, and as for the manner in which it is 
 written, that is all right, I'll swear, for in it there is a 
 freshness, a grip which I have not found in the ma- 
 jority of books written during the past ten years. 
 Have patience, dear." 
 
 "Ah, you're biassed, Elinor. You know all I mean, 
 but this is presumably written to be read by people 
 who know no more about me and my life than I know; 
 of Confucius." 
 
 She was really surprised at his mood, for though she 
 had given only a cursory glance through several chap- 
 ters, she was sure of a wealth of novel ideas, real inci- 
 dents, and a clear, simple style. She did not know what 
 to say to encourage him. She was at a loss to under- 
 stand his case. He looked so despondent and tired as he 
 sat before the fire, his head bent and his hand tightly 
 clasped round his knees; and she had thought the old 
 bitterness and fear of himself had gone. After all her 
 proud imaginings was he to fail from sheer lack of 
 confidence and the encouragement she had believed her 
 undeclared love for him was strong enough to give? 
 Was all her dream of faith in him to vanish for very 
 want of all she felt was hers to yield? She began to 
 upbraid herself for leaving him since the summer so 
 much alone. She should have watched him, taken 
 more interest, shown that interest, and not have waited 
 for him to come to her. Day after day she had crushed 
 each inclination since that night when she looked into 
 his eyes and learned that she loved him, each inclination 
 to go to him, be near him, speak to him. But no, she 
 stayed in her room below and listened to his footfall
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 199 
 
 on the floor above, sure in her heart that he would 
 rather not be in any way distracted. It was this very 
 love which had kept her silent when she yearned to 
 ask him why she had of late seen so little of him, why 
 he had shut himself up, and why he had so little to 
 speak of when they met 
 
 Poor Elinor, so careful of her own sweet secret, 
 little knew of the secret which was in Lexham's heart, 
 fighting to be free, interrupting his work and dreams, 
 agitating him, making him more and more " shy" (as 
 Elinor called him for his reserve) and causing him 
 hours and days of despair. She had at first thought 
 he, too, that night when she took the telegram up to 
 his room, had felt the same thrill which had stirred 
 her. But owing to his reticence she had at last to 
 conclude that she had been mistaken. 
 
 Both their lives had so far been devoid of great love. 
 Elinor had never known any other love but that she 
 felt and gave to Gower when he was a boy. Lexham's 
 life had been too full of abject poverty and woe to 
 admit of any real lasting passion. He had been too 
 conscious of his penury and appearance ever to think 
 of searching for a sympathetic heart. True, he had 
 confessed to Elinor that he once loved, but that was 
 not a startling affair. To Lexham love was no light 
 matter to be merely nurtured for a short season of 
 gaiety. To him love was a serious thing, and he knew, 
 for his own peace of mind's sake, that he should rigor- 
 ously avoid any entanglement which might lead to 
 heart-aches and misery. 
 
 "Is the novel finished, Gilbert?" she asked, after 
 a long silence.
 
 200 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 " I think so. I've done all I'm capable of doing to 
 it," he said. 
 
 " Then let me take it away and read it, will you ?" 
 
 " Yes, do ; I shall be glad to lose sight of it. I fear 
 it, and yet I can't keep away from it." 
 
 She arose and replaced the pages. 
 
 "Are you going out to-night ?" she asked, when she 
 reached the door. 
 
 " No ; it is ten o'clock. I shall read a bit. Good- 
 night, Elinor." 
 
 " Good-night, Gilbert." 
 
 She went down to her room and read, from the place 
 where she had broken off, for two hours. For a mo- 
 ment she laid the manuscript aside to put some coal 
 on the fire, which had nearly gone out. She heard 
 Gower moving about in the next room. She did not 
 want to be disturbed, so she made her bed ready in 
 case he should look in, which he had seldom done of 
 late before retiring. She slipped on a dressing-gown 
 and settled down in her chair to finish the manuscript. 
 She read till half-past one, when to her annoyance 
 she could not find two missing pages. She searched 
 her room without success. Then she concluded that 
 she had perhaps not gathered up all the pages that lay 
 on the author's table in the room above. She tried 
 to read on, but failed to pick up the thread which the 
 missing pages had severed. Elinor listened, but not 
 a sound could she hear from Gower's room or the 
 room above. She wondered if Lexham had retired for 
 the night. The more she thought about the missing 
 pages the greater became her annoyance, till at length 
 she determined to go up to Lexham and ask him to
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA! 201 
 
 find them. There was no response when she tapped 
 lightly on his door. She turned the handle and pushed 
 it open. To her surprise the student's lamp on his 
 desk was alight. She entered and half-closed the door. 
 Gathering her dressing-gown closely round her, she 
 walked into the room, and saw Lexham fast asleep in 
 his chair before the fire. She stood for a few moments 
 watching the rise and fall of his breast. The desire 
 to go to him and kneel at his side was more than she 
 could withstand. Quietly she crept near him, when 
 suddenly he opened his eyes and looked quickly up. 
 
 " Elinor !" he exclaimed, in a moment fully awake. 
 
 " Gilbert, I'm so sorry I've disturbed you, but I 
 can't find pages 190 and 191. I think they must be 
 somewhere on the table or on your desk." 
 
 He had risen and stood looking at her searching 
 the table. She could not understand why she felt so 
 embarrassed. 
 
 " Have you read so far?" he asked. 
 
 " Yes, and I did want to finish the first reading be- 
 fore going to bed. Have you no idea where those 
 pages can be?" 
 
 " Yes ; I think they are somewhere on my deslc. 
 But don't try to read any more to-night. I'll find the 
 pages for you to-morrow. It's not worth so much 
 bother." 
 
 He sank into his chair and leaned his head upon his 
 hands. But before he could realise it she had flung 
 herself on her knees at his feet and had taken him in 
 her arms and kissed him. 
 
 " Elinor !" he cried, throwing his arms around her. 
 In his tight embrace he held her, as if a thousand
 
 202 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 hands were trying to take her from him. The joy of 
 feeling her warm, firm breast crushed against his own 
 was enough for a world of suffering. 
 
 " When did you first realise you loved me, Gilbert ?" 
 she murmured, without raising her head. 
 
 " Oh, months ago " 
 
 " That night when I came up with the telegram after 
 I returned from Boston?" she asked, so eagerly. 
 
 " Yes, that night," he said. 
 
 " That was the night when I first felt I really loved 
 you." 
 
 "And do you love me, Elinor?" he whispered. 
 
 " Love you ! How I have longed for this moment ! 
 and now I'm poor of words to tell you how deeply I 
 love you. I wonder if all people who love yearn as 
 I have yearned for you; and you have loved me all 
 
 this time, Gilbert !" 
 
 ******** 
 
 About ten o'clock the next morning Elinor, dressed 
 for the street, stood in Lexham's room with a neatly- 
 made parcel in her hands. It was the manuscript of 
 his novel. 
 
 " I shan't be long, Gilbert. I'm sure Jane Dalston 
 knows a good publisher. She'll give me a letter of 
 introduction, I know," Elinor said, as she went towards 
 the door. 
 
 "Will you never tire of doing so much for me?" 
 he asked, his eyes full of love. 
 
 She returned to him and put down the parcel. 
 
 " Gilbert, that is impossible. Tire of doing ser- 
 vices for you? All my life shall be devoted to you. 
 How happy I am! But there, I must be practical
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 203 
 
 for an hour or so, else I shan't catch Jane," she said 
 brightly, taking up the parcel. 
 
 " Let me go with you," he said, taking her again in 
 his arms and kissing her. 
 
 " No, dear ; I want to do this. You have done 
 
 your share in writing it." 
 
 ******** 
 
 When Elinor left Jane Dalston's house she had a 
 letter of introduction addressed to Mr. Adam Old- 
 castle, Washington Square, City.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 ELINOR noticed when she reached Oldcastle's house 
 that there were two entrances, one on Washington 
 Square, the other round the corner on a side street. It 
 was at the door of the former she stood and rang the 
 bell; it sounded like a knell foreboding catastrophe. 
 It was a mournful hollow sound that echoed through 
 the house and startled Elinor. She felt inclined to 
 turn and not deliver the letter of introduction. There 
 seemed to her to be something sinister about the house. 
 Its exterior had a neglected look, and the windows 
 were not warmly draped and curtained. An elderly; 
 servant opened the door. 
 
 "Is Mr. Oldcastle in?" Elinor asked. 
 
 "Yes. Will you come in, please?" 
 
 The servant showed her into a large room at the 
 back of the house. One window overlooked the gar- 
 den, another of stained glass was on the side street. 
 With all the glass the room was dark. There were 
 three doors, that by which she entered from the hall, 
 another which, perhaps, led to an inner room, then a 
 door, larger than the others, slightly ajar, which opened 
 on a passage on a flight of stairs. This Elinor thought 
 was the entrance from the side street. 
 
 After a few minutes passed a beautiful young girl 
 entered the room. 
 
 " Mrs. Kembleton, my grandfather is engaged, but 
 I don't think he will be long," she said in a soft, rich 
 voice, full of refinement and confidence. 
 204
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 205 
 
 " Oh, thank you ; I'll wait if you don't mind," 
 Elinor said. 
 
 " Please wait I looked at the note from Miss Dais- 
 ton. I attend to much of grandfather's business. I'm 
 sure he will be glad to see you." 
 
 They sat for several minutes chatting and admiring 
 each other. Elinor thought she had never met so 
 sweet a girl, and Alice was ready to proclaim Elinor 
 the most charming woman it had been her lot to know. 
 
 When Adam Oldcastle entered the room Elinor and 
 Alice were thoroughly enjoying each other's company. 
 
 " Grandfather, Mrs. Kembleton has been so patient 
 you must do all you can to grant Miss Dalston's re- 
 quest," Alice said, pushing a large chair for her grand- 
 father near Elinor. 
 
 " I shall be glad to do anything for an old friend of 
 Jane Dalston's. How is she?" Oldcastle asked. 
 
 " Very well, but busier than usual," Elinor replied. 
 
 " We seldom see her now, very seldom," the old 
 publisher said, " and we are great home people, Alice 
 and I. What is the novel for which you wish to find 
 a publisher?" 
 
 " It is a novel based on the American experiences 
 of a young Englishman," Elinor began. 
 
 "Ah, that should be interesting," Oldcastle re- 
 marked. 
 
 " It is written by Mr. Lexham, the author of ' The 
 Fame of Fools/ a piece now being played at one of 
 the theatres." 
 
 " Indeed ! I've not been in a theatre since Macready 
 played here a good many years ago. Now let me see, 
 yes. There is George Blackston. Alice, my child,
 
 206 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 bring pen and paper; we'll give Mrs. Kembleton a 
 letter to George Blackston." 
 
 Alice was not long gone. She drew a chair up to 
 the table and prepared to write. 
 
 " What should we say, grandfather ?" Alice asked. 
 
 " Oh, I'll write the letter, Alice. My age is no ex- 
 cuse for lack of gallantry. Dear me, how dark it is! 
 Where are my glasses, child?" 
 
 Alice found his spectacles, and then with Elinor she 
 withdrew to the window. The room which at first 
 seemed gloomy to Elinor now had quite another aspect. 
 Alice's sweet presence had brought something of spring 
 into the cheerless apartment, which was unaccountably 
 changed. The kind old man at the table writing added 
 immeasurably to the transformation which had taken 
 place. 
 
 " Here, Mrs. Kembleton, is a letter to my friend, 
 George Blackston. He will read your manuscript, 
 I'm sure," Oldcastle said, handing Elinor the intro- 
 duction. 
 
 " How good of you to be so kind to a stranger !" 
 Elinor said. 
 
 " No friend of Jane Dalston's is a stranger after 
 we have once met. Good-bye and good luck to you," 
 he said, taking her hand and giving it a hearty shake. 
 
 " Do come again, Mrs. Kembleton. Don't be afraid 
 of our solemn-looking old house," Alice said, accom- 
 panying Elinor to the door. 
 
 With the parcel tucked closely under her arm, Eli- 
 nor, far happier than she was when she entered Old- 
 castle's house, walked briskly towards Astor Place. 
 Her interview with Mr. Blackston was short. He was
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 207, 
 
 kind to her, and readily accepted the manuscript, which 
 he promised to read at once. She was surprised when 
 he told her that he had twice seen Lexham's play, and 
 that the book should be published while the author's 
 name was in the public's mind. When she left him she 
 was not really sure whether he had accepted the manu- 
 script, unread, for publication or not. 
 
 She hastened home, and found the author not in the 
 least eager to hear what success she had met with. 
 He was dressed for the street. 
 
 " Well, Gilbert, I must say you are a cool fellow. 
 Don't you care whether I've lost your manuscript or 
 found a publisher for it?" 
 
 "I don't know, dear. What would it matter? I 
 know it could now be written ten times better." 
 
 " Oh, indeed ! Well, you silly coward, I don't think 
 you'll have the chance of rewriting it. It's with Mr. 
 Blackston, and I think he has half made up his mind 
 to take it." 
 
 " What ! Ah, you're joking. He wouldn't be such 
 a fool. He'll think differently when he has read it. 
 But you are the kindest of all dear friends, Elinor." 
 
 " Is that all ? No, no, Gilbert, dear, I didn't mean 
 that." 
 
 His devotion and gratitude were too great and deep 
 for him to show any demonstrative love. She felt 
 this, and because of it she tried to laugh him out of 
 his serious manner. She thought he would never ap- 
 proach her without a loving glance of invitation. When 
 his arms were about her, his embrace was at once so 
 strong and so tender that she could not but think he 
 was under some restraint. He was. Each time he
 
 208 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 kissed her he felt under an eternal obligation to her. 
 Many times during the day he was on the point of tell- 
 ing her all this, but the same feeling kept him silent, for 
 he knew there was no real reason for it. 
 
 She was so happy, demonstrative, and impulsive. 
 His was a joy too deep for words and show. 
 
 They left the house and walked as far as Central 
 Park. They had reached a rocky place on a hill which 
 overlooked a small lake at the northern extremity of 
 the Park. It was Lexham's favourite spot. There 
 was a bench half-hidden in a recess under a ledge, 
 and at this place he thought of resting for a few 
 minutes. When he looked into the little cave where 
 the bench was, he saw a young man stretched out on 
 it. The man had evidently been asleep. He yawned 
 as he stared at Lexham, who thought he knew the 
 fellow. But something pitiable in the appearance of 
 the man led Lexham to believe he needed more than 
 recognition, real charity and care. In that moment 
 the one forgot to identify the other. To Lexham the 
 case was an obvious one. The man looked ill and 
 hungry. Elinor stood aloof. 
 
 " Sorry I disturbed you," Lexham said. 
 
 " Not at all. Rather tired, must have fallen 
 asleep." 
 
 When he had heard the man's voice Lexham was 
 quite sure he knew him. But where he had met him 
 and what his name he could not recollect. 
 
 " I think I know you," Lexham remarked. 
 
 " Do you ? Perhaps so. Know a lot of people, but 
 not at present." 
 
 " I just wanted to have a look at my old seat. This
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 209 
 
 at one time was my favourite retreat when I was hun- 
 gry and tired." 
 
 " That so ? Not so bad for a rest, but the very 
 devil of a place to find a meal. The squirrels get all 
 the nuts." 
 
 " Have a bite with me ?" Lexham dropped into the 
 old way of speaking. 
 
 " No, thanks." 
 
 " Nice little restaurant just over there on the ave- 
 nue." 
 
 " You're kind, but mistaken ; I'm tired, not hungry." 
 
 " You understand, I've got it if you want it," Lex- 
 ham said, with a significant gesture and nod. " Five 
 be of any use to you?" 
 
 " No good to me at present. I don't crave food." 
 
 "Ah! Pity, that. Should like to fix up you for 
 a while. Good-bye." 
 
 Elinor looked in when she heard Lexham say 
 " Good-bye." 
 
 The man started when he looked at her face. Started 
 and passed his hand across his eyes. Looked again, 
 and seemed to recall in a way where he had seen her. 
 But some vague memory faded as it dawned, for he 
 shook his head and half-turned his back on her and 
 Lexham. They took the hint and left him to himself. 
 
 " Who was it?" she asked, when they had gone a 
 little way down the path. 
 
 " I'm sure I know him, Elinor, but I can't remember 
 his name or where I've seen him. Poor chap, I've a 
 good mind to go back and make him come with us to 
 a restaurant." 
 
 "Do you think he needs food?" 
 
 14
 
 210 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 " I'm afraid so. That night Cyril met me, a year 
 
 ago, in Guarini's dive " he stopped speaking and 
 
 stood still. " Drake !" he cried. " It was Drake." 
 
 " Drake," she repeated. 
 
 " Yes, Drake. I thought I knew his face and that 
 curt way of speaking. Wait, Elinor; sit down; I'll 
 run back." 
 
 " But are you sure, Gilbert ?" she asked, as he led 
 her to a seat. 
 
 " Yes, I'm sure. But, Drake or no Drake, the fellow 
 shall eat." 
 
 He ran back, but found the seat in the cave vacant. 
 He looked up and down the paths which branched 
 off in different directions but could see no one about. 
 Several times he called in a loud voice Drake's name, 
 but no reply came back. Deeply disappointed Lexham 
 returned to Elinor. 
 
 " I heard you calling," she said ; " couldn't you 
 find him, dear?" 
 
 " No ; he had disappeared." 
 
 " I should have liked to see him. Was he the Drake 
 you met that night at Guarini's?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Um ! He was our secretary years ago." 
 
 What had occurred that night when Lexham met 
 Gower and Drake in the restaurant was not now all 
 clear to him. He knew that something was said about 
 Elinor's late husband which Gower resented, but 
 what the import of it was he could not tell. Since 
 that New Year's night he had thought no more of the 
 strange meeting. His long illness and sudden change 
 to fortune had almost dissipated the memory of it.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 211 
 
 Elinor seldom thought of the past. In every way 
 she tried to avoid any reference to her husband. Those 
 years of her early married life were too full of painful 
 memories. Gower never spoke of the past, and Jane 
 Dalston at all times observed a strict silence. There 
 were no other people who knew much about Elinor's 
 history before she came at last to settle in America. 
 Lexham did not even know of her short career as a 
 singer. He had met Gower as a boy of twelve at a 
 public school in England, and afterwards he ran across 
 Elinor and him once in Dresden, when she had lost 
 her voice and Gower was studying the piano. 
 
 It was late that evening when they reached home. 
 Lexham sat with Elinor in her room till Gower came 
 in about eleven o'clock. He was excited and quite 
 radiant. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes sparkled 
 with delight. 
 
 "Ah, Lexham. Diva, I have great news. The New 
 England Opera Company has accepted the opera !" he 
 cried. 
 
 " The opera !" Lexham and Elinor looked in- 
 quiringly at each other. 
 
 " Yes. Didn't you know I had finished it? Oh, a 
 month ago. Played it to them to-day. Expect a jolly 
 big advance royalty out of them. And I'm to have 
 an orchestra of thirty-three." He rattled on, careless 
 of their surprise. 
 
 " Well, Gower, I congratulate you," Lexham said. 
 " But I didn't know you were going in for light opera. 
 I thought all your ideas and intentions lay in the direc- 
 tion of music-drama." 
 
 " So they do, but one must do something by the
 
 212 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 way of advertisement. Of course it is really opera- 
 comique. Quite after Bizet. The whole company said 
 it was fine, and all say it is sure to be a great success. 
 
 The finale of the second act is Come into my 
 
 room; I'll play it." 
 
 "No, Cyril; it is too late," Elinor said; "it is 
 nearly midnight." 
 
 " Oh, confound it ! of course one can never do any- 
 thing in this beastly morgue." 
 
 " Never mind. Let me hear it in the morning," 
 Lexham interposed. 
 
 Elinor's remark fell like a bucket of cold water on 
 Gower's enthusiasm. He thrust his hands into his 
 pockets and wandered about the room in a peevish fit. 
 She was just about to rise and congratulate him when 
 ne asked Lexham to go with him into his room to hear 
 the finale, but after his churlishness she sank again into 
 her chair and took no further notice of him. 
 
 " I've got some notes to make," he said, leaving the 
 room ; " good-night." 
 
 Since the visit to Mrs. Sefton's in the summer Gower 
 had merely looked in to see Elinor for a few moments 
 after breakfast. She had kept him fairly well sup- 
 plied with money, but he had not stopped to wonder 
 where she got it from. That he got some money was 
 quite sufficient. Whether she had succeeded in paying 
 her debts bothered him not a bit. 
 
 Elinor had saved a fairly large sum of money for 
 Lexham. She attended to all his business. They 
 had had several little quarrels about the general ex- 
 penses and payments, but she had always to submit 
 to his decision. Every week she insisted on him look-
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 213 
 
 mg at her books, which she kept with the care of an 
 experienced accountant. She could not understand his 
 contempt for money, and that he took little or no inter- 
 est in the fluctuation of his royalties was incomprehen- 
 sible to her. 
 
 One night he said, " You know, dear, I was so long 
 without more than enough to buy bread and mere 
 shelter that any appetite I might have had for money 
 has been destroyed. I don't really care what you do 
 with it. It is yours, Elinor. I am perfectly happy 
 without it. You know my wants are simple, but you 
 don't know the pleasure it gives me to think that you 
 
 have no more debts or worries of that kind." 
 ******** 
 
 Lexham's novel met with much favour from the 
 reviewers. He had struck a new and welcome note. 
 The construction and characterization were admirable. 
 He was surprised and delighted to find that the serious- 
 minded critics saw in his work a commendable subject 
 treated with earnestness and care, and that he had suc- 
 ceeded where many novelists of larger experience had 
 failed. Strange it was that not one review mentioned 
 what he feared was his great shortcoming, style. 
 
 By the time his book was published he had written 
 another play. " The Fame of Fools" was very suc- 
 cessful on tour in the large cities. It had had a run 
 of nearly six months in New York. His second play 
 was even a greater success than his first. Elinor was 
 saving quite a large sum of money for him. He kept 
 steadily at work, and at the end of the second year he 
 had completed his second novel. 
 
 Gower's opera had not been a success. It neither
 
 214 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 pleased the critics nor the public. He was deeply in 
 debt and bitterly disappointed. Of Mrs. Laird he had 
 seen little, for Mrs. Sefton had suffered from a severe 
 illness during the summer and her niece's plea for a 
 divorce had not been brought to a legal issue. 
 
 George Blackston, the publisher, had become one of 
 Lexham's best friends. They had met at Oldcastle's 
 house several times, and Alice was always eager to 
 hear Lexham speak of Elinor, whom she had not seen 
 since the day Elinor got from Oldcastle the letter 
 which introduced Lexham to the publisher of his 
 novels. 
 
 Lexham had lived in Mrs. Pollack's house for more 
 than two years, when one day Elinor told him that 
 their landlady had decided to sell out and leave New 
 York. 
 
 " I'm so sorry, Elinor," Lexham said ; " I suppose 
 it means we must look out for other rooms." 
 
 " I'm afraid so. These rooms. How I love them ! 
 The happiest hours of my life have been spent here. 
 That chair. Yes, it was in that chair you fell asleep 
 that New Year's night when my new life began. And, 
 Gilbert, the little room on the top floor, where you lay 
 so long. There where I fought death away from you. 
 And your room above. How dear they are! Shall 
 we be able to take with us from these rooms all the 
 memories the sight of the very furniture awakes ?" 
 
 " No, dear ; other rooms will seem cold and cheer- 
 less after these. What are we to do?" 
 
 " I don't know. Gilbert, I'm afraid of Cyril. He 
 hasn't spoken to me for three weeks. Can he have 
 guessed ?"
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 215 
 
 Her face was white and her lips trembled. 
 
 " Elinor, dearest, no," he cried, taking her in his 
 arms. 
 
 She had made no complaint nor had given any sign 
 of discouragement. Still, he could not but wonder 
 if Gower had said anything insinuating. He was so 
 sure that their secret was unknown that he was confi- 
 dent Cyril could not have even hinted at the truth. 
 
 " Gilbert, I've been so unhappy of late. Silly fears 
 have somehow possessed me, and, besides, I can't recon- 
 cile myself that our love will be for the best. I am 
 many years older than you, and " 
 
 " I shan't listen, dear," he said ; " in appearance 
 and spirit you are years younger than I am. Elinor, 
 be my wife, if that will solve the difficulty. Let us 
 go to the registrar's office. I'm sure, dear, you will 
 not be happy till we marry. You have unfortunately 
 heard me speak ill of marriage, and you imagine that 
 I do not approve of it. Dearest, you were never so 
 mistaken. It is true, I've seen enough dreadful im- 
 morality practised under the cloak of Christian mar- 
 riage to make one almost detest the name of that cere- 
 mony." 
 
 " It is no use, Gilbert," she said, " you will not 
 convince me that marriage would be the wise solution 
 of our difficulty. I shall not marry you, so don't speak 
 of it again." 
 
 " But do you think I can be so selfish as to see you 
 become unhappier. Surely my life is entirely yours. 
 What can you possibly fear in marrying me?" 
 
 " Fear ! Myself. No, Gilbert, you are far too chiv- 
 alrous to think only of your own happiness. You
 
 2i6 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 laugh at me when I mention my age, and believe me, 
 I do not doubt your love, but oh! how I should hate 
 myself when age's cruel marks would show you an 
 old wife long before you would reach the prime of 
 life ! It is no use. Don't say any more. I shall soon 
 get over this squeamishness. I'm out of sorts to-day. 
 Mrs. Pollack's news has quite upset me." 
 
 " Elinor, what law can make you any more my wife 
 than you are now ? Yet, I will do anything you wish. 
 There is no happiness for me when you are sad. But, 
 come, we shall get quite morbid if we let such matters 
 worry us unnecessarily." 
 
 That night at Oldcastle's house Lexham casually 
 mentioned that he would soon have to look out for 
 new rooms. He noticed Alice's quick look and her 
 grandfather's pleasant surprise on hearing him refer 
 to Mrs. Pollack's wish to give up her house. During 
 the evening Oldcastle had an opportunity of speaking 
 to Lexham. 
 
 " It is strange/' he said, " but we decided this morn- 
 ing to let some rooms we have. You know this was 
 at one time two houses. Well, those rooms on that 
 side of the house have an entrance from the side street, 
 and they would make excellent apartments for a bach- 
 elor." 
 
 " May I look at them ?" Lexham asked. 
 
 " Yes, of course ; you have never seen them. 
 Come." 
 
 Oldcastle led the way across the spacious hall to 
 the room in which Elinor had her interview with 
 Alice and her grandfather. 
 
 " This fs a fine old room, Lexham," Oldcastle said ;
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 217 
 
 " of course, the draperies and furniture are old. Then 
 this room," opening a door near the large fireplace, 
 " could be used for a bedroom. There is a bath-room 
 beyond. That door over there opens on to a stair- 
 case which leads down to the entrance on the side 
 street. We seldom use the rooms above these, so you 
 could feel as if you were in your own house. Absolute 
 privacy." 
 
 " Yes, I like the rooms," Lexham remarked. 
 
 " You see this house is much too large for two sucri 
 stay-at-homes. Alice has prevailed on me to let them. 
 I should be delighted to have you here." 
 
 " It is very good of you, Mr. Oldcastle. I'll let 
 you know some time to-morrow." 
 
 " Oh, there is not the least cause to decide at once. 
 No one shall see them till you make up your mind, 
 depend on it." 
 
 The next day Lexham took Elinor to Oldcastle's 
 to show her properly over the rooms. 
 
 " Yes," she said, " I'm sure these will suit you, Gil- 
 bert. The neighbourhood is convenient and quiet. 
 Just far enough away from the hideous and noisy 
 Elevated Railroad. I should take them." 
 
 " Very well, dear ; I'm glad you like them. I'll 
 write a note to Mr. Oldcastle and ask when I can have 
 them." 
 
 " But you must have them done up. Properly 
 painted, papered, and furnished. Suppose we go over 
 to Hert's and look at some furniture and make inquiry 
 about the cost. Come, let us go." 
 
 Lexham let Elinor have her way. The rooms were 
 beautifully decorated and the furniture well chosen.
 
 2i8 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 The cost was heavy, but she had arranged the whole 
 scheme and he was satisfied. 
 
 Elinor had taken a suite of rooms in a large house 
 near where Mrs. Pollack had lived. Lexham wished 
 her to have her apartments furnished by Hert's, but 
 she would not consent to the proposal. Her new place 
 was in every way far superior to Mrs. Pollack's. She 
 had a large drawing-room and bedroom, and at the 
 back of the house Gower had a much better room than 
 the one in which he had composed his first opera. 
 
 By the time they were settled in their new quarters 
 the change had cost Lexham quite four thousand dol- 
 lars. Then a period of inaction followed. Elinor had 
 become reconciled to her new lot, Gower was pestered 
 by creditors and could not work, and Lexham could not 
 fix on a subject for his next novel. Short stories and 
 magazine articles he would not write. Week after 
 week passed and still he was at a loss for a subject. 
 When alone he suffered from fits of deep dejection. 
 Something began to weigh heavily upon him. He 
 could not understand the inertia. " The Fame of 
 Fools" had run its course. His other plays were on 
 the wane. His novels for some unaccountable reason 
 no longer sold in large quantities. Blackston had seen 
 him several times about a new book, but failed to get 
 him to work. But all this he kept from Elinor. She 
 did not notice his dejection. His love for her was, 
 if anything, deeper and stronger than before. Still, 
 he suffered from a mental depression which was alarm- 
 ing because of its lack of cause. He would sit for 
 hours pen in hand at his desk without writing a line. 
 He became alarmed.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 219 
 
 The summer came and brought Mrs. Laird and her 
 aunt to New York. Gower's pleasure was quite spoiled 
 by his desperate straits. For two days he roamed 
 about with Mrs. Laird, but, owing to his empty pockets, 
 he could not entertain or take her about as he wished. 
 He had expected Mrs. Sefton to resume the piano les- 
 sons, but for some unknown reason the dear old lady 
 did not broach the subject. 
 
 One night late he went to Lexham, determined to tell 
 him all his troubles and ask for a loan large enough 
 to stop the appeals and threats of his creditors. He 
 reached the door in the side street and rang twice, but 
 no one came to let him in. He looked at his watch. 
 It was close on midnight, but he had called many times 
 before at a later hour. From the street he could see 
 that Lexham's rooms were lighted. He rang again, 
 and waited on the steps for a few minutes. A sigh of 
 relief escaped him as he heard someone approach and 
 unlatch the door. It was Lexham. 
 
 " Gower !" The caller could not help but notice the 
 other's surprise. 
 
 " Yes. Hullo, Lexham. Should like to see you for 
 a few moments." 
 
 " Come in." 
 
 As they ascended the short flight of stairs which 
 led to the door of Lexham's sitting-room Gower 
 thought Lexham spoke in a voice unnecessarily loud, 
 and also spoke his name, on which he put great stress, 
 too often. When they entered the room Lexham 
 crossed to his bedroom door, and as he closed it he 
 said, " Sit down, Gower." 
 
 There was an awkward pause before either spoke.
 
 220 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 Gower was sure he had called at an unpropitious time, 
 and the sense of this seemed to discount the importance 
 of his visit. 
 
 " What can I do for you ?" Lexham volunteered. 
 
 " Well, the fact is, I'm dreadfully hard up and 
 pressed for money," Gower replied in rather a loud 
 voice. 
 
 " Hard up, eh ? How much money will help you 
 out of your difficulty?" Lexham asked, now speak- 
 ing in a lower tone. 
 
 " How much ? Phew ! That's more than I care 
 to know. It's bad enough to see the amounts sepa- 
 rately, I've not dreamed of adding them all together," 
 Gower exclaimed, with some force. 
 
 " Ssh ! Don't speak so loud," Lexham said. 
 
 "Why? What's the matter? I thought the Old- 
 castles didn't use this wing." 
 
 " They don't, as a rule, but someone may be in the 
 rooms above. Have you no idea how much money 
 you owe?" 
 
 Gower was silent for some moments, being in the 
 throes of mental calculations. 
 
 " Would two or three hundred dollars cover your 
 debts?" Lexham suggested. 
 
 " Two or three hundred ? I wish they could," he 
 almost shouted. 
 
 "Five hundred?" 
 
 " Five hundred would set me straight for a while." 
 
 " Will to-morrow do ?" Lexham asked, with a sigK 
 of relief. 
 
 " Yes ; I shall be so much obliged. You are a briclc, 
 Lexham."
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 221 
 
 " I'll send you a cheque in the morning." 
 
 Gower forgot Lexham's warning about speaking in 
 a loud voice. He went to the sideboard and helped 
 himself to a drink, took a cigar and lighted it, threw 
 himself into a chair, and, to Lexham's surprise, made 
 himself comfortable for a chat. 
 
 " I say, don't you let Diva know anything about this, 
 will you? She is so funny," said Gower. 
 
 "Is she?" Lexham looked at his watch. "I'm 
 afraid I can't ask you to stay, Gower. It is late and 
 I have several letters to write." 
 
 "Oh, all right. But you'll let me have that to- 
 morrow morning? It is good of you. I'll send you 
 an I. O. U." 
 
 " Very well. Good-night." He went down to the 
 street door with Gower to see him out. 
 
 " I say, Lexham, it is good of you, but I wouldn't 
 have bothered you to-night if I had guessed you were 
 engaged. You might have given me a hint. Good- 
 night." 
 
 With a heavy heart Lexham went back to his room. 
 Everything seemed to be fighting against him. He 
 remembered the peculiar smile on Gower's lips as he 
 left him. He opened his bedroom door, looked in and 
 said, " He's gone." 
 
 Elinor's face was stern and set. She came out and 
 drew a chair up to the fire, leaned her head upon her 
 hands and gazed at the blazing coals. 
 
 " I'm so cold," she said ; " draw up a chair and sit 
 close, Gilbert," 
 
 " You know what he wanted ? You heard him ?" 
 he inquired.
 
 222 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 " Yes, I heard him. I'm so accustomed to every 
 sound of his voice that I can now hear it when he 
 whispers in another room. For years I lay awake at 
 night listening to his breathing. Think of all the love 
 of which I've been defrauded. Love that should have 
 been yours. But you'll not let him have the money, 
 Gilbert. He must not be your vulture. Much may 
 be wrong, but that I am sure would not be right." 
 
 " What does it matter? Let him have it," he said. 
 " I am so sick of money. We were far happier in the 
 old rooms before the money came." She was stung 
 by the sadness in his tone. 
 
 "Oh, don't say that, Gilbert. I shall kill myself 
 if I imagined you were less happy. What can we do ? 
 We need some new excitement. We have been too 
 much alone. I have taken up too much of your time. 
 Gilbert, do go out. Meet people. Let me get some 
 cheerful people together once or twice a week. Yes, 
 I see, it is all my fault. What can I do? Suppose 
 you are tiring of me and you are not really aware 
 of it." 
 
 " Elinor ! Tiring of you ! If it were not for you 
 I should give it all up and go back to the old life. 
 Something has been crushed out of me, or some taint, 
 some strange woe afflicts me. I care nothing for suc- 
 cess. Has it come too late, or am I harassed by a 
 mere chimera? I thought I knew myself, but this 
 strange phase I can't understand. I've always stinted 
 myself of real joy, but I was never discontented, Elinor. 
 Something now exists which troubles me. It is very 
 stupid of me, but I can't help myself. I'm disgusted 
 with the work I've done. I want to do something
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 223 
 
 worth while, but I don't know how. It's not for want 
 of inclination; then it must be lack of confidence and 
 ability." 
 
 She was grieved and pained to hear him admit so 
 much. 
 
 " I would give anything I possess to know what 
 troubles you, Gilbert. How small a thing a great love 
 seems when the world pushes its cruel elbow in be- 
 tween ! What one has suffered, all one has starved for, 
 is set down as nothing the moment the ethics of con- 
 vention are opposed. I feel that you would be a little 
 happier for a few years if I were to marry you, dear, 
 but for so few. It is wiser not. I don't care, Gil- 
 bert; let us forget everything but the peace and love 
 which must be ours for a little time. I shall know 
 when to leave you. When I have lost the charm of 
 pleasing you the wrench then will not much matter. 
 I shall have loved and known the fellowship which will 
 suffice to bear me cheerfully down the years of cruel 
 change and withering age. I ask for all my due. 
 No more." 
 
 There was no hysteria, no exaggerated sentiment in 
 her tone. Only a deep seriousness. A pathetically 
 simple note which seemed to mingle with her hopes 
 of joy and fears of loss. He was acutely stirred, for 
 in her yearnings and fears there was an echo of all 
 he was then suffering. He had been deprived of so 
 much for which he craved so long; then when his 
 longing was realised, he found it but a momentary joy 
 and in no way a recompense adequate to the years of 
 desire. Would she so find the fulfilment of all her 
 fond hopes ?
 
 224 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 " Forgive me, Elinor. I did not intend to let you 
 know how depressed I've been. I'm a fool, but I must 
 do something better than I've done. The very popu- 
 larity of my books and plays has convinced me of their 
 shallowness. If I don't succeed in doing better work 
 in my next novel I shall not attempt to write another 
 line."
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 FOR several months, nearly a year, Lexham worked 
 hard on his novel, which was to prove whether he 
 should continue his career in literature or renounce 
 it for good. Elinor had succeeded in interesting him 
 in people, and it was owing mainly to her weekly gath- 
 erings of men and women who had made names in 
 different fields of art that Mrs. Sefton gave her the 
 sobriquet of Madame Bohemia. 
 
 Elinor had set aside all her ideas of simple dress. 
 Since Mrs. Laird and her aunt had taken rooms in a 
 private hotel with a view of staying in New York 
 for an indefinite period, she had seen Gertrude Laird 
 often. 
 
 One night after her guests had gone Elinor men- 
 tioned the subject of dress to Lexham. She did not 
 refer to herself. In questioning him she was quite 
 impersonal, and drew from him many remarks which 
 in no way applied to her case. But her heart was 
 wounded and her mind alive to catch any suggestion. 
 She learned that he had admired Gertrude Laird's 
 gown, and that he thought jewels looked very well 
 on her fair neck. 
 
 Gowns and jewelry were purchased regardless of 
 the bank account, which had suffered severely from 
 their new mode of life, but Elinor did not know that 
 his royalties had fallen as rapidly almost as they Had 
 risen. The thought never really crossed her mind 
 
 is 225
 
 226 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 that they had become entirely dependent on the money 
 which she had banked for him. She imagined that he 
 still received moneys from different sources, particu- 
 larly from the sale of his books ; she did not know they 
 now sold in units where they had sold in tens. But 
 once her pride was assailed and her appearance by 
 contrast jeopardised, she would have spent their last 
 dollar on herself in order to charm him. She now 
 seemed to live on the admiration expressed in his 
 glance. Sometimes she passed through a purgatory 
 of fear. Her glass became her horologe. 
 
 To her delight she thought she found him sensible 
 of the change. She redeemed her old jewelry, but 
 it seemed lustreless and out of fashion when she com- 
 pared it to Gertrude Laird's. She wore some of her 
 own trinkets, rings, and a necklet once, then she locked 
 them up, put them aside, as things out of date and not 
 fit to wear. One day when out with him she stopped 
 before a jeweller's window and admired a necklet and 
 pendant. She was startled and amazed at her action 
 when he asked her if she would like it. She threatened 
 to run away if he went into the shop to buy it. But 
 a week later she wore it. 
 
 Lexham's thousands had dwindled to hundreds. On 
 himself he spent very little. His rooms at Oldcastle's 
 did not cost much for rent. He seemed to feel happier, 
 brighter, as the money grew less and less. And she 
 with all her efforts to please him grew more and more 
 alarmed. She was conscious of the fast approaching 
 years. 
 
 Lexham spent many bright hours with the Old- 
 castles. Alice and her grandfather did not wait for
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 227 
 
 an invitation to visit him. Often when he was alone 
 one or the other would tap on his door and walk in. 
 He often looked for the charming girl and kind old 
 man to break in and relieve the tedium of a long day. 
 Elinor had made it a hard and fast rule not to inter- 
 rupt him during certain hours of the day when she 
 supposed him to be at work. The Oldcastles had given 
 up the larger part of their house in which they lived 
 when Lexham first went there. The rooms above 
 Lexham's had been fitted up for them, and they found 
 them quite large enough for their needs. 
 
 One morning Oldcastle said to him, " I was offered 
 a good rent for the larger part of the house, and as I 
 feel my body will soon require so little space and my 
 soul so much, I thought it wise for Alice's sake to 
 accept the offer. I want to be sure when I am taken 
 from her that she will have enough. Dear child ! Gil- 
 bert, when I go she will be left without a relation. 
 But I have no fears of her future. None. She is 
 both wise and pure. I have watched her since she 
 first lay on her mother's breast, a helpless, fatherless 
 baby." 
 
 " Her father died before she was born ?" Lex- 
 ham murmured, deeply moved by the old man's re- 
 marks. 
 
 " Yes. Good-morning, Gilbert. I shall go out and 
 sit in the square. What a day it is ! Spring speeding 
 winter away and welcoming summer." 
 
 Lexham thought Oldcastle winced when he men- 
 tioned Alice's father. The old man rose abruptly and 
 spoke in a voice shaken by an emotion perhaps caused, 
 Lexham thought, by his reference to his own taking
 
 228 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 off. In a glass on his desk were narcissus and jon- 
 quils arranged as only one having the throb of spring 
 in the heart can arrange such flowers. Alice had that 
 morning spent some time in his room while he was 
 out; and in it she had not only left the tokens of 
 spring but something of her own sweet self. He was 
 not conscious of her charm. He felt her influence 
 only in a vague way, as one is conscious of the morn! 
 before the sun has risen. Lexham realised a great 
 change in himself had taken place since he had been 
 at work on the novel which was to decide so much. 
 It was his third book. He had on his desk two un- 
 finished plays, but these of late had been neglected. 
 Though he had lived with the Oldcastles for not more 
 than twelve months, their friendship had ripened so 
 gradually that he did not notice how intimate they had 
 become. Besides, he was too occupied to reflect on 
 that point. He did not stop to wonder what had been 
 the cause of his mental change. He would not have 
 known to what cause it should be attributed. 
 
 Many peculiar changes had taken place before his 
 book was finished. Alice had asked no more questions 
 about Elinor. Oldcastle never referred to her. But 
 
 Lexham was not aware of all this. 
 
 ******** 
 
 Lexham Had been spending several mornings watch- 
 ing the proceedings at the Tombs Police Court. He 
 was in want of some detail for a court scene in his 
 novel. One spring morning when he was paying more 
 attention to the spectators than the wretched creatures 
 brought before the judge, a detective whom he knew 
 came up to him and said, " Mr. Lexham, would you
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 229 
 
 like to have a look at Julius, the coon what cut that 
 woman up last week?" 
 
 " Is he to be brought here ?" Lexham asked, remem- 
 bering a startling account he had read of a murder 
 committed by a negro. 
 
 "Yes; come with me, sir; they'll fetch him up 
 to the little waiting-room before they take him into 
 court." 
 
 The detective led the way to a small room at the 
 back of the court where several reporters and court 
 officials were waiting. The conversation was all about 
 the man whom they were eager to see. After Lexham 
 had been in the room a few minutes he had heard 
 enough of the frightful details of the crime to make 
 him sorry he had been persuaded to follow the detec- 
 tive. Through the dirty window Lexham saw a crowd 
 gather outside the court-house. A few moments 
 passed, when suddenly two stalwart officers in plain 
 clothes marched in. Between them, handcuffed, was 
 the murderer Julius. Lexham expected to see a giant, 
 full of bravado and ready to fight, or do anything in 
 his extremity. Julius was not anything like what he 
 had pictured him. The negro was about the medium 
 height, a wiry, loose-built man, whose long arms 
 seemed too heavy for his narrow, sloping shoulders. 
 His eyes were full of fear. Abject misery covered 
 him as he stood trembling, fidgeting, throwing startled 
 glances from right to left, searching every face in the 
 small murky room for a look of pity. A portly man 
 of fifty-five or sixty entered and walked up to Julius. 
 The newcomer was Lawyer Dowe. Jewels flashed 
 from rings upon his hands, jewels flashed from pin
 
 230 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 and studs in his tie and shirt. He was a famous crim- 
 inal lawyer. 
 
 " You know nothing, see ? Don't talk. Refuse to 
 answer any questions," said the lawyer. 
 
 The murderer's tongue had turned to lead; his lips 
 moved, but neither word nor sound was heard. He 
 was hustled before the judge and soon examined. The 
 crowd crushed forward, breathless to catch a syllable 
 from the craven's lips. Dowe stood at his side and 
 advised him when to speak and what to say. In painful 
 whispers he replied. A question was asked and some- 
 one made a foolish comment. The spectators laughed, 
 and Julius was hustled away to wait his trial. 
 
 Lexham's heart and mind were in a tumult. He 
 hardly knew why. The frightful scene had shocked 
 him. The contrasts were too severe. He sank upon 
 a bench quite unnerved, unstrung. The important 
 scene of the day was over and the stinking court was 
 emptied of half its crowd. The air was unwholesome. 
 The day was murky. He remembered hearing a voice 
 say, " What's your name?" and another voice replied, 
 " Richard Drake." 
 
 Lexham arose and pushed forward. There before 
 the judge stood Drake. A smile was on his thin, wan 
 face and his eyes sparkled with a lustre strange and 
 fierce. Lexham was stunned. Before he could real- 
 ise what was really taking place Drake was sentenced 
 and hustled away. 
 
 " No, no !" Lexham cried, his soul in a tempest 
 and his mind distracted. 
 
 " Silence !" an uncouth voice shouted. It came like 
 a snarl from a hungry hound fearful of losing a bone.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 231 
 
 " What's the matter, Mr. Lexham ?" asked the de- 
 tective who had persuaded him to see Julius. 
 
 " That man, Richard Drake, I know him. What 
 has he done?" 
 
 " Oh, nothing much. Drunk and disorderly ; some- 
 thing of that sort." 
 
 " Is there a fine ? What shall I do ? Can anything 
 be done?" 
 
 " Sure. You don't want him to be sent to the 
 Island?" 
 
 " No, no ! Here, if there's the alternative of a fine 
 pay it, will you?" Lexham said in haste, handing the 
 detective some money. 
 
 "All right ; but you heard what he said to the judge, 
 ' No, nothing to say. Hurry up, please.' Please, 
 mind you. A kind of polite 'un, eh?" 
 
 After a few minutes the detective returned to Lex- 
 ham and asked him to follow. The fine was paid and 
 Drake liberated. In half an hour the two who had 
 met three times only and in such strange ways were 
 alone face to face in Lexham's rooms. 
 
 " Sit down, Drake. These are my rooms. Make 
 yourself comfortable," Lexham said, going to his desk, 
 where he wrote a note to Alice asking her to send 
 down some hot food. 
 
 " What were you doing at the Tombs, eh?" Drake 
 asked. 
 
 " Having a look round. After some detail and char- 
 acter," Lexham replied. 
 
 " Oh, yes, you're doing novels and plays. You must 
 do them quite to the public's taste by the look of your 
 rooms," Drake yawned.
 
 232 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 " Are you tired ? Would you like a sleep ?" 
 
 " Yes, I should. Deuce of a place to spend a night 
 where I've been since yesterday. Brandy, I suppose. 
 The fellow next to me would sing, and a woman down 
 the corridor laughed and swore all night. I owe you 
 ten dollars. Can't pay you." 
 
 " Don't speak of it, Drake. Please sit down. Rest 
 for a while." 
 
 " Oh, I'm all right. What's the good of wasting 
 your time ?" 
 
 "No fear of that. No, don't go. Wait a bit. 
 iWould you like a wash?" 
 
 " I'd like nothing better." 
 
 " Come with me," said Lexham. 
 
 He took Drake to the bath-room, and at length pre- 
 vailed on him to accept some clean clothes. When 
 Lexham left Drake in the bedroom and returned to the 
 sitting-room he found Alice there laying a table. 
 
 " Miss Oldcastle, I've found a friend who is not 
 well off, in fact, he has been ill and had much trouble," 
 said Lexham. " Do you think I could have that little 
 room at the end of the hall fitted up as a bedroom for 
 my friend?" 
 
 " Yes, of course. But you know it was a pantry. 
 The shelves could be taken down," Alice said. 
 
 " How good of you ! Is your grandfather, busy ? 
 Could I see him for a few minutes?" 
 
 " Yes ; I think he is coming down to go out for a 
 walk." 
 
 " I want to explain some things to him before he 
 gives his consent. Will you ask him to look in here 
 before he goes out?"
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 233 
 
 " I'll tell him now. I'm having some chops grilled. 
 Would you like some soup?" she asked. 
 
 " Please ! Soup will do him much good." 
 
 Lexham had planned it all out. He would tell Old- 
 castle the little he knew about Drake, and if the old 
 gentleman approved of his scheme he would persuade 
 Drake to live with him. 
 
 " Well, Gilbert, what's the matter?" Oldcastle asked 
 as he came in. 
 
 "I want to ask you if you will permit me to look 
 after a friend who has no money. Miss Oldcastle has 
 perhaps told you what I said about the pantry down 
 the passage. The man I want the room for has reached 
 an irresponsible stage through misfortune and drink. 
 He is never noisy, I think. Care and comfort are very 
 necessary. I don't know much about him, but I do 
 want to feel that he'll not go from bad to worse 
 through any want of action on my part." 
 
 " Dear me, what a fuss about nothing, a box of 
 a room! Of course you may have it. Do you think 
 we are Pharisees?" 
 
 " But I'm afraid he drinks ; sometimes he has fits 
 of lunacy." 
 
 " Want of care, perhaps. Let us see what we can do 
 for him." 
 
 " George Blackston's man, Windham, knows some- 
 thing of his history. I've met Drake, that is my 
 friend's name, only three times. This morning I found 
 him in a police court. He was charged with being 
 drunk and disorderly. I paid his fine and brought him 
 here." 
 
 " Poor fellow ! You did well, Gilbert, and I "
 
 234 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 " Ah, Mr. Oldcastle, more than that has been done 
 for me. I'm extremely obliged to you. Drake can 
 sleep to-night on the big sofa in my room. I'll go 
 out this afternoon and buy a few things for his room, 
 so that he can sleep there to-morrow night." 
 
 " Don't do that till you see Alice. She may have 
 some furniture which will do. Well, I must go. The 
 sun has been a niggard for the past two or three days. 
 Come up, if you have an hour to spare to-night, and 
 have a game of chess and smoke a pipe." 
 
 After Drake had had some food, of which he did 
 not eat much, Lexham was glad to find him more cheer- 
 ful and inclined to talk. 
 
 " I suppose you have no work at present, have you, 
 Drake?" 
 
 " No. Had none, to speak of, for a deuce of a time. 
 You remember that day you saw me in the Park? 
 Well, I had been working in an estate agent's office. 
 Couldn't keep straight, though. He was a bit of a 
 tippler himself. Unfortunately, the two of us got 
 drunk on the same day and some business slipped out 
 of his hands. He lost a big commission and I lost 
 my job. It's no use. Don't suppose it matters much. 
 I used to suffer from a keen sense of disgust and re- 
 pentance after a debauch, but not now. I'm all wrong, 
 Lexham. No one appreciates temperance so much as 
 I do. Why, only a year ago I wrote four lectures on 
 ' Drunkenness, its Cause and Effect/ and I've since 
 heard half a dozen humbugs deliver my lectures with 
 fine effect. Introduced myself to one lecturer and 
 told him I was the author of his oration. He spurned 
 me, but when I reminded him of one or two omissions
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 235 
 
 he had indiscreetly made in the lecture, he offered me 
 twenty dollars to write him one on * Liars, Political 
 and Commercial.' But I had no sympathy with the 
 subject." He was silent for a little while. " I'm 
 taking up your time." 
 
 " No, no," said Lexham ; " sit down or go in there 
 and have a sleep. Turn into my bed for an hour or 
 two." 
 
 " May I ask you why you're taking this interest in 
 me?" Drake inquired. " Why did you pay the fine? 
 I might as well be honest with you, your kindness only 
 defers the end. The desire for drink is in my blood. 
 I've made a profound study of my case. There is no 
 hope." 
 
 " I think there is hope, Drake," said Lexham, with 
 emphasis, " and if you'll stay with me awhile and 
 give yourself a chance you'll find I'm right." A soft 
 expression came over Drake's face and a smile some- 
 thing like gratitude lingered round his mouth. " There 
 is a little room down the passage out there which I'll 
 have fixed up for you if you'll consent to stay. Come, 
 now, what do you say?" 
 
 " What is there to say ? I'll do it if you wish, Lex- 
 ham, but I'm sure you'll soon get as disgusted with 
 me as I am with with myself. It's mighty good of 
 you." 
 
 " Well, show me you mean what you say by going 
 in there and taking a rest." 
 
 "All right. I am tired," said Drake, thrusting his 
 hand into Lexham's. 
 
 When he went up to see Alice about the furnishing 
 of the little room, he found she had quite enough in
 
 236 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 the storeroom to make the place comfortable for Drake. 
 She had sent for a carpenter to remove the shelves and 
 a paper-hanger and painter to make the room fresh 
 and bright. Drake slept till eight o'clock in the even- 
 ing, when he arose and dressed. Lexham sent a note 
 to Elinor telling her he would not be at home till late, 
 but that he would call on her about eleven. 
 
 When he saw Elinor he was at a loss to know how 
 he should explain why he had taken Drake to live with 
 him. That she showed no displeasure when he did 
 tell her surprised him. 
 
 For six months Drake lived an exemplary life. The 
 Oldcastles learned to like him. He had won their 
 sympathy. For Lexham he would have done anything. 
 Though he felt incapable of working, he never tired 
 of doing work for Lexham, who seemed to understand 
 why he had no desire to get employment on a paper. 
 Blackston had offered to give him some light work in 
 his office, but Drake showed no inclination to accept 
 it when Lexham mentioned the matter. There were 
 no temptations when alone with Lexham. He was 
 afraid of being so many hours a day away from those 
 whom he respected. 
 
 One February afternoon, when Lexham was hard at 
 work on his third book, Gower called. He had not 
 seen him alone since he had received the cheque for 
 the five hundred dollars he had borrowed. 
 
 " I'm in trouble again, Lexham," said Gower, " and 
 this time it is serious. I want to go to Chicago 
 and see an opera company about my new work, but 
 I can't raise money enough to take me there and 
 back."
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 237 
 
 " Urn ! That's a pity," said Lexham. " Can't you 
 get them to pay your expenses." 
 
 " No, I'm going on ' spec' ; but I have good reason 
 to think they will take the work. They want an opera 
 for the New York season. Can you lend me a hun- 
 dred?" 
 
 "I can't." 
 
 " Can't !" Gower exclaimed, in a tone of unbelief. 
 
 "No; I haven't got so much." Lexham did not 
 really know how much was left. 
 
 " Phew !" There was a sly expression of incredulity 
 on Gower's face. 
 
 " I've not drawn a single royalty for four months. 
 My plays are on the shelf and my books have had their 
 day," Lexham explained. 
 
 " But what the deuce have you done with it all ? 
 Why, you were drawing quite one thousand dollars a 
 week well, not two years ago." 
 
 " So much as that, was it?" Lexham said, annoyed 
 and a little disgusted. 
 
 "Then I can't go to Chicago, eh?" Gower mut- 
 tered. 
 
 " Not if you depend on me to pay your expenses." 
 
 " But I don't know what I shall do. You see we 
 need money pretty badly. Diva hasn't got any." 
 
 " Have you asked her for money?" 
 
 " No ; what's the good ? But I know she has had 
 several rows with the landlady about rent." 
 
 " Rent! Did you say rent?" 
 
 r 'Yes. There was an awful row this morning. 
 This woman is a regular grind. She raises the very 
 devil; not a bit like Mrs. Pollack." .
 
 238 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 Lexham was too shocked to ask any more questions. 
 He had no idea all the money was gone. Elinor had 
 told him when he insisted on letting Gower have the 
 five hundred dollars that they had spent far too much 
 and that the bank account was low. He could not 
 understand it. Elinor had sent him the same amount 
 each week. She drew the cheques. The money was 
 banked in her name. It was a mystery he could not 
 solve, for he had never taken any interest in the ac- 
 count. 
 
 " Well, Gower, I can't do anything for you," Lex- 
 ham said. 
 
 "What shall I do?" Gower whined. 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " It's a pity to lose so good a chance." 
 
 After Gower left the room Lexham took up one 
 of his unfinished plays and read over what was written. 
 He had tired of the subject, which he thought was thin. 
 But something had to be done to raise money. He was 
 so exasperated at his want of foresight and lethargy 
 that he had great difficulty in concentrating his mind 
 on the play, which he felt was the only source of in- 
 come for the near future. His book was finished but 
 not ready for publication. That night he worked hard 
 on the play. It was daylight before he retired. He 
 shut himself up for a week and, in a way, succeeded in 
 making something of his material. He dared not let 
 himself think how dissatisfied he was with the result. 
 He hastened to the manager who had produced his 
 other plays. It was accepted, but could not be per- 
 formed for several months ; not till the following sea- 
 son. He felt ashamed when he received a cheque for
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 239 
 
 two thousand dollars in advance of royalties. He 
 had said nothing to Elinor about their financial state. 
 He had decided to wait till he knew whether his play 
 was accepted. Three weeks had passed since he learned 
 from Gower that Elinor had been pressed by her land- 
 lady for rent, but each week he had received the usual 
 amount for his expenses. She called on him early that 
 morning he received the cheque for advance royalties. 
 
 " Elinor," he said, " two or three weeks ago Cyril 
 told me you were in difficulties about rent." 
 
 " Cyril told you !" she exclaimed, with anger. " Did 
 he ask you to lend him more money?" 
 
 " Yes: but. I had none to give or lend. Don't be 
 vexed, dear. I thought you would worry, so I didn't 
 speak about it then. Here is a cheque for two thou- 
 sand." 
 
 She burst into tears. He strove to soothe her, but 
 she would not be consoled. Her grief alarmed him. 
 He had never seen such a paroxysm. He took her 
 in his arms and swayed her to and fro as he would 
 have hushed a child's grief. He was never so sure of 
 his love for her. 
 
 " Gilbert, Gilbert, I can't tell you all I've suffered 
 for the past three months !" she sobbed. " You know 
 I told you we should be careful of the little we had left 
 when you made me give Cyril all that money. I was 
 afraid to tell you how much was left after I cashed 
 the cheque for him. I thought you would soon have 
 more royalties. But nothing came in. I've tried many 
 times to tell you, but I couldn't because you seemed 
 to be happier than you were. Besides, you were at 
 work, and I thought it might worry you. There is still
 
 240 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 thirty or forty dollars left. I've drawn none for my- 
 self since Cyril had the five hundred." 
 
 " What ! you have drawn money each week for me 
 and none for yourself ? You have let me go on living 
 without an inkling of your troubles, Elinor?" 
 
 " Gilbert, I've been very selfish. Unkind and not 
 what I've wanted to be, a help to you and a wise friend. 
 When I think of all the money of yours I have foolishly 
 spent I feel as if my heart would break. Forgive me !" 
 Another painful fit of sobbing shook her. 
 
 " My sweet Elinor. Don't, don't ! It was all "for 
 you. It was yours. Yours to do with as you pleased. 
 Come, dear, I have been a sluggard and a fool. But 
 see, I shall mend my ways." 
 
 " I came this morning to tell you all about it," she 
 said. " I owe that woman, Mrs. Bettiny, for four 
 months. She told me last night that she would have 
 me turned out." 
 
 " No, no ! Come, let us deposit the cheque and pay 
 her. Four months. How much does that amount 
 to?" 
 
 " Five hundred dollars in all, Gilbert. I had to 
 pawn nearly all of my jewelry. The dress-maker 
 threatened to prosecute me. I owed her a pretty big 
 bill." 
 
 " But didn't you promise me you would never go 
 into a pawnshop again?" 
 
 " Yes ; but what was I to do ? Gilbert, I shall give 
 up the rooms and live on a less expensive scale. It 
 has been frightful. Oh, how wicked I've been! 
 Thoughtless and cruel. But, dear, I was so afraid of 
 losing you. Afraid to let you know."
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 241 
 
 " Now, Elinor, you must let me know exactly how 
 much you owe. It must be paid, dear. Five hundred 
 to your landlady. What else?" His tone was soft 
 and kind. 
 
 " Nothing else," she answered. 
 
 " The pawnbroker. How much do you require to 
 redeem all he has of yours?" he asked. 
 
 " Quite five hundred more." 
 
 " One thousand. Oh, we have ample left. What 
 about Cyril ? He has a lot of debts ?" 
 
 " Cyril ! No, not a single dollar. I shan't listen, 
 Gilbert. It is quite bad enough as it is. If you offer 
 to give him any more money I will never take another 
 cent of yours. He doesn't care. Every penny he 
 gets is spent on Gertrude Laird. Do you imagine he 
 paid one-half of the five hundred to his creditors? 
 Oh, no; Gertrude Laird, who has never wanted for a 
 sou in her life, she could, no doubt, tell us how he spent 
 most of it. But I think she is beginning to see what a 
 fool she has been; that she has given herself to a 
 selfish fellow. It drives me almost mad when she looks 
 at me with eyes of pity. She will soon know what I've 
 had to suffer. I know if he thought there was no 
 chance of marrying her he wouldn't give her a second 
 thought. He is already tired of waiting for her. Poor 
 woman, she has jeopardised her case, and, Gilbert, I'm 
 sure, if the truth were known, she is afraid to have her 
 case brought into court. There is no good reason 
 why it has been postponed so many times. Mrs. Sef- 
 ton told me that Gertrude had lost nearly all interest 
 in it. I don't know what will become of him." 
 
 There was a deep note of futility in her grief. He 
 
 16
 
 242 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 felt there was a sadness in her life which was beyond 
 his divination. Gower had sapped much of the natural 
 joy out of her best years. She had given up every- 
 thing for him. When her husband died she was then 
 young, and, though she had lost her voice, there were 
 many channels of success open to her. Her whole 
 happiness was centred in Gower's future, in his career 
 in music. The one life had spoiled the other. In her 
 blind devotion to him she had shielded him from the 
 very vicissitudes which his temperament should have 
 endured. He had lived his early years, since she 
 adopted him, in luxury. As a youth his character was 
 carefully cultivated but never seasoned, and when he 
 first felt the pinch of penury he had not the strength 
 of purpose to help himself. She had taught him to 
 look to her for everything. 
 
 Lexham would hear of no change in the banking of 
 the money. The cheque for two thousand was de- 
 posited in Elinor's name. The summer passed with- 
 out an event of importance. She was very careful and 
 spent only what was really necessary. Mrs. Laird and 
 Gower saw little of each other, and he was obliged to 
 teach, much to his disgust, for Elinor refused to let 
 him have anything but board and lodging. They quar- 
 relled almost daily. He was fast becoming a thor- 
 oughly discontented, disappointed, embittered man. 
 
 Drake was the only cause of any anxiety. He had 
 twice gone off for days together. Lexham spent a 
 whole week in searching high and low for him the first 
 time he disappeared. He found him on the Island, 
 where short-sentenced petty offenders were imprisoned. 
 The second time he returned, after an absence of ten
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 243 
 
 days, as if he had been away only for a few hours. 
 The Oldcastles were just as much concerned about him 
 as Lexham was. Alice called him Dick Drake, and 
 Drake loved and feared her. After one of his ab- 
 sences he avoided her for several days, not daring to 
 face her. If he heard her coming he would hide under 
 his bed or get into a large clothes-press in Lexham's 
 bedroom. In it she found him one day fast asleep. 
 She touched him on the shoulder, and with mock se- 
 verity of tone cried, " Dick Drake, I've caught you at 
 last !" He awakened with a start, gave her a terrified 
 look, and yelled, " No, no ; he was not your father !" 
 and shrank back in the press as if he were frightened. 
 Alice was dreadfully shocked. Tears sprang to her 
 eyes. The housemaid was in the other room. She 
 heard the cry and ran into the bedroom. Lexham was 
 out at the time. 
 
 Oldcastle had recognised Drake as trie man who was 
 once surrounded by a crowd when Alice and he came 
 upon him that evening when he was striving in his 
 madness to find the lost name of the man who shot him- 
 self at Elinor's bedroom door. But Oldcastle had 
 said nothing to either Drake or Lexham about the 
 incident.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 LEXHAM'S third novel was published early in the 
 summer. It failed to arouse the interest people had 
 taken in his other books. He was quite disheartened, 
 for he had felt more confidence in its subject and a 
 facility in writing it which he had not experienced 
 in the others. He was obliged to write some articles 
 for weekly papers and magazines. He fell back into 
 the old state of discouragement and lethargy. The 
 play was produced in September, but after four weeks 
 of very poor business it was withdrawn. Elinor was 
 with him every day, but she began to feel how utterly 
 helpless she was, for all her efforts to encourage and 
 stimulate him failed. Lexham began to wonder if 
 failure came to some through environment. Was it a 
 kind of epidemic which once begun no preventive or 
 treatment could stop? He imagined many reasons as 
 causes of his state, but he would instantly reject any 
 thought of Elinor which was detrimental to her. Black- 
 ston had still great faith in him, and Oldcastle had 
 said Lexham's third book was his best. But all their 
 expressions of approval and Elinor's love and confi- 
 dence could not spur him on to a fresh effort. He 
 cared nothing about the failure of his play, but that 
 his book aroused little or no interest was an omen, 
 he thought, of the limit of his capability and power. 
 
 There was one who witnessed his dejection and often 
 heard a note of sorrow in his voice. The quick, young 
 244
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 245 
 
 senses, with all the pulsation and alertness of spring, 
 detected every note of change in his expression. Alice 
 began to haunt his room, to stay for an hour and hear 
 him speak, joy enough for Alice. Her tender heart 
 went out to him, but he knew it not. His eyes were 
 too weak for him to gaze long in that strong sunlight. 
 He did not see the glorious love-light dawn in her 
 sweet eyes. She had listened in silence to her grand- 
 father and Blackston's conversations about Lexham, 
 and her great soul of love and pity had been stirred by 
 what she heard them say of his disheartenment. When 
 she knew he was out she would often sit at a window 
 up high which overlooked the square, sit and watch 
 for his tall, lithe figure to appear. And when she 
 would catch the first glimpse of it, the timid girl, timid 
 because of the new dear sensation in her breast, would 
 rise and shrink behind the curtain. The things in his 
 rooms were sacred to her. The pens were as precious 
 as pure gold. One day she brought fresh flowers for 
 the glasses on his desk, and when she had arranged 
 them she kissed each bloom, and then contrived to 
 wait about till he came in to see if he would touch them. 
 And when he came, tired and sad at heart, the fra- 
 grance of the flowers attracted him, and she sat watch- 
 ing with yearning eyes till he went to his desk and 
 raised a glass of blooms to his face. A thrill of happiness 
 ran through her heart and she was satisfied. But only 
 by such simple actions, all unknown to him, could she 
 find some delight for that craving which she hardly 
 could divine. He saw her tender, kind, and solicitous. 
 He had from the first given her the attention one of 
 generous impulse gives to another whose lot seems
 
 246 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 sad. The motherless and fatherless had always his 
 compassion. Of late he had grown to look upon her 
 as a little sister. She seemed to him far younger than 
 she was, and unconsciously he had ceased to call her 
 Miss Oldcastle. Alice came readily to his lips, and 
 that was a change that brought great gladness to her, 
 for Alice fell upon her ears like evening dew on parched 
 flowers when she heard him speak her name. 
 
 One afternoon, late in the autumn, Elinor took Mrs. 
 Sefton and Gertrude, who were soon to leave New 
 York, to Lexham's rooms for a chat and a cup of tea. 
 Elinor had in a small bag all her jewelry. The money 
 was all gone, but he had been so despondent that she 
 had not the courage of heart to tell him. She had 
 promised never again to pawn anything, but now mat- 
 ters had become so urgent that she felt bound to let 
 him know their state. He was at that time so de- 
 pressed by other affairs that he had not noticed that 
 Elinor had forgotten to send the usual cheque for his 
 expenses. He had been very depressed for several 
 day, and poor Elinor was quite at her wit's end to 
 know how to brighten an hour for him. She knew 
 he liked the dear old lady and that Gertrude interested 
 him. He did not often see them; only at long inter- 
 vals they met, and usually at Elinor's. But Mrs. 
 Laird's candour pleased him. She felt that he knew or 
 guessed all about her affair with Gower, but the sense 
 of it did not embarrass her. She met him on an equal 
 footing, and each believed they knew the other's secret. 
 They might have known each other's faults and virtues 
 since childhood, they seemed so well to understand what 
 should be said and done. On this occasion she had
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 247 
 
 been in his room barely fifteen minutes when she went 
 to the piano and played some Schumann pieces. The 
 effect was instantaneous and extraordinary. He had 
 been gloomy and could not hide his mood when he 
 greeted them. But the music seemed to purge away 
 every shadow from his mind and leave him reposeful 
 and content. She saw the wonderful change, and 
 though some note of gladness in her heart rang out, 
 she could not smother the sigh a flash of memory 
 started. From Schumann to Schubert, from Schubert 
 to Liszt, melodies beautiful and exquisite for their 
 mood, which music infallibly makes single and one, 
 sweeping all moods into one smooth strain, till at last 
 she played that sweet nocturne of Liszt's which Lexham 
 heard Gower play that New Year's night when he took 
 him home to Elinor. A pleasing melancholy fell like 
 summer twilight over Lexham, but Elinor started with 
 a pain in her heart. It sounded like a dirge to her; 
 funereal tones foreboding the end of love. The pre- 
 lude to the last act of love's tragedy. 
 
 The nocturne ended, Gertrude sat in deep thought 
 at the piano with her fingers still resting on the keys. 
 Lexham lay back in a chair, loath to move. The spell 
 was sweet to him. He feared to break it by a word, 
 a movement. 
 
 "Any mood can be expressed in music, don't you 
 think so?" Gertrude said, with a sigh, almost forgetful 
 of her aunt's and Elinor's presence. 
 
 " Yes. It fails only when words, even of the finest 
 lyrists, hamper it and restrict its limitations. I some- 
 times think Wagner must have suffered agonies in find- 
 ing language for * Tristan' and many scenes of ' The
 
 248 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 Niebelungen.' The third act of ' Siegfried/ for in- 
 stance, after Brunhilda awakes, what words can express 
 all the orchestra so lucidly explains! There it seems 
 to me to suffer from the inadequacies of language. 
 Each instrument of the orchestra speaks a language of 
 its own. Think of the power great masters have there, 
 and " 
 
 " I think you should have been a composer or " 
 
 Mrs. Sefton interposed, then realised she had suggested 
 something which had been better left unsaid. " Oh, 
 of course, I mean that if you were a composer what 
 an excellent libretto you would write." 
 
 " You got out of that very well, auntie," Gertrude 
 said, laughing at Mrs. Sefton's discomfiture. 
 
 Lexham rang for tea, and Alice soon came with a 
 large tray. She had not seen Elinor for many months. 
 Mrs. Sefton and Gertrude she had not seen before. 
 Lexham introduced them, and he thought he noticed 
 something strained in Alice's manner when Elinor 
 greeted her. Alice seemed to be embarrassed; she 
 spoke only a few words and busied herself unneces- 
 sarily with the tray. She had been surprised, for she 
 understood Lexham to say that only Mrs. Laird and her 
 aunt were coming to tea. She did not dream of meet- 
 ing Elinor, whom for months she had striven to avoid. 
 But her cause for fear was merely instinctive. She 
 knew no real reason why she should dislike Elinor. 
 That she came often to see Lexham and frequently 
 stayed for hours seemed strange, but that was all. 
 Alice had spent many heart-breaking hours chiding 
 herself because of the ill-defined aversion of which she 
 could not rid herself. But Elinor's charm was ir-
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 249 
 
 resistible, and Alice was again soon under her sway. 
 In half an hour she had forgotten that there was ever 
 a time when she thought of running away from the 
 sound of her voice. 
 
 After Lexham's guests left Blackston looked in to 
 see him. He was glad to find his literary friend more 
 cheerful than when he last saw him. Since the failure 
 of his third book Lexham had been quite a hermit 
 
 " What has happened ?" the publisher asked. " Have 
 you found a subject?" 
 
 " No. I think some music has been the cause of 
 lightening my misery. I'm not at all inclined to write, 
 Blackston, so don't try to persuade me that I'm a suc- 
 cess." 
 
 " Look here, Gilbert, I can speak in plain terms to 
 you?" 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " Well, I've come to the conclusion that your wor- 
 ries do not come from what you persist in calling in- 
 competence. You would be as right- as anyone if 
 your mind was not shackled by a troublesome woman." 
 
 "What do you mean?" Lexham felt the old devil 
 in him rise in an instant. He would have struck 
 Blackston had they been a jot less friendly. 
 
 " Now, I'm sure of what I mean. But if you say, 
 after I've finished telling you what I know, that it is 
 all wrong, then I'll apologise, though my most humble 
 apology will not equal my regret." 
 
 The men were silent for a moment. They eyed each 
 other as if they were ready for blows, not words. Lex- 
 ham was an American in principle and habit, and 
 though he was ready to make any denial, he knew that
 
 250 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 his friend was thinking only of his happiness, and the 
 knowledge almost forced him to listen and control his 
 anger. 
 
 " Well, you know it was Mrs. Kembleton who came 
 .with a letter of introduction from Oldcastle the day 
 she left the manuscript of your first book with me. 
 I had four interviews with her before I met you. To 
 say that I was curious to know why she was so inter- 
 ested in you is merely mentioning the matter. I was, 
 to tell you the truth, damned inquisitive. You were 
 only a new man with a clever book and I a publisher. 
 There was no sentiment or friendship then between us. 
 Well, I took the trouble to find out something about 
 you and Mrs. Kembleton." 
 
 Lexham sneered, shrugged his shoulders, and sank 
 into a chair. 
 
 " Oh, yes, it was rather a mean thing to do," Black- 
 ston put in, " but I kept my information to myself. 
 But if it had not been for prying then into your affairs 
 we might never have been the good friends we have 
 been. I know no one I like so much as I like you, 
 but I do want to show my friendship is no ordinary 
 matter. I thought your affair with her was to be only 
 a temporary one. I hate beating about the bush, so 
 forgive my plainness. If I've been asked by one per- 
 son during the past twelve months about you and Mrs. 
 Kembleton I've been asked by fifty. Unfortunately, 
 I've known enough to have all my answers stamped 
 as lies. But that I didn't much mind till Old- 
 castle " 
 
 Lexham sprang out of the chair. No menace, no 
 threat, was in his attitude or expressed in his face.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 251 
 
 He stood conscious of his fault and anxious to learn 
 what Blackston was about to say. 
 
 " Oklcastle," Lexham whispered, hoarsely, " does 
 he know? does he know?" 
 
 " He suspects. But I'm sure he wouldn't let himself 
 believe it even if I were to swear to it." 
 
 Lexham could not speak. He had to walk away to 
 the window to hide his emotion. He felt humiliated, 
 wounded, terribly distressed. 
 
 " Oldcastle thinks the world of you ; aye, more than 
 that," Blackston said, in a softer tone, touched by his 
 friend's action. " You know, Gilbert, we must think 
 a little of our real friends; the others don't much 
 matter, and the world can go hang itself. Its the prigs 
 and hypocrites that make most of the trouble for us 
 in this narrow world, and I would be the first to con- 
 temn the interference of a prater, but, here, in this 
 matter, the trouble worries an old man in whose house 
 you live, and whose granddaughter cannot mention 
 your name without it trembling on her lips." 
 
 " Blackston !" Lexham cried, without turning from 
 the window. 
 
 " It's true," the publisher affirmed. 
 
 Lexham had wholly mistaken Blackston's meaning. 
 The latter had for many months noticed how Alice 
 grew to love Lexham, and Lexham in his despair 
 thought only of Elinor, and that perhaps even Alice 
 suspected. 
 
 " I shall leave here to-morrow, to-night !" Lexham 
 exclaimed. 
 
 " That would do no good. Such a proceeding would 
 be a terrible blow to the Oldcastles. Why, man, they
 
 252 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 couldn't love a son or a brother more dearly than they 
 love you. I've known Adam Oldcastle for nearly 
 thirty years, I know the history of his life, and you 
 have been the first man to brighten an hour of it since 
 Alice's birth." 
 
 "This is terrible, Blackston. I don't know what 
 to do, I can't explain to you. It can't be explained. 
 I've tried to do my utmost to set things straight, but 
 I've failed. I'm afraid it's no use." 
 
 " Wait. I've told you this for several reasons. The 
 first I've explained, and that has awakened you to a 
 fact of which you were evidently not aware. One 
 day last spring I met Mr. Gower, and before we had 
 been in conversation ten minutes he began to pump me 
 about the amount you earned in royalties. I put two 
 and two together, and concluded that he had asked you 
 for a loan which you could not grant. Since that 
 time you have received not two hundred dollars from 
 us. Now, I know your generous nature, and I'm sure 
 if you had had the money Gower asked for you would 
 have let him have it. Gilbert, do you need any 
 money?" 
 
 " No, I don't think so. I got two thousand dollars 
 advance on my last play." 
 
 "And you will not accept advance royalties from 
 me?" 
 
 " Oh, I've had more faith in my plays." 
 
 " Well, I have great faith in your books. I've told 
 you before you must not despair because a book nowa- 
 days sells well for six or eight months then falls almost 
 out of sight. This last book of yours is by far your best, 
 but that I have not so far sold so many copies of it in
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 253 
 
 four months as I sold of your other books in four weeks 
 means nothing much. It may not sell for a year, but 
 I'd like to wager it will some day outsell the others. 
 Now come, be practical, will you accept two thousand 
 dollars from me?" 
 
 " No, certainly not. It would be nothing less than 
 obtaining money under false pretences." 
 
 " Nonsense ! Others ask for it, and many have not 
 half your right to ask. You are undoubtedly the very 
 worst business man I've ever met. Accept it as a 
 loan?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Pay it back to me when you can, any time." 
 
 " I don't need any money, Blackston." 
 
 Lexham sat in the embrasure of the window. His 
 friend walked up and down the room, baffled but not 
 defeated. He meant to have it out with him. 
 
 "You know Windham, our head man?" Blackston 
 asked, stopping before Lexham, who still sat in the 
 window. 
 
 " Yes. Drake often speaks of him," Lexham re- 
 marked. 
 
 " Do you know where Windham has lived for the 
 past six months?" 
 
 " My dear Blackston, what has that got to do with 
 it? I don't care where he lives." 
 
 " You will do. His rooms are on the floor above 
 Mrs. Kembleton and Gower's." For a moment Lex- 
 ham did not realise all that this might mean. It sud- 
 denly flashed upon him that Windham saw and heard 
 much which he would report to Blackston. 
 
 " You see, Gilbert, you have not quite realised the
 
 254 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 peculiar position in which you are placed. Windham 
 told me all about the rows Mrs. Kembleton had with 
 Mrs. Bettiny, her landlady, in the spring. I need not 
 tell you how he learned that you found the money to 
 pay off her debts, but that, I'm sorry to say, is known 
 by many. Well, Windham has heard several worse 
 rows of late, and some rather unhappy ones between 
 Mrs. Kembleton and Gower. They seem to forget 
 their windows are open, and that other windows are 
 open too. I'd rather be laughed at myself than hear 
 gossips laugh at you, Gilbert." 
 
 There was a long silence. Lexham was utterly 
 crushed. Blackston knew he was enduring great men- 
 tal suffering. He wa.s cruelly wounded and bitterly 
 distressed. After a while he arose and went to Black- 
 ston, laid his hands upon his shoulders. Lexham's 
 head dropped, he could not speak. He appreciated all 
 he knew his friend meant. 
 
 " Now come, Gilbert, what's to be done? I'll help 
 you to do anything reasonable. I can't stand by and 
 watch you sink. All this I've wanted to tell you for 
 months, well, ever since Windham first spoke to me 
 about it. He likes you, and I'm sure had no other 
 motive in telling me than that which has at last 
 prompted me to tell you. You know I don't care a 
 nickel what the gossips say so long as their chatter 
 does no more harm than to show up their own fail- 
 ings. But the Oldcastles yourself your future, 
 surely to God you're not going to let this woman crush 
 the life out of you and come forever between you and 
 your real friends and your work?" 
 
 " Blackston, you don't know. She saved me from
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 255 
 
 well, heaven knows what misery. But I shall leave 
 here. I'll take her away from New York. If there 
 is any happiness coming to me, she of all women is 
 the one to share it. Blackston, if I were to explain 
 for a year you would never understand, never know, 
 why it must be." 
 
 " Very well ; but it all seems to me a strange affair. 
 You say you've asked her to marry you and that she 
 refused?" Blackston inquired, with a puzzled expres- 
 sion on his face. 
 
 " Yes," said Lexham, a little wearied with his 
 friend's solicitude. 
 
 " Do you know much about her life before you met 
 her?" 
 
 " No, not much, and I don't want to know." 
 
 " But there are many strange stories about her. I've 
 heard that she was an actress or a singer, and " 
 
 " What if she was? What does it matter? Black- 
 ston, you're letting your friendship for me confound 
 your discretion. You know very well strange stories 
 are told of all people whose lives have at some period 
 been straitened. And what should I care? I know 
 what she has been to me and" what she is. It is no 
 use trying that old ghost on me." 
 
 Lexham was vexed. He would not hear a word of 
 what gossips said about Elinor's past. 
 
 " I'm sorry I've made you angry, but, believe me, 
 I can't help but think she has imposed on you. Wait ! 
 I'll give her credit for all you say she has done for 
 you, but Madame Bohemia's life at present, to say 
 nothing of the past, doesn't help to balance things." 
 
 " Madame Bohemia. Why, Blackston, you speak
 
 256 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 of her as if she were a frivolous creature who schemed 
 night and day to No, I shan't say any more. 
 You've surprised and hurt me. I thought you were 
 above such tittle-tattle. It's horrible. I'm very sorry 
 I've listened to you. What Windham has told you is 
 perhaps all true. But, really, you must have a poor 
 opinion of me if you think I shall be influenced a 
 jot by the chatter of fools who have no other occupa- 
 tion but that of smirching the characters of men and 
 women. You should know what mischief the con- 
 temptible scandalmonger is capable of doing. Even 
 this sobriquet was hatched by a harmless old lady in 
 the spirit of fun. It means nothing." 
 
 " In America it has another meaning, and I think 
 since real Bohemianism passed away the majority of 
 respectable people use it as a term of contumely. 
 There's Mrs. Murray-Smithson, one of your greatest 
 admirers, and one who has done more than you are 
 aware of for the success of your books ; well, she has 
 listened to the whispers of rumour, and now she has 
 dropped you. You may think it absurd that I should 
 mention it, but she did not order a copy of your last 
 book, and when I asked her the other evening if she 
 had read it, her answer was laconic and swift, ' No/ 
 she said ; ' I'm afraid Mr. Lexham has lost his 
 charm.' ' 
 
 Lexham laughed quite heartily, and cried, " Poor 
 Lexham! Mrs. Murray-Smithson has damned him. 
 So that must be the reason why the book has been 
 hardly noticed. Dear me! What nonsense! She 
 has heard some gossip, eh ? and pretends to be shocked. 
 Um! Won't buy a copy because of it, eh?" .
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 257 
 
 " Well, it is true all the same," Blackston said, " and 
 the world is full of such people." 
 
 " You call me a bad business man," Lexham cried, 
 " because I won't accept advance royalties from you. 
 Perhaps you would call me a fool if I could convince 
 you that I hate money, and that I was far happier be- 
 fore I really knew anything about royalties. What 
 would you call me if you were aware of what I intend 
 to do? That my future, as far as money and literary 
 fame are concerned, count as nothing compared to the 
 happiness of the woman who you think has imposed 
 on me." 
 
 " Well, Lexham, I don't know what to say," Black- 
 ston muttered ; " I can't apologise, I feel too vexed 
 with myself for listening to such a lot of bosh. But 
 I'm sure what Windham says is true, and if you value 
 my friendship, I hope you will not hesitate to call on 
 me should you need any pecuniary help." 
 
 " I thank you, but don't doubt me if you should 
 not hear from me for a long time. Remember, Black- 
 ston, I don't know another being I should have listened 
 to on this matter. Even now I feel as if I had done 
 her some wrong by saying anything to you. I don't 
 think I shall attempt to write another book. I may 
 be tempted to do some plays of the popular order. 
 If it were not for her I should drop out of it. The 
 responsibility of living up to standards is not my metier. 
 I love all things under the sun but I'm prone to see 
 what I think are the serious things in this world. 
 My faults and the faults of others worry me beyond 
 all reason. I've had a pretty hard time of it, Black- 
 ston, and perhaps the best in me has been blighted. 
 
 17
 
 258 MADAME BOHEMIA 1 
 
 I'm constantly at war with myself. It is all a futile 
 process, though, this striving to rise above one's nature. 
 I'm afraid I'm a thing of melancholy platitudes. But 
 I try to preach only to myself. Yet, I hanker after 
 something I can't define. The illimitable and the im- 
 mensities attract me, but they don't disturb me. I 
 should not be surprised to find that what I yearn for 
 might be something which, after all, lies close at hand. 
 A little thing overlooked." 
 
 " How do you know but that this very matter may 
 not be the cause of all your trouble? You are far 
 too young for this strain. You go nowhere, you seem 
 to have no pleasures, no joy in life. Why, you live 
 as old men live. You want youth and the happiness 
 of a home. I've noticed you many a time, how differ- 
 ent you are when spending an hour upstairs with the 
 Oldcastles. When you talk with Alice you seem like 
 another man." Blackston was quite enthusiastic, but 
 Lexham smiled grimly and sighed. 
 
 "Alice! yes, she is the very essence of all that is 
 good. Who could resist her sweet ingenuousness? 
 I would give anything to have such a sister. What 
 a tender-hearted girl! Blackston, you should see her 
 with Drake. If he were all he should be what a wife 
 she would be for him ! But a wife ; dear me, she seems 
 such a child. And Drake, poor fellow, we haven't 
 seen him for nearly three weeks. I hope he is all 
 
 right." 
 
 ******** 
 
 Lexham went out with Blackston to Martin's res- 
 taurant, where they had dinner. At a neighbouring 
 table Mrs. Laird and Gower sat, quite unconscious of
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 259 
 
 Lexham's presence. Gower had had that morning, 
 before Elinor took Mrs. Sefton and her niece to Lex- 
 ham's, a very stormy scene in his room with Gertrude. 
 She had told him that her aunt was tired of New York, 
 that the doctor had advised her to go to Florida, and 
 that she was to accompany her. Gower broke out into 
 an hundred protestations and pleadings. He felt his 
 one chance was not to let her go far out of his sight 
 For months he had been obliged to write to her often 
 twice a day and persist in seeing her even when she 
 was forced to warn him of her aunt's suspicions, and 
 that any rash action would jeopardise all. His case 
 was desperate and he knew it. He had ceased to love 
 her, but he could not afford to let her know that. He 
 writhed under the necessity of make-believe. Each 
 letter he wrote cost him hours of annoying toil. Only 
 when he was with her could he feel a little the charm 
 which once awakened all that was dormant in him. 
 But she had learned to know him. She now saw and 
 understood his warped, selfish nature. For nearly two 
 years she had striven to direct him, but he had broken 
 nearly every promise she had won from him. One 
 promise he had kept, and that was never again to com- 
 pose light music. She understood why his comic opera 
 had failed. He had been at work for some months on 
 a pretentious subject of the order of music drama, and 
 she thought he had composed some remarkably good 
 music. Her only consolation was that in his music 
 she had influenced him a little. Still, she passed many 
 hours of despair, for she sometimes believed he still 
 loved her. He had planned in his usual way to take 
 his opera when finished to France, for there he thought
 
 260 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 he would have a better chance of getting it produced 
 as he wanted it. 
 
 The opera was nearly complete. He had only some 
 scoring at the end of the last act to do. He had ex- 
 acted half a promise from her, when he was half-way 
 through the work, that she would take a trip to Paris 
 when he was there. And now that the opera was 
 almost ready, he had reminded her of the promise 
 given in a moment when she would have tried to move 
 mountains to spur him on to success. She was sur- 
 prised that he should think such a thing at all possible, 
 that he should even seriously remind her of it. This 
 had been the principal cause of their stormy interview 
 of the morning. If Lexham could have known, as 
 he sat near by watching Gower and Gertrude, what 
 their inmost thoughts were, he would have been as- 
 tonished. She dare not tell him that the meal they 
 were then eating was to be the last of which they 
 should partake together. The part she played during 
 that meal was full of tragedy. She saw two years 
 of her life in which she had given all to Gower slipping 
 by, drawing to a close, and the end of them would mean 
 regret and sorrow. Her heart was full of a sadness 
 keen as ever woman felt; but all the while would 
 come the thought he has done something different. 
 He had not before she knew him composed a work 
 such as that, the end of which she had that morning 
 heard him play. He could not before play with the 
 passion he could now express. Besides, he seemed 
 now to understand " The Ring." She did not hear 
 him say he preferred " Lohengrin" and " Tannhauser." 
 It was all mystery. She could not understand why
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA! 261 
 
 the change was noticeable only in his music. She 
 thought that as his music improved his temper grew 
 worse. And Gower, what was he thinking of at that 
 time? He thought that though she would have to go 
 with her aunt to Florida that his ascendency over her 
 was greater than ever. Now that his opera was nearly 
 completed he would have a greater claim on her. He 
 knew how proud she was of his work, and on that he 
 felt he could stake his all. He never felt so sure of 
 her. He thought she would come to him from any 
 distance to be present at the first performance of that 
 work which he called " Gertrude's Opera." He had 
 told her it was dedicated to G. L. Once during the 
 dinner she felt unequal to the ordeal of parting and 
 was almost tempted to give him her life come what 
 may, but her resolve was firmly planted, and when they 
 left the restaurant her mind had quite recovered from 
 the shock it had received when she was about to 
 relent.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 AFTER Lexham left Blackston he went to Elinor's 
 rooms, but was told by the servant that she was not 
 at home. The servant was curt and rude when he 
 inquired when Mrs. Kembleton might return and 
 whether she had left word where she was going. As 
 he stood at the open door he heard the sound of a piano 
 and guessed that Gower was in. He asked if Mr. 
 Gower were alone, and received a curt " Yes." Lex- 
 ham walked past the servant and went up to the com- 
 poser's room. 
 
 " Cyril, I want to wait till Diva returns," said Lex- 
 ham as he entered ; " I hope I don't disturb you." 
 
 " No, sit down," said Gower, quite happily. " I 
 don't know how long she will be, but I shall be glad 
 of a talk. I gave two piano lessons this morning, and 
 since then I've been busy on my opera." 
 
 " I saw you with Mrs. Laird at Martin's an hour 
 ago," Lexham remarked. 
 
 " Yes. She and Mrs. Sefton are going away in a 
 day or two. I think Diva is going to give them a fare- 
 well evening to-morrow. You'll come, of course." 
 
 " I didn't know they were thinking of leaving New 
 iYork so soon. I shall miss them," Lexham said. 
 
 " So shall I. I don't know what the deuce to do. 
 Four lessons a week at five dollars a lesson is some- 
 thing I shall sadly miss. Curse the luck! I'll be 
 obliged to take the ordinary piano imps at one dollar 
 a lesson. Isn't it damnable?" 
 262
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 263 
 
 " Yes, I suppose it is, Cyril," Lexham said, scarcely 
 able to hide the feeling of disgust which almost made 
 him wish to strangle Gower. . 
 
 "Oh, but it will all come right You see, Mrs. 
 Laird will surely get her divorce this winter, then no 
 more piano lessons for me, no more debts and worries. 
 I shall go to France and work only when I feel like it 
 Then there will be an end to all the grind." 
 
 " And what will Diva do ?" Lexham asked. 
 
 " Oh, she'll get along. Marry, I suppose, and give 
 up this life of hand to mouth business. You know I've 
 never liked her idea of collecting embryo artists, mu- 
 sicians, and litterateurs. People think it is not good 
 form, and these evenings which she persists in giving 
 bring together only a lot of nobodies. Of course we 
 must humour her, but I can't see what amusement she 
 gets from such a motley gang. Coffee and cigarettes, 
 small talk and mutual admiration ; and I don't like that 
 sobriquet (for it has clung to her) Madame Bohemia. 
 The deuce! why not call her Frau Kindergarten and 
 have done with it?" 
 
 Lexham arose and took up his hat. He felt he 
 could not listen for another moment to Gower. 
 
 " I can't wait any longer. Good-night. It's nine 
 o'clock. If Diva should return soon, tell her I may 
 look in about ten." 
 
 "All right. Sorry you're in such a hurry, Lexham." 
 
 ******** 
 
 After Gertrude left Gower at her hotel she went up 
 to her aunt's rooms. The dear old lady was at the 
 piano. 
 
 "Auntie, I'm sorry to disturb you, but I want to
 
 264 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 know if you could arrange for us to leave the day 
 after to-morrow instead of waiting till the end of the 
 week?" 
 
 " Yes, Gertrude ; but why so soon ?" 
 
 Mrs. Sefton thought she had never seen her niece 
 look so ill and tired. She had noticed during the after- 
 noon that Gertrude was not in her usual good spirits. 
 But the dear old lady guessed that her niece had had a 
 quarrel with Gower, and though she had of late on 
 several occasions tried to open a discussion on the 
 subject, which was her only cause for disquietude, 
 Gertrude always refused to be questioned, and Mrs. 
 Sefton, with many misgivings, had to be ruled by the 
 younger mind. 
 
 "Auntie, I've done all I can for Cyril. He has fin- 
 ished his opera, and now now " There were 
 
 tears in her eyes. " Well, I have made up my mind 
 never to see him after we leave here. Whether I've 
 done wrong or no doesn't much matter. But I'm sure 
 he will never do much while I am near him. To 
 get him to compose this opera has cost me more 
 than I dare tell. And I can't rid myself of the 
 thought that he thinks more of my money than he 
 does of me. I suppose I shall never be divorced, 
 and I can't go on living year after year in this 
 way." 
 
 She was at her aunt's side. The dear oIH lady's 
 arms were about her. 
 
 " Poor Gertrude !" Mrs. Sefton murmured ; " another 
 idol broken. I don't know, dear, what to say. I have 
 never wished to upbraid you, though I've for a long 
 time felt it was all wrong. I don't know what it was
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA' 265 
 
 in him that I liked. We always got on very well to- 
 gether. Perhaps it was the music." 
 
 " Yes, auntie, I loved him for the music," Gertrude 
 said. " I thought, I hoped he would change, that he 
 would become generous and kind, show some affection 
 for Elinor, but he hasn't. I think he still loves me in 
 a way; but if I were poor I feel sure he would have 
 no love for me. I've hungered since I was a girl for 
 a good man's love. In Cyril I thought I saw great 
 possibilities, and now I'm no better than the man from 
 whom I have wished to be divorced." 
 
 " Gertrude, hush ; I shan't listen to such preposter- 
 ous nonsense. If you have done wrong, you did so 
 thinking right would come of it. The idea ! No better 
 than a gambling, drunken scoundrel. You shock me, 
 dear. Goodness gracious ! if the man had treated you 
 half decently you would never have met Cyril. You 
 have always been a good, high-minded woman, and 
 I'll not hear anything to the contrary. You were kind 
 and forgiving for six years to Mr. Laird, but he never 
 appreciated you. Any other woman was good enough, 
 any. Come, dear, don't grieve; you've made a mis- 
 take, but you are still young, and much happiness may 
 be yet in store for you. Goodness knows you deserve 
 some, for you've had little since you met your hus- 
 band." 
 
 "Auntie, let us take the children with us, stunewhere 
 away from here and Boston. I feel it is so wrong to 
 leave them alone at school. All this trouble must hap- 
 pen in the beginning. You know poor mother never 
 had time to look after us. I want to devote all my life 
 to the boy and the girls. Let us make a home for them
 
 266 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 far away from towns, somewhere where they will not 
 know any other need but me." 
 
 Mrs. Sefton was childless, and though she did not 
 quite understand the great love, which may sometimes 
 sleep, but which glows again when sorrow comes to the 
 mother or sickness and death to the child, she was glad 
 to hear Gertrude speak of her little ones, and she at 
 once determined to help her to do anything she wished 
 for their happiness. 
 
 " Very well, dear, I shall be glad to do anything you 
 wish. You know I've never much cared for children, 
 that is, perhaps, because I've never known what it is 
 to bear one. We can't help our natures, but you know 
 I try to be as practical as possible. Are you quite sure, 
 Gertrude, that you will be content with so quiet a life? 
 After so much music, the theatres, and amusements?" 
 
 " Yes, I think so. I'll enjoy it from afar. Yes, 
 it will be a bit of a wrench to leave it all, auntie, but 
 I shall understand and enjoy it all the more for having 
 taken one glimpse into a world where life seems worth 
 living. Poor Elinor ! I would change places with her. 
 She has a lover, she has debts, and she lives apart from 
 society. You see what small creatures we are, auntie ; 
 we find excuses for her faults because we love her and 
 know her, but if she were a stranger we would now be 
 singing with the chorus of condemnatory voices." 
 
 " Yes, I suppose we should, Gertrude. I shall miss 
 her very much. I wonder what will become of them." 
 
 "Aunt, I want to do something for them before I 
 go. I'm sure you will be with me. Cyril one day got 
 half a promise from me that I would go to Paris when 
 he was there. I believe he wants to go, for he thinks
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 267 
 
 his opera will have a better chance there. He says 
 grand opera has little or no chance in England or 
 America. Well, I want him to have money enough 
 to carry him to Europe and allow him to stay there for 
 several months. You know I think they have hardly 
 a dollar in the world." 
 
 " Yes, dear; but don't you think he would be obliged 
 to decline your offer? I don't know how you can 
 possibly overcome that sort of diffidence he must have ; 
 for men, I think, don't, as a rule, accept such presents, 
 particularly, dear, in such a case as this." 
 
 " I wish I could think so, auntie," Gertrude said, 
 with a sigh. 
 
 " But surely you know how difficult it was for us 
 to get him to accept the money for the lessons," Mrs. 
 Sefton retorted. 
 
 " Don't let us refer to that side of his nature. I have 
 a plan. I feel sure I can ask Mr. Lexham to help me 
 out of this difficulty. I don't care whom he may think 
 the money comes from if he gets it. I could let my 
 cheque, say for two thousand dollars, go through Mr, 
 Lexham's bank, and he could give Cyril the money. 
 Of course he must first promise that the money will be 
 used only to pay his expenses during his stay in Europe 
 and that he will strive to get his work produced during 
 that time." 
 
 " Yes, that is all very well, but what is to become 
 of Elinor?" Mrs. Sefton asked, at the same time wish- 
 ing she would accept a small annuity from her. 
 
 "Ah, Elinor is quite a different person to deal with. 
 Of course she must have been dependent on Mr. Lex- 
 ham, and it is just that which makes me believe her
 
 268 MADAME BOHEMIA 1 
 
 case an exception. I know they are just as good as 
 married. But she would starve before she would ac- 
 cept charity. Of that I'm sure. Anyway, I'll run over 
 to Mr. Lexham and sound him on Cyril's matter." 
 
 " Gertrude, dear, not at this time of night !" Mrs. 
 Sefton cried. 
 
 " Pooh, auntie, it is not yet ten o'clock. The best 
 time to catch him; besides, I should like to have it 
 all settled to-morrow. Now don't worry, dear, I shall 
 jump into a cab. Don't retire before I return." 
 
 When she reached Lexham's rooms he was out, but 
 she asked if she might go to his study, where she 
 wished to write a note to leave for him. It was 
 not so much the wish to write the note as it was a 
 desire to wait a few minutes in the hope that he might 
 come in while she was there. She wasted some time 
 in finding note-paper, then drew off her gloves and 
 removed her veil. Fifteen minutes passed before she 
 began the note. 
 
 WASHINGTON SQUARE. 
 
 DEAR MR. LEXHAM, I wish to see you on a matter 
 of some importance to me, but as you may not return 
 till later than I dare wait, will you kindly let me know 
 what time to-morrow you will be able to spare me a 
 few minutes ? Please don't mention this to Mr. Gowef 
 should you see him before I see you. 
 
 Sincerely yours, 
 
 GERTRUDE LAIRD. 
 
 She sealed the note and left it on his desk. In taking 
 off her veil she accidentally loosened a large tortoise- 
 shell hairpin. This dropped on the carpet behind the
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 269 
 
 chair in which she was seated when she wrote the 
 note. The hairpin was mounted in gold and was one 
 of two which Gower had given her on her birthday. 
 Some of the dollars he had borrowed from Lexham 
 paid for the pins. 
 
 As she left the street door to enter the cab, which 
 she Had kept waiting, she almost ran into a man, who 
 stepped aside to let her pass. It was Drake. He was 
 surprised to see her leave Lexham's at so late an hour. 
 Windham had told him all he had heard of the different 
 affairs and rows which were the common talk of other 
 lodgers at the house where Elinor lived. Somehow, 
 Drake was glad to think there was something between 
 Lexham and Mrs. Laird of which Gower was ignorant. 
 Drake began to despise Gower. 
 
 When Gertrude returned to her hotel she found her 
 aunt up and anxious to hear what Lexham had to 
 say. 
 
 " Well, dear, you haven't been long," Mrs. Sefton 
 said, composing herself to listen. 
 
 " No ; he wasn't in, so I left a note," Gertrude re- 
 plied, with some disappointment. 
 
 " Oh !" ejaculated her aunt in the same mood. 
 " Wouldn't it be just as well to speak to Elinor about 
 it?" the dear old lady ventured to remark. 
 
 " No, auntie ; oh, dear, no. Elinor wouldn't listen 
 to such a proposal, I'm sure she wouldn't. No, Mr. 
 Lexham is the only one who can help us out of the 
 difficulty, and I'm sure he will find a very simple way 
 of doing it. Men understand such matters much bet- 
 ter than we do." Gertrude sighed heavily. 
 
 " But, Gertrude, surely you don't think Mr. Lexham
 
 270 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 knows anything about you and Cyril?" Mrs. Sefton 
 cried, rising in a state of great astonishment under 
 her sudden thought, which was a surprise she could 
 hardly withstand. 
 
 " Of course he knows/' was her niece's laconic an- 
 swer. 
 
 " Oh, dear me, how dreadful ! I shall never be able 
 to look the man straight in the face again. Gertrude, 
 Gertrude, what is to be done ? Fancy anyone but our- 
 selves knowing it! What you must have suffered!" 
 The dear old lady was terribly distressed, but Ger- 
 trude took it all so calmly that her aunt ceased her 
 lamentations for want of support. 
 
 Then Gertrude suddenly broke out into an almost 
 uncontrollable fit of passion, and cried, 
 
 " Yes, it is dreadful, isn't it, aunt, when someone 
 else knows? It is not so much the offence, if it be 
 one, as the consternation it causes. But don't be un- 
 necessarily alarmed, Mr. Lexham will deal gently with 
 me. He knows, thank goodness, a little more than the 
 frigid herd." 
 
 Mrs. Sefton had never seen her niece aroused to such 
 a pitch of anger. Gertrude walked up and down the 
 room in a state of bitter indignation, gesticulating 
 violently and smothering her sobs in her handkerchief. 
 For days she had been enduring more suffering in try- 
 ing to control herself and calmly reason out her plans 
 for the future than if she had let her grief break out and 
 spend itself in one paroxysm. The dear old lady for- 
 got all about Lexham's knowledge of the affair, and in 
 that moment her love for Gertrude was strong enough 
 to resent any scorn and all the world's contumely.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 271 
 
 What reproaches could equal Gertrude's own chidings ? 
 What disdain could make more keen the acute suffer- 
 ing she felt? Mrs. Sefton took her niece in her arms 
 and offered her breast for the aching head, just as she 
 once did for Elinor when all her being in great distress 
 cried out for some words of love and comfort. When 
 Gertrude recovered from the fit and she had conquered 
 the sobbing and the tears, she arose, and in a mood so 
 calm in contrast to the fit she had suffered, she found 
 pen and paper and began to write. 
 
 " What are you going to do, dear?" her aunt asked 
 in wonderment. 
 
 "Hush, auntie; I'm writing to Mr. Lexham. I 
 shan't rest to-night till I know that all will be settled 
 to-morrow," she said, and with her head resting on her 
 hand she began the following letter: 
 
 BRABANT HOTEL. 
 
 MY DEAR MR. LEXHAM, Half an hour ago I left a 
 note on your desk which I hope you have received. In 
 the note I said I wished to see you on a matter of import- 
 ance and asked when you could see me to-morrow. 
 Now I find the matter more urgent than I imagined, 
 and must tell you without further delay the favour 
 which I think you will do for me. We have not often 
 met, but from the first time, nearly two years ago, I 
 have felt that between us there existed a tacit under- 
 standing. To be plain, and this matter will not bear 
 any nice distinctions or circumlocution, I believe you 
 have from the first known of my and Mr. Gower's 
 affair. Forgive my bluntness ; if I really understand 
 you, you prefer direct statements. The time is come
 
 272 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 when I must take up positive duties which through 
 my want of discretion I have neglected, and Mr. Gower 
 and I must go our separate ways. But though he may 
 be insincere and not love me for myself alone, I think 
 it only just to make some reparation in leaving him so 
 suddenly. He has just finished an opera which he 
 says I was wholly instrumental in urging him to ac- 
 complish. This work he wishes to take to France, 
 there to find a producer. Having his welfare at heart, 
 and with oh ! so dear a wish to be the one who through 
 self-sacrifice brought him to persevere and attain to 
 better things, I want now to give him a sum of money 
 which should be enough to pay the expenses of an 
 European trip of say a year's duration. In doing this 
 I want your help. Of course I can't give him the 
 money, nor do I care that he should know it came from 
 me. Will you do this for me? If I send you a cheque 
 for two thousand dollars will you pass it through your 
 bank and give him your cheque for the amount ? You 
 can make any excuse you like, for I fear he will not 
 much care who the donor is. How I wish he would 
 care! You know him, perhaps, even better than I do, 
 though of late he has not been able to hide his worst 
 defects of character from me. May I hope for a line 
 from you to-night ? You will, I'm sure, appreciate all 
 I now endure. I should so like to have this matter set- 
 tled to-morrow, so that I may leave here the next day. 
 
 Forgive me for troubling you. You are the only 
 one who can realise my difficulty and help me. 
 
 With my warmest regards and best wishes, 
 Ever yours, 
 
 GERTRUDE LAIRD.-
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 273 
 
 She rang for a messenger boy, and told him to wait 
 for an answer should Mr. Lexham be at home ; other- 
 wise to leave the letter. The boy soon returned and 
 said, " He was not in, so I left it." Lexham had gone 
 for a walk round his old haunts after he left Gower. 
 Through the neighbourhood of South Fifth Avenue 
 and Bleecker Street he sauntered for an hour. He 
 stopped at the flight of steps down which, in Guarini's 
 restaurant, he met Drake and Gower. But another 
 sign was over the door. It was no longer the place for. 
 famous spaghetti. The present occupant sold potatoes, 
 coal, and butter. He could not resist the impulse to 
 descend and look at the changed room. A fat old 
 woman sat behind the counter and looked at him in 
 wonder. 
 
 " Why, if it isn't Mr. Lexham !" she exclaimed. 
 He turned and looked at her. 
 
 " Mrs. Morris ?" he asked. A former landlady of 
 his. 
 
 " Yes, of course it is. Well, you do look out of 
 sight, sir," she cried, taking his outstretched hand and 
 giving it a hearty shake. 
 
 " So you've gone into business, eh ? What has 
 become of Guarini ?" 
 
 " Oh, he's broke. Waitin' at some restaurant on 
 Second Avenue. Lots o' gentleman come an' ask fur 
 him. And what bisiness are you in, sir?" 
 
 " Writing, Mrs. Morris," said Lexham, with a smile. 
 
 " Um ! Hope you're doin' better 'an yer did, sir. 
 Isn't a steady bisiness, is it?" 
 
 " No ; but I'm doing a little better. Are you doing 
 well?" 
 
 18
 
 274 MADAME BOHEMIA 1 
 
 "Oh, just gettin' along. Kind a slow sometimes 
 down here, but there's been three meals a day comin' 
 to me pretty reg'lar like." 
 
 " Give me a pound of biscuits, Mrs. Morris, will 
 you?" Lexham felt he must buy something of the 
 woman, and could think of nothing else. 
 
 " Certainly. What kind d'yer like, sir? Them with' 
 currins in's nice." 
 
 "They will do nicely." 
 
 In paying for them he found that only one dollar 
 and some small change remained. Elinor had not sent 
 the usual amount. It was the first time she had missed, 
 and he till that moment had forgotten the weekly 
 cheque. He remembered what Blackston had a few 
 hours before told him how Windham had heard of 
 Elinor's row with her landlady. Was it possible that 
 all the money was spent? 
 
 He went again to Elinor's, but she had not reached 
 home. It was eleven o'clock when he found Gertrude's 
 letters on his desk. The servant told him that Mrs. 
 Kembleton had called early in the evening just after 
 he went out with Mr. Blackston. When he was left 
 alone he read the second letter over and over again. 
 His mind was too confused to think calmly of a good 
 plan which would serve to solve her difficulty. He 
 had for many months past looked on Gower as quite 
 a person apart from Elinor. He thought Gertrude's 
 desire was a noble one, and for Gower's sake he was 
 anxious to accede to her request. But the events of 
 the day, Elinor's position, what he had an hour before 
 seen and experienced, together with the bitter moments 
 of retrospect, completely unnerved him and made in-
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 275 
 
 superable impediments of small matters which in mo- 
 ments of calm would have not occurred to him. What 
 seemed in his confused state of mind the greatest diffi- 
 culty of all was that he had no bank account. Then 
 that matter which in her letter Gertrude had told 
 him to think of least of whom the real donor might 
 be bothered his speculations most. And yet he felt 
 that Gower would accept the money without the least 
 compunction. At length he sat down and wrote the 
 following letter : 
 
 MY DEAR MRS. LAIRD,, I have for some time felt 
 that I've understood what is come to pass. Even this 
 afternoon when you were here I then thought your 
 emotions had undergone a serious change. It is hardly 
 necessary for me to assure you how deeply I feel for 
 you and how thoroughly I appreciate the generous 
 spirit which prompts you to do so much for one who 
 should have been all in all to you. I will gladly do 
 anything in my power, and if you will come here to- 
 morrow about noon I shall by then have thought of 
 some plan which I hope will make it an easy matter 
 for you to accomplish the end you desire. I wish I 
 had been in when you called this evening. I'm sure 
 he doesn't suspect the slightest change in you. Per- 
 haps it is better so, for you will have gone before he 
 will really understand what has taken place and what it 
 means to him. 
 
 Believe me, ever sincerely yours, 
 GILBERT LEX HAM. 
 
 He took the letter over to her hotel and told the at- 
 tendant to have it sent up at once to Mrs. Lairct It
 
 276 MADAME BOHEMIA 1 
 
 was not till he was on his way back to his rooms that 
 he thought of how the whole matter of Gertrude and 
 Gower would affect Elinor. Would she like his inter- 
 ference? Was he doing right in lending his aid to a 
 scheme which would surely cause a separation between 
 Elinor and Gower? He was sorry he had promised 
 so much in his letter, and soon began to regret the 
 engagement he had made for the morrow. 
 
 Elinor had of late realised that she would have to 
 exert herself in some way to find employment. The 
 agents said they could book no more dates for her re- 
 citals. She was told that her class of entertainment 
 was played out. Elinor was not prepared for so sud- 
 den a termination of her career as a reader. She had 
 hoped for a long autumn tour, the proceeds of which 
 she thought would help her to pay off some of her debts 
 and give her a chance to begin again on a far simpler 
 scale. For several weeks she had hoped against hope, 
 but nothing came. Many times she had tried to let 
 Lexham know that they were fast reaching the state 
 in which they were in the spring, when he had to finish 
 in haste the play the advance royalties of which helped 
 them out of their difficulties for only a few months. 
 The glamour of love had slowly diminished and had 
 left a cold, clear light, in which she saw herself and 
 all things which appertained to Lexham as serious 
 facts, with outlines hard and repellant. She loved him 
 none the less. The circumstances were changed. 
 
 Late in the evening Elinor started out with the bag 
 of jewelry. The shop of the pawnbroker who had lent 
 her money many times before was closed. For hours 
 she roamed about Third Avenue and the Bowery, stop-
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA "277 
 
 ping at the windows of several pawnshops only to 
 find her. courage desert her the moment she got to the 
 door. At last she came to a likely shop. She looked 
 in. There were no customers at the counter. She 
 handed her bag to a young man, who closely examined 
 each piece of jewelry. During this process she became 
 so agitated that when the pawnbroker began to question 
 her she lost all heart, picked up her bag, and left the 
 shop covered with confusion. She reached home at 
 midnight, having walked about the streets till that hour 
 so that she would not see Lexham, for she felt quite 
 unequal to the task of telling him. She passed a sleep- 
 less night, and morning found her thoroughly disheart- 
 ened.
 
 'CHAPTER XX 
 
 LEXHAM was soon astir the next morning, but when 
 he inquired for Elinor he was told she was out. It 
 never occurred to him that he could have raised a 
 good amount on the furniture in his rooms. If he 
 had not owned a single chair or even a pawnable article, 
 he could not well have imagined himself in a worse 
 plight. When he heard the servant say " Mrs. Kem- 
 bleton went out an hour ago" he was instantly thrown 
 Into a fever of excitement to find her, but he did not 
 know in which direction to turn. He learned that 
 Gower was not out of bed. Gertrude was busy pre- 
 paring for the journey of the next day, and anxious 
 for the hour to come when she would meet Lexham. 
 
 It was about noon when Alice was putting fresh 
 flowers in the glasses on Lexham' s desk. She and the 
 maid had been busy making tidy the room. It was a 
 beautiful November day, but cold with the first breath 
 of winter. There was a gentle knock on the door. 
 Thinking it might be Lexham, who knew it was sweep- 
 ing day, she quickly gathered the broken stems and 
 leaves, which she rolled up in a paper and hid in the 
 waste-paper basket. Again there was a knock, if any- 
 thing gentler than the first. She ran to the door and 
 opened it, half-hiding herself behind it. But no one 
 entered. Peeping round the edge of the door she saw 
 Drake standing with his back to her, evidently not 
 aware that the door was open. There he stood rub- 
 278
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 279 
 
 bing his hands and shuffling his feet. Had the cold 
 driven him home ? 
 
 " Well, Dick Drake !" Alice cried, glad to see him, 
 though she felt disappointed, for she expected Lexham. 
 
 " The Angel upstairs," Drake said the moment after 
 he had turned. He had for many months to Lexham 
 called Alice " the Angel upstairs." 
 
 " What !" she exclaimed, surprised at the expression 
 he used and at the strange look in his eyes. 
 
 " I mean Alice I should say, Miss Oldcastle," he 
 murmured apologetically, crossing the room to the fire- 
 place. 
 
 " Alice only when you are good." 
 
 " I haven't had a drop to drink since " 
 
 " Dick Drake ! Be careful ! You have been a very 
 naughty fellow," she said in remonstrance, and added, 
 " Don't tell me anything about temperance lectures." 
 
 " I was about to say, Alice " he stopped, while 
 
 she gave him a quizzical glance. " I repeat, Alice," 
 putting some stress on her name, " that I've had neither 
 food nor drink since yesterday." 
 
 "Good gracious! Why?" she asked in a very 
 serious tone. 
 
 " Why ? Ah, that is a great social question," he 
 said, sorry that the word food escaped, for it sounded 
 to him like a beggar's whine. 
 
 " But you must be hungry." 
 
 " So it seems," he said, with a smile ; " but don't be 
 alarmed, Alice, you've no idea what a popular pastime 
 hunger has become with certain classes." 
 
 " But you, Dick, and once so famous," she said. 
 
 "Yes, it is strange, isn't it?"
 
 280 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 He was standing with his back to the fire, and she 
 leaned over the back of a chair watching him. He 
 started and trembled. His eyes were fixed on her. 
 There was a stern expression on his face, the muscles 
 of which seemed to twitch as if in pain. She shrank 
 back, and he stretched out his arms to her. Something 
 like a moan came from him. Alice, at first startled, 
 ran to him and cried, " Dick ! Dick ! what's the mat- 
 ter?" She turned a chair, on which he sank. He 
 looked quite stupified, as if he were under the influence 
 of a drug. She shook him gently : " Oh, dear, dear, 
 you're going to be ill again ! What am I to do with 
 such a wicked fellow, Dick?" 
 
 He revived and looked curiously at her. 
 
 " There !" she exclaimed, with a sigh of relief, " do 
 you feel better ?" 
 
 "Angels with iridescent wings," he muttered to him- 
 self. There was a sneer playing around his mouth. 
 " Bah !" he ejaculated, and shuddered. 
 
 " Come," she said, helping him to rise, " rest on 
 the lounge awhile. I'll get you something to drink. 
 You're weak, Dick. There !" She led him across the 
 room and left him lying down. He listened to the 
 sound of her feet hurrying upstairs. 
 
 Since Drake first came to live with Lexham he had 
 been very careful not to leave any wine or spirits out 
 on the sideboard, in fact, he never drank in his pres- 
 ence. But Drake had been away for several days, and 
 Lexham had the day before forgotten to lock up his 
 decanters. No sooner was Alice out of sound than 
 Drake arose and went to the sideboard. Listening for 
 a moment, to make sure that no one was near to detect
 
 Listening for a moment
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA! 281 
 
 him, he poured some brandy into a glass and drank it 
 off at one gulp. He hid the glass and then stood 
 still awaiting the effect and sensation. Again he 
 helped himself to a bigger drink, almost a tumblerful. 
 A noise disturbed him. He again hid the glass and 
 went back quickly to the lounge and lay on it as if he 
 had not stirred since Alice left the room. In walked 
 Gower. 
 
 " Lexham," he began, not seeing Drake on the 
 lounge. 
 
 " Not in," said Drake. 
 
 "That you, Drake?" Gower asked, as he turned 
 towards him. 
 
 " Yes," he said, pretending to be half-asleep. 
 
 "Drunk?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Have you any money ?" 
 
 "No." " 
 
 " Damnation !" said Gower, with some emphasis. 
 
 "Why?" Drake asked in a languid way. 
 
 " Oh, confound it ! I've got Mrs. Laird in a cab at 
 the door. We've been about shopping, and I can't 
 take her home till I get some money to pay the cabby." 
 
 " The wealthy Mrs. Laird imprisoned in a cab and 
 poor Gower can't go bail for her," Drake said, with a 
 chuckle. 
 
 " There's nothing to chuckle at. When will Lex- 
 ham be in ?" 
 
 "Chuckle? You're right. It's shameful," Drake 
 said in a mocking tone. " Penury and Wealth in the 
 same cab, and Penury can't take Wealth home because 
 Penury can't pay for the use of Wealth's vehicle."
 
 282 MADAME BOHEMIA 1 
 
 " Shut up, Drake !" Gower cried from the window, 
 where he stood watching for Lexham. 
 
 " But Penury has a tongue. Why can't Penury 
 ask?" 
 
 " Don't be absurd. A man can't borrow from his 
 fiancee." 
 
 " Indeed ! Why not ?" Drake asked, with assumed 
 innocence. 
 
 " Oh, it wouldn't do. Mrs. Laird will soon be Mrs. 
 Gower." 
 
 " The deuce! Does she know that?" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " I didn't know that long-talked of divorce had been 
 granted," Drake said, with a well-feigned show of 
 interest. " I congratulate you" he added. He did 
 not let Gower see the delight he was having in making 
 him more and more irritable. 
 
 " Bah !" Gower growled. 
 
 " Did it never strike you that she has a sneaking 
 regard for Lexham ?" Drake asked in a quiet, inquisi- 
 tive tone. 
 
 "No, certainly not. Don't be an idiot." Gower 
 stopped and took a letter from his pocket. There was 
 an expression of suspicion on his face as he scrutinised 
 the address. " Oh, here's a letter for Lexham," he 
 said, throwing it down on the writing-pad ; " will you 
 draw his attention to it if I have to go before he 
 turns up ?" 
 
 " Were you here with Mrs. Laird about ten o'clock 
 last night?" Drake asked. 
 
 " No ; Mrs. Laird wasn't here last night." 
 
 " I think she was."
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 283 
 
 " Yesterday afternoon you mean." 
 
 " No ; I mean last night. I saw her leave the house 
 and get into a cab yes, it was just about ten." 
 
 "It's a lie!" 
 
 Drake turned over on the lounge and looked at 
 Gower to see the effect of his taunts. His face showed 
 only innocent surprise. Gower was furious. 
 
 " Well, perhaps you know best. But surely you 
 don't think there is any reason why you should be 
 so angry about it ?" Drake said in an easy tone. The 
 brandy's effect and the pleasure he took in angering 
 Gower was irresistible. He was just in the mood to 
 goad Gower to any madness. 
 
 " No ; but such women are slippery creatures. You 
 don't know the agony of fear I have to endure. All 
 my future is staked on her " 
 
 "Wealth?" 
 
 Grower felt inclined to throttle Drake, but at that 
 moment Alice came in with a tray, on which she had 
 a cup of beef-tea and some dry toast. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Gower !" Alice exclaimed in surprise. 
 
 " How do you do, Miss Oldcastle ?" he asked, try- 
 ing to recover himself. 
 
 " I'm well, thank you," she replied. She turned to 
 Drake and placed the tray on a small table near the 
 lounge. " Come, Dick, it is hot." 
 
 " I don't want it, Alice, thank you." 
 
 "But you must need it. You haven't eaten since 
 yesterday." 
 
 " Don't insist," said Gower, going to the table. " If 
 He is suffering from lack of food," he continued, taking 
 up a piece of toast and dipping it in the tea, "I
 
 284 MADAME BOHEMIA 1 
 
 shouldn't urge him. It is a good thing to fast now 
 and then for a day. When I was with Liszt at Wei- 
 mar I practised very well on an empty stom- This 
 
 is really excellent toast, Miss Oldcastle." Drake 
 coulci have laughed at the half-amused, half-indig- 
 nant expression on Alice's face if the sound of a 
 laugh would not have spoiled the scene. Gower 
 had eaten half the toast when Drake said, "Gower 
 don't you think Mrs. Laird would like a bit of 
 toast?" 
 
 " Confound it ! I had forgotten her. What am I 
 to do?" 
 
 " Take her home. Keep the cab and drive back 
 here. Lexham may return before you come back," 
 said Drake. 
 
 "Good idea. Good-bye, Miss Oldcastle. You 
 never come to see us. Get Lexham to bring you round 
 this afternoon. We have some people coming to tea. 
 I say, Drake, don't forget that letter on Lexham's 
 desk." In another moment he was gone. Drake 
 chuckled. 
 
 " What does Mr. Gower do ?" Alice asked. 
 
 " Eat other people's toast." 
 
 " But has he no profession ?" 
 
 " A trade. I believe he thinks he is a musician." 
 
 " But music isn't a trade." 
 
 " It wasn't, Alice." 
 
 " Is literature now a profession, Dick ?" she asked 
 naively. 
 
 " Real literature is," he replied. 
 
 " Was your famous story real literature?" 
 
 " Some people were kind enough to say so. Of
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 285 
 
 course, ' Devril's Dream' was an exception. I wrote 
 it after a terrible debauch," he explained. 
 
 " Oh, Dick, how can you say such things ? Were 
 you always so wicked?" 
 
 " Wicked, Alice ? Well, I suppose so. What an 
 angel you are to listen to and care for such a wreck," 
 he said, with true feeling. 
 
 " I'm not an angel. But, tell me, why have you not 
 written anything great since your famous story?" 
 
 " Mood, Alice, mood. I drank steadily for one week 
 before I was full of the idea of ' Devril's Dream.' But 
 now, try as I can, the mood never comes. I drink 
 tea, coffee, cocoa, and all the extensively advertised 
 stimulants which have aided other literary men, 
 but they have no effect on me." He was heartily 
 enjoying his own joke because Alice took it all so 
 seriously. 
 
 " Have you tried Oh, I forget the name of 
 
 the stuff. I think it is made from the brains of oxen. 
 The advertisement says it is good for brain fatigue 
 and overwork. I wonder if it would put you in the 
 proper mood." 
 
 " I don't think so," he said, with a strange smile. 
 
 " Do you drink brandy for that reason, to put you 
 in the mood?" she asked. 
 
 " Yes, oh, yes, Alice. But brandy is expensive, and 
 when I can't get enough I forget everything and roam 
 about in dreadful places until the police put me away 
 in a cell." For the moment he seemed to forget that 
 Alice was near him. 
 
 " Poor Dick !" she murmured. " Why do you leave 
 the only friends you say you have? Think how kind 
 Mr. Lexham has been to you."
 
 286 MADAME BOHEMIA; 
 
 " Eh ? Oh, yes, I know ; but this is all different. 
 You see I'm prompted to do things which I know are 
 wrong, but I can't help myself. In the very moment 
 I'm drinking brandy I'm saying to myself, ' This is 
 wrong, Dick Drake.' I was brought up on horrors, 
 I wrote about horrors, and now there's nothing but 
 horrors for me." 
 
 " Dick, Dick, you'll kill yourself if you go on like 
 this," she said in a tone which rebuked him for his 
 thoughtless remarks. 
 
 " Then I shall die laughing at someone else's joke," 
 he said, with a chuckle. 
 
 " I shan't talk to you. You're in one of your 
 naughty moods. And you can be so good when you 
 like. Think how Mr. Lexham has been worrying 
 about you," she said in a tone of reprimand. 
 
 " Worrying about me ? I hope not, Alice. He has 
 quite enough to worry him without wasting any 
 thought on me." 
 
 " Why did you run away from us ?" 
 
 " Well, I thought I was in the way, and you know 
 Mrs. Kembleton has no reason to like me. She knows 
 all about it." 
 
 "Dick, all about what?" 
 
 " Oh, nothing, Alice. Don't take any notice of me. 
 I ramble." 
 
 She had often seen him in such a mood. Many a 
 time he would hint at a reason why Elinor and others 
 should dislike him, but Alice could never coax him to 
 explain clearly his meaning. 
 
 " Why do they call Mrs. Kembleton Madame Bo- 
 hemia?" she asked, after a moment's reflection.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 287 
 
 " Because she loves art and flirts with morality, I 
 suppose." 
 
 "I don't understand. Sometimes I think you try 
 to hide what you really mean from me. Dick, is there 
 anything wrong?" 
 
 "Wrong?" he repeated, in much surprise. 
 
 " Yes. Tell me, Dick, is there anything I shouldn't 
 know ? Mr. Blackston and my grandfather talk about 
 Mrs. Kembleton and Mr. Lexham in a way which 
 
 makes me think such dreadful Oh, Dick, they 
 
 don't love each other, do they?" Her tone startled 
 Drake. He sat up and looked at her. There was a 
 strange light in his eyes. He thought he had surprised 
 a secret. 
 
 " Would you much care if Lexham loved her?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " Care ! Oh, Dick !" Her voice was tremulous. 
 Her lips quivered. Tears flooded her eyes. She tried 
 to speak, but could only shake her head in a hopeless 
 way, which seemed to indicate that some despair had 
 already touched her tender heart. 
 
 "Oh, Alice," he laughed, "you silly girl! The 
 idea ! Why, Mrs. Kembleton has been almost a mother 
 to Lexham." 
 
 " What! am I silly? Only that? To help him in 
 his work? They don't love each other?" she cried in 
 staccato tones, as her smiles broke through the mist of 
 fast-coming tears. " Oh, Dick, dear Dick, how happy 
 you have made me!" 
 
 " You don't know how happy you've made me, 
 Alice," he said, with a tremor in his voice. " But 
 you won't love Dick Drake any the less?"
 
 288 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 " No, no ! I love everybody even Mrs. Kembleton 
 ever so much! And you, why, I've loved you ever 
 since that day when dear old grandfather and I saw you 
 surrounded by a crowd." 
 
 " Eh? Drunk, eh?" he said, trying to put her off. 
 
 " No. When you were trying to remember a 
 name ' 
 
 " Now that silly head of yours is possessed of 
 another absurd notion," he said nervously, and tried 
 to rise. 
 
 " Oh, no, it isn't. You had forgotten some name, 
 for grandfather thought you were trying to remember 
 ours. Why, Dick, when you heard him say Oldcastle 
 you yelled it at the top of your voice and flew away 
 as if fiends were after you." 
 
 "Fiends. Yes, ;they liked my company. They 
 stuck to me night and day, but at last I contrived to 
 get rid of the fiends and found " 
 
 " Friends ?" Alice interposed. She shook a finger 
 at him and laughed at his seriousness. The effect of 
 the brandy was beginning to show signs which he had 
 much difficulty in hiding from her. 
 
 " I'm so tired," said Drake, trying to rise and steady 
 himself. " I think I shall have a rest in Lexham's 
 room ; I'm too lazy to go to my own." 
 
 " Listen," said Alice. "I think he is coming." 
 
 Drake had reached the sideboard, and while she ran 
 to the window to look out and see if it were Lexham 
 whom she thought she heard coming up the steps, 
 Drake quickly poured some more brandy in a glass 
 and drank it. In replacing the glass on the tray it 
 struck the decanter and broke with a clash which at-
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 289 
 
 tracted Alice. As she turned from the window to 
 see what had happened Lexham came in. 
 
 " Dick, how could you ?" she cried, seeing the stop- 
 perless decanter and the broken glass. 
 
 "Hullo, Dick!" Lexham exclaimed, glad to see 
 Drake. Alice glided in front of the sideboard to 
 hide the tell-tale decanter and broken glass from Lex- 
 ham. 
 
 " Hullo, Lexham !" Drake muttered, reaching the 
 desk in the centre of the room without further mishap. 
 
 " How tired and ill you look !" Alice could not help 
 saying. They had not seen each other since Blackston 
 on the evening before had spoken to Lexham about her 
 blushing when she spoke his name. 
 
 "Oh, no," he said, "I'm all right, little sister." 
 Drake was on his way to the door of Lexham's bed- 
 room. " Dick, where have you been ?" he said, going 
 to his desk. 
 
 " Seeing the sights," he stammered, lurching to- 
 wards the door, the handle of which he clutched in 
 time to save him from sprawling. 
 
 " Well, I hope you've seen enough to satisfy you 
 for a long time. Come, I forgive," said Lexham, going 
 towards Drake. " Shake hands." 
 
 " I'm so sleepy,' he mumbled, as he half-turned to 
 give Lexham the hand with which he had grasped the 
 handle. The muddled action was enough to reveal his 
 condition. He stood with his back against the archi- 
 trave of the door. His head drooped on his chest, and 
 his knees wobbled in and out in a powerless way and 
 threatened to collapse at any moment. Lexham started 
 and went straight to him, and said, 
 
 19
 
 290 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 " Look at me !" Drake tried to raise his head, heavy 
 from the effects of the brandy. " Dick !" Alice 
 watched the scene with sorrowful agitation. 
 
 " I'm so sleepy," was all he could say. His hand 
 slipped off the handle and he lurched forward into his 
 friend's arms. Lexham sighed and shook his head. 
 Taking Drake up in his firm grasp, he almost carried 
 him off into his room, where he laid him on the bed. 
 When he returned Alice said, " I am to blame." There 
 were tears in her eyes. 
 
 "You, Alice?" said Lexham, Blackston's words 
 about her still ringing in his ears. 
 
 " Yes ; he drank some brandy when my back was 
 turned. I was at the window looking for you," she 
 said, slightly embarrassed. 
 
 " But one drink couldn't affect him to that extent," 
 he remarked. 
 
 " He was all right when he came in. I went up- 
 stairs and got for him some soup and dry toast, but 
 he wouldn't take them." 
 
 Lexham had noticed the things on the tray, but he 
 could see no toast. 
 
 "Wouldn't take them?" 
 
 " Oh," Alice ejaculated, " Mr. Gower ate the toast. 
 He came to see you. There is a note on your writing- 
 pad." Lexham picked it up and opened it. 
 
 "From Mrs. Laird." He read it and then laid it 
 on his desk. " Has Mrs. Laird been here this morn- 
 ing?" 
 
 " No." Her poor little heart was beating fast 
 when he looked at the glasses of fresh chrysanthe- 
 mums.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 291 
 
 She knew he loved flowers, but he had never once 
 thanked her for them. 
 
 " How beautiful ! When was Mrs. Kembleton 
 here ?" he asked, holding up a glass filled with splendid 
 blooms. 
 
 " Not this morning," Alice said quickly, and then 
 blushed and looked confused. 
 
 " Not this morning ? Then who could have sent the 
 flowers?" he said half to himself, in a tone of en- 
 quiry. 
 
 Something like a sob escaped poor Alice, and to add 
 to her embarrassment Lexham turned and saw tears in 
 her eyes. He was mystified. Could his inquiry about 
 Elinor and the flowers have wounded her. He would 
 have spoken, but at that moment she turned and opened 
 the door. Her grandfather was just coming in. Alice 
 tried to pass him, but he stopped her. 
 
 " I shall go out for a little while, dear," he said. 
 She looked up. " What is the matter ?" His voice 
 was so gentle. 
 
 " Nothing, grandfather," she said, trying to smile. 
 
 " But there are tears in your eyes, Alice." 
 
 " Are there ? Dick is come back to us, and he 
 
 he Mr. Lexham will tell you, I can't." And she 
 
 ran quickly upstairs to get out of sight before the 
 storm broke. 
 
 " What a tender-hearted child she is !" said Lex- 
 ham. 
 
 " Yes, she is, Gilbert. I'm glad Drake is back. 
 Poor fellow, I don't know what we are to do for 
 him," Oldcastle said. 
 
 " I'm sorry Alice saw him, Mr. Oldcastle."
 
 292 MADAME BOHEMIA' 
 
 " Why, do you think Drake is the cause of her 
 tears?" he asked. 
 
 " Yes ; I hope there is no other reason," Lexham 
 said. 
 
 " I'm afraid there is, Gilbert." There was a sweet 
 smile of resignation on the old man's face, and Lex- 
 ham's heart was full of misgivings when he remem- 
 bered Blackston's words. There was something so 
 gentle in Oldcastle's tone and bearing that he could 
 not help but feel a pang of regret that his thought- 
 lessness had brought about a change in their estimation 
 of him. He knew the old man had esteemed him, 
 and for Alice's kindness he was grateful. " Little 
 sister" he had often called her, and it was no empty 
 term. 
 
 " Many times during the past three months I've seen 
 tears in her eyes, but only since last week have I known 
 the cause. I have been to blame. We have lived so 
 much alone, Alice and I. My real reason for letting 
 these rooms was that I might find someone who would 
 be perhaps more of a companion, comrade, than I have 
 been to her. But what an old fool I was! So par- 
 ticular for her happiness, and yet I could sit and see 
 developing under my eyes the very contingency I 
 wished her to avoid." Lexham's head was bowed, and 
 a sense of shame entered his heart. He was humbled 
 and tortured by the very gentleness of Oldcastle's 
 tone. 
 
 " I can't tell you how sorry I am, Mr. Oldcastle. 
 That I have done anything to wound you and Alice 
 pains me beyond all expression," he said in a voice 
 almost choked with emotion.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 293 
 
 "Don't put it that way. It is unfortunate, but I 
 can't see how you were to blame. I am sure if I was 
 blind to it you could not have noticed it." Lexham 
 looked curiously at him ; he did not catch his meaning. 
 
 " I don't quite understand," he said. 
 
 " No, of course not. She has been very brave. How 
 she hid it all from me for so long I can't understand. 
 But it has existed for months, Gilbert, and though I 
 thought it was best not to speak of it to you, the sight 
 of her tears just now was more than I could bear. 
 What is to be done ?" Oldcastle asked. 
 
 "Alice!" Lexham exclaimed. "Alice! Are you 
 referring to ?" 
 
 " To her love for you, Gilbert." 
 
 "What! Alice's love for ?" Lexham was be- 
 wildered, amazed. 
 
 ;< You have said nothing to her, have you, Gilbert? 
 Nothing she has misinterpreted? A word, perhaps, 
 which sometimes implies so much?" 
 
 " No, no ! Oh, Mr. Oldcastle, this is dreadful ! If 
 anyone else had told me this I should have laughed, 
 but you you wouldn't treat it in a light manner," 
 Lexham cried. He was startled and pained. 
 
 " Well, it can't be helped. I'm sorry it has so dis- 
 tressed you, but I'm glad you have said nothing to 
 her. I thought you were generous and loyal. For- 
 give me for doubting you, though in a way there has 
 been some cause to doubt," said Oldcastle. 
 
 " Yes, yes, I know. And of that I'm heartily sorry. 
 I did intend to tell you that I must leave here," Lex- 
 ham said. 
 - "Leave here?" he repeated.
 
 294 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 " Yes. I can't explain, Mr. Oldcastle. Blackston 1 
 has spoken to me. It was not till last night that I 
 was made fully aware of my position. And this about 
 Alice makes matters worse. He told me she couldn't 
 speak my name without a blush, but I never dreamed 
 till now what he really did mean. I thought you and 
 she had heard some gossip about Mrs. Kembleton and 
 that you were ashamed of me," Lexham said, in quick 
 tones which were painful to both, for Lexham felt that 
 some explanation, an apology, was due to Oldcastle, 
 and the old man, thinking of Alice, was distressed to 
 hear his young friend touch upon a subject which had 
 been the cause of many an unhappy hour's thought. 
 
 " No, not ashamed, Gilbert. No one has better rea- 
 son than I have to know why judgment in such cases 
 should be deferred. You have been discreet, and that 
 it was no ordinary affair made me keep silent," Old- 
 castle said, and his voice was low. " I have met Mrs. 
 Kembleton only three times, and if it had not been 
 for Windham I should have been quite ignorant of 
 your relationship. But of that I'm sure Alice knows 
 nothing. How could she know ? Somehow you have 
 filled a great void in my life. Your youth and good- 
 ness of heart won me from the first, and your future 
 has been to me a matter of deep concern." 
 
 " I can't tell you how highly I value your esteem, 
 and I've done so little to show the appreciation I have 
 always felt," Lexham said. 
 
 " Don't think me a meddlesome old man, and forget 
 for a while what I've told you of Alice. Perhaps 
 you have noticed that we very seldom speak of her 
 father, but since I've known you I have often thought
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 295 
 
 of my son, my only child. He fell under the cruel 
 influence of a woman some six months after he mar- 
 ried. .The woman was a great singer. She was here 
 with an opera company, and my son, who was a fair 
 musician, attracted by the music and the glamour 
 about her, fell in love with her and forgot his young 
 wife and me. He followed the woman to Europe, 
 spent large sums of money on her, till at last I had 
 had to give up all hope of reclaiming him and stop 
 letting him have the money which must have been their 
 binding link. Then she tried to get rid of him, and 
 he in a fit of despair committed suicide." 
 
 "Alice's father?" Lexham asked, shocked at the 
 old man's story. 
 
 " Yes, her father, Gilbert," Oldcastle murmured 
 very sadly. 
 
 "How terrible!" 
 
 " That happened before Alice was born. Her mother 
 died from grief when the child was only three weeks 
 old. I thought then that there was nothing more to 
 live for, but as Alice thrived and passed happily from 
 one stage of childhood to another my heart lost some 
 
 of its sadness, and now " Oldcastle was deeply 
 
 affected, and for a minute he could not continue. Sud- 
 denly he clutched at his heart and said in a hoarse 
 voice full of emotion, " Gilbert, I have lived in terror 
 of a sudden taking off. I try to be careful because I'm 
 fearful of her future, yet sometimes the old bitterness 
 and hate for that cursed woman fills me with awful 
 rage. Old man as I am, if I were to come upon her 
 I feel that only God alone could save me from strang- 
 ling her."
 
 296 MADAME BOHEMIA 1 
 
 Lexham was appalled at the old man's passion. To 
 see Oldcastle shaken with rage shocked him. He has- 
 tened to his side and helped him to a chair, for the 
 outburst left Oldcastle weak and unstrung. 
 
 " Gilbert," he said, after a few moments had passed, 
 " I had hoped that you and Alice would care for each 
 other, but all my plans and fondest hopes seem des- 
 tined to defeat. But remember her, won't you ? Think 
 of the father and be generous to the child. She is 
 not much more. I know you will be kind. I am her 
 only relation, and when I am gone " 
 
 " She shall always be my little sister no matter what 
 may happen," said Lexham. " But don't be alarmed ; 
 Mrs. Kembleton, I'm sure, thinks only of my happiness. 
 I wouldn't have you think wrongly of her. She has 
 done so much for me. I have to thank her for every- 
 thing." Oldcastle looked up, smiled, and shook his 
 head. " Yes, I owe her so much," Lexham added. 
 
 " Perhaps ; but you don't owe her your future. She 
 must be many years older than you," the old man re- 
 marked. 
 
 " That is why she won't marry me," Lexham said, 
 with some regret. 
 
 " Marry you ?" Oldcastle exclaimed, quite sur- 
 prised. 
 
 " Yes ; I've asked her to many, many times, but 
 she won't. Still, that is no reason why I should part 
 from her. You know of much she has done for me. 
 Nursed me through that long illness, paid for every- 
 thing; I had hardly a dollar in the world. She en- 
 couraged me to write, and found theatres for my plays 
 and publishers for my books."
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA! 297 
 
 " But, Gilbert, are you sure you really love her ?" 
 
 Lexham smiled and said, " Sure? There is no 
 doubt about that." 
 
 "Are you sure that you are not mistaking a deep 
 sense of gratitude for love?" 
 
 Lexham was about to reply when he checked him- 
 self, and was for a moment silent. A peculiar ex- 
 pression, something like doubt, crossed his face, but he 
 shook away the thought which came only to go, and 
 he smiled rather sadly as he said, " Yes, I'm sure." 
 
 " Gilbert, be careful. I'm not thinking of Alice. 
 There are many things in this life which no law, no 
 condition, social or otherwise, can make equal, and 
 this case I feel is one of them. In ten years' time she 
 will have lost all charm, and you, why, you will be a 
 young man then. Oh, it isn't just, it is not right !" 
 
 " But it must be, and all I hear to her discredit 
 has simply the effect of strengthening the bond," Lex- 
 ham said, with a little impatience. 
 
 " Yes, I suppose so ; but I feel I should be a sorry 
 friend of yours if I were to keep silent when the mem- 
 ory of my own son's awful experience and sad end 
 prompts me to warn you. However, I know that your 
 own good judgment will be the means of saving you." 
 
 " Well, mistakes are easily made, but there is at 
 present only one course open to me. What you have 
 said has, I know, been for my interest. Of her I can 
 say very little. It is what I feel that counts so much. 
 We are apt, I think, to leap over facts to conclusions 
 which are erroneous. You judge Mrs. Kembleton 
 because your son threw away his life for a worthless 
 woman, a coquette, perhaps a wretch more unfortunate
 
 298 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 still. You know not much more about Mrs. Kemble- 
 ton than I have told you. How do you know that I 
 am not wholly to blame ? And are you quite sure your 
 son was blameless?" 
 
 " Blameless !" Oldcastle cried. 
 
 " Forgive me for wounding you," Lexham said. 
 
 " You do not wound me. No, no, he was not blame- 
 less. Oh, no; but she not only took him from his 
 wife, she nearly ruined me through him, and was the 
 cause of his wife's death." 
 
 " Did she know he had a wife?" Lexham asked. 
 
 Oldcastle looked at his young friend in surprise, 
 and said, " I don't know." The question seemed to 
 irritate the old man. 
 
 " Who told you the story of all that led up to his 
 suicide ?" 
 
 " The newspapers and a long letter which he wrote 
 a few days before he put an end to his life." 
 
 "Did he blame her?" 
 
 " No, of course not. He said little or nothing about 
 her, and if it had not been for two men who knew me 
 well and him by sight I should never have known the 
 truth of the matter." 
 
 " Some time ago you told me that you had no faith 
 in circumstantial evidence," Lexham said. 
 
 " Ah, but this is quite a different matter." 
 
 " You think so, but did you know the woman ?" 
 
 " Never saw her in my life." 
 
 " You have never seen her, Mr. Oldcastle ?" 
 
 " Never." 
 
 " Then all you know of your son's sad story is mere 
 hearsay?" Lexham asked in a tone of incredulity.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 299 
 
 " Yes, Gilbert, it seems extraordinary to you, but 
 it has ever been as clear to me as if every word had 
 been vouched for and sworn to. Think as you wish, 
 but I shall never enquire into or interfere with your af- 
 fairs again. I only hope and shall pray that you will 
 never meet my son's fate," said Oldcastle. He had 
 arisen and began to walk steadily to the door. Lex- 
 ham went forward to assist him, and said, 
 
 " Don't misunderstand me, Mr. Oldcastle. I know 
 I don't deserve all your kind thought of me, but 
 I wouldn't have a soul think anything wrong of 
 her." 
 
 Oldcastle grasped Lexham's hand and shook it. The 
 old man tried to speak, but his emotion choked the 
 words which were rising to his tongue. He could 
 only shake his head in a deprecatory manner and pass 
 out. 
 
 Gower had driven Mrs. Laird back to her hotel, 
 but she had guessed that he had no money to pay for 
 the cab, so she paid the fare while he was waiting for 
 Lexham. Gower got out of the vehicle to take her 
 to the lift and the cabman drove away. Many things 
 Drake had said rankled in his mind, so back to Lex- 
 ham's he went to have it out with Drake. He had 
 not dared to question Gertrude about her visit to Lex- 
 ham of the night before. There arose a suspicion 
 which he dreaded, but he had not the mental courage 
 to dismiss it from his mind. Gower reached Lexham's 
 just as the latter was about to write two notes, one 
 to Elinor and the other to Gertrude. 
 
 "Hullo, Lexham!" he cried, " where's Drake? I 
 want to see him."
 
 300 MADAME BOHEMIA 1 
 
 " You can't see him," Lexham said ; " he is not 
 well." 
 
 " I must see him," Gower demanded. His tone 
 annoyed Lexham. 
 
 " I say you can't." 
 
 " But you don't know what he said. He insinuated 
 a " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " That Mrs. Laird was here last night late last 
 night to see you." 
 
 Lexham arose, looked at Gower as if he were about 
 to say something forcible, but he checked himself, 
 shrugged his shoulders, and turned away. 
 
 "Was she here?" Gower asked in a maddening 
 tone. 
 
 " What if she were here? She can please herself, 
 can't she?" Lexham could have struck him for daring 
 to suspect the woman who was about to make so great 
 a sacrifice and do so much for his future. 
 
 " But Drake insinuated " he began to whine, 
 
 but stopped short. He saw a dangerous gleam in 
 Lexham' s eye. 
 
 " Drake was not here last night, and I didn't see 
 Mrs. Laird after she dined with you at Martin's." 
 
 Gower accepted the explanation, but his suspicions 
 were not allayed. He knew he dare not let Lexham 
 know he disbelieved him. 
 
 " Did you get a note from her which I left on your 
 desk?" he asked, as he walked to the place where 
 Lexham had been writing. The letter lay under his 
 eyes. He recognised the handwriting, and before he 
 really knew what he was doing he had picked it up
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 301 
 
 and began to read it. Lexham turned from the fire- 
 place just as Gower raised the letter. In a moment 
 he had rushed forward and plucked it out of Gower's 
 hand. "How dare you? What do you mean by 
 reading a letter addressed to me?" Leham cried. 
 
 " I saw my name on it. What is it about? Lex- 
 ham, do you want to drive me mad ?" 
 
 " Drive you mad?" 
 
 " Yes ; there is some peculiar business going on. 
 I've noticed it for some time now " 
 
 " You have not. You've noticed nothing. Your 
 abominally suspicious nature leads you to misconstrue 
 a perfectly innocent matter. 
 
 " Look here, Lexham, I'll not have that. I think 
 I've a good right to know if there's anything going 
 on which may endanger my prospects. I was out 
 shopping with Mrs. Laird this morning and in her 
 bag I saw a letter from you. When I called in here 
 half an hour ago Drake insinuated a good deal, and 
 
 now " he looked down in pointing to the letter 
 
 Lexham had taken from him and had thrown on the 
 desk, and his eye caught the letter to Mrs. Laird that 
 Lexham had begun. For a moment Gower stopped, 
 and in that moment read a few lines without touching 
 the letter. " Lexham," he cried, " it's not fair. Look 
 
 here " He was about to pick up the unfinished 
 
 note, when Lexham intercepted his action by covering 
 the letter with the palm of his hand. 
 
 " Let me see it," Gower demanded. Lexham laughed 
 at him. 
 
 " I saw the first few lines. You have written, ' I 
 shall be alone for an hour. Come at once ' "
 
 302 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 " Yes, you have good eyesight. Now, Gower, if 
 you had taken any other tone but this I should have 
 been anxious to conciliate, but now you can think just 
 what you please." 
 
 " You can't deny " Someone knocked on the 
 
 door. 
 
 " Deny ? Bah ! You're losing your head." 
 
 " Do you mean to say that there is nothing between 
 you and Mrs. Laird?" The person waiting to be 
 admitted opened the door and closed it. 
 
 " Cyril, I'm busy. I think you had better go." 
 
 Again the knock. This time Lexham heard it and 
 went to see who was there. Mrs. Laird stood there. 
 She walked into the room before Gower turned to see 
 who the caller was. 
 
 " Did you hear us ?" Lexham asked, in a whisper, as 
 she passed him. 
 
 " Yes," she replied. Gower turned and started. 
 
 "Well, Cyril, I didn't expect to meet you here," 
 she said. " You told me you were going home to 
 work." 
 
 " Yes ; but I wanted to see Lexham for a moment," 
 he stammered. 
 
 "Oh, am I in the way?" She made a movement 
 towards the door. 
 
 " No ; I've finished." Lexham went to him, while 
 Gertrude turned to the fire. 
 
 " If you don't go I shall let Her know what you 
 wanted to see me about," Lexham said in an under- 
 tone. 
 
 Gower was obstinate and gave Lexham a glance 
 which implied, " I dare you !"
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 303 
 
 " I shall." And Lexham started to move away 
 from him. 
 
 " No, no, I'll go !" Gower's hat was on the lounge, 
 Lexham picked it up and gave it to him, at the same 
 time he made a gesture towards the door. Gower 
 went to Mrs. Laird and said, 
 
 " Gertrude, shall I see you later this afternoon ?" 
 
 " Yes, of course, auntie and I. We are going to 
 have early dinner with Diva, you know." She smiled 
 at him and he brightened. 
 
 " Till then," he said, and left the room. 
 
 Neither spoke for a moment. Lexham listened and 
 heard the outer door shut with a bang. Then he went 
 to the window and saw Gower walking across the 
 square. 
 
 " I should have been here on time, but Cyril came 
 this morning just as I was starting off to do some 
 shopping. I had to let him go with me," she ex- 
 plained. " I'm so sorry to trouble you in this matter, 
 but there is no one else who can help me." 
 
 " It is no trouble, Mrs. Laird. Are you still of 
 the same mind?" 
 
 " Yes, it must all end. I have here a cheque for 
 two thousand dollars," she said, opening a small bag 
 depending from her girdle, from which she took the 
 cheque and handed it to him. In watching her find 
 the cheque he caught sight of his letter, the one which 
 Gower said he had seen. 
 
 " Now, how can the matter be arranged ?" she asked. 
 
 " I'm sure Cyril will know this money is a gift from 
 you," Lexham said, " for he has of late asked me to 
 lend him sums of money which I could not let him
 
 304 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 have. Besides, to be quite frank with you, I think he 
 knows I have no bank account. But if your object 
 in giving him the money is to pay the expense of a trip 
 to Europe where he is to dispose of his opera " 
 
 " Yes, it is the only reparation I can make," she 
 said. " I think I told you in my letter that I once 
 promised him to be in Paris at the time he would be 
 there. But that is now impossible." 
 
 " Do you really believe he wants to take his opera 
 to Paris?" 
 
 " Oh, yes. He has no chance here or in England. 
 He has many friends in Paris, Berlin, and Vienna." 
 
 " Then I think the best plan would be for you to 
 buy him a first-class passage ticket to Paris, give him 
 a small sum of money for the voyage, and a draft on 
 a Paris bank for the balance," Lexham said. 
 
 " Yes, will you do all that for me?" she asked. 
 
 " After you have left New York. Will you permit 
 me to tell all this to Elinor?" 
 
 " Yes. Do you think she will really care ?" 
 
 " I don't know. You see they have never been 
 separated for any great length of time since she adopted 
 him when he was about seven years old, and though 
 he has of late treated her in a shameful manner, I 
 don't think he has quite killed the old love, the great 
 love she had for him when he was a boy. You know 
 her, I think. She is as loyal " 
 
 " Please don't speak of loyalty. Think of me and 
 what I am trying to do. If you only knew what it 
 really costs for me to give up all the dear hopes. 
 When I met him and Elinor at my aunt's a new world 
 was revealed to me. Perhaps my fancy made it far
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 303 
 
 brighter than it is, that world of music and art. My 
 life had been such a strictly measured-out affair. 
 Monotony, monotony, day, night, dress, delicacies, re- 
 spectability, hypocrisy. Then they came at a time 
 when I was heart-sick, separated from a drunken hus- 
 band and Oh, I know Gertrude Laird's affairs 
 
 are generally known! Why try for respectability's 
 sake to deny what the gossips say? The gossips have 
 got hold of the truth. What does it matter? The 
 money spoiled it all. Mr. Laird married me for that, 
 and now I can't help but feel that it is the money 
 which has attracted Cyril. At first I was happy enough 
 to forget I was rich, but ever since the thought of it 
 came back to me I have seen that he has no love for 
 me, though he has protested that all the best work he 
 has done was wholly due to my influence. How I 
 wish I could believe him!" 
 
 " Do you know he is deeply in debt?" Lexham asked, 
 after a moment's silence. 
 
 " No ; but let me have the amount. How much do 
 you think he owes?" 
 
 " Well, he told me a week ago that seven hundred 
 dollars wouldn't satisfy his creditors," Lexham said. 
 
 " Then I'll give you another cheque for one thou- 
 sand. But how can we find out the names of the 
 creditors ?" 
 
 " Oh, I shall ask him for a list." 
 
 " You feel he can't be trusted to pay them, not 
 if I gave you the amount to give him for that pur- 
 pose?" 
 
 " Candidly ? Certainly not. I have no desire to 
 make his case any worse than you think it is, since 
 
 20
 
 306 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 you are determined to end it all. But I have trusted 
 him and know! No! Let me get the list and pay. 
 them. I'll send you all the receipts," Lexham said. 
 
 " I don't think he deserves to have so good a friend 
 as you. It should be a great lesson to him. Tell him. 
 Did you have a serious quarrel with him about a week 
 ago?" she asked. 
 
 " No ; I think Cyril and I understand each other. 
 Our quarrels are never serious. Why do you ask ?" 
 
 " I wondered if there was any real reason for sev- 
 eral unkind remarks he made one night when he was 
 dining with my aunt and me. Auntie was quite dis- 
 tressed. Thanks so much. I'll run over to the hotel 
 and write out the other cheque. I shan't be gone 
 long." 
 
 Elinor knocked on the door and came in. She was 
 surprised to see Gertrude, who hastened to her and 
 gave her a warm greeting. 
 
 " Elinor, you don't look well," Gertrude said. 
 "What's the matter?" 
 
 "A little tired, that's all. I've been so busy of late. 
 Well, Gilbert, did you think I was lost?" 
 
 " No, dear," Lexham said, with great tenderness 
 of tone. He noticed that she was pale and that her 
 eyes showed signs of tears not long dry. Her lips 
 quivered as she looked at him. Gertrude was evi- 
 dently much concerned about her, for she forgot about 
 the errand and stood anxiously waiting to do some 
 service for Elinor. 
 
 " I called last night but you were out, so " She 
 
 looked at Gertrude and a flash of anger shone in her 
 eyes. Mrs. Laird did not see it. Lexham did, but
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 307 
 
 he could think of no reason for it. He was surprised 
 and perplexed. 
 
 " You leave here early to-morrow, so Cyril told 
 me," Elinor said ; " but you will bring Mrs. Sefton 
 to dinner this evening, won't you?" 
 
 " Yes, oh, yes. I should like to come half an hour 
 earlier. I want to have a chat with you. May I?" 
 Gertrude said. 
 
 " Yes, do. We dine early," said Elinor, and she 
 gave her hand with some reluctance to Gertrude and 
 added, " Till then." 
 
 Mrs. Laird was rather surprised at the unexpected 
 way in which Elinor implied that she wished to be 
 left alone with Lexham. On his desk lay the cheque 
 for two thousand dollars. Elinor glanced at it. Mrs. 
 Laird had gone towards the door. Lexham opened it 
 and shook her hand as she left the room. 
 
 " Well, you truant, where have you been since yes- 
 terday afternoon?" he said, going to Elinor, who 
 was standing at the fireplace. " You can't make the 
 old excuse, for you know I've not been at work." 
 
 " Gilbert, I should not be here now, I would have 
 
 run away yesterday, if you were not " she began, 
 
 breaking into passionate explanation. 
 
 " Elinor, what is the matter?" 
 
 " The money is all gone. There isn't a penny left. 
 It is no use, Gilbert, we must give it up. I'm in just 
 the same straits as before." 
 
 " Well, dear, what about it? We must make some 
 more money. It was yours to do with as you pleased," 
 Lexham said in a conciliatory tone. 
 
 " No, it was not. It was yours ; you earned it
 
 3 o8 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 .What a wretched woman I've been!" He was about 
 to reprove her. " No, no, I don't deserve a word of 
 kindness or pity. I could better bear it if you were 
 harsh and severe. I have been very cruel to you. 
 Instead of gratitude I've given you " 
 
 " Elinor !" he cried in a tone of rebuke. 
 
 " Yes, I've spoiled your career. I am the cause of 
 all your hours of despondency. I know now why 
 you have no inclination to work." 
 
 " No, dear, you have nothing to do with that. How 
 could you ? I am a miserable coward. The reason 
 I do not work is plain to me. I've lost the little con- 
 fidence I had." 
 
 " Must everyone I have faith in lose confidence in 
 themselves?" she cried, thinking for a moment of 
 Gower. " No wonder your last book was a failure. 
 How could you do good work with all my worries 
 besetting you every hour? Then the play, another 
 failure. Why? Written in two or three weeks in 
 frightful haste to get money enough for me to pay 
 the arrears of rent. And for lodgings which I should 
 never have let you persuade me to take. What have 
 I done since your first success? Heaped expense on 
 you, spent your money without care, brought you 
 nothing but trouble and incessant worry, all of 
 which I should have spent every hour to shield you 
 from." 
 
 " You are wrong, dear. Perhaps it would have been 
 better for me if I could have worried about money. 
 but I hate it. The play was almost finished before 
 I heard of your debts. Why can't you be satisfied 
 .with the pleasure of spending the money? The only
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 309 
 
 pleasure I derive in earning it for you is that you may 
 do what you wish with it." 
 
 " That is no reason why I should forget that you 
 have to live on it too. What an end to all my am- 
 bition for you ! When I think of all you have done in 
 three short years, from that night when Cyril brought 
 you to me " He took her in his arms and said, 
 
 " Hush ! Remember I was between starvation and 
 suicide. Did you hesitate to keep me, nurse me 
 through the long months of illness, and pay all those 
 expenses when you had hardly sufficient for your own 
 wants? Come, let us say no more about it, Elinor. 
 It is I who am in debt to you. A debt which no 
 amount of money will ever repay." She looked up and 
 smiled. 
 
 "Ah, you always say that. But this time I mean 
 to give it up. Go back to the old way of living. I 
 shall get some work to do," she said, with some de- 
 termination. 
 
 " Wait. I have another play on my desk. It is 
 half-done. I'll set to work on it to-night " 
 
 "And make another failure, just to get advance roy- 
 alties to pay my debts? No!" 
 
 " But, Elinor, dear, you forget. Both of us need 
 money," Lexham said. 
 
 " I know," she said, taking her bag and opening it. 
 " Here are all the jewels. All the costly things you 
 bought for a vain woman. How I loathe them ! How 
 I hate Gertrude Laird for wearing such things! If 
 I had not seen her neck and arms covered with her 
 jewels I should never have thought of wearing these. 
 Gilbert, do you remember the night we had dinner
 
 310 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 at my rooms and you took us all to the opera? Ger- 
 trude Laird was resplendent in silk, fine lace, and 
 jewels. I saw you look at her many times. I thought 
 you admired her finery. And when I looked in the 
 glass and saw the reflection of my own modest gown, 
 and no jewel to bewitch your eye, I knew you 
 thought " 
 
 " That you required no such trinkets and finery,'* 
 he interposed. 
 
 " Gilbert !" She flung her arms about him and 
 laughed through her tears. In that moment she 
 seemed to lose all her sadness and wan expression and 
 regain something of her former loveliness. 
 
 " That is the first compliment you have ever paid 
 me," she said, still laughing, though there was some 
 hysteria in her joy. 
 
 "Is it?" he asked, glad to see her once again in 
 the old mood. " And," he added, " these are the first 
 smiles I've seen on Elinor's dear face for many 
 months." 
 
 "And you do love me, Gilbert?" she asked, look- 
 ing up in his face. 
 
 " Yes, so dearly," he murmured. " You said just 
 now, dear, that you wished to go back to the old way 
 of living. Would you like to leave here ? The stress 
 and hum of town life oppresses me. I know a place 
 up the Hudson where I am sure I could work with 
 confidence and pleasure. Should we go there?" 
 
 " But what about Cyril ? He hates the country, you 
 know." 
 
 " Don't you think it might be better for Cyril if he 
 were left for a little while to himself? Don't think
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 311 
 
 me selfish. Surely you have done all in your power 
 for him. I can't help but think, Elinor, that he will 
 never really strive to do anything for himself so 
 long as he feels and knows that you pay for his 
 board and lodging. I don't think it is quite just to 
 you." 
 
 " I've never thought of it in that way. I have begun 
 to look on him as a hopeless failure," she said very 
 sadly. 
 
 " Oh, no ; I think Cyril has great talent, but he will 
 be quite content to live in debt and idleness so long 
 as you permit him to do so. He has just finished an 
 opera, but there is no chance of a production here. 
 Suppose he were left to himself. He might try to 
 find some one to produce his work, if not here perhaps 
 abroad." 
 
 " Do you think I stand in his way?" Elinor asked, 
 and she laughed ironically. 
 
 " Yes, I do, Elinor. You may not be an obstacle 
 in his path, but I'm sure you are the impediment which 
 detains him. He hasn't got the moral courage to go 
 on without the certainty of your help. Leave him to 
 shift for himself for one week and you'll soon see a 
 wonderful change in Cyril. At present he doesn't 
 know he is living," said Lexham hotly. 
 
 " That is true, Gilbert," she said, with a sigh ; " but 
 do you imagine he could possible survive what you have 
 had to undergo? Do you think he could go through 
 years of almost starvation for the sake of study as 
 you did ? No, you don't know him. Why, I've heard 
 him say he couldn't eat if he hadn't always a fresh 
 serviette. You see he doesn't want much, only the
 
 312 MADAME BOHEMIA 1 
 
 best food, cooked just so. Not a lot of luxury, but 
 always about twice as much as we can afford. Miss- 
 ing one meal now and then might be nothing, but one 
 week of what I know you have had to endure would 
 break his heart or kill him. Three winters ago, be- 
 fore he met you at Guarini's, I was very badly off, but 
 I got enough to buy food for him till one day I hadn't 
 a bite, and the next morning had only coffee to give 
 him. He cried like a child." She was exasperated 
 at the memory of it. 
 
 " Yes, but you were there to comfort him, soothe 
 his sorrow, and starve yourself to make sure of the 
 next meal for him," said Lexham indignantly. Gower's 
 utter selfishness was the only matter which really tried 
 his forbearance. 
 
 "Oh, that is it, is it? I see." The truth of it 
 seemed suddenly to dawn on Elinor. She nodded her 
 head in a wise way, and the expression of her face was 
 meditative and sorrowful. 
 
 " Yes, dear, that is the real cause of it all. You see 
 he wouldn't have a soul to care a button whether he 
 cried because he hungered or no if he had to depend 
 on himself. That makes all the difference. You have 
 known hunger. It would do him good. Not that I 
 wish him any misfortune. But I think a man some- 
 how takes thing in a broader way and views life with 
 a clearer eye after he has known the pangs. Napery 
 and delicacies are little things to him, and luxury 
 must be an incubus." 
 
 " I'm afraid it must all be a matter of experience, 
 Gilbert," she said, " and you have benefited by all your 
 past. I've gone through life without benefit. But
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 313 
 
 How I should love to go into the country with you! 
 You do the work and let me carry out all your practical 
 ideas. Look after the village school and " 
 
 " Will you, Elinor ? Will you do it ?" he asked so 
 earnestly. 
 
 " Yes, Gilbert; but Cyril " she said in a tone 
 
 of regret. 
 
 " I'll see that he is well looked after for a year at 
 least. Time enough to let him look about and find 
 work," he said. 
 
 " But how can you " 
 
 " Don't ask me now, dear. Rely on me. He shall 
 not want." 
 
 " But, Gilbert, there is not a cent in the bank, and I 
 owe that wretched landlady of mine such a lot of 
 money. And, oh, good gracious! Mrs. Sefton and 
 Gertrude are coming to dinner and the butcher won't 
 part with a joint till I pay what I owe him. What's 
 to be done?" she asked. Lexham was in a quandary. 
 " The jewels," she cried, emptying them out on to his 
 desk. " See, let us get rid of them all. I shall never 
 want to see them. Last night I tramped the streets 
 for hours with the intention of pawning them, and 
 though I remembered that I promised you never to go 
 into a pawnshop again I was tempted. But the man 
 looked at me so suspiciously that I began to think he 
 took me for a thief. When I got out into the street 
 I felt like one. I had been a thief to you, a cruel 
 thief." 
 
 " No, no ; let me have them," he said, " if you don't 
 want them." 
 
 " Sell them, Gilbert ; I shall never wear them."
 
 3H MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 " No, there must be some other way." 
 
 " There is not. I want to see the last of them. If 
 you don't get rid of them I will," she said, throwing the 
 jewels into the bag. 
 
 " But, Elinor, you know you will miss them," he 
 said in a prophetical tone. 
 
 " Never. I wanted them because I thought you ad- 
 mired Gertrude Laird's. No, no; take them away. 
 Sell them, Gilbert. They remind me of my foolishness 
 and want of thought. Iniquitous tokens of my selfish- 
 ness. I hate to see them sparkle. They're uncanny," 
 she cried, with swift vehemence. 
 
 " Very well, dear," he said, taking the bag from her. 
 
 "You'll^// them?" 
 
 "Yes, I promise. How much are they worth?" 
 
 " Glover told me the last time I pawned some of 
 them that he would give me twenty-five hundred dol- 
 lars for the lot. But he'll give more than that." She 
 was quite relieved, glad that Lexham was about to 
 take them forever out of her sight. 
 
 " I shan't haggle about them, Elinor. I'll take what 
 he told you he would give," said Lexham. 
 
 " He may not be able to give you the full amount 
 to-day. But ask for a few hundreds. Don't forget 
 the dinner, Gilbert. Imagine Mrs. Sefton turning up 
 and no dinner. You know for an old lady she has a 
 pretty good appetite," she said laughingly. 
 
 She was standing at his desk, and again her eyes 
 fell upon the cheque. 
 
 " What is this, Gilbert ?" she asked, taking up the 
 cheque and holding it out to him. There was no sus- 
 picion in her tone.
 
 MADAME . BOHEMIA 3 1 5 
 
 " Oh, that belongs to Mrs. Laird," he said, without 
 hesitation. 
 
 " Did she forget it?" Elinor asked. 
 
 " No ; she left it purposely," he answered. 
 
 " Um ! Two thousand dollars ! . Quite a big sum, 
 and in your name," she muttered. A flash of suspicion 
 crossed her face, but she shook herself and laughed at 
 the thought of it. 
 
 " I can't tell you what it is for, Elinor. Not yet," 
 he said. 
 
 " Don't, dear, if it is a secret. I'll wait. There ! 
 Did you think I was suspicious? No! Only just as 
 curious as the rest of my sex. Forgive me, dear." 
 She replaced the cheque and laughed as if she would 
 think no more about it. 
 
 Someone knocked on the door just as he kissed 
 her. He opened it, and in walked Mrs. Laird. 
 She had returned with the other cheque. There 
 was an awkward silence. Lexham broke in by 
 saying, 
 
 " Elinor, I shall run over to Broadway and see that 
 man." 
 
 " Oh, are you going out ?" Mrs. Laird asked. 
 "Auntie is coming to see you. Cyril is bringing her 
 over." She caught his eye and laid the other cheque 
 on his desk. 
 
 "I'll wait, Gilbert," Elinor said; "then we can all 
 go together to my place. Perhaps you should wait 
 and see Mrs. Sefton." 
 
 " Oh, yes, do. Auntie wants to ask a favour of 
 you," said Gertrude. 
 
 "What time do you dine?" Lexham asked, think-
 
 316 MADAME BOHEMIA' 
 
 ing about the butcher and the errand he had to go 
 upon. 
 
 " Six o'clock," Elinor said, and quite innocently, 
 " Oh, yes, that confounded butcher." 
 
 " What !" Gertrude cried. 
 
 " Nothing. I want to pick a good joint. Cyril 
 likes the best, you know." 
 
 Lexham could hardly restrain a desire to laugh. 
 
 " I don't know what would happen," she said, " if 
 he had to eat the chump or skirt-steak." Elinor was 
 quite serious. 
 
 " Oh, Elinor," Gertrude laughed, " the idea ! Cyril 
 eating that stuff. Why, I had never heard of such 
 meat till you told me about it." 
 
 " It's not so bad if your teeth can stand the press- 
 ure." 
 
 " I've found it very good," said Lexham. 
 
 " What a pretty purse !" Elinor said, admiring a 
 gold chain affair Gertrude held in her hand. 
 
 " Yes, isn't it? Oh, by the bye, did you see a tor- 
 toise-shell hairpin mounted in gold about your rooms, 
 Elinor? I've lost one," Mrs. Laird said. 
 
 " No, but I'll ask the maid," Elinor said. " Where 
 do you think you lost it, in mine or Cyril's room ?" 
 
 " I don't know. I missed it this morning." 
 
 " Oh, you haven't been in my room for nearly two 
 weeks." 
 
 Gower knocked on the door and at the same time 
 pushed it open. Mrs. Sefton came with him. Elinor 
 rose, hastened to the old lady, and led her to a chair. 
 
 "Ah, I never get a chance to have a talk for a few 
 moments alone with Mr. Lexham. You young women
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 317 
 
 take advantage of my age. But I can well remember 
 the day when you wouldn't have had a look in with 
 me. They say I was an incorrigible flirt," Mrs. Sefton 
 confessed. Elinor and Gertrude's eyes met. 
 
 " I suppose you were, auntie. But didn't you tell 
 me that you were coming over to ask a favour of Mr. 
 Lexham?" her niece remarked. 
 
 " Oh, yes, of course I did. Elinor, take Gertrude 
 to the window and show her the trees, and don't let 
 her listen," Mrs. Sefton said, laughing at her pretence 
 of shyness. Elinor humoured the old lady, and she 
 and Gertrude went to the window, Gower followed 
 them. 
 
 " Mr. Lexham, I want you to give me one of your 
 photographs," Mrs. Sefton said in an undertone. 
 
 "A photograph? I haven't got such a thing," he 
 said. 
 
 " What ! a popular novelist without a photograph 
 of himself! .You surprise me!" she cried. 
 
 " I don't think I've been photographed since I was a 
 lad, Mrs. Sefton." 
 
 " Oh, dear me ! I am disappointed. I thought it 
 would be so nice to take away with me," the old lady 
 said. " Gertrude, Mr. Lexham hasn't got a photo- 
 graph of himself," she cried. 
 
 " Indeed ! Never mind, auntie, you have autograph 
 copies of all his books." 
 
 " Lexham doesn't go in for that sort of thing," 
 Gower said. " He should, though. The camera does 
 wonders nowadays." 
 
 " So I've heard, Cyril," said Lexham, " but I haven't 
 the same faith in it you have ; still, I'll have one taken
 
 318 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 and send it on to you, Mrs. Sefton." The old lady 
 was delighted, and looked in triumph at her niece. 
 
 " Gilbert, it is getting late," said Elinor. " Don't 
 you think it is time to keep your appointment?" 
 
 " Yes ; I must go," he said. 
 
 The bag that contained the jewels lay on his desk, 
 but as he felt that they all knew it was Elinor's he did 
 not like to take it away while their eyes were on him. 
 It was an awkward moment. He tried to catch Eli- 
 nor's eye, but she was talking earnestly to Mrs. Sefton. 
 Gower was standing near the desk chatting to Ger- 
 trude. Any movement of Lexham's to the desk would 
 have attracted their attention. He did not know what 
 to do till at length Elinor looked towards him, sur- 
 prised that he lingered. He caught her glance and 
 with his eyes directed hers on the bag. 
 
 " Excuse me a moment," she said to Mrs. Sefton, 
 after she realised Lexham's predicament. She rose, 
 went to the desk and took up the bag. In pass- 
 ing Lexham she said in an undertone, " I'll leave 
 this in there." A nod of her head indicated his bed- 
 room. 
 
 " Is the manuscript of your last novel in the book- 
 case in there?" Elinor asked Lexham in a tone 
 loud enough for the others to hear. It was a hint 
 to him, an excuse to go into his bedroom with the 
 bag. 
 
 " I don't know where it is," he replied, not taking 
 the hint. 
 
 " It may be there. Do let me look. Mrs. Sefton 
 would like to see it," Elinor said. 
 
 Oh, yes, indeed, I should," the old lady cried.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 319 
 
 Elinor went into the bedroom but did not close the 
 door after her. 
 
 " It is very good of you, Mrs. Sefton, to take so 
 much interest in my work," said Lexham. 
 
 " Oh, I think your last book far and away the best," 
 she said, quite enthusiastically. 
 
 " I'm afraid you are with the small minority," he 
 said. 
 
 When Elinor got into the bedroom she went to the 
 bed, and on it she emptied the contents of the bag. 
 Then she turned and saw Drake sitting up on the 
 lounge. He was leering at her. She started and 
 shrank from him. The gleam in his eyes frightened 
 her. 
 
 " Hullo ! my lady of many names," Drake cried in 
 a loud voice, " my beautiful cantatrice, Signora Va- 
 lenza!" 
 
 Elinor flew from the room and closed the door. 
 She saw the others, mute with astonishment, looking 
 at her. 
 
 Lexham said, " Pardon me, I had forgotten that 
 Drake was in there." Then he turned to Mrs. Sefton 
 and Mrs. Laird and said, " Drake is a friend of mine 
 who has not been very well." He left the room and 
 closed the door. Mrs. Sefton was alarmed and Gower 
 could hardly suppress his anger. 
 
 " Elinor, what is the matter ?" Gertrude cried. 
 
 " Oh, he startled me, that's all. It is so long since 
 I heard that name, Cyril, Signora Valenza! I 
 thought it was quite forgotten." 
 
 " I thought so; please say no more about it," he said 
 angrily.
 
 320 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 " Signora Valenza," the old lady murmured, as if 
 she were trying to bring clearly to mind some vague 
 memory. 
 
 " Yes, I was Signora Valenza, but that was oh, 
 so long ago, and yet a moment past it seemed as if 
 it were yesterday." 
 
 " Confound that Drake !" Gower cried. " I've a 
 good mind to " 
 
 " Don't be silly," Elinor interposed. He was 
 making for the bedroom door, when she took him by 
 the arm and said, " Cyril, let him be. The poor fel- 
 low didn't mean to frighten me." 
 
 " I'm not so sure about that. The first night Lex- 
 ham met him in Guarini's place, when we renewed our 
 acquaintanceship, he let his confounded tongue loose 
 and blabbed out all about you." 
 
 " What if he did ? See, you are frightening Mrs. 
 Sefton," Elinor said. " This Drake was my secretary 
 when I was a professional singer." 
 
 " Now I remember !" the old lady exclaimed. 
 " Signora Valenza, of course, Elinor ! So you were 
 she. Oh, let me kiss you, dear ! Oh, that wicked Jane 
 Dalston! Gertrude, just think of the sly old maid 
 to say nothing about Elinor. To tell us not a word 
 of who you were. Why, I went once with Jane to 
 hear you sing ' Fidelio.' Oh, dear, it seems so strange ! 
 What a funny world it is!" Mrs. Sefton was left 
 quite exhausted after the excitement of the moment 
 had passed. But Gertrude saw on Elinor's face ex- 
 pressions that were signs of unhappy memories of a 
 time long past. 
 
 " It is a strange world. Jane Dalston was kind
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 321 
 
 not to tell you of the days when I was a singer. For- 
 get it, dear Mrs. Sefton." 
 
 " Poor Elinor, I'm so sorry," said the dear old lady ; 
 " forgive a foolish old woman." 
 
 Lexham came from his bedroom. He had packed 
 up the jewels in a hand-bag of his own. 
 
 " I can't get a word out of Drake. He won't ex- 
 plain the reason of his outburst." 
 
 " Never mind, Gilbert," Elinor said, " you will be 
 late for your appointment. Do go!" 
 
 " Why did he call you Signora Valenza?" Lexham 
 asked. 
 
 " I'll tell you some other time," she said ; then in 
 an undertone, " You'll miss Glover if you don't go now. 
 It is getting late." 
 
 " Get them away, for Drake may come out," he 
 said. 
 
 " All right. You go on ; don't wait for us." 
 
 " Then I shall see you all later on. Excuse me 
 running away. I have an important engagement," 
 Lexham said in a loud voice to the others. 
 
 "Don't forget that Mrs. Sefton and Mrs. Laird 
 are coming round for a cup of tea," Elinor said as 
 Lexham was going out. 
 
 After he was gone with the jewels Gertrude went 
 to the window and watched him walk rapidly in the 
 direction of Fifth Avenue. Gower was at the desk, 
 still worrying about Drake's insinuations and the fears 
 which his own suspicions would not let rest. He 
 began to let his eyes and fingers steal over the papers 
 on the desk. He saw the letter he had before tried 
 to read. Now, without lifting it up, he turned it 
 
 21
 
 322 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 over and without bending down read it through. After 
 which his eyes alighted on the first cheque, that one 
 which Elinor saw. He started and shook with anger 
 and jealous disappointment. Then he picked up the 
 note in which was the second cheque, but Lexham had 
 not broken open the envelope. Though he felt that 
 there was something mysterious going on between 
 Gertrude and Lexham, something which he thought 
 was detrimental to his own interests, he knew he dare 
 not question Gertrude, but for Lexham his hate was 
 growing more and more fierce. 
 
 Elinor had been chatting with Mrs. Sefton while 
 Gertrude was at the window, and Gower was searching 
 on Lexham's desk for proof of his suspicion. 
 
 " Come, Gertrude, let us go," the old lady said, as 
 she rose and went up to the window. 
 
 Gower took up the cheque and showed it to Elinor, 
 and said in a hoarse undertone, " Look at this ! Do 
 you see what Lexham's doing?" 
 
 " Cyril, put that back where you found it," Elinor 
 said in an indignant whisper. " Put it back !" He 
 turned angrily from her and threw the cheque down 
 on the desk. 
 
 At that moment Alice came into the room. She 
 was dressed for the street. She looked a picture of 
 charming simplicity. 
 
 " Oh, I beg your pardon, I didn't know you were 
 here," she said, about to withdraw. Elinor thought 
 she seemed with her hat on to be several years 
 older. 
 
 "Don't go," Elinor said. "Come in. Mr. Lex- 
 ham is out."
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 323 
 
 " How do you do, Miss Oldcastle?" said Gertrude 
 admiringly. 
 
 " Well, my dear, you see we have taken possession 
 of Mr. Lexham's room, but don't be afraid, we shan't 
 touch anything," the old lady said. 
 
 " Will you come with us, Alice ? We're going 
 round to my place to have a cup of tea," Elinor said. 
 " You have never been to see me." 
 
 " I don't think I can, Mrs. Kembleton. Grand- 
 father is out and I thought of going for only a short 
 walk." 
 
 " Oh, yes, do come with us," Gertrude said. 
 
 " Yes, come along, child," Mrs. Sefton said in her 
 sweet, persuasive way. Then turning to Elinor the 
 old lady said, " Dear me, how she reminds me of my 
 girlhood!" 
 
 " I'm sure you must have been quite as pretty," 
 Elinor remarked, with a sigh. " Will you come with 
 us, Alice, just for an hour ?" 
 
 " Diva, don't try to persuade Miss Oldcastle if she 
 doesn't want to come," Gower whined. 
 
 " Oh, I do want to go, Mr. Gower," Alice said. " I 
 should so like to see Mrs. Kembleton's rooms." 
 
 ' Then come with us. Mr. Lexham will drop 
 in " 
 
 "Will he?" Alice's face lighted up with smiles 
 which quite surprised Elinor and Gertrude. " Oh, 
 then I don't think grandfather would mind," she said, 
 quite ingenuously. 
 
 Alice's last remark was the cause of further surprise. 
 Gertrude looked in astonishment at her aunt; Gower 
 glanced uneasily at Alice and then suspiciously at
 
 324 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 Elinor. He thought there was something questionable 
 in behind what Alice had said. 
 
 " I wonder how Mr. Drake is," she said, going to 
 the bedroom door. 
 
 " Oh, I shouldn't go in, Alice," Elinor said ; " he 
 is not very well." 
 
 " Don't be alarmed," she said, " I know. He has 
 been very naughty. If he is awake, I'll ask him to 
 tell grandfather where I've gone to." She went in and 
 closed the door. 
 
 " What an extraordinary thing for Mr. Oldcastle 
 to let her run about the house in such a way!" Mrs. 
 Sefton said. 
 
 " Oh, Alice is quite a child, though she is the only 
 person here who can really do anything with Drake. 
 Mr. Lexham says that she is Drake's guardian angel," 
 said Elinor in an off-hand way. 
 
 " Well, I'm sure I shouldn't like to see a child of 
 mine popping in and out of men's rooms the way she 
 does," said the dear old lady in a tone which was full 
 of reproach. 
 
 " Yes, auntie, I dare say," Gertrude said ; " but you 
 see, Alice has had quite a different rearing, and here 
 the men must surely love her for her innocence and 
 unsophisticated ways." 
 
 " How do you know?" Mrs. Sefton asked, looking 
 quizzically at her niece. 
 
 " Well, I've heard Mr. Lexham speak of her, and, 
 besides, I think that 'Aline,' the young wife in his 
 last book, must be an accurate pen-portrait of Alice." 
 
 " What !" Both Elinor and Gower exclaimed in 
 genuine surprise.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 325 
 
 " Oh, that is merely my opinion, but I thought you 
 all had noticed that," Gertrude said rather timidly 
 when she saw the astonished expressions on their faces. 
 
 " Well, now that is very strange, but since you've 
 mentioned it I think there is something similar," Mrs. 
 Sefton said. 
 
 " Indeed ! Mr. Lexham has never said anything 
 to me about it," Elinor remarked. " Perhaps a mere 
 coincidence," she added. 
 
 Alice came in and shut the door of the bedroom. 
 
 " Now I'm ready," she said, going to Elinor. " He 
 is a wicked fellow. I don't know what to do with 
 him." 
 
 " Did you tell him where you are going?" Elinor 
 asked. 
 
 " Yes, oh, yes," she said complacently. Then she 
 said, " I had something to tell you, Mrs. Kembleton. 
 Dear me, what was it?" 
 
 " Nothing of importance if you can't readily re- 
 member it," Elinor said, laughing at the serious ex- 
 pression on Alice's face. 
 
 " Oh, now I know," she said, going to the book- 
 case and opening a drawer in it. " Here is a hair- 
 pin of yours I found on the floor." Elinor took it 
 and looked at it. 
 
 " It is not mine, Alice. I think it belongs to Mrs. 
 Laird." 
 
 Gower, in an agony of jealous rage, watched Ger- 
 trude take the hairpin from Elinor and place it in a 
 coil of her hair. 
 
 " I'm so glad it is found. I must have dropped it 
 when I was here last night," Gertrude said, without
 
 326 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 the slightest show of embarrassment. And that she 
 was in no way confused or abashed increased Gower's 
 rancour. He began to imagine that he loved her, 
 and he felt he could take her by the throat and shake 
 the truth out of her. Elinor watched him with anx- 
 ious eyes. 
 
 "Are you ready?" Mrs. Sefton asked, not aware 
 of what was going on. Gertrude, of course, had no 
 reason to think that the fact of losing one of her hair- 
 pins in Lexham's room was any cause for Gower to 
 to be jealous or even think ill of the occurrence. 
 
 " Yes, we're ready," Elinor said in a sad tone. 
 " Come, let us go. Cyril, give Mrs. Sefton your 
 arm." 
 
 Alice went to the sideboard and locked up the brandy, 
 so that it would be out of Drake's reach. 
 
 " Yes, and you may tell me the story of your li- 
 bretto, so that I shall know all about it before you 
 play the music to us," the old lady said, as she took 
 his arm. It was all he could do to suppress his pas- 
 sion. Gertrude took Alice by the hand, and they fol- 
 lowed Gower and Mrs. Sefton out. Elinor cast a fur- 
 tive glance at the desk and hastened from the room. 
 
 Drake had evidently been standing, perhaps listen- 
 ing at the bedroom door, for the very moment when 
 the other door closed after Elinor he peeped into the 
 room. On tiptoe he went to the door which led to 
 the street, opened it, and looked out. Then he closed 
 it and walked jauntily to the sideboard. To his sur- 
 prise and disappointment he saw that the liquor had 
 been removed. After a moment or two he shrugged 
 his shoulders and began to whistle. He roamed aim-
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 327 
 
 lessly about for a while, then threw himself down in 
 the chair at the desk. The first thing to arrest the 
 attention of his shifty eyes was the cheque. He picked 
 it up, looked at the names and figures in amazement; 
 then he replaced it and burst into a peal of weird 
 laughter. 
 
 Oldcastle came in. Drake was then quiet. His el- 
 bows resting on the desk and his head on his hands, 
 he was rapt in deep thought. 
 
 " Well, Gilbert," Oldcastle said, thinking it was Lex- 
 ham sitting at the desk. 
 
 " Not in," Drake said; " gone out with a bagful of 
 jewels." 
 
 "What! Bagful of jewels! What are you talk- 
 ing about, Dick?" 
 
 " Lexham. I wonder what's up. I think she is 
 doing him," Drake muttered. He was still in the same 
 position. He had not looked at Oldcastle. 
 
 "Do you mean Madame Bohemia?" the old man 
 asked. 
 
 " Madame Bohemia," he sneered ; then he said, 
 " Well, I suppose one name is as good as another, 
 and she has plenty of them. Choose the one that you 
 think best fits her." He laughed in a soft, weird way. 
 It sounded like an echo of the former peal. 
 
 " Dick, we all have good reason to love Lexham. 
 Tell me, in confidence, is Mrs. Kembleton worthy of 
 his affection?" 
 
 " I don't know, but from all I hear outside, from 
 men whose word goes a long way with me, I can't 
 help but think she is not acting quite fair. Why, she 
 was over head and ears in debt some months ago. He
 
 328 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 paid off the lot, and now she is again just as badly off. 
 That's not right." 
 
 " No, I'm sure it's not. She is crushing the soul 
 out of him, Dick. He hasn't done a stroke of work 
 for months. It makes my heart ache to see him suffer 
 and waste his days in dejection. Besides, there's 
 Alice; she will break her heart if this goes on much 
 longer." 
 
 "Alice, yes " Drake sprang up and clenched his 
 
 fists. 
 
 " She loves him, Dick," Oldcastle cried, in a sad 
 voice. 
 
 " I know. I found out that this morning. What's 
 to be done? She mustn't suffer." 
 
 " She will, Dick. Lexham didn't know about that 
 till I told him this morning," the old man said, in a 
 voice shaken with emotion. 
 
 There came a fiendish gleam into Drake's eyes. He 
 picked at his thumbs in an irritatingly nervous way, 
 and every now and then laughed in a low, weird tone. 
 
 " I wonder if she has changed. She used to be 
 very good and quiet in all her misfortune. She has 
 had plenty of cause to turn cruel and go wrong." 
 
 " How do you know?" Oldcastle asked. 
 
 " How do I know ! Why, I was her secretary dur- 
 ing the years she was a singer." 
 
 "A singer !" the old man repeated in a hoarse whis- 
 per. 
 
 " Yes ; didn't you know ? I've been thinking of it 
 all afternoon. You must remember Signora Valenza; 
 she sang " 
 
 " Valenza ! Valenza ! No, no, Dick. You're
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA! 329 
 
 laughing at me. Valenza! Great heaven! Oh, if 
 it should be! Is she Valenza?" 
 
 "Yes, yes! What's the matter? Do you know 
 her?" Drake cried, completely astounded by Old- 
 castle's outburst. 
 
 " Know her ! Where does she live ? Dick, where 
 does she live? Tell me! I'll ask Alice." He went 
 to the door, opened it, and called, "Alice ! Alice !" 
 
 Drake went to him and said, 
 
 " She is not in. She has gone to Mrs. Kembleton's 
 to tea." 
 
 "Alice gone to her house! To Valenza's! Dick, 
 take me to her." 
 
 Drake started and laughed aloud, then stood still 
 as if he were spell-bound. Suddenly he burst out 
 into another weird laugh and cried, " Oldcastle !" 
 
 " Yes, yes," the old man said, " take me to her !" 
 
 " Well, we were not invited to the tea-party," Drake 
 said in a strange voice as he went to the door; then 
 he turned, beckoned to Oldcastle, and grinning like a 
 fiend, he cried in a hoarse whisper, " Come on ! Fol- 
 low me!"
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 GOWER during the walk over from Lexham's to Eli- 
 nor's had partially succeeded in getting the better of 
 his temper. He knew that in playing the music of 
 his opera to Mrs. Sefton he must make an effect which 
 would win her regard more than ever to his side. 
 Gertrude, of course, had heard the music, but he real- 
 ised the worth of Mrs. Sefton's enthusiasm, especially 
 where her niece was concerned, and for this he con- 
 trolled his injured feelings and nerved himself for a 
 great effort. Alice was delighted when she heard from 
 Elinor that Mr. Gower was going to let her hear some 
 of his music. Gower knew she was impressionable, 
 and felt sure of being able to excite her enthusiasm. 
 
 Gertrude and Elinor were in the latter's room. 
 They had listened to some of the music of the first 
 act. 
 
 " He has improved," Elinor said ; " but I'm afraid 
 that is not the class of music the public want. You 
 see, good music must first come from some other coun- 
 try before it can command any serious attention in 
 America or England." 
 
 " Then why shouldn't Cyril take his opera abroad 
 and get it produced in Germany or France?" Ger- 
 trude asked. 
 
 " Because the music-loving people of those countries 
 will not subscribe a sum of money to pay his expenses, 
 I suppose. He hasn't the grit to earn and save enough 
 for the purpose." 
 330
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 331 
 
 " But what is he to do ? Surely such a work mustn't 
 go begging." 
 
 " Other works have done so. And the better the 
 quality the longer they remain neglected," Elinor said, 
 and shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 " It's a pity his talent is wasted, that someone doesn't 
 take him up," Gertrude remarked. 
 
 " I'm afraid someone would soon drop him. Cyril 
 is heavy. He was too good too soon. When I adopted 
 him he was a very clever child, but a sudden change 
 from almost starvation to luxury was too much for 
 his peculiar constitution. It spoiled him for every- 
 thing. Don't look shocked, Gertrude. You should 
 know him by now almost as well as I do." 
 
 " Elinor, I would give a great deal to see him suc- 
 ceed," Gertrude said very earnestly. 
 
 " Yes, I daresay, but there's not much chance now." 
 
 "Why not?" * 
 
 " Why not ? Pooh ! You know why. We can't 
 hide what we know and think from each other. I 
 have long ago found out my mistake, you are begin- 
 ning to see yours. Cyril was lazy enough to let me 
 make a fool of him, and he is not man enough to pre- 
 vent you from doing so." 
 
 " Elinor, do you mean to say that my influence has 
 not been for good ?" 
 
 " Good ! Good ! Think for a moment. What good 
 could come of it? He was just learning his first les- 
 son in contentment when he met you. For five years 
 we had been reduced to just enough to pay for a de- 
 cent roof and plain food, and for those five years he, 
 had fretted and grumbled day after day. He was
 
 332 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 forced to give several piano lessons at one dollar an 
 hour. He loathed the work, but he had to do it; he 
 couldn't live without a good cigar and a few dollars 
 to spend. Then Jane Dalston got your aunt to en- 
 gage me to give a reading, for at that time I was 
 almost penniless. Yes, penniless! But you, 
 why, Cyril hadn't seen you for twenty-four hours 
 before he made up his mind to marry you for your 
 money." 
 
 All that Elinor had suffered from that day when 
 Gower told her that he loved Gertrude now broke out 
 in a bitter torrent of passionate resentment. It was a 
 great shock to Gertrude's pride to hear Elinor say that 
 her influence had not been for good. But though 
 Gertrude guessed that Elinor had suffered much from 
 Gower's indifference and ingratitude, she little knew 
 how great had been the harm done for which she was 
 not wholly responsible. Elinor was surprised to see 
 Gertrude's tears. 
 
 " I'm sorry, but you needn't care. You're going 
 away and will leave to me all that is to come. Do 
 you think he will ever try to do more than live so 
 long as your money haunts his mind. The fool, I 
 believe he would go on grumbling and snarling year 
 after year in the same old way, waiting for you to get 
 your divorce." 
 
 " He shan't, for I will not let him," Gertrude ex- 
 claimed. " When I'm gone I'll write and tell him that 
 divorce is impossible, and that I never mean to see him 
 again." 
 
 " Never to see him again !" Elinor repeated in a 
 hard voice.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 333 
 
 " Never ! I made up my mind a week ago to do 
 that/' Gertrude said, very firmly. " Oh, Elinor, you 
 don't know what it costs me to do this ! I would give 
 all I possess to be in your place." 
 
 " My place ! You don't know what you're saying, 
 Gertrude. You're romantic. At least, you think you 
 are. My place! If you have so soon concluded to 
 run away from him, what on earth would you do if 
 you were bound to stick to him?" 
 
 " Are you bound to do that ?" Gertrude asked. 
 
 " Bound ! Of course," Elinor cried. " Because I 
 made a mistake in the beginning, and have not yet 
 understood him, that is no real reason why I should 
 shirk the future with him. I've got to understand 
 him. I took him from his parents, and because of my 
 stupidity he is unfitted to work out his future alone. 
 The love he gave me when he was a boy was almost 
 enough to make him flesh of my flesh. That I only 
 adopted him doesn't lessen my responsibility. Per- 
 haps he'll change for the better," she said, but not 
 hopefully. " If he doesn't after a bit and become a 
 fairly decent fellow, I shall feel that my whole life 
 has been a hideous failure. For I feel I am responsi- 
 ble." 
 
 " It is just the awakening of that sense of responsi- 
 bility," Gertrude said, " which has urged me to leave 
 Cyril. I never realised what it really meant to be the 
 mother of children who are old enough to question me. 
 In a few years my little ones will need all my love and 
 care. It was a lively fancy of what I imagined the 
 world of music and art was that first attracted me to 
 Cyril. My life had been purposeless, and Mr. Laird
 
 334 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 had in no way tried to brighten it. But I shall never 
 blame him even in thought. I see myself now in no 
 bright light." 
 
 "And yet you would give anything to be in my 
 place," Elinor said, making rather a sad effort to 
 laugh. " I thought you didn't mean what you said. 
 I'm glad that you think of your children. After I 
 had been four years married I would have given my 
 world for a child of my own. But my husband left 
 me only bitter memories. I wonder if you have from 
 your husband put up with a thousandth part of the 
 degradation that I suffered from mine. Well, what's 
 it matter? But that yearning for something lovable. 
 The child-love. God! what we women have some- 
 times to pay for that! And then to know and feel 
 that as the years increase the love lessens, till when 
 you need it most nothing is left for you, someone 
 else has found it." 
 
 "Ah, you see, that I didn't know. Healthy chil- 
 dren and plenty of money made me forget. Riches 
 deprive us of a just appreciation of our blessings. 
 I'm a novice at the game of life. But, Elinor, I've 
 always loved you, far dearer than I love my sister. 
 I've seemed to learn so much from you, perhaps I 
 should say you have opened my eyes to so much I 
 have to learn. If you would only confide in me, let 
 me help you, do something " 
 
 " No. Gertrude, no ; in future all help must come 
 from myself," Elinor said. " My life has been a series 
 of beginnings. This one I hope will be the last. What 
 the end shall be time will tell. Still, I mean to try and 
 make something of it. Something besides the common
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 335 
 
 end, death. Somehow I can't help but think that 
 failure has been an evil companion of my own choos- 
 ing." 
 
 Mrs. Bettiny formerly Hogan was the name of 
 Elinor's landlady. She was of Irish extraction and 
 about forty years of age. A hard, brusque, vulgar 
 woman, who had known what she called better days. 
 Her husband Mike Hogan had been a politician of 
 the worst type, and at one time made much money 
 out of the spoils of office. He had bought the house 
 in which his wife now lived, and when on an European 
 trip with a friend who was a furniture dealer the poli- 
 tician collected a fine lot of household effects. Exam- 
 ples of old Venetian oak furniture lay about Elinor's 
 room. Of these articles Mrs. Bettiny was proud; 
 they were monuments of a glory which the politician 
 took with him to an early grave. He was imprisoned 
 for appropriating funds of the city, and died before 
 he had served half his term. He left his widow, who 
 then changed her name, a large house beautifully fur- 
 nished, but very little money to keep up such an estab- 
 lishment, so Mrs. Bettiny was obliged to turn the place 
 into a lodging-house. She knocked on the door of 
 Elinor's room and interrupted the scene with Ger- 
 trude. 
 
 " Come in," Elinor called. The landlady pushed 
 open the door and pretended to look surprised on 
 seeing Mrs. Laird there. 
 
 " Well, what is it, Mrs. Bettiny?" 
 
 " Oh, I didn't think you'd be engaged, seein' as I 
 heard the piano goin' in Mr. Gower's room," she said, 
 with a sneer on her lips.
 
 336" MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 " Will you go into Cyril's room, please ?" Elinor 
 said to Gertrude. 
 
 " Yes, certainly." When she had left the room Mrs. 
 Bettiny said, 
 
 "Look here, Mrs. Kembleton, the butcher's been 
 here three times to know if you've got anythin' for 
 him." 
 
 " Not yet. But I shall have in a few minutes," 
 Elinor said. 
 
 " Well, if you're goin' to have a dinner-party like 
 this evenin', that money 'ud better hurry up." 
 
 "Very well, Mrs. Bettiny; I'm expecting it any 
 moment now. Please be patient for a little while." 
 
 " Patient ! She asks me to be patient. Saints 
 above us, as if any poor woman 'ud been kept waiting 
 like me for all this time !" the landlady cried aloud in 
 an injured tone. 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know. Please don't speak so loud," 
 Elinor said. 
 
 " Speak so loud ! an' in me own house, too. Do 
 I get my money to-day, do I? Five hundred and 
 eighty-three dollars. Nearly five months' rent and 
 extras. It's no use bein' kind to you. Not a bit. 
 And think of where you're livin'. Look at it. All 
 his beautiful furnichure round you. You've got no 
 conschunce, Mrs. Kembleton, you haven't, no. But 
 if you don't get my money by to-night you'll not have 
 these beautiful surroundings round you in the morn- 
 ing, see if you do." 
 
 " I'll give it to you to-night," Elinor said, very 
 quietly, with a sigh of disgust. 
 
 " Yes, you said that on your word an' honor faith-
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 337 
 
 fully a week ago, you did," Mrs. Bettiny cried. "And 
 you don't get mad, do you? It ain't ladylike, is it?" 
 Elinor's calm attitude irritated the landlady beyond 
 measure. 
 
 Gower flew into the room. He was in a towering 
 rage. The landlady's rasping voice could be heard 
 distinctly above the sound of the piano. 
 
 " Shut up !" he hissed in Mrs. Bettiny's face. 
 " Leave the room !" 
 
 "Lave the room, is it?" I'm thinkin' you'll be 
 doin' that soon for keeps, me fine man," she said, and 
 kept on muttering and " ha-haing" to herself. 
 
 " Cyril, leave this matter to me," Elinor said in a 
 firm voice. 
 
 " Leave it to you, and let our guests be driven out of 
 the house by that croaking thing!" he cried in a hoarse 
 whisper. 
 
 " It's a noice thin', it is, when a poor lady can't 
 ask for the money that's owin* her. And the secind 
 time, too, it is. And hundreds of it at that." 
 
 " Will you stop her confounded row ?" Gower cried. 
 
 " Git me money an' I'll stop, I will," Mrs. Bettiny 
 said. 
 
 " Have you got any money to give her?" Ke asked. 
 
 " Not at this moment. Cyril, do go back fo your 
 room. Leave me, leave me !" Elinor cried in a voice 
 of supplication. 
 
 "I shan't. How can I go back? They've heard 
 every word," he cried, flashing a dangerous look at 
 the landlady. 
 
 "And a good thin', too," Mrs. Bettiny exclaimed, 
 seizing the opportunity to raise her voice. 
 
 22
 
 338 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 " Oh, I'm sick and disgusted with this infernal life ! 
 Can you raise any money for the wretch ?" he whined. 
 
 " I'm waiting now for some money," Elinor sighed, 
 very wearily. 
 
 " Then for heaven's sake kick her out and make her 
 wait till you get it," Gower snarled, and rushed out 
 of the room. 
 
 " What !" Mrs. Bettiny screamed. 
 
 " Please don't take any notice of what Mr. Gower 
 said. He is upset by the slightest noise," Elinor said 
 apologetically. 
 
 " I don't. But I should like to be round here when 
 he'd attempt to kick me out. He's a fine gintleman, 
 h'e is, is he? But I pity ye, Mrs. Kembleton, from me 
 heart I do. If I'd a son like him I'd commit suicide, 
 I would. He's worse than bein' in debt." 
 
 Lexham came in and hastened to Elinor. 
 
 " Gilbert, did you get rid of them ?" she asked in 
 a quick low tone. 
 
 " Yes," he answered, and looked at the landlady. 
 
 " Please wait outside, Mrs. Bettiny ; I will pay you 
 in a moment or two," Elinor said in a tone which hardly 
 concealed her sense of relief. 
 
 " Ha, ha !" the landlady muttered under her breath, 
 and left the room. When the door was closed Elinor 
 threw her arms about Lexham's neck and sobbed. 
 
 " Come, come, Elinor, dear ; it is all right. You 
 will have nothing more to worry about," Lexham 
 murmured very gently. 
 
 "Oh, it has been unbearable! Row! row! row! 
 She is a terrible creature. Have you six hundred dol- 
 lars in bills?"
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 339 
 
 " Yes, dear. Glover gave me one thousand in bills 
 and a cheque for fifteen hundred. I asked him to 
 make it out in your name," Lexham said, giving her 
 the money. 
 
 " Wait, Gilbert. I'll call her in and pay her." 
 
 Elinor went to the door, opened it: Lexham saw 
 Mrs. Bettiny in a position which indicated that she 
 must have had her ear to the keyhole. 
 
 " Come in," Elinor said, without looking into the 
 passage. 
 
 " Oh, dear, I'm after droppin' something I think," 
 the landlady said, having noticed that Lexham had seen 
 her when the door was opened suddenly. 
 
 " Eavesdropping you mean," Lexham said, fixing 
 her with a glance. 
 
 " I couldn't help bein' there, sir, as I was lookin* 
 for me glasses." 
 
 " You couldn't help being there, anyway, Mrs. 
 Hogan." 
 
 " Eh ? Mrs. Hogan, what d'ye mean ?" the land- 
 lady said. 
 
 " I know you, Mick Hogan's wife." The woman 
 was at first amazed on hearing the name she had not 
 used for so many years. When she recovered her- 
 self, she screwed up the muscles of her face into an 
 expression of vindictiveness. Her ratlike eyes seemed 
 to twitch malignantly. " Pay her, Elinor," Lexham 
 said, quickly. 
 
 " Here is the money, Mrs. Bettiny. Bring me the 
 change." 
 
 " And a receipt," Lexham whispered over Elinor's 
 shoulder.
 
 340 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 " And a receipt, please." 
 
 The woman was leaving the room and about to close 
 the door, when Lexham went after her and pulled the 
 door open. He stood in the passage and watched her 
 go downstairs. Then he came in and shut the door. 
 
 " What is the matter ? Why did you call her Mrs. 
 Hogan?" Elinor asked in a tone of alarm. 
 
 " When I got to the pawnbroker's office " Lex- 
 ham began. 
 
 " Glover's ?" she interposed. 
 
 " Yes. He told me that your landlady had been there 
 twice of late making inquiries about you. Of course 
 he refused to tell her anything, but he remembered 
 that she called once before, shortly after you first 
 pawned the jewels." 
 
 " Good gracious, Gilbert ! Has the creature been 
 following me?" 
 
 " I suppose so. In Glover's office I met Slatter, the 
 detective, and he told me all about Mrs. Bettiny. 
 She is the widow of Mike Hogan, once a notorious 
 swindler and politician, who died in prison. Slatter 
 said I was to remember him to her if she made any 
 trouble." 
 
 " What trouble could she make for me for us ?" 
 Elinor asked. 
 
 " She has made it. Now I know how Blackston and 
 Windham know all about our affairs. This eaves- 
 dropping, cackling thief's widow has spread frightful 
 reports about us. For all we know every lodger in 
 this house has heard her version of your history. 
 And not only that, she has been swindling you in every 
 possible way. After I left Glover's office I went down
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 341 
 
 to Blackston's and saw Windham. You know he has 
 the rooms above you. When I told him the rent you 
 have been paying for these rooms he said that she was 
 charging you forty dollars a month more than she 
 charged the former occupant." She had never before 
 seen him in such a rage. 
 
 " Oh, Gilbert, Gilbert, I've brought you nothing but 
 misfortune !" she cried. " Misery, misery, nothing 
 but misery, all through my life !" 
 
 " No, not that, Elinor. We have been thoughtless. 
 I should have known what these lodging-house-keepers 
 are. The majority of them are swindlers and viragos, 
 and their houses are dens of every kind of iniquity. 
 I suppose we are labelled with the lot." 
 
 There was a knock on the door. 
 
 " Come in," Elinor called. 
 
 Mrs. Bettiny came in and gave Elinor the receipt 
 and the change. 
 
 " Here's the receipt and the change out o' the bills, 
 an' can I do anythin' for you towards gettin' the din- 
 ner, Mrs. Kembleton?" the landlady said in a ludi- 
 crously respectful tone. 
 
 " You can't, Mrs. Hogan," Lexham said, disgusted 
 with the woman's servility and change of manner. 
 
 " Oh, don't remind me of my poor, misfortunate 
 husband! He was a good man, sir, before polytics 
 timpted him," she whined. " I hopes you'll forgit me 
 hard words. I wus a bit upsit, I was." 
 
 " Leave the room, Mrs. Hogan," Lexham cried, in- 
 dignantly. 
 
 :< Yes, sir," she said, casting a wicked scowl at him ; 
 " an' if Hogan wasn't dead an' in his grave it wouldn't
 
 342 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 be there you'd stand an' cast dirt at his widow." She 
 went quickly out and shut the door. 
 
 " Elinor, you must leave this place as soon as pos- 
 sible," he said. 
 
 " The month will end in about a week, but I must 
 give her a month's notice," she said. 
 
 " Another month in this virago's den ? No, I couldn't 
 stand that. She has filched us in every way. I'll 
 get Slatter to come here and see Mrs. Hogan. She 
 fears a detective worse than purgatory. You must 
 leave at once." 
 
 " Very well, dear ; but wait, I must get some dinner 
 for these people," Elinor said. " I'll get Simon to 
 send in something simple. It won't take me a minute 
 to run round the corner." 
 
 She went into her bedroom to put on her hat and 
 cloak. 
 
 As Elinor went out Alice came in from Gower's 
 room. 
 
 " Oh !" she ejaculated on seeing Lexham, " I thought 
 Mrs. Kembleton was here." 
 
 " No ; she has gone out, but not for long," he said. 
 
 He looked at her as she stood trembling and em- 
 barrassed and remembered all her grandfather had 
 told him that morning. Alice loved him! A surge 
 of tenderness and pity for the lovely girl went through 
 Him and left a smarting pain, something like the wound 
 a knife inflicts. And the more he thought of his 
 present position the less he felt he deserved her love. 
 It was a painful moment for him. 
 
 " Sit down, little sister," he said, offering her a chair 
 near the fire.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 343 
 
 " Mrs. Laird asked me to find Mrs. Kembleton and 
 stay with her in here for a while. I think she and 
 Mrs. Sefton want to talk to Mr. Gower about his 
 opera. How noble his music sounds to me ! Dick said 
 he wasn't much of a composer." 
 
 " Dick doesn't know, Alice. I think he confuses the 
 composer with the man," Lexham said, very sadly. 
 " Mr. Gower has great talent." 
 
 " How strange !" Alice murmured in a low tone. 
 " Mr. Blackston told grandfather that anyone who 
 knew you could tell a book of yours ; I could." 
 
 " They are prejudiced, Alice, and think too well of 
 me. I'm not the good fellow they think I am." 
 
 " I don't believe it. I know you even better than 
 they do." 
 
 "Ah, little sister, you see my few virtues over and 
 over again and think I have many, but I haven't," 
 Lexham said. 
 
 " You forget Dick. You don't know all he tells 
 me about you. But but, if Mr. Gower should go 
 to Europe would Mrs. Kembleton go with him?" she 
 asked in a low, earnest tone. 
 
 " I don't know, Alice. But why do you ask ?" he 
 said. 
 
 " Mrs. Sefton told him he should take his opera to 
 Europe, and he said that that was just what he wished 
 to do," she replied. 
 
 " Well, he may go," Lexham said in a thoughtful 
 way. 
 
 " I hope so, that is, if she were to go with him," 
 she said, quite ingenuously. Lexham started and 
 looked earnestly on her.
 
 344 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 "Alice, does your grandfather know you are here?" 
 
 " I told Dick to tell him," she said, quite calmly. 
 
 " Who asked you to come ?" he inquired. 
 
 " She did, Mrs. Kembleton, all of them. Why?" 
 
 " I thought you didn't like her, Alice," he said 
 slowly. 
 
 " Oh, I dislike no one, but I did so want to see her 
 rooms. Where she lived, what it was all like. It 
 seemed so strange to know her, and hear so much about 
 her, and not see even the place in which she lived. 
 I've always wanted to love her. She makes me think 
 of her. Once I said to myself, ' Forget her ' " 
 
 She stopped for a moment, then shook her head and 
 smiled sadly. 
 
 "And what, Alice? Could you forget her?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " No. She came to me in my dreams. And that 
 was so strange. In my dreams she looked like an 
 angel smiling down on me." 
 
 "An angel?" he said in a hushed voice of deep 
 emotion. 
 
 " Oh, something better than an angel." And she 
 smiled happily. 
 
 " Yes, and better than an angel she has been to me, 
 Alice!" he cried in a tone of impassioned exaltation. 
 
 " I know, I know," she said. " Dick told me all 
 she had done for you." She was silent for a while, 
 then she asked, " Have you a real mother?" 
 
 " No, Alice, and no father." 
 
 " Nor have I," she said, with a sad smile. " I 
 thought you were quite alone, just as I am. You 
 know, when you first came to live with us, I used to
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 345 
 
 cry, for you seemed lonely, so lonely. No one came 
 to see you, only Mrs. Kembleton, but not often. I 
 think young people whose parents are dead sometimes 
 seem like forsaken birds. Yes, she was so good to 
 come to you. I wonder why grandfather never speaks 
 of her now. I thought she had perhaps offended him 
 or done something wrong, but Dick said she hadn't. 
 Isn't it good to love people you have thought you didn't 
 like?" 
 
 " Yes, Alice," he murmured, " so good. That is 
 one of the greatest virtues, dear little sister." 
 
 " Why have you always called me ' little sister' ?" 
 
 " Because you have been one to me, and a man needs 
 a sister such as you are. There's not any too much 
 love in the world, Alice. And I think that those whom 
 you call the lonely can easily be forgiven for wanting 
 all there is to be had. The real brother and sister love 
 is the greatest of all, the most disinterested." 
 
 " Grandfather used to joke with me and laugh at 
 me when he heard you call me little sister, and one day 
 he said he hoped you would still call me that long after 
 the time of his death." 
 
 "And so I will, Alice. No matter what happens you 
 will be all that to me. And if I should have to leave 
 the old house " 
 
 "What! Leave the " she started and turned 
 
 to him. 
 
 " Go away for a time," he said, very tenderly. 
 
 " But you won't !" she cried. Her face was pale 
 and her lips trembled. 
 
 " I'm afraid I must, Alice," he said, striving with" 
 difficulty to be firm.
 
 346 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 " Oh, no, no, no ! Not to leave us. Don't do that. 
 Grandfather is so often sad now and the house seems 
 lonelier. Don't go!" she cried, supplicatingly, trying 
 to keep back the tears. But of late tears had weakened 
 her once bright eyes, and now they often dimmed her 
 sight before she could stay them. She sank into a 
 chair and wept bitterly. 
 
 Gower came into the room as Lexham bent over 
 Alice to console her. 
 
 " Hullo ! Where's Diva ?" he cried, and looked first 
 at Alice and then at Lexham. 
 
 " Out," said Lexham, without trying to hide what 
 he knew Gower would misconstrue. 
 
 "And you two have been alone all this time?" he 
 laughed sarcastically. 
 
 " Yes. What about it ?" Lexham cried in a voice 
 vibrant with indignation and anger. 
 
 " Don't get vexed, Lexham," he said ; " I have sev- 
 eral things to see you about." 
 
 He turned on his heel and went back to his room. 
 
 " Alice, would you like to go home ?" Lexham 
 asked. 
 
 " No ; I'll wait till Mrs. Kembleton returns," she 
 said, " or may I go back to Mrs. Sefton ?" She did 
 not look at him. She kept her head turned aside as 
 she spoke. The tears were staunched and her voice 
 had lost its sob. She had got bravely over the fit, 
 but she felt slightly embarrassed in Lexham's com- 
 pany, and he knew it. As she went towards the 
 door of Gower's room Mrs. Laird came in and said, 
 " Cyril said you wanted to see me." Alice left the 
 room.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 347 
 
 " Did he?" Lexham said. " He was mistaken, but 
 I'm glad you are come." She saw that he was vexed 
 with something, 
 
 " I've had a talk with Elinor," Gertrude said, " and 
 I don't think she will mind if he does go away." 
 
 " Do you know I feel sure that he is not worth both- 
 ering about. What does he care? Has it occurred 
 to him what she has gone through to-day, the trouble 
 and vexation which should have been his ? I think you 
 may regret your kindness to him." 
 
 "No, no; let him have the money. I shall soon 
 have gone, never to see him again. I'm sure he will 
 do no good by staying on here with Elinor. Then 
 I'm not so sure of myself. I think I lose all my wits 
 when he plays. What a different being he is when at 
 the piano! He was playing a little while ago and I 
 felt just the same sweet thrill of joy. My nature can't 
 withstand such music. It assails my heart and mind 
 and leaves me weak, weak as a passionate brainless 
 creature." 
 
 Lexham looked at her first in astonishment and then 
 with something of pity. But he could say nothing, 
 only throw up his hands, a gesture of hopelessness. 
 
 " I know. Think of me as you will, I shan't be 
 able to help myself if he stays. I suppose I haven't 
 the right amount of brain to balance matters, for 
 music easily transports me. Do help me. Get him to 
 accept the money. Make him go. It's my only 
 chance." 
 
 " Very well. I shall settle the matter when you are 
 gone. Write to him to-night and tell him that you will 
 not see him. And leave word at your hotel that you
 
 348 MADAME BOHEMIA 1 
 
 are out to all callers. Take my advice and don't see 
 him again after you leave here." 
 
 "You have the money? Will it be enough?" she 
 asked. 
 
 " Yes, quite enough for him to squander," Lexham 
 replied. 
 
 "Let me give you our address in "Florida." She 
 opened a bag which hung from her girdle and began 
 to search among her papers. In doing so she had to 
 lay some letters and bills on a small table to find the 
 letter on which she had written down the address. 
 
 " Here it is," she exclaimed ; " take it down. Hotel 
 Madrid near St. Augustine, Florida." Lexham wrote 
 it down in a small note-book. 
 
 Elinor came in as Gertrude was putting the bills 
 and letters back in her bag. One letter fell on the 
 floor, but she did not see it. 
 
 "Now, Gilbert, how is this for quick shopping? 
 Oh, Gertrude!" Elinor exclaimed, just at that mo- 
 ment catching sight of her. 
 
 " You've changed your dress," Gertrude remarked. 
 
 " Yes ; and besides I've been to the butcher, the 
 baker, and the and interviewed that terrible injustice 
 to Ireland at the bottom of the stairs." 
 
 " Why don't you wear that pretty broach and pen- 
 dant you have? The turquoise and diamonds?" Ger- 
 trude asked, as she set straight a piece of lace at 
 Elinor's neck. 
 
 " Because I can't fasten it," she replied, and made a 
 moue for Lexham's benefit. " Has Cyril finished play- 
 ing his opera?" 
 
 " Yes, some time ago. I think he is now telling
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 349 
 
 auntie some stories about Liszt; she never tires of 
 hearing them." 
 
 " I think Mrs. Sefton must want a cup of tea. I 
 told them to send it up to Cyril's room," Elinor said. 
 
 " Don't bother about it," Gertrude said ; " auntie 
 doesn't much care for tea." 
 
 " But you must want a cup, I know I do. Then 
 there's Miss Oldcastle. Dear me, I've been neglect- 
 ing my guests." 
 
 Gower having tired of telling stories came in to 
 look for Elinor. 
 
 "Hullo!" he cried, "where have you been, Diva? 
 Can't we have some tea?" 
 
 " Yes, I'll see about it. Gilbert, go in to Mrs. Sef- 
 ton, will you?" Elinor asked. She was just about to 
 leave the room when Mrs. Bettiny knocked on the 
 door and entered. 
 
 " Please, Mrs. Kembleton, the butcher's down at the 
 door, and he wants to see you at once most partic'lar," 
 the landlady said, with a grin. 
 
 "Confound the butcher!" Gower snarled. "Tell 
 him to wait." 
 
 " Cyril !" Elinor said sharply, and looked at him re- 
 provingly. " I'll see him," she said to Mrs. Bettiny, 
 and left the room. The landlady followed. 
 
 " Oh, I hate that horrible creature !" he cried. " She 
 never speaks a word to Diva or me without a jeer or 
 a leer. I don't know why Diva stays in the house; 
 I'm sick and tired of asking her to look for other 
 rooms. But she never does anything to please me." 
 
 " How do you know that ?" Lexham asked in a quiet 
 tone.
 
 350 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 " I wasn't speaking to you," Gower said, savagely. 
 
 " I didn't know you would mention such a matter 
 to Mrs. Laird," Lexham muttered as he left the 
 room. 
 
 Gertrude was about to follow Lexham into the other 
 room when Gower hastened to her, and said, " Wait, 
 Gertrude; I want to speak to you." 
 
 " But auntie, she will " 
 
 " I can't help it. I must speak to you. We haven't 
 been alone for a minute since this morning," he cried 
 fiercely. 
 
 " We were alone yesterday and you lost your tem- 
 per. Now, what is the matter?" she asked in a firm 
 voice. 
 
 " This torture! I can't endure it for another hour," 
 he hissed. 
 
 " What torture ?" She was afraid, but she knew 
 she dare not let him know it. 
 
 " What is going on between you and Lexham ?" 
 
 " Nothing that should give you cause to doubt him 
 or me." 
 
 She burned with indignation under the insult; she 
 tried to leave the room. Mad with rage he stood be- 
 fore her. 
 
 " That is no answer !" he cried, raising his hands 
 as if he would fling her back. 
 
 " I refuse to be questioned." 
 
 " Gertrude, Gertrude ! I demand an answer." 
 
 " You have no right " 
 
 " I have. Oh, don't, don't drive me to distraction ! 
 Think, think, what you're doing! Have I not loved 
 you with all my soul?"
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 351 
 
 " I don't know. I would rather not think of it." 
 
 " You were alone with Lexham last night. Can 
 you deny it?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Drake told me he saw you," he said, with assur- 
 ance. 
 
 " I was not with Mr. Lexham last night." 
 
 " Then who is it that has lied ?" he demanded. 
 
 " You have believed Mr. Drake," she replied, and 
 despised him. 
 
 " But your letters " 
 
 " Well, what about them?" 
 
 " I saw one from Lexham this morning in that bag 
 when we were out shopping. You were cruel enough 
 to give me the reply to take back to him. Then on 
 his desk I saw his answer to your note. * I shall be 
 alone for an hour. Come at once.' Then Miss Old- 
 castle gave you one of your pins found in Lexham's 
 room." 
 
 " Well ?" Scorn, cold like a moonbeam, 'flashed; 
 from her eye. 
 
 " Can you deny all that ?" he cried, hoarsely. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " You don't care !" he exclaimed, startled at his own 
 remark. 
 
 " Care ! You have forgotten," she cried in a tone of 
 despair. 
 
 " Forgotten! What have I forgotten?" 
 
 " That when you brought your music into my life 
 you made me forget. And what did I forget for you ? 
 Myself, my children, everything that I should have held 
 dear. And now you throw an accusation in my face
 
 352 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 almost as bad as our own offence. Have you no sense 
 of shame?" 
 
 " Shame ! .What shame ? Tell me what you 
 mean ?" 
 
 " Your insinuation. You coupled my name with 
 Lexham's." 
 
 " And with good reason. You deny nothing." 
 
 " Cyril, Cyril ! And after all he has done for you." 
 
 "Done for me?" 
 
 " What ! Well, pretend to be ignorant of that ; but 
 think of Diva. All she has done. Are you without 
 a spark of gratitude? Surely you don't intend to add 
 calumny to insensibility ?" 
 
 " This has nothing to do with it. We loved each 
 other till Lexham came between us. Now I can re- 
 member many things, enough to make anyone sus- 
 pect. The covert dedications of his books; the in- 
 scriptions in the volumes he has given you." 
 
 " I will not listen to another word. How can you 
 be so base? Revile me as you will, but Diva and 
 Lexham. Oh, Cyril, this is madness!" 
 
 " Diva ! Lexham ! Leave Diva out of this. Lex- 
 ham is a liar and a thief. He accepts your money and 
 gives his love to little Oldcastle." 
 
 " It is not true." She started and turned pale. 
 
 " Ah ! It is true ! I saw on his desk a cheque for 
 thousands from you. You see! Do you think you 
 can hoodwink me ? Oh, no. When I sent you in here 
 a few minutes ago, it was not that Lexham wanted 
 you. Oh, no ; I wanted you to see the little Oldcastle 
 in tears and Lexham in the act of drying them and con- 
 soling the chit."
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 353 
 
 " I don't believe it. I won't believe it. Lexham 
 is as true as ever man was. And you are an abomi- 
 nable coward." 
 
 " Gertrude !" He was stung to the quick. 
 
 " Had you shown half the devotion to her he has 
 shown you might have been worthy even of my love." 
 He started and moved in a half-dazed manner towards 
 her, but she shrank back, and cried, " Don't touch 
 me!" 
 
 At that moment Elinor and Mrs. Sefton came in. 
 Lexham and Alice followed. 
 
 " Gertrude," Mrs. Sefton said, " you've missed a 
 cup of delicious tea. Were you ever in China, Eli- 
 nor?" 
 
 " No, but a Chinaman told me the secret." 
 
 Gower had flung himself down on a settee. At his 
 feet lay Lexham's letter, which Gertrude dropped when 
 she searched the papers in her bag for the address where 
 she was going to stay in Florida. 
 
 Elinor saw that Gertrude was agitated and that her 
 face was flushed. 
 
 " What is the matter?" she asked. 
 
 " Elinor, may I go into your room ?" 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 Gertrude was thankful to be left alone. Gower did 
 not notice her leave the room, for he was waiting an 
 opportunity of speaking to Lexham. 
 
 Alice was with Mrs. Sefton, to whose praise of 
 Gower's music she was listening attentively. 
 
 Elinor went to Gower and said, " Well, Cyril, they 
 are delighted with your opera." 
 
 " Never mind the opera," he said in an under- 
 23
 
 354 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 tone, " that's all over. But I'll make Lexham pay; 
 for it." 
 
 "Pay for what?" 
 
 " I taxed Gertrude with all I've found out and she 
 could deny none of it. She tried to fool me, but when 
 I told her that I saw little Oldcastle crying alone with 
 Lexham, and that he was consoling her, Gertrude 
 turned pale. Bah! it's as clear as day." 
 
 "Alice crying; Gilbert consoling her; Gertrude 
 turned pale," Elinor muttered. 
 
 " Yes ; Lexham has fooled us all. He has been 
 living on Gertrude and making an idiot of the little 
 girl.'; 
 
 Elinor looked in astonishment at Gower, then 
 laughed and said," Cyril, you're making a fool of your- 
 self." 
 
 She turned away from him and joined the others, 
 who were now looking at an old book of photographs. 
 Gower's eyes fell upon the letter at his feet. He picked 
 it up. A moment's glance at the handwriting was 
 enough. Another quick glance at the signature, and 
 then he began to read the letter. 
 
 "What are you looking at?" Elinor asked when 
 she joined the group, who were looking at views of 
 European places. 
 
 " Pictures of Monte Carlo," Lexham replied. 
 
 " Oh, I haven't looked at that old book for years," 
 she said. 
 
 "Were you ever in Monte Carlo?" Mrs. Sefton 
 asked. 
 
 " Yes. Years ago. Shut it up, Gilbert," Elinor 
 said.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 355 
 
 "Why? The views are so pretty," the old lady 
 said. 
 
 " Yes, pretty, but they remind me of days I wish 
 to forget." 
 
 Gower had finished reading the letter. He rose and 
 crossed the room. 
 
 " Lexham !" he called in a peremptory tone. 
 
 Lexham went to him and said, " Well, what is it ?" 
 
 " You've lied to me," Gower said in a swift whisper. 
 
 " What?" Lexham clenched his hands. 
 
 Gower shook with rage, and losing control of his 
 anger, repeated in a loud voice, " You've lied to me !" 
 
 Elinor hastened to Gower's side. Alice was soon 
 with Lexham. Mrs. Sefton hobbled to Elinor's bed- 
 room door, and met Gertrude coming out. 
 
 Lexham walked away from Gower, and Alice went 
 to Elinor and cried, " What is it ? Why did he say 
 Mr. Lexham lied?" 
 
 Elinor placed her arm round Alice's waist. 
 
 A weird laugh from the passage outside seemed to 
 freeze the blood of those in the room. 
 
 "Announce the devil, my Irish colleen!" a voice 
 was crying above a babel of tongues. 
 
 "Am I in me own house, am I ?" Mrs. Bettiny was 
 heard to say. 
 
 " Ask your conscience," the first voice replied. 
 
 " Drake !" Lexham exclaimed, and opened the door. 
 
 Oldcastle entered, followed by Drake and the land- 
 lady. 
 
 "Alice, come away !" the old man cried. But Old- 
 castle's wild eyes and terrible expression of wrath 
 frightened Alice and she clung tightly to Elinor.
 
 356 MADAME BOHEMIA 1 
 
 " Come away, child ; your father's blood is on that 
 cursed woman's soul!" 
 
 " What ! Mr. Oldcastle !" Lexham cried, going to 
 the old man. Drake leered at his friend, and began to 
 rub his hands and chuckle. 
 
 " Gilbert, she is the woman !" 
 
 "No! no!" 
 
 " Yes ! Valenza ! And she would drive you to 
 my son's cruel death. My son, my son!" Oldcastle 
 called in solemn tones, as he went slowly towards 
 Elinor. 
 
 " Ge Ge Gertrude, take me away," Mrs. Sef- 
 ton said. " Come away at once. Oh, this is ter- 
 rible!" 
 
 Alice still clung to Elinor, who stood as if she were 
 transfixed. 
 
 " Mr. Oldcastle, come with me," Lexham said, and 
 at the same time tried to draw the old man away, but 
 Oldcastle pushed Lexham aside and stood a figure of 
 awful wrath before Elinor. 
 
 "Alice, come to me!" he cried, and tore his grand- 
 daughter from Elinor's embrace. " This is his child. 
 She was not born when you cast off your paramour 
 and he put an end to his life." 
 
 " No, no !" Elinor cried in great agony. 
 
 " You took him away from his young wife. He 
 squandered all his honour and fortune on you, Va- 
 lenza!" 
 
 " Oh, Cyril, Cyril! What is it? Tell me, what is 
 it? What have I done?" 
 
 " I don't know," was all the amazed Gower could 
 mutter.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 357 
 
 " Drake, what is it all about ?" Lexham cried, as he 
 turned on Drake and shook him. 
 
 " He is the father of the man who shot him- 
 self at her bedroom door," Drake stammered and 
 chuckled. 
 
 " Yes, I am he !" Oldcastle shouted, and his wrath 
 burst into fierce denunciation. " I swore that I would 
 kill you for your crimes. What law can give me jus- 
 tice? I saw my son desert his wife and follow you. 
 For you he almost ruined me. But money was not 
 all your cursed passion craved. No, vampire, blood 
 you craved when all his gold was gone. And blood 
 you had. First his life, and then the mother of his 
 new-born babe died, and then from grief his wife's 
 sister died. We are left. His child and his father! 
 And you would have me stand quietly by and watch 
 you do with him with Lexham what you did to 
 my son. No!" 
 
 The old man raised his hand as if he would strike 
 Elinor, but Alice caught his arm and clung to it. 
 Lexham saw Elinor reel, but in a moment he held her 
 in his arms. 
 
 Mrs. Sefton with Gertrude hurried away, and Gower, 
 the prey of conflicting passions, sank down on a chair, 
 dazed and irresolute. 
 
 " Grandfather, come, come away," Alice murmured. 
 
 Then she turned to Lexham, her face wet with tears 
 and an expression of sad bewilderment, and said, " Oh, 
 Gilbert, is it true?" 
 
 " Go, Alice ; go home, child," Lexham said. 
 
 Gower turned and looked around, then sprang to 
 his feet. " They are gone !" he yelled in Lexham's
 
 358 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 face. " Gone ! You answer to me for this ! It's all 
 your fault." Then he ran to the door. Drake laughed 
 as Gower passed him. But Gower did not hear it; 
 he hastened away to overtake Gertrude. 
 
 " Dick, help me," Alice said. " Come, take grand- 
 father's arm." 
 
 Oldcastle's wrath still burned in his eyes. They led 
 him away. Elinor sat like one struck by lightning. 
 She was confounded stunned. 
 
 " Ye carn't stay here," Mrs. Bettiny snarled. " Yer 
 a disrepible charactur, ye are." 
 
 " Leave the room," Lexham said. 
 
 " No ; let us go," Elinor murmured. 
 
 Lexham took up a cloak; it was Gertrude's, but he 
 did not know it; this he placed on Elinor's shoulders 
 and assisted her to rise. He took her arm and led 
 her from the room. 
 
 Mrs. Bettiny turned out the light and chuckled in 
 the darkness.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 WHEN Dick and Alice took Oldcastle into Lexham's 
 room to rest before trying the ascent of the long stair- 
 case which led to his room they had no idea of the 
 seriousness of the old man's plight. For years he had 
 suffered from a weak heart, and the strain and excite- 
 ment of the scene at Elinor's had nearly been the cause 
 of a crisis. Drake had partly recovered from his fit. 
 He seemed to be now quite lucid. After strong drink 
 that strange phase of his madness always attacked 
 him for periods more or less long. 
 
 " Dick, I'm afraid grandfather is ill," Alice said in 
 a whisper. 
 
 " Excitement. He'll be all right," Drake muttered. 
 " Should we get him upstairs ?" 
 
 f< Yes, in a minute or two," she replied. 
 
 Alice went to the cupboard in the sideboard and 
 took out the brandy, poured a little into a glass, mixed 
 it with water, and held it to her grandfather's lips. 
 Drake was then at Lexham's desk. He picked up the 
 cheque. 
 
 "Alice, here's a cheque for a lot of money," he said. 
 " Better not let it lie round here while Lexham's out." 
 
 " You take care of it, and give it to him when he 
 comes in," she said. 
 
 Drake folded up the cheque and put it in his pocket. 
 
 Lexham's door bell rang. 
 
 "Wait, Dick. Let me get grandfather upstairs," 
 
 359
 
 360 MADAME BOHEMIA 1 
 
 Alice said, as she intercepted Drake, who was starting 
 out to open the door. 
 
 "All right. Better not have any more excitement," 
 he said. 
 
 Alice looked at the old man, who was resting 
 quietly. 
 
 " Oh, Dick, Dick," she cried in a voice almost choked 
 with sobbing, " what was it all about ? Did she kill 
 my father?" 
 
 " Now, Alice, there you go again, asking questions," 
 Drake muttered, looking at her in a quizzical way. 
 
 " But don't you remember what he said ?" 
 
 "Yes, of course. What did he say?" 
 
 Alice peered into his face and saw that he was 
 not quite himself. She shook her head in a de- 
 spairing way, and cried very softly, " Oh, Dick, 
 Dick!" 
 
 " The Angel upstairs," was all he muttered as he 
 stretched out his thin arms to her in a supplicating 
 manner. 
 
 Lexham's door bell again rang. 
 
 " Come, grandfather, do you think you are strong 
 enough ?" 
 
 " Yes, Alice. Strong enough now," he replied. 
 She and Dick assisted him to rise. 
 
 " Go, Dick, open the door," Alice said. He looked 
 blankly at her. " Open the door." 
 
 The person waiting to be admitted gave a more 
 energetic pull at the bell. Drake went out, and Alice, 
 with her arm around her grandfather and his over her 
 shoulders, helped him to the stairs. The outer door 
 was opened and closed, and Mrs. Laird followed by
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 361 
 
 Drake entered the room. Alice called out for the 
 servant when she reached the foot of the stairs. 
 
 " I want to see Mr. Lexham," Gertrude said. 
 
 " Not in." Drake again seemed quite lucid. 
 
 " I must see him to-night. After I took my aunt 
 to the hotel I went back to Mrs. Kembleton's, but the 
 woman there told me she had left the house, so I drove 
 rapidly here." 
 
 " Sit down, will you ?" Gertrude went to sit on 
 the chair at Lexham's desk. " Not there, please." 
 
 She had heard from Lexham about Drake's peculiar- 
 ities. She saw that he was now in an irritably nervous 
 state. 
 
 "Do you think Mr. Lexham will soon come in?" 
 she asked. 
 
 " Maybe. Better wait." He had been wandering 
 about the room. Suddenly he stopped and stood 
 before her. " Confound it !" he cried in a fit of anger, 
 " what have I got to tell you ?" 
 
 " Tell me," she said in a soft voice to humour him. 
 
 " Didn't you give me a lot of money oh, never 
 mind. That cheque, I know. It's all right. What's 
 going on to-night? Say, Mrs. Laird, I can see 
 trouble here. The room is full of it. But she was all 
 right. Fine voice. God ! he kicked her on the chest ! 
 You didn't know him, did you? He was a swine. 
 Ever had anything wrong with your bridge of reminis- 
 cence? I'm up against it to-night. It would be all 
 right if it were not for Alice, but you know she mustn't 
 suffer." 
 
 Muttering in this incoherent strain he moved about 
 the room. Gertrude pretended to heed him when
 
 362 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 every now and then he turned to her, but she was 
 mostly occupied in writing a note to Lexham. 
 
 " I know what it is !" he cried, and went to the side- 
 board. To his surprise he saw the decanter of brandy. 
 He took a long drink. " I'll be all right in a minute. 
 Ah, that was it!" 
 
 A loud ringing of the bell startled Gertrude. She 
 rose and went quickly to Drake. 
 
 " Don't open the door. Mr. Lexham wouldn't ring. 
 iWait." 
 
 " All right. If it isn't Lexham, others must wait." 
 
 " Is there any way of seeing who rings ?" she asked. 
 
 " Yes. Wait a minute," Drake said coolly, starting 
 to leave the room. 
 
 " No, no, without opening the door." 
 
 " Oh!" he ejaculated, and after a moment's thought 
 shook his finger at Gertrude in a wise manner. " The 
 stained-glass window." 
 
 Another aggressive pull at the bell. 
 
 Drake stood up on the window-seat and peered 
 through as best he could. 
 
 " Who is it?" Gertrude asked. 
 
 " Gower," he replied. 
 
 " What shall I do ? I don't want to meet him." 
 
 " All right ; he can't get in," said Drake, still peer- 
 ing through the window. 
 
 But I " 
 
 "Wait; I want to see him pull the bell. What a 
 sweet boy he was ! Golden curls and pink cheeks when 
 his adoptive father pinched them. Ssh ! Listen !" 
 
 The bell, louder than before, pealed through the 
 house.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 363 
 
 "Ah !" said Drake, with great gusto, " I should just 
 like to sit down for an hour and listen to him pulling 
 at the bell and imagine all he would be thinking." 
 
 " No, no, Mr. Drake, I must see Mr. Lexham, but 
 I don't want to meet Mr. Gower. I presume you must 
 let him in," Gertrude said. 
 
 " Yes, I respect the bell. You want to wait?" Drake 
 asked. 
 
 " I should like to, if you know of a room where " 
 
 " Come with me." He opened a door and pointed 
 down a passage. " See that door ? Go in there. The 
 devil himself wouldn't think of looking for you in 
 there," he said, and laughed. 
 
 " Why, what ?" Gertrude felt a little timid. 
 
 " It's my room. Stay there. I'll let you know when 
 Lexham comes in. Don't be afraid. It's all right. 
 Go on." He watched her go down the passage and 
 enter his room; then he closed the door, went back 
 to the window and peered through again at Gower. 
 .Without hurrying he went out and let him in. As 
 he came into the room Gower cried, " Why did you 
 keep me waiting?" 
 
 " Don't know. Was always fond of bell-ringers." 
 
 " Stop that, you grinning idiot. Where's Lexham ?" 
 
 "Yes, where is he?" said Drake, throwing himself 
 into a chair. 
 
 "Is he here?" Gower cried. He was in a towering 
 rage. 
 
 " No, I can't see him," said Dick, glancing round 
 the room. 
 
 " Curse you, Drake, don't you annoy me to-night 
 or I'll shake the life out of you !" Gower hissed.
 
 364 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 " Sit down, if you're going to wait for Lexham." 
 
 " I am going to wait for him, and I don't want you 
 in here when he comes in. Two of us will be enough." 
 
 " Why, what's the trouble? What harm did Lex- 
 ham ever do you?" 
 
 " That I shall tell him. And I've a damn good mind 
 to shake some truth out of you. What was all that 
 Oldcastle said about his son? What had Mrs. Kem- 
 bleton to do with him? Curse you, you know some- 
 thing, you drunken fiend. Tell me. What was it?" 
 
 Drake laughed at him. But the other shrank back, 
 for the wicked gleam in Drake's eyes and the horrible 
 wickedness of his laughter turned Gower's blood cold. 
 
 "Ah, you have no sense of humour, my dear Cyril," 
 Drake said, suddenly changing his tone to one of 
 sneering contempt. " Besides, you have no memory, 
 no spark of gratitude. You call me a grinning idiot. 
 Do you see this mark on my forehead? I told you 
 once before how that was done. There are some 
 things men of your calibre should not be permitted to 
 forget. If the vase that struck me there had hit the 
 boy at which it was thrown, you, you might have 
 been the grinning idiot. Healing does not always 
 take away the pain, and a scoundrel's work is never 
 brought to an end." 
 
 "What was it? What was it?" Gower cried in 
 passionate despair. " Some damnable spectre has 
 haunted us since I was a boy. Whose spectre?" 
 
 " Her husband's, your adoptive father's," Drake ex- 
 claimed. "You call me a drunken fiend. Why? 
 Why? He was the fiend, and left me his cursed soul 
 as a legacy. Drink ? Drink ?" He burst into a peal
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 365 
 
 of frightful laughter. " Think, I spent nearly three 
 years with that thing. And do you know what my real 
 duty was ?" 
 
 " You were Mrs. Kembleton's secretary," Gower 
 muttered in a frightened voice. 
 
 " No ; that position was a cloak. Secretary ! I was 
 engaged to watch him. Night and day watchman of 
 his blackened soul. To drag him from the gaming- 
 table when he was losing ; to drag him out of quarrels 
 when mad from drink; to save your head from mis- 
 siles thrown at you ; sometimes, to save her when mur- 
 der was in him " 
 
 " Stop, stop ! Tell me no more !" Grower cried. 
 
 " We're all tainted. That man smeared every- 
 one he came in contact with. Look out, Gower. Im- 
 pending danger affects me as a coming storm affects 
 cattle. Go home. I've seen you and Lexham no! 
 Go home!" 
 
 " No ; I am come for no child's play. This business 
 must to-night be settled once and for all. Lexham 
 has lied, and " 
 
 Gower's eyes fell upon the note which Gertrude 
 began to write before he rang the bell and interrupted 
 her. Though the letter was intended for Lexham she 
 had not addressed it in the customary way. Gower 
 picked it up and read it aloud: 
 
 " In case you should be later than' I dare wait, come 
 to the hotel as soon as possible before eleven. Auntie 
 is in a dreadfully nervous state and I want you to 
 assure her." 
 
 Gower looked puzzled, but Drake's head turned 
 slowly aside, and a smile spread over his face.
 
 366 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 " What is this ?" Gower asked. 
 
 " A note for you, I suppose," Drake said, slyly. 
 
 " Has Mrs. Laird been here ?" 
 
 " Yes. She was here when you rang the bell." 
 
 " Where is she now ?" Gower cried, and he took 
 Drake by the throat. 
 
 " I'm pretty good at that business myself," Drake 
 said, as he clutched Gower's arm, twisted it, and shook 
 him off. " Don't try that again, else you may find 
 me something besides a drunken fiend. She is gone. 
 Can't you understand the note? She told me she had 
 been to your house, but the servant told her no one 
 was there. She came here. She doesn't want you to 
 meet Lexham. Can't you understand? She wants 
 you to assure her aunt about something." 
 
 " How did she get out ?" Gower demanded. 
 
 " By the other door on the Square." 
 
 " That door has not been used by Lexham or you 
 since the Oldcastles let the other part of the house." 
 
 " I used it to-night. You're wasting time, my sus- 
 picious friend. Lexham may not come for hours yet," 
 Drake said. 
 
 " Lexham may be there with her at the hotel !" 
 Gower cried, starting at the thought of such a proba- 
 bility. 
 
 " Now you are talking sense." 
 
 " Drake, my whole future depends on what happens 
 to-night. I called on Mrs. Laird at her hotel. The 
 porter told me she was out. I thought that meant she 
 would not see me " 
 
 " She couldn't see you then; she was here," said 
 Drake.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 367 
 
 " Why did you let her out the other way ?" Gower 
 asked. 
 
 " She asked me to. How could she know you were 
 at that door?" 
 
 " I shall go back. Let me out that way," said 
 Gower, pointing at the door which led to the passage 
 to Drake's room. 
 
 " What for ? I obliged a woman in distress, but I 
 don't see the necessity of again trespassing to oblige 
 you." 
 
 Drake went to the door by which Gower entered, and 
 Gower saw his opportunity to rush into Lexham's 
 bedroom. This he did, but soon came back satisfied 
 that no one was hiding in there. 
 
 " Well," said Drake, " any other rooms or nooks 
 you would like to search?" 
 
 " No ! I shall go to the hotel," Gower said, as he 
 picked up his hat and left the room. 
 
 Drake stood still for a moment. The outer door 
 shut with a bang. It was the signal for a peal of 
 laughter from Drake. He ran to the window-seat, 
 stepped up, and peered through the stained glass, 
 and saw Gower's figure hurrying away in the 
 direction of Mrs. Laird's hotel. Then he went to 
 the other door, opened it, and down the passage 
 he whispered, penetratingly, " Mrs. Laird." She 
 opened the door of Drake's room and whispered, 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " He is gone," he said in a louder tone. She came 
 into the room. 
 
 " What shall I do? I am so afraid of him." 
 
 " Wait here. He has gone back to your hotel. You
 
 368 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 left a note on the desk there, and I think I succeeded 
 in making him believe it was for him." 
 
 " It was for Mr. Lexham," she said in a tone of 
 alarm. 
 
 : ' Yes, I know. But Gower will come back. Can't 
 you see Lexham to-morrow?" 
 
 " No, no ; I leave New York at nine o'clock in the 
 morning." 
 
 " Well, don't meet Gower to-night. He is danger- 
 ous." 
 
 " How shall I get back to the hotel ? Listen to the 
 rain." 
 
 " Wait here till he comes, and I'll make him suspect 
 that you are hiding in my room. If he will go in 
 there for a moment, I'll lock him up till you get back 
 to your hotel," Drake said. 
 
 " Oh, it is good of you, Mr. Drake." 
 
 " Not at all. I'm quite delighted." 
 
 The door bell was again rung. They were startled. 
 
 " Here conies the furious Cyril back again. Go into 
 Lexham's room. He'll not look there again for you. 
 Now don't come out till I call you." 
 
 She was going into the bedroom when Drake, in a 
 changed voice, said, " Wait." 
 
 " What is the matter now ?" she asked, surprised 
 at the serious expression of his face. 
 
 " I think you had better leave here. It is strange, 
 but I feel sure this room is full of trouble." 
 
 " Dick, Dick !" Alice called from the stairs. 
 
 " Ssh ! Go in," Drake said. " Turn out the light, 
 and don't come out till I call you." He pushed Ger- 
 trude into the bedroom and closed the door.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 369 
 
 Alice came in. Her face was pale. She was 
 alarmed. 
 
 " Dick, go for a doctor. Grandfather is much worse. 
 Go quickly, Dick." 
 
 " There is someone at the door, Alice," he said. 
 "Did you open it?" 
 
 " Yes. It was our bell. Only a message for grand- 
 father," she explained. " It is a dreadful night ; put 
 on your coat." 
 
 " No, I want the rain ; I love it," he said. " There 
 is no other sound like it." 
 
 " But, Dick, to-night I feel it in my heart," she 
 said, and shuddered. 
 
 " Poor little Alice !" Drake said, sympathetically. 
 
 " Don't wait. Go, go ! You know Dr. Bryant on 
 Madison Avenue." 
 
 " Yes, it's all right. I shan't be long gone. I had 
 something to tell you, Alice." He hesitated and tried 
 to think of what he had to tell her. " .What was it?" 
 he muttered. 
 
 " Tell me when you come back !" she cried plead- 
 ingly. 
 
 " I've forgotten. Well, anyway, it's all right, and 
 you won't suffer." 
 
 She put his hat in his hand and urged him out. She 
 stood at the foot of the stairs listening for a sound 
 from the rooms above. Then she came in, went to 
 the large window and drew the curtains close. A 
 large high-backed arm-chair she wheeled in front of 
 the fire, and pulled round a screen behind it to keep off 
 the draught from the window. Alice placed the chair 
 in such a position before the fire that anyone sitting 
 
 24
 
 370 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 in it would be invisible from the other half of the 
 room. From an old box she took out slippers and 
 laid them down near the fender. A neighbouring 
 church clock struck the hour. She shivered as she 
 knelt down and warmed her hands at the fire. The 
 rain outside was falling in torrents and the wind 
 moaned and whistled through the dense telegraph- 
 wires. All these familiar sounds seemed then to affect 
 her strangely. She took up the slippers and warmed 
 them at the fire. Tears were trickling down her 
 cheeks. A heavy sigh, far too heavy for her young 
 heart, shook her tender breast. She rose and looked 
 round the room; stretched out her arms as if she 
 would clasp the well-loved figure that was ever in her 
 mind. With slow steps she left the room and ascended 
 the stairs to kneel lovingly by the old man who was the 
 last kin she had on earth. 
 
 Drake said, " a scoundrel's work is never brought 
 to an end." There was Alice bereft of father, mother, 
 and others less dear, and now her grandfather was 
 perhaps " so near" the threshold across which the land 
 of all souls lies. 
 
 Now into that room " full of trouble," as Drake said, 
 came two others; their separate griefs had the one 
 source. 
 
 Yet neither knew the depth of the other's agony. 
 
 " Gilbert, I am as cold as death," Elinor said, and 
 shivered when she felt the new warmth of the room. 
 
 " The rain. You are wet through, dear," he said, 
 taking off the cloak she wore, which was Gertrude's. 
 This he spread out to dry over the back of a chair. 
 
 " No, it's not the rain, Gilbert. Something else.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 371 
 
 Something crushing, crushing me down. What have 
 I done? What have I done?" she moaned. 
 
 "Hush, Elinor, my love; have courage," he said, 
 as he led her to the large chair. 
 
 " Courage ! That has never served me well. No, 
 there is something beyond the power of my puny will 
 fighting me, blasting my life, and thwarting all my 
 efforts. I had nothing to do with his son's death. 
 Oh, why did you bring me here?" 
 
 " I did not wish to leave you alone. You must stay 
 here to-night. I can't leave you, Elinor. See, dear, 
 you are drenched with rain. Come, take off your 
 blouse and throw my old rug over your shoulders. 
 Oh, Elinor, I did not know how dear you were to me 
 till now!" 
 
 "Ah, Gilbert, that is because all but you are against 
 me. You always throw your lot in with the weaker. 
 Did you see how quickly the dear old lady and Ger- 
 trude ran away? And Cyril, did you see him shrink 
 when I turned to him? I thought the old man was 
 going to strangle me. I would rather he had done so 
 than see Cyril shrink away from me." 
 
 Lexham had taken off her shoes and put his slippers 
 on her feet. She slipped off her blouse and skirt more 
 to please him than for her own comfort. 
 
 " Will you go into my room, dear, and " 
 
 " No, no," she interposed ; " what does it matter ? 
 Come here, Gilbert. That old man must know about 
 his son. He must not go to his grave " 
 
 " Hush, Elinor ; hush, dear," he murmured. 
 
 " You do not believe I had anything to do with" his 
 death?"
 
 372 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 " Let us not speak of it, dear," Lexham said in a 
 gentle voice. 
 
 " No, no, we must speak of it. You do not be- 
 lieve?" 
 
 " No, dear ; but you must keep quiet, Elinor." 
 
 " Say you do not believe it !" she cried, passion- 
 ately. 
 
 " I do not believe it, Elinor," he said, and his voice 
 was shaken. 
 
 " But he must know the truth. But how ? How 
 shall he know, Gilbert? Oh! I remember it so well! 
 That night I lost my voice. Ah, dear, you never heard 
 me sing. What happened? What happened? I 
 heard the report of the pistol. I was just going to 
 leave my room to go to the opera-house. Cyril heard 
 me scream and came running through the rooms to 
 me. And he, he, my husband, kicked the child. When 
 I interfered he struck me a heavy blow here and I fell. 
 Is that all I remember? Oh! oh! after all these 
 years. What was it? Why am I accused and can- 
 not clear myself?" 
 
 " Elinor, Elinor, think no more of it !" Lexham 
 cried. His very soul ached for her, but he was power- 
 less to help her. Her terrible struggles to remember 
 what really happened that night were painful to be- 
 hold. 
 
 "I never mentioned my husband to you before, did I, 
 Gilbert? I did not intend to speak of him," she said, 
 with a shudder of loathing. 
 
 " He struck you ?" Lexham asked in a tone of great 
 surprise and pity. 
 
 " Struck me. Ha ! ha ! Yes, and kicked me. Oh,
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 373 
 
 often. But that was nothing. His cowardice and 
 brutality were diseases. Poor little Cyril !" She mur- 
 mured the last words in a kind of reverie with infinite 
 gentleness and pity. 
 
 " Elinor, do you remember what I spoke of this 
 afternoon when I asked you if you would willingly 
 leave New York with me?" 
 
 " And go into the country to live ?" 
 
 " Yes, dear. Will you come ? To-morrow ? Leave 
 these awful things behind us." 
 
 " Leave them behind us. How can that be done ?" 
 she cried, and then broke out into another passionate 
 fit. " I left Europe nearly twenty years ago. But 
 did I leave the awful things behind me ? No, no ; there 
 is no escape. Go where I will there is not a corner of 
 rest for me. And now worse than ever. Where can 
 I hide myself away from the figure of that old man 
 crying for his son? But it is not right that I should 
 drag myself after you and let you be pestered by the 
 shadows which haunt my life." 
 
 "What are you saying, Elinor? Stop, stop!" He 
 was amazed at the changed expression of her face and 
 the bitterness of her tone. 
 
 " Leave it, eh ? Nasty, uncomfortable, disquieting 
 phantoms. You know I couldn't forget. My forget- 
 fulness was the stupor of a mind racked with teeming 
 recollections. Years of an angry memory's toil. Yes, 
 I forgot it all. My memory exhausted its own faculty, 
 and now, now that it has been so cruelly revived and 
 awakened, you ask me to go away with you to for- 
 get!" 
 
 " Not to make it Harder for you, Elinor. But I
 
 374 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 know my love for you is strong enough to let you 
 find some peace in it," he said, with great- tender- 
 ness. 
 
 " Peace ! What peace ? My most tranquil moment 
 will make me fear the worst. Thunderbolts from a 
 cloudless sky. No, there will be no peace for me till 
 that old man is satisfied. And what else? God, if I 
 can be accused of such a crime, who knows what else 
 of misery lies in store for me? Could you with all 
 your love, when at last nothing but relentless adversity 
 overwhelms me and assails your peace of mind, pre- 
 serve me from madness?" 
 
 He was silent. He could not speak; and she saw 
 that he was hurt, wounded by her words. 
 
 " Oh, Gilbert, forgive me !" she cried, and threw 
 her arms about him and wept in sore grief. 
 
 " Hush ! hush ! You are not yourself to-night. My 
 Elinor, I would give my life to help you. Come, 
 dear." 
 
 " Thank you, Gilbert. Thanks for your love, the 
 only real joy I've known. Thanks for your manliness, 
 my greatest pride. Oh, how young you look to-night ! 
 Your youth mocks me and makes me feel the near ap- 
 proach of years which will soon cover me with the veil 
 of age." 
 
 " No, no, sweet Elinor, you will be ever young to 
 me," he said. 
 
 " Think ! Only three short years of love. Three 
 short years in my long life. Oh, the bitterness when 
 this must pass !" 
 
 " It must not pass. Come, put away those phantom 
 fears. Marry me !" he pleaded.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 375 
 
 " No ! That would not be just, not right," she said, 
 in anguish. 
 
 " Let me live all my life for you. Who has a better 
 right to it? You saved it. Your thought and care 
 brought into it the only happiness I have known. 
 Think, Elinor, how much we two have yet to accom- 
 plish. All our schemes may yet be realised. Be my 
 wife." 
 
 " No, no ; don't tempt me, Gilbert. I'm as weak as 
 a reed to-night." 
 
 " But, Elinor " 
 
 " No ! no ! no ! If I said yes to-night I would curse 
 myself to-morrow. Look at me^ surely I have changed 
 to-night. I can feel the marks of misery and age 
 upon my face. Oh, but I cannot let you go ! I must 
 not marry you, though I can't give you up. I am cruel 
 to you." 
 
 " Forgive me, Elinor ; believe me, no worldly scru- 
 ples prompt me now, but I have thought of this so 
 much of late. We must leave New York for your 
 sake. Our names are on many tongues. Blackston, 
 Windham, Oldcastle, have told me what people are 
 saying. That for myself I do not heed; but Cyril, 
 suppose he were to hear what is being said? You 
 know him. Do you think he knows ?" 
 
 " Cyril !" she said in a startled tone. " Cyril ! I 
 I don't know. The thought of Cyril knowing has 
 never occurred to me." The thought was a shock 
 to her. 
 
 " He would be the first to sneer," Lexham said. 
 
 11 Well, let him sneer. No act of his can hurt me 
 now," she said, bitterly.
 
 376 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 " He Hurt you when he turned away from you to- 
 day. He had no word to say in your defence. He 
 made no remonstrance when Oldcastle but this, our 
 affair, is a different matter. You think the old love 
 for him, the love you bore him when he was a boy, is 
 dead. It is not dead, Elinor. It will never die. He 
 has become a part of your suffering. Why, a moment 
 ago, you thought of him as he was, and I know when 
 you said ' Poor little Cyril !' your heart ached for 
 him." 
 
 " Yes, perhaps ; oh, Gilbert, Gilbert " The rest 
 
 was lost in her sobbing. 
 
 " Think, dear ; you know we must stick to him. 
 There is no end to such a responsibility. My great 
 love for children tells me that that love should increase 
 as the beloved one fails." 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes, you are right. I should die if he 
 were to know. He would have no pity. He could 
 never understand," she cried. 
 
 Elinor threw herself back in the chair and lay in a 
 position of extreme weariness. Lexham stood beside 
 her. 
 
 THe sound of a bell ringing in a distant part of the 
 house startled her. 
 
 "What is that?" she asked. 
 
 " Oldcastle's bell. No one for me, dear," he said. 
 
 They listened, and heard the servant run down the 
 stairs and open the door. The indistinct murmur of 
 voices reached them. Suddenly Gower burst into the 
 room. Lexham moved quickly away from Elinor to 
 meet him. 
 
 "Ah, Lexham, I've been looking for you," Gower
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 377 
 
 said. " I knew it would be no use ringing your bell 
 to get let in, so I rang Oldcastle's." 
 
 " There was no need to do that," Lexham said in 
 a quiet tone. He saw that Gower was in an angry 
 mood, and in the circumstances he felt that he would 
 have to exert all his tact and patience to quiet him and 
 get him away. He was quite aware that Gower would 
 see Elinor without her blouse, skirt, and shoes if he 
 crossed the room. Lexham was determined he should 
 not see her. 
 
 " There was need. You, with your cursed friend 
 Drake to aid you in your schemes, make me resort to 
 artifices. Where is Mrs. Laird?" Gower demanded. 
 
 " She is not here," Lexham answered. 
 
 " She is here. Drake told me that she left here 
 some time ago. But I've been to her hotel, and the 
 porter assured me that she had not returned." 
 
 " I don't care where you've been, Cyril ; Mrs. Laird 
 is not here." 
 
 " The servant told me she didn't see her leave the 
 house. Drake told me she had been here when I first 
 came half an hour ago." 
 
 " Drake must have been mistaken " 
 
 " He told me he let her out through that way be- 
 cause she was afraid." 
 
 " He couldn't have let her out that way, for the 
 passage to the front door has been partitioned off." 
 
 " Then he, too, lied ! She must be here !" Gower 
 tried to pass to the bedroom door. 
 
 " I have not lied to you," Lexham said, as he stood 
 in his way. 
 
 " You have. You can't explain away the letters. I
 
 378 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 have one in my pocket which I found this afternoon. 
 It was written yesterday. And the cheque I saw on 
 your desk, what about that? Do you think I am a 
 fool? Do you think I can't see through your con- 
 temptible scheme?" 
 
 " I have done nothing contemptible," Lexham said 
 in a tone of warning. 
 
 " You have accepted money from Mrs. Laird," 
 Gower cried. 
 
 " It is not true, Cyril. You must listen to me." 
 
 " Listen to you ? No ! I'll not listen. You knew 
 all about my affair with Mrs. Laird. You knew it 
 was my intention to marry her when she got her di- 
 vorce. You pretended to be my friend." Gower 
 again tried to pass Lexham, but he intercepted him. 
 
 " I have proved my friendship for you many 
 times." 
 
 " Yes, you lent me money. That was an easy thing 
 to do when you were accepting such cheques as I saw 
 this afternoon from Mrs. Laird." 
 
 " I have never for my own use accepted one penny 
 from her." 
 
 " Then for whose use was it ? Bah ! Perhaps you 
 will want me to believe that Miss Oldcastle didn't find 
 one of Mrs. Laird's pins here." 
 
 " I'm sure she didn't." 
 
 " She did, and gave it to her this afternoon. I and 
 the others saw it," said Gower, as he tried to get round 
 the desk. 
 
 " That doesn't justify your suspicions. I tell you 
 again that Mrs. Laird is nothing to me," Lexham said, 
 defeating Gower's new move.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 379 
 
 " No ; the little Oldcastle has your attention 
 now " 
 
 " You lie, you blackguardly scoundrel ! I'll wring 
 your lying throat if you dare mention her name again !" 
 
 "Didn't I see you with her this afternoon? She 
 was crying, and you " 
 
 " Silence !" Lexham exclaimed, moving towards 
 him. 
 
 " No, not if I never speak again. You have ruined 
 all my prospects. After waiting all these years to get 
 a chance to free myself from the horrible surroundings 
 of the past ten years you come and snatch away the 
 prize. You ! Think of the life I've had to lead since 
 you have intimately known us ! Rows about rent, not 
 enough food, and she the subject of every scandal- 
 monger's tongue." 
 
 " That has been your own fault. What have you 
 ever done? No, no ; you almost tempt me to say " 
 
 " Say what ? What can you say ? You know what 
 people say about me. You ought to know, for you are 
 the only source it could come from. No one else bears 
 me any malice." 
 
 "What are you now talking about? Speak out!" 
 Lexham cried. 
 
 " How we live ? Where Diva gets the money from 
 to keep such expensive rooms?" 
 
 " Well, where does she get it from ?" 
 
 " Where you get yours from. She worms it out of 
 Mrs. Sefton and you bleed Mrs. Laird. A great 
 game !" 
 
 Lexham could not help but laugh and say, " Don't 
 be foolish."
 
 380 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 " You may laugh, but I'm damned if I would live 
 on charity." 
 
 " You have lived on charity, anyway. You don't 
 know what you're talking about. Ever since I've 
 known you you've gone through life with your eyes 
 shut. Why, your very selfishness is enough to keep 
 you blind. How dare you accuse anyone of living 
 on charity? What do you know of a real day's honest 
 toil? Do you think I don't know you? Why were 
 you here searching for Mrs. Laird ? Because you love 
 her? Not a bit of it. You're afraid to let her out 
 of your sight because of your lust for her gold, and 
 do you think she doesn't know that? Do you think 
 she doesn't know that you would let others go on year 
 after year housing you, feeding you, clothing you, 
 submitting to your growling complaints and snarling 
 temper so long as you might have a little pocket-money 
 and the hope of some day marrying her for what? 
 For the cursed money that has been the cause of all 
 this unhappiness." 
 
 " You have no right to question my motive. I'm 
 not a hypocrite, a canting dissembler. And you're 
 not a paragon enough to doubt my love. Whatever 
 my motive is I've been loyal to her. You can't say 
 So much. Why has Diva been turned out?" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 Elinor had slipped on her blouse and shoes. 
 
 "Ah! now you start. Mrs. Bettiny told me all 
 about it in a very few coarse words when I went back 
 there half an hour ago. Yes, your head falls, and well 
 it may. Damn you, curse you! Now have I reason 
 to doubt you?"
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 381 
 
 No, no reason. You must believe me. Cyril, 
 
 listen " 
 
 " No. Mrs. Laird is here and I'm going to find 
 her." 
 
 " She is not here. I swear she is not." 
 Gower in trying to pass Lexham stumbled against 
 the chair on which was Gertrude's cloak, which Elinor 
 wore when she came in with Lexham. Then for the 
 first time he noticed it. He pulled it off the chair and 
 held it up. 
 
 " Mrs. Laird's cloak !" he cried, and threw it down 
 near the screen. " Let me pass." 
 
 " You will not pass me, Cyril, so don't begin to try." 
 " I'm going to look again in that room." 
 " You are not. There is no one in there." 
 At that moment Mrs. Laird, tired out waiting for 
 so long, turned the handle of the door and began to 
 push it open. Elinor saw the door move and so did 
 Gower, but Lexham was facing the latter and did not 
 see what had happened. 
 
 " She is in there !" Gower yelled. Mrs. Laird heard 
 his voice and closed the door. 
 
 Then Gower sprang at Lexham and clutched him 
 by the throat, but the latter caught the infuriated fellow 
 round the waist and slowly pulled him into a tighten- 
 ing grasp which made him almost yell with pain. 
 Gower struck wildly at Lexham, but they were too close 
 for effective blows. Pressing him tightly against his 
 chest, Lexham used his other hand to make Gower 
 relax the grip he had upon his throat. Once Lexham 
 -lost his footing and almost fell. Dexterously he re- 
 covered himself, but he lost the powerful hold he had
 
 382 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 had round Gower's body. The latter felt the tension 
 of Lexham's arm slackening, and this relief encouraged 
 him to renew his exertions. Again Lexham slipped on 
 the smooth carpet and Gower threw him, as he swayed, 
 over on to the desk. Lexham lay on the broad of his 
 back, and Gower bent over him and held him down 
 by the throat. Lexham's right arm hung down the 
 side of the desk, but with his left he had clutched a 
 firm grasp of Gower by the neck. And there they 
 struggled. 
 
 Neither saw Elinor rise and glide to the bedroom 
 door, from which she had not taken her eyes since 
 she saw it pushed gently open. Now she flung it 
 slightly ajar, and saw Gertrude in an attitude of ab- 
 ject fear. Elinor slipped behind the open door. 
 
 " Elinor, save me, save me !" Gertrude cried, pite- 
 ously. 
 
 " Save you, you deceitful wretch !" Elinor whis- 
 pered quickly, angrily. 
 
 " Lexham doesn't know I'm here. I hid from 
 Cyril," Gertrude cried. 
 
 Elinor closed the door. 
 
 Gower had freed his right arm, and mad with fury 
 he grasped a large brass candlestick and swung it down. 
 Lexham jerked his head aside and received the blow 
 full on the clavicle. Elinor turned from the door just 
 as the blow fell. 
 
 Suddenly Alice was heard descending the stairs cry- 
 ing, "Gilbert, Gilbert!" 
 
 Lexham rolled off the edge of the desk and lay pros- 
 trate. Gower turned, and was face to face with Eli- 
 nor.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 383 
 
 "You!" he cried in a hoarse voice, and with loath- 
 ing he shrank from her and staggered out of the 
 room. 
 
 " Gilbert, Gilbert, he is dying ! He wants you !" 
 Alice called, as she ran into the room. Lexham was 
 on the floor trying to rise. She saw him, gave a stifled 
 scream, and hastened to him. " Gilbert, my love, my 
 love, I am alone, alone !" she cried, as she wound her 
 arms about him and raised his head.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 ALICE and Elinor assisted Lexham to the lounge. 
 The blow had quite dazed him, and now he began to 
 collect his wits he was conscious of the intense pain 
 in his shoulder. He, however, made light of it when 
 he saw Elinor's serious face and Alice's grieved ex- 
 pression. 
 
 " What is the matter, Alice?" he asked. 
 
 " Oh, Gilbert, you have been hurt ! What shall I 
 do? You and poor grandfather!" Alice stammered 
 in a tired voice. 
 
 "Your grandfather! What about him?" Lexham 
 inquired, as he rose with difficulty. 
 
 " I'm afraid, Gilbert. He sent me down for you. 
 Dick has not come back with the doctor. Grandfather 
 is so ill. He has been asking for you," she said. 
 
 " Do you think you can get upstairs ?" Elinor 
 asked. 
 
 " Yes ; come, Alice. Let us go. Wait, Elinor, will 
 you ?" he said. 
 
 Her heart softened as she saw the painful effort 
 he made to go with Alice. She had seen the blow 
 fall, and though at that moment she believed almost 
 all Gower's accusations, still, she felt he was very dear 
 to her, though Mrs. Laird was in hiding in his bedroom 
 and he had, as she thought, so cruelly deceived her. 
 After Lexham and Alice were gone upstairs she closed 
 the door, and then went to the bedroom and called Ger- 
 trude out. 
 384
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 385 
 
 "Oh, Elinor, why did you call me a deceitful 
 ^wretch?" she cried, as she came in. 
 
 " Why ? Could you hear what was said in this 
 room ?" 
 
 " Yes no ; nothing distinctly," Gertrude answered. 
 
 " Cyril and Gilbert fighting like brutes. And what 
 about, do you think? You!" Elinor exclaimed, an- 
 grily. 
 
 " Yes, I know ; but, Elinor " 
 
 " You have deceived us all. Wasn't it bad enough 
 to spoil Cyril ? Of what use will he ever be after this ? 
 Didn't I tell you " 
 
 " No, no, let me speak. I have not deceived you. 
 I came to ask Mr. Lexham about the scene at your 
 rooms. I did, Elinor, believe me. I was so ashamed 
 when I had to leave you because auntie was so nervous. 
 I went back to your place after I took auntie to the 
 hotel. You were gone, and then I came here to ask him 
 where I could find you. That is all, Elinor, that is all." 
 
 "Do you know that Cyril nearly killed Gilbert?" 
 Elinor said. 
 
 " Oh, I knew they would quarrel ! I didn't want 
 them to meet. Cyril accused me of an intrigue with 
 Lexham, and he thinks " 
 
 " I know what he thinks !" Elinor interposed. 
 
 " But you don't believe that " 
 
 " He said that I got my money from Mrs. Sefton 
 and that Lexham got his from you." 
 
 " It is not true," Gertrude declared. 
 
 " I know it is not true in my case." 
 
 " Nor in Lexham's. Elinor, you have not believed 
 me." 
 
 25
 
 386 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 " I did not believe a word Cyril said till I saw that 
 door pushed open. Then I forgot everything but you. 
 I did not see you when I saw the door move, but I felt 
 sure I knew you were hiding in there." 
 
 " Drake put me in there." 
 
 " Drake, Drake ! It always is Drake !" Elinor ex- 
 claimed. " He is everywhere, like a mocking spirit, 
 laughing at us poor fools." 
 
 " When I reached here Drake was alone," Gertrude 
 said. " Someone rang the bell, and Drake looked 
 through the window and saw Cyril at the door. After 
 the scenes with him yesterday and to-day I had 
 good reason to avoid meeting him again. Look!" 
 Gertrude unbuttoned her wristband and pulled up 
 her sleeve. " See these bruises. The marks of 
 his cruel hands. When I told him yesterday that I 
 was going away with auntie he behaved like a mad- 
 man." 
 
 " I'm sorry, but he has left other marks on me," 
 Elinor said, bitterly. 
 
 " Oh, Elinor, if you only knew how my heart aches 
 for you!" Gertrude said. "What can I do? What 
 reparation for all the trouble I've caused? When I 
 heard that old man denounce you to-day I longed to 
 throw my arms around you and tell them all I didn't 
 believe a word of what was said. But auntie! I 
 couldn't let her go away alone." 
 
 " Why, why should you feel for me?" Elinor asked 
 in a strange tone. 
 
 Gertrude .looked at her and smiled sadly as she 
 said, 
 
 " Haven't we both loved the same ingrate ?"
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 387 
 
 " Gertrude !" Elinor cried in a tone of despair and 
 opened wide her arms for the younger woman. A 
 surge of sympathy, like one electric current, passed 
 through their hearts and united them in a sincere em- 
 brace. 
 
 " How I wish I could stay in New York with you ! 
 Everything you do draws me closer to you. Elinor, 
 you are the only real woman I have ever met. And 
 how like you, when you suspected me, when everything 
 was black against me, when you found me there, to save 
 me, hide me from Cyril!" 
 
 "Ah, you don't know me. You may think I do 
 Strange things, but in reality I am no different than 
 other women. I'm just as prone to suspect and nag. 
 Don't think of me as a Pharisee. My mistakes have 
 been many, and now I see how they have been made. 
 But it's all wrong. We hunger and we eat, we thirst 
 and we drink, we must wear clothes, have a religion, 
 be respectable, all these trifles the world demands of 
 us, but love that's nothing. Have you ever loved? 
 No, I do not mean to wound you, Gertrude. You 
 do not understand. I forgot. I am older than 
 you. It makes all the difference at my time of 
 life." 
 
 Lexham came in. He looked so careworn and weak 
 that Elinor could not suppress an ejaculation of de- 
 spair. 
 
 " Elinor, Mrs. Laird here!" He exclaimed in sur- 
 prise. 
 
 " Yes. she was in there, in your bedroom ; but you 
 didn't know it, did you?" Elinor asked in a gentle, 
 pleading way.
 
 388 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 " No, no !" Lexham said in a tone of bewilder- 
 ment. 
 
 " I came to see you earlier in the evening. I was 
 afraid to meet Cyril, and Mr. Drake hid me in there 
 from him." 
 
 " You are in pain, Gilbert !" Elinor cried. 
 
 '' Yes ; but it's nothing. Elinor, that old man is in 
 a very serious condition. Something must be done. 
 I know he has had a weak heart, and I'm sure he cannot 
 live long if he continues to rave so wildly about his 
 son's death," Lexham said. 
 
 "And I'm helpless, helpless. Oh, Gilbert, what can 
 I do?" Elinor cried in great distress. 
 
 " I've tried to soothe him. He was a little quieter 
 when I left him. Alice told me she had sent Drake 
 for a doctor. Wait, dear. Hush! Ssh!" 
 
 " Mr. Lexham, I must go," Gertrude said ; " my 
 auntie will be anxious. I shan't see you again, per- 
 haps, for a long time." 
 
 " What am I to do with the money ?" Lexham 
 asked. 
 
 "Ah, the money !" Elinor exclaimed. " Gilbert, tell 
 me what the money was for. I can think of nothing 
 but Cyril's words, ' She worms it out of Mrs. Sefton 
 and you bleed Mrs. Laird.' Do, do, relieve my mind. 
 I shall go mad if those words are not erased from my 
 brain. I can think of nothing else. Their din, din, 
 din, makes me forget the old man, makes me forget 
 you, Gilbert !" 
 
 " Elinor, dear " he stopped and turned to Mrs. 
 
 Laird. " Let me tell her." Gertrude nodded her head 
 in assent. " You know Mrs. Laird is going away and
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 389 
 
 she did not wish to let Cyril know that she was resolved 
 never to see him again." 
 
 " She told me that; I know; well, well?" she said, 
 impatiently. 
 
 " Elinor, I asked Mr. Lexham to give Cyril the 
 money so that he could pay his debts and have some 
 money for an European trip," Gertrude timidly ex- 
 plained. 
 
 " What ! Pay him for " Elinor cried out. 
 
 " No, no, Elinor. Mrs. Laird wants him to find a 
 producer for his opera," Lexham interposed. 
 
 "A gift ! A patronising bribe to heal his wounded 
 pride ! And you lent yourself to such a scheme ? Has 
 he fallen so low? Send for him. Offer it to him. If 
 he takes it then good-bye everything!" Elinor ex- 
 claimed in staccato tones of anger and revulsion. If 
 he had sunk to this then indeed her life had been 
 wasted. It was curious to see how her affection, per- 
 sisting in spite of everything, made her pride so sud- 
 denly and easily wounded on his behalf. The world 
 was a blank if she could not regenerate the life she" 
 had adopted. 
 
 " Mrs. Laird's intention was, I think, a noble one, 
 Elinor," Lexham said in a grieved voice. " I'm sorry 
 you're offended." 
 
 " So am I, Elinor, very, very sorry," Gertrude said. 
 " Cyril said he did better work under my influence, 
 and " 
 
 " Your influence !" Elinor cried. 
 
 " Wait, dear. He made me believe that I urged 
 him to persevere. Wait, dear. I saw him idle away 
 the precious time, month after month, nothing accom-
 
 390 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 plished. All his talent wasted. When his first opera 
 failed, I saw the reason why it failed. Light music 
 was not his forte. Then I persuaded, promised, did 
 all a woman could do to make him set to work again, 
 and then when he had finished his work I thought it 
 was only just to help him to get it produced." 
 
 " Oh ! And after all my years of oh, the wretch ! 
 For me nothing. No return for all my love. And 
 you come, you, oh! No, no, you can't understand. 
 This is monstrous. What is gratitude? All done for 
 you?" 
 
 She sank down on the lounge and sobbed so bitterly 
 that Lexham and Gertrude looked at each other in 
 alarm. Gertrude went to her, kneeled down, and 1 
 tried to soothe he. 
 
 "No, don't do that," Elinor said; "it hurts ter- 
 ribly. Send for him, Gilbert. Let it end. Send for 
 him." 
 
 " Elinor," Gertrude cried, " I never thought to 
 wound you." 
 
 " No, no, forgive me my harsh words. But every- 
 thing seems very cruel. Something is crushing me. 
 Gilbert, is it my fault?" Elinor asked in a startled 
 tone. "Have I failed?" 
 
 He was silent, still he was conscious of something 
 neglected. That, perhaps, he had been indirectly the 
 cause of many misunderstandings which had arisen 
 since Elinor and he had been intimate. 
 
 " Have I ?" she cried, stung by his silence. 
 
 " I think we have been to blame," he said, gently. 
 
 " What ! We have been selfish ? Do you mean he 
 has been forgotten?"
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 391 
 
 " Yes. But let me take the blame." 
 
 " No, no. Gertrude, write to him. Ask him to 
 come here. This shall be settled. At once. Write !" 
 she said in a tone of command. 
 
 " But I " Gertrude began, hesitatingly. She 
 
 looked at Lexham, and said, " I can't see him 
 again." 
 
 " No, of course not," Elinor said, bitterly, " but your 
 influence. He may not come for us. But a note from 
 you should bring him here. Just ask him to come. 
 That will be enough." 
 
 Gertrude sat down and wrote a brief note. 
 
 " Elinor, is it wise to see him to-night ?" Lexham 
 asked. 
 
 " Wise ? oh, yes ; I cannot wait now. It should 
 have been done long ago," she said, sadly. " He must 
 be tired waiting." 
 
 Lexham took the note from Gertrude. 
 
 " I shall pass a messenger office on my way to the 
 hotel," she said, as she prepared to leave the room. 
 
 " Yes. please send it," Elinor said. 
 
 " Good-bye," Gertrude muttered ; " forget me till 
 you can think well of me, Elinor." 
 
 " We should have been loving sisters, Gertrude, you 
 and I. Good-bye." Elinor took Gertrude's hand and 
 clasped it to her breast. " Good-bye. And tell Mrs. 
 Sefton that I'm not the guilty wretch that poor old 
 man thinks I am." 
 
 " I know you are not. Auntie loves you." Ger- 
 trude turned away. She went to Lexham, and as she 
 took the note from him, she said, " I think Elinor will 
 be happier when I am gone."
 
 392 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 When they were alone, Lexham went to Elinor and 
 said, 
 
 " Must I offer him the money?" 
 
 " Yes, yes. The money. Let him have it. Gilbert, 
 we were happy! very happy till the money came !" she 
 cried. ' You worm it out of Mrs. Sefton and Lex- 
 ham bleeds Mrs. Laird.' ' 
 
 " Hush, dear, think no more of that dreadful " 
 
 Lexham began. 
 
 " He made me almost believe it. Why did you let 
 me hear all that, all he said ?" 
 
 " I did not want him to see you," he said. 
 
 " See me ! What if he had seen me ? He knows. 
 He knows. He may not come here. What then? 
 Oh, yes, the money. He will come." 
 
 " But he doesn't know about the money," Lexham 
 remarked. 
 
 "Ah, but her influence ! He will come. What shall 
 I do if he sneers at me?" she moaned. 
 
 " He will not do that," said Lexham, raising his 
 arm in anger, and then letting it fall suddenly as he 
 felt the pain. 
 
 " He hurt you. Oh, Gilbert, didn't I bring you 
 enough suffering? And he might have killed you be- 
 cause of Gertrude. Does he love her ? What else did 
 he say?" she muttered. 
 
 " Oh, nothing, nothing. Let us not think of it," 
 Lexham cried. 
 
 " We must think of it," she said ; " we must think 
 of everything to-night. The little Oldcastle," she mur- 
 mured in a curious, slow tone. 
 
 " No, no, Elinor, not to-night. Let us forget.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 393 
 
 Cyril did not know what he was saying. Why take 
 notice of what was said by an enraged man? There 
 are other things to think of if you will persist. But, 
 no, you are overwrought, Elinor." 
 
 " ' Gilbert, my love, my love/ that was what she 
 said. Poor little thing," Elinor said in a quiet tone, 
 in which a certain note of sympathy surprised Lex- 
 ham. " How old is she, Gilbert?" she asked. 
 
 " Alice ? About nineteen, I think," he answered. 
 
 " Nineteen ! At that age I was a wife. A drunken 
 brute's victim. And she loves you. Well, that 
 is quite natural. But you, Gilbert, what about 
 you?" 
 
 "Can you ask?" he cried in a grieved tone. "Have 
 you believed that? After these three years you have 
 learned only to doubt me. Gower lied ! And it was 
 for your sake I contained myself when he spoke of 
 her. I learned to-day from her grandfather what you 
 know now. To-day. Yes. She was crying to-day 
 in your rooms. Do you know why she was in tears? 
 I told her I was going away, that I should have to give 
 up these rooms. But not a word of what Cyril im- 
 plied has passed between Alice and me." 
 
 She threw her arms about him, and said, 
 
 " Ah, Gilbert, you do love me ? I feel such a miser- 
 able thing. Do you know how much I need your 
 love?" 
 
 Suddenly she turned away from him and beat her 
 hands in despair. 
 
 "Oh, what is it? What is it? I feel that some- 
 thing terrible has happened, I feel as if the crime of 
 that man's death were weighing upon me. It is crush-
 
 394 MADAME BOHEMIA 1 
 
 ing me. Why, she is his child? His child, Gilbert. 
 Little Alice's father shot himself at my oh!" 
 
 Drake came in. He was astonished to see Elinor. 
 
 " Hullo, Lexham," he said, after his surprise, " the 
 doctor has just gone up. He wants to see you." 
 
 " How is Oldcastle ?" Lexham asked. 
 
 " I don't know. Haven't been upstairs. The doc- 
 tor has come from a birth. I wonder if " 
 
 " Hush, Dick ! I'll go up, Elinor," Lexham said. 
 
 " Yes, yes, go !" she said. " He mustn't die, not 
 yet, Gilbert." 
 
 Lexham left the room, and Drake stood listening 
 to his footsteps on the stairs. Elinor turned, and 
 started on seeing Drake. She thought he, too, had 
 left the room. But for that moment in the afternoon 
 when Elinor went into Lexham's room and saw Drake 
 watching her empty the jewels out of her bag she 
 had not been alone with him for nearly eighteen 
 years. 
 
 " Well, Drake," said Elinor in a tone of suppressed 
 emotion. " We have not spoken together for a good 
 many years. Why did you call me my lady of many 
 names ?" 
 
 " Somehow you then looked younger. More like 
 Signora Valenza than Mrs. Kembleton," Drake said, 
 with a sly smile. 
 
 "Did you tell Mr. Oldcastle that I was Va- 
 lenza?" 
 
 " Yes. Let it out before I realised what I had done. 
 But I feel better since letting it out. You see, there 
 has been something wrong with me. You know we all 
 went wrong after he got through with us. Well, I
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 395 
 
 don't know, but there are some things I can't quite 
 connect yet. I did you a few good turns in the old 
 days, didn't I?" 
 
 " Yes, Drake, you did. You saved me many a time 
 from that man's cruelty. You were constantly saving 
 little Cyril from my husband," Elinor said. 
 
 " Yes. He was a hard customer to deal with." 
 Drake laughed in a quiet way. " But I got something 
 out of him. He was the subject of my short story. 
 Never was such a character to handle. He was just 
 my idea of the incarnation of Hell. I'm sorry he died. 
 It was too easy for him." 
 
 " Drake, do you remember much about that time in 
 Monte Carlo?" 
 
 " Well, sometimes I remember so much that I'd give 
 anything to forget it all, then there have been times 
 when I've forgotten, aye, even a name that I have' gone 
 nearly mad in trying to recall. But it doesn't matter 
 now," he said, and chuckled. 
 
 " Did you know that the man who shot himself was 
 Mr. Oldcastle's son?" Elinor asked in a trembling 
 voice. 
 
 " Not till to-day. Just think, I've been in this house 
 more than a year and that didn't occur to me till to- 
 day. You should have seen the old man when I let 
 out that you were Valenza." This he said as if he 
 were recounting a great joke. His eyes sparkled from 
 excitement and uncanny joy. " But poor little Alice," 
 he cried in a sudden change of tone, " what will she 
 do wfien the old man goes to find her father ? I never 
 thought of that before." Slowly he rubbed his hand 
 across his brow, and then smiling sadly he said, " Well,
 
 396 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 Lexham will look after Alice. Yes, that's all 
 right." 
 
 " Drake, what are you saying ?" Elinor cried. 
 
 " Oh, nothing ; you don't understand. That is 
 another matter," he said in a strange tone, as he seemed 
 to leer at her. 
 
 Alice came running into the room. A piece of paper 
 fluttered in her hand. 
 
 " Dick, run to the chemist with this prescription. 
 Here is the money!" she cried. 
 
 He clapped on his hat and ran from the room. 
 
 "Is your grandfather any better?" Elinor asked 
 after a pause. 
 
 " I don't know. The doctor told me to wait Here 
 till Dick returned with the medicine," Alice said. 
 
 "Do you mind waiting here with me?" Elinor's 
 voice was soft. 
 
 " No, Mrs. Kembleton," Alice answered. She sat 
 down near the desk. 
 
 " You heard what your grandfather said of me?" 
 
 " Yes, yes, but " 
 
 " But you don't believe it ? Your grandfather was 
 mistaken !" 
 
 ' Yes. He must be mistaken. I'm so sorry." 
 
 Elinor went to her and kneeled down beside her. 
 
 "Alice, tell me ; I heard what you said when you ran 
 to Mr. Lexham, when he was unconscious, you were 
 so troubled you did not know your tender heart rose 
 to your lips. You called him your love. No, no, 
 Alice, tell me, do you love him?" 
 
 " Yes, I can tell you now," she replied, after some 
 hesitation.
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 397 
 
 "Why now?" Elinor asked. Her changed tone 
 startled Alice. 
 
 " Oh, before I was so wicked. I thought there was 
 something wrong. I had heard grandfather and Mr. 
 Blackston speak of you. I'm sure they don't like you. 
 Ah, but that is because they don't know you as I do," 
 Alice said, sweetly. 
 
 "And your grandfather knows you love Mr. Lex- 
 ham?" 
 
 " Yes, I think he does," she said in a sad tone. 
 
 " Alice, does Mr. Lexham know you love him ?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. He has always called me * little 
 sister.' " 
 
 " Has he ever said anything to you anything about 
 love?" 
 
 " No, never. Is it all wrong? You don't know how 
 long I've loved him. So long. It is dreadful now 
 grandfather knows. It was so sweet before. Some- 
 times I felt as if my heart would burst, and then I 
 would not come in when he was here. Oh, how I 
 love this room! And he is going to leave us. Ah! 
 you don't know what it is to be alone. Poor dear 
 grandfather for years and years seemed to forget my 
 existence. Oh, what a relief it is to talk to you !" 
 
 "Why, Alice, why a relief?" 
 
 " Ah, you think I don't know. How wicked I was ! 
 Do you know, I feel so wise, and yet I know I'm only 
 a silly girl. But Dick was so good to tell me." 
 
 "Tell you what, Alice?" Elinor asked, persua- 
 sively. 
 
 "All that you did for Mr. Lexham. How you 
 helped him to find a publisher, Mr. Blackston, and
 
 398 MADAME BOHEMIA' 
 
 how you encouraged him in his work. Yes, Dick told 
 me all about it. How good you have been to him. 
 Oh, you don't know how lonely he was ! He used to 
 sit here hour after hour writing, writing, forgetting 
 that he needed food. Grandfather once said he wrote 
 in blood, that it was not ink on his pen. Then at 
 night you would come. Ah! many a time I've gone 
 to bed quite happy knowing you were down here with 
 him. I thought at first that he was just as lonely as 
 I was." 
 
 Elinor rose and walked away to a corner of the room. 
 
 Drake came back with the medicine. 
 
 " Here it is, Alice," he said. " Gower is outside." 
 
 " Tell him to come in," Elinor said. 
 
 Drake and Alice left the room and Gower entered. 
 He was changed. His bloodshot eyes and pale face 
 told a great deal more than any expressions of sorrow 
 he could utter. He walked slowly into the room. 
 Elinor went to him before he was aware of her pres- 
 ence. He started and looked strangely at her. 
 
 " Lexham," he cried in a hoarse voice, " Lexham, 
 did I hurt him?" 
 
 " Yes, you hurt him," she said in a tone of great 
 bitterness. 
 
 " Badly ? Diva, I didn't know what I was doing. 
 I was mad with rage," he said. " Tell me, he is not 
 Seriously " 
 
 " Pooh ! Lexham is all right," she muttered. 
 
 " But Drake told me he had been for a doctor. That 
 he was dying," he cried. 
 
 " So he has been for a doctor, but not for Lex- 
 ham."
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 399 
 
 "Oh, thank heaven!" Gower sank in a chair and 
 wiped the sweat off his brow. He trembled. 
 
 " Where is Mrs. Laird ?" he asked in a changed tone, 
 which expressed his relief. 
 
 " Oh, she is gone, Cyril. Gone ! I shall never worm 
 more out of Mrs. Sefton and Lexham will never again 
 bleed Mrs. Laird." 
 
 " What ! What are you talking about ?" he cried 
 out in surprise. 
 
 " I was thinking of what you said to Lexham," 
 she said. 
 
 " He has told you ?" Gower asked in a subdued 
 tone. 
 
 " No, there was no need. I heard all you said." 
 
 " You heard ?" He was embarrassed, agitated. 
 
 " Every word. I sat in that chair all the time you 
 and he were shouting," Elinor said. She saw he was 
 half-ashamed. 
 
 " You didn't. You were in that room," he cried. 
 
 " No ; Mrs. Laird was in that room. But Lexham 
 didn't know she was there," she said. 
 
 " But I saw you come from that room." 
 
 " Yes, I came from there to save her from perhaps 
 worse than Lexham got," Elinor said, bitterly. 
 
 " So you're against me, are you ? You're all against 
 me!" 
 
 "Do you know what day this is?" she asked in a 
 quieter tone. 
 
 " Yes, and it is not likely that I shall soon for- 
 get it." 
 
 " But do you remember a day many years ago when 
 I took a little boy away from his home in Kent? A
 
 400 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 little boy I adopted?" Gower started, but he could 
 not raise his head. He could not look her straight in 
 the face. 
 
 Lexham came down the stairs with brighter steps. 
 When he came into the room Elinor went to him and 
 said, "How is he?" 
 
 "A little better. But the doctor says he will not 
 really recover." 
 
 " Lexham," Gower began, " I'm sorry I lost my 
 temper " 
 
 " That is all right," Lexham interposed. " I have 
 something here to give you. Three thousand dollars. 
 But there is a condition which must be observed. If 
 you accept this money you must first pay all your debts. 
 The balance is to be spent on a trip to Europe, where 
 you must try to find a producer for the opera you have 
 just completed. Is it agreed?" 
 
 Gower was nonplussed. He could hardly realise all 
 that Lexham said. 
 
 " Well, Lexham, I don't know what to say," Gower 
 muttered. 
 
 " You want to take your opera to Paris or Berlin, 
 don't you?" 
 
 " Yes, but after the way I've treated you." 
 
 "That is past. Don't think of it," Lexham 
 said. 
 
 " But I can hardly realise your goodness. Besides, 
 I owe you so much money; as it is I shall never be 
 able to repay you." 
 
 " Say nothing about that. Will you come here to- 
 morrow morning at nine o'clock, when we can settle 
 the matter?"
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 401 
 
 "Nine o'clock! Isn't that rather early?" Gower 
 Said, in a tone which implied that the thought of rising 
 so early made him tired. 
 
 " I shall be very busy to-morrow. Come at nine," 
 Lexham said, curtly. 
 
 " Well, all right. But when am I to sail?" 
 
 " As soon as you like." 
 
 "Oh!" He could not conceal his joy. "Diva," 
 he cried, " what luck, isn't it ? At last, after all these 
 years ! Lexham, it is good of you. Think of it ! A 
 trip to Europe." 
 
 He strutted about the room, delighted at the pros- 
 pect of his good fortune. He was already conjuring 
 up pleasures and hopes of success. Elinor's heart 
 sank and Lexham's face betrayed an expression of dis- 
 gust. 
 
 " I can't let him think that the money comes from 
 me," Lexham said in an undertone to Elinor. 
 
 " Does it matter ?" she asked. " He has forgotten 
 her." 
 
 Gower took up his hat and said, "Well, Lexham, 
 I'll see you here to-morrow morning about nine 
 o'clock." 
 
 " Wait, Cyril," Elinor said, " don't be in a hurry 
 to-night. Did you come here to apologise to Lex- 
 ham?" 
 
 ' Yes, and " Gower began to stammer. 
 
 "And what? To see Mrs. Laird?" 
 
 " Well, I got a note from her. I thought " 
 
 ''' You thought to find her here. You did not come 
 for any other purpose. Well, you will never see her 
 again. She has gone for good. Yes, for good. Now 
 
 26
 
 402 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 listen, Cyril. Many things have occurred to-day, 
 matters which concern you and me." 
 
 " I don't think it's nice of you to mention this before 
 Lexham." 
 
 " It doesn't matter what you think on that point. 
 Drake told you he had been for a doctor, that some- 
 one was dying. Do you know who is dying?" 
 
 " No, I don't. You know I don't like lugubri- 
 ous " he began to whine. 
 
 " Dldcastle is dying. That old man who came this 
 afternoon and has made me answerable for his son's 
 death." 
 
 " You didn't kill him " 
 
 " That is not the question. But I. have come to the 
 conclusion that Oldcastle has some reason for holding 
 me responsible." 
 
 " But the law " 
 
 " Never mind that. Something over and above law 
 troubles me. Now think. Didn't you tell me some 
 years ago that Drake had said something about us? 
 'Something which at the time troubled you? Some- 
 thing which you thought he knew about me? Yes, 
 yes; and you told me that one day he saw you in a 
 cafe. Silde and D'Erblet were there. Drake was in 
 one of his mad fits. You went to him, and he asked 
 you the name of the man who shot himself at my 
 bedroom door, and what and what?" 
 
 " Yes ; but he shrieked out that I was the very man 
 who didn't know." 
 
 Drake and Alice came downstairs with the doctor 
 and saw him out. Then they came into the room. 
 Alice went to Elinor and told her that her grand-
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 403 
 
 father was much quieter and that the doctor was 
 hopeful. 
 
 " Dick, we are in great trouble," said Lexham, " and 
 we want you to help us out a bit, will you?" 
 
 "Why, yes, if I can," said Drake; "but what is 
 it?" 
 
 " Well, it concerns Mrs. Kembleton and Alice," Lex- 
 ham replied. 
 
 "Alice! Why, she musn't suffer." 
 
 " But she will, Dick, if you don't help to clear up 
 this matter." 
 
 " Hadn't Miss Oldcastle better leave the room ?" 
 Gower said. 
 
 " No, no ; Alice, stay with me !" Elinor cried. 
 
 " Dick, do you remember that night in Guarini's 
 place? A New Year's night some years ago? The 
 night I first met you?" 
 
 " Yes, I know. What about it?" Drake asked. 
 
 " You said something to Gower about Mrs. Kemble- 
 ton's husband. Don't you recollect? He was angry." 
 Drake chuckled. " Dick, it has all to do with the 
 death of Alice's father." 
 
 " Oh, Dick, dear Dick, tell us ! You know 
 what grandfather thinks," Alice cried. " Tell me, 
 Dick." 
 
 " Why, there's nothing to tell," Drake muttered. 
 " It will keep, Alice. You're not to suffer. Some 
 day Mrs. Kembleton will want to know all about 
 that" 
 
 " She wants to know now, Dick," Lexham said. 
 
 " Ah ! Tell you what I was offered thousands of 
 dollars for ! Tell you now ! Oh, no, Mrs. Kembleton
 
 404 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 and I must first have a chat before I give up that. 
 But you know me, Lexham; I don't want money 
 now." 
 
 " Dick, Dick, tell us !" Alice cried, throwing her 
 arms about him. 
 
 "Ah, child of Paradise, you mustn't suffer. No, 
 by God, and you shan't!" 
 
 " But I shall, Dick, if you don't tell," she cried. 
 
 " Well, Alice, an ounce of your love can melt any- 
 thing. Even Dick Drake's soul. But I'll not take 
 an ounce of that from Lexham. He is a great big 
 chap, Alice. It will all come right, that will." 
 
 Drake had forgotten the others. He was in a 
 strange state. Alice held her arms about him. 
 
 " Now you are my dear Dick. Tell me. How did 
 my father die ?" 
 
 " When Valenza sang in New York, some months 
 before you were born, your father met a man named 
 named " 
 
 " Sir Rupert Calvin," Elinor whispered. She was 
 almost afraid to break the spell. 
 
 " Yes. He was Valenza's husband," Drake went 
 on, without turning from Alice. "A baronet, a 
 drunken gambler who lived on his wife. Your father 
 was thought to be a very rich man, and Valenza's 
 husband took him under his wing. I was then the 
 singer's secretary, and through my hands all her sala- 
 ries passed. But only mere living expenses the hus- 
 band got of me after I took charge of her affairs. 
 Up to the time I was engaged to act for her he had 
 squandered all she had earned. I saw that your father 
 had fallen in love with Valenza and that her husband
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 405 
 
 knew it, and so used him, and fooled him, to get money 
 from him." 
 
 "It's a lie!" Gower yelled. 
 
 " It's no lie !" Drake cried, breaking out in a fiendish 
 rage ; " it is hardly half the truth. You were a mere 
 boy at the time. If I were to tell you all the scoun- 
 drel actually did you wouldn't believe me. Young 
 Oldcastle was desperately in love with Valenza, and her 
 husband knew it. It was he who tempted Oldcastle 
 to follow us to Europe. And up to that time I had 
 been the means of keeping the young man away from 
 Valenza. I never let him be alone with her for a 
 moment. It was the devil's own game. And that 
 went on for months. Oldcastle told me he thought 
 Valenza's husband would drink himself to death or 
 shoot himself." Drake burst out into a peal of weird 
 laughter which startled Gower and Elinor. " But the 
 husband won a waiting game. In Monte Carlo young 
 Oldcastle was left without a cent, and Valenza's hus- 
 band in a drunken hour told him how he had bled him, 
 and that Valenza didn't know he existed, that she 
 hadn't received a single present, letter, or anything 
 which was supposed to be a gift. The husband got 
 them all, and forged letters from Valenza to Oldcastle 
 acknowledging the presents and money. The young 
 man showed me dozens of the forged letters. Oh, it 
 was a great game! And no one else knew of it." 
 
 Alice, of course, had not really understood half of 
 the perfidy of which Drake related, but the others were 
 staggered. They looked at one another in expressions 
 of horror. Gower and Lexham seemed to be incredu- 
 lous. Elinor, though she was appalled at Drake's
 
 406 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 narrative, nodded her head in a manner which indi- 
 cated that she took no exception to any part of it. 
 
 " Dick, what did young Oldcastle do after Mrs. 
 Kembleton's husband told him that she had not re- 
 ceived one of his gifts, that the letters were not from 
 her?" Lexham asked. 
 
 " He went to Valenza's hotel, where we lived. I 
 had given orders at all places where we stayed that 
 Signora Valenza was always out to young Oldcastle. 
 Somehow, he got upstairs, and I saw him wandering 
 about the passage. A chambermaid told him which! 
 was your door," he said, turning to Elinor. " I ran 
 back through my room and got you out of the way. 
 For several minutes he knocked, knocked, knocked on 
 your bedroom door. Then the shot was heard. Your 
 husband was lying on my bed in a drunken torpor. 
 You rushed through the rooms when you heard Cyril 
 scream. But your scream ! You thought it was your 
 husband. Well, you know what happened that night 
 at the opera-house. You were to sing ' Fidelio.' After 
 your husband had finished kicking you, I came back 
 from attending to the inquiry about the suicide and 
 took you to the theatre. Well, the curtain went up 
 and you sank down. Your voice was gone, and Va- 
 lenza's career ended a few hours after young Old- 
 castle passed away." 
 
 " Oh, Gilbert, Gilbert," Alice cried, " how terrible !" 
 She looked at Elinor, and then went to her and put her 
 arms about her. 
 
 "What then, Dick?" Lexham said. 
 
 ' The end. The papers were full of rumours, whicK 
 I didn't think worth while contradicting. Some said
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 407 
 
 Oldcastle was Mrs. Kembleton's lover; well, I sup- 
 pose the poor old man upstairs got his information 
 from the newspapers. Mrs. Kembleton knew nothing 
 about the affair, well, not any more than that some 
 man had shot himself in the passage outside her room, 
 for she was taken from the opera-house to the hotel, 
 and from that day she lay at death's door till long 
 after Oldcastle's death was forgotten." 
 
 " I can't even remember ever seeing your father," 
 Elinor said to Alice. 
 
 " Oh, you saw him many times, but then it is so 
 long ago, and you saw so many of your husband's 
 friends," Drake said. 
 
 While Drake had told this, sometimes with sympa- 
 thy for his friends, sometimes with the mocking glee 
 of the maniac-artist who has got a good thing all to 
 himself, Gower's soul had been writhing within him. 
 To begin with, the ebbing away of the false storm of 
 indignation he had conjured up had left him with 
 nothing to sustain him; wild anger and self-pity had 
 blinded him hitherto; but now illumination flashed 
 upon his soul. Why, he had no grievance; he never 
 had had any grievance. It was in this mood, when he 
 was ripe for conviction, that the tale of Elinor's woes, 
 the more piercing because of Drake's cynical narration, 
 stormed in and stung him. " Brutality, drunkenness, 
 kicking, kicking!" My God, what she had endured! 
 and it was largely for him. And what a cad he had 
 been to her for it all! He writhed with shame when 
 his eye fell on Lexham. He suddenly felt what a 
 contrast there was between his own whining selfish- 
 ness and the patient and heroic manliness of the honest
 
 408 MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 fellow he had sought to kill. " Kicking, brutality, 
 drunkenness!" the words kept ringing insistently 
 inside his brain. Was there nothing he could do to 
 make himself like those other honest folk, nothing he 
 could do to atone? He glanced at Elinor. Her face 
 was unutterably sad, worn with all she had endured for 
 years. He went to her with wide-open arms. 
 
 " Diva, Diva, my poor Diva !" he cried in great dis- 
 tress. "And I have caused you so much pain since 
 then. Forgive me, I have been a thoughtless brute." 
 
 She rose, and a great joy shone on her face as she 
 took him in her arms, just as if he were again the 
 little Cyril she had loved so well in the long ago. 
 
 " Cyril, Cyril, at last," was all Elinor could utter 
 distinctly. 
 
 " I don't want your money, Lexham. Thanks all 
 the same," Gower exclaimed. 
 
 " Oh, that reminds me. Here's a cheque I found 
 on your desk," said Drake. 
 
 " Cyril, the money was a present from Mrs. Laird," 
 Elinor said. 
 
 " Send it back to her. Come, Diva, let us go," 
 Gower said. 
 
 " Yes, you go on. I shall follow in a little while." 
 
 He took up his hat, went to Drake, and said, 
 " Thanks, I owe you a great deal." Then he went to 
 Lexham and grasped his hand, and said, " Will 
 you?" 
 
 " That's all right," said Lexham. 
 
 Elinor took Drake aside and said, " I know, Drake ; 
 Alice shan't suffer. Take her upstairs, will you? I 
 have something to say to Lexham."
 
 MADAME BOHEMIA 1 409 
 
 "And that's all right," Drake said. " Mind, only 
 one good turn is all I ask." 
 
 '' Yes, I know," Elinor said. She went to Alice, 
 put her arm round her waist, and took her aside. 
 ' Tell your grandfather, Alice," she said, " that I was 
 not to blame. And now good-bye. Dear litttle Alice, 
 what a world is yours! Be always your own sweet 
 self, and remember me, won't you, Alice? Go, child, 
 go with Drake." 
 
 Drake went to Alice, took her arm, and led her away. 
 
 Lexham and Elinor were alone. He looked at her 
 as she stood near his desk, a figure of resignation, so 
 changed, but beautiful still. The rain had ceased and 
 the wind no longer moaned. He went to her and 
 opened his arms for her. She turned and saw his 
 action. An expression of exquisite sadness was on 
 her face, but in her heart she felt strong throbbings 
 of a new-born joy. She raised her hand and shook 
 her head. 
 
 " No more, Gilbert. Another heart beats for you," 
 she said. 
 
 " Elinor !" he cried in an agony of love. 
 
 " A younger heart, free, I think, from the buffet- 
 ings of the world. Mine has ceased to ache for you, 
 Gilbert. But it is stronger now than it has ever been. 
 It has known your love. So good, so dear, and once 
 so precious. You have shown me where my duty lies, 
 and there I seek what happiness there must yet be in 
 store for me. Cyril is changed, so am I. And I 
 hope, oh, fervently! that you, too, will soon change. 
 I know how sweet she is. A little while ago she laid 
 bare her tender heart before me. She thinks we have
 
 4io MADAME BOHEMIA 
 
 been no more than dear good friends. She offers you 
 a purer love than mine has been, and in this my joy 
 is great, for I know you, Gilbert, I know you will 
 cherish it as you will my memory. Yes, you grieve 
 now, dear, but some day you will rejoice. And then 
 if we should ever meet again, you will love me as a 
 faithful friend, one who thought as dearly of your 
 future as I do of Cyril's. He has redeemed himself, 
 and now will need all my love and care." 
 
 " Elinor, Elinor !" He sank down helpless and dis- 
 traught. 
 
 " Yes, I know it must be hard for you. But better 
 now than when your love must surely fade." 
 
 She left him and went to the door. There she turned 
 and looked sadly back on him. Then as she passed 
 out Alice met her. Elinor took her hand and passed 
 her gently into the room, and said, " Good-bye." 
 
 THE END.
 
 LIST OF POPULAR NOVELS. 
 
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