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 ;ARY 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 RIVERSIDE
 
 H. French, del. 
 
 T. SymmonB, bc. 
 
 'Blowly, d*Bpairin)?ly, she wandered np and down those dreadful streets, per* 
 peto&Uy in danger ;et pasusg scathleBS through every peril,—Page 94. 
 
 VffSBB THB KeD ¥LM
 
 UNDER THE RED FLAG 
 
 Mi^ m\jn ^alts 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 "LADY AUDLEY'S SECEET," "VIXEN," " ISHMAEL," 
 "WYLLAKD'S WEIRD" etc. etc. 
 
 LONDON 
 JOHN AND EOBEET MAXWELL 
 
 5IILTON HOUSE, ST. BKIDE STREET, LUDGATE CIRCUS 
 
 AND 
 
 BHOE LANE, FLEET STREET, E.G. 
 [Ali rights rescri'id.l
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAP. PAGE 
 
 UNDER THE RED FLAG— 
 
 I. Gretchen in the Garden - - . 5 
 
 II. Wayside Flowers - - - - 12 
 
 III. Kathleen's Lover 27 
 
 IV, The Song of Victory ... 43 
 V. The Coming of the Square-heads - 52 
 
 VI. On the Ramparts .... g4 
 
 vii. 'Headstrong Liberty is Lashed wriii 
 
 Woe ' 72 
 
 VIII. Girt \vith Fire 80 
 
 IX, The Night Watch of Di aih - - 89 
 
 X. Widowed 99 
 
 XI. Kathleen's Avocation - ■ . - - 109 
 
 XII. Found -.--... 124 
 
 XIII. Atonement 137 
 
 DROSS; OR, THE ROOT OF EVIL - - 148 
 
 SIR PHILIP'S WOOING 207 
 
 DOROTHY'S RIVAL 224 
 
 AT DAGGERS DRAWN 239
 
 iv Contents 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A GREAT BALL AND A GREAT BEAR >• 253 
 
 THE LITTLE WOMAN IN BLACK - - - 2G7 
 
 ACROSS THE FOOTLIGHTS— 
 
 Part I. 285 
 
 Part II. 301 
 
 MY WIFE'S PROMISE 317 
 
 MARJORIE DAW 332
 
 UNDER THE RED FLAG 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 GRETCHEN IN THE GARDEN 
 
 Stars shining in the deep puqile of a summer sky ; June 
 roses blooming and breathing sweetness on the soft, cool 
 night ; leaves whispering ; low faint sounds of falling waters 
 from a fountain liidden in tlie foliage ; and across the ilim 
 shadowy niglit the flaring lights and gaudy colours of a 
 painted and gilded temple, in which the band is playing one 
 of Strauss's tenderest waltzes. 
 
 The melodious strain is drawing to its close. The players 
 attack the coda with crash and hurry, the pace intensifying 
 as they near the end. All the waltzers have fallen out of 
 the ranks, except one couple, and those two waltz as if it 
 were impossible to tire — as if they were the very spirit of 
 dance and melody, creatures of fire and air, motion incarnate. 
 
 The girl's golden head reclines against her partner's 
 shoulder, but not with an air of weariness ; the attitude 
 expresses only repose ; the graceful gliding step, the har- 
 monious flowing m( vements, are as natural as the fall of 
 v,'ate7-s or the waving of forest bouglis. The rosy lijis are 
 slightly ])arted, the sweet eyes look starwards with a dreamy 
 gaze. Tliere is far more of spirit than of gross earthliness in 
 tiie slim willowy form, the fair and radiant face, which the 
 stars and the lamps shine upon alternately, as those revolving 
 figures circle — now in the glare of the orchestra, and then 
 under those solemn worlds of light which are soon to look 
 upon stranger, sadder, darker, crueller sights than tl:is Sunday 
 evening dance at the Closerie dcs Lilas. 
 
 Tliere are some who think it is a wicked thing to dance on a
 
 6 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 Sunday eveninof, even after one has worshipped at one's parish 
 church faithfully and reverently on Sunday morning ; some 
 there are who think it is wicked to dance at all ; and there are 
 others who adore their God in dances, and are moved to wild 
 leapings and whirlings by the spirit of piety ; others, again, 
 who are devil-dancers, and wor^ship the principle of evil in 
 their demoniac gyrations. But assuredly, of all who ever 
 danced upon this earth, none ever danced on the edge of a 
 more terrible volcano than that which trembled and throbbed 
 under the feet of • these light-hearted revellers to-night — • 
 happy, unforeseeing, rejoicing in the bahjjy breath of summer, 
 the starlit sky, the warmth and the flowers, with no thought 
 that this fair Paris, whitely beautiful in the sheen of star- 
 light and moonlight, was like a phantasmal or fairy city — a 
 city of palaces which were soon to sink in dust and ashes, 
 beauty that was to be changed for burning, while joy and 
 love fled shrieking from a carnival of blood and fire. 
 
 Even to-night there were bystanders in the lamp-lit garden 
 wlio shook their heads solemnly as they talked of the pro- 
 bability of war with Prussia. The battle of Sadowa had been 
 the beginning of evil. France had i)layed into the hands of 
 her most dangerous rival, and had been swindled out of the 
 price of her neutrality. To have allowed Austria to be 
 crushed by Bismarck was worse than a crime, it was a blunder. 
 And now all the signs and tokens of the time pointed to the 
 likelihood of war. The day had come when the overweening 
 ambition of the house of Brandenburg must be checked, and 
 in the opinion of the Bonapartists the onus to fight was upon 
 France. Oj^inion among the people was divided ; and there 
 were many who were friends of peace. A campaign would 
 be a triumph for French arms, of course ; but such triumphs 
 however certain, are never won without loss. For France as 
 a people there must needs be profit and fame ; but for in- 
 dividuals — well, even in a succession of victories some French 
 blood must be shed, some French corpses must lie scattered 
 on distant battlefields — there must be cypress as well as 
 laui'el. 
 
 Yet the idea of impending war was not unpleasant. It 
 revivified the intellectual atmosphere, set the hearts of men 
 and women throbbing with new hopes, new fears. To elderly 
 peojjle it seemed only the other day that the army was coming 
 home in triumph after the Italian War, and France was 
 crowning the liberators of a sister land ; but to the young 
 people that Italian campaign seemed to have happened a long
 
 Gretchen in the Garden 7 
 
 while ago. It was time that France should arise in her might 
 and strike a great blow. 
 
 So the middle-aged folks, mere spectators of the evening's 
 amusement, put their heads together and discussed the 
 piilitical situation — some arguing from one point of view, 
 some from another ; and those two waltzers circled faster and 
 faster with the closing bars of the coda. With the last chord 
 they stopped. The daik-liaired young man withdi-ew his arm 
 reluctantly from his partner's slim waist, and then they went 
 off arm-in-arm towards the shadow of the trees — dark-haired 
 youth and fair-haired youth, all the world to each other, and 
 infinitely happy. 
 
 ' Faust and Marguerite,' said a corpulent citizen, who had 
 been watching the dancers while he talked of Bismarck and 
 the Due de Gramont. 
 
 ' Happily I see no Mephistopheles,' replied his companion 
 ' If the young people go to perdition it will be their own 
 doing.' 
 
 'The girl is very pretty,' said the other, 'and I think I 
 have seen her lover's face before to-night.' 
 
 ' He is to be seen any day at the Cafe Malmus. He is a 
 journalist — a sprig of nobility, I believe, but as poor as Job. 
 He writes for the papers. He ranks as an esprit fort ajid 
 something of a wit." 
 
 ' And the girl — do you know who she is 1 She has hardly 
 the air of a grisette.' 
 
 ' She is like Nilsson in Marguerite. No, I'll swear she is 
 no grisette — nothing of the Mimi Pinson there, my friend. I 
 never saw her till to-night. Look yonder, just emerging 
 from the trees : do you see ] ' 
 
 ' Is it Mephistopheles I ' 
 
 'No, but the spirit of evil in a woman's shape — envy, 
 hatred, revenge, all incarnate in a jealous woman. Great 
 Heaven, such a face — see, see ! ' 
 
 His friend looked in the direction indicated. Yes ; 
 there, creeping from the covert of the trees, stealthily, 
 serpent-like, stole forth a woman — young, handsome, smartly 
 dressed in a black silk gown, and a bonnet all roses and 
 lace — a shopkeeper in holiday attire. The face was dark 
 Avith hatred and malice, the eyes were bright with angry 
 fires. Slowly, stealthily, the footsteps followed in tlio yiath 
 the lovers had taken — following as the shadow follows the 
 sun, as night follows day. 
 
 But now the baud struck up a quadrille composed of the
 
 8 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 liveliest airs from the Princcsse de Trehizonde, which had 
 lately enchanted the bonlevards ; and then began those wild 
 choric measures in which Parisian youth excels all other 
 nations. The hahitu/s of the garden — the clerks and the 
 shopmen and the commercial travellers, industrial and 
 intellectual youth of every grade — began their diversions, to 
 the delight of the spectators. Legs were flung in the air, 
 wild leapings and convulsive evolutions diversified the hum- 
 drum figures of the legitimate quadrille ; each dancer tried 
 to surpass his vis-a-vis. Now the right had it ; anon, by 
 a still wilder bound, the left triumphed ; while the lookers- 
 on laughed and applauded. But there was no offence in this 
 outbreak of muscular activity and high spirits. Sunday 
 dances at these gardens are sacred to the people. There is 
 very little admixture of the dejui-monde on a Sunday 
 evening ; the clerk and the counter-jumper, the little 
 industries of Paris, have the field to themselves. 
 
 The journalist and his fair-haired sweetheart did not re- 
 appear in the quadrille. They were sauntering side by side 
 in a shadowy alley, hearing the joyous music vaguely ; 
 for the lowest whisper of a lover's voice has more power on 
 the listening ear of love than the loudest orchestra that ever 
 crashed and jingled in the music of Orphee mix Enfers or the 
 Grande Duchesse. 
 
 'Why should Rose doom us to wait 1 ' jileaded the joiirnalist, 
 bending his dark ardent eyes on the fair sweet face beside 
 him. ' What does poverty matter, if we are true to each 
 ether and strong to conquer fortune, as we are, Kathleen ? 
 We can bear a few privations in the present, knowing that 
 Fate will be kinder in the future. I have won a shred of 
 reputation already, though I write for such a wretched rag 
 of a paper that I can earn very little money ; but fame will 
 come and money will follow before we are ten years older. 
 At my age Balzac was no richer than I am.' 
 
 ' I am not afraid of poverty,' answered the girl gently. 
 * Why should I fear what I have known all my life ? Rose 
 and I have always been poor ; but we have always been 
 happy ; excei)t once when she had the fever. Ah, that was 
 heart-breaking ! No money to pay a doctor, no money for 
 wine or fruit or fuel, no money for the rent, and the deadly 
 fear of being turned out of our lodging while she lay help- 
 less and unconscious on her bed. No prospect but the 
 hospital. Yes, those were dark days. I almost envied the 
 rich.'
 
 Gretchm in the Garden 9 
 
 * Almost envied, my anpel ! I am made of a different 
 stuff, and I hate and envy them at all times. That hatred 
 gives bitterness to my pen — rancour, acidity, all the qualities 
 our Parisians love. It is my chief stock-in-trade. I could 
 not live without it.' 
 
 * Ah, you feel the sting of poverty more than I do, because 
 you come of a race that was once rich, a family that was once 
 noble.' 
 
 ' Yes ; I come of a decayed race — worn out, effete, passed 
 by in the press and hurry of a commercial age. That is why 
 I hate the insolent roturier brood that have battened in the 
 sunshine of imperial favour ; the stock-jobbers and gamblers, 
 corrupt to the core, and swelling with pride in their dirty 
 gold. My grandfather was a gentleman and a soldier ; he 
 fought for his king till the last ray of hope had faded. And 
 when liis faithful little band of Chouans were scattered or 
 slain, and he liad escaped by the skin of his teeth from being 
 shot down by the Blues, he shut himself up in the old stone 
 tower of his chateau, and livpcl among peasants, as peasants 
 live, and let his son and daughter run wild. jNIy father was 
 very little in advance of his father's farm-labourers in educa- 
 tion or manners, when he entered the army, a lad of fifteen, 
 soon after the restoration of the IJoui'bons. But he was one 
 of the handsomest men of his day. He had good blood in 
 his veins ; and it seems somehow that race will tell, for 
 twenty years later he was one of the finest soldiers in the 
 French ;irmy. He married a rich wife, InvL'd her passionate'y, 
 spent all her money, ruined her life, and died broken-hearted 
 and a pauper within a year of her death, leaving me to face 
 the world, penniless, and with very few friends, at twelve 
 years of age. The Empire was then in its golden dawn. One 
 of my first memories is of the Coup d'Etat, that awfid night 
 of the second of December, when the bullets whistled along 
 the Boulevard Foissonniere, like the hailstones in a summer 
 storm, and the terrified wondering bourgeois were mown 
 down like ears of corn. My father was at the head of his 
 regiment that night; and my mother and I were looking 
 down upon the scene from our apartment at a corner of the 
 bouhn-ard. Two years later I w;xs an orphan.' 
 
 * Oh, what a hard childhood and youth you must have had ! ' 
 said Kathleen, full of pity. 
 
 'Not harder than yours, little one. You and the sister 
 have not had too much of the sunshine of life, I take it.' 
 ' No ; but we have always been together. We have faced
 
 10 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 the storm side by side ; or perhaps I ought to say that Eose 
 has faced it bravely by herself and sheltered me. But you 
 have been quite alone — no brother, no sister.' 
 
 ' Not a creatui'e of my own flesh and blood,' answered 
 Mortemar. ' If it had not been for a bluff old broth er-ofhcer 
 of my father's I must have starved, or been brought up on 
 state charity. He got me a pension, just enough to pay my 
 schooling in a humble way, from the Emperor, in considera- 
 tion of my father's services on the second of December, but 
 this allowance was to cease when I was eighteen. The 
 influence of my father's old friend got me accepted at one of 
 the finest schools near Paris, the school kept by the Dominican 
 Fathers at Arcueil, where I was educated at a third of the 
 pension ]iaid for the other pupils, by the benevolence of the 
 Prior, who pitied by desolate position. Here I remained till 
 my eighteenth birthday ; and I ought to be a better man than 
 I am after tlie care and kindness those good monks lavished 
 upon me. When I left school the good old friend was dead, 
 and from that time I have had to live— somehow — by my 
 own labour of head or hands. I believe it is considered 
 the finest training for youth ; but it is hard, and it hardens 
 the heart and the mind of a man.' 
 
 ' Has it hardened your heart, Gaston 1 ' asked the girl, 
 drawing a little closer to him in the dim starlit avenue. 
 
 * To all the world — except to you.' 
 
 And now, at a turn of the leafy path, they came suddenly 
 face to face with another couple — a stalwart, broad shouldered 
 man of about thirty, with a tall good-looking young woman 
 upon his arm— at sight of whom Kathleen exclaimed 
 lovingly, 
 
 ' Rose, where have Philip and you been hiding all the 
 evening ? ' 
 
 ' "We have been looking on at the dancers, Kathleen,' 
 answered Eose; 'and now I think it is time we all went 
 home.' 
 
 ' So soon ? ' cried Kathleen. 
 
 'It has struck the three-quarters after ten. Did you see 
 Madame Michel in her tine bonnet and gown ? ' 
 
 ' "What, Suzon Michel of the cremerie '^ ' asked Mortemar. 
 * Is she here to-night ? ' 
 
 ' She is here every Sunday night, I believe, and at the 
 theatre three times a week,' said Eose's companion, Philij) 
 Durand, as devoted to the elder sister as Gaston Mortemar 
 was to the younger. 'That young woman has a pleasant
 
 Gretchen in the Garden 11 
 
 life of it. She lias saved money in that snug little shop of 
 hers.' 
 
 ' She is a vulgar coquette, and 1 hate the sight of her,' 
 said Rose sharply. 
 
 This was a very ill-natured speech for Eose, who was 
 usually the soul of kindness. 
 
 ' Pray what has the ])oor little Suzon done to offend you 1 ' 
 asked Gaston, laughing at Hose's inipetuo.sity. 
 
 ' It is not what .she has done, but what she is. I hate 
 bold bad women ; and she is both bold and bad.' 
 
 ' This from you. Rose, who believe that the Gospel was 
 something more than an epitome of the floating wisdom of 
 the East ! Have you forgotten the text, "Judge not, that 
 ye be not judged ] ' 
 
 ' When I think or sj^eak of Suzon Michel T forget that I 
 am a Christian,' answered Rose gravely. 'Thcie is some- 
 thing venomous about that woman. I loathe her instinc- 
 tively, as I loathe a snake. And now, Kathleen, wo must 
 really go home.' 
 
 'One more round, just one more. Hark! there is the 
 waltz from La Grande Duchesse,' pleaded Gaston ; and, 
 without waiting for permission, he drew his arm round 
 Kathleen's waist, and led her into the circle in front of the 
 flaring orchestra, under the summer stars.
 
 12 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 "WAYSIDE FLOWERS 
 
 The Rue Git le Coeur is not one of the fashionable streets of 
 Paris. It does not belong to the English quarter, or the 
 American quarter, or the Legitimist quarter, or the Diplo- 
 matic quarter ; the quarter of Art, or Learning, or Science, 
 or the demi-monde. Beauty and fashion never visit the spot. 
 It has hardly a place on the map of Paris. And yet, like many 
 another such street, it is a little world in itself, and human 
 beings are born and die in it, and passions pure and holy, 
 and base and wicked, are nourished and fostered there ; and 
 comedies and tragedies are acted there, turn by turn, as the 
 wedding feast is spread, or the funeral drapery hung out, 
 black and limp and dismal, against the dingy door-posts. 
 
 Get Je Creur is a narrow shabby little street, hidden some- 
 where in the densely-populated district between the Boule- 
 vard St. Michel and the Rue des Saints Peres. It is near the 
 Quai des Augustins, which makes a pleasant promenade for 
 its inhabitants on summer evenings, near the river, within 
 sight of the mighty towers of Notre Dnme, within sound of 
 her deep-toned bells. It is near the Morgue, and not very 
 far from the hospitals ; near the flower-market ; near much 
 that is central ami busy, closely hemmed round with the 
 teeming life of the workaday world of Paris ; but very far 
 from the haunts of pleasure, from the famous restaurants, 
 fi'om clubs and cafes, from parks and parterres, from opera- 
 house and aristocratic hotel. 
 
 It is a narrow street — crooked too — and the houses are of 
 the shabbiest. In one of these houses, a house which lay 
 Ijack from the street, and, with three others, formed a stony 
 quadrangle, enclosing a little yard, dwelt Rose and Kathleen 
 O'Haia, two sisters of Irish parentage, the daughters of a 
 poor Irish gentleman, who had come here from the good city 
 of Bruges in Flanders, just twelve years ago, and had occu- 
 pied the same little apartment on the third story ever since. 
 Just nineteen years ago Captain O'llara was living with a 
 young second wife and a seven-year-old daughter, the issue
 
 Wayside Floiucrs 13 
 
 of lii.s first marriage, in the city of Brussels. ITe liad been 
 in (he army, in the 87th Irish Fusiliers, had run througli his 
 little patrimony, and had sold his commission, and thrown 
 himself almost penniless on the world, after the manner of 
 many other gentlemen, English as well as Irish. Twice had 
 he married in ten years, and twice for love. Nothing could 
 liave been more honourable or less prudent than ether mar- 
 riage ; and now he was living from hand to mouth in fur- 
 nished lodgings in Brussels, writing a little for the English 
 newspapers, getting a little help now and then from his own 
 family, and now and then a ten-pound note from a wealthy 
 maiden aunt of his wife's — the aunt from whose handsome 
 house in the Circus, Bath, ])retty Kathleen Builly had run 
 away with her handsome captain. The aunt held not for- 
 given or taken her back to favour ; but she sent a little helji 
 occasionally, out of sheer charity, and always accompanied 
 by a lecture which gave a flavour of bitterness to the boon. 
 
 Captain O'Hara and his wife were not unhappy, in spite of 
 their jjrecoi'ious fortunes. It was summer, and the scent of 
 the lime-blossom was in the air of the park and the boule- 
 vards ; the lamplit streets and cafes were full of brightness 
 and music in the balmy eventiiles of July. The young wife 
 was looking forward tremblingly, yet hopefully, to the cares 
 and joys of maternity. The dark-eyed steji-daughter adored 
 her. Too young to remember her own mother, who had 
 died in Bengal, where the girl was born, the child idolised 
 the Captain's fair-haired wife, and was fondly loved by her 
 in return. Never was there a happier family group than 
 these three, and when the expected baby should come, it was 
 to be a boy, the Captain declared in the pride of his heart ; 
 a son and heir — heir to empty pockets, wasted opportunities, 
 bankruptcy, and gaol. He was pining for a son to perpetuate 
 the noble race of O'Hara. The baby was to be christened 
 Patrick, after some famous Patrick O'Hara of days gone by, 
 the age of war and chivalry, and jioetry and j^ride, when 
 Ireland had not yet yielded to the jn-oud invader. 
 
 Alas for the unborn child on whom such hopes had been 
 founded, about whom such dreams had been dreamt ! The 
 fatal day of birth came, and the child was a girl ; and before 
 the wailing infant was six days old the young fair mother, 
 with the rippling golden hair and innocent blue eyes, was lying 
 in her collin, strewn with white lilies and roses, and all the 
 purest llowers of summer-tide. The brave young heart, 
 which had never flinched or faltered at poverty or trouble,
 
 14 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 was stilled for ever. The wife who had been content to bear 
 Fate's worst ills with the husband of her choice was gone lo 
 the shadowy home where his love could not follow her. 
 
 Captain O'Hara never looked the world or his difficulties 
 bravely in the face after that day. He lived to see Kathleen 
 a lovely child of five years old ; but he was a broken man from 
 the day of his wife's death. He roamed from foi-eign town 
 to town, living anywhere for convenience or cheapness. He 
 spent six months at Brest, a year in Jersey, the two girls 
 with him everywhere, nursed and cared for by Bridget Eyan, 
 the faithful Irish maid-servant who had taken Rose from the 
 arms of her Indian ayah, and had followed the Captain's 
 fortunes ever since. He led a wretched out-at-elbows life, 
 getting a little money by hook or by crook, and leaving a 
 little train of debts behind him, like the trail of the serpent, 
 in every town he left. 
 
 In Jersey, where cognac was conveniently cheap, tho 
 Captain took to drinking a good deal — not in dreadful drink- 
 ing bouts, which would have frightened his poor childien 
 out of their senses, but in a gentle homoeopathic sort of 
 sottishness which kept his brain in a feeble state all day long, 
 and gradually sapped his strength and his manhood. While 
 the Captain was dawdling away his day — strolling down to 
 the tavern or the club, lounging on the esplanade, gossiiiing 
 with the goers and comer.-*, meeting old acquaintance, and 
 sometimes getting an invitation to dinner, with a cigarette 
 alwaj's between his lips — the two children, of whom the 
 elder was not eleven, and the younger only four, used to play 
 together all day upon the golden sands in front of their 
 shabby lodgings, while the Irish nurse gossiped with the 
 landlady, or sat in the sun darning and patching the 
 children's well-worn frocks or the Captain's decaying shirts. 
 
 The two girls were happy in those sunny summer days by 
 the sea, in spite of their poor lodgings and scanty fare. Fruit 
 was cheap, and flowers were abundant every where, and there 
 was no stint of bread and butter, and milk and egg%. The 
 children wanted nothing better. But it was a dismal change 
 for them when their father carried them back to Belgium, 
 and established them in a stony street in Bruges, where the 
 peaked roofs of the opposite houses seemed to shut out the 
 sun, and where, instead of the sweet fresh odours of sea and 
 seaweed, there was an everlasting stench of dried fish and 
 sewage. 
 
 It was winter by this time, and it seemed to be the wixiter
 
 Wayside Floicers 15 
 
 of their lives. Kathleen cried for the sea and the flowers of 
 sunny Jersey. iShe could hardly be made to understand that 
 summer was only a happy interval in the year, and that 
 flowers do not grow in the stony streets of a city. The days 
 in Bruges were cold and dismal, the evenings long and 
 gloomy. If it had not been for Biddy Eyan the poor 
 children might have pined to death in their solitude. Captain 
 O'Hara was never at home in the evening, rarely at home in 
 the afternoon, and he never left his bed till the carillon at 
 the cathedral had i)layed that lovely melody of Beethoven's, 
 ' Hope told a flattering tale,' which the bells rang out every 
 day at noontide. The Cajjtain found the cafe indispensable 
 to his comfort, the petit verre d'ubsinthe stiisse a necessity of 
 his being, a game at dominoes or draughts the only distrac- 
 tion for the canker at his heart : thus the children, whom he 
 loved fondly enough after his manner, were dependent on 
 Biddy Ryan for happiness ; and the faithful soul did her 
 utmost to cheer and amuse them in their loneliness. She 
 told them her fairy stories, the legends of her native Kerry ; 
 she described the green hills and purple mountains, the 
 lakes, the glens and gorges, the islands and groves and abbeys, 
 of that romantic county ; until Eose, who had seen but 
 little of the grandeur and glory of this earth, longed with a 
 passionate longing for that land of lake and mountain, which 
 was in somewise her own land, inasmuch as her father had 
 been born and bred within a few miles of Killarney. 
 
 'And ye'll both go there some day, my darlints,' said 
 tender-hearted Biddy, ' and it's ladies ye'll be, and never a 
 ])oor day ye'll know in ould Ireland ; for by the Lord's grace 
 the Captain's rich cousins may all die oti" like ratten sheep, 
 and his honour may come in for the estate ! There's quarer 
 things have happened than that in my knowledge, and sure 
 it's great hunters the gentlemen are, and may ride home with 
 broken necks any day.' 
 
 Rose said she hoped her cousins would not die ; but she 
 wished they would ask her father and all of them to go and 
 live at the great white house near the lakes, which Biddy 
 described as a grander palace than the king's chiUeau at 
 Lacken, which she and Rose had been taken to see one day 
 with the Captain and his young wife, before Kathleen's 
 birth. 
 
 The children were never tired of hearing Biddy talk of the 
 lakes and mountains, the Druids' Circle, MacGillycuddy's 
 Roekn, and the great house m which their father was bom.
 
 16 Vnclej' the Bed Flag 
 
 It was their ideal of paradise, a home where sorrow or care 
 could never enter, gardens always full of flowers, a land of 
 everlasting summer, woods and glens peopled with fairies, 
 skies without a clond, gladness without alloy. 
 
 One gray ho2:)eless afternoon, when there had not been a 
 rift in the slate-coloured sky since daybreak, Kathleen sud- 
 denly turned from the window, against which she had been 
 flattening her pretty little nose, in the hopeless attempt to 
 find amusement in looking into the emj^ty street, aud 
 asked : 
 
 ' Does it ever rain in Ireland, Biddy 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes, love, it does rain sometimes ; aud sure, darlint, that's 
 why the hills and the valleys are all so soft and green. You 
 wouldn't have it always dhry : the flowers wouldn't grow 
 without any rain.' 
 
 ' Must there be rain ? ' inquii-ed Kathleen simply. * Papa 
 says I mustn't cry. Why should the sky ci-y ? The sky is 
 good, isn't it ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, dear, it is God's sky.' 
 
 ' But papa says it's naughty to cry.' 
 
 The time came only too soon when very real tears, tears of 
 ])assionate giief and wild despair, were shed in that dingy 
 Belgian lodging ; and when the two children and their 
 faithful servant found themselves alone in the bleak strange 
 world, face to face with starvation. 
 
 The captain caught cold one bitter February night, 
 coming home, in the teeth of the east wind, from his favourite 
 cafe ; and although devotedly imrsed by Biddy and liose, 
 who was sensible and womanly bej'oiid her years, the cold 
 developed into acute bronchitis, under v/hich James O'Hara 
 succumbed, a few days after his thirty-seventh birthday, 
 leaving his children penniless and alone in the world. There 
 were only a few francs in the Captain's purse at the time of 
 his death ; for the short sharp illness had been expensive, 
 albeit the English doctor, a retired iiavy st.rgeon, had been 
 most modest in his charges. The captain's watch and signet 
 ring were pledged to })ay for the funeral ; and while the 
 coffin was being carried to the cemetery, a letter, ill-spelt and 
 ill-written, but full of tender womanly feeling, was on its 
 way to the wealthy Miss Fitzjiatrick of Bath, pleading for 
 her orphaned great-niece Kathleen, and Kathleen's penniless 
 half-sister. 
 
 Miss Fitzpatrick of Bath was a staunch Roman Catholic, and 
 a conscientious woman : but she was not a wai m-hearted
 
 Wayside Floivers 17 
 
 woman, and slie was not deeply moved by tlie lliouglit of tlie 
 Captaiu's untimely death, or of his desolate children. She had 
 been very angry with him for running away with her niece, 
 who was also her companion and slave ; and she had never left 
 oir Ijeing angry ; yet she had given him money from time to 
 time, considering it her duty, as a rich woman, to help her 
 poor relations. And now she was not inclined to ignoi-ethat 
 duty, or to deny the oi'phans' claim. 
 
 She went over to Bruges, saw the children, and in Kathleen 
 beheld the image of her own dead sister's little girl as she 
 had first seen her twenty years ago, when the orphan was 
 sent to her rich aunt, as the legacy of a dying sister, the sole 
 issue of a foolish marriage. And behold, here was another 
 golden-haired child, sole issue of another foolish marriage, 
 looking up at Theresa Fitzpatrick with just the same heaven- 
 blue eyes, and the same scared, shrinking look, as doubting 
 whether to tind a friend or a foe in the richly-clad stately 
 dame. 
 
 If Miss Fitzpatrick liad been of the melting mood, she 
 would assuredly liave taken the child to her heart and her 
 home, and the child's dark-eyed, frank-browed, lovable step- 
 sister with her. There was ample room for both girls in the 
 big handsome house at Bath — empty rooms which no one 
 ever visited save the housemaid with her brooms and l)rushes; 
 luxuriously-furnished rooms, swept and garnished, and kept 
 in spotless order for nobody. 
 
 Although there was amj)le room in Miss Fitzpatrick's 
 house, there was no room in Miss Fitzpatrick's heart for two 
 orphans. 
 
 ' I shall do my duty to you, my dears,' she said, ' and I 
 shall make no distinctions, although you, Rose, are no relation 
 of mine, and have no claim upon me.' 
 
 'You won't take Rose away?' cried Kathleen, pale with 
 terror, the blue eyes filling with tears. 
 
 ' No, my de;u-, I .shall not separate you while you are so 
 young,' answered Miss Fitzpatrick, complacently settling 
 herself in her sable-bonlered mantle. ' By-and-by, when you 
 are young women, you will have to make your way in the 
 world, and then you may be ])arted. But for the next few 
 years you shall be together. How have they been educated J' 
 she asked, appealing to Biddy, who stood by, curtsying every 
 time the lady looked her way. 
 
 ' Sure, ma'am, my lady, the captain was very careful with 
 them : he'd never have let the dear childer out of his sight, 
 
 C
 
 18 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 only he wanted a little gentlemen's society now and then, 
 blessed soul, and he liked to spend half an hour or so at a 
 cafF3^ But many's the day I've heard um reading poethry to 
 the two childer, beautiful — Hamlick and the Ghost, and 
 King Leerd, and Eomulet and Julio. There never was a 
 better father, if the Lord had been pleased to spare him,' 
 concluded Biddy, with her apron at her eyes. 
 
 ' My good woman, you do not understand my question,' 
 said Miss Fitzpatrick impatiently. ' I want to know what 
 these children have been taught. I begin to fear they have 
 been sorely neglected by that foolish man. Can they read 
 and write and cipher ? ' 
 
 Biddy, hard pushed, was fain to confess that Kathleen d^d 
 not even know her letters, and that Eose was very backward 
 with her 2:)en, though she could read beautifully. 
 
 ' I thought as much,' said Miss Fitzpatrick. ' And now, 
 Bridget E-yan, I'll tell you what I mean to do : you seem to 
 have been a faithful servant, so I shall not allow you to be a 
 loser by Captain O'Hara's death. I shall pay you your wages 
 in full, and send you home to Ireland.' 
 
 ' With the young ladies 1 ' asked Biddy, beaming. 
 
 ' What should the young ladies do in Ireland ? ' exclaimed 
 Miss Fitzpatrick ; ' they haven't a friend in that wretched 
 country. No, you can go back to your home, for I sup|iose 
 you have some kind of home to go to. But I shall place the 
 two young ladies in a convent I have been told about, three 
 miles from this city, where they will be carefully educated 
 and kindly looked after by the good nuns. I shall pay for 
 their schooling and provide their wardrobes till they are 
 grown up ; but when they come to nineteen or twenty, they 
 will have to earn their own living. The better they are 
 educated the easier they will find it to earn their bread.' 
 
 Biddy could but confess tliat Miss Fitzpatrick, upon whom 
 the elder sister had no shadow of claim, was acting very 
 generously ; yet she was in despair at the thought of being 
 separated from the children she had nursed, and who were to 
 her as her own flesh and blood. If Miss Fitzpatrick had sent 
 them all three to Ireland, and given her a cottage, a potato 
 field, and a pig^ she felt she could have worked for the two 
 children, and brought them up in comfort, and been as 
 happy as the days were long. They would have run about 
 the fields barefoot, and with wild uncovered hair, and made 
 a friend and companion of the pig, but they would have 
 grown up .strong and beautiful in that free life; and it
 
 Wayside Flowers 19 
 
 seemed to hor thnt such ;i life would be ever so much h;i|)i>ier 
 for them tliuu the enclosed convent in the Hat arid country 
 outside Bruges, the grim white house within high walls, the 
 tall slated roof of which she and her charges had seen many a 
 day frowning upon them from afar olfin their afternoon walks. 
 
 She accepted her wages from Miss Fitzpatrick, but she 
 declined the fare home to Ireland. 
 
 ' It may be long days before I see that blessed counthry, 
 she said, 'for, with all submission to your ladyship, I shall 
 try to get a place in Bruges, so that I may be near these 
 darling childer, and gladden my eyes with the sight of them 
 now and then, whin the good nuns give lave.' 
 
 Miss Fitzpatrick had no objection to this plan. She was 
 a good woman according to her lights, but as hard as a 
 stone. She wanted to do her duty in a prompt anrl 
 business-like manner, and to provide for these orithans ; 
 not because she cared a straw for them, but because they 
 were orphans, and to feed the widow and the orplian is 
 the business of a good Catholic. 
 
 She put the two girls into a fly next morning, after 
 sjjending an uncomfortable night at the best hotel in 
 Bruges, whero the foreign ar)angements and the all- per- 
 vading odours of garlic and sour cabbage-water aiHicted her 
 sorely, ami drove straight off to the Sisters of Sainte Marie. 
 
 Here, in a rambling, chilly-looking house, with large white- 
 washed carpetless rooms, and corridors smelling of plaster, 
 Miss Fitzpatrick handetl the or])hai\s over to the Keverentl 
 Mother, a stout, comfortable-looking Belgian, who, for a 
 ])ayment in all of ninety jjounds a year, was to lodge, feed, 
 clothe, and educate the two children from January to 
 December. There were to be no vacations. The school year 
 was to be really a year. Children who had parents might 
 go home for a summer holiday ; but for these orphans the 
 white-walled convent, iii its flat sandy garden, was to be the 
 only home. 
 
 And now there began for those orphan sisters a new life — 
 very strange, very cold and formal, after the life they had 
 led with the careless yet loving father and the devoted nurse. 
 It was a life of rule and routine, of work and deju-ivation. 
 The convent school was a cheap school, and though the 
 Sisters were conscientious in their dealings with their pupils, 
 tlie fare was of the poorest, the beds were hard and narrow, 
 the coverlets were thin, dormitories draughty and carpetless, 
 everything bleak and bare. The children rose at unnatural
 
 20 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 bouvs in the cold dark moniing.s, and were sent to bed early 
 to save tire and candle. It was a hard life, with scarcely a 
 ray of sunshine. Some of the nuns were kind and some of 
 the nuns were cross, just as women are outside convent-walls. 
 There were no pleasures, there was very little to hojje for : 
 the nuns were too poor to art'ord pleasure for their pupils. 
 Chapel and lessons, lessons and chapel ; chapel twice a day, 
 lessons all day long ; that was the round of life. Half an 
 hour's recreation at stated intervals — just one brief half-hour 
 of leisure and play, if the children had strength to play, after 
 two long hours bending over books, puzzling over sums. 
 
 Rose bore her trials like a heroine. Kathleen fretted a 
 good deal at first, and then when she grew older and stronger, 
 she became a little inclined to occasional outbreaks of 
 rebellion. She had a sweet loving nature, and could ba ruled 
 easily by love — by threats or hard usage not at all. The 
 nuns, happily, were fond of her, and petted Iter for her 
 beauty and brightness and graceful ways. While dark, 
 ]n-oud Rose, earnest, thoughtful, laborious, plodded on at her 
 studies, always obedient, always conscientious, Kathleen 
 learnt by fits and starts, was sometimes attentive, sometimes 
 neglectful, sometimes industrious to fever-point, sometimes 
 incorrigibly idle. She had all the freaks of genius. 
 
 Life went on thus with a dismal monot my for five long 
 years ; till it seemed to the sisters as if they could never have 
 known any world outside those convent-walls, any horizon 
 beyond that western line of level marsh and meadow, where 
 they used to watch the sun going down in a golden bed 
 behind the tall black poplars. To Kathleen it seemed a^ if 
 the old sweet life, with father and nurse, must have been a 
 dream. One bitter grief had come to them in the last year. 
 The good faithful Biddy was dead. It had been her custom 
 to visit them on the last Saturday in every month for an hour 
 in the afternoon, by s2)ecial permission of the Suj)erior ; and 
 neither storm nor rain, snow nor hail, had ever kept Bidfly 
 away. Her visit was a bright spot in the lives of the girls. 
 They clung to her and loved her in that too brief hour as if 
 she had been verily their mother. The vulgar Irish face, the 
 hands hardened by toil, the coarse common clothes, were, to 
 them, as dear as if she had been the finest lady in the land. 
 She came to them laden with fruit and cakes, and she brought 
 them bright-coloured neck ribbons to enliven their sombre 
 black uniform. She told them her scraps of news about the 
 outside world. She walked with them in the garden, or sat
 
 Wayside Floiccrs 21 
 
 Willi them in tlie visitors' parlour, and they were utterly 
 happy so long as she stayed. 
 
 At last, after they had been four years and a-half in the 
 convent, there came one never-to-be-forgotten Saturday on 
 which there was no visitor for the Demoiselles O'Hara. It 
 was a peerless June day, and the girls had pictured Biddy as 
 she walked along the sandy road from Bruges, where she had 
 ahardish place as maid-of-ail-work in a Flemish tradesman's 
 family. They fancied how she would enjoy the sunshine, 
 and the hedges all in llower, and the song of the lark. If 
 they could but be with lier, thought Kathleen, dancing along 
 beside her, gathering the wild flowers ! But hark ! there was 
 the convent clock striking three. In another moment the 
 bell would ring, the loud harsh bell, which sounded so sweet 
 upon that one particular afternoon. Biddy was the soul of 
 punctuality. The clock had seldom finished striking l)efore 
 the bell rang. The girls were sitting in the garden, as near 
 the gateway and the porter's lodge as they were allowed to 
 go. They waited and waited, listening for the bell, which 
 never rang ; which "never was again to be rung by that honest 
 hand. At last the clock struck four, and they knew that all 
 hope was over for that day. I'^rom three to four was the 
 hour appointed by authority for Biddy's visit. She would 
 not presume to come after tliat hour. 
 
 'There will be a letter to-morrow, ])erhaps,' said Boso, 
 with a sigli. 'Poor dear Bidd}' ! It is such an etibrt for her 
 tn write.' 
 
 But the days went by, and there was no letter. The last 
 Saturday in July came, and there had been no sign or token 
 from Biddy. The rules of the convent school were strict, and 
 the girls were allowed to wiite to no one except relations. 
 
 That last Saturday in July wju? a dull stormy day, a 
 sullen sultry day, with heavy thunder showers. Again the 
 two girls ])ictured their frieiul u])on the sandy road, this 
 time wra])|)ed in her Irish frieze cloak, the countrywoman's 
 cloak which she had worn ever sin^je Bose could remember, 
 and struggling against the storm with her stout Belgian 
 umbrella of dark-red cotton. But the clock struck three, 
 and the clock struck four, the girls waiting through the 
 hour with listening ears and beating hearts, and there was 
 no touch of Bridget Ryan's hand upon the convent bell. 
 
 Then Rose grew desjierate, and went straight to the 
 Reverend Mother, and asked jiermission to write to Bridget, 
 who must be ill, or surely she would have come. The Superior
 
 22 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 hesitated a little ; rules were strict, and if once broken — and 
 so on and so on. But the pale anxious face and tearful eyes 
 touched her, and she gave the required permission and the 
 necessary postage stamjx 
 
 Three days Eose and Kathleen waited anxiously for the 
 reply to their letter, and then came a foiraal epistle from a 
 lawyer in Bruges, who had the honour to acquaint the young 
 ladies that their late father's old servant, Madame Eyan, had 
 died at midnight on the last Saturday in June, after a very 
 short illness, and that she had bequeathed the whole of her 
 savings to Mademoiselle Eose 0'Hara,said savings amounting, 
 after payment of funeral expenses, to five hundred and 
 fifty francs. 
 
 peep and bitter was the grief of the sisters at the loss of 
 this faithful friend — the only woman friend whose warm 
 motherly love Kathleen had ever known. Eose gave a 
 hundred francs to the Eeverend Mother to be spent in 
 masses for the beloved dead. Kathleen wanted her to 
 devote all the money to that sacred purpose. 
 
 ' What do we want with the poor darfnig's money ? ' she 
 asked. 
 
 ' Nothing now, dear,' answered the more experienced 
 elder sister ; ' but the day may come when a little money will 
 save us from a great deal of misery.' 
 
 The day came when those few gold pieces, which Eose 
 kept under lock and key with all her little treasures in a 
 small japanned box that had belonged to her father, made 
 the two girls independent of tyranny, or of that which 
 seemed to them as tyranny of an altogether imbearable kind. 
 
 The good Eeverend Mother, under whose firm but friendly 
 rule Eose and Kathleen had grown up, one to a tall, well- 
 developed girl of eighteen, the other to a slim sapling of 
 eleven, was transferred to a larger and wealthier convent, 
 and was replaced by a sour-visaged nun whose piety was of 
 the gloomy order, and who wanted to rule the community 
 with a rod of iron. Everything was changed under her do- 
 minion, every rule was made more severe, every little innocent 
 pleasure was curtailed or forbidden. A dark pall came down 
 ujjon the convent, and discontent brooded like an evil ])resence 
 by the hearth. 
 
 Kathleen, in high health, active, full of life and spirits, 
 was one of the first to break the new rules. Her gaiety was 
 misconduct, her fresh ringing laugh an offence. She was 
 continually getting into disgrace ; and Eose, who saw her
 
 Ways id a Fluicers 23 
 
 punished by all sorts of small privations and hy the burden 
 of extra tasks, rebelled in lier heart against the tyrant, 
 although she iirged her young sister to submission and 
 obedience. 
 
 There came a day — a bright summer day — when the 
 punishment lesson was heavier than usual, although Kath- 
 leen's ott'ence had been of the slightest kind. 
 
 ' Kathleen O'Hara has an obstinate disposition, and it must 
 be conquered,' said the Reverend Mother, when she was told 
 of a blotted exercise or a little outbreak of temper. 
 
 To-day Kathleen had a headache. She was flushed and 
 feverish, overcome by the midsummer heat. Just a year had 
 gone since Bridget's death, and it seemed to both girls as if 
 that year had been the longest in their lives — the longest and 
 most unhap])y. Tlie child made a feeble effort to write the 
 CJerman exercise which had besn given her as a punishment 
 task : but she soon gave up altogether, and sat crying, with the 
 book open before her, and the sun pouring its tierce light 
 U])on her iliishcd, tear-stained face. 
 
 This was taken as rank contumacy, and when the Reverend 
 Mother came upon her round of inspection from a superior 
 class, she ordered Kathleen off to a room at the top of the 
 house, a bare garret under the thin hot roof, which was used 
 only for solitaiy confinement in very bad cases. It was the 
 Black Hole of the convent. 
 
 Kathleen was marched u]) to tin's ]>lace of durance vile, 
 and kept there till evening ])iaycrs, with the refreshment of 
 a slice of black bread — such bread as the coachmen give their 
 horses in that country — and a cup of water. In the cool 
 eventide she was let out of her prison, which had been like 
 an oven all day, and she and Rose lay down together side 
 by side in their nnrrow beds at the end of the long dormitory, 
 nearest the door. 
 
 When all the others were asleep Rose knelt by her sister's 
 bed, and kissed and comforted her ; but the child was 
 broken-hearted. She said she would die in that miserable 
 house. Lessons were given to her which she could not learn, 
 .and then she was }>unislied fur not learning them. She hail 
 been frightened in that dreadful room. She had heard 
 things — awful things — running about behind the walls, 
 S(jueakiug and screaming. She thought they were demons. 
 
 'They were rats, darling,' said Rose, caressing and soothing 
 lier. ' You shall never, never be put in that room again, if 
 you will be brave, and trust me.'
 
 24 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 Rose shuddered at the thought of that stifling garret, 
 under the burning roof, and the rats running about behind 
 the wainscot. She had heard of children having been eaten 
 alive by rats. 
 
 ' Shall we steal out of the house to-morrow morning as 
 soon as it is light, and go away and live by ourselves some- 
 where V she asked, in a whisper. 
 
 It was an hour after bed-time ; the other children were all 
 sleeping on their hard little bolsters. There was no one to 
 overhear the sisters as they whispered and plotted. It was 
 no new thought with Rose O'Hara. She had been medita- 
 ting upon itfora longtime, ever since the new rule had begun 
 and had made Kathleen unhappy. She had never forgotten 
 those words of Miss Fitzpatrick's : ' When you are grown up 
 you will have to get your own living, and then you may have 
 to be parted.' The very thought of severance from Kath- 
 leen, this only beloved of her heart, was despair. Rose 
 made up her mind that there should be no such parting. 
 Why should they not work and live together ? Rose felt 
 herself strong and brave, and able to work for both. She had 
 wasted no opportunity that the convent afforded her. She 
 had learnt all that her teachers had given her to learn, and 
 now felt herself able to teach as she had been taught. If 
 Miss Fitzpati'ick were left free to jjlan their lives, she and 
 her sister would be parted ; but if she took their fate into 
 her own hands, they could spend their lives together — 
 stand or fall together, prosper or fail together ; and, in her 
 young hoijefulness, it seemed to her that failure was hardly 
 possible. 
 
 She whispered the plan to Kathleen. They were to get up 
 at daybreak — at the first glimmer of light — dress themselves, 
 and creep out of the dormitory and down the stairs, with 
 their shoes in their hands. The door opening into the garden 
 was bolted only. They had nothing to do but drawback the 
 heavy bolts noiselessly. The garden was guarded by high 
 walls, except in one weak point which the girls knew well. 
 An older wall, only eight feet high — a ponderous old wall, 
 with heavy buttresses of crumbling brick — divided the 
 western side of the garden from an extensive orchard sloping 
 down to the river. 
 
 This wall had been scaled by many a young rebel, in quest 
 of plums and pears, and it would be no obstacle to the sisters' 
 escape. Rose would take a change of linen in a little bundle, 
 and her fortune of fifteen gold pieces, Biddy's legacy, in her
 
 Waijside Flowers 25 
 
 pocket ; and with this stock of worldly wealth they would 
 make their way to Paris, that wonderful, beautiful city, of 
 wliich they had heard so much from some of their school- 
 fellows, the daughters of small Parisian tradesmen, who liatl 
 been sent to the Belgian convent for economical reasons. 
 
 ' Are we goin^ to walk all the way ? ' asked Kathleen. 
 
 'Not all the way, darling. We can go by rail. But if we 
 find the journey would cost us too much we might walk part 
 of tiie way.' 
 
 ' I will walk as far as you like ; I am not afraid,' said 
 Kathleen. 
 
 Their scheme prospered. In the dewy morning they 
 climbed the crumbling orchard-wall, where there was plenty 
 of foothold on the broken bricks, and ran across the wet grass 
 to the edge of the river, following which they came to the 
 high-road. They avoided Bruges, the city of church towers, 
 and steep roofs, and many bridges, and made for the road to 
 Courtrai. Thoir lirst day's journey of fifteen miles was over 
 a dusty road — flat, dreary, monotonous — a long and weary 
 walk ; but they rested on the way at a cottage, where they 
 enjoyed a meal of bread and fruit which cost them only a few 
 pence. Not for years had they so relished any feast as they 
 enjoyed this dinner of black bread and black cherries, which 
 they ate in a little arbour covered with a hop-vine, in a corner 
 of the cottage garden. Tiiey were three days on the road to 
 Courtrai, sleeping in humble cottages, and living on the 
 humblest fare. At the railway station at Courtrai Rose 
 found that the ])rice of railway tickets to Paris, even the 
 cheapest they could buy, would make a great hole in their 
 little fortune ; so she and Kathleen decided that they would 
 walk all the way. It was a long journey, but not so long as 
 that of the Scotch girl whom Rose had read about in Sir 
 Walter Scott's story. 
 
 ' I should like to walk,' said Kathleen. ' I have been so 
 hiippy to-day — no lessons, no one to scold us. It is so nice 
 to have the sky, and the flowers, and the liehls all to 
 ourselves.' 
 
 Rose found a decent lodging for the night in a weaver's 
 cottage, and they startetl next morning on the road to Paris, 
 Kathleen as merry as a lark. Rose happy, but with a grave 
 sense of res|)onsibility. 
 
 Tliey were weeks upon the road, in the balmy summer 
 weather, walking and walking, on and on, under a cloudless 
 blue sky ; for the heavens favoured them, and the peerless
 
 26 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 July weather lasted all through their journey, save on cue 
 day when they were caught in a thunderstorm, and had to 
 take refuge in a deserted stable, where they sat crouched 
 together in a dark coi'ner, while the thunder rolled over 
 the broken thatch, and the lightning sent lances of fire zig- 
 zagging across the dusky gloom. 
 
 They were often very tired ; they were often half choked 
 and half blinded by the chalky dust of the long level roads ; 
 but they were happy ; for they were together, and they were 
 free. It was the first real holiday they had known since they 
 had entered at the convent gate. No lessons, no burdens of 
 any kind. Every day they knelt in the cool shade of some 
 strange church to pray. They heard the mass sung by strange 
 priests before village altars. They found friends at the 
 cottages where they lodged. The women all admired 
 Kathleen's golden hair and blue eyes, and sympathised with 
 the sisters Avhen told that they were orphans beginning 
 the world together. No one overcharged or robbed them. 
 They were treated generously everywhere. Their very 
 defencelessness was their shield and breastplate. 
 
 And thus through toil, that had none of the bitterness of 
 toil, they slowly approached the great city, which to their 
 young imaginations was like a fairy city. They did not 
 quite believe that the streets were paved with gold : but they 
 fancied life would be very easy there, and that their hearts 
 would be always light enough to enjoy the sparkle of the 
 fountains, the glory of the broad strong river, the perfume of 
 flowers, the beautiful churches and beautiful theatres, and 
 shining lamp-lit boulevards, about which their schoolfellows 
 had told them so much.
 
 27 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Kathleen's lover 
 
 The first sensation witli both sisters, when tliey came witliin 
 view of the mighty city, was disappointment. Kose felt her 
 heart sink within her. The houses were so high, the streets 
 so long and dreary ; the city seemed a wilderness of stone and 
 ]ilaster. All the trees on the boulevards — those long new 
 boulevards by which they entered Paris — were white with 
 dust, and had a withered look. The houses had a poverty- 
 stricken air, despite their size and newness. They looked 
 liked big white gaols. As for Howers or fountains, parks or 
 gardens, there was no sign of any such thing. 
 
 'What an ugly ]>lace !'" cried Kathleen ))iteously. 'Those 
 gii:ls at the convent must have been wicked storytellers.' 
 
 They tramped on and on, till at last they came to the heart 
 of the town, to the place of fountains, and palaces, and 
 gardens, and flowers. It was in the summer sunset. All 
 things were gilded by that western radiance. Soldiers were 
 marching along the llue de Eivoli, drums beating, trumpets 
 lilariug. Lamps were lit in all the cafes, crowds of ]ieople 
 were sitting about in the open streets, the concerts in the 
 Champs Elysces were beginning their music and song, myriad 
 little lampions shining and twinkling in the last rays of the 
 sun. Cleopatra's Needle, fountains, palace, soldiers, statues, 
 trees, flowers, all fused themselves into one dazzling picture 
 before the eyes of the two young travellers. 
 
 ' Eose, how beautiful ! how beautiful ! ' gasped Kath- 
 leen, breathless with rapture. * How hajjpy we shall be 
 here ! ' 
 
 But while they stood admiring the fountains, listening to 
 the martial music, the shades of evening were descending, 
 and they had still to find a shelter for the night. Useless to 
 look for such a shelter in this region of palaces. Kose took 
 her sister by the hand and walked on, trusting to Fate to 
 carry them to some humble district, where they might find 
 friends ami economical faie, as they had done everywliere on 
 the way, thanks to Piose'-s instinct for discovering the fittest 
 jilaces, the right peoj)le.
 
 28 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 Stars were beginning to flash and tremble upon the blue 
 river as the orphans went over the bridge be.yond the Louvre 
 into that poorer Paris on the left bank of the Seine. Here 
 they roamed about in the twilight till they drifted some- 
 how into the Rue Git le Coeur ; and at the door of one of the 
 shabby old houses Rose saw a fat, middle-aged matron, with 
 a good-natured face, of whom she asked for advice as to a 
 lodging. 
 
 The matron heard her story, and at once spread her 
 motherly wing over both girls. There was a (jarni, a fur- 
 nished third floor in the middle house in the yard. The rooms 
 were small : just two little rooms and a tiny closet for 
 kitchen ; quite big enough for two girls. She led the way, 
 introduced Rose to the conciei'ge — whose husband was a 
 shoemaker, occupying the basement of the house— and who 
 went panting up the narrow stair, key in hand, to show the 
 lodging. 
 
 It was very small, very shabby ; and cheap although it 
 was, the rent seemed a great deal to Rose, after her experi- 
 ence of village lodgings on the way ; but her new friend told 
 her she miglit walk miles and get nothing so cheap in all 
 Paris ; so she took heart, and hired the apartment for a month 
 certain, paying the fifth of her golden jjieces, of which she had 
 spent just four upon the road, as an instalment of the rent. 
 And then, still directed by her stout friend, she went to a 
 cremerie round the corner and bought some milk and rolls 
 and a little cheese for supper ; and the sisters sat down in 
 their new home, so bare of many things essential for comfort, 
 and laughed and cried over their first meal in Paris. Kath- 
 leen was almost hysterical with fatigue and excitement. All 
 the way they had come, even in the midst of her girlish glad- 
 ness, she had been haunted by fears of pursuit. The 
 Revei'end Mother would send the gardener after her, and 
 have her taken back and shut up in the sun-baked room 
 where the rats lived. 
 
 ' But now we are ?afe,' she said, with her head on her 
 sister's shoulder, and Rose's arm round her, ' we are safe in 
 Paris ; and if Reverend Mother sends after ns, we'll go to 
 the Emjjeror and ask him to take cai'e of us. We are his 
 subjects now.' This was in '62, Avhen the Empire was in its 
 glory, and there was a sense of power and splendour in the 
 third Napoleon's dominion over this beautiful modern 
 Babylon, such as must liave been felt in Rome under the 
 jjolitic sway of Augustus. These girls felt as if they were in
 
 Kathleen's Loccr 20 
 
 a fortress, now they were witliin the charmed circle of 
 iiuperial magiiiticence. 
 
 Years of struggle, and poverty, and industry, and self- 
 denial came after that hapj)y evening when the girls sat in 
 the twilight, di-eaming of a bright future ; but though the 
 training was severe, it was, perhaps, the best and noblest 
 school in which humanity can be educated. The sisters were 
 never unhappy', for they were together, and they were free. 
 Rose was sister, mother, guardian, all the world of love and 
 shelter for Kathleen, who bloomed into exquisite loveliness 
 in that humble Parisian loilging, a fair flower blossoming 
 unseen, with, happily, few to note her beauty. 
 
 Rose found only too soon that eilucation was a drug in the 
 Parisian markets. After heroic efforts to get employment as 
 a mornins: jjoverness in a tradesman's familv. she fell l)ack 
 upou the only industry' which offered itself, and, by the helj) 
 of her first Parisian friend, Madame Schubert, the stout 
 matron who had found her a lodging, she got employment as 
 an artificial tlower-maker, in which art she progressed rapidly, 
 and, in a couple of years, attained a perfection which in- 
 sured her liberal wa^res — wages which enabled her to main- 
 tain the little lodging, and feed and clothe herself and her 
 sister. The fai'c was of the simplest, and there was a good 
 deal of ])inching needed to make both ends meet in that 
 luxurious expensive city of Paris ; especially in winter, when 
 fuel made such an inroad xipon the slender purse ; but some- 
 how the girls never knew actual privation, never went to 
 bed hungry, or were haunted in their slumber by the night- 
 mare of debt. The little rooms on the third story were tlie 
 ])ink of neatness. Kathleen was housekeeper, and her busy 
 hands swept and dusted and polished, and kejit all things 
 bright. The modest gray or brown merino gowns were 
 never shabby or dilapidated. Collars and cuffs were always 
 spotless, and the little feet neatly shod. There were always 
 a few halfi)ence for the bag at^^'otre Dame, and there was 
 always a loaf to divide with a poor neighboui-, or a cup of 
 soup for a sick child. 
 
 On the other hand, the pleasures of the sisters were of the 
 rarest, and, perhaps, that is why they were so sweet. A 
 steamboat excui'sion once or twice in the long summer to some 
 suburban village that was almost the country ; a visit to a 
 cheap boulevard theatre once or twice in the long winter. 
 But O, how heavenly was the scent of lime blossoms, how 
 exquisite the verdure of summer meadows, to those who tasted
 
 30 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 the luxury so seldom ! And how vivid and real was that 
 sham world of the stage to those who so seldom saw the 
 curtain rise upon that ))aint and tinsel paradise ! 
 
 Rose and Kathleen lived as humbly as grisettes live, and 
 dressed as grisettes dress ; but they preserved the secluded 
 habits of English ladies — knew no one, and spoke to no one, 
 outside the narrow enclosure of that little stone-paved yard 
 in the Rue Git le Cceur, with its three houses divided into 
 about twenty domiciles. Among these dwellings the sisters 
 had made a few respectable acquaintances, including Madame 
 Schubert, the stout matron who grew more and more obese 
 as the years went by, who was described somewhat vaguely 
 as a petit rentier, and whose only business in life was to know 
 the business of her neighbours, and to attend upon an ancient 
 coflee-coloured pug almost as obese as herself. 
 
 As she was their first, so was Madame Schubert their best 
 and most intimate friend, and, indeed, the one only person 
 Avliom the Demoiselles O'Hara visited and received in this 
 vast city of Paris. She was always their companion and 
 protectress in those happy excursions to the country, those 
 fairylike nights at the theatre. It was she who supplied the 
 secluded damsels with news of the outside world. She knew, 
 or pretended to know, everything that was going on in Paris ; 
 and she certainly did know everything that went on in the 
 Rue Git le Ccciu-. 
 
 It was Madame, or in familiar parlance Maman, Schubert 
 who gave Rose and Kathleen the first information about a 
 new lodger who had taken up his abode in the two little 
 garrets over their own apartment — a young man witli a 
 handsome face, and rjentil — ah, but how gentil! tout-d-fait 
 taloii rouge. He would bear comparison with M.\y gandin on 
 the boulevard, although his coat looked as if it had been well 
 worn, and all his wcjrldly goods consisted of one battered 
 portmanteau and an old egg-box full of books. 
 
 ' He writes for the papers — for the Drapeau Rouge,' said 
 Maman Schubert. ' I have seen the printer's devil going 
 up stairs with proofs. But he is not rich, this youth, for he 
 breakfasts at Suzon Michel's cr^nierie, and he often buys a 
 slice of Lyons sausage and a loaf as he goes liome in the 
 afternoon, when other young men are going to their favourite 
 restaurant.' 
 
 ' Dear maman, how is it that you know everything about 
 everybody ? ' exclaimed Rose. 
 
 She had met the new lodger on the stairs that morning
 
 Kathleen's Lover 31 
 
 and could not deny his good looks. Ue wan full and slim. 
 He had dark eyes— eagle eyes— and a black moustache, and 
 features as clearly cut as a profile on a Roman cameo. 
 
 ' I have eyes and ears, and a heart to sympathise with my 
 neighbours in their joys and sorrows,' said Madame Scliubert 
 'One might as well be the statue of King Henry on the 
 Pont Neuf as go through the world caring for nobody but 
 oneself.' 
 
 This was a clever way of making a feminine vice seem a 
 virtue ; but Maman Schubert was really a good soul, and 
 always ready to help a poor neighbour. She was very fond of 
 the O'Hara girls, and already she had begun to build her 
 little castles in the air for the"ir benefit. Eose was to marry 
 Philip, that honest young mechanic from the far south, 
 beyond Carcassonne, who was doing so well as a journeyman 
 cabinet-maker, and who was something of an artist in his 
 way, and thus a little above the average mechanic. And 
 now here had there droi>ped from the sky, as it w^ere, the 
 very lover of lovers for Kathleen — young, handsome, refined, 
 as charming as a lover in a play. 
 
 Maman Schubert told herself it was high time Kathleen 
 should have a lover, whose duty it would be to protect and 
 cherish her, and to marry her so soon as ever they were rich 
 enough to marry. She wns much too pretty to remain un- 
 guarded by a strongman's love. For such fresh and innocent 
 loveliness Paris was full of .snares ; she could not go 
 the length of a street alone without encountering perils. 
 The wolf was always on the watch for this lamb. Rose 
 O'Hara's avocations compelled her to be absent all day long, 
 and she was obliged to mew her young sister in the little 
 sitting-room, forbidding her to go a step beyond her daily 
 marketing, which all had to bo done within a narrow radius 
 of the Rue Git le Ca-ur. 
 
 The wolf, as represented by the gandin or petit creve, was 
 not often on the prowl in this humble locality. The pave- 
 ments were too rough for his dainty boots, the region 
 altogether too shabby for his magnificence. But from the 
 Sorbonne, from the Luxembourg, and from the Hotel Dieu 
 issued wolves of another and rougher species — students of all 
 kinds ; and Rose lived in ever-present fear lest one of these 
 should assail her cherished lamb. Maman Schubert was 
 often too lazy to go marketing ; and then Kathleen must 
 needs go alone on her little errands to the gi-eengrocer, or 
 the pork-butcher, or the cr^merie.
 
 32 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 The cre'mene was just round the coiner — one of the neatest 
 daintiest little shops in Paris ; or at least it was so thought 
 by the inhabitants of GJtle C(Teur,who patronised it liberally. 
 It was a tiny shop in a narrow street, and one descended to 
 it by two stone steps, trodden hollow and sloping by pilgrims 
 in past ages ; for the shoj? was an old shop, coeval with the 
 departed glories of the Faubourg St. Germain. It was 
 cellar-like snd dark, but that was an advantage on a hot 
 summer day. It was cool and shadowy, like a rustic dairy, 
 and it was clean — ah, how it was clean ! You might have 
 offered a napoleon for every cobweb to be found in Suzon 
 Michel's shop, without fear of being out of pocket by your 
 offer. The little tables at which Suzon's customers break- 
 fasted were of spotless marble. Her thick white crockery 
 had never a stain or a smear. Her brass milk-cans and tin 
 coffee-jiots were as bright as silver in a silversmith's shop. 
 
 It was in this half-underground apartment that Gaston 
 Mortemar, the young journalist, took his breakfast every 
 day — coffee and eggs, roll and butter, occasionally diversified 
 by a plate of radishes. 
 
 This simple and wholesome fare was enlivened by the 
 society of Madame Michel, a buxom black-eyed widow of 
 six-and-twenty, who had always the last news of the quarter, 
 and a cheery word for every comer, and who found a great 
 deal to say to this particular customer. She stood behind 
 her bright little counter, flashing her knitting needles, or 
 moved deftly about the shop, polishing and arranging her pots 
 and pans, while Gaston Mortemar breakfasted, and tiiat 
 hour seemed to her always the brightest in the day. By tlie 
 time he had lived six months in the Hue Git le Cceur, they 
 were on very intimate terms. She used to upbraid him if 
 he were five minutes later than his usual hour, and she would 
 j)0ut and look .sorrowful if he seemed in haste to depart. 
 Once she served him a better breakfast than he had ordered, 
 and wanted to supply him with a dainty dish gratis ; but 
 Monsieur Mortemar drew the line here. His angry flush 
 and haughty frown told the little widow that she had 
 gone too far. 
 
 ' Please to remember that I am a gentleman, and not a 
 pique-assiette,' he said, ' and that I eat nothing I cannot i)ay 
 for.' 
 
 Madame shrugged her shoulders, and said it was hard she 
 could not offer an omelette aux 2^oints d'a.tperges to a friend if 
 she liked.
 
 Kathleen's Lover 83 
 
 ' When 1 visit my frieiKld I take \vliat they choose to give 
 me,' answered Gaston coldly ; ' but I have no friends in tliig 
 part of Paris.' 
 
 Suzon Michel looked as black as thunder, and took tho 
 journalist's money in sulky silence. She broke a jug before 
 dinner-time, and was snappish to her customers all the rest 
 of the day. 
 
 'What Satan-like pride !' she exclaimed, thinking of her 
 favourite patron ; and then she muttered a remark which 
 might have found a place later in the columns of the P()re 
 Duchtne. 
 
 She cried when she went to bed that night, cried and 
 soobed, and swore an oath or two by way of solace, before 
 she laid her head on her pillow, thinking that Gaston Morte- 
 mar would come no more to the little table at the end of the 
 shop. But at the usual time he walked into her shop, and 
 sat himself down with an imperturbable visage. She served 
 his coflee as carefully as ever, but said never a word . He 
 read a newspaper while he breakfasted, i)aid, and went, 
 Avithout a word on his pai't. 
 
 Next morning there was a bunch of daffodils on the little 
 table, a bunch of yellow bloom lighting up the shadowy 
 corner. Suzon had trudged to the llower-niarket before .she 
 opened her shop, to buy these spring flowers for the man she 
 loved. Yes, she loved him, and meant to marry him if she 
 could. He was a gentleman, and .she canaille de canaille. 
 But what of that ? Did not the gutter throne it yonder on 
 the other side of the Seine, in the Bois, in the Pare Monceau 
 — daughters of the gutter made glorious in silks and satins, 
 driving thoroughbi-ed horses, scattering their lovers' substance 
 in waves of gold ] Did not all that was noblest in the land lay 
 itself down ami grovel at the feet of the gutter ? And her 
 gentleman was poor and friendless ; he lived in a garret, and 
 toiled for a pittance. Surely he would be willing and glad 
 to marry her, when he knew that she had saved money, and 
 had her little investments in the public funds. 
 
 He smiled at sight of the first flowers of spring, and, 
 looking up at the widow, saw that she was smiling too. All 
 her sullen gloom had melted at sight of him. She was so 
 glad he had not forsaken her shoj). Perhajis it woidil have hurt 
 her even more than his desertion to have known how insignifi- 
 cant a figure she made in his life, and how little he had 
 thought about the day before yesterday's dispute. 
 
 He asked her the news, and her whole face beamed at the 
 
 D
 
 34 Unde7- the Bed Flag 
 
 sound of his voice. She prattled away gaily for the rest of 
 the hour, and considered every other customer an intruder 
 while Gaston sat at his little table. 
 
 'You ought to put up a placard in your window, with 
 " Reluche " upon it, when Monsieur is here,' said a grumpy 
 porter, to whom she had served a pat of butter with scant 
 civility, and whose keen eye saw the state of affairs. 
 
 This kind of thing went on for more than a year. Now 
 and again, when Gaston was in luck and had made a few 
 francs more than his ordinary earnings from the newspapers, 
 he reAvarded the little widow's attentions by taking her to a 
 theatre, and giving her an ice or a supper in the Passage Jouf- 
 froy before he escorted her home. He treated her en grand 
 seigneur on these occasions, and these evenings were toSuzon 
 Michel as nights spent in jiaradise ; hours to dream about 
 for weeks after they Avere gone, to long for with a passionate 
 longing. Yet they brought her no nearer to the man she 
 loved or to the realisation of her hopes. Not a word was 
 ever sjtoken of love or marriage. When they parted on the 
 steps of the cremerie, while the bells of Notre Dame were 
 chiming one of the quarters after midnight, they were as far 
 apart as ever. If she was ever to be Madame Mortemar the 
 olfer of marriage must come from her own lips, Suzon thought ; 
 and she would not have shrunk from telling the man of her 
 choice of those snug little investments, and her willingness 
 to share her economies with him. Feminine delicacy would 
 not have hindered sucli an avowal ; but there was something 
 in the man himself which sealed her lips. 
 
 Gaston was as cold as ice, as calm as marble. He had that 
 placid languor of speech and manner which clever young 
 men are apt to affect, until it becomes a second nature. He 
 talked like a man who had lived through every experience 
 that life could olfer to reprobate youth, who had grown old 
 in evil Ijcfoie Time had written a wrinkle on his brow. 
 
 'Ah, but he has lived, that youth ! ' .said the knowingones 
 of the quarter. 'He has squandered the j^aternal fortune on 
 actresses and cocottes, and now he has to write for his bread.' 
 
 The fact was that Gaston Mortemar had never had a 
 napoleon to bestow upon anybody, for good or evil. He had 
 worked for his daily bread ever since he left the school of 
 Albert the Great, Avhere he had been one of the brightest 
 pupils of the good Dominicans. He had never been rich 
 enough to be profligate in a grand way ; and he was too 
 proud, too refined to stoop to cheap vice. He was like Alfred
 
 Kathleoi's Lover 35 
 
 de Musst't, a dandy l>orn, created with refined tastes and lofty 
 aspirations ; but ])overty Lad embittered liim. He had fed 
 his mind with tho writings of Villon and Voltaire and Rous- 
 seau, Tlidopliile (iautier, Musset, liaudelaire, and Flaubert. 
 He was a cyrdc to the marrow of his bones. He tried to 
 surpass Voltaire in acrimony, Kousseau in discontent, and 
 la.shed himself into fury when he wrote about the great ones 
 of the earth. 
 
 One day he met Kathleen O'TIara in the morning sunshine, 
 coming in from her marketing, just as he was going out to 
 breakfast. She wore a neat gray gown and a jtale-blue neck- 
 ribbon, and carried a basket of lettuce and radishes ou her 
 arm ; and he thought he .saw a Greuze that had suddenly 
 become llesh and blood, and had walked out of its fi'ame in 
 the Louvre yonder, across the shining river. He forgot his 
 good manners, and turned to look after her as sbe crossed the 
 yard and trii)ped up the steps of that house which he had 
 just left. He knew that two girls occupied one half of the 
 third story, but they had kept themselves so close that ho had 
 only seen the ekler sister, once in a way, on the staircase. 
 Madame Schubert was standing in her doorway, scenting the 
 morning air, and watching the eoinfrs and comintrs of her 
 neighbours, .^he and Gaston hail long been on friendly 
 terms, so slie gave him a little nod, and laughed as he passeii 
 her door, 
 
 '■Gcntille^ iLCAt-ce pas,moii gar(on ?' she screamed, in lior 
 shrill treble, with the JJoulevard St. Michel twang. 
 
 ^O'e/tiille!' She is adorable,' answered Giuston. 'Is it 
 possible that such an angel inhabits the same dull walls that 
 shelter me ? ' 
 
 ' Dangerous, is it not I But she is as good as she is j)retty. 
 A gentleman's daughter too, though she and her sister have 
 to work for their bread, poor orphans ! Tlie father was an 
 Irish captain.' 
 
 ' Irish ! ' exclaimed Gaston, with a touch of surprise. 
 
 He had a vague idea that Irish men and women were a 
 kind of savages who inhabited a barren island on the wild 
 Atlantic, and ran about half-naked anumg the rocks. 
 
 ' Yes, but these girls have never been in Irelaml. Thev 
 were educated in a convent near Bruges. They are young 
 ladies, pious, well-conducted, although they work for their 
 daily bread. Durand, my neighbour, tlie young cabinet- 
 maker, is overhead and ears in love witli the elder sister, ami 
 I think there will be a marriage before long.'
 
 36 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 ( 
 
 Duraiid ! What, the sturdy broad-shouldered youth at 
 Ko. 7, who whistles and sings so loud as he goes in and out ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; a fine frank nature.' 
 
 ' Noisy enough, in all conscience,' said Gaston ; and he 
 went on to get his breakfast . 
 
 He was in no humour for conversation this morning, and 
 Suzon Michel's prattle bored him. He read, or seemed to be 
 reading, the Figaro while she was talking — a rudeness which 
 galled the widow. 
 
 ' Do you know those two young ladies in the Rue Git le 
 Coeur, the house I live in ? ' he asked presently, without 
 looking up from his paper. 
 
 ' Young ladies ! ' echoed Suzon contemptuously. ' A gentle- 
 man may live in the Rue Git le Coeur, a gentleman may live 
 anywhere, that is understood ; but young ladies — that is too 
 much ! I know two girls who work for the artificial flower- 
 maker on the Boulevard St. Germain.' 
 
 'They are ladies by birth and education, I am told.' 
 
 'They are stuck- up minxes ; and although that yoving one 
 has come to my shop every day for the last six years she 
 does not think me worthy of five minutes' conversation ; a 
 little nod and " Bon-jour, madame," and she's out of my shop 
 as if she thought the place polluted her.' 
 
 ' She is shy, perhajjs,' said Gaston. ' I should not think 
 she could be proud.' 
 
 Suzon looked at him sharply with those flashing eyes of 
 liers — fine eyes, full, black, luminous, but not altogether 
 beautiful. 
 
 ' What does monsieur know of this young person that he 
 is so ready to answer for her ? ' she asked, with a mocking 
 air. 
 
 ' Very little. I passed her in the street just now. I doubt 
 if I ever saw her till that moment, though we live in the 
 same house. Some faces can be read at a glance. In hers I 
 saw jmrity, sweetness, trath, simplicity.' 
 
 ' My faith ! You are skilful at reading faces,' retorted 
 Madame Michel ; 'but it is easy to see virtues of that kind 
 in a ])retty woman. Had Ma'mselle Hara been ugly you 
 would not have discovered half these qualities in her face.' 
 
 ' They might have been there, perliaps ; but I own I should 
 not have looked so keenly. She is the image of a Greuze in 
 the Louvre. You know the jjictures in the Louvre ? ' 
 
 ' Not much,' said Suzon, with a careless shrug. 
 
 * Why, you go there nearly every Sunday afternoon.'
 
 Kathken^s Lover 37 
 
 ' True ; but I go to look at the people, not the pictures.' 
 
 Gaston paid for his breakfast, and strolled on to his iiews- 
 ])ai)er-oilice, thinkin;^' that Suzou f^rew more vulgar every 
 day. He was vexed with himself for having allowed her to 
 establish a kind of friendshij) with him. She ! the keeper of 
 a milk shop ! 
 
 ' And to think that I come from one of the best families 
 in Brittany,' he said to himself. ' Well, I have thrown my 
 lot in with the people. I have made myself their advocate ; 
 I have asserted the equal rights of man. Ought I to feel 
 otfended''if a milk woman treats me as her friend ? A hand- 
 some woman, too ; bright, agreeable, not without intelligence, 
 and full of strong feeling. Poor little Suzon ! ' 
 
 Poor little Suzon ! Gaston began to lessen his visits to 
 the cr^merie. He took a cup of coffee in his garret, and went 
 straight to his day's work. He was too busy to breakfast in 
 the old leisurely manner, he told ^Madame Michel, when she 
 reproached him with this falling off from the old ways. 
 
 ' Have I done anything to offend you \ ' she asked, looking 
 at him with eyes which took a new beauty, softened by 
 sadness. 
 
 ' Offend me, dear Madame INIichel ! But assuredly not. You 
 are all that is good. But I am working hard just now. It 
 does not do for a man to saunter through life, to be always a 
 trifler. I have a good deal to do for the ]m]wr ; and I spend 
 an hour or two every day at the Imperial Library.' 
 
 ' If you are getting a learned man I shall see no more of 
 you,' sighed the widow. ' You will not be able to endure my 
 ignorant chatter.' 
 
 ' Gaiety of heart is delightful at all times,' said Gaston. 
 
 ' I begin to think that monsieur must be writing verses, he 
 has gi'own so grave and silent,' remarked Suzon. 
 
 And then they parted, witli ceremonious politeness on his 
 side, with keen scrutiny and suspicion on hers. 
 
 Monsieur was not writing verses, but he was living a poem, 
 ^[araan Schubert, the good-natured busybody of the Rue 
 Git le Cteur, had planned a little tea-parly — un th-'a I'Aiif/laise 
 — and had invited the two O'Hara girls — known in their 
 little circle as the Demoiselles Hara, since the O was too much 
 foraParisian mouth— and Philip Durand, the cabinet-maker, 
 an honest young fellow, a thorough workman and artist, in a 
 very artistic trade, and a prominent member of the work- 
 men's syndicate : and the cabinet-makers' syndicate ranks 
 high among the societies of French workmen. >So far the
 
 38 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 ])avty consisted of old friends, since good Madame Schubert 
 had been ahnost as a mother to the girls whom she had seen 
 arrive in the Eue Git le Coeur, dusty and bewildered-looking, 
 on the evening of their entry into Paris ; and Philij) had been 
 Eose's devoted lover for the last three years, haunting her 
 like her shadow as she went to and fro her work, in the early 
 mornings when Paris was being swept and garnished, in the 
 dusky evenings when its million lanijis were being lighted. 
 Never was there a more unselfish, a more patient wooer. 
 Rose had been hard with him. Hose had kept him at arm's 
 length. She never meant to marry. She had her mission iu 
 life; and that mission was to take care of Kathleen. 
 
 ' Will you be less able to guard her when you have a 
 strongman to help you?' asked Philip. 'Do you suppose 
 I shall grudge her a room iu our lo.lgings, a i)lace at^ our 
 table ! She will be my sister as much as yours, ami as dear 
 to me as to 3'ou.' 
 
 ' That cannot be. She is more thnn a sister to nie. She is 
 the one love and care of my life. AVork would lose all its 
 sweetness if I did not know I was working for her as well as 
 for myself. I am sure you are good and generous. I daresay 
 you woxdd be kind to her ; but you might grow weary of 
 her ; bad times might come, and you might think her a 
 burden. I will run no risks. I should feel as if I were 
 giving her a stepfather.' 
 
 ' And have you made up your mind never to marry ? ' 
 'Never, while Kathleen is single. If she were well 
 married it might be different.' 
 
 'Then it shall be my business to find her a good husband,' 
 said Philip. ' With such a pretty girl there can be no 
 difficulty.' 
 
 J!ut Philip Durand was a poor hand at matchmaking. 
 While he was thinking about the business, and wondering 
 which of the men he rubbed shoulders with at the work- 
 men's chamber was worthy to mate with Rose O'lTaia's 
 sister, Madame Schubert, who was an incorrigible schemer 
 in the matrimonial line, had brought Kathleen face to face 
 with the man whom Fate meant for her husband. 
 
 The fourth guest and only sti'anger at Madame Schubert's 
 English tea was (jiaston Mortemar ; and that evening 
 com]>leted Kathleen's conquest. He was her adorer and 
 her slave from that hour. It seemed to him as if all life 
 took new colours after that evening. The leopard cannot 
 change his spots all at once ; but the leopard's ways and
 
 Katldccns Lover 39 
 
 manners may bo considi-rably iiinuciict'd ; and although 
 Ga-stou was still Voltairian in his way of tliinking, still a 
 leveller in jiolitics, he worked more earnestly and more 
 honestly than he had ever done before ; for he had assumed 
 the responsibility of winning ,i bright future for Kathleen 
 O'llara. 
 
 The wooing and winning were easily done, for the girl's 
 young heart went out to him as Gretchen's to Faust. A 
 little walk on the bridge in the summer twilight, a flower 
 or two — bought in the Uower-market, but cherished as if it 
 were a blossom of supernal growth— a chance meeting in the 
 sunny morning, when Kathleen was marketing, and these 
 two were pledged to each other for life. But Kose was 
 terribly wise. She seemed the very spirit of worldline^s, 
 and she refused her assent to an imprudent marriage. When 
 Gaston bad saved a little money, and could earn, say, three 
 iiaj)oleons a week — which was less than the skilled calnnet- 
 maker earned — Kathleen should be his wife ; not sooner. 
 Gaston vas earning on an average two napoleons weekly, 
 and there was not much margin for saving out of that. 
 
 Hitherto he had found himself just able to live, clothe 
 himself like a gentleman, and keep out of debt. And to do 
 even this he had been thrifty and self-denying. But what 
 will not love do ? He became as s])aring as Pere Grandet ; 
 except when he wanted to offer a little pleasure, a theatre 
 or a cafu chautaut, to the sisters. 
 
 Such offers were but rarely accepted. Rose watched 
 Kathleen like a lynx, and allowed few tke-Ci-t'tcshQtvf qqwWiq 
 lovers. Never was girlish simplicity guarded more closely 
 from all peril of jioUution. But, once in a way, this severe 
 damsel relented so far as to allow the two lovers to organise 
 an evening's dissipation ; and it was on one of these occasions, 
 almost immediately after Kathleen's engagement, that Suzon 
 Michel saw Gaston and his sweetheart together for the first 
 tinie. 
 
 It was a sultry August evening, tlie Seine shining in the 
 golden light i>f the western sky, the air heavy with heat. 
 Durand and Gaston had bought tickets for the side boxes at 
 the Ambigu, where a new play, by Dumas the younger, was 
 being acted, to the delight of all Paris— or, at least, that 
 inferior and second-rate I'aris which had not migrated to 
 fashionable watering-places and mountain springs. Kathleen 
 and Gaston walked arm-in-arm along the quay, so engrossed 
 in each other as to l)e quite unconscious of passers-by. Faces
 
 4.0 Under the lied Flag 
 
 came aud went beside them, voices sounded ; but all things 
 were dim as the sounds and faces in a dream. They lived, 
 they saw, they heard, they breathed only for each other. 
 
 Close behind them came Eose and her faithful swain ; and 
 Ko3e, even in her tenderest moments, was mindful of her 
 sister. She was fond and proud of her stalwart, good-looking 
 workman-lover, who was so line a specimen of his rank and 
 race, as much a gentleman by nature as Gaston Mortemar 
 was a gentleman by hereditai>;V instinct ; but she was not 
 lifted off this dull earth by her love. 
 
 As they walked towards the Pont Neuf, with their faces 
 to the west and the sun shining on tlxem, Suzon Michel met 
 them. She saw them ever so far off : the tall slight figure 
 of the man, whose look and bearing she knew so well ; the 
 golden-haired girl at his side, radiant and lovely in her plain 
 alpaca gown, and neat little black lace bonnet, with clusters 
 of violets nestling between the lace and her sunny hair — 
 those violets which the auburn-haired Empress loved so well. 
 
 Suzon slackened her pace as they drew near her. He 
 would recognise her, of course — the false-hearted one : and 
 speak her fair, albeit he had broken her heart by his coldness 
 and ingratitude. He would stoj), the audacious one, and 
 brazen out his treachery, and make light of his heart- 
 lessncss. 
 
 But Gaston walked on without seeing her. He passed 
 her by, unconscious of her presence, his eyes bent with 
 impassioned love upon the pure jiale face beside him, his lips 
 breathing softest words. Suzon drew aside, and stood upon 
 the pavement, looking after them v;ith diabolical hatred in 
 her face. Rose saw that look, and clutched Philii^ Durand's 
 arm. 
 
 ' Did you see that woman looking after my sister — the 
 Avoman at the. cremerieV she asked. 
 
 But Philip had been too much absorbed in his betrothed to 
 have eyes for the divers expressions of the passers-by. He 
 was full of gladness, thankfulness for his lot. He had been 
 eminently successful as a craftsman, had won a medal for 
 a piece of fine workmanshij) in the Exhibition of '67 ; he 
 was looked upon as a leading light in the syndicate, and the 
 dearest woman in the world had promised to be his wife. 
 Now that Kathleen was engaged there was no more diffi- 
 culty. So soon as Gaston was in a fair way to maintain a 
 wife, the two couples would be united. 
 
 The evening at the Ambigu was enchantment ; liut both
 
 Kathleen's Lover 4:1 
 
 girls refused llie luxury of ices at Tortoui's. How were 
 lovers to be thrifty if tlieir betrothed were ready to accept 
 costly attentions 'i Besides, as they ])assed the famous 
 confectioner's, Rose caught sight of a couple of carriages 
 setting down some ladies and their cavaliers at a side door, 
 and those painted faces and rustling silks belonged to a world 
 from which Rose O'Hara recoiled as from a pestilence. 
 So they all walked home in the August moonlight, talking 
 of the i)lay, and were safe in the Eue Git le Cojur before 
 midnight. 
 
 Rose did not forget that look of Madame Michel's. Her 
 intense aflfection for Kathleen made her suspicious c)f 
 Kathleen's lover. Such a look as that in a young woman's 
 face could have but one meaning. It meant jealousy ; and 
 there could hardly be jealously without cause. The look 
 suggested a history ; and Rose set herself to find out that 
 history. She consulted Madame Schubert, the one friend 
 whom" she could trust in so delicate a matter ; and the good 
 Schubert was not long in enlightening her. One does not 
 live in such a place as the Riie Git le CVeur for tive-and- 
 twenty years without knowing a good deal about one's 
 neighbours. 
 
 ' Yes, my dear, there is no doubt this dear Mortemar had 
 once a tenderness for M'me Michel. He used to breakfast at 
 her shop every morning— a leisurely breakfast, during which 
 those two talked— ah, great Heaven, how they talked ! one 
 could hardly get properly served while he was there. And 
 he danced with her in the winter at the BuUier balls, and 
 he used to take her to the theatre. Friends of mine saw 
 them there, as happy as turtledoves. But what of that ? A 
 man must sow his wild oats ; and Gaston is not the less fond 
 of your sister because he has played fast and loose with 
 M'me Michel.' 
 
 ' My sister shall not marry a man who has played fast 
 and loose with any woman,' said Knse. 
 
 'That is rank nonsense,' answered oNIaman Schubert. 
 ' Mark my words, Rose : if you try to ])art those two, you 
 will break Kathleen's heart.' 
 
 'Better her heart should be so broken than by a bad 
 husband,' said Rose. 
 
 'He will not make a bad husband. Do you think a man 
 is any the worse for a flirtation or two in his bachelor 
 days'? That is the way he learns the meaning of real love.' 
 
 Rose was not easily appeased. She saw Gaston next day,
 
 42 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 and taxed him with his dishonourable conduct to the widow. 
 He was indignant at the charge, and declared that tliere 
 had never been anything serious between them. She had 
 been attentive to him as a customer at her cre'merie ; he had 
 been civil to her— that was all. The visits to the theatre 
 meant no more than civility. 
 
 'There was something more than civility on her part, 
 and I think you must have known it,' answered Rose, in- 
 tensely in earnest. ' If you knew it and fooled her, you are 
 not a good and true man ; and you shall not marry my 
 sister.' 
 
 Gaston protested against this absurd decree ; but finally 
 admitted that he had been to blame. Yes, perhaps he had 
 known that Madame Michel was just a little taken with 
 him, inclined to like his society, and to be jealous and angry 
 when he deserted her shop. The shop was convenient ; the 
 woman was handsome and amusing. Why should not a man 
 who was heart-whole, who had not one real woman-friend in 
 the world, talk and laugh with a pretty shopkeeper ] It 
 could do no harm. ^ 
 
 ' It has done harm. I saw as much in Madame Michel s 
 face the other evening.' And then she told Gaston the story 
 of tliat encounter on the quay. 
 
 ' Mademoiselle Eose, you exaggerate the situation. Madame 
 Michel has a spice of the devil in her, and can give black 
 looks on very slight provocation. For the rest, she and I 
 have seen the last of each other. I have never crossed her 
 threshold since I was betrothed to Kathleen. I never shall 
 cross it again.' 
 
 ' Promise me that,' said Rose. 
 ' I promise, from my heart.' 
 
 This happened in the year '69 ; and now it was midsummer 
 in the fateful year '70, and France was treading daily, step 
 by step, nearer the edge of the abyss.
 
 43 
 
 CUAPTEll IV. 
 
 THE SONG OF VICTORY 
 
 It was at the be;?inning of August, just after the victory 
 of Sarrebi'lick, ami while Paris was stirred and tluilled with 
 dreams of con(uiest, and all a-tlutter with warlike feelini,', 
 that the two sisters were married in the cathedral of Notre 
 Dame, on a sunshiny Saturday morning. 
 
 There was no iinery at this wedding, no train of friends. 
 Madame Schubert ; a young journalist and ])laywright who 
 wrote for Mortcmar's paper ; a middle-aged gray-bearded 
 artist, who had painted jilaques for some of J )uraud's cabinet- 
 work — these were the only guests. The little procession 
 walked across the bridge in the morning sunlight, the sisters 
 dressed alike in gray cashmere, with white bonnets, and each 
 wearing a cluster of white roses at her throat. Nothing 
 could be simjjler or less costly than this wedding toilet, yet 
 both brides were charming ; neatness, purity, modest con- 
 tentment with humble fortunes, were all expressed in their 
 bearing and costunie. 
 
 The ceremony was to be at ten. They were a quarter of 
 an hour too soon ; and rhilij) Durand, who loved the grand 
 old ])ile with the artist's ardent love of fine artistic work, 
 walked in the shadowy aisles with his painter frienil, and 
 expatiated upon the beauties of the building, while Rose 
 walketl by his side, prouil of her lover's learning and 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 Kathleen and Gaston waited nearer the altar, tlie giil 
 kneeling with bent lieul and hidden face, deep in i)rayer ; 
 the lover sitting near, dreamily watching the graceful ligure 
 in soft gray drapery, touched with glintings of coloured light 
 from the old stained windows. 
 
 There were no other weddings at that particular hour on 
 that particular morning. These two couples and their friends 
 had that magniiicent temple all to themselves. As the clock 
 struck ten the organ began to jieal, and the priests came 
 slowly towards the altar in their rich vestments — for the 
 vestments worn upon the humblest occasions at Notre Dame 
 are splendid — and the ceremonial began,
 
 41 Under the lied Flag 
 
 All was over iu less than half an hour, and Kathleen and 
 her sister went back into the sunshine, out of the gray 
 shadows, the magical lights from painted glass, the glory of 
 gold, and splendour of chromatic colour, 
 
 ' Is that all ? ' asked Kathleen, looking up at her lover- 
 husband. 'Am I really and truly your wife ?' 
 
 'Eeally and truly ; and you would have been just as truly 
 my wife if we had never gone further than the mairie.' 
 
 ' No, no, Gaston ; for then Heaven would have had no part 
 in our marriage.' 
 
 * My sweetest, I am content that you should be content. 
 Women love old-world fancies,' answered this light-hearted 
 infidel gaily. 
 
 There was a stand of carriages in front of the church. 
 Philip Durand hailed two of them, and the wedding party 
 got in. The two bridegrooms had planned the day between 
 them. They were to breakfast at the restaurant in the Place 
 de la Bourse, chosen for the sake of its winter-garden, which 
 gave an air of prettiness to the sordid fact of dinner. And 
 just now, too, in this time of anxiety and ferment, the 
 Bourse was the central 2:)oint of Paris, where one could 
 always hear the latest news. Just now T?aris lived on tip- 
 toe, as it were, palpitating, thrilling with the expectation of 
 great victors — an Austerlitz, a Jena ; tl;e news might be 
 flashed along the wires at any naoment of day or night. Tlie 
 telegraph clerks were waiting, fingei's itching to record the 
 triumph of Gallic arms. No one thought of Waterloo. 
 
 The bridal party drove across the river, past the Louvre, 
 into the Rue de Rivoli. What meant this new life and 
 movement in the streets — men running to and fro, women 
 standing in little groups, laughing, crying, hats waved in the 
 air — the wild excitement of a racecourse when the favourite 
 is winning a great race ? 
 
 ' One would think our happiness ha<l driven all the world 
 out of their wits,' said Gaston, with his arm round his wife's 
 waist. 
 
 There was only Madame Schubert with them in the 
 carriage. She had insisted on taking the back seat, and sat 
 smiling benignly on the happy lovers, passing proud of their 
 hapi>iness as being in some measure hei' own work. 
 
 The coachman turned round and shouted to them as he 
 rattled his horse over the broad space in front of the Theatre 
 Fran^ais. Tlie pavement before the cafes was crowded with 
 the usual loungers, smoking, talking, drinking ; only the talk
 
 The Song of Victory 45 
 
 and the laughter avcio louder than usual, the crowd waa 
 denser, the air waa full of electricity. 
 
 ' A victory ! ' shouted the driver, looking round at his fare, 
 and cracking his whip ferociously; 'a great victory I 
 MacMahon has made mincemeat of those Prussian dogs 1 ' 
 
 'A victory, and on our wedding-day ! ' exclaimed Kathleen 
 joyously ; and then the sweet sensitive face clouded sud- 
 denly, and she said, ' There can be no victory without soldiers 
 slain. Many hearts of wives and mothers will be mourning- 
 to-day amidst all this joyousness. Oh, Gastoii, how thankful 
 I ought 10 be that you were past the age for service I ' 
 
 ' True, dearest, I am better off here thau with the Mob- 
 lots ; but if the National Guard were called out I should 
 have to shoulder my musket.' 
 
 ' But not to leave Paris,' said Kathleen, nestling closer to 
 him ; ' and there can be no fighting in Paris.' 
 
 * Heaven forbid ! Xo, love ; one or two victories, and 
 Prussia will give us whatever terms we ask. What can a 
 herd of Huns and A''andals do against the fine flower of our 
 army, the stalwart heroes of Magenta and Solferino, the 
 graybeards of Alma and Algiers 'i ' 
 
 They drove along the Rue Vivienne. The narrow street 
 was all in commotion ; people at the shop-dooi's, people at 
 the ujtper windows ; a Babel of voices, a shrill uproar of 
 laughter and exclamation. But in the Place de la Bourse, 
 and on the boulevard beyond, the excitement culminated. It 
 was the fever of Epsom when the Derby has just been won 
 — the stir and tumult of Doncaster at the crowning moment 
 of the Leger ; and yet a deeper and stronger fever, for this 
 had the awfulness of life and death. 
 
 Victory, yes ; but where I Which of the armies was it — 
 MacMahon's or Bazaine's ? Or was it the two armies which 
 had crushed the Prussian forces between them — which had 
 met and joined, like two living walls, deadly, invincible 
 squeezing out the life of the enemy 1 
 
 Every one was asking questions, every one answering, 
 stating, counter-stating, asserting, denying ; but in this 
 tumult of statement and counter-statement there w;is a 
 difficulty in arriving at anything positive, except the one all- 
 inspiring fact that there had been a tremendous victory on 
 the French side. Flags were ilying at all the windows — Hags 
 produced as if by enchantment ; and here came an oi)en 
 carriage slowly through the mob — the carriage of a famous 
 opera-singer, Tn an instant it was stopped, surrounded by
 
 iC Under the Bed Flay 
 
 that surging sea of luimaiiity ; and the Diva stood wi^ in her 
 carriage at the entreaty— nay, ahuost the coujniaud— of tlie 
 jmblic, to sing the 'JMar.seillaise.' 
 
 The glorious finely-trained voice rolled out the soul-stir- 
 ring words, the notes rising bird-like and clear in the summer 
 air, floating up to the summer sky ; and then fifty thousand 
 voices, the deep rough tones of an excited popidace, burst 
 forth in the chorus, like human thunder. Impossible to resist 
 the magnetism of that passionate patriotism. The eyes of 
 strong men grew dim, women sobbed hysterically. France, 
 la belle France— she had been in peril perhaps ; yes, strong 
 though she was, there was never war without peril ; but she 
 was safe— safe, triumphant, glorious, with her foot upon the 
 enemy's neck. Alas ! to think how the Gallic cock crew and 
 flapped his wings during that one wild hour ! 
 
 The bridal party pushed their way into the Restaurant 
 Champeaux. Under the glass roof, in the covered flower- 
 garden, there was such a mob that it was very difficult to get 
 a small table in a corner, and a waiter who would cease from 
 hurrying to and fro to take an order from the new-comers. 
 Every one was celebrating the victory with good cheer of 
 some kind. Champagne corks were flying, plates clattering, 
 spoons and forks jingling, and everywhere rose the same din 
 of voices. 
 
 Durand and Mortemar contrived, by strenuous exertions, 
 to secure a bottle of champagne and another of Bordeaux, a 
 poulet gms and a Chateaubriand, some fruit, cheese, salad ; 
 and the wedding-party breakfasted merrily amidst the din, 
 squeezed together in their corner, stiilingly hut under the 
 burning glass roof and in the crowded atniosphere! But who 
 would not be hajjpy on a wedding-day, and in the hour of 
 victory ? They sat at the little table for more than an hour, 
 nearly half of which time had l)een wasted in waiting ; and 
 when they went out again it seemed to Durand's keen eye as 
 if a change had come over the spirit of the crowd outside. 
 There were only about half the people, and faces were graver 
 — some faces of business men looking even perplexed and 
 troubled : voices were less loud ; no more hats were thrown 
 into the air, nor was there any more laughter. 
 
 The rest of the bridal party were too much absorbed in 
 each other to note this cljaiige in the inildic temper. The 
 carnages were waiting to take them to the Buttes Chaumont, 
 where it had been decided to spend the afternoon. They were 
 to go back to a dinner which Madame Schubert and Rose had
 
 The Song of Victory 47 
 
 planned between them, in Madame Sdiubeit'.s apartment, 
 whicli was spacious and splendid in the eyes of the dwellers 
 in Git laCa'ur. Durand and Moitemar had wished to give a 
 dinnci" at some popular restaurant — au Moulin liouge, for 
 instance ; but the women had set their faces against such 
 extravagance. Rose argued that it was a sin to squander 
 money on eating and drinking. She had heard that at such 
 places a napoleon was charged for a single dish, a franc for a 
 pear or a peach ; yes, when peaches were to be had for three 
 or four sous at the street-corners. So Maman Schubert and 
 Rose had held grave consultations, and had gone marketing 
 together on the eve of the wedding, and now, while they were 
 driving meirily towards the Place de la Bastille, the daube d 
 la rrocciK^ale was simmering slowly on the little charcoal 
 stove in la Schubert's tiny kitchen. T\\q petits fours from the 
 confectioner's in the Rue du Bac were ready in the doll's- 
 house larder, and the dinner-table was set out with its fruit 
 and llowers and golden-crusted loaves of finest bread, and 
 bottles of innocent Mcdoc, ready for the feast. 
 
 The excitement of the good news pervaded Paris. The Rue 
 St. Antoine, the Place de la Bastille, were alive with 
 idlers. They drove by the long dreary Rue de la Roquette, 
 past the prison-walls, away to Mcnilmontant and Belleville, 
 where the honest harmless working population, the blue 
 blouses and white muslin caps, were all astir in the sun- 
 shine — a seething crowd. There was a kind of fair on the 
 Boulevard, a Saturday and Sunday fair — swings and round- 
 abouts, and a juggler or two — all merry in the white August 
 dust, under the hot blue sky. 
 
 'J'hey drove through narrow old streets on the top of the 
 hill — dusty, crowded, unwholesome, wretched dwellings ; a 
 truculent rabble, blue blouses, white night caps, everywhere ; 
 (pieer little wine-shops, queer little eating-houses, an intoler- 
 able odour oi petit bleue ami absintlic suisse, atumult of hai-sh, 
 voices — and so to the wonderful gardens, the green valleys 
 and Alpine crags, the blue lakes and Swiss summer-houses, 
 and Grecian temples of the Buttes Chaumont, those old, 
 disused quarries tliat have been made into a pleasure-ground 
 for the people of Paris ; surely the prettiest, gayest, most 
 picturesque playground that ever a tyrant gave to his slaves. 
 Let us call him a tyrant, now that he lies at rest in his Eng- 
 lish grave, and all the good he did for the Paris he loved so 
 well is approjiriated by new masters, his name obliterated from 
 all things which his brain devised, and his enteqirise created.
 
 48 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 The wedding-party drove in by the gate that has ad- 
 mitted so many bridea and bridegrooms, smart and smiling, 
 in their new clothes, tlieir new bliss. They drove a little 
 ■way into the grounds and then alighted, and climbed one of 
 the Alpine promontories, and looked down upon the varied 
 scene beneath. Never was a more joyous crowd beneath a 
 brighter sky, amidst a fairer landscape. It seemed as if all 
 Paris were taking holiday. The verdant valley was a palpi- 
 tating mass of blue blouses, white caps, particoloured raiment, 
 brightened here and there by the uniform of a serge^it de 
 'cille. One could hardly see the greensward, so dense was 
 the throng of humanity. The chalets were crowded with 
 customers ; lemonade, syrups, coffee, ices. Bavarian beer, 
 were being consumed wholesale. Mothers and children, 
 fathers, sweethearts : Paris was all here en famille,di\\ elated 
 at the great news, somewhat vague at present. But Gaston 
 and his young wife went higher and higher, seeking some 
 solitary spot beyond this holiday throng, and at last found a 
 hill upon which vegetation was wilder and more romantic, 
 and where they were alone for a little while, looking down 
 upon Paris lying in an oval basin at their feet, a city of white 
 houses and church towers, domes and statues, girdled with 
 gardens, flashing with fountains, the beautiful river cleaving 
 the white streets and quays like a bright steel falchion 
 touched with gleams of gold. 
 
 ' Is it not a noble city 1 ' asked Gaston, proud of his birth- 
 place, the only home he had ever known. 
 
 Yonder to their left, on the slope of the hill, lay the 
 cemetery, crosses and columns, Egyptian sepulchres, Roman 
 temples, glittering whitely in the sun, amidst a tangle of 
 summer foliage. 
 
 ' Shall we be there, among the limes, when oar life is over, 
 I wonder ? ' mused Kathleen. ' Perhaps you will have a tomb 
 like Balzac's or Musset's. Who knows ? ' 
 
 ' Who knows, indeed, dearest ? I have been earning my 
 bread by my ])en for the last ten years, and do not find 
 myself any nearer the fame of a Balzac than when I began. 
 Yet who knows what I may do now I have you to work for ? 
 Balzac had a long time to wait. Fame comes in an hour 
 sometimes. And of late, inspired by thoughts of you, I have 
 nursed the dim idea of a novel, as I tramped backwards and 
 forwards to the office. Yes, I believe I have a fancy which, 
 worked out faithfully, might hit the Parisians. But a 
 journalist is the drudge of literature. All his faculties are
 
 The Song of Victor]/ 49 
 
 the slaves of a tyrannical master whose name is To-day. lie 
 niii.st think only of the present, write only for the present. Jle 
 must harbour neither memories of t)ie past nor dreams of 
 the future. If .Sh.ikespeare and Goethe had written for the 
 jjapers we should have neither Fau.st nor Jhrmlct." 
 
 ' But you will not always have to work for the papers 'i ' 
 
 'Who can tell? I must be at work early to-morrow to 
 write a description of that scene on the Bourse fur the Mon- 
 day number.' 
 
 ' If I could only hel]) you ! ' sighed Kathleen. 
 
 ' You do help me, dearest. You have helped mo to nobler 
 ambitions, to j)urer hopes. You have made me work Avith 
 higher fiurpose, v.-ith steadier aim. You are the good spirit 
 of luy life.' 
 
 ' Tell- nK> about your story,' she said, ' the story you have 
 in your mind.' 
 
 ' It is all about love — and you. I will tell you nothing. 
 But some day I shall contrive to write it, between whiles, 
 between paragi-aph and paragraj)h, leader and leader, and I 
 shall get a jniblisher to produce it, under a jwm de plume, 
 and tlie book shall be the talk of Paris ; and you shall reatl 
 it with smiles and tears, and you shall say, " Oh, Gaston, what 
 a jtainter, what a poet, what an inspired dreamer this man 
 must be I I only wish I knew who he is, that I might 
 worship him." And I shall say, " Worship me, love. I am 
 the poet and the dreamer ; and you are my only Egeria." ' 
 
 lie looked like a poet, as he lay at her feet on the sun- 
 burnt sward, his eyes gazing dreamily over the city in the 
 valley — dreamily away towards Mount Valerian and the 
 fortifications on the other side of Paris. 
 
 They loitered away tlie long summer afternoon in serencst 
 contentment, in deep iuexpressible bliss. It seemed to them 
 as if life were henceforward perfect. They had nothing left 
 to desire— e.Kcept, ])erhaps, on Gastf)n's side, fame and wealth, 
 in a remote dreaui like future. Kathleen had no desire to be 
 rich. Poverty had never hurt her ; excejit in tliat one sad 
 time, when her sister was ill. And now she had a little 
 money, put away in a secret jilace, against any such evil hour. 
 Poverty had no flavour of bitterness for this easily satislied 
 nature. She rose as gaily as a lark ; she went about her 
 little duties singing for very joyousness. Her humble fare 
 was sweetened by her contented spirit. Her lauuble home 
 was beautified by all those little arts which endear lowly 
 rooms to the dweller. And nov.-, to begin life anew, on the 
 
 £
 
 50 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 same third floor in the Eue Gtt le Coeur, -with her lover- 
 husband, was lilve the crowiiing bliss on the last page of a 
 fairy tale. 
 
 Tlie streets were very quiet, and had a somewhat gloomy 
 look as the wedding-party drove back to Git le Ccieur ; but 
 they were all too happy, too much engrossed by their own 
 bliss, to remark the change that had come over the aspect of 
 the city. No more flags, no more cheering, no more songs of 
 triumph. 
 
 ' I wonder they did not illuminate some of the public 
 buildings,' said Durand, as they passed the Palais de Justice. 
 
 Not a festival lamp twinkled in the August sundown ; not 
 a star of coloured light sparkled on all the length of tlie 
 quays ; not a rocket shot up above the chestnuts in the 
 Gardens of the Tuileries. Paris wore her everyday aspect. 
 However elated the city had been this morning, she was 
 taking her triumph soberly to-night. 
 
 The little dinner in the Rue Git le Coeur was a great suc- 
 cess. The feast was held in Madame Schubert's apartment, 
 and that kindly matron presided at the banquet. Never was 
 there a merrier meal ; voices all mingling now and then in 
 a joyous tumult of speech— voices low and sweet, deep and 
 resonant— and ripples of happy laughter ; a frequent clinking 
 of glasses, and anecdotes and calemhows. Gaston's friend 
 the journalist turned out a wit of the flrst water ; and the 
 gray-bearded, grave artist proved wonderfully good company: 
 he was loaded with anecdotes, like a six-chambered revolver, 
 and before his audience had done laughing at one story \\e 
 had begun another, still funnier, and then another, funnier 
 again, a perpetual crescendo of mirth. 
 
 Just as a crowning feature, with the dessert, came a bottle 
 of champagne, whose cork exploded with the force of a caimon. 
 
 ' Listen there ! ' cried the journalist. ' How that thunders ! 
 It is the true wine of war.' 
 
 And at this a burst of gaiety. It is such a droll game, 
 la guerre, when one's own country is winning. 
 
 ' Just one little glass more, iin polickinelle, my friend,' said 
 Gaston, filling his fellow-scribbler's glass, ' to fete our arms.' 
 
 After the champagne, Gaston slipped outquietly with just 
 a whispered explanation to his wife. He had to go round to 
 the newspaper office, in the Hue St. Andre des Arts, to 
 arrange about his descriptive article for Monday, or, in point 
 of fact, to write his paper on the spot.
 
 The Song of Vic tor ij 51 
 
 He was gone about an liour and a half, and although the 
 anecdotes and calembours went on, and the fun was fast and 
 furious all the time, that hour and a half seemed passing 
 long to his bride. 
 
 "When he came back the gloom of his countenance scared 
 the revellers. 
 
 ' Why, ( Jaston, thou lookest as dolorous as the statue of the 
 C'ommandante ! What ails thee, Trouble-feast ? ' 
 
 ' It was all a hoax,' cried Moitemar, Hingitig down his hat 
 savagely, ' a trick of that black-hearted devil Bisnuirck. There 
 has been no French victory — defeat, if anything. And our 
 shouts, our songs, our flags — all madness anrl folly.' 
 
 ' Oh, but come, now, that is a little too strong on the part of 
 ce roquiii Bismarck.' 
 
 ' Yes, it is too strong. He is strong and we are weak — 
 weaker than water. A nation that has no ])rudence, no 
 caution, no coolness of brain, can never be a great nation. 
 We are children, always ready to take a will-o'-the-wisp for 
 a comet.' 
 
 ' We are Celts, my friend, that is all. And we have the 
 strength and the weakness of the Celtic nature,' quietly an- 
 swered the gray-bearded painter. ' I am afraid these slow 
 square-headed Saxons will get the better of us. It is the old 
 race of the hare and the tortoise over again.'
 
 52 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 THE COMING OF THE SQUARE-HEABS 
 
 "No, there Imd been no victory. That outburst of patriotic 
 fervour had wasted itself upon an idle dream. Paris awoke 
 in a very savage humour on Sunday morning : and then came 
 laughter and cynical jests. Everybody accused his neigh- 
 bour of having eagerly swallowed the lie. Everybody de- 
 clared that he, for his own ]) ut, had never believed the news 
 so greedily accepted by the mob. 
 
 But in those two new homes in the Rue Git le Co3ur there 
 was bliss, whether the arms of France were victorious or 
 otherwise far away in those unknown lands, which the 
 Parisians were picking out with pins upon gaily-coloured 
 maps, sticking up tiny Hags here and there on the map to 
 show where the French troops were, the very spot where 
 great battles might be expected momently, great victories — 
 a new Auerstadt, a second Jena. 
 
 What do little birds in their nests on St. Valentine's Day 
 care what battles the big eagles, the hawks, and the vultures 
 are fighting far away among Scottish mountains, on Alpine 
 summits ] The birds have their nests, and each to each h the 
 world in little. 
 
 'Let the world slide, we shall never be younger,' said 
 Gaston, who knew Shakespeare, in the translation of Charles 
 Hugo. 
 
 He and his young wife were utterly happ3\ If there were 
 dark clouds im])eniling they qindd not see them. Is not 
 love blind — blind to all things except the beloved? The 
 faintest shadow on Gaston's brow troubled Kathleen, but 
 not those signs of tempest which were gathering round 
 France. 
 
 The new home was fidl of smiles. Kathleen and Gaston 
 had smartened the old furnituie by fome modest additions 
 bought before their marriage — a writting-table, a cabinet, 
 a bookcase filled with Gaston's books, the accumulation of 
 the last ten years, a few old mezzo-tints picked up from time 
 to time at the print-shops on the quay. Kathleen and Rose 
 had toiled for months to make both homes complete and
 
 The Coming of the Square-heads 63 
 
 pretty. Curtains and chair-covers were all the work of those 
 two pairs of iiulustriou.s hands. 
 
 Durand, who was licher than Morteraar, liad taken the 
 lower floor for his own menage. In the Rue Gil- le Cceur that 
 .second floor ranked as a rather inii)ortant suite of rooms. 
 
 The apartment consisted of salon, iifteen feet by twelve, 
 witli two casement wijidows commanding the shabby little 
 c )urtyard ; a bedroom somewhat smaller ; a little room which 
 would serve as a workshop for Duraud, who did a good deal 
 of artistic cabinet-work on his own account after business 
 hours ; and a tiny kitchen. Durand's skilful hands had made 
 all the best of the furniture in the dead watches of the night, 
 when other men where sleeping or dissipating ; so the home 
 of Hose and Philip was furnished in a style worthy of a man 
 who stood high in the syndicate of cabinet-makeiu 
 
 But while life was so full of happiness for the newly- 
 married, the sky was darkening outside. An army f)f un- 
 deniable valour, but in number terribly inferior to the foe, 
 and led by generals of scandalous incapacity, was l>rought 
 face to face with the whole of Germany, in arms as one man, 
 burning to avenge the agony and shame of sixty years ago. 
 On the 4th of August came the defeat of General Douay, 
 beaten and slain at Wissembourg ; and on the (5th the still 
 more de])'orable reverses of MacMahon at Wierth, at 
 Freichwiller, and at Reichsotfen. By the breach thus opened 
 the enemy poured into France like a torrent. They came, 
 the (f'^tcs ranr'c'S ! There was no longer room for self-deception. 
 This was invasion. 
 
 And now far off, dimly as in a dream, Paris beheld the i)ale 
 spectre of siege and famine. The Parisians knew hardly any- 
 thing of the truth, which came to them only in garbled 
 fragments. They knew not that upon the heels of these 
 three or four hundred thousand men let lose \ipon France 
 would follow hundreds of thousands more ; yes, nearly all 
 the male ])opulation of the old German Empire. 
 
 Dark rumours of evil without the walls drew those two 
 households nearer to each other, making home joys sweeter, 
 love closer. But now Kathleen learnt tlie meaning of fear. 
 She was full of morbid terrors when her husband was away 
 from her. She jiietured an advanced guard of Prussians 
 falling ui)on him in the street ; a shell from the enemy's 
 artillery bursting at his feet. And Gaston went every day 
 to the otHce of tlie Dmpcau Roikjc. He had leaders to write, 
 tartines, letters, patriotic articles breathing warlike lire, every
 
 54 U7ider the Bed Flag 
 
 full stop seeming like a shell. France beaten, France 
 invaded ? Ah, but there was notliin" in this world so iin- 
 likely, so near the impossible ; and yet, while he wrote, French 
 arms were being flung down, French £oldiei\s were flying— a 
 wild rabble — from before the face of the foe ; and the invader's 
 foot was on the soil, tramping onwards, steadily, steadily, 
 steadily; gigantic, invincible, like some mightyforce of Nature; 
 slow, cumulative, pitiless. But say that the soldiers of France 
 had fled ; say that Achilles himself had flung down his sword 
 and shield, and taken to his heels ; whose was the fault ] 
 Why, naturally, it was the government that was to blame, 
 shrieked the lied Fla/i. Down with the Ministers ! Give us 
 new Ministers, and our arms will be victorious. MacMahon 
 and Bazaine will unite their forces, and the tide of victory 
 will roll backward across those advancing herds of Huns and 
 Pandours, and SNveep the savages back to their native pine- 
 woods, their desert wastes beside the Danube. 
 
 There was a sudden shuffle of cards in the political game. 
 Gramont and Ollivier retired, driven out by a vote of censure, 
 and General INtontauban, Comte de Palikao, took the helm. 
 
 ' A military Mercadet with a touch of Robert Macaire,' 
 said the Red Flag. ' What good could be expected from such 
 canaille ? ' 
 
 The month of August wore on — a month of anxiety, of 
 wavering hopes, of ever growing fears. History records no 
 bloodier battles than Rezonville and Gravelotte, fought in 
 in the middle of that anxious month ; and although Bazaine 
 claimed the first as 'a victory, he was steadily retreating ; 
 every day brought him nearer Metz, where he finally retired, 
 abandoning his communications with MacMahon and the rest 
 of France. 
 
 Then came the rumour that Metz was blocaked : Bazaine 
 and his hundred and eighty thousand men were bound round 
 with bonds of iron, useless, helpless. MacMahon was 
 encamped at Chalons, recreating his army, and thither 
 regiment after regiment of undisciplined youth was sent to 
 liim ; and undisciplined youth made the country round ring 
 with tlie noise of its follies, made France blush for her sons. 
 And still the flood of invasion rolled on steadily as the rising 
 tide. A week, a fortnight at most, and the Ci-own Prince 
 with his victorious army would debouch upon the plain of 
 Genevilliers. And liow, in earnest this time, seeing the enemy 
 so near, Paris awakened to the jjossibility of a seige ; but 
 even yet fear was not so serious as to stimulate the city to
 
 The Coining of the Square-heads 55 
 
 prompt and decisive action. The people waited — expectant, 
 hopeful still : somethiug would happen, something unforeseen 
 — a miracle, perhaps. 
 
 Something unforeseen did happen ; but the unforeseen 
 wore the shape of shame, defeat, humiliation — an empire 
 overthrown in one bloody day ; Emperor a state prisoiier ; 
 Empress a fugitive ; army prisoners of war. 
 
 First came the tidings that MacMahon, instead of trying to 
 block the passage of the Germans, instead of falling back upon 
 the capital to fight one of the world's decisive battles under 
 the walls of Paris, was moving northwards, obviously intent 
 ujjon joining and releasing Bazaine. 
 
 What might not be hoped from a coalition between two 
 sucli generals — one wlio had risen with every defeat, the 
 other as famous for indomitable energy as for military skill ? 
 What might not be hoped for from Bazaine's hundred and 
 eighty thousand men, the flower of the French army ? 
 
 For two days, the first balmy days of September, a restless, 
 feverish, over-excited pojjulace lived upon the boulevards and 
 in the streets. Questions, statements, counter-statements 
 flew from lip to lip. False reports and monstrous ex- 
 aggerations were in the very air men breathed. Then, on a 
 Saturday, came the news of a great calamity ; a terrible 
 battle had been fought, was still being fought, with fluctuating 
 fortunes, in the environs of Sedan. But the iiltimate result ? 
 For this Paris waited with inexpressible agitation. The news- 
 vendors' kiosques were besieged by tumultuous ci'owds ; hands 
 were stretched forth, tremulous with excitement, clutching 
 at the papers ; men stood upon the boulevard benches, reading 
 tlie news aloud, above a sea of heads. 
 
 Nothing was certain in the news thus devoured, nothing 
 authentic, nothing precise. The crowd, deprived of ofticial 
 information, was consumed by a nervous irritability, a fever of 
 ho])es and fears. Men were impatient, captious, quarrelsome. 
 At the first word of doubt they were ready to treat each other 
 as Prussians or traitors ; for a mere nothing they would have 
 challenged each other to mortal combat. Voices were sharp; 
 strangers glared at one another with angry eyes. 
 
 Lamps began to shimmer in the summer twilight ; cafes 
 and wine-shops shone out upon the night ; and gradually, 
 imperceptibly, the knowledge of a great catasti'ojihe spread 
 and circulated on every side. Details were wanting ; but 
 France had sufi'ered some terrible defeat. That was seen in 
 every face. Xo one in Paris slept that night. The Corps
 
 56 Under the Bed Flcuj 
 
 Legislatif called a midnight sitting ; and the Second Empire 
 sank through the stage of this world to the realm of chaos 
 and night, evanescent as a scene in a fairy play : and the 
 curtain rose upon the New Republic. 
 
 Tile next day was Sunday, Se])tembor the 4th, and the 
 new-born Republic began in the glory of a cloudless summer 
 sky. O strange people, children of smiles and tears ! Last 
 night Paris had been plunged to the bottom of a black abyss, 
 steeped in the horror of calamity, brought face to face with 
 the certainty of an imminent siege, her army annihilated, her 
 Empire fallen. Paris had laid herself down in dust and 
 ashes, with weeping and wailing for the splendour that had 
 perished, the glory that was gone. 
 
 To-day, Sunday, and a holiday, Paris awoke radiant. 
 Again the excited populace tilled the boulevards, poured 
 alung the streets, a strong current of humanity trending 
 towards the Champs Elysees and the Bois, But to-day the 
 note is changed. It is no longer the harsh minor of Rachel's 
 wail for her lost sons, but the glad psalm of Deborah. The 
 Empire has fallen, has fallen. Long live the Rej^ublic ! 
 Let them come, the tetcs carrees ! We are more than a 
 match for them now. Joy beams on every face. The crowd 
 wears its holiday clothes, the whole city its holiday aspect. 
 
 Every now and then a battalion of the National Guard 
 tramps singing along the roadway. They stop their song to 
 cry, ' Long live the Rejniblic ! ' and thunderous acclamations 
 reply, ' Long live the Republic ! ' 
 
 And now came a time of preparation, expectation, antici- 
 pation. The days of uncertainty were over, and William and 
 his conquering hosts were pouring steadily on towards tliis 
 beautiful city of Paris. Bismarck had declared that he bore 
 no grudge against France : he made war only upon the 
 Empire. And lo, the Empire was ended like a morning 
 dream, the eagles were draggled in the blood-stained dust of 
 disastrous battlefields : and still Germany pressed onward, 
 laughing with a sardonic laughter at the impediments France 
 set in her way. Here a bridge blown to the four winds ; 
 there a viaduct shattered ; railway-lines cut, destruction 
 everywhere ; and yet the barbarous hordes tramped on over 
 the ruins that strewed the way, ])ouring, pouring, jiouring 
 onward, fatal, invincible, innumerable, as the army of locusts 
 in Holy Writ. 
 
 The Parisians expected an assault, a great battle, victory ov
 
 The Cominrj of (lie Sriuarc-hcaJs 67 
 
 speedy doom. They waited boldly, strong in their faith that 
 Bellona was on tht'ir side. The Goddess ot' Eattle liad liiddeii 
 her face from tliem hitlit-rto, b)it it must be that she loved 
 her France, laurel-crowned Victrix of so many glorious fields 
 mother of so m;uiy heroes. 
 
 Yot, althou:,di ox{)ectant of short and sharp strife, Paris 
 prudently ]irt.i)ared against llie hazard of a blockade. She 
 gathered in her flocks and herds, she heaped up corn and 
 coal. The Grand 0])era, that j)alatial pile which was to have 
 been a crowning glory of the Kr.ipire, was converted into a 
 storehouse, h;df reservoir, half granary. She set to work to 
 complete her unfinished fortifications, but passing slowly. 
 She armed all her citizens. C'hasscpots and Remingtons were 
 your only wear. And honest s^hopkeopos, who had nevi-r 
 ])ulled a trigger, swaggered and strutted in warlike gear. 
 Every head wore the kepi ; every man told himself that 
 come what might, let trade or family perish, he must be 
 t/icrc, on the walls, ready to receive William and his 
 Pandours. With some there was an idea that those ad- 
 vancing hordes were fresh from their native pine-forests, 
 half-nake<l savage^ with long hair, and wolf-skins slung 
 across their brawny shoulders — such men as destroyed 
 Varus and his legions — such men as fought and died for 
 Vercingetorix. 
 
 ' Let them come,' said the sleek grocers and bakers of 
 Paris. ' We are getting ready for them.' 
 
 She cut down her wood, her beautiful Bois de Boulogne, 
 Ihe happy holiday ground of high and low. Tho.^e leafy 
 arcades were given over to the woodman's axe, those trees 
 Avere mutilated or hewn down. The swans upuu the silvery 
 lake, the fauna of those shadowy groves, were abandoned to 
 the guns of the IStoblots, Everywhere the creak and crash of 
 falling timber, the scream of dying beast or bird. There, 
 where the gay ])rocession of carriages used to circulate in the 
 afternoon sunlight, were now loneliness and ruin ; here and 
 there a few scattered jilumes, white on the greensward, 
 showed whore death had been ; here and there the thick 
 black smoke, and fitful flame, marked a newly-fired thicket, 
 
 Paris was a camp, and every citizen a soldier. But the 
 soldier's duties were neither onerous nor varied at this period. 
 There was the morning lendezvous from seven to eiglit, the 
 day and night watch on the ram])arts, short slumbers under 
 canvas, for the casemates which were to shelter these heroes 
 later on were not yet built,
 
 58 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 Among these soldiers of the National Guard Philip Durand 
 and Gaston Mortemar were both numbered. The charmed 
 life of the newly wedded was over. The domestic hearth 
 was lonely. The husband could only return to his home in 
 the intervals of his service as a defender of his city. And 
 the wife was full of fear in her lonely home, or prowling in 
 the neighbouring streets on some small household errand, 
 loitering with other wives on doorsteps or at street corners, 
 devouring the last news from the ranijjarts. 
 
 Trade was at a standstill. Each National Guard had his 
 allowance of a franc and a half a day, with a small sum for 
 wife or family ; but it was almost impossible for him to carry 
 on any handicraft during this reign of Chassepot and 
 Eemington. Some there were — the few, the elect_ among 
 workers— who contrived to accomplish something in their 
 brief respite from soldiering ; and among these was Durand. 
 His employer had shut up his factory. What good was there 
 in creating articlesof luxury — artistic cabinets a la Renaissance, 
 writing-tables () la Dnharry, commodes a la Maintenon, 
 what use in imitating the finest works of Buhl and Eeisnier, 
 when the city was girt with iron, and might ere long be girt 
 Avith fire 1 when at any evil hour, as yet unmarked upon the 
 calendar, a bomb might explode in the middle of the factory, 
 and send Buhl and Eeisnier, delicate inlaid work, ormolu and 
 cherry-wood, peartree and ebony, in a shower of splinters 
 through the shattered roof? The proprietor stowed away 
 his choicest woods in his cellars, and locked up his warehouses 
 and workshops. No goods could be exported from a 
 blockaded city ; and in the city there were no purchasers of 
 art furniture. 
 
 But this did not constrain Durand to lay aside his gouges 
 and chisels. Before his marriage he had brought home to his 
 little workshop some fine pieces of old wood, collected in 
 various nooks and corners of Paris— an oak panel from the 
 wreckage of a church, an old walnut sideboard, thick, heavy, 
 clumsy, but oh, so well seasoned and richly coloured, from a 
 sixteenth century Jiouse in the Marais— and with treasures 
 such as these to his hand Philip Durand had no lack of work, 
 lie had undertaken a magnum opns in the shape of a side- 
 board, which in design and workmanship was to surpass 
 anything that had yet been done in the factory wliere he was 
 chief workman. All his knowledge of the master-pieces in 
 carved oak, all his taste and skill were brought to bear upon 
 this piece of furniture. Ilis long Sunday afternoons in the
 
 The Coming of the Square-heads 50 
 
 Louvre, his study of the art-books in the Imperial Library, 
 all helped hiui in his handicraft. Jacques Mollin, his fiieiid 
 the painter, was at his elbow to make suggestions while the 
 drawings for the sideboard were in progress. The mighty 
 dead had their part in the work. This tangle of fruit and 
 flowers on the cornice owed something to Van Huysum. 
 This heap of wild fowl and hares, flung as it were haphazard 
 against a lower jianel, was a sinirenirof Snyders. Everywhere 
 the mind of the artist informed the hand of the craftsman. 
 And the sideboaid was as the api)le of Philip Durand's eye. 
 It was sure to bring him money, which he cared for only for 
 the sake of his wife and his home. It might bring him fame, 
 which he valued for his own sake, and still more for liose, 
 who would be i)roud by-and-by to say, ' I did not marry a 
 conmion workman.' 
 
 She was a gentleman's daughter, the daughter of an officer 
 in the English army, a man of good birth and refined sur- 
 roundings. This num of the i)eo})le never ignored that fact 
 when he thought of his wife. He wanted to atone to her for 
 the sacrifice she had made ; he never thought of her as the 
 gri.sette, earning her living by the labour of her hands ; but 
 jis C/'aptain O'llara's daughter, born and bred as a lady, 
 stooping from her high estate to become a mechanic's 
 wife. 
 
 How happy were those brief glimpses of home, those brief 
 hours with gouge and chisel, beside the hearth, while Eose 
 stood by and watched the slow careful work — the chiselling 
 of a feather, the rouiuling of a peach, the minute touches that 
 marked the scales of a hsh I 
 
 Yes, even while fear and uncertainty ruled without, while 
 earnings were nil, and the strictest economy was needed lest 
 these days of scarcity should exhaust the little capitabaniassed 
 with such miracles of pnulence and self-denial ; even now, 
 with the enemy within sight of the walls, with the future of 
 France wrapped in gloom, there was gladness in this humble 
 home on the second floor in the Rue Git le (Veur, and the 
 little dinner or supper of bread and salad, the morsel of 
 Lyons sausage, or small tureen of wine-soup was as a feast 
 at this board, where love ever sat as the chief guest, smiling, 
 blind to misfoitune, careless of days to come. 
 
 Above-stairs, in the journalist's hdnie, Love also reigned, 
 and here, too, was the deep ha]ipiness of perfect union : but 
 with Gaston and Kathleen life was less calm than in the 
 Durand household. Gaston was steeped to the lips in the
 
 60 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 fever of politics, was blown hither and thither, his soul tossed 
 and agitated by every breath of the public whirlwind. He 
 had friends here, there, and everywhere among the extreme 
 Eepublican ]iarty ; he believed in Eochefort, he worshipped 
 Flourens, that hot-headed enthusiast who just at this time 
 was in command of five battalions of the National Guard, the 
 beloved of Belleville and Meuilmontant, a leader at who=e 
 beat of drum that seething populace were ready to rise as one 
 man. 
 
 The Bed Flag was loud in its reproaches against existing 
 authorities. The Red Flag lauded Blauqui and the Blan- 
 quists, and was just now at the height of popialarity, rivalling 
 Felix Pyat's ])aper, Le Combat and Blanqui's Patrie en Danger; 
 and yet the day was to come when the Patrie en Banger would 
 cease to charm, and the Red Flag would not be half red 
 enough — would j)erish as an effete rng,too tame,too conciliative 
 for tlie age of anarchy and death. Tlie day was to come when 
 every colour would be too pale for Paris, save the deep dark 
 hue of blood. 
 
 But at this time Paris had not yet begun to suppress 
 its news2)apers. The Red, Flag was popular, and Gaston 
 Mortemarwas the most popular among its contributors. He 
 was paid liberally for his work ; for in this day of doubt and 
 uncertainty the poorest could spare a couple of f;ous for a 
 paper that told how France was being misgoverned, and 
 called upon the supreme sovereign people — the Mix'abeaus 
 and Robespierres, and Dan tons and Maratsof Mcnilmontant, 
 to arise in their might, and steer the tempest-driven ship to 
 a safe harbour — the smooth roadstead of Communism, Collec- 
 tivism, Karl Marxism, what you will ; every man his own 
 master, no hereditary nobility, no landowner.^, no millionaires, 
 a universal level of blue blouses and cheaj) wines. 
 
 And as weeks and months wore on, and autumn began to 
 have a wintry aspect, and parly rose against party, faction 
 against faction, and agitation and fever Avere in the very air 
 men breathed, Kathleen's breast was fluttered by many fears. 
 In Gaston's absence she was never free from nevous appre- 
 hensions, from morbid imaginings. Itw^as only in those brief 
 intervals when he was at home, sitting at his desk, writing 
 jjassionate, vehement jjrotests against this or that, prophesies 
 of evil, wild .suggestions for wilder action, bending over his 
 paper with pale, nervous face and flashing eyes, dipping his 
 j)en into the ink as if it were a stiletto stuck in the heart of 
 the foe, writing as if Satan himself guided his pen, oi^
 
 'TJie Coming of the Square-heads 01 
 
 snatching some hurried meal while the printer's devil ran of!' 
 with the copy, to return an hour after with the proof — it was 
 only then, when he was tlirn% and she could stand beside him 
 as he wrote, and twine her arms round his neck, or smooth 
 his disordered hair, stooping now and then to kiss the troubled 
 brow, that Kathleen felt her husband was safe. At all other 
 times she thought of him as a mark for Prussian bullets or 
 for private vengeance. She had visions^ of every kind of 
 catastrophe that might befall him. 
 
 ' Oh, how I pity the poor rich wives, the great ladies of 
 Paris ; ' she said to Gaston one day as she sat on his knee, 
 after their scanty meal, brushing back the rumjjled hair from 
 his forehead with two loving hands, looking down into the dai k 
 eyes which gave back her look of love; 'how I pity them, 
 poor things, sent away to Diep])e or to Etretat, to Arcachou 
 or Trouville, parted from their husbands, languishing yonder 
 in fear and trembling ! Don't you think it was cruel of the 
 husbands to send them away, Gaston ? ' 
 
 ' No, dearest ; unselfish rather than cruel. The women 
 and children have been sent away from scarcity and danger, 
 from trouble and fear. I wish you had let me send you to 
 your old friends at the convent near Bruges, whose charity 
 would have forgiven your flight, and who might have 
 sheltered you in peace and security till this tempest should 
 be overpast.' 
 
 ' Peace and security away fi-ora you ? I should have broken 
 my heart in a week. You could never have been cruel enough 
 to send me away ! ' 
 
 ' Do you suppose I would not rather have you here, pet 1 ' 
 he asked, looking up at her, drawing down the pale, fair face 
 to meet his own, and covering it with kisses ; ' the light of 
 my home, the guardian angel of my life. The brief half hoiu-s 
 that we can spend together thus and thus and thus,' with a 
 kiss after each word, ' are better than a year of commonplace 
 comfurt ; our meal of bread and haricots is better than a 
 dinner at Bignon's in the golden days of the Empire tliati 
 dead, when dining ranked among the tine arts. Did you read 
 my last article in the Drapcait, Kathleen ? ' he asked in con- 
 clusion, with a little look which betrayed the vanity of the suc- 
 cessful journalist — the man who believes that he moulds and 
 makes public oj)inion. 
 
 ' Did I read it T cried Kathleen ; ' why, I read every word 
 you write ! There is no one so eloquent, no one else whose 
 prose is so full of poetry — excejit, perhaps, Victor Hugo — but
 
 C2 Vnder the Red Flag 
 
 I like your style better than his,' she added quickly, lest he 
 should be oflfended ; ' only, Gaston, sometimes as I read I fear 
 that you are not wise, that those grand, glowing words of 
 yours — words that burn like vitriol sometimes — may fire a 
 train which will lead tr> an explosion, an explosion in which 
 we all may perish. Think of all those people at Belleville 
 and Menilmontant, and Montmartre and Clignancourt — ^many 
 and many of them honest, industrious souls, desiring only 
 right and justice, but others, steeped in crime, misery, hatred 
 — -a seething mass, fermenting in the corruption of idleness 
 and sin — ready to arise like a poison cloud, and spread death 
 and ruin over the city. Do you remember last Sunday, when 
 we went for a long walk in those streets beyond the Boule- 
 vard Eichard Lenoir? There were faces in the crowd, 
 Gaston, that made me shudder, that made me cold witli 
 horror ; faces of women as well as of men — yes, I think the 
 women were worst — faces which haunted me afterwards.' 
 
 ' There are blouses and blouses, Kathleen,' said Gaston, 
 smiling at her earnestness. ' You cannot expect that men 
 and women who have toiled and grovelled for two-thirds of a 
 lifetime in semi-starvation — who have seen all the splendours, 
 and pleasures, and comforts of this world pass by, afar in the 
 distance, no more to them than pictures in a magic-lantern — 
 you can hardly expect thot kind of clay to dress itself up in 
 smiles on a Sunday afternoon, and to sing hymns of thank- 
 fulness to the Creator.' 
 
 ' I should not have been surprised that they look dis- 
 contented,' said Kathleen, ' but they all looked so wicked.' 
 
 'Discontent and wickedness are very near akin,' answered 
 her husband. ' When there is work for allj and food for all, 
 you will see very few of those wicked faces. I am one of the 
 Apostles of the Eeligion of Collectivism, and when that is the 
 creed of France there shall be no more starvation, no more 
 discontent, no great masses of wealth locked up in foreign 
 loans or distant railways ; no millionaires' palaces, with a 
 million or so sunk in pictures and bric-a-brac : but the 
 money won by the labourer shall be in the pocket of the 
 labourer, and there shall be no such thing as stagnant 
 capital. We have seen enough of Dives, in his purple and 
 fine linen, Kathleen ; it is time that Lazarus should have his 
 turn. Dives means the individual : Lazarus means the 
 nation.' 
 
 ' But if, when the Prussians have gone, you are going to 
 do away with millionaires, who is to buy Philip's sideboard % '
 
 The Cominrj of the Sqiiare-hach 03 
 
 (lemantled Kathleen, perceiving tliat this paradise of Collectiv- 
 ism was not without its drawbacks. 
 
 •No one,' answered Gaston lightly. 'Philip is a fool to 
 create such a Avhite elephant. The age of personal luxury, 
 pomp, uiul show, and wild expenditure Avas an outcome of 
 the Empire ; it meant rottenness and corrujjtion, bribery, 
 falsehood, debauchery, an age of courtiers and cocodettes, 
 stock-jobboi-.s and card-sharpers. In the age tliat is coming 
 there will be no carved oak sideboards worth twenty thousand 
 francs, no Gobelins tapestries, no Sevres porcelain. There 
 will be a bit of beef in every mRn's pot-au-feu, a. roof over 
 every man's head, food and shelter, light and aii-, and cleaidi- 
 ness aTid comfort, and a free education for all.' 
 
 'And it is towards this all your articles in the Drapeau 
 tend ? ' asked Kathleen naively. 
 
 ' To this, and to this only.' 
 
 * I am so glad. I was afraid sometimes that you were 
 urging the peple to act as they acted in '93, when King and 
 Queen, patriots and jniests, and helpless innocent people 
 weltered in their blood, yonder, on the Place de la Concorde. 
 
 ' My dearest, I preach Communism, not Revolution,' an- 
 swered Gaston, in all good faith. ' We have no princes to 
 slay. "We have got rid of Badinguet and all that canaille: 
 Ave have a clear stage and no favour ; and it will be our own 
 fault if France does not rise regenerated, puritied, chastened 
 by her misfortune, a veritable Phrenix, from the ashes of 
 ruined towns and villages, from the dry bones of a slaughtered 
 army,' 
 
 ' And there will be nobody to buy poor Philip's sideboard, 
 concluded Kathleen sorrowfully, full of regi-et for the en- 
 thusiast in the little Avorksliop below stairs. 
 
 It seemed to Kathleen as if a world, in which there were 
 no rich people to buy works of art, no beautiful women clad 
 in satin and velvet, no splendid carriages drawn by thorough- 
 bred horses, no palace windows shining acrosjs the dusk with 
 the golden light of myriad wax candles, no gardens seen by 
 fitful glimpses athwart shrubbery and iron railing, would be 
 rather a dreary world to live in ; albeit there might be daily 
 bread for all, and a kind of holy poverty, as of some severe 
 monastic order, reigning everywhere.
 
 Ci 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ON THE RAMPARTS 
 
 Paris was a camp ; but so far it was but playing at solilieis, 
 after all, for those within the walls ; though there was plenty 
 of hard tighting outside ; and many a wounded Moblot was 
 carried to the ambulance on a litter, never to leave it alive ; 
 and many a mother's heart was tortured with fear for her 
 sons ; and many a Eachel wept for those that were not. 
 But thougii the roar of cannon thundered, or grumbled 
 sullenly iu the distance, the National Guard within the 
 walls had what their American friends called a good time. 
 The watch upon the ramparts was the most onerous dut}', 
 and it v/as only the night watch— the cold shelter oF a tent, 
 where the sentinel, retuming from dut}', generally found an 
 intruder snoring upon his own particular knapsaok, and 
 under his own particular rug — which the honest citizen 
 soldier found in somewise hardship. For Gaston Mortemar, 
 young, vigorous, full of enthusiasm, ready, like Flouren?, to 
 lead hve battalions to the fray, if need were, the cold nights 
 of October and the canvas quarters were as nothino-. His 
 niind was charged with enthusiasm as with electricit}" That 
 bitter defeat, that day of humiliation yonder, on the Bebnan 
 frontier, seemed to him the justice of the gods, the salvation 
 of France. The Man of December and Sedan— it was thus 
 
 Blanquists and Internationals spoke of the late Emperor 
 
 was dethroned. That Empire oi dmqtiant a.ndJloiif;ne had 
 crumbled into dust. L' InfAme fut f'crt/.sv; and Fraiice was free 
 to achieve her glorious destiny, as the liberator of the world, 
 and to establish the millennium of C'onmiunism, the peaceful 
 reign of blouses, blue and white, the apotheosis of Belleville 
 and Menilmontant. 
 
 In many a fervid speech Gaston depicted the glories of 
 that coming age, yonder at the club of the-Folies Berg^res, 
 at two steps from the Boulevard Montmartre, wliere the talk 
 latiged ever from grave to gay, from the passionate oratory 
 of the fanatic to the lowest deep of hhujue and buflfoonei}'. 
 There, and in the Salle Favre, and in many other such places.
 
 On the Bamjarts 65 
 
 Gastbn preached liis gospel of free labour, every man his 
 own master, every workman his own capitalist, no concen- 
 tration of profits, no man i)ermittecl to grow rich hy the 
 sweat of aiiother man's brow. 
 
 ' The civilisuil world has outlived black slavery,' he cried ; 
 ' but so long as we still have Avhite slavery — the slavery of 
 the journeyman under the heel of the capitalist— there is no 
 meaning in the word civilisation ; tliere is no such thing on 
 earth as justice.' 
 
 He paced the ramparts, chassepot in hand, full of such 
 thoughts, I'eady to repulse the Prussians, who had not the 
 least idea of attacking bastion or curtain while the gradual 
 work of exhaustion was going on within the cliarmed circle ; 
 and it was only a question of so many months, so many 
 weeks, so many days, when starving Paris must surrender. 
 Already there had been talk of an armistice, and already 
 that heroic cry of Jules Favre, hurled like a gauntlet in the 
 teeth of the enemy, ' Not an inch of our territory, not a stone 
 of our fortresses,' sounded like bitterest mockery. 
 
 Gaston's belief in the power of France against Germany 
 was gi'owiug feebler every day ; but his faith in the great 
 French peojile, as re2Dresented by the blouses of Paris, and in 
 the Conmiune, as the perfection of government, strengthened 
 day by day. Were not the people showing every hour of what 
 noble stuff they were made 1 See how steadily they faced 
 the terrors of a beleaguered city, the deprivations of a state of 
 siege. Behold their courage, their patience, their g;iy good 
 temper. Drunk occasionally, perhaps ; but what of that ? 
 Quarrelsome now and again, but in mere exuberance of an 
 enthusiastic temperament. See how little the knife liad 
 been used in these occasional brawls — a coup de sctrate, a 
 nose tweaked here and there, sulHced, The ])eople showed 
 themselves a nation of heroes. 
 
 It did not occur to Gaston Mortemar that Belleville and 
 Menilmontant, ( 'lignancourt and ]Montmartre, were getting 
 a good time ; that it was as if Bermondsey and Bethnal 
 Green, Whitechapel and Glerkenwell, were having a universal 
 holiday, while every man got tifteen-jjcnce a day, and an 
 allowance for his familv for doing nothing. At everv street- 
 corner there was a cluster of the National CUiard, drinking, 
 laughing, orating, playing the game of botic/to/i, an innocer.' 
 little game of chance with the corks of their wine bottles 
 everywhere, even on the boulevards, dim with the h;df-lighl 
 of alternate lamps, there were sounds of laughter and gaiety ; 
 
 p
 
 66 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 while day by day came tidings of some skirmish outside the 
 walls, which had ended disastrously for those poor Moblots, 
 who had a knack of running away helter-skelter when they 
 found themselves the focus of a circle of artillery. 
 
 It was early in October, and as yet there was no actual 
 scarcity of food. Hiu'dshij) and famine, the bitter cold of 
 winter, were yet in the fiitvire. Luxuries were things to be 
 remembered in the dreams of the epicure or the sensualist ; 
 but frugal Spartan fare was within reach of all who had 
 a little money in the stocking, who had kept their poire poiir 
 la soif. The little children were not yet pining, sickening, 
 fading off the earth for lack of a cup of milk, and the 
 creme)-ie in the street round the corner was in full swing. 
 
 Suzon Michel's cr^merie was something more than a cremerie 
 in these days. It was almost a club. Communists, Inter- 
 nationalists, Collectivists, had their rendezvous in the little 
 shop whei'e Gaston Mortemar used to eat his breakfast in 
 days gone by. The more temperate and respectable of the 
 revolutionary party loved to assemble here. The fare was 
 frugal, but there was a debauch of oratory : and, in the 
 midst of all the talk, the gesticulations, the prophecies, the 
 threatenings and denunciations, Suzon was as the Goddess 
 of Liberty, the Muse of Revolution, the Egeria of the gutter. 
 She had read of Thdroigne de Mericourt, of Madame lloland, 
 and she fancied herself something between the two. She 
 talked as boldly, as loudly as the loudest of her customers. 
 She felt that she could mount the scaffold, and lay her neck 
 under the fatal knife without flinching. 
 
 Never had she looked handsomer than in these days of 
 fever and commotion. Sometimes she twisted a scarlet 
 handkerchief round her raven hair, and those black eyes of 
 hers flashed and danced and sparkled under the Phrygian 
 cap of Liberty. Her neat black gown fitted her svelte figure 
 to perfection. Her energy, her vivacity, her industry were 
 inexhaustible. Her hands were as the hands of Briai^eus for 
 serving the patriots with their coffee, their rolls and butter. 
 Her gay voice sounded above the other voices in the melee of 
 vrit and patriotism. She sang as she went to and fro among 
 the little tables, waiting upon her patrons ; and her song was 
 always the newest ballad with which the ballad-mongers 
 wei'e undermining the government, the ' LillibuUero ' of 
 the hour. 
 
 ' Jg sais lo plan de Trocliu, 
 Plan, plan, plan, plan, plan ! '
 
 On the Bam2)arts 67 
 
 Sometimes, in a moment of exaltation, her customers would 
 call for a stave of the 'Marseillai.se' or the *Ca ira,' and 
 then (he clink of cups and saucers and knives and forks ujwn 
 the tables was like the clash of swords. 
 
 But tempting as these morning assemblies of the patriotic 
 and the iille might be to a man of ( Jaston's temperament, he 
 never crossed tiie threshold of Suzon Michel's sliop. lie 
 ])assed her door twice a day, or oftener, on his way to and 
 fro the newspaper othce ; he heard the cliorus of voices 
 inside, but he never entered the shop. He had a feeling 
 that loyalty to Kath'een forbade him to lioM any commune 
 with Su/.on. And what need had he to take his cup of colFce 
 from a shopkeeper's hand when the faithful wife was waiting 
 for him in lier bower on the third story, watcliing the little 
 brass coiFee-pot simmering upon a handful of charcoal ? One 
 could not be too sparing of fire in these days, tho\igh one 
 were ever so sure that the Prussians must retire from the 
 enemy's soil before winter began in real earnest. The 
 elements would light upon the side of tlie besieged. That 
 vast army, shivering yonder under canvas, must beat a 
 retreat at double-quick time before Jack Frost. 
 
 It was on one of the clear gray afternoons of October that 
 Ga.ston stood resting upon his gun, at his post on theiampart 
 of the fort, gazing with dreamy eyes u]ion a landscape of 
 poetic beauty, the deep rich colouring of autumn subdued 
 into perfect harmony by the tender mists which shadowed 
 without concealing wood and river, vineyard and field, while 
 far otr in the dimness of the horizon his fancy conjured uj) 
 the dark swarm of Prussian helmets, blackening the edge of 
 the landscape. The atmosphei-e was full of peace, and the 
 silence of this lonely outpost was l)rokeu only by the qui vive 
 of the sentries and the chime of distant church clocks. A 
 good place for a poet to brood upon the creations of his 
 fancy, or for a journalist to hatch a leading article. 
 
 While Gaston stood at ease, with his eyes wandering far 
 afield towanls the ilistant foe, and his fancies straying still 
 further in a day-dream of universal peace, liberty, art for 
 art's sake, and all the impossibilities of the socialist's Utopia, 
 a sound of strident laughter, of deep ba>s voices and nasal 
 trebles, broke like a volley of musketry through the stillness 
 of the soft gray atmosphere, and presently half a dozen 
 kcSpis, or comrades of the National Guard, considerably the 
 worse for le petit hlcu, came swaggering along the rampart, 
 escorting a young woman, whose scarlet headge;ir shone iu 
 the distance like a spot of tiame.
 
 68 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 It was Madame Michel, Avith the little red kerchief twisted 
 coqnettishly round her 8leek black hair. She wore a tight 
 cloth jacket, frogged a la militaire, over her black gown, the 
 skirt of which was short enough to show an arched instep 
 and a neat ankle. She had \)\\t on a half -virile, half -soldierly 
 air, in honour of the times ; and her walk, her look, her 
 manner, were already prophetic of the coming pe'troleuse. 
 
 She came along the ramj^art with her patriots, who were 
 pointing out the merits and faults of the fortifications, 
 explaining^, showing her this and that, swaggering, bragging, 
 abusing Bismarck and his Pandours, singing snatches of 
 patriotic verse. She was close to Gaston before she recog- 
 nised him. 
 
 Then their eyes met, suddenly, his returning from the far 
 distance, hers staring intently. Eecognition came in a flash, 
 and the rich carnation of her cheek faded to an almost deadly 
 pallor. 
 
 ' What, is it you, Citoyen Mortemar, so far from the Eue 
 Git le Coeur ? What, are you too in the National Guard ? I 
 thought so devoted a husband would have found an excuse 
 from service. I thought you would be lying at the feet of 
 your English-Irish wife all day, like Paul and Virginia in 
 their far-off island.' 
 
 ' The nation cannot spare even lovers,' answered Gaston, 
 lightly. 'Hector had to leave Andromache ; and my Andro- 
 mache would despise a husband who did less than his duty. 
 So far our duties have been light enough, and give no ground 
 for boasting.' 
 
 ' But let them come on, those Uhlans, those rjre'Jins, 
 those — ' here came a string of double-barrelled substantive- 
 adjectives and adjective-substantives, too familiar afterwards 
 in Le Pere Duchme — 'let them come!' growled the wine- 
 soaked imtriot, ' and we will give them — 'ere nom / what is 
 there which we will not give them ? ' 
 
 And then the ti])sy patriots retired to an angle of the for- 
 tification, and began to jjlay the intellectual game of hunchon, 
 forgetful of the lady whom they had escorted so far, for an 
 afternoon on the walls of Paris. 
 
 Gaston shouldered his chasscpot, and began to walk slowly 
 up and down. Suzon followed him, came close to his side, 
 and hissed in his ear, 
 
 ' And so you are ha])py with your child-wife ? ' 
 ' I am as happy as Fate ever allowed a man to be in this 
 world. Fate gave me the fairest and best for my companion,
 
 On the Banqxirts 69 
 
 and then said, "Thou shalt find thou hast filled thy cup of 
 joy in a day of trouble and war. Thou shalt drink only a 
 drop at a time — a drop now and then — a.s the miser spends 
 his <,'old.'' ' 
 
 ' Lucky for you, lucky for her that it is so,' retorted Suzon 
 fiercely, ' for you may so much the less soon grow weary of 
 your waxwork wife.' 
 
 ' I .shall never weary of her,' said Ga.«^ou. * Every day 
 draws us nearer. We may tire of life and its troubles, never 
 of each other.' 
 
 ' So you think now, while this fancy of yours has all the 
 gloss of freshness. But you will weary of her. She is pretty 
 enough, I grant you ; lovely, if you like ; but her face has 
 no more expre.ssion than a June lily ; and you, who have a 
 mind full nf force and fire, must weary of such placid inanity. 
 Do you think I do not know you — I who have heard you talk 
 in the days gone by — I who was your confidante when you 
 were penniless and unknown ? You are beginning to be 
 famous now. You sign your articles, and men talk about 
 t!).em and about the writer. You are ])ointed at in the 
 street. But I admired you when none other admired you. 
 I believed in you when you were nobody.' 
 
 ' You were always very amiable, citoyenne, and I hope I 
 did not prove myself unworthy of your esteem,' said Gaston, 
 with a ceremonious bow. 
 
 lie had an idea that a storm was coming, and he wanted 
 to wanl off the lightning if ])0ssible, by taking things easily. 
 
 'You proved yourself a seducer and a liar ! ' she answered 
 savagely, her si:)lenclid eyes flaming as she looked at him, 
 one red spot on either cheek, like a burning coal, her white 
 lips (piivering. 
 
 She had given herself over to the rule of her passionate 
 nature in this new period of tumult and uncertainty, a time 
 when all the old boundaries seemed to be swept away, the 
 floodgates of passion opened. A queen, a goddess, in her 
 chosen circle, she had come to think heiself a being bound 
 by no law, possessing the divine right of beauty and wit, free 
 to pour out her love or her venom upon whom she would ; and 
 to-day Fate had brought her face to face with the man to 
 whom she had given tiie impassioned love of her too fervid 
 nature, for Avhose sake she had been, and must ever be, 
 marble to every other lover. 
 
 'You are mad,' he said quietly, 'and your words are the 
 words of a madwoman.'
 
 70 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 'Tliey are true words. Seducer — for you seduced nie 
 into loving you — yes, as few men have ever been loved, as 
 few women know how to love. Seducer ! yes. Your every 
 word, your every look, meant seduction, in those dear days 
 when you and I wandered homewards in the midnight and 
 moonlight, and loitered on the bridge or on the quay, and 
 drank each other's whispers, and looked into each other's 
 eyes, and our hands trembled as they touched. Liar ! for 
 though you never declared yourself my lover, all your words 
 were steeped in love. When we have sat together, side by 
 side in tlie theatre, my head leaning against your shoulder, 
 our hands clas})ed as we drew nearer to each other, feeling 
 as if we were alone in the darkened house — what need of 
 words then to promise love ! Your every look, your every 
 touch, was a jiromise ; and all those promises you broke 
 when you deserted me for your new fancy ; and by every 
 touch of your hand, by every look in your eyes, I charge you 
 with iiaving promised me your lifelong love, I charge you 
 with having lied to me ! ' 
 
 Tliere was no doubt as to the reality of her feeling, the 
 intensity of her sense of wrong done to her in those days of 
 the past, Gaston stood before her, downcast and conscience- 
 stricken. 
 
 Yes, if passionate looks and tender claspings of tremulous 
 hands meant anything, he had so far pledged his faith — he 
 was in so much a liar. His boyish fancy had been canglit 
 by this southern beauty, by this passionate natui-e, which 
 made an atmosphere of warmth around it, and gave to the 
 calm moonbeams of a Parisian midnight the seducing soft- 
 ness of the torrid zone. He had been drawn to her in those 
 moonlit hours as young hearts are drawn together under 
 the southern cross ; and then came morning, and worldly 
 wisdom and the sense of his own dignity ; and lie told himself 
 with a half-guilty feeling, that those looks and whispers on the 
 mooidit quay meant nothing. A pretty woman who kept a 
 popular cri'merie must have admirers by the score ; and when 
 she was not being escorted to the Porte St. Martin by him, 
 she was doubtless tripping as lightly to the Chateau d'Eau 
 with somebody else. 
 
 These were the amours passagh'es of youth, which count 
 for nothing in the .sum of a man's life. 
 
 Then came the new and better love. Kathleen's fair 
 young face became the ])ole-star of his destiny ; and from 
 that hour he held himself aloof from Suzon Michel. And
 
 On the Ramparts 71 
 
 now she came upon him like a guilty conscience, and charged 
 liim with having lied to her. 
 
 * I am very sorry that you should liave taken our friend- 
 ship so seriously,' he said (juietly. ' I thought that I was 
 oidy one among your many admirers — that you had such 
 lovers as I by the score. So pretty a woman could not fail 
 to attract suitors.' 
 
 ' I hail admirers, as you say, by the score ; but not one for 
 whom I cared, not one upon whose breast m}'' head ever 
 resteil as it lay on yours that night at the street-corner, 
 when you kissed me for the first — last — time. It was within 
 a week of that kiss you abandoned me for ever.' 
 
 *A foolish kiss,' said Gaston, again trying to take things 
 lightly ; ' but those eyes of yours had a magical influence in 
 the lamplight. My dear soul, we were only children, 
 straying a little way along a flowery path which leads to a 
 wood full of wild beasts and all manner of horrors. "Why 
 make a fuss about it ; since we stopped in good time, and 
 never went into the wood ] ' 
 
 This was a kind of argument hardly calculated to pacify a 
 jealous woman. Suzon took no notice of it. 
 
 ' What was slie better than I — that fair haired Irish girl — 
 that you should forsake me to marry her?' 
 
 ' Why make unflattering compai-isons ? I only know that 
 from the hour I first saw her I lived a new life. You were 
 charming, but you belonged to the old life ; and so I was 
 obliged to sing the old song : 
 
 " Adieu, paniers, vendangcs sont faitcs I " ' 
 
 ''Oest ga. You threw me aside as if I had been an empty 
 basket after the viutage. But the vintage is not over yet, or 
 at least the wine has still to be^made, and I know what colour 
 it will be.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' he said gaily, rolling up a cigarette. 
 
 His watch was just ex])iring ; and even if it were not, the 
 discipline on the walls was not severe. 
 
 ' It will be red, red, red — the cohiur of blood.' 
 
 The game of buuchon had just ended iu a tempest of oaths 
 and squabbling, and the patriots came swaggering and stag- 
 gering towards the sjint where Suzon stood with gloomy bruw 
 and eyes fl.\ed upon the ground. 
 
 ' Come, Citoyenne Michel, come to the canteen, and empty 
 a bottle of petit bleu with us. 'Fant rincer le bee uvant de 
 partir. Let it not be said that the National Guard are with- 
 out hospitality. 
 
 >
 
 72 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 * HEADSTRONG LIBERTY IS LASHED WITH WOE ' 
 
 New Year's Day had come and gone — a dark and dreary- 
 New Year for many a severed household : the mother and 
 her children afar, the father lonely in Paris, not knowing if 
 the letter which he writes daily to the wife he loves may not 
 be written to the dead — for it is months since he has had 
 tidings of wife or child ; and who can tell where the angel of 
 death may have visited ? A change had come over the great 
 city and the spirits of the people — brave still, bearing their 
 l^irden gallantly, still crying their cry of ' No surrender ! ' 
 but gay and light of heart no longer, bowed down by 'the 
 weight of ever-increasing wretchedness, pinched by the sharp 
 jjangs of hunger, enfeebled by disease, tortured by the bitter 
 cold of a severe winter, wdiich just now is the hardest trial of 
 all. And now, in these dark days after Christmas, the ice is 
 broken, the siege, for which Paris has been waiting patiently 
 three months, begins in bitter earnest, and the thunder of 
 the guns shakes earth and sky. The Line, the Mobile, the 
 National Guard, all do their duty ; but at best they can only 
 die bravely for a cause that has long been lost. The bom- 
 bardment ceases not day or night — now on this side, now on 
 that. In the trenches the men suffer horribly. The snow 
 falls on the living and the dead. Every sortie results in 
 heavy loss. The ambulances are all full to overflowing. 
 Trochu, the irresolute, the man of proclamations and mani- 
 festoes, has given place to Vinoy ; but what generalshij) can 
 hold a beleaguered city against those grim conquerors Famine 
 and Death ? 
 
 The women bear their burden with a quiet resignation, 
 which is among the most heroic things in history. Day after 
 day, in the early winter dawn, they stand in the dismal train 
 of householders waiting for the allotted jjortion of meat — a 
 portion so scanty that it seems bitterest irony to carry it 
 home to a hungry fatuily. There they stand — ladies, seivants, 
 workwomen, from the highest to the lowest — bufFeted by 
 the savage north-easter, snowed upon, hailed upon, shivering,
 
 ' Hcadstrowj Libert y is Lashed icith Woe ' 73 
 
 pale, exhausted, l)ut divinely patient, each feeling that in thi.s 
 -silent suH'oriug- she contributes her iulinitesimal share of 
 heroism to the defence of her country. So long a3 her rulers 
 will hold <iut, so long us her soldiers will fight and die, so 
 long will the women of France submit and suffer. Their 
 voices will never be joined in the cry, ' Surrender for our 
 sakes.' 
 
 The little children are fading off the face of this troubled 
 scene. That is the worst martyrdom of all for the mothers. 
 The little faces are growing pinched and haggard, the fragile 
 forms are drooping, drooping day by day. The mothers and 
 fathers hoi)e against hope. In a day or two, they tell each 
 other, the siege will be raised; milk and bread, fuel, comfort, 
 luxury, the joy and light of life, will return to those desolate 
 householils ; and the drooping children will revive and grow 
 strong again. And, while the nidthfrs hope, the little ones 
 are dying, and the little coffins are seen, in mournful proces- 
 sions, day by day and hour by hour, in the cold cheerless 
 streets. 
 
 At the butchers' shops, at the bakeries, there is the same 
 dismal train waiting day after day. Everything is scarce. 
 Butter is forty-five fi'ancs a pound ; the coarsest grease, rank 
 fat, which the servants would throw into the grease-tuli in 
 times of plenty, is sold for eighteen francs a pound. Gruy^re 
 cheese is a thing beyond all price, and is only bought by the 
 rich, who wish to offer a costly present, like a basket of 
 strawberries in February or peaches in March. Potatoes are 
 twenty-five francs a bushel ; a cabljage six francs ; and 
 garden-stuff, which last year one would have hardly offered 
 to the rabbits, is now the luxurious accompaniment of the 
 pot-au-fcu de chcval. There is no more gas for the street- 
 lamps, and the once brilliant Lutetia is a city of Cimmerian 
 darkness. Bitterest scai'city of all, fuel has become pro- 
 digiously dear ; and the poor are shivering, dying in their 
 desolate garrets, pinched ami blue with the cold of a severe 
 winter. 
 
 Even among the well-to-do classes funds are running low. 
 Provisions at siege prices have exhausted the purses of 
 middle-class citizens. Stocks have been sold at a terrible 
 loss, caj>ital has been exhausted. TJuin and hunger stare 
 in at the windows, and haunt the snowy night like 
 spectres. 
 
 For the poor the struggle is still sliarjjcr ; but the ])oor 
 are familiar with the pinch of poverty, with the pangs of
 
 74 Under the Bed Fkvj 
 
 self-denial. And then, perhaps, there is more done for the 
 indigent in this day of national calamity than was done for 
 them in the golden years of prosperity ; albeit the Empire, 
 Avhatever its shortcomings, was not neglectful of the houseless 
 and the hungry. 
 
 In all these troubled days — with surrender and shame far 
 away yonder at Metz, with defeat on this side and on that, 
 here a General slain and there a gallant leader sacrificed, a 
 little gain one day only to be counterbalanced by a greater 
 loss the next, a threatened revolution, Flourens and his crew 
 strutting, booted and spurred, on the tables in the Hotel de 
 Ville, little explosions of popular feeling at Belleville, semi- 
 revolt at Montmartre— through all this time of wild fears and 
 Avilder hopes the Red Flag has been boldly unfurled in the 
 face of Paris, and has managed to pay its contributors. When 
 bread and meat are so dear, who would stint himself of his 
 favourite newspaper, in which for two sous, he may read 
 words that burn like vitriol, sentences that sound like the 
 hissing of vinegar Hung upon white-hot iron ? The Bed Flag 
 finds some pretty strong language for the expression of its 
 opinions about William, and Bismarck, and Moltke, and the 
 hordes of black helmets yonder ; l)ut this language is mild 
 as compared with the venom which it spits upon the Empire 
 that is vanished— the Man of Sedan, the Man of Metz, the 
 Emperor who surrendered Empire and army— all that could 
 be surrendered — in the first hour of reverse ; the general 
 who kept the flower of the French army locked up within 
 the walls of a beleaguered city, tied hand and foot, when they 
 were pining to be up and doing, hungering for the fray, 
 eager to fling themselves into the teeth of the foe, to cut 
 their way to liberty or to death ; only to hand them over 
 to the enemy like a flock of sheep when he found that his 
 game of treason was played out, and the stakes lost irre- 
 trievably. 
 
 At last came that which seemed the crowning humiliation, 
 a capitulation which, to the soul of the patriot, was more 
 shameful than that of Sedan, more irreparable than Strasburg, 
 moie fatal than INIetz. Paris surrendered her forts, and 
 opened hergates to the invader ; France gave upher provinces, 
 and jjledged herself to the payment of a monstrous indemnity. 
 The flag of the Germanic Confederation floated above Mont 
 Valdrien ; and the Ciuard of the Emi)erorof Germany defiled 
 along the Avenue of tlie Grand Armce to encamp in the 
 Champs Elysdes.
 
 • ItacuUtrong Lihevty is Lcished with Woe ' 75 
 
 Dark and inouniful was the aspect of Paris on that 
 never-t()-l)o-forgotteii day. Tlie populace held themselves 
 aloof from the region occupied Ly the invaders, as from 
 the scene of a pestilence. Those who came as cajjtors 
 were as prisoners in the conquered city. The theatres were 
 closed, and Turis mouined in gloom and silence for the ruin 
 of France. And on the morning of departure, when, after an 
 occupation of only twenty-four hours, the barbarous flood 
 swept baf"k, the Parisian gamin was seen pursuing the rear- 
 guard of William's soldiery, burning disinfectants on red-hot 
 shovels, as if to purify the air after the passage of some 
 loathsome beast. 
 
 Unhajjpily for Paris there were worse enemies than "William 
 and his sipiare-heads lurking in the background, enemies 
 long suspected and feared, and now to be revealed in all 
 their ])o\ver for evil. 
 
 With the oijening of the gates began an emigration of the 
 respectal)le classes. Husbands and fathers hastened to rejoin 
 their families, jjrovincials returned to their ]n-ovinces — one 
 liundred thous-and of the National Guard, good citizens, brave, 
 loyal, devoted to the cause of order, are said to have left Paris 
 at this time. Those who remained behind were for the most 
 part an armed mob, demoralised by idleness, by drink, by 
 the teaching of a handful of rabid Pepublicans, the master- 
 spirits of Belleville and Montmartre. 
 
 Too soon the storm burst. There is no darker day in the 
 history of France than this 18th of March, 1871, on which 
 Paris found itself given over to a horde of which it knew 
 neither the strength nor the malignity, but from which it 
 feared the worst. Hideous faces, which in jieaceful times 
 lurk in the hidden depths of a city, showed them.se1ves in 
 the open day, at every street comer, irony on the lip and 
 menace in the eye. A day which began with the seizure of 
 the cannon at Chaumont and Montmartre by the Commu- 
 nards, and the desertion of the troops of the Line to the 
 insurgents, ended with the murder of Generals Lecomte and 
 tUoment Thomas, and the withdrawal of the government and 
 the loyal troo]is to Versailles. 
 
 When night fell Paris was abandoned to a new power, which 
 called itself The Central Committee of the Federation ; and 
 it seemed that two hundred and fifty battalions of the 
 National Guard had become Federals. They were- for the 
 ni'ist iiart Federals without knowing why or wherefore. 
 They knew as little of the chiefs who were to command them
 
 76 Under the Red Flay 
 
 as that doomed city upon which they were too soon to establish 
 a reign of ignominy and terror. But the Central Committee, 
 sustained by the International and its powerful organisation, 
 was strong enouiih to command in a disorifani.sed and aban- 
 doned city ; and on the 1 9 th of March began the great orgy of 
 the Commune, the rule of blood and fire. The oftal of 
 journalism, the scum of the gaols, sat in the seat of judgment. 
 Eigault, Ferre, Eudes, Sdrizier — Blanquistes, Hdbertistes — 
 these were now the masters of Paris. They held the prisons ; 
 they commanded the National Guard. They made laws and 
 unmade them ; they drank and smoked and rioted in the 
 Hotel de Ville ; they held their obscene orgies in palaces, in 
 churches, in the i)ublic offices, and in the gaols, where the in- 
 nocent and the noble were languishing in ashamefulbondage, 
 waiting for a too probable death. Thei'e were those who 
 asked whetlier William and Bismarck would not have been 
 better than these. 
 
 For Gaston Mortemar, an enthusiastic believer in Com- 
 munism and the International, it seemed as if this new reign 
 meant regeneration. He was revolted by the murder of the 
 two generals ; but he saw in that crime the work of a military 
 mob. He knew but little of the men who were now at the 
 helm. Assy, one of the best of them, had protested against 
 the violence of his colleagaes, and had been flung into |jrison. 
 Flourens, the beloved of Belleville, was killed in a skirmish 
 with the Versaillais, while the Commune was still young. 
 Hard for a man of intellect and honour to believe in the 
 scum of humanity which now ruled at the Hotel de Ville, 
 and strutted in tinsel and feathers, like mountebanks at a 
 fair. But Gaston had faith in the cause if he doubted the 
 men. That red rag flying from the pinnacles, where the 
 tricolour had so lately hung, was, to his mind, a symbol of 
 Man's equal rights. It signified the up-rising of a down- 
 trodden people, tlie divine right of every man to be his 
 own master. For this cause he wrote with all the fervour 
 and force of his pen. 
 
 The arrest of the Archbishop and his fellow-sufferers, on 
 the Gth of April, was the first shock which disturbed Gaston 
 Mortemar's faith in the men wlio ruled Paiis. That act 
 appeared unjustifiable even in the eyes of one who held the 
 sanctity of the priesthood somewhat lightly. The spotless 
 leputation and noble character of the chief victim made the 
 deed sacrilege. Gaston did not measure the words in which 
 he denounced this arrest. He had expressed himself strongly
 
 ' Hi w J. -^i rung Libert ij is Lashed witit Wo<' ' 77 
 
 also upon the imprisonment of Citoyen Bonjean, the good 
 President. From that liour the Red Fhicj was a suspected 
 j)apei-. The man who was not Avith the Commune, heart 
 and hand, in its worst follies, its bloodiest crimes, was a 
 marked man. 
 
 The denunciation of Gustave Chaudey, the journalist, by 
 Vermesch, the editor of the infamous Pere Duclu'iie, followed 
 within twenty-four hours by his arrest and imprisonment, 
 was the next rude blow. Again Gaston denounced the 
 tyrants of the Hotel de Ville : and this time retaliation was 
 immediate. The Red Flag was suppressed, and proprietor 
 and contributors were threatened with arrest. Gaston's 
 occupation was gone. His economies of the past had been 
 exhausted by the evil days of the siege ; and lie fouml Iiini- 
 self penniless. 
 
 He was not altogether disheartened. He sat himself down 
 to write satirical ballads, which were printed secretly at the 
 old olHce, and sold by the hawkers in the streets ; and in 
 these days of fever-heat and perpetual agitation, the public 
 pence flowed freely for the purchase of squibs which hit 
 right or left, Versailles or Paris, Heiniblie or (Jonmnnie. The 
 little household in the Eue Git le Coour, a fragile bark to be 
 tossed on such a tempestuous sea, managed thus to breast the 
 waves gallantly for a little while longer, and Durand's kindly 
 offer of helj) was refused, as not yet needed. 
 
 Soon after hearing of tlie arrest of the Archbishop and the 
 other priests, Gaston made a pilgrimage a little way out of 
 Paris. He went to visit his old friends, the Dominican 
 monks, at the school of Albert the Great, and to ascertain 
 for himself whether any storm-cloud was darkening over 
 those defpiceless heads. Who could tell where those in 
 power might look for their next victims? Priests and 
 seir/enis de rille were the h'tes noires of the C'omnuuiards. 
 
 All was tran([uil at the Dominican School. The house had 
 been turned into an ambulance by the fathers during the 
 siege ; and it was still used for the same purpo.se under the 
 Commune. The Dominicans could have no affection for a 
 government wIulIi turned churches into clubs, forbade public 
 woi'ship, and imprist)ne(l priests ; but they were ready to 
 give shelter to the wounded Federals, and to attend them 
 with that divine cliaiity which ask-; no (juestions as to the 
 creed of the sutFerer. They hail a right to 8Ui;)pose that the 
 Geneva Cross would protect their house. 
 
 Out of doors they did not pass without insults. The house
 
 78 XJndtr the Red Fla<j 
 
 had the reputation of being rich, and the Communards began 
 to talk of hidden treasures, and of a reactionary sjiirit 
 among the fathers. The Dominicans let them say their say, 
 turneti a deaf ear to opprobrious ei)ithets, appeared in public 
 as little as })0ssible, and confided themselves to the mercy of 
 God. CJaston saw Father Captier, the good prior, offered to 
 serve him in any way within his power, which, unhappily, 
 was of the smallest, thanked him for all his goodness in the 
 past, and talked with him of the futuie, which was not full 
 of promise. And so they parted, each trying to cheer the 
 other with hopeful speech, each oppressed by the dread of 
 impending troubles. 
 
 Scrizier, the colonel of the 13th legion, had established 
 his headquaiters in a nobleman's chateau adjoining the 
 Donunican School, and he looked with no friendly eye upon 
 the fathers, whoso garden lay within sight of his di-awing- 
 room windows. The seizure of the fort at Issy aggravated 
 the already dangerous position of the monks. The Federals, 
 forced to evacuate their position, fell back upon Arcueil and 
 Cachan, and the 13th legion encamped in the environs of the 
 Dominican School. The fathers began to fear that the 
 (jieneva Cross would not protect them for ever. 
 
 0)1 May 17th a fire broke out in the roof of the chateau 
 occuj^ied by Scrizier. The Dominicans hurried to the rescue, 
 tucked up their robes, and succeeded in extinguishing the 
 flames. Serizier sent for them, and they apjieared before 
 him, expecting to bt; thanked and praised. 
 
 To their surprise, they were treated as spies, sergents de 
 villo in disguise ; they were accused of having themselves 
 set fire to the roof, which was to serve as a signal to the 
 Versaillais. They protested, but in vain. 
 
 ' We shall make a quick finish of the shaven-polls,' said 
 Serizier. 
 
 On the 19th of May, Leo Meillet, commander of the fort 
 at Bicetre, was ordered to arrest the Dominicans, with all 
 their subordinates. To accomplish this perilous exjjedition 
 be required no less than two battalions of Federals, one of 
 which was the notorious lOlst, commanded by Serizier. 
 
 Gaston Mortemar heard of the intended arrest on the even- 
 ing of the 18th. He spent the greater part of the night 
 going from jjlace to place, interviewing those delegates of 
 whom he knew something, and from whose infiuence he 
 might hope something, lie urged each of these to strike a 
 blow in defence of those guiltless monks, to interfere to pre-
 
 ' JlradslfuiKj Liliertij is La.ihed Kith Woe ' 70 
 
 vent an arrest which might end in murder. But in vain. 
 The chiefs of the Commune had grander schemes in hand 
 than the rescue of a liandful of harmless monks. 
 
 Gaston was at the school early on the IDth. If he could 
 do nothing to help his old friends, he could at least be near 
 them in their day of peril, lie was with them when the lOl.st 
 battalion invested their house, and he shared their danger. 
 Scrizier recognised him as the orator of the Folies Bergcies, 
 the etlitor uf the suppressed lied Flag — a paper which had 
 published some hard things about the colonel of the 101st. 
 He ordered Morteiuar to be arrested with the monks. 
 
 ' So you are a pupil of the Don)inicans,' he exclaimed — 'a 
 worthy i)ui)il of such masters. We know now where you 
 learnt to sjdt venom at honest patriots. You and your 
 friends the magpies shall stew together in the same sauce ! ' 
 
 The capture was made, after but little resistance. Father 
 Captier, feeling the responsibility of his olhce as Prior, 
 entreated to be allowed to put his seal on the outer doors of 
 the house. This grace was accorded without difficulty. 
 Those who granted the boon well knew the futility of such 
 a precaution. 
 
 At seven o'clock in the evening the prisoners arrived at the 
 fort of Bicctre, after having endured every kind of outrage 
 on the way there. They were Hung into a yard, huddled 
 together like frighteneil sheep, standing bareheaded under 
 frequent showers, stared at like wild beasts by the National 
 Guard. At one o'clock in the morning they were thrown 
 into a casemate, where they could lie on the ground and rest 
 their heads against the stone wall. In vain they assertetl 
 their innocence, and demanded to be set at liberty. The 
 only answers to their prayers were the obscene songs of 
 their c\istodians.
 
 80 
 
 CHAPTEE VIII. 
 
 GIRT WITH FIRE 
 
 On the 21st, Father Captier was taken before a magistrate in 
 a room in the Fort, and submitted to an informal examina- 
 tion. Then followed two weary days, the 22nd and 23rd, 
 during which the prisoners were left without food ; and 
 ■while the monks languished and hungered in the gloom of 
 their prison the good people of the Commune were busy with 
 the work of s])oliation. Upon an order given by Leo Meillet, 
 two battalions of Federal soldiers entered the school at 
 Arcueil, violated seals, broke open doors, and carried off every 
 object of value, including even fifteen thousand francs in 
 railway shares, the savings of the servants attached to the 
 establishment. These were impounded as national projiert}'-, 
 and passed by a kind of communistic legerdemain into pockets 
 ■which were never known to disgoige their contents. A dozen 
 ammunition-waggons and eight hired vehicles were needed to 
 carry off the spoil. 
 
 The school only escaped being burnt to the ground by 
 reason of its well-filled cellars. Once having descended to 
 these lower depths, the Federals had no desire to return to 
 the surface, until they had done justice to the Dominican 
 ■wines. They drank and wallowed there side by side, like 
 swine in the mire, till the hour for burning was past, and 
 thus the School of Albert the Great escaped the flames. 
 
 On the following day Leo Meillet and the officers began to 
 feel themselves in danger at the Fort of Bicetre. The army 
 was drawing near. They resolved to evacuate the fort and 
 fall back upon Paris, where numerous barricades, well pro- 
 vided with artillery, made resistance possible, and where the 
 steep and narrow streets, the labyrinthine windings and 
 twisting of courts and alleys, in the old quarter of the city 
 made flight and concealment easy. 
 
 Carriages, carts, waggons, were hurriedly requisitioned on 
 every hand : and then came a flight so eager that the prisoners 
 in their casemate were forgotten. 
 
 ' Thank God ! ' cried Gaston, with a wild throbbing at his
 
 Girt with Fire 81 
 
 heart, forgetting for the niomeut, that he was au infidel. 
 ' The Versaillais will be here in time to save us.' And the 
 good Dominicans, tlie men who had turned their house into 
 an ambulance during the siege and the Commune, and who 
 had nursed the wounded Federals without a question as to 
 their belief or their imj)iety, began to offer up their thanks- 
 givings, and murmur psalms of triumph and rejoicing — those 
 versicles which Jewish captives of old had sung beside the 
 waters of Babylon. 
 
 Alas for those pious hearts uplifted in gratitude to the 
 great Deliverer ! not thus, not by Versailles, was their 
 deliverance to come. They were to pass to paradise by a 
 rougher road. Their joy had been premature, for they had 
 reckoned without Sei'izier. 
 
 And yet this Serizier was one of the master fiends in the 
 Parisian pandemonium. A currier by trade, he had been in 
 early maniuKjd the tyrant and the terror of a great currier's 
 factory at Belleville, and in the revolution of '48 he had been 
 leader of the mob which hanged the proprietor of the factory 
 at his own door. He had been condemned for some political 
 offence during the Empire, and had taken refuge in 
 Belgium. He reappeared in Paris soon after the 4tli of 
 September, and played an important part in the siege. 
 
 After March 18th he became secretary to Leo Meillet, and 
 later chief of the 1.3th legion. He commanded twelve 
 battalions, which fought well at Issy, at Chatillon, and at the 
 Hautes-Bruyt;res. Amongst these battalions there was one 
 which he favoured above all the others, the 101st, his own 
 particuliir battalion, comi^osed of his friends and com- 
 panions. 
 
 A man of fiery temperament, a great talker, a deep 
 drinker, a workman without industry, living upon money 
 extorted from the public purse, Serizier exercised a 
 strong influence upon the ignorant and brutal beings who 
 surrounded him. He was feared and obeyed by all the 13th 
 Arrondissement, which trembled before him. His hatred 
 against the priests was a passion that almost touched on 
 lunacy. He had profaned tlie churches by his foul orgies : 
 and it wa.s only the entry of the troops from Versailles which 
 stopped him from selling saintly relics and sacianit-ntal plate 
 by auction. Assassin and incendiary, insatiable in his thirst 
 for mischief and destruction, it was his hand which tired the 
 famoiis manufactory of (Jolielins tai)cstry. 
 He was a man of medium height, square-shouldered, eyes 
 
 G
 
 82 Under the Red Flag 
 
 shifty and restless, forehead low, lips thick and heavy, 
 receding chin, the head of a bulldog. His voice was harsh 
 and hoarse, his breath exhaled cognac. When he was angry, 
 that rough voice broke out in cursings and fury, more like 
 the howling of a savage dog than the accents of humanity. 
 
 Serizier had his own particular prison as well as his own 
 particular battalion. A house in the Avenue d'ltalie had 
 been transformed into a gaol ; and here this man kept those 
 victims who were known as his prisoners. At the final day 
 he cleared his prison by a massacre. 
 
 Serizier had not forgotten the Dominicans and their com- 
 panions. At his bidding a detachment of soldiers came in 
 search of them, and they were marched into Paris by the 
 Barricre Fontainebleavi, amidst hootings and insults and 
 curses from the crowd, a little company of twenty hostages, 
 live of whom wore theflowingblack and white robes of the order. 
 No help from the French army. All yesterday they had 
 been held at bay by the Federal artillery at Montronge, and 
 were only able to cross the ravines of La Bicvre on the 
 TTorning of the 25th. 
 
 The prisoners were hurried along, almost at a run, to the 
 gaol in the Avenue d'ltalie. Embarrassed by the voluminous 
 folds of their robes they did not always walk fast enough ; 
 whereupon the soldiers struck them with the butt-end of 
 their guns, calling out, ' Quick, magpie ! ' in mockery of their 
 black and white raiment : and so to the prison, which was 
 already full to the brim, containing ninety-seven prisoners, 
 arrested in that district, and detained at Citoyen Serizier's 
 good pleasure. Bobeche, the gaoler, fatigued by having to 
 write such a list of names, had gone out to refresh himself 
 with a drink. While he was away the Communards came to 
 the prison to ask the Dominicans to help in making the barri- 
 cades ; but the deputy-gaoler having some respect for the 
 religious character sent fourteen National Guards, imprisoned 
 for some military irregularity, instead of the priests. Bobeche, 
 retuiiiiiig immediately after, was furious with his subordi- 
 nate, and accused him of shedding the blood of patriots in 
 order to spare the monks. He had a detachment of the 101st 
 battalion at liis heels, and he ordered those tonsured scoundrels 
 to l)e brought out. 
 
 Bertrand, the subordinate, yielded after some opposition, 
 and opened the door of the gaol. 
 
 ' CJome, magpies,' cried Bobeche, ' oil' with you to the 
 barricade ! '
 
 Girt irith Five 83 
 
 The Dominicans came out into the avenue, where they saw 
 the detachment of tlie 101st, with Serizier at their head. 
 This time they believed tliat all was over ; but they were 
 deceived, for their agony was to hist a little longer. 
 
 Father Cotrault, the purveyor, stopped on the threshold of 
 the ])rison. 
 
 ' We will go no further,' he said ; ' we are men of peace. 
 Our religion forbids us to shed blood ; we cannot fight, and 
 we will not go to the barricade ; but even under tire we will 
 search for your wounded, and succour them.' 
 
 This compromise would not have been accepted by Scrizier, 
 but the Communist soldiers were wavering, they were crying 
 out that it would soon be impossible to hold the barricade 
 against the hail of bullets from the Versaillais. 
 
 ' Enough,' said Scrizier to Father Coti'ault ; ' promise to 
 look after our wounded.' 
 
 ' Yes, we ])romise,' answered the monk ; ' and you know it 
 is what we have always done.' 
 
 Scrizier made a sign to Bobeche, and the prisoners were 
 bundled back into the gaol. But they no longer deceived 
 themselves with false hopes. They knew the respite was but 
 brief. They prayed together, and made confession to each 
 other. They might have been spared, perhaps ; but the news 
 brought to Scrizier was exasperating and alarming. Some 
 men flying from the Quartier Latin to tight again in the 
 Avenue d'ltalie told how the Panthdon, the great citadel of 
 the insurrection, had been taken by the Versaillai.s before 
 there had been time to fire the mine which would have 
 shattered donu? and walls, arches and columns, in one vast 
 heap of ruin. They told how Millicre, the chief of the insur- 
 gents in this quarter, had been shot, and that the French 
 troops occupied the prison of La Sante. The circle which 
 was soon to enclose the Communards of the 13th arrondisse- 
 ment was narrowing. 
 
 What should they do ? Fly, or stand their ground to the 
 death ? 
 
 A gi'eat many of the National (iuard made otf. 
 
 Sdrizier gathered himself together for a final etibrt. 
 
 ' Burn ! ' he gasped ; ' we must burn everything ! 
 
 He rushed into a wine sho|) and drank glass ;ifter glass of 
 brandy. His wolfish soul, excited by alcohol, by fighting, by 
 defeat, by the sight of the blood which reddened the road 
 and the ]iavement, appeared in all its hideousness. 
 
 'Ah, has the end come so soon!' he cried, striking his
 
 84 Under the Red FIa<i 
 
 clenched fist upon the pewter counter. ' So be it ! Every- 
 body must die ! ' 
 
 He ran back to the avenue. 
 
 ' Come, come,' he roared, * I want men of the right metal, 
 to smash the skulls of those magpies ! ' 
 
 A little crov/d of Communards answered to his call, and, 
 in advance of the band, two women presented themselves. 
 
 They were both furies — both had streaming locks of tangled 
 hair, which were hideously suggestive of Medusa's snaky 
 tresses ; but one of the furies was young, and would have 
 been handsome if her face had not been smeared and spattered 
 with blood, and blackened by gunpowder. She wore the 
 costume of a vivatidlere, and had once been smart ; but the 
 gold-lace on her jacket hung in shreds, the bhie cloth was 
 stained with blood and mire. She carried a gun, which, in 
 her exhaustion, she handed to Scrizier, signing to him to 
 reload it for her. She had hardly breath enough left for 
 speech. 
 
 ' The priests,' she murmured hoarsely, as Sdrizier gave her 
 back the loaded gun ; 'are they to be tinislied — at once? ' 
 
 ' At once,' he answered ; ' there is no time for ceremony 
 with those scoundrels. They have had their day, and have 
 made fools of jtui all long enough, with their mummeries — 
 men, women, and children.' 
 
 ' They have never fooled me,' answered the woman ; ' I am 
 a Voltairian.' 
 
 ' Ah, ce boil Voltaire ; if he had lasted till our time we 
 should have shown him some ])retty farces,' said Serizier, 
 turning away from her to give his orders. 
 
 While he ranged his men along the avenue, and talked 
 apart with Bobeche the gaoler, the woman in the vivandiere 
 dress stood leaning on her gun,looking alongthe road, through 
 dim smoke-clouds and dust and fire. 
 
 It was four o'clock in the warm May afternoon — May on 
 the edge of June. The western horizon of Paris was hidden 
 behind the smoke of incendiary fires ; the ground trembled 
 with the force of the cannonade. The woman wiped the 
 sweat and mire from her face with the sleeve of her jacket, 
 and looked across the scene of ruin and desolation with fiery 
 eyes. Slie looked yonder towards the towers of Notre Dame, 
 towards the Quai des Augustins, and the labyrinth of little 
 streets behind those old roofs. 
 
 ' Not nmch chance of wedded bliss for those two now,' she 
 said to herself. ' Their honeymoon was short ; but her
 
 Girt with Fire 85 
 
 misely shall be long. She and her sister are shut in their 
 lodgings, expecting to be burnt alive every hour ; and he is in 
 prison. Wiiat prison, I wonder 'I ' 
 
 The woman was Suzon Michel, and the man of whom she 
 was thinking as she stood at ease by her gun, waiting to do 
 her part, as a strong-minded woman and a ])atriot, in the 
 slaugliter of the priests, was Gaston Morteniar. 
 
 Since his arrest she liad been able to learn nothing about 
 him. She had been told by her friends the Communards that 
 he had been arrested on account of sometliing he had written 
 in his paper. More than this they would not or could not 
 tell her. There were so many prisons in Paris, all teeming 
 with life, like beehives ; there were such innumei-able arrests. 
 People hardly cared to inquire why their neighbours were 
 carried off, or whither. Human feelings, friendship, brotherly 
 love were apt to become deadened in that pandemonium. 
 
 Since the week of lighting and fires began, Suzon had been 
 in the thick of all the strife. She had carried her can of 
 ])etroleum as bravely as any of those bearded ruffians who 
 ))retended to make light of her services. She had helped in 
 the tires, she had heli)ed in the carnage, like the very spirit 
 of evil. It was not arson, it was not murder. It was only 
 justice, an eye for an eye. 
 
 ' They are killing our brothers and friends yonder,' said the 
 assa.ssins, as they shot down new victims. 
 
 Mercy at such a time would be cowardice. Only a craven 
 would hold his hand when there was such a grand chance of 
 avenging the wrongs of nobody in particular. 
 
 Suzon was drunk with blood, half-blinded by fire. Those 
 flashing eyes of hers, bright as they were, saw all things 
 dimly, through a liery haze. 
 
 The priests — yes, she would help to slaughter them ; not 
 because she knew anything about this particular brood of 
 calotiiis, but because she hated all priests. They had done 
 her no wrong : but her pious neighbours had despised her 
 for keeping away from church : they had thrown their 
 religion in her face : they had scorned her for her intidelity. 
 
 ' Beware of that woman ! ' said an old man whom she had 
 offended. ' The womaJi who never crosses the threshold of a 
 church belongs to a venomous species.' 
 
 Yes, she would help in the good work. ITow the earth 
 shivered under that awful cannonade ! The enemy was at 
 the door ; nearer and nearer came the thunder of the guns. 
 The deadly rain from the mitrailleuses came fast as the heavy
 
 86 Under fhp RpcI Flag 
 
 drops of a thunder shower. The afternoon sun looked reddei' 
 tlian blood yonder, as its hirid rays pierced the smoke. The 
 circle was narrowing, narrowing, narrowing, closing in 
 upon them like a ring of fire. Whom would they spare, those 
 Versaillais devils ? Not one. Universal carnage would change 
 the streets of Paris to rivers of blood, lit by a city in flames. 
 Not a life, not a house would be spared. 
 
 ' Let us begin ! shrieked Suzon, beside herself ; 'let us work 
 with such a good will that there shall be nothing left for those 
 others to do.' 
 
 ' Are you ready ? ' asked S^rizier, facing the door of the 
 prison, with his assassins ranged on either side of him. 
 
 ' Not one of them shall escape, my General,' answered 
 Suzon, grasping her gun. 
 
 Her voice was hoarse and rough, like his own. From head 
 to heel, mind, soul, body, the creature had unsexed herself : 
 and these men-women were even more savage than the devil- 
 men of those days, for they thought their infamy heroism 
 and their cruelty courage. Not one of these furies, waving 
 her petroleum-can, shouldering her chassepot, but fancied 
 herself a Maid of Orleans. 
 
 And now the victims were driven into the street, like sheep 
 to the slaughter-house. 
 
 ' Pass, one by one,' cried Bobeche the gaoler, who held his 
 six-year-old son by the hand. 
 
 Was it not well for the boy to see the tonsured heads laid 
 low ? It is thus France rears her patriots — young Romans 
 suckled by the she-wolf Revolution. 
 
 The Dominicans, the school-servants, the journalist crossed 
 the fatal threshold. The first to pass was Father Cotrault, 
 anil, at the third step, he fell, struck by a bullet. 
 
 The Prior turned to his companions. 
 
 ' Come, my friends, for the love of God,' he said, in his 
 mild voice ; and he and his little train rushed into the open, 
 and ran their fastest athwart the rain of bullets. 
 
 Suzon flung herself into the midst of the road, at the risk 
 of being shot down in the mi^le'e. She loaded and reloaded 
 her chassepot, crying, 'Cowards, cowai^ds ! they are running 
 away ! ' 
 
 It was not a butchery, but a hafiue. The poor human game 
 tried to flee, hid itself behind the trees, slipped along under 
 the lee of the houses. Women at open windows clapped 
 their hands and shrieked with joy as they watched the sport; 
 in the street men shook their fists at the victims : the scene
 
 Girt v'ith Pirii 87 
 
 Was alive with insult and laughter, voices that sounded like 
 the liowling of furious beasts. It was a new carnival of 
 flowers and sugar-plums ; only the flowers were insult and 
 outrage, the sugar plums were bullets. 
 
 Some of the more active gained the side streets, and 
 escaped the leaden shower, i'ive of the priests, seven of 
 the school-servants, were shot down in a heap before the 
 Chapelle Brea. 
 
 ' Fire, lire upon them ! ' cried Serizier, when a convi;lsive 
 movement showed that life still throbbed amidst this ma-ss 
 of death : and thereupon one poor bleeding form that had 
 faintly stirred received a volley of bullets. 
 
 ' See,' cried Suzon, as Mortemar, slender, active, lithe, 
 with youth and vigour on his side, sped lightly along the 
 boulevard and vanished at a distant turning, * there goes one 
 that will cheat us ! ' 
 
 She rushed oft' in pursuit of him, breathless, panting, mad 
 with rage. Two of Serizier's lambs ran with her, pleasantly 
 excited by the chase. The hunters reached the turning, and 
 there, a few paces down the narrow street, leaning against a 
 lamp-post, exhausted by the rapidity of his tiight, stood 
 their quarrj'. 
 
 The men fired instantly. Suzon lifted her gun to her 
 shoulder, and then suddenly let it fall to her side. She 
 dashed her hand across her eyes. Was it a dream ? Was 
 she for ever haunted, waking as well as sleejjing, by that one 
 face ] Through the haze of blood and tire she saw the face 
 of the man she loved — loved and hated, and hated and loved. 
 She scarce knew which feeling was tlominant in a breast 
 whei'e both fires burned so fiercely. She saw him, pale as 
 ashes, his livid lips jiarted, his eyes staring wildly, as men 
 look into the face of sudden violent death ; hunted humanity 
 at bay, the hounds closing round, the huntsman ready with 
 liis knife. A thin stream of blood trickled down the pale 
 face. One of the bullets had grazed his temjile. 
 
 'Hold, hold ! ' shrieked Suzon, throwing aside her gun, and 
 stretching her arms witle in passionate entreaty; ' do not tire ! ' 
 
 Too late ; another volley whistled ])ast her, as she sank on 
 her knees, screaming, pleading, blaspheming. She did not 
 know how to pray. 
 
 Gaston Mortemar fell without a groan. 
 
 Suzon sprang to her feet, picked up her gun, and struck at 
 the Communards with the butt-end, llinging about her like a 
 devil.
 
 88 Under the Eecl Flag 
 
 Serizier's lambs burst out laughing. They thought she was 
 drunk. In those days, when the very atmosphere breathed 
 cognac and absinthe, it was only natural that a woman should 
 be drunk. They laughed, and left her, having done all there 
 was to do here ; left her grovelling on the gi'ound by the 
 lamp-post, alone with her dead, the warm May sun shining 
 on her through the smoke of the battle, the air smelling of 
 blood and burning. 
 
 While she hung over the prostrate figure, lying face down- 
 wards on the bloody dust, the rhythmical trot of the cavalry 
 sounded in the distance, and the French troops M^ere enter- 
 ing the Avenue dTtalie. Serizier had retired into the 
 prison when the carnage was over, and was occupied in 
 revising a list of victims who were to be despatched with 
 something more of formality than he had deemed necessary 
 in the case of the Dominicans : but at the moment when he 
 was about to order out the first prisoner upon his list, his 
 lieutenant rushed in, and whispered in his ear. 
 
 All was over. The column of cavalry was seen advancing. 
 The colonel of the 13th legion flung aside his papers, dashed 
 into the avenue, threw himself into one of the houses com- 
 municating with the Avenue de Choisy, and disappeared. 
 
 When the French troops arrived they found nothing but 
 mutilated corpses.
 
 89 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE NIGHT WATCH OF DEATH 
 
 Fearful was the night that followed that hideous day. 
 Burning, burning, burning ; burning and bloodshed every- 
 where. The battle had become a massacre, the conflagration 
 a sea of fire. Never had been seen such destruction. The 
 jniblic granaries on the quay, the vast storehouses of Yillctte, 
 eight hundred burning houses, and as many more newly sec 
 on lire, the D'Orsay barracks, the Tuileries, the Palais Eoyal, 
 the Palace of the Legion of Honour, the Court of Archives, 
 the Hotel de Ville, theatres, manufactories, libraries, the 
 liue de Lille, the Rue du Bac, were all blazing and falling 
 into ruin. Paris seemed one mighty brazier, through which 
 wound the Seine, like a river of molten brass. 
 
 inuring the earlier jiart of the struggle the regular troops 
 had obeyed the orders of their leaders with calm submission, 
 doing their duty bravely in that worst of all combats — 
 street warfare. But as the conflict went on, the sight of 
 those flamii.g ruins, the savagery of the insurgents, exas- 
 perated them, and it was no longer possible to restrain their 
 fury. Their hearts were hardened by many a bitter memory 
 of past sufferings — of wasted heroism, of captivity, sickness, 
 hunger, long stages upon inhospitable roads, the shame of 
 undeserved defeat — su fie rings for which their sole recompense 
 had been injury and insult. And these, who had tired the 
 most glorious monuments of France, assassinated her bravest 
 and best, what had tlcc)/ done during the war ! They had 
 drunk and swaggered, and heLI fortii in wine sliops ; they 
 had strengthened the hands of the foe by their squabbles ami 
 revolts, and had gai'nered their strength for the work of 
 bloodshed and universal destruction. 
 
 The soldiers, who had been accused of cowardice, who liad 
 been hooted as * capitulards,' felt that in striking a terrible 
 blow they were not only obeying the law, but avenging 
 their country. The revolt had been pitiless; the punishment 
 was untempered by mercy. The sanguinary laws which the 
 Commune had promulgated recoiled uj)on herself. She, who 
 had murdered her priests and soldiers, hor justices and senators, 
 perished in her turn by slaughter as merciless as her own,
 
 90 Thrtrr the Bert Pkirj 
 
 All through that night of horror Philip Durand watched 
 by the bedside of his wife and her new-born infant in the 
 Rue Git le Creur. The little street was safe in its obscurity, 
 safe from the malice of the incendiaries, who had bigger 
 game for their sport ; but the conflagration was terribly 
 near. All the sky was lurid with reflected fire, and the 
 thunder of the cannonade and the rush and roar of the flames 
 were heard in every gust of wind which blew this way, 
 while every now and then came the sharp sudden sound of 
 an explosion — another roof blown up, another wall falling. 
 
 The atmosphere was poisoned by the odours of petroleum, 
 and the thick rank smoke from the Granaries of Abundance, 
 where the stores of wine, oil, and dried fish fed the fierceness 
 of the flames and intensified the stench of burning. Every- 
 where the work of destruction was being hvirried on. The 
 Commune was at the last gasp ; these explosions and burn- 
 ings wei-e the death-rattle. 
 
 The little courtyard below Durand's windows was alive with 
 people, going out and coming in, restless, anxious, alarmed, 
 talking to each other in doorways or at open windows, bringing 
 in the last news, which was as likely to be false as true, 
 
 Durand opened a window of the little salon, softly, while 
 Rose slept, and looked out, 
 
 ' They are burning Notre Dame,' said a man in the court, 
 seeing him at the window, and eager to impart his informa- 
 tion. ' They have i^led barrels of petroleum all the length 
 of the nave, half-way to the roof, and they are going to set 
 it on fire. The grand old roof will fly into the air presently, 
 like a pack of cards. It will be a sight worth seeing,' he 
 added, hurrying out as if to a play. 
 
 ' St. Eustache is on fire,' said another man, * and they are 
 going to burn the Prefecture of Police. Rigault and his 
 chums have been having a great supper there — seas of wine, 
 mountains of provision — and now they know their day is 
 over, and they are going to blow up the building.' 
 
 Durand shut the window. A palace more or less, a church 
 more or leps ! What did it matter amidst this universal 
 ruin ? — the Prussians at the door ; the government Aveak, 
 vacillating, the sport of circumstances ; France in tatters, 
 unable to save her bishops, her generals, her counsellors, her 
 soldiers ; given over as a prey to a sanguinary populace. 
 
 This strong, clear-headed man sat down crushed by the 
 weight of his country's desolation. He whose brain was 
 usually quick to plan, cool to execute his plans, now felt
 
 The Nirjht Wakh of D^aih 01 
 
 powerless to look beyond the horror of the hour ; but the 
 ruin whicli overwhelmed him was not the de.struction that 
 reigned without his dwelling. It was the blank within, that 
 empty home upstairs, whicli filled him with horror, which 
 was ever in his mind as a haunting fear. 
 
 It was three days since Gaston had disappeared, and now 
 Kathleen was gone. She had slipped out unseen by the 
 porter or by any of the neighbours. She had vanished like 
 a ghost at break of day. When he went up to her rooms 
 this morning to carry her the last news of her sister, to 
 cheer and comfort her, and buoy up her sinking hopes, as he 
 had done all through the two previous days of her trouble, 
 he found the nest desei-ted. 
 
 There was no doubt a-s to her flight, or its purpose. The inner 
 room was locked, and the key taken away ; the outer room was 
 neatly swept and garnished ; evei'ything was in its j)lace. Gas- 
 ton's bureau was locked ; the glazed cabinet in whi(,h he kept 
 his cherished collection of books — not large but so carefully 
 chosen : chosen as poverty chooses it treasures, one by one, 
 deliberately, anxiously — this, too, was locked, and every 
 book on its shelf ; and on the table lay a letter addressed to 
 Durand : — 
 
 'Dear Philip, dear Brother, — lam going to look for my 
 husband. Have no fear for me. Heaven will pity and jn'o- 
 tect my wretchedness. I shall be about all day and every 
 day seeking for my beloved ; but I shall come back here at 
 night for shelter and rest, if possible. If I do not come back 
 after dark you may know that my wanderings have taken me 
 too far afielil. Ihit you need have no fear. Of one thing you 
 may be sure — while my reason remains I will not destroy 
 myself. 1 will be true to the teaching of my childhood, and 
 Ciod will give me grace to bear mj' troubles. 
 
 ' Do not let one thought of me distract you from your duty 
 of protecting Rose and her baby. If she asks about me, tell 
 her that 1 am safe, in good hands, well cared for. Is not 
 that the truth, when I am in the keeping of the Holy 
 Mother and her blessed angels \ — Ever lovingly, your sister, 
 
 ' ICatiileen.' 
 
 It was midnight ; the long dreary day was over, and she 
 had not returned. Philip had crept upstairs, and looked into 
 the empty room several times in the course of the day ; 
 but there had been no sign of Kathleen's return. He had 
 questioned the landlord, who kept the hall-door locked
 
 92 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 and bolted in this time of panic ; but the man had seen 
 nothing of Kathleen. 
 
 It had been altogether a trying day. Rose was weak and 
 somewhat feverish, and inquired anxiously every hour about 
 Kathleen. Why did not her sister come to see her ? Where 
 was Gaston ? Philip was sorely perplexed how to reply. Gaston 
 was at the newspaper office, he faltered on one occasion. 
 'But the newspaper was suppressed six weeks ago,' said Eose. 
 ' Yes, but they are beginning again, now that times are 
 better ; and the government will be restored. That's what 
 makes Gaston so busy.' 
 
 ' But Kathleen — why does she desert me ? ' 
 ' She is not very well, dear. It is only a cold ; but it is 
 better for her to keep her room.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes, let her nurse herself. Oh, I wish that I were well, 
 and could go to her,' said Eose, with a troubled look. 
 
 She was devoured by anxiety about Kathleen ; and in spite 
 of her husband's tenderness, in spite of fussy Maman 
 Schubert's kindness, in spite even of that new and wonderful 
 love, the maternal instinct, awakened in her mind by the 
 infant that nestled at her side, like a bird under the parent 
 wing, she could not overcome that feeling of fear and restless- 
 ness caused by her sister's absence. 
 
 ' Are you sure that she is not seriously ill ? ' she asked 
 Philip, looking at him with fever- bright eyes. ' It is so un- 
 like Kathleen to make much of a slight illness. And she 
 must know that I am pining for her.' 
 
 ' Shall I go and fetch her?' asked Philip, making a move- 
 ment towards the door. ' It is better for her health that she 
 should stay in bed ; but if you want her so badly — ' 
 
 ' No, no, not for the world. Give her my fondest love. 
 Tell her to nurse herself. Give her baby's love, too, Philip : 
 I know this little creature is all love, though he was born in 
 an evil time.' 
 
 'Poor little stoi-m-bird ! ' murmured Philip, bending over 
 the bed to kiss the little pink face, so soft, like something 
 very sweet and lovable, but not quite human. 
 
 He was ashamed of himself for the lies he told so glibly. 
 Yet he knew that it would be dangerous to tell his wife the 
 truth — dangerous while her cheeks were flushed and her eyes 
 glassy with fever. Maman Schubert had warned him that 
 he must wade chin-deep iti falsehood rather than allow his 
 wife's mind to become troubled. He must do anything in 
 the world to soothe and comfort her. La Schubert herself
 
 The Ki'jht Watrh of Dmlh 93 
 
 was flib and inventive, and her presence had always a 
 soothing eflect. She brought Hose imaginary messages from 
 her sister ; and pretended to convey Eose's replies. She 
 danilled the baby, and cooked Philijj's dinner, and made the 
 invalid's broth, all with the liveliest air, and made light of 
 conflagration and ruin, although with every hour the roar of 
 cannon, the hiss of mitrailleuse, grow louder, fort answeriug to 
 fort with sullen thunder, the sound of musketry close at hand. 
 At midday a hideous noise resounded throughout the quarter. 
 The houses rocked ; fragments of plaster fell from the ceiling. 
 
 What was that? The explosion was too loud for any shell, 
 however formidable. It was only the powder magazine at 
 the Luxembourg, which had just been blown up. The 
 Pantheon was expected momentarily. 
 
 And still Manian Schubert, W'ith nods and friendly smiles 
 assured her dearest Madame Durand, 'cette pauvre clierie, 
 that the Versailles troops were carrying everything before 
 them. The Commune was surrendering without a blow. 
 Order would be restored, Paris at peace, by Sunday morning. 
 
 ' And we shall hear all the church-bells ringing for mass, 
 and see the people in their Sunday clothes,' concluded Maman 
 Schubert cheerily. 
 
 So the long day and the evening w^ore through, and it was 
 midnight, and tliere was no sign of Kathleen. 
 
 She whose return was so eagerly awaited in the Eue Git 
 le Cieur was not very far afield when the clocks chimed mid- 
 nifdit. She had wandered about Paris all day, haunting the 
 gates of the ])risons, inquiring for her missing husband of 
 every one who seemed in the least likely to be able to answer. 
 Had there been any new arrests made within the last three 
 days, and amongst the new arrests was there a young man, 
 tall, slim, with dark-gray eyes and marked brows, handsome, 
 a journalist I At the gates of Mazas, at the Great and the 
 Little Roquette, at Salute Pelagic, at La Santc, the patient 
 pilgrim ajjpeared, weary, with garments whitened by the 
 chalky dust of the hard dry roads which scorched her tired 
 feet, drooping in body, yet brave of soul, questioning, 
 seeking, watching, imploring, but finding no trace of the 
 lost one. 
 
 Niffht was falling before she turned away from the gates of 
 
 La Santc, the model prison of Paris, wliere General Chanzy 
 
 had been imprisoned for seven weary da}s at the beginning 
 
 of the Commune— night had fallen as she walktd slowly and 
 
 ■wearily back to that part of the city which she knew best,
 
 94 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 whei-e the Pont Neuf spans the Seine, and the dark towers 
 of Notre Dame stand out strong and stern against the sky- 
 line. Night had come, but not darkness. The crescent 
 moon shed her pale silvery light in the east, and the stars 
 wei-e golden in tlie deep calm azure of a cloudless sky. But 
 all at once that azure vault grew dark, and the stars vanished. 
 Gigantic clouds of black smoke mounted to the sky, and then 
 descended earthward, covering the city with an impenetrable 
 dome. Beneath this inky vault all was lurid. An awful 
 light glared and glowed on the quays, on the bridges, in the 
 broad space in front of the Hotel de Ville. Left bank and 
 right bank blazed and glared ; here some stately public office, 
 thei'e a millionaire's mansion, sent up its tribute of flame to 
 swell the funeral jiyre of the doomed city. ' Chassepot and 
 torch, shoot and burn ! ' was the order of the night. Yonder 
 in the Rue de Eivoli they were fighting desperately. Kath- 
 leen ran across the street amidst a rain of bullets, stumbling 
 over scattered corpses, deafened by the roar of the cannonade. 
 Slowly, despairingly, she wandered up and down those dread- 
 ful streets, perpetually in danger, yet passing scathless 
 through eveiy jDeril. Now and then a savage .scowling face 
 looked at her interrogatively, and then passed by. Sentinels 
 questioned, and let her pass. There was no harm in her. 
 She had a distracted look — a petroleuse who had proved of 
 too weak a mind for that patriotic work, perhaps. Women 
 are feeble creatures. This one's head had been turned. Only 
 an inmate the more for the Maison des Fous. 
 
 Amidst blood and fire she wandered to and fro, pausing 
 whenever there was a knot of idlers at a corner, to listen to 
 their talk, or repeat her old inquiries. Had there been any 
 new arrests within the last three days ? 
 
 Arrests % There were arrests every hour, a man told her. 
 The gentlemen in power were getting rabid. Shoot and burn, 
 that was the word. Murder and fire were their only notion 
 for taking their revenge upon Versailles. Arrests, forsooth ! 
 AVhat was the use of talking about arrests 1 The i^risons 
 were teeming with hostages, there was neither space nor pro- 
 vision for the herd of unfortunates ; and now the word had 
 gone forth to shoot them down in the prison-yards, or to 
 roast them alive in their cells. Rigault and Ferre, Serizier, 
 Mcgy, these were not men to surrender tamely. If these 
 fiery stars were to be quenched, they would go down in a 
 sea of blood. 
 
 ' Anything new ? ' repeated a man in a group that stood
 
 Th,i Ni'jJd Wa/rli <>/ Drafh ' 95 
 
 on the bn(li,^e watching the burning of the Lyric Theatre, as 
 if it had been a free representation, waiting for the Chatelet 
 to take fire on the other side of the wide lurid street, 
 momentarily expecting the dark towers of Notre Dame to 
 vomit tlamcs — ' anything new ? Yes, we live in stirring 
 times. Tliere is always something new. The Versaillais 
 liave taken the Pantheon, the stronghold of the Commune, 
 just as the Federals were going to blow it up. Milliere has 
 l)een shot. That is new. Have you heard of the massacre 
 of the Dominicans ? That is new. And Serizier has taken 
 to his heels — Serizier, the colonel of the 101st battalion ; 
 Serizier, the hero of Issy and Chatillon. The colonel is gone, 
 and the battalion is scattered.' 
 
 The Dominicans ! At that name Kathleen drew closer to 
 the group, as near as she could to the speaker, gazing at him 
 with wild wide-open eyes. The Dominicans ! Almost the last 
 words she had heard from her husband's lips were an 
 indignant protest against the ill-treatment of these good 
 monks. 
 
 'I would shed my last drop of blood rather than that a 
 hair of Father Captier's head should be hurt by those devils,' 
 he had said a few minutes before he left the house. 
 
 She went close up to the man who had spoken, and who 
 was now staring, open-mouthed, at the burning theatre. 
 She laid her hand upon his arm. 
 
 ' Is that true ! ' she asked. ' Has there been a.i\y harm 
 done to the Dominican Fathers of the school of Albert the 
 Great ? My husband w^as at school there, and he loves them 
 as if they were his own desli and blood.' 
 
 'Your husband's sons will have to find another school, 
 citoyenne,' answered the man, with a cynical air. ' The 
 Dominican School is sacked, and the shaven-polls have been 
 given their passports for pai'adise.' 
 ' Murdered ! ' 
 
 ' Every one of them. Shot down like pheasants in a 
 battue, this afternoon, yonder in the Avenue d'ltalie,' jjoint- 
 iug far away to the south. ' Thei'e is nothing left of the 
 nest or of the magpies, citoyenne.' 
 
 She clasped her hands bef<^re her face, and reeled against tlie 
 parapet of the bridge. Nobody noticed her, or cared for her. 
 The roof of the theatre was falling in — a shower of burning 
 fragments w\as blown across the dark water like a fiery rain. 
 On the other side of the river the glare, the smoke, the 
 stench of buruiug were intensifying with every moment.
 
 96 • Under the Bed Flag 
 
 ' Will there be anything left of Paris but dust and ashes 
 when the sun rises V asked one of the bystanders. 
 
 Kathleen leant against the bridge, motionless, speechless, 
 paralysed by fear. She tried to think. But for some 
 moments thouglit was impossible ; her brain was clouded, 
 benumbed, frozen. Then came reflection. Gaston had said 
 that he would die to save them, fight for them to the death, 
 these good fathers ; and they had all been murdered, and 
 Gaston was missing. He who had given her such faithful 
 love had abandoned her to desolation and despair. 
 
 Was it likely that he woidd so abandon her, unless a higher 
 duty claimed him ? Was it likely that he would leave her 
 for a space of four days in ignorance of his fate, unless he 
 were a prisoner — or unless he were dead 1 Paris reeked 
 with blood, every street was the scene of murder, and he was 
 gone from her — gone with the rest of those victims of whom 
 the crowd spoke with such seeming lightness, while it looked 
 on at the burning of the city as at the fireworks which con- 
 clude some gi^and fete. 
 
 They were waiting for the conflagration to burst from 
 yonder mighty jjile, from ])ainted window, and tower and 
 battlement, from nave and transept, from clerestory and 
 roof : Notre Dame was to be the bouquet. 
 
 ' Tell me, sir,' said Kathleen, in a hoarse, half-strangled 
 voice, ' was there any one else killed in the Avenue d'ltalie 
 — any one besides the Dominicans — any one who was in 
 company wil,h the good fathers ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, there were a few understrappers, I believe, servants 
 of the school.' 
 
 ' No one else ? ' 
 
 ' What do I know ? The news has passed from mouth to 
 mouth. There is no official bulletin, citoyenne. The Com- 
 mune keeps these things quiet. It is only hearsay.' 
 
 Only hearsay ! A ray of hope lit up the blackness of her 
 soul. Only hearsay ! And how many wild stories had been 
 told in Paris within the last week, how many horrors had 
 been bruited about which had been but bubbles of foul 
 imagining ! The story of the bodies found in the church of 
 Saint-Laurent, for instance. The desecrated corpses exposed 
 at the church-door, the supjjosed victims of jjriestly crime ; 
 foul fictions invented to stimulate the populace to carnage 
 and spoliation. 
 
 ' Is it far to the Avenue d'ltalie ?' she asked. 
 
 The bystanders an&wered carelessly, one eaying one thing,
 
 Ihr Nhjht Watch nf Ihalh 97 
 
 one auotliei-, each and all absorbed in the awful raptuie of the 
 scene, and c;iring not at all for individual needs and feelings. 
 
 One o'clock struck from the clock-tower of Notre Dame. 
 Kathleen was footsore, faint, her eyes burning with fever, 
 her mouth parched with thirst. She looked down at the 
 river, but the stream seemed to be running with liquid fire, 
 not water. There was no fountain near. She must get on 
 somehow, without the longed-for refreshment of a cup of 
 cold water. There was no use in asking for information 
 here, where the news was only hearsay, where people 
 answered her carelessly. In the Avenue d'ltalie, on the 
 scene of this hideous crime, if the thing were true, she must 
 more easily learn the actual facts — who had fallen, how 
 many. There she might learn the worst 
 
 She cros.sed to the left bank of the river, and began her 
 pilgrimage of despair. The distance was long, every step 
 was weariness and pain after her day's wanderings. All the 
 length of the Boulevard St. Michel, along which the ambu- 
 lance-waggons were passing in dismal procession, crimson 
 with blood. Under their scanty coverings were heaped a 
 confused m;iss of corpses. The dead were being carried away 
 by waggon-loads. On and on, past a barricade at which the 
 men of the quarter were working, old gray-headed men 
 among them, men who only wanted to die peacefully at home 
 with wife and children, and who, knowing that death was 
 inevitable, stuck heroically to their posts. On and on, till 
 the blaze of the conflagration, the roar of the flames, seemed 
 to be left behind. But not the dull thunder of the cannonade, 
 the sharp crack of ])istol-shots. Carnage was audible on 
 every side. 
 
 Blood everywhere — the pavement was stained with it ; the 
 doors and door-posts were splashed with it ; the gutters ran 
 with it. Refuse of all kinds littered the road ; butt-ends of 
 muskets, fragments of belts, t;iils of coats, strips of blouses, 
 caps, cartouch-boxes, shoes ; and here, on the open space in 
 front of a barricade, the soldiers who had eaten their soup 
 had lain calmly down to sleep by the side of the slain, the 
 living mingled with the dead, Kathleen looked at the 
 sleepers shudderingly in the cold clear moonlight. The 
 smoke had drifted away, and that scene of carnage was 
 steeped in silvery light. Impossible to pass that spot with 
 feet undyed in blood, impossible to avoid seeing those dead 
 faces. There, with arms thrown wide apart and face turned 
 to the sky, calm, proud even in death, lies the young lieutenant 
 
 H
 
 98 Xlnder the Bed ^larj 
 
 of artiller}' \vliom Kathleen remembered to have seen in the 
 early morning, sitting astride a cannon, thoughtful, with arms 
 folded, and a face prophetic of doom. Yes, it is he and no 
 other. His vest is open, as he tlung it apart when the victors 
 called upon him to surrender. His heart is one wide bloody 
 wound. All the gladness and pride of youth have welled 
 out in that purple stream. 
 
 No lack of traffic upon the boulevard or in the street, 
 albeit the night is far advanced towards morning. The 
 omnibuses are going again — those useful omnibuses, the 
 luxury of the poor — but their fares are not the liviug, but 
 the dead. They carry a ghastly load of blood-stained corpses 
 piled at random, thrust in helter-skelter. There are not 
 vehicles enough for this dismal traffic. Eailway-waggons, 
 breaks, all are pressed into the funeral service. Men with 
 sleeves turned up collect the dead, the hideous train moving 
 slowly from barricade to barricade. 
 
 One man stands looking with hon-or at his naked arms, 
 steeped up to the shoulders in blood. ' Is there no fountain 
 hereabouts, where I can ■vvash oft" these stains 1 ' he asks of the 
 crowd. Mighty fountains, rivers of water are needed to 
 purify this Paris, drowned in the blood of her children. 
 
 It is deep in the night, but the stillness of night is not 
 here. Men, women, families are grouped in the doorways. 
 No one knows where the conflagration will end, how near the 
 carnage may come ; no man knows if he and his dear ones 
 will see the daylight above the roofs and steeples of eastern 
 Paris. Heavily, drearily the waggons go by with their silent 
 burden. This may be called the night-watch of the slain. 
 On the Boulevard dTtalie the insurgents have erected a 
 monster redoubt, a fortitication in triple stages, with trenches, 
 loopholes, tunnels, defended at first by five hundred men. 
 The defenders have dwindled to five, but these five will not 
 yield. Their fortress is bombarded, the adjoining houses are 
 in flames ; but still the five refuse to surrender, and after a 
 deadly fight, that has lasted thirty-nine hours, they are taken 
 and shot by the Versaillais. 
 
 Such conflicts, as bloody as resolute, have been enacted all 
 over Paris in tlie day that is not yet old. And now the 
 moonlit hours, the calm of night, are given to the gathering 
 up of the dead. Victors and vanquished lie cheek by jowl on 
 the stones of Paris ; hecatombs sacrificed to discord and civil 
 war. The red flag flies yet here and there above the carnage, 
 the bloody ensign of a bloody reign.
 
 99 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 WIDOWED. 
 
 It is morning, dim early morning, dawn pink and pearl- 
 coloured above the housetops, an odour of verdure, of lilacs 
 and acacias in the fresh sweet air ; and Kathleen wanders up 
 and down the Avenue d'ltalie, always coming back to that 
 house which has been used as a ])rison by Citizen Serizier, 
 Colonel Serizier, the leader of the. 101st battalion. From one 
 and from another, from many informants who all seem to tell 
 their story differently, she has gathered the history of the 
 massacre. She has heard how those harmless Dumiuicau 
 Fathers were hunted down, slaughtered like sheep in the 
 shambles. It is after much questioning that she hears from 
 a woman in one of the houses opposite the prison that there 
 was another victim, one who was neither Dominican nor 
 subordinate of the Dominican school — a young man, hand- 
 some, with dark hair and eyes. He would have escaped in 
 the mvlee, only he lost time in trying to save Father C'aj)tier, 
 the Prior ; and it was only when the Prior had fallen, when 
 the fathers had been shot down all along the street, that this 
 generous youth had turned to ily. And then, like a young 
 antelope, he rushed through the savage crowd. He would 
 have got off even then, perhaps, if it had not been for a 
 P6troleuse,a veritable she-devil,who gave the view-halloa, and 
 rushed after him with half a dozen ruflians. He fell at the 
 corner of a side street — that new street to the left yonder — 
 the woman thought. 
 
 Kathleen listened to the woman's story, questioning her 
 closely at every stage. She was so calm in her white despair, 
 she listened and pondered the details of the tragedy with 
 such a tranquil air, that one could have hardly guessed that 
 each word was a death-blow, 
 
 * Do you recognise this young man as any one belonging to 
 you I ' asked the woman comp;issionately. 
 
 She was a sempstress, whu cared neither for Peter nor Paul, 
 a decent pei-son who had descended from her attic in the roof 
 to see what this new dawn was bringing to Parish-deliver-
 
 100 UiKler thf Red Fla<J 
 
 ance or death. She was not one of those furies who had 
 stood at their windows shriekiag and applauding during the 
 butchery. 
 
 ' I believe he was my husband.' 
 
 ' Heavens, that is sad ! ' 
 
 'Whose fault was it? Whose work, the massacre ? Can 
 you tell me that 's ' 
 
 ' They say hereabouts that it was Serizier, Colonel Serizier. 
 He was at the head of it all. He ordered the Dominicans 
 and the others to be brought here ; he ordered them to be 
 shot ; he was there, in the midst of the massacre, directing 
 his men, encouraging those vile women who were even more 
 savage than the Federals ; his own hand fired upon those 
 helpless priests ; he mocked them with abusive epithets ; he 
 was pitiless, devilish, murder incarnate. You look ready to 
 sink with fatigue,' said the sempstress, moved with jjity for 
 Kathleen, whose eyes were fixed and glassy as the eyes of 
 death ; ' come up to ray room and rest ; it is a poor place, but 
 you are welcome. And I can give you a cup of coifee and a 
 bit of bread ; it is not so bad as in the siege.' 
 
 ' Not so bad ? the streets were not drowned in blood then,' 
 said Kathleeu. ' No, you are very good, but I am not tired,' 
 with a ghastly smile. 'I will go and look at the corner where 
 he fell. Stay, what did they do with the bodies ? ' 
 
 ' The Versaillais came an hour after and carried them all 
 away.' 
 
 ' Where — where ? ' gasped Kathleen. 
 
 But the woman could not tell her. Among so many waggon- 
 loads of dead, who could tell, who cai'ed, whither one 
 jiarticular batch had been taken? Perhaps they had all been 
 carried to thatgaping chasm behind the chapel in the Cemetery 
 of P5reLachaise,into which the Federal corpses were flung en 
 masse after the battle of Asnicres. The sempstress had seen 
 that pit of death, sixty corpses waiting for recognition, a sight 
 to freeze one's blood. 
 
 Kathleen left her, and walked wearily to that side street, 
 a n;irrow shabby street; doors and windows were all closed, 
 most of the houses had an evil aspect. There was no one 
 standing about whom she could question. 
 
 A few paces from the corner of the street, at the foot of a 
 lamp-post, she saw the spot where the victim had fallen. A 
 pool of blood harl stained the summer dust. It was dry now, 
 but she could see how the corpse had lain in blood and mire. 
 The figure had printed its outline on the ground. There was
 
 Wi>Joa-ed 101 
 
 no other trace of the massacre in this quite street. One victim, 
 and one only, had fallen here. 
 
 She knelt beside that awful stain ; she watered it with \\er 
 passionate tears, the first she had shed throvighout her 
 pilpriniaffe of two aiid-twenty hours. The church clocks were 
 striking four. Yesterday morning at six she had left the Rue 
 Git le Ccour. And now she had come to the end of her 
 journey ; she had reached her destination. She knelt ahme, 
 unnoticed, with her hands clasjjed over her face, praying, tirst 
 for her beloved, for the repose of his soul ; then followed a 
 prayer less pure, less Christian, a passionate appeal to Heavtn 
 for revenge uj^on his murderer, the destroyer of her hap- 
 piness. 
 
 Who was his nunderer? Not the blind mad mob, not even 
 the devilish woman, the Petroleuse, lashed into crime and 
 murder by the scourges of insurgent tyrants. S(5rizier,theman 
 in authority, the wretch who brought those good Dominicans 
 from their peaceful seclusion to the goal and the shambles. 
 It was Sorizier of whom she thought when she prayed for 
 vengeance. 
 
 ' Let it come, O Lord ; long or late, let Thy thunder come 
 and strike him as he struck them ! Let Thnie hour of ven- 
 geance be sure and swift I JiO here, looking up to Thee, I swear 
 never to know rest or respite till I have tracked him to his 
 doom ! ' 
 
 Sdrizier, colonel of the 101st battalion. She wanted to 
 know more about him — whither he had vanished after the 
 carnage ; in what cellar or what garret this craven hound had 
 hidden himself. 
 
 When she had exhausted her passion in prayer, she calmed 
 herself and began to think. 
 
 She was tired to the ])oint of Iteing fain to cast herself 
 down upon the dusty road, and to lie there till sleep or death 
 came to give her rest from the fever of her brain and the dull 
 aching of her bones. But she struggled hernieally against 
 this overpowering lassitude, and went back to the bnulevard, 
 and hobbled on till she came to a workman's cafe that opened 
 early for the accommodation of the neighbourhood. Here she 
 entered, and seated herself at a table near the door. The fresh 
 morning air blew in upon her face as .she .sat there, and she 
 felt as if that alone kept her from fainting. Never in all her 
 life before had she entered such a place alone, or sat alone 
 among such company. Iler girlhood and brief married life 
 had been as closely guarded as if she had been a dm-hess. To
 
 102 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 sit alone among rough blouses and Versaillais soldiers in 
 their stained uniforms was a new experience. 
 
 .She ordered some coffee, and the waiter brought her a roll 
 and butter. She had eaten nothing except one piece of bread 
 since she had left home. The coffee and the food revived 
 her, and she was able to look about her, and listen to the 
 eager voices of the blouses and soldiers, as they sat eating 
 and talking, smoking, drinking all at once, as it seemed to 
 her, with their elbows on the table, seen indistinctly in a 
 cloud of tobacco. 
 
 ''He le pere^ two little glasses of cognac, and one of 
 absinthe,' called a blouse. 
 
 ' Garcon., une gomme^ drawled another blovise, with sublime 
 affectation, imitating the expired, or temporaiily obliterated 
 race of foplings, the petlts creve's of the Empire, known after- 
 Avards as gommeux, elegant consumers of absinthe con- 
 siderably diluted will) gum arabic. 
 
 Presently came a name which riveted Kathleen's attention 
 to the next table. The name was Serizier. They were discus- 
 sing the delegate of the 13th arrondissement, the commander 
 of the 101st battalion. 
 
 ' They say that he has decamped, this good Serizier, the 
 hero of our battles,' said one of the men. 
 
 ' It was time,' answered a soldier : ' our cavalry were at 
 the end of the street when cette bete took to his heels. They 
 have been hunting for him ever since, but the rat has run 
 into some hole where he is not easily found. We shall 
 have hiu}, though. Nom dhin cltien, such butchers must not 
 be allowed to escape. Those good Dominican Fathers ! 
 No, the canaille shall not get off ? ' 
 
 * He is a man of yesterday, this Serizier, a creation of the 
 18th March, is he not V asked the other. 
 
 ' He is a Communard, crapule among the Communards. 
 He is a currier by trade, but he got into trouble under the 
 Empire, and was a refugee in Belgium up to the 4th of 
 September. He hates all priests with a diabolical ferocity, 
 and has prided himself upon desecrating the churches by his 
 brutal oi'gies. He is moie tiger than man ; but we shall cut 
 his claws and draw his teeth when we find him.' 
 
 ' When we find him, yes ! ' answered the other, lolling over 
 the table, and eating his soup with an air of luxurious repose. 
 
 His hands and face were blackened by gun])owder ; his 
 hair was clotted with dust and blood. There had been uq 
 leisure ^et for the victors to make their toilet.
 
 Widowed 103 
 
 * Yoii think lie has taken the key of the fields ? ' 
 
 ' I .should say he was across the frontier by this time ; or 
 on board one of the Americ;in steamers at Havre. He would 
 not let the gniss grow under his feet' 
 
 'Not so easy to get out of Paris, my friend. Look at 
 Eaoul Rigault. He tried to hide himself yesterday after- 
 noon, but they unearthed him, and set him witli his back to 
 the wall — his favourite attitude for other peojde. And this 
 Serizier is a marked man. He commanded twelve battalions 
 at Chatillon and at Issy. All the army know him. He will 
 never be able to pass our outposts unrecognised.' 
 
 ' I hope not,' answered the other. ' They say that some of 
 the communist dogs — the leaders of the sheep — have provided 
 themselves withballoons,and that, as soon as they have burned 
 Paris, they mean to take flight for England or Belgium.' 
 
 There was no more said about Serizier, and Kathleen left, 
 after paying for her refreshment, and walked homeward 
 slowly, feebly, in the bright cool morning. The sun was 
 rising over the heights beyond Paris. It was shining on the 
 faces of the dead, on the dreadful crimson dye which stained 
 the streets, on rags and tatters and fragments of arms strewed 
 thicker than autumn leaves on roadway and pavement. 
 
 Some of the street-lamps were still burning — a pale and 
 sickly light in the glow and glory of the morning. The 
 barricades were deserted. This side of Paris was in posses- 
 sion of the regular army, and a comparative quiet reigned — 
 the quiet of death and desolation. But mighty masses of 
 flame and smoke yonder, as of a burning volcano, told that 
 the conflagration still raged with unabated fury — the Rue du 
 Bac, the Rue de Lille, the Public Granaries, the Palace of 
 Justice : enough material there to last for a few good houi's 
 yet. 
 
 Half-way towards the Rue Git le Coeur, Kathleen met a 
 melancholy procession. Forty Communards, men and women, 
 j)risoner3 in chains, silent, with bent heads, in the midst of 
 the soldiers who are leading them to the place where they are 
 to be shot. No trial — no formula of any kind. They have 
 been taken red-handed among the ruins they have maile, 
 in ditches behind heaps of stones. They have been 
 forced to fight, no doubt. The Commune would take no 
 excuse. Her children must give her their hearts' blood. 
 To refuse was treason ; and death to all traitors was the cry 
 of those last days. Rebellion, in her death-agony, was 
 merciless. ' As good one death as another,' said the sheep,
 
 104 Under the Bed Flatj 
 
 as they went to the barricades ; and they vforked and drank 
 — they were passing liberal with the strong drinks, these 
 Communard leaders — and they fought with the desperate 
 courage of men who knew that death was certain either way. 
 
 And now, meekly as they have obeyed their leaders, they 
 suffer themselves to be led to their doom. Not theirs the 
 brains that hatched rebellion ; not theirs the pockets that were 
 filled by pillage and theft ; not theirs the profligate orgy or 
 the brief spell of power ; but theirs the penalty — death. 
 
 It was nine o'clock when Kathleen toiled slowly up the 
 staircase, and knocked with tremulous hand at her sister's 
 door. That last portion of her pilgrimage had been the 
 worst of all. She had crawled along, half asleep, hardly 
 knowing where she was or what she was doing. She had 
 stumbled against the passers-by, and had been accused of 
 drunkenness more than once by an enraged citizen. And 
 now, as Maman Schubert opened the door, she fell into her 
 arras, and sank from that matronly bosom to the floor in a 
 dead faint. 
 
 The door of the inner room — Rose's bedroom — was ajar. 
 The good Schubert lifted up Kathleen s lifeless form and 
 laid it on the sofa. She ministered to her with the skilful- 
 ness of an experienced nurse, and then ran to close the door 
 of communication, lest Rose should hear too much. Already 
 Rose had inquired several times foi' her sister. Was Kath- 
 leen better ? Would she be well enough to come down to 
 see Rose and the baby ? The mother had an idea that 
 Kathleen would find the little one grown. He seemed to 
 develop so quickly. He was all perfume and bloom, like 
 an opening fiower. His breath was sweeter than summer 
 roses. 
 
 Durand was lying down on a mattress spread upon the 
 floor of the tiny kitchen. He had taken his turn at the 
 barricade last night, and had received a bullet in the fleshy 
 ])art of his arm. He was feverish with the pain of his wound 
 devoured by perpetual thirst. 
 
 ' You good soul, what would become of us without you ? ' 
 he said, as he took a glass of water from Maman Schubert's 
 hand. ' How shall we ever repay you ? ' 
 
 ' My friend, do you think I need any payment ? What 
 has a lonely okl woman with a small annuity to do in this 
 world except care for her neighbours 1 And Rose and 
 Kathleen are to me as my own daughters. Did I not see 
 tliem wlien they first entered Paris, footsore and dusty, but
 
 Widoiced 105 
 
 so gentle and so pretty in their weariness ? Was I not the first 
 to welcome them to this great city, which is now the city of 
 death ? Heaven help us ! Lie still, and keep your mind 
 tranquil, my friend, and as soon as I have given Laity his 
 bath — how he loves the water, the dear innocent ! — I will 
 come and put a fresh dressing on that poor arm.' 
 
 IMadame Schubert was surgeon, nurse, intermediary between 
 the sick room and the outer world — everything to the Dui'and 
 household in their affliction. 
 
 From his bed in the kitchen Philip heard Kathleen's re- 
 turn — her feeble voice jjresently talking in low niui-murs with 
 Madame Schubert. She was safe ; she had returned. Thi'ough 
 fire, and smoke, and carnage she had passed unharmed. Here, 
 at least, was a blessed relief — one burden lifted from their 
 anxious hearts. But he, the husband ? What of him ? 
 
 Kathleen told Madame Schubert the story of her pil- 
 grimage ; told how she had knelt upon the bloodstained 
 ground where her husband's corpse had lain. But the good 
 Schubert refused to be convinced, would not see any sufficient 
 evidence of Gaston's death. What did it come to after all, 
 this story which Kathleen had heard in the Avenue d'ltalie '': 
 A young man, nameless, with dark hair and eyes, had been 
 killed with the good Dominicans. But whyishould that young 
 man be Gaston Mortemar '] 
 
 'There are enough young men in France, my faith, with 
 d.ark hair and eyes ! Ca ne manque pas,' said Madame 
 Schubert. ' 
 
 ' Has my husband come home 1 ' asked Kathleen. 
 
 The good Schubert .shrugged her shoulders and shook her 
 head despondinglv. 
 
 ' Alas, no ! ' 
 
 ' Then he is dead — no matter how or where. He is dead ! 
 Do you think that if he wei-e living he would forsake me ? ' 
 asked Kathleen. 
 
 ' He may be a jnisoner.' 
 
 ' Would to God it were so ! But I know ; there is some- 
 thing here,' touching her breast, ' something stronger than 
 myself, that tells me he fell yesterday — on that .spot.' 
 
 ' Kathleen,' called a voice from behind the closed door, 
 * Kathleen ! ' 
 
 Rose had heard those murmurs in the next room, and had 
 recognised Kathleen's voice. 
 
 Madame Schubert grasped Kathl(?en's arm as she was going 
 to answer that call,
 
 106 Under the Red Flag 
 
 'Dou't go to her yet,' she said. 'You will frighten her 
 with your gliastly face and your dust-stained gown. She 
 was very ill yesterday, weak and fevei'ish. She is weak to- 
 day, but the fever is better. She must not be agitated in 
 any way. Go to your room, and wash and change your clothes, 
 and come down presently looking bright and happy.' 
 
 ' It will be easy,' said Kathleen, with a ghastly smile. ' Yes, 
 I understand.' 
 
 'And not a word about Gaston or your wanderings. We 
 told her nothing but lies yesterday — told her that you were 
 in your own bed, ill with a cold. Don't undeceive her. She 
 is so hai)j)y, poor soul, nursing her first baby. Yet, even in 
 the midst of her new happiness, she was full of anxiety about 
 you.' 
 
 ' I will be careful,' said Kathleen. ' I think I am getting 
 used to sorrow. I ought to be able to hide it.' 
 
 She obeyed Madame Schubert in every particular, and 
 came back in less than hour, fresh and bright in her clean 
 cotton gown and black silk apron, her lovely hair brushed to 
 silky softness, and coiled in a smooth chignon at the back of 
 her head. She smiled as she kissed Rose. She sat beside the 
 bed and rocked the baby on her knees, and talked to him, and 
 cooed at him, trying to awaken some faint ray of intelligence 
 in the little pink face, which seemed to the mother to be full 
 of soul. 
 
 ' Do you think he has grown 1 ' asked Rose fondly. 
 
 ' I think he is wonderfully improved since the day before 
 yesterday,' answered Kathleen. 
 
 ' Improved ! ' Rose felt inclined to resent the word. Could 
 there be room for improvement in a being so perfect as that 
 child had been from the very first hour of his life ? But 
 Kathleen had vague memories of an unlovely redness and 
 spottiness in the infant's earliest idea of a complexion ; and the 
 soft, r(jsy tints of to-day seemed to her a marked advance in 
 the baby's development. 
 
 Rose lay with her face turned towards her sister, her hand 
 in Kathleen's hand, perfectly happy. Ha]:)py in the fulness 
 of her love, albeit fort still answered fort with sullen thunder, 
 and cannon and mitrailleuse, chassepotand revolver, still made 
 deadly music in the streets. There was peace here for Rose 
 Durand in the narrow circle of home. She had suffered all 
 anxieties about the outside world to be lulled to rest by 
 Madame Schubert's cheerful assurances. And then, sirrce the 
 birth of the Commune, Paris had grown accustomed to the
 
 Widoiced 107 
 
 ROuiiJ of bombardment, to the smoke of cannon. Polichinelle 
 had made his jokes, the merry-go-rounds had revolved, the 
 b u'rel-organs and fifes and drums had sounded cheerily in the 
 C-'hamps Elysces, albeit Versailles was bombaidinf,^ Paris. The 
 roar of guns, the noise and havoc of war, had become the 
 every-day sounds of the city. Rose, lying in her curtained 
 bed, windows closed and mufiled, hardly knew that the guns 
 to-day sounded louder and nearer. 
 
 ' Philip will go no more to the barricades,' she told Kath- 
 leen. ' He was wounded in the shoulder yesterday — a very 
 slight wound, praise to Heaven ! but enough to prevent his 
 fighting any more.' 
 
 Kathleen heard with a shudder, remembering that file of 
 prisoners, with fettered limbs and downcast eyes, pale, de- 
 .■^puring, submissive. She had heard people say that all who 
 had carried anus against the liepublic would be served thus. 
 ' I'ass'/s par Ics armes ! ' The phrase was familiar enough 
 now. A short shrift, and your back against a wall, citizen, 
 VDur waistcoat open, so ! and eight muzzles pointed at your 
 he.irt. 
 
 ' Where is Gaston I ' said Rose presently. ' Maman Schu- 
 bert Siiid he was at the office all yesterday. His newspaper 
 is to be revived now that Paris is more tranquil, she told me. 
 Are you glad of that, Kathleen ] I hope he will not preach 
 revolution any more. We have had enough of the 
 Uomnmue.' 
 
 ' Yes, enough — more than enough,' said Kathleen, her pale 
 lips quivering as she turned away her head. 
 
 All that day the sisters spent together, Kathleen devoting 
 herself to Rose and the baby, smiling upon both, speaking 
 hopeful words ; but after dark, when Rose had fallen asleep, 
 Kathleen stole away from the sick room just as ^Sladame 
 Schubert re-entered, after having attended to her own home 
 affairs. Before Madame Schubert had time to ask her a 
 question, Kathleen was gone. She ran up to her own room, 
 put on her neat little bonnet and sliawl, her thick black veil, 
 and then back to those terrible streets, to the stifling smoke, 
 the glare of the conflagration, the tramp of soldiery, the cry 
 of ' Stand, or I fire I ' 
 
 The struggle was over in the centre of Paris. The insur- 
 gents had retired to Pere Lachaise. M<''nilmontant, Belleville, 
 the Buttes Chaumont. The huge storehouses of Villette 
 filled half the sky with lurid flame, aci'oss which fiashed the 
 swift white light of tlje cannon. The Hotel de YiHe stood
 
 108 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 sharply out against the sky of flame and moonlight — a ruin, 
 grand as any wreck of Eoman greatness ; airy columns, 
 fairy arches, doorways without rooms, spectral corridors, 
 cornices of delicate tracery ; and, above all, unharmed, 
 in big golden capitals, might still be read the legend, ' Liberty ! 
 Equality! Fraternity!' 
 
 And still the thunder of the cannon peals across the 
 city. Montmartre, from its superior height, rains death and 
 destruction upon Belleville and La Eoquette. Belleville and 
 La Eoquette rej^ly with mitrailleuse and shell. 
 
 'Any news —any news of Colonel Serizier ? ' Kathleen 
 asks of a group of women at a street-corner. 
 
 But they do not even know who Serizier is. They 
 are full of their own troubles, their own fears. One of 
 these weeps for a husband whom she has not seen for four 
 days ; called out against his will — he, the peaceable father 
 of a family — to go and work and light and die at the 
 barricades. 
 
 ' Ah, ma bonne ! ' she says to Kathleen, with streaming 
 eyes, ' the Commune was very cruel ; and now they say 
 Monsieur Thiers will be cruel too. Those foolish people 
 have pulled down his house, and that will not help to 
 arrange matters.' 
 
 Serizier ? No ; no one in the streets knew anything about 
 Serizier. 
 
 What was this dark rumour which the loiterers in the 
 streets repeated to each other with awe-stricken faces ? The 
 hostages had been murdered at La Eoquette three days ago, 
 slaughtered within the walls of the prison. The Archbishop 
 of Paris, the Cure of the Madeleine, Monsieur Bonjean the 
 President — eighteen victims in all. 
 
 Yes, it was true. True also that at five o'clock this after- 
 noon, in the bright May sunshine, another band of hostages 
 — priests, soldiers, civilians — to the number of fifty-two, had 
 been done to death by a savage mob in the Eue Haxo, on 
 the heights of Belleville ; but this new horroi' had rot yet 
 become town talk. 
 
 It was one o'clock in the morning when Kathleen went 
 home, worn out by wandering ujj and down the streets, 
 standing at corners or on the bridges listening to the passers- 
 by, to the people who stood at tlieir doors ; but nowhere 
 could she hear anything wliich threw new light upon the 
 tragedy in the Aveiuie d'ltalie, or the wretch wlio had 
 j)lanned that bloody deed,
 
 ino 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Kathleen's avocation 
 
 WiiiT Sunday. May on the tl\resliold of June, the very- 
 dawn of sunimei- ; bat the sun, which hitherto has shone 
 Avitli pitiless searching light ui)ou scenes of death and horror 
 shines no more. Stormy winds beat and bluster against 
 that feeble old house in the Rue Git le Cteur, with a sound 
 and fury as of thunder : the cannonade of heaven takes up the 
 cannonade of earth, and echoes it with hundred-fold power. 
 Tempestuous rain lashes the windows, like the spray from a 
 seething ocean. Again the cannon of Montmartre thunders 
 against the heights of Belleville and Menilmontant. Again 
 the insurgents reply with savage fury, blind, reckless, 
 deluging Paris with shells. 
 
 And while tlie pitiless struggle still goes on upon the 
 lieights of Belleville, the day of reprisals has already begun 
 for the insurgents. From Mazas they bring a hundred and 
 forty-eight prisoners, hastily huddled into the prison yester- 
 day. In tlie stormy Sunday morning, Whitsuntide morning, 
 they are marched to tlie cemetery of Pcre Lachaise, among 
 the trees and the tlowers, and the marble crosses, and 
 urns, and temples : and there, hard by that common grave 
 where the muidered Archbishoj) and his companions lie in 
 their bloody shrouds, the Federal prisoners are divided into 
 batches of ten, and shot to death. They die bravely, joining 
 hands and crying, ' Long live the C'onnnune ! ' with their 
 last breath. 
 
 In the prison of Little Roquette, at about the .same hour 
 two hundred and twenty-seven insurgents meet the same 
 doom ; not quite so boldly, for some of these, said an eye- 
 witness, were snivellei"s, and bogged for mercy. 
 
 The final hour has come ; those shells are verily the death 
 rattle of the Conmunie. Thirty thousand men are said to be 
 concentrated uj^on this i)oint of Paris, where they have built 
 up giant barricades, almost impenetrable fortresses, commu- 
 nicating with each other by underground passages, a wfinder 
 of rough and ready masonry and skill. They are held in this
 
 110 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 supreme hour by men of desperate courage, men who have 
 sworn not to surrender. 
 
 Two o'clock on that stormy Sabbath ; and so far there has 
 been neither rest nor respite. Cannon, mitrailleuse, chassepot, 
 thunderii)g, rattling, roaring, hissing ; but now as the after- 
 noon wears on there come intervals of silence. The cannonade 
 paiises to draw breath. The sounds of battle seem more 
 remote — they die away in the distance. Then silence. 
 
 Silence ! Are they all dead ? 
 
 This is Sunday, tlie day when the labourer rests from his 
 toil ; but to-day there has been only one labourer, and his 
 name is Death. 
 
 Evening, and for the first time for many weeks and many 
 days no more cannon. O happy silence, silence of peace ! Or 
 should we not rather say silence of death ? 
 
 A column of six thousand prisoners who have surrendered 
 at Belleville slowly defile along the boulevard : and this is 
 verily the end. Yes, the cup of desolation has been drained 
 to the dregs. There have been the sword to slay, and the 
 dogs to tear, and the fowls of the heaven and the beasts of 
 the earth to devour and destroy, as in the day of tlie Prophet ; 
 only the dogs have been human dogs, and the beasts have 
 been human beasts ; and the whirlwind of the Lord has gone 
 forth with fury, a continuing whirlwind, and it has fallen 
 with pain upon the head of the wicked : and on the head of 
 the good and just, and innocent and gentle also. 
 
 The sacred month of May, month dedicated to the holy 
 Mother of God, was over — month of May never to be for- 
 gotten by the French people. May which has left its indelible 
 mark upon the city of Paris — and now all the gates of the city 
 were opened, and the world came to see the work of 
 destruction. English, Americans, foreigners of all kinds 
 went about looking at the ruins, as at Pom])eii or Her- 
 culaneum, criticising, examining, somewhat disappointed 
 that the havoc was not more universal. 
 
 On the 7th of June came the funeral procession of Mon- 
 signor Darboy, the third Archbishop of Paris murdered 
 within a quarter of a century. Under a gray and sunless 
 sky the car with its long train of mourners, soldiers, people, 
 solemnly, silently defiled along the quays, past the still 
 smouldering ruins of palaces and mansions. No rcll of 
 drums, no funeral music broke that awful silence ; only the 
 rhythmical tread of the soldiers, the hollow rumble of gun-
 
 Kathleen's Avocation 111 
 
 Carriages. In the dumbness of a broken-hearted city, a city 
 reeking wilh bl(Kjd newly shed, tlie martyr was curried to his 
 tomb in the great cathedral— last stage of a journey that had 
 known so many dismal halting-places — from prison to prison, 
 and then to the common grave at Pere Lachaise, from there 
 to the bed of state in the arehiepiscopal jjalace, and now to 
 the linal resting-jiiace among the historic dead. 
 
 In the Kue Git le Caur life had resumed its wonted way, 
 save for one empty place. Rose was again astir, the careful 
 menagf'ro, the attentive wife, nur.sing her baby, bu.-^y with her 
 domestic work, cleaning, cooking, keeping the little apartment 
 as neat and bright as a palace. There were tiowers on the 
 window-sill again, a bunch of flowers on the table at which 
 I'hilip wrote or read, a bouquet of lilies of the valley, pur.', 
 spotless, telling no tale of a ruined city, a humiliated and 
 impoverished nation. Within, by the domestic hearth, all was 
 peace. Philip's arm was slowly mending. He was able evt n 
 to work a little at tlie famous carved sideboard in his work- 
 shop, or to bring one of the panels into his wife's sitting- 
 room, to sit there by the open window, chiselling a group of 
 fruit, bird or fish, and whistling softly to himself as he 
 worked, while l\ose sat in her rocking chair crooning to her 
 sleeping babe. 
 
 And Kathleen, the widowed, the heart-broken, what was 
 her life in these cla3'sof restored peace / She wu'^ very quiet. 
 She bore her sorrow with a silent resignation which was more 
 pathetic than loud wailings or passionate tears. But Rose 
 would have liked better to see her weep more. That bloodless 
 face, those fixed and hollow eyes, that slow and heavy step — 
 the stej) wliieh had once been so light ami swift upon the 
 stair — those long intervals of silence and ajjathy, were not 
 these the indications of a broken heart] 
 
 Rose Durand did all in her power to comfort the mourner. 
 She tried to persuade her sister to surrender the ajiartnient 
 on the upper story, and to occujjy a little room oti' Philip's 
 workshop : a mere closet ; but Rose could furnish it, and 
 make it a pretty nest for her darling ; and then Kathleen 
 would be her child again, always under her watchful care. 
 She would share all their meals, live with them altogether ; 
 and the company of the little one, who showed himself full of 
 intelligence, would soothe and amuse her. 
 
 ' You are very good, deai-,' answered Kathleen meekly, 
 when this scheme was pressed upon her; 'you and Phili[) 
 have been all goodness to me. But I like to live alone jn->t
 
 112 Uddrr tJw Bed Flag 
 
 now. I am not fit company for any one. And again, if — 
 if — ' with a profound sigh, ' if— he should come back, and find 
 his rooms altered, his books disturbed — it would seem as if I 
 had not really loved him.' 
 
 Eose was silent. Till this moment she had supposed that 
 Kathleen was absolutely convinced of her husband's death, 
 that the black gown she wore was the sign of hopeless widow- 
 hood ; but these words told of a lingering hope, and after 
 this Eose no longer urged her sister to give up the apartment. 
 It was better she should go on hoping until the thin thread 
 of hope wore out, than that she should sink all at once into 
 absolute despair. Better, too, that she should have the 
 daily occupation of arranging her rooms, dusting Gaston's 
 books, opening a volume now and then and looking at 
 a page, as if it held his own words. There were pages of 
 Musset's poetry which seemed to speak to her with her 
 husband's voice, so often had he read the lines to her in their 
 brief married life. She knew all his books, and knew the 
 measure of his love for each. 
 
 Every morning she )jut a little bunch of flowers on his 
 writing-table by the window. And yet in her inmost heart 
 she was convinced that he was dead, and that it was his 
 blood she had seen staining the dusty ground in the street 
 off the Avenue d'ltalie. And then when this work of dusting, 
 polishing, and arranging everything was done, work over 
 which she lingered lovingly, she would put on her little black 
 bonnet, with a thick crape veil over her face, and go out and 
 wander about the streets and the quays, and loiter on the 
 bridges, hearing all that could be heard of the public news. 
 People respected that black gown and bonnet, and the thick 
 mourning veil. She was recognised as one of the many 
 mourners who had been left behind after that awful tide of 
 blood and fire had rolled over Paris. Lonely as she was, 
 young, beautiful, no one molested her. She went from place 
 to place, secure in the majesty of her desolation. 
 
 She saw the long files of insurgent prisoners led along the 
 streets, fastened together by their elbows, with lowered " 
 heads, still fierce and shuddering from the bloody battle, 
 guarded by a cordon of soldiers. She saw the exasperated 
 crowd flinging itself savagely upon these victims of their 
 leaders' folly, trying to break through the cordon of soldiers, 
 the women more furious than the men, striking at the 
 prisoners with their umbrellas, crying, 'Death to the assassins ! 
 To the fire with the incendiaries ! '
 
 Kathleen's Acocation 113 
 
 When some poor panting wretch, exhausted by fatigue, 
 tottered and foil, and was j)icked up by the gendarmes and 
 put in one of the vehicles which followed the convoy, tliere 
 was a howl of fury from the mob : 
 
 ' No, no,' they cried, ' shoot him on the spot 1 ' 
 
 And as the dismil train passed through the villages, on 
 the ({uiet country roads, there was the same chorus of insults 
 and execrations, a torture that knew no cessation till the 
 prisoners reached the camp at Satory, where they had the 
 naked earth for their bed, and the sky for their shelter. 
 Perhaps some among these pilgrims of the chain may have 
 assisted in that other procession on the 27th of May, when 
 Emile Gois and his myrmidons drove the priests and the 
 gendarmes to the place of butchery in the Eue Haxo. 
 
 The day of reprisals had couu, and the day was bitter. 
 And the cry of JParis is like the voice of the daughter of 
 Zion that bcwaileth herself, that spreadeth her hands, saying, 
 ' Woe is niu now, for my soul is wearied because of murderers! 
 
 In all her wanderings, those loitei'ings under the limes 
 and the maples, on the boulevard, or on a bench in the 
 Champs Elysees, where the old air of gaiety began once 
 more to enliven the scene, Kathleen had as yet heard nothing 
 of the missing Serizier. The people whom she questioned 
 were either densely ignorant — they had never heard of the 
 man — or they remembered him vaguely as one of those 
 heroes of the hour, a shoddy Achilles, who had strutted in 
 a gautly uniform and played the soldier in a passing show ; 
 or they svere inditt'erent, shrugged their shoulders, believed 
 that Siirizier hail been killed on one of the barricades at 
 Belleville yonder, or that he had been shot at Mazas with a 
 gang of insurgents. 
 
 At last, however, one tender June evening, when the 
 storied windows of Notre Dame tlung broken coloured lights, 
 like scattered jewels, upon the placid bosom of the fc>eine, 
 hanl by the Llorgue, which lay low in the shadow yonder, 
 like the black hull of somo slave-ship, Kathleen, standing by 
 the low parafiet, listening to the deep-toned harmonies of the 
 distant organ, was startled from her melancholy dreams by 
 the voices of two men near her who were talking of Serizier. 
 
 They had known him evidently ; he had been one of their 
 intimates at some period of his career ; but they were not 
 talking of him with any warmth of frienilship. The man 
 had been too srreat a brute to conciliate even his own class.
 
 114 Uiido- the B'd Flag 
 
 ' He got off, sure enough,' said one. ' He was cleverer 
 than Tlieophile Ferre, or Ilaoul Rigault, or Megy, and the 
 rest of them. I met him after dark, on the 25th of May, in 
 the Place Jeanne d'Arc. He was in a fever of fright, poor 
 wretch, shaking from head to foot with agitation and ex- 
 citement. After all, there is a difference between killing and 
 being killed, and Seriz'.er thought his turn had come. His 
 bo jts and trousers were red with the blood of the Dominicans, 
 and he complained of having to wear a uniform that was 
 likely to betray his ideniity. He was Colonel of the lOlst 
 battalion, you may lemember, and had been very proud of his 
 uniform — bulldog that he was. Well, lie had never done 
 me any good turn that I could remember; but one is glad 
 to hide a hunted beast when the hounds are close upon him ; 
 so I told him I had a married sister living in the Rue 
 Chateau des Rentiers, and that I coiUd get him shelter in her 
 lodging, which was on the ground-floor, at the back, looking 
 into a walled yard — a safe kennel for any dog to hide in. 
 He jimiped at the oft'er, and I took him to my sister's place, 
 gave him a supper, and a bit of carpet to lie upon, and a 
 blouse and a pair of linen trousers in exchange for his fine 
 feathers, and lent him a razor to cut off his military mous- 
 tache ; and at bieak of day he left us, clean-shaved and 
 dressed like a workman.' 
 
 ' And you conclude that he got out of Paiis that 
 morning?' asked the other man. 
 
 ' He was a fool if he did not, having a fair chance.' 
 
 ' The question is whether he had a chance. That bulldog 
 muzzle of his would not be easily forgotten, and the Govern- 
 ment was hard on his track on account of the slaughter of 
 the Donunicans, which really was a little too much ; even we 
 of the International thought he had gone too far. I should 
 think it would be easier for him to hide in Paris than to 
 leave Paris just then.' 
 
 ' Perhaps ; but there has been ])lenty of time since for him 
 to get clear oft'. I dare say he is living by his craft as a 
 currier in one of the big provincial towns. He would have 
 to live by his trade ; for 1 know he carried no money with 
 him when he made off that tnorning.' 
 
 ' A currier ! Here was something gained, at least,' Kath- 
 leen thought. Until this moment she had not known the 
 original avocation of the warrior Serizier, commandant of 
 the famous 101st, the hero of ]ssy and (Jhatillon. A currier ! 
 Here was a falling oft' indeed for the Ajax of the gutter.
 
 KatJiJci'H-'i Arnrnliiiu 115 
 
 One of the big provincial towns ! Alas, this was but a 
 vague clue. Eouen, Havre, Lyons, Tours, Renues — the 
 names of a dozen great cities came into Kathleen's mind as 
 she went slowly honiewanl, downcast and disheartened. He 
 lived ; that was something for her to know. He lived to 
 exjnate his crime, to suffer as she suffered, to render blood 
 for blood. Her life, her brain, her heart should be devoted 
 to the task of finding him ; her hand should point him out to 
 the law he had outraged. 
 
 All that night— the soft summer night, full of the mur- 
 muring of leaves — even here in desolated Paris, where the 
 ruined houses stood up blank and black, with shattered 
 windows, through which the moonlight shone and the June 
 winds blew ; a liandful of dust or a fragment of crumbling 
 ninrtar falling every now and then as the zephyrs touched the 
 broken walls — all that night Kathleen lay broad awake, 
 staring at the casement opposite her bed ; and when day 
 dawned — the sweet siuunier dawn that came so soon — she 
 8])rang up, and began to wash and dress. Her plan was formed. 
 
 One of those two men had said there was safer hiding for 
 such as Serizier in Paris than outside Paris ; the other had 
 said that he had no money u])on him at the time of his sup- 
 posed fliglit. Without money how could he have taken a long 
 journey ; unless he had walked, like the two sisters ? But the 
 colonel of the 101st— the man who had wallowed in feasting 
 and drunkenness, who had lield his imi)ious orgies in the 
 violated churches of Paris — was doubtless too luxurious a 
 person to tramp for weary leagues along the white dusty 
 roads, under the pitiless sun. No, he would stay in Paris. 
 He would think himself safe in his workman's blouse, among 
 workmen, most of them members of the International Society, 
 that fatal association which had sown the seeds of anarchy all 
 over Europe. Amongst these men the assassin w'ould be safe ; 
 they would not betray a brother, even were he known as the 
 nuu'derer of the helpless. 
 
 She was in the streets before any of the shops were opened, 
 before workaday Paris — no sluggard, whatever her vices — was 
 beginning to stir. This was sheer restlessness, for she could 
 do nothing without the help of her fellow-men. At eleven 
 o'clock she was in a small olhce in the Marais — an ottice to 
 which she had gone with Hose years ago, soon after their first 
 coming to Paris, to incjuire for work. It was a registry for 
 servants, for clerks in a small way, for shopmen and workers 
 of all kind. Here she asked how many curriers' workshops
 
 116 Uivhr the lied Fhuj 
 
 there were in Paris. She thought there might be several, 
 ten perhaps, or even twenty. 
 
 The agent gave her a trade-directory, opened it for lier at a 
 page headed ' Curriers.' There were two hundred and thir ty- 
 two master curriers in Paris — two hundred and thirty-two 
 workshops at any one of which the man Serizier might be 
 plying his trade. 
 
 Hardly strange, taking this fact into consideration, that 
 the law had hitherto failed to touch this offender ; more 
 especially as the government, though ready to administer stern 
 justice upon such of the Communist assassins who came in its 
 way, did not give itself very much trouble in hunting down 
 those who had made clean olf. 
 
 And then, again, the harmless Dominicans were solitary 
 men. There was no wife or child, no friend or sweetheart, to 
 avenge them. 
 
 ' It will be longer than I thought,' Kathleen said to her- 
 self, as she stood at a desk in the shadow at the back of the 
 little ofBce, copying that long list of names and addresses. 
 
 Two hundred and thirty-two workshops ! There were 
 names of streets Avliich she had never heard of — distiicts, 
 suburbs, of whose very existence she was ignorant. The 
 work of copying those addresses alone occupied her for nearly 
 two hours ; she was so careful to write every address cor- 
 rectly, to be sure of every name. 
 
 When her task was done, she gave the agent a franc for 
 the use of book, ink, and paper, and asked him where she 
 could buy a good majj of Paris. He directed her to a shop 
 in the next street, where she got what she wanted ; and this 
 done, she went home. 
 
 Rose was singing over her baby, singing in the sunlit 
 window, bright with flowers. Philip liad fitted the windows 
 with flowei-boxes of his own designing— Swiss, lustic, what 
 you will, constructed out of odd pieces of rough oak, the 
 refuse of his cabinet work. Rose was the gardener, who 
 bought and planted the flowers, and tended these humble 
 gardens day by day ; and never had bloomed finer carnations 
 Uian Rose's Souvenir de Malmaison yonder, or lovelier roses 
 titan her Marechal Niel. 
 
 Durand was at work in his carpenter's shop hard by, with 
 a sheaf of chisels, carving a bird, whose breast feathtii'S seemed 
 1 uffled with the summer wind, so full of life was the chiselling. 
 "What a happy home it Icoked in the July afternoon ! Ihe 
 tide of blocd and tire had idled by, and left this little house-
 
 Kathleens Avocation 117 
 
 hold iiiuscallK'd, untouched. Nay, in the midst of death and 
 doom the babe had been born ; and tlie trinity of domestic 
 Ice had been completed. 
 
 Kathleen sank down into a chair near her sister's, sighing 
 faintly in very weariness. 
 
 ' My love, how tired you look ! ' said Rose tenderly. ' Have 
 you been far ? ' 
 
 ' No : only to the ^larais.' 
 
 Hose had of late abstained from all close questioning of her 
 sister. She knew tliat Kathleen wandered about the streets 
 aimlessly, wearied herself with long walks that seemed 
 utterly without end or motive. But this idle wandering 
 might be one way of living down a great grief. It was well 
 perhaps to let the mourner take her own way. Nothing 
 so oppressive as obtrusive sympathy. Rose symjjathised and 
 said very little. 
 
 At his wife's instigation Durand watdied the girl's lonely 
 walks on two or three occasion.s — saw that she suUered no 
 harm, went into no vile (juarters, provoked no insult ; and 
 after being assuied of this, Rose was content to let her follow 
 her own devices. 
 
 ' The angel of consolation niay be leading her,' she said ; 
 'saints and angels know vvhat is best for her.' 
 
 And in her high-strung faith as a Papist, Rose Durand 
 believed thit her sister's jnire spirit here on earth might be 
 in c.nnin'inication with tlie souls of that migiity company, 
 \\lii.;h had gone before, that great cloud of witnesses hover- 
 ing round us, invisible, imjjalpable — the spirits of the faithful 
 dei)arted. 
 
 Kathleen sat silent, those dream v eyes of hers gazing across 
 the tlowers to the blue cloudless sky. The dark-violet eyes 
 .eeemed larger and more histrous than of old now that her 
 face was pinched and thin ; but oh, so unspeakably sad I 
 
 ' Why were you not at home at dinner-time, dear ] Have 
 you had anything to eat since the morning ? ' 
 
 ' I think not,' Kathleen answered absently. 
 
 ' And you went out so early I I was at your door before 
 si.K, ami found vou were gone. You must be faint for want 
 of food.' 
 
 ' I never feel hungry. I am a little tired, that's all.' 
 
 The boy had dropped oiF to sleep by this time. Rose laid 
 him softly in his cradle, and then busied herself preparing a 
 meal for her sister. 
 
 She made sQme cofTee in a little brown pot, which
 
 118 Under tits lied FIkj 
 
 iieedeu only a handful of burning charcoal to heat it. She 
 brought out some Lyons sausage, a plate of salad, a hunch of 
 crisp light bread, a roll of butter in a little covered dish half- 
 f nil of ice. Everything in Rose's domestic arrangements was 
 fresh and clean and neat. The cloth she spread on the table 
 was spotless damask, washed and ironed by her own hands. 
 
 'Come, pet,' she said, and coaxed her sister to the table, 
 taking off her bonnet, smoothing the soft golden liair, kissing 
 the pale brow, so full of gloomy thought. 
 
 Kathleen took a little coffee, but ate nothing. She sat 
 with her eyes fixed on vacancy, scai'cely conscious of the meal 
 that had been spread for her, quite unconscious of Eose's 
 face watching her. 
 
 'My dearest, if you don't eat — if you go wandering about 
 and fasting for long hours— you will be ht for nothing ; you 
 will drop down in the streets ; you will be carried off to a 
 hospital.' 
 
 Kathleen looked up at her with a startled expression. 
 
 'Yes, yes; you are right,' she said hurriedly, and with a 
 sudden agitation in tone and manner. ' If I become too 
 weak, ready to faint at every turn, I shall be useless — I can 
 do nothing ; and I have so much to do. Yes, dear, I will 
 take some of this nice bread and butter. I want to be strong. I 
 am a reed— a poor, feeble reed; and I ought to be made of iron.' 
 
 ' Only be reasonably careful of yourself, dear, and you will 
 soon be strong again. Those long wanderings and long 
 fastings must kill you if you go on with them. You ought 
 to be careful of yourself, Kathleen,' added Eose, with tears 
 in her eyes— for there were times when she felt as if it were 
 but a question of weeks and days how long she might keep 
 this idolised sister — 'you ought to be careful, for my sake 
 and Philip's. We are both so fond of you.' 
 
 ' Yes,' Kathleen answered, in a low voice, ' and for his sake.' 
 
 She forced herself to eat, and did tolerable justice to the 
 white sweet bread and tlie fresh salad. Her meals in her 
 own apartment were less luxurious. A slice of dry bread, 
 eaten standing, a handful of cherries and a crust, a cup of 
 milk. She had hoarded her little stock of money ever since 
 ( iaston's disappearance. She held it ready for any exjiendi- 
 lure that might help her in her scheme of vengeance. 
 
 ' I want to be strong,' she said quietly, when she had 
 finished her meal. 'I have got some employment — a — a 
 kind of place to which I shall have to go very eaily every 
 morning.'
 
 Kathleen^ s Avocation 119 
 
 * Indeed !' exclaimed Rose, sitting at work by the window, 
 raovinrr the cradle gently with her foot. ' Why did you do 
 that, dear I ' 
 
 ' I hardly know,' answered Kathleen, with her eyes on the 
 ground. 'I tlunii^dit it wuuld be better for me to be 
 employed.' 
 
 ' But I don't think you are strong enough for employment 
 of any kind just yet, deai-,' said Hose anxiously. 
 
 The idea seemed to her fraught with peril, with madness 
 even. 
 
 * Oh, but I shall get stronger now thit I have a motive, a 
 settled purpose in life, a task to perform. You will see that 
 I shall do so. Hose. Have no fea;-.' 
 
 Her eyes brightened and Hashed as she spoke — a lieHio 
 fatal light. Rose thought. 
 
 ' I hope, whatever place you have taken, that the work is 
 very easy,' said the elder sister, after a jiause. 
 
 'Oh, yes; it is easy enough — very easy ; in the open air 
 mostly. Vou will see that my health will imi)rove every day.' 
 
 'I shall be full of thankfulness if I see that ; and if the 
 employment adds to VDur liap|)iness.' 
 
 ' It will ! ' cried Kathleen eagerly. ' It will make me very 
 happy, if I succeed.' 
 
 'Dearest, I never like to question you about yourself,' said 
 Rose, in a pleading tone, ' for I know there are heart- wounds 
 which should never be touched. l>at I sliouM be so glad if 
 you would tell me frankly, fully, what you are going to do ? ' 
 
 * I cannot, dear.' 
 
 'Cannot I Oil, Kathleen, is not that hard batweeu such 
 sisters as you and me ! ' 
 
 ' All my life has been hard since the 21st of May.' 
 
 * And I am to be told nothing ? ' 
 
 'Nothing more thin I have told you already. I have taken 
 upon myself an avocation which will oblige me to go out very 
 early every morning : to bo out sometimes at dusk. I want 
 you to understand this, and not to be uneasy when I am away 
 from home' 
 
 'I cannot hel|) being uiie.wy. i am anxious about you 
 every hour of the day. Why cannot you stay at home, 
 Kathleen, and let me take cure of you ? I could get you 
 woi'k that you could do in your own room ; sheltered, safe, 
 protected from the pollution of the streets, from the hearing 
 of foul language, from brushing shoulders with disrejiutable 
 j)eo|)lo,'
 
 210 Uwler thr Rtd FItuj 
 
 ' I hear nothing; I feel no degradation. I think of nothing, 
 am conscious of nothing, but my ov.'n buhiness.' 
 
 ' Is this business — respectable — worthy of a good Catholic ? ' 
 
 'Yes it is respectable. There is a warrant for it in the 
 Scriptures.' 
 
 Hose looked at her with acutest anxiety. That pale fixed 
 face, the strange brightness of the eyes, suggested an exalta- 
 tion of spirit, a state of mind which touched the contines 
 of madness. And yet the girl's voice was soft and gentle, 
 the girl's movements were quiet and deliberate There 
 was no wildness of gesture, no sign of actual aberration. 
 Kathleen was terribly in earnest, that was all. 
 
 From that hour the girl's health seemed to imj^rove : both 
 mentally and physically there was a change for the better. 
 Her eye had a steadier light ; there seemed less of exaltation, 
 of feverish excitement. Her whole being seemed braced and 
 strengthened, as if by some heroic purpose. Yet there were 
 times when the light in those steadfast eyes, the marble lines 
 of the firmly set lips, were almost awful. 
 
 ' "What a woman that is, that sister-in-law of yours ! ' said 
 Durand's artist-friend, the graybeard who had been one of 
 the witnesses at the double wedding. ' That face would be 
 magnificent for Jael or Judith, for Charlotte Corday or 
 Salammbu. That girl is capable of anything strange or heroic 
 or deadly. She has the tenacity of a Eedskin.' 
 
 Durand smiled a sad incredulous smile. 
 
 * Poor child, how little you know her ! ' he answered. ' You 
 clever men are so easily led away by a fancy. Kathleen is 
 one of the gentlest souls I know. She adored her husband, 
 and her grief at his death has turned her a little here,' 
 pointing to his forehead. ' But she is incapable of any violent 
 act.' 
 
 ' She is capable of a great crime in a great cause, as Char- 
 lotte Corday was ; the gentlest of souls, she, till she took the 
 knife in her hand to slay him whom she deemed the scourge 
 of her country. I am not led away by fancies, Durand. 
 Faces are open pages to the eye of a painter. I can read that 
 one, and know what it means.' 
 
 Phili]) took this for the illusion of an habitual dreamer, and 
 attached no weight to the opinion. Kathleen had given 
 them no cause for uneasiness since she commenced her 
 'avocation.' Her life j^^ssed with an almost mechanical 
 regularity. She left the house every morning before seven — 
 sometimes even before six, She had been observed to go out as
 
 Kathlecn\s Avocaiion I-l 
 
 early as five. She came home again at auy hour between 
 nine and eleven, breakfasted alone in her own sitting-room, 
 (lid her housework, her little bit of marketing, and then 
 slejjt or rested for an hour or two. Then, latisli in the after- 
 noon, she went out again, to return after dark. 
 
 This was her manner of life, as seen by her sister and her 
 sister's husband. They puzzled themselves exceedingly as to 
 the nature of that employment which obliged her to keep 
 such curious hours. They talked, and wondered, and sj'.ecu- 
 lated ; but they did not venture to question her. She had 
 entreated Eose to forbear : and Eose, who so fondly loved 
 her, was content to remain in ignorance, seeing that tlie 
 mourner seemed more tranquil, more resigned than befox'e she 
 began this unknown labuui'. 
 
 Yet they could not refrain from speculations and wonder- 
 ings between themselves, the husband and wife, for whom 
 life was free from all care save this one anxiety about the 
 widowed girl. 
 
 Was her occujiation that of a governess ? Had she found 
 two sets of pupils in some humble circle, where superior 
 accomplishments were not demanded in a teacher ? Did she 
 go to one family in the morning, to another in the evening 1 
 This seemed a natural and likely explanation. But if it wtre 
 so, why had she made a mystery of so simple a matter ? 
 
 They could only wait a"nd watch. They were too high- 
 minded to follow or to play the spy upon her. But they 
 watched her face, her bearing, when she was with them — 
 which was but rarely now— and they waited for the revela- 
 tion of her secret. 
 
 She would not make her home with them. That was Eose 
 Durand's worst grief. If she could have had that beloved 
 mourner beside her hearth every day ; if she could have seen 
 her bending over the little one's cradle, beguiled by the 
 sweetness of his dawning intelligence ; if she had but been 
 allowed to soothe and console her sister, Eose would have 
 been quite happy. She would have trusted to her own 
 loving arts, and to the great healer, Time, and she would 
 have looked forward to a day when Kathleen's wounds would 
 be healed. 
 
 But Kathleen hugged her loneliLCSs as if it were the one 
 precious thing left to lier. She would not be tempted from 
 her solitude in the two quiet rooms npstairs. ' 1 am tired 
 when I come home from my work,' she said one day, when 
 liose iipraided her with unkiuduess in refusing to spend her
 
 122 Vmler lh& RoJ Flwj 
 
 leisure hours in the Duraiid menage. ' It would be no rest to 
 me to be with you and baby, dear as he is. I want to be 
 quite alone with my dreams of the past.' 
 
 ' They are not good for you, Kathleen, those dreams of the 
 past.' 
 
 ' Oil, yes, they are. They are my greatest comfort. Some- 
 times, sitting here in the afternoon sunlight, with a volume 
 of Hugo or Slusset in my lap, I almost believe that Gaston 
 is sitting in that chair where you are now, bv my side. I 
 dare not lift my eyes to look up at him.' 
 
 ' Why not l ' 
 
 ' Because I should know then that he was not there, and 
 the spell would be bi'oken. You don't know how real day- 
 dreams are to me.' 
 
 'Too real, Kathleen; such dreams as these laid to 
 madness.' 
 
 'Let me be mad, then. I would rather be mad and see 
 him there, than sane and not see him. I would welcome 
 madness to-morrow if I could believe that he were still alive — 
 if there need be no lucid interval in which I should remember 
 that he is dead.' 
 
 ' Kathleen, you frighten me ! ' 
 
 'Forgive me, dearest,' the girl answered, gently. 'There 
 is no cause for fear. You do not know how steady my brain 
 has been, how regularly my heart has beaten, ever since I 
 have had — employment — business to do — a purpose in life. 
 Before, I felt as if I were wandering in a desert, under a mid- 
 night sky. Comets were blazing in that sky — shooting stais 
 darting their light, now this way, now that ; but there was 
 no star to guide my steps — there was no road across the 
 waste. Now I feel as if I were travelling on a straight level 
 road, with my guiding-star shining steadily before me : there 
 is such a diit'erence.' 
 
 ' You look so white this afternoon, darling. Have you 
 worked harder than \;3ual to-day 'V 
 
 'Yes, it was narder to-day— very, veiy far!' Kathleon 
 answered, with an absent air. 
 
 'You had further to go to your employment'?' faUered 
 Bose, looking at her wonderingly. ' Is it not always in the 
 same place '{ ' 
 
 ' Not always.' 
 
 ' That is very strange.' 
 
 ' Ijife is strange,' answered Kathleen, 'almost as strange as 
 death. Oh, Bose, my best of sistcis, don't look wi troubled
 
 Katlilccu's AcoccUidii 123 
 
 about me. Believe me that all is going well with me. I am 
 doing no harm. I am doing my duty. And all will come 
 right in the end.' 
 
 This was .spoken with a fervour which in some measure 
 reassured Madame Durand. She had never suspected evil of 
 her sister. She knew that j)ure nature too well for doubt to 
 be possible upon this score. Her chief fear, her ever-present 
 dread, was for the soundness of the girl's reason, for the 
 capacity of her mind to stand against the strain of a great 
 sorrow. 
 
 Kathleen would not go to her sister's rooms; but Rose went 
 to the widow's lonely home two or three times in everyday ; 
 she would not be put off by Kathleen's desire for solitude. 
 She went to her the last thing every night, and knelt and 
 prayed with her ; but Kathleen's lii)S were dumb. That 
 spirit wdiich had once been fervent in prayer was now voice- 
 less. The widow knelt beside her sister with bowed head : 
 but there were some of Rose's prayers to which she would 
 not even say Ameu. 
 
 ' Why do you not join in the Paternoster, Kathleen ? ' Rose 
 asked tenderly. 
 
 'Because I cannot jnin with all my heart when you l>ray, 
 " Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors." If 1 said 
 that with my lips my heart would be the heart of a liar. 
 There are some debts that cannot be forgiven, some wrongs 
 that must be avenged.' 
 
 ' Vengeance belongs to God,' answered Rose quietly. ' And 
 ■with Him it is not vengeance, but justice.' 
 
 'That is all I want,' said Kathleen. 'Justice, justice, 
 justice ! ' 
 
 And then she lifted up her face, which had been bowsJ 
 upon her clasped hands until now, and prayed aloud : 
 
 'O God, Thou art my help and deliverer ! O Lord, make 
 no tarrying ! The wicked walk on every side when the vilest 
 men arc exalted. As the fire burnetii the wood, and as the 
 llame setteth the mountains on tire, so persecute them with 
 Thy tempest, and make them afraid with Thy storm.'
 
 124 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 FOUND 
 
 The days and weeks wore slowly on ; July came and passed, 
 and it was mid- August. Paris was at its hottest. It might 
 liave been a city in the tropics. Thick white mists rose from 
 the boulevards and clouded the evening air. The stones in 
 the courtyards of hotels and great houses were baked in the 
 sunshine. The very sound of water splashing upon the hot 
 streets was rapture. The atmosphere was heavy with heat ; 
 and it seemed as if the low thunder-chirged sky were a cast- 
 iron dome which roofed in the city and suburbs. 
 
 That city, once called beautiful, still wore the aspect of 
 devastation. The ruineil houses still gave forth an odour of 
 smoke and burning. The fierce meridian sun drew out the 
 stench of charred wood. On every side were the signs and 
 tokens of destruction. On every side one heard of loss, and 
 sorrow, and death. 
 
 The herd of tourists went tramping through the city, 
 staring, gaping, expatiating on the spectacle — disappointed 
 somewhat that things were no worse. They had expected to 
 find Babylon a heap ; and here were her palaces and churches 
 still standing, her spires and pinnaides still pointing heaven- 
 ward, her domes glittering ag;iinst the hot blue sky. The 
 tourists were disillusionised, and felt they were getting very 
 little for tlieir money. 
 
 The mightier of the ruins remained as anarchy had left 
 them ; but here and there the work of reparation had begun. 
 Trade was reviving. The markets had resumed their normal 
 aspect, and food was to be had at the old prices. The theatres 
 were beginning to reopen their doors. Eestaurants and cafes 
 had smartened themselves up to accommodate a floating 
 ) oj)nlation of travellers, taking this desolated Babylon on 
 their way to fairer scenes. Again the clinking of teaspoons 
 and the clash of glasses were heard on the boulevard. The 
 pctits creves and the cocodettcs had emerged from retirement, or 
 had come back from exile. Alcibiailes and Aspasia had re- 
 turned to look at the ruins, and had hurried off again to the 
 mountains or the sea. Paris was Paris again ; but a sorely 
 impoverished, somewhat humiliated. Paris,
 
 Found 125 
 
 Kathleen's life pursued its beaten round .all tins time. Tlie 
 oppressive heat of those August days did not deter her from 
 her labour. Every morning before the shops were opened she 
 was in the streets, neatly clad in her black gown and close 
 black bonnet, a little market-basket on her arm, as of one 
 who w^ent upon a housewife's errand. In the dim early 
 morning she walked to her destination — one of those two 
 hundred and thirty-two workshops which she had written 
 down in her li&t. Some of these were in the remotest corners 
 of Paris, and mai;y of her morning walks were long and 
 weary ; but she was careful to allow herself ample time for 
 these long distances. She always studied her map overnight, 
 and learned the names of the streets by which she had to go. 
 She was thoroughly systematic in her work ; and she had by 
 this time acquired a wonderful expertness in finding her way, 
 a wonderful knowledge of the great wide-spreading town. It 
 seemed to her as if there were not a corner of Paris, not a 
 nook or an alley, which she had not exj)lored. 
 
 Sometimes her destination was some foul-smelling lane at 
 Belleville, some dingy street near Montmartre. fcshe went as 
 far as Viucenues on one side, beyond Passy on the ether. But 
 whatever the distance, she went to her work with the same 
 quiet patience, the same tranquil aspect. Nobody ever 
 remarked her as an eccentric-looking ])erson ; no one ever saw 
 wildness or ex;dtation in her manner. She walked quietly 
 onwai'd, at a moderate business-like pace, her little basket 
 over her arm ; her pale earnest face shaded by the neat liltle 
 crape veil, tied closely roinid the small black straw bonnet ; 
 and she inspired no one's wonder or curiosity. A clerk's 
 wife, catering for her little householvl ; a sempstress going to 
 lier work. She might be either. 
 
 AYhen .she rccached her destination, and stood in front of 
 the curriers' workshop, her task became more ditticult. She 
 watched for the going and coming of the workmen at their 
 breakfast-hour, between nine and ten o'clock. She had to 
 oliserve without being observed. She hovered near the door 
 of the restaurant where they took their soiipe au froma^e. 
 She had to loiter in the street or the lane, without appearing 
 to be a loiterer. This exacted all her powers as an actress; 
 but, as every intelligent woman is instinctively an actress, 
 she contrived to perform this ji;u t of her task so skilfully as 
 to escape, for the most part, unquestioned and unremarked. 
 
 If there were .shops in the street all her little purchases for 
 that humble menage, which was not much better than genteel
 
 120 Viuhr fhr Rrd Fla'J 
 
 starvation, were made upon the spot. This gaveher the 
 opportunity of wasting time, and of making inquiries. It 
 was so easy while buying a pear or a handful of jjlums at the 
 little fruit-shop, or a roll at the baker's, to ask a few ques- 
 tions, in mere idle curiosity as it seemed, about the curriers 
 on the other side of the way. Was it a small or a large trade 
 for instance? How many workmen were employed— and 
 what kind of men ? Then if the shopkeeper were inclined to 
 gossip, and- were friendly, she could watch the men go to their 
 work from the threshold of his shop, and hear his remarks 
 upon them, and be sure that she saw the full complement 
 employed there. 
 
 Now and again it happened that a workman was ill or 
 drunk, or idle, and did not go to his work ; and then, after 
 ascertaining this fact, she had to come back to the same spot 
 again, once, twice, thrice even, to make sure of that one 
 errant workman. For the man she wanted was one man 
 among all the curriers of Paris, and to let one escape her 
 might be to lose him. 
 
 She liunted her ])rey with the tenacity of a Eed Indian. 
 The work was very slow work. August was nearly over, 
 and she had not completed the third part of her list. The 
 curriers' shops were scattered. It was rarely that she could 
 do more than two in a day— one in the morning, when the 
 men went to their work ; one in the evening, when they left 
 work. She was getting to be curiously familiar with the 
 curriers of Paris, their ways and their manners ; the restau- 
 rants where they dined or supped late in the evening, at long 
 narrow tables in low dingy rooms, by the light of tallow 
 candles, and amid overpowering odours of cognac and cheese 
 soup ; the wine-shops where they swilled gallons of ' little 
 blue,' or stupefied themselves with cheap cognac. 
 
 She learned a great deal ; but in all this time there had 
 been no sign of Serizier, no clue to the whereabouts of that 
 one workman. 
 
 Now and then she ventured to accost one of these blue 
 blouses, who answered civilly or brutally, as Fate willed. 
 But, for the most part, they were civil in their rough way. 
 She told her little pathetic story of a brother, a currier by 
 trade, of whom she had lost all trace since the Commune, 
 His chief friend was a man — also a currier — called Serizier : 
 and she thought it likely that, wherever Sdrizier were work- 
 ing, her brother would be working too. 
 
 ]L)id monsieur happen by chance to know anything about
 
 Fuini'l 127 
 
 a currier called Scrizier I No, nobody knew of such u man. 
 Some to whom she spoke remembered the name and the man 
 in the day of his splendour^witli a cocked hat, and a red 
 scarf round his waist. There had been a passion for red 
 scarves among the L'ommunards. Perhajjs it was the colour 
 that charmed them, the hue of that blood which was to them 
 as an atmusphere. 
 
 Those who knew all about Seriziei-'s past career could give 
 her no enlightenment al)out his present whereabouts. She 
 always made her inquiries judiciously, indirectly, putting 
 forward that mythical brother as the motive of her ques- 
 tionings. She did not want to be known as a w^oman who 
 liad inquired for Scrizier, lest the hunted should get wind of 
 the hunter. And so she came to September, and in all the 
 blue blouses, the heavy figures, and stooping shoulders, the 
 toil-stained hands, the close- cropped bullet heads, she had 
 seen no sign of Scrizier. How should she know him when 
 she saw him ? 
 
 Easily enough. First, she had his photogi-aph, which she 
 had discovered, after a diligent search, in a shop on the 
 Boulevard St. ]Miehel, among other heroes of the Commune. 
 Secondly, she had seen him once in the flesh, and his face 
 liad impressed itself ujion her memory in a flash, as if it had 
 been photographed upun her brain. It was not a common 
 face ; it was original in its sinister ugliness, and she could 
 recall every line in that bvdldog visage. 
 
 She had seen him soon after the skirmish at Issy, when 
 his laurels were yet green, and the street-arabs cheered hira 
 as he passed at the head of his regiment, in gaudy uniform, 
 red scarf, waving plumes, clanking swoid, on a horse which 
 he could not ride, boastful, triumphant. It was in the spring 
 evening, the clear cool light of declining day, when she stood 
 on the quay, hanging on her husband's arm, and watching 
 the soldiers go by. 
 
 Gaston told her all about Scrizier. A brute, but a brave 
 brute, he said, and good at training his soldiers — a man who 
 was likely to come well to the fore, if the Commune could 
 liold its own. 
 
 And so, with the evening sunlight on his face, Scrizier 
 roile slowly by, she watching him, oi)en-eyed with wonder 
 that such a brute face as this slumld belong to one of the 
 heroes of the people. 
 
 The face was as vividly before her eyes to-day as it had 
 been that April evening. She looked at the j hotogiaph eveiy
 
 128 Under fhr Unl t^ag 
 
 night before she ^vc^t to her rest. Let him disguise liiinseif 
 as he might, let him die his skin like a blackamoor's, or hide 
 cheeks and mouth and chin behind a forest of beard and 
 whisker, he could never hide himself from her. His f;;ce 
 was never absent from her mind. 
 
 So she went on with her work doggedly, hopefully, albeit 
 there were times of fear — times when she recalled how little 
 foundation there was for any certainty that Serizier was in 
 Paris, or even that he lived. The man for whose going in 
 or coming out she watched morning and evening might be 
 far away in the New World, rioting and revelling upon the 
 spoils of revolution, conveyed to him yonder by some faithful 
 friend; or his corpse might have been huddled into one of 
 those common graves which had yawned to receive heca- 
 tombs of namelt'ss dead. 
 
 The Durands had both been carious as to the fate of Suzou 
 Micliel. It was known in the II je Git le Creur that she had 
 been active amidst the atrocities of the Commune, a shining 
 light in that Jiery atmosphere. She was known to have 
 carried the chassepot and the j^etroleum can, to have been 
 busy amidst scenes of riot and death. There were some who 
 declared that she was the Petroleuse who had ridden, dressed 
 as a vivandiere, at the head of that hideous procession to the 
 Hue Haxo, when the priests and the gendarmes were led to 
 the slaughter, less happy in their doom than the Archbisliop 
 and his companions, who were massacred within the walls of 
 La Itoquette. Certain it is that she had been seen more 
 than once in a vivandicre's costume, and that she was known 
 to be one of the fiercest of that hellish crew. 
 
 Some said that she had been shot down on the last of the 
 barricades, yonder at Belleville ; others declared ihat they 
 had seen her in a gang of jjrisoners bound for Satory. IN o 
 .MiQ regretted her ; but there was a morbid curiosity in the 
 Kiie Git le Cueur, and two or three adjoining streets, as to her 
 fate. Details of her last hours, seasoned with jilenty of 
 blood, would have been welcome. 
 
 The cr^merie had been closed from the first day of the bar- 
 ricades, and had never reopened. A board in front of the 
 siiop announced that it was a louer iiresentemont. Either 
 la Michel was verily gone to give an account of her sins in 
 the land of shadows, or she was keeping out of the way, lest 
 slie should be callediipon to answer for her misdeeds before 
 an earthly tribunal. This was what was said of her in the
 
 Fou'id 1 29 
 
 Rue Git le Creur. Kathleen knew the jioptihvr niiiul uj)on 
 this subject, and she heard Durand and iiom discuss the 
 question on one <»f tliose rare occasious wlien she consented to 
 join them at the neat little supper table. It was almost a 
 festival for Kose when she could induce her sister to spend 
 the evening with her. 
 
 *I always hated that woman,' said Rose, speaking of Suzon 
 Michel ; ' a bold bad Avoman, capable of any crime.' 
 
 ' A creature of strong passions, no doubt,' answered Durand, 
 * terribly capable of evil. But I do not know that she was 
 (juite incapable of good. These women who feel so strongly 
 are as titful as a summer thunder-storm ; they will adore a 
 man one day and murder him the next. But they have the 
 jjower to love as well as to hate ; they have strength for self- 
 gacritice as well as for crime.' 
 
 ' I do not value their love any higlier than their hate,' said 
 Rose, who had never forgotten her e.irly imjnes.sions about 
 Suzon, never ceased to be jealous and suspicious of the woman 
 who had dared to love Kathleen's lover ; ' their hearts and 
 minds are all evil, their love is a snare. If she is dead, well 
 — (iod give me cliarity — let her rest in lier grave ; if she is 
 living, God grant that she and I may never meet.' 
 
 It was only a few days after the evening upon which this 
 conversation occurred that Kathleen had startling evidence 
 of Suziiu Michel's existence in Paris, at the very time when 
 people believed her to be either dead or in exile. 
 
 Those lirst days of September in '71 svere as sultry and 
 thunderous as the last days of August. Indeed, it seemed 
 as if the summer grew hotter as it waned. The sun shone 
 with tropical sjilendour all day, and at eventide the atmo- 
 s^ihere was thick with heat. 
 
 It w;u> between eight and nine, after her evening watch in 
 a street near the Barriere d'Enfer was over, that Jvaihleeu 
 went to a spot which she had visited in many a twilight hour, 
 since she first gazed upon it in the dim eailv nmrning on the 
 2:)th of May. 
 
 This was the narrow side street in which she had seen the 
 bloody traces of her husband's death, at the foot of the lamp- 
 ])0st. That dreadful spot was to her as his grave, and lier 
 coming hither had all the solemnity of a ])ilgcJninge to a 
 grave. The street was dull and solitary — a street of shabby 
 houses, shabbily occupied by the working classes. It was a 
 new street which had never attained ]n"08pevity, and three or 
 four of the liouses were em])ty, staring al. the sky with 
 
 K
 
 130 Zlider the Red Flag 
 
 curtainless windows, and boards announcing tiiat tliey were 
 to let. Here and there appeared a shoj), but a shop which 
 looked as if customers were the exception rather than the 
 rule. 
 
 On this September evening the street was empty, save for 
 a couple of women standing talking at a street-door, a little 
 way from the lamp-post by which Gaston fell. The house 
 facing this fatal spot was empty, had been empty ever since 
 Kathleen had known the street. The windows were clouded 
 with dust ; the board which invited an occupant had fallen on 
 one side, and hung disconsolate. The proprietor had, doubt- 
 less, abandoned all hope of finding a tenant until the evil 
 days had passed, and a new birth of prosperity had come 
 about for this fair land of France. It was a dreary-looking 
 house in a dreary street ; a new house which had grown old 
 and shabby without ever having been occupied. 
 
 Kathleen walked slowly up and down the street two or 
 three times, coming back to the fatal spot, and standing 
 beside it for a few minutes with bent bead and clasped hands, 
 and lips moving dumbly in prayer for the beloved dead. On 
 the last time she saw a woman coming towards the same 
 spot — coming as if to meet her, a woman who looked to her 
 like a ghost. Yes, like one dead, who had come back to life 
 purified and chastened by her pilgrimage through the valley 
 of the shadow of death. 
 
 It was Suzon Michel, but not the Suzon of old. The fire 
 in the large black eyes was quenched ; the face had lost its 
 brazen boldness; the rich carnation of sensual, vigorous beauty 
 had faded from the cheek. The pale, grave face, with serious 
 mournful eyes, looked at Kathleen, and, recognising her 
 instantly, blanched to the ashy whiteness of a corpse. 
 
 The women looked at each other in silence, and then each 
 passed slowly upon her way. They met and parted without 
 a word. 
 
 Two minutes afterwards, before she reached the corner of 
 the street, Kathleen turned suddenly, and looked back, want- 
 ing to speak to Suzon Michel, to question her, she hardly 
 knew wherefore or to what end. She thought of Suzon Vith 
 horror and detestation ; and yet they two had loved the same 
 man : Suzon might know more of the details of Gaston's 
 death than she, his wife, had been able to discover. She 
 might know into what common grave his corpse had been 
 flung, beneath what clay his bones were mouldering. 
 
 She turned and the street was empty. There was not a.
 
 Fonnd 131 
 
 sign of Siizon in the distance. Had she run ever so fast she 
 couhl not have reached the end of tlie street. It was clear, 
 then, that she had gone into one of the houses. 
 
 But which house 1 Kathleen loitered in the street for 
 some time, contemplating those dreary-looking houses, trying 
 to divine which of them had swallowed up Suzon Michel. 
 Presently a woman came and stood at her door on the 
 opposite side of the street. Kathleen went over to her and 
 questioned her, describing Madame Michel, and asking if 
 she knew of such a person. 
 
 The woman was only a lodger on the fourth story, and had 
 not long lived there. She worked in a mattress manufactory 
 a little way oflf, was out all day, and knew nothing of her 
 neighbours. 
 
 There was no one else in the way to answer an inquiry. 
 And, after all, what good could come of any meeting between 
 Kathleen and Suzon 1 
 
 ' She hates me, and I do not love her,' thought Kathleen. 
 ' But she is strangely altered. I thought Rose was right 
 when she called her a creature altogether evil, a soul given 
 over to wickedness. Yet to-night her face had a softer look ; 
 tlie unholy tire seemed to have gone out of it, as if the face 
 and the soul had been alike bleached and cluistened by 
 sutfering.' 
 
 The days and weeks wore on, and the mornings and even- 
 ings grew brisk and cold. That curtain of sultry heat wa^ 
 lifted ; the dome of white-hot iron was taken oil" the city, 
 which no longer seemed like a cauldron seething and bub- 
 bling over subterranean fires. The white vajjours of summer 
 floated away from the streets and quays, from river and 
 woods and gardens. It was October, and the leaves were 
 falling from the poor remnants of trees in the mutilated 
 Bois, that lovely wood which had been hewn down and con- 
 verted into an ahattis. Autumn had come, and Kathleen's 
 work was still uncompleted, still went on ; the worker 
 patient, secret, dogged, never for one moment abandoning 
 her purpose, never losing faith. Not till she had seen every 
 journeyman currier in Paris would she falter or waver in her 
 work. Then it would be time to say, ' I have deceived myself ; 
 Serizier has left Paris ; ' and then it would be time to "think 
 of following and hunting him down in the place of his exile, 
 be it far or near, in the Old World or the New. Sea or land 
 should be as nothing to her in that search — distance and 
 time as nothing. She felt as if she were the spirit of
 
 132 Uiulyr tlie Red Fhvi 
 
 vengeance, a disembodieJ soul, free from tliose fetters which 
 make humanity feeble. 
 
 Day after day she went to her task — monotonous, dreaiy, 
 full of weariness for mind and body ; and yet she knew not 
 weariness. That iron purpose within her buoyed her up and 
 sustained her. The spirit conquered the flesh. 
 
 There were days when she felt ill, very ill—sick to death 
 almost ; but she flung her illness aside, as if it had been a 
 garment that embarrassed her movements, and went out to 
 her work. Her white face in those days evoked the pity of 
 strangers. 
 
 ' A poor creature that ought to be in the hospital rather 
 than in the streets,' thought the passers-by. 'Not long for 
 this world,' said one. 'There is death in that face,' said 
 another. 
 
 Other days there were when all her limbs seemed one great 
 aching pain ; yet she crawled down the steep old staircase 
 and into the dim morning streets ; and, like an old horse 
 which begins his day stittty and feebly, and shuffles himself 
 into a trot under the goad of the whip, she gathered up her 
 strength for the journey, and quickened her pace as she 
 neared her goal. 
 
 Not one day did she miss in all those toilsome weeks. 
 Happily there were the Sundays, blessed intervals of respite 
 and rest, whicl> gave her new strength for the coming six days. 
 
 On these quiet Sabbaths she rested all day long, lying on 
 her bed like a log, hardly moving hand or foot, reading a 
 little now and then, but, for the most part, resting — only 
 resting — in a state of ajjathy, which was little more than 
 semi-consciousness. 
 
 Again and again the Durands urged her to go out with 
 them on the Sunday, to get fresh air, change, a little innocent 
 gaiety, a few hours of forgetfulness in some pretty rustic 
 spot. They oflered to take her to Asuieres, to Eougival, to 
 Marly le Roi. 
 
 In vain. 
 
 ' I have a good deal of walking every day,' she said. ' I 
 like to rest — only to rest — on Sundaj^s.' 
 
 She did not tell them that the agony of weariness was 
 sometimes so acute towards the close of the week that nothing 
 but this long day of total inertia could have enabled her to 
 resume the round of toil. 
 
 ' But you never go to mass now, Kathleen,' said Rose, with 
 gentle reproachfulness. ' You used to go regularly to the
 
 Fouit'l 133 
 
 dear old church yonder,' with a little motion of her head 
 towards Notre Dame. 
 
 * Used — yes. But he was alive then, and I went to pray 
 for him. Now — no, I could not kneel and pray in a churcli. 
 Not yet, not yet. There is a cloud of blood that swims before 
 my eyes when I try to lof)k uj) to heaven.' 
 
 October was passing. It was tlie middle of the month — 
 the IGth — and still no sign of Serizier. Her day's work was 
 over, and Kathleen was walking slowly, with downcast eyes 
 and drooping head, along the Rue de Galande, in the dusk of 
 evening. She had been watching fur more than an hour iu 
 front of an obscure workshop at the end of the street. There 
 was a Belgian name over the door. She had seen two men 
 leave the house, one a workman, the other a man of some- 
 what superior apjiearance, who looked like the master. The 
 workshop was small, poor-looking ; and, according to her 
 knowledge of the trade, these two men would be in all like- 
 lihood the comi)lete stall'. But she made up her mind to go 
 back next morning to watch the men going to tlieir work, 
 and to make in([uiries as to the immber employed. She never 
 struck a workshoj) ott' her list until she had made herself 
 mistress of her facts. 
 
 Sudtlenly, in the autumnal dusk, she looked up, startled by 
 the rattling of an empty truck over the rough stones of the 
 roadway. She looked up, and found herself face to face w'itli 
 a man in a ragged blouse, wheeling a truck. 
 
 The man was Sdrizier. 
 
 She had not one moment of doubt ; not a passing shadow 
 of hesitation clouded the clearness of her mind. This was 
 Scrizier. 
 
 She had seen him last iu the pomp of his warlike accoutre- 
 ments, plumed hat, clanking sword, and sabretasch, red scarf, 
 breast bedizened with gold embroidery, chin and lip sliroudecl 
 by a heavy military moustache, erect, audacious, arrogant, 
 lording it over an admiring crowd. 
 
 To-day the man was clean -shaved ; he seemed to have 
 grown smaller, as if belit double with a load of ignominy, 
 slirunk into his sordid inner self, lessened morally and 
 jjhysically by the loss of |)lumes and gold lace, and the 
 insolence of successful audacity. 
 
 But Kathleen was not the less sure of his identity. Those 
 restless shifty eyes, moreuuipiiet than ever now that the man 
 had fallen to the level of hunted criminals — those evil-looking 
 eyes were not to be forgotten. It was he.
 
 134 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 Cold and trembling, Kathleen tottered, and reeled against 
 the wall. For a few moments her eyes were dim, and her 
 brain was clouded, the passionate beating of her heart was 
 almost unbearable ; then, collecting her senses with a supreme 
 effort, she turned and followed her prey, keeping at a respectful 
 distance, and in the shadow of the houses. She saw him wheel 
 his truck into a little yard belongiiig to the currier's work- 
 shop—watched him come out again and go into a wine-shop 
 on tlie other side of the street, where he sat drinking and 
 talking with another blue blouse. Kathleen stood outside in 
 the dusk— as she had stood outside many such a window in 
 the cour.-^e of her evening watches — and studied the man's 
 face by the light of the flaring candle, which stood in front 
 of him, as he hobnobbed with his friend. 
 
 Yes, her patience was rewarded. She had found him — the 
 assassin of the defenceless. The man to whom tears and 
 blootl had been as strong wine, for whom power had meant 
 the power to slay and to burn. This bulldog-visaged work- 
 man, crooning over his pipe, talking with bent brow and 
 angry eyes, this was the murderer of the Dominicans and of 
 Gaston Mortemar. 
 
 She went straight to the office of the Commissary of Police 
 of the Quartier de la Gare ; but by this time it was ten o'clock, 
 and too late for her to be admitted to an interview with any 
 of the officials. She was told to return in the morning, when 
 she could see the chief officer. She was there again when 
 the office opened, saw Monsieur Grillicres, and told him 
 her story. 
 
 The intelligence was welcome, for Monsieur Grillitjres, 
 misled by erroneous information, had already made more 
 than thirty useless investigations in search of Serizier. 
 Monsieur Grilliures started instantly, accompanied by two 
 inspectors ; but on arriving at the line Galande he was told 
 that the Belgian currier had left the night before. He and 
 his workmen had removed the stock-in-trade— some of the 
 things had gone away in a van, some in a truck. The last 
 truckload had been wheeled away at midnight. 
 Where had he gone ? 
 
 Nobody knew exactly ; everybody had some suggestion to 
 offer ; the ultimate result of which statements and counter- 
 statements, assertions and contradictions, was that the Belgian 
 • currier had been heard to say that he was going to establish 
 himself in the neighbourhood of the markets. 
 
 Thither Monsieur Grillieres started in hot haste, and
 
 Found 135 
 
 searched every shop occupied by a currier, leather-seller, or 
 morocco manufacturer ; but to no purpose. He found no one 
 resembling Scrizier among the hard-handed sons of labour 
 smellinw of leather. He began to despair, when towards five 
 o'clock in the afternoon, crossing a street which abutted oa 
 the corn-market, he saw a van standing near a door — a van 
 full of bundles of leather, dressed skins, and curriei-'s imple- 
 ments. A man was unloading the van, and carrying the 
 contents into the house near which the vehicle waited. 
 Grillieres went into a shop where he saw a man who looked 
 like the proprietor. 
 
 ' You are a currier ? ' said the magistrate. 
 
 ' Yes, monsieur.' 
 
 * I am a police magistrate, and I must beg you to answer 
 my questions.' 
 
 'Willingly, monsieur.' 
 
 ' How long have you lived in this part of the town ? ' 
 
 ' Since last night.' 
 
 ' Where were you before ? ' 
 
 ' Rue Galande.' 
 
 ' How many workmen do you employ ? ' 
 
 ' Two : the man who is uidoading the van, and who has 
 been with me fourteen years ; the other who has been working 
 for me only a fortnight, and who is now in my workshop on 
 the third door of this house.' 
 
 ' What is his name ] ' 
 
 ' Chaligny.' 
 
 ' His name is not Chaligny,' answered Monsieur Grillieres. 
 * He is S^riziei", and I am here to arrest him.' 
 
 Grillieres went upstairs, followed by his two men. On the 
 third f.oor there was a door half-open,and in the I'oom within 
 they saw a man sharpening his knives. The man looked up, 
 and, seeing a stranger, was seized with an instant susj)icion, 
 and stretched out his hand to snatch up a shaving-knife, the 
 first instrument of defence or attack which offered itself. 
 But Grillieres threw himself upon him. ' You are my 
 prisoner,' he said. 
 
 ' Why do you arrest me ? ' cried the man. ' My name is 
 Chaligny.' 
 
 Duprat, one of the ])olice-officers, had been immured as a 
 hostage at the prison of La Santo during Sorizier's reign of 
 teiTor. He recognised the ci-devant colonel at a glance. 
 
 ' You are Serizier,' he .^id ; ' I remember you perfectly.' 
 
 ' Yes,' answered the other doggedly, ' I am Serizier. The
 
 136 Vuihr the Led Flarj 
 
 game is up, and I know what I have to expect. But if I had 
 seen you fellows on the staircase just now, you should not 
 have lived to take me.' 
 
 He made no resistance, and was taken to the police-office, 
 where he himself dictated his deposition. Thence he was 
 transferred to the Prefecture. Thence again, after the usual 
 formalities, he was sent to the Depot. 
 
 ' My afi'airs are settled,' he said to his custodians. ' I have 
 done enough to get my head washed in a leaden bath ; but 
 it's all the same to me. I regret nothing ; I only did my 
 duty.' 
 
 Colonel Serizier was right in his prophecy. His doom was 
 to be the leaden bath ; but the law's delays are tedious, and 
 the murderer arrested in October was not to be despatched 
 until the following February.
 
 137 
 
 CHAPTER XI 1 1. 
 
 ATONEMENT 
 
 Kathleen's mission wiis accomplished. Tliere was no more 
 for her to do. Sho went back to the Rue Git le Cojur, broken 
 in spirit and in body. She lay on her bed, and it seemed to 
 her that her life now was one long Sunday, a time of apatliy 
 and dumb dull rest— joyless, hopeless. There w:is notliin*,' 
 more for her to do in this life. She had given the victim 
 over to his executioners. She was told that the end was 
 certain. There could be no i)ardon, no comnnitation of the 
 law's last penalty for such a wretch as Serizier. France 
 would rise up with one loud cry of vengeance were there any 
 jiuling for mercy here. 
 
 The slow days wore on— dull gray days ; storms of wind, 
 driving showers, aiion the fogs of November floating up from 
 the neighbouring river— and still Kathleen lay on the bed or 
 the sofa, helpless, prostrate, as some wild llower that has 
 been torn from its stem and flung aside to wither. Rose had 
 brought a doctor to see her ; but he did not even profess the 
 ability to cure. 
 
 ' There is nothing organically wrong,' he said. ' Your 
 sister must have had a very fine constitution to survive what 
 she has gone through. It is a case of extreme weakness, loss 
 of appetite, sleeplessness — things that tell without actual 
 disease. If you could get her away into the country, fresli 
 air and change of scene might do something ; but she is too 
 weak to be moved.' 
 
 ' We will take her away directly slie is strong enough to 
 go,' said Rose. 
 
 Tlie doctor thought that time wouUl never come ; but he 
 held his peace, took liis fee, and dejjarted. 
 
 Rose and Rhilip watched the fading life in that quiet room 
 on the ujjper story as devotedly as if the thread of their own 
 lives had been intertwined with it. Rut their tenderne.ss, 
 their little plots and expedient^', were all useless. Tliey could 
 not lure Kathleen from her solitude, or beguile her into for- 
 getfulness of her grief.
 
 1S8 UncW the Bed Flarj 
 
 ' Wliile I was watching for that man I forgot everything, 
 except the task in hand,' she said ; ' I lived and breathed 
 only for that. My brain was burnt up with one fiery thought; 
 and in those days I hardly grieved for Gaston — I hardly knew 
 how much I had lost. But now I think of him, and brood 
 upon his memory all day long.' 
 
 ' But if this goes on you will go mad or die,' said Philip, 
 standing beside her sofa, looking down at her with honest 
 eai-nest eyes, full of affection ; ' and that will break Rose's 
 heart. Remember how she has reared you and cared for you ! 
 To her you are more than a common sister. She has been to 
 you as a mother; and you owe her a daughter's love and duty.' 
 
 ' Let her ask me anything, except to live,' answered 
 Kathleen. ' I cannot live without him. O, she must let me 
 go — in charity she will let me go — where I shall be at rest 
 for ever, as he is. She has you and the little one. She can 
 spare this broken life.' 
 
 ' But she cannot spare you — nor I, nor the little one ; and 
 it is your duty to live for our sakes. Your natural grief we 
 would respect, Kathleen ; but this inordinate sorrow, this 
 obstinate despair ' 
 
 ' Had he died a natural death, I would mourn for him as 
 other widows mourn for their husbands ; I would bow to the 
 will of God. But he was murdered.' 
 
 'And you have brought his murderer to justice. Is not 
 that enough, Kathleen '^ ' 
 
 ' I wonder whether I shall live to hear his sentence, to know 
 that he has sulJered a murderers doom?' she murmured; 
 and then she turned lier face to the wall, and would talk no 
 more that day. 
 
 Rose and her husband began to despair. It seemed to them 
 that Kathleen's vital power was ebbing day by day, gradually, 
 imperceptibly. The loss of strength was only indicated by 
 the facts of her daily life. Last week she had risen early 
 every morning, and had swept and dusted her rooms, with 
 only a little help from Rose, who was ever on the watch to 
 aid and comfort her. This week she could only crawl about 
 a little, dusting Gaston's books with tremulous hands, 
 arranging and rearranging his desk or his bookshelves, with 
 a fluttered nervous air. A few days ago she had lain on her 
 bed or her sofa, as if in mere apathy. Now the time had 
 come when she lay there from sheer weakness, broken down, 
 fading before their very eyes. 
 
 They had gradually schooled themselves to bow to the rod.
 
 Atonement 130 
 
 They began to talk to each other about her as of one fore- 
 doomed, unspeakably precious, inasmuch as she was to be 
 ■with them but a few weeks — perchance but a few days. 
 They talked sorrowfully, yet with resignation, of a future 
 in which she was to have no part, save as a sweet sad 
 memory. 
 
 ' How fond she would have been of you, my angel !' said 
 Rose, prattling mothers' tender pi-attle to the baby on her 
 knees, ' if she could but have lived to see you grow up I ' 
 
 One day, when the invalid up-stairs had sunk so low that 
 it seemed as if she could hardly last to the end of the week; 
 Philip Durand came past the little cr^merie, which had once 
 been Suzon Michel's, on his way home. It was between four 
 and five, and already dusk, and he was startled to see the door 
 of the shop oiien and a light within. 
 
 While he stared, wondering whether a tenant had been 
 found for the deserted house now that trade was looking up 
 a little, Suzon herself emerged from the darkness within, 
 followed by a man who blew out a candle, and came into the 
 street, carrying a bunch of keys. The man was the landlord, 
 who had been making an inspection of the premises with his 
 old tenant. 
 
 ' Come, Madame Michel,' he said, as he locked the door on 
 the outside, ' you cannot do better than take down the 
 shutters to-morrow morning ; no one will do so well as you 
 in that shop, and now that business is brisk everywhere, 
 you may make a better trade than ever. I shall not raise 
 
 your rent ' 
 
 ' Oh, but monsieur is so generous !' cried Suzon ironically; 
 ' everybody knows that rents are going up in Paris.' 
 ' Well, I say it shall be tlie old rent.' 
 
 ' I'll think it over,' replied Suzon ; ' but it will be at least a 
 week before I can decide. Certain it is that I must do some- 
 thing : one c;innot live upon one's savings for ever.' 
 
 ' It was a suicide to shut up such a shop as that, except for 
 just the week of the barricades,' said the projirietor. ' But you 
 are not half the woman you were, Madame Michel ; the air 
 of your jiresent abode cannot agree with you.' 
 
 He wished her good evening anil trotted away, fingering 
 his bunch of keys. Two minutes afterwards she met Philip 
 Durand face to face. 
 
 Yes, she was changed. The woman of the people, the 
 amazon, the jK'troleuse, was curiously subdued and softened. 
 Some chastening influence had subjugated her vehement
 
 140 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 nature, and altered the expression of her countenance to a 
 degree that was almost a transformation, 
 
 ' Monsieur Durand ! ' she exclaimed, with a startled look ; 
 and then she said quietly, ' I am a stranger in this neigh- 
 bourhood now. It is like coming back to an old half-forgotten 
 existence. How is your wife? ' 
 
 ' She is tolerably well.' 
 
 ' And her sister — Madame Mortemar 1 ' 
 
 ' She is — dying.' 
 
 ' Dying ! That is a strong phrase.' 
 
 ' It is the truth. We have done all that care and love could 
 do, but she is slipping away from us. I have no hope that 
 she will last to the end of the month.' 
 
 'What is her malady?' 
 
 * A broken heart.' 
 
 ' Ah, that is more common than doctors believe ! Has she 
 never got over the loss of her husband V 
 
 Suzon had turned to accompany Philip, aud they were 
 walking side by side towards the Rue Git le Cteur. 
 
 ' Never.' 
 
 ' I su])pose, though, she is glad that Serizier was taken the 
 other day ? ' 
 
 ' She was glad ; it was her own work. She only lived to 
 bring the murderer to justice, and that being accomplished, 
 it seemed as if the mainspring of her life were broken.' 
 
 ' She brought him to justice ! ' cried Suzon, ' What do you 
 mean ? ' 
 
 'Simply what I say; Seriziei-'s arrest was brought about 
 solely by my sister-in-law ; she watched and waited for hiin, 
 day by day, for three months. It was she, and she only, who 
 brought him to his doom.' 
 
 ' I read in the papers that it was a woman, but I thought 
 it was a jealous woman — some discarded mistress, perha])s. 
 And you .say that it was .she — that lily-faced girl — she who 
 tracked the murderer to his hole ? ' 
 
 ' She, and no other.' 
 
 ' And she is dying 1' 
 
 ' Yes, slie is dying. The task weakened the sources of life ; 
 body and mind were alike exhausted by the long patient 
 effort — unshared, unknown by those who loved her — and now 
 a broken heart has done the rest.' 
 
 ' She sliall not die !' cried Suzon, with a voice so loud that 
 it startled the passers-by, who turned and stared at her ; 
 ' no,' she went on hurriedly, breathlessly, ' if there is a God
 
 Atonement 1^1 
 
 in heaven she shall not die. If there is no God, well, (heii, 
 this earth is a shambles, and the innocent have no friend. 
 She shall not die I ' 
 
 'What can you do to save her?' 
 
 * Give her something to live foi-, give her so strong a rea.«on 
 why she shonld live that the tide of life will flow back to her 
 veins, the weary heart will beat strong with hojie and love.' 
 
 ' You are mad ! ' 
 
 ' No, I am not mad. Go and get a fly. Can she be moved, 
 do you think ? Could she bear to be di-iven a little way ■? ' 
 
 'God knows. She is as weak as an infant ! ' 
 
 'Oh, only go and get the carriage. "We will manage it, we 
 Avill carry her. Go ; I have but to whisper in her ear, and 
 she will have the strength of a lioness. Bring the carriage 
 to the door yonder ; I will run on and i^ee your wife.' 
 
 Durand thought the woman must bemad ; but her earnest- 
 ness, her energy were electrical, and he obeyed her. In a case 
 so desperate any gleam of hope was welcome. There Wc.s some 
 secret to be told, some revelation coming. lie scarce a.sk(d 
 liimself what, but hurried olf to engage the fii-st prowling fly 
 he could lind. 
 
 Suzon ran upstairs to the third floor. She listened at the 
 door of Kathleen's sitting-room. There was a faint murmur 
 of voices within. She entered without knocking. 
 
 Kathleen was lying on the sofa near the tireplace, her 
 wasted cheek white as the pillow on which it rested. Rose 
 sat by her, bending over hor, talking to her in low murmurs. 
 The room was dimly lighted by a lamp on the mantelpiece. 
 
 Suzon went across the room and knelt by the invalid's side. 
 
 'It is T, Suzon Michel,' .she said, 'the woman who once 
 hated you, but who has since learnt to jiity, and who now 
 honours you. Is it true that you tracked that wild beast 
 to his lair 1 that when all the police in Paris had failed to 
 find him, you hunted that tiger down 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes, I "found Serizier. They say he will be shot.' 
 
 *■ Sacre 110711, yes, he shall be shot. The women of the Place 
 d'ltalie— the people who lived in fear and dread of him, to 
 whom his name was a terror — they will not let him esca])e, 
 now the law has got him. ISIadame ]\Iortemar, will you 
 come with me ? I want to take you to my home, yomk^i-, 
 close to the spot where your husband fell.' 
 
 Kathleen started up into a sitting position. It was like a 
 Budden awakening to life, as if some magic wand had been 
 waved over her, magnetising the feeble clay.
 
 U2 Under the Bed Flan 
 
 'What ! ' she cried, 'you live there ? I thought it must be 
 so, that night. Yes, yes, take rae to the spot where he fell. 
 Let me see it once more — once before I die. To me it is as 
 sacred as a grave. I cannot go to his grave,' she added 
 despairingly. 
 
 ' Dear love, you are too weak to stir,' pleaded Rose tenderly 
 Avitli her arms about her sister's wasted form. 
 
 ' She is not too weak to come with me. She should come 
 if she were in her grave-clothes. You can come with us — 
 you can help me to carry her down-stairs. Your husband 
 will have a fly ready. Yes ! ' cried Suzon, running to the 
 window, ' it is there, at the door below. Bring some brandy 
 in a bottle — wet her lips with a little first. A warm shawl, 
 so,' wrapping it round Kathleen's wasted form as if she had 
 been a child. ' You are not afraid to come, are you, my 
 little one ? I have good news for you at the end of the journey.' 
 
 Her impetuosity evolved a corresponding energy in 
 Kathleen, who was tremulous with excitement. Eose 
 understood that there was new life at the end of this sudden 
 journey. Yes, there was a revelation at hand, about Gaston. 
 She kept herself calm and steady while those two others 
 were on fire with excitement. Between them she and Suzon 
 Michel carried Kathleen down-stairs to the fly, the three 
 women got inside, Kathleen wrapped up in thick shawls. 
 Philip got on the box beside the driver ; iu a crack or so of 
 his whip they were rattling into the Boulevard St. Michel. 
 
 It was a longish drive to the Place d'ltalie ; but uiged by 
 Suzon, the man got over the distance very quickly. The dull 
 side-street looked unspeakably dreary in the wintry gloom, 
 the lamps burning dimly, the windows showing little light 
 — signs of failure and poverty on every side. 
 
 The fly stopped before that empty house which Kathleen 
 had noticed in the summer gloaming. The board was still 
 hanging above the door, the windows were all blank and 
 dark ; but Suzon opened the door with her key, while Durand 
 lifted Kathleen out of the vehicle. 
 
 ' Carry her upstairs, following me,' said Suzon ; ' but she 
 and I must go into the room alone. You others must stay 
 outside.' 
 
 ' It is not a trap, is it ? ' asked Rose, frightened. ' You 
 mean her no harm ? ' 
 
 'I mean her all the good in the world, and she knows it,' 
 answered Suzon, holding] Kathleen's hand, which feebly 
 pressed hers in response to these words.
 
 Atonement 143 
 
 They stopped at the door of the back room on the first 
 floor, Suzoii fii-st ; then Philip, with Kathleen carried on his 
 shoulder ; Hose in the rear, but pressing close against them, 
 lest there should be danger ahead. 
 
 Kathleen slijiped from Durand's arms, and clung to Suzon 
 Michel, as the latter opened the door. The two women went 
 into the room together, and Eose and her husband were left 
 outside. 
 
 There was one instant's silence, and then a wild shriek, a 
 shriek that might be terror, grief, or joy. One could not tell 
 what it meant, outside the door. 
 
 Eose was in an agony. She would have dashed into the 
 room, but Philij) held her back. 
 
 '. Let them be for a few moments,' he said. ' Mortemar is 
 alive. The mystery can be only that — alive, and shut up in 
 this house, under watch and ward of that woman.' 
 
 Two minutes after, the door was opened by Suzon, and the 
 Durands went in. The room was comfortable enough within, 
 desolate as the house looked outside. The furniture was 
 humble, but neat and decent. There was a fire burning iu 
 the grate, a lamp on the table. 
 
 In an easy-chair in front of the fire sat a man with his leg 
 in splints from the hip downwards. He was pale to ghast- 
 liness, and had the look of one who had but begun the 
 slow progress of recovery from a sickness nigh unto death . 
 His hair and beard were long, his hands thin to transpa- 
 rency. 
 
 Yef-, it was Gaston Mortemar, and his wife was kneeling at 
 his feet, kissing the w;isted hands, murmuring sweetest 
 words, nestling her head in his bosom, ineffably happy. 
 
 ' I give you back your dead,' said Suzon solemnly. ' He 
 was left for dead when I picked him up and brought him 
 in here, shot through shoulder and hi}) and leg with half a 
 dozen bullets. The surgeon I brought to him said it was a 
 hopeless case ; but for the sake of surgary, as an amateur, he 
 would try to cure him. For two months he lay in instant 
 danger. For seven weeks he was mad with l)iain-fever — 
 fever that came from the pain of his wounds. I have nursed 
 him through all. The surgeon will tell you if I have been a 
 faithful nurse. And now I give him back to you, nothealetl, 
 but on the fair road to recovery ; although he will be lame 
 all his life, poor soul ; but that does not count in a writer, 
 does it ? He will he all the greater with his pen if he h;u3 
 less temptation to roam.'
 
 144 Uivh'r the nrd Fla.j 
 
 ' Bless you ! May God bless and reward you fur your 
 devotion ! ' c-ried Kathleen. 
 
 ' Bah ! There is no question of blessing or reward. I have 
 been a wicked woman. I kept him like a bird in a cage, and 
 I let you think him dead, and I told hira you had perished on 
 the last day of the barricades, and I let him mourn for you. 
 He was helpless, in my power, and I lied to him and cheated 
 him. But I snatched him from the jaws of death ; the 
 surgeon who has attended him will tell you that. I dragge<l 
 him into this empty house, dragged him away just as the 
 last batch of Serizier's bloodhounds were turning the corner 
 of the street, whooping for more blood ; and I kept him here, 
 closely guarded, hidden from all the world, except the surgeon, 
 who believed that he was my brother. Monsieur Mortemar 
 coidd tell no tales, poor fellow ; for it is only within the last 
 three weeks that he has been in his right wits.' 
 
 Gaston's head was leaning forward against Kathleen's, the 
 husband's haggard brow against the wife's wasted cheek. 
 Both faces were the image of death, and yet radiant with a 
 new-born life — the sublime light of happy love. 
 
 ' She told me you were dead, Kathleen,' he murmured, 
 'forgive her, dear. She saved you, and J have avenged 
 you. O my love I my love ! God is good. He has given 
 yoii back to me, out of the grave.' 
 
 ' How did you manage to occupy this house, and to keep 
 your existence here a secret ? ' asked Durand of Madame 
 Michel. 
 
 ' There was no difficulty. I was not without means. I went 
 to the landlord, and offered him half the rent of the house for 
 the use of two or three rooms at the back. The house had 
 been unlet a year and a half — the street is a failure — so he 
 was glad to accept my offer, and the board was left up over 
 the door to avert suspicion. The people who saw me go in 
 and out took me for a caretaker ; nolxjdy asked any questions. 
 I liad a truck-load of furniture brought here after dark from 
 my rooms at the cre'merie, and I made tilings as comfortable 
 as I could for my patient. If he had any knowledge of those 
 dark days he would know that I nursed him faithfully. For 
 six weeks I scarcely knew what it was to sleep for anlionrat 
 a stretch. I had a mattress at the foot of his bed, and I lay 
 down now and then like a dog, and slept a dog's sleep, with 
 my ear on the alert for the first groan of ])ain.' 
 
 ' God bless you ! ' cried Kathleen, taking her hand and 
 kissing it.
 
 Atoiisment 145 
 
 * You are a straufje woman,' said Durand ; ' but let no one 
 say that you are wliolly bad.' 
 
 'I was a devil in those days of the barricades. I was mad 
 like the rest of thera, maddened with the thought of all the 
 wronirs that we canaille have suftered from the bo2;inninfj of 
 the world. Yes, from the days when Herod put Joiiii tl;e 
 J3aptist in piison, and cut off his hea-l, to keep faith with a 
 princess who danctd. I was drunk with blood, like the rest 
 of them. But in six weeks of watchfulness and watching 
 one has time to think ; and, in the silence of the night, some- 
 times I used to wonder whether it was good for a woman to 
 be an esprit fort, whether it was not better to be cheated, 
 even, and to believe in Some One up yonder, who can set the 
 riddle (jf this world right when He chooses — some hand 
 turning the great wheel of destiny yonder behind the clouds. 
 xSO, Monsieur Durand, I am not all evil.' 
 
 It was not till the end of the year that Gaston was well 
 enough to be removed to the Rue Git le Creur, and, in the 
 meantime, he and his wife occupied the rooms in the empty 
 house near the Place d'ltalie, with that good-natured busy- 
 body, Madame Schubert — generally known as c't bonne 
 Scliubert — to take care of them. Suzon Michel went straight 
 from the house where those two whom she had held apart 
 were lost in the bliss of an unhoped-for union, and gave 
 herself up to the police. The account against her name was 
 heavy, and payment in full was exacted. She -svas despatched 
 with a gang of Communards on board a rotten old ship bound 
 for Cayenne, and in the unutterable miseries of that dreadful 
 voyage she was like an angel of mercy to her fellow-sinners. 
 And at the convict settlement the piitroleuse, the amazon, 
 became the nurse and ministering angel of the fever-stricken 
 wretches in the prison hospital, a source of comfoit and of 
 hope to many a dying captive, till the deadly climate did its 
 work, and the pestilence struck her down as it had strii-ken 
 others — a woman young iu years, but old in strange and sad 
 experience ; a sinner, but not without hope of pardon. 
 
 The dark days of November and December were blissful 
 days for Kathleen. Health and strength returned to her as 
 if by magic ; and in a week after her restoration to happiness 
 she was able to help in waiting upon her husband. Another 
 week and she would hardly allow Madame Schubert to do 
 anything for him. In the third week she was walking to and 
 fro the printing ottice of Gaston's old journal, which had been
 
 lili Under the Red Flag 
 
 resuscit.ited under a new name, a? The Friend of Freedom, 
 and the proprietor of which was enraptured to receive ' copy ' 
 from the brilliant ])en of his old contributor, given up as lojt 
 to literature for ever. 
 
 Yes, those were happy days. That poor shattered leg of 
 Gaston's had shrunk and shortened, and he woulil go limping 
 along the road of life to the end of his journey ; but his mind 
 was clear and vigorous as ever, and his heart was content. 
 During the enforced quiet of those December days he made 
 a vigorous beginning upon that scheme of a novel which he 
 had mentioned to Kathleen on their wedding-day. But 
 he did not keej) his work secret from his wife, as he had 
 thi'catened. He garnered up no surjirises, being in too much 
 need of her sympathy to sustain his belief in himself. 
 
 He read the day's portion aloud to Kathleen at night, the 
 last thing, when that good old Schubert, who insisted upon 
 coming every day with her market-basket, smelling of les 
 Ilalles Centrales^ to cook and attend upon them — when 
 Maman Schubert had taken her modest little nip of eau dz 
 vie, put her arm through the handle of her emijty basket, 
 and wished them good-night for the sixth or seventh time. 
 Then Kathleen perched herself upon the arm of her husband's 
 chair and nestled her head upon his shoulder while he read 
 his manuscript. It was a love-story, full of passion and fire, 
 and Katldeen felt that it must make a mad, a furious success. 
 Nor was she far out in her reckoning. "When a man, whose 
 pen has grown bold and brilliant in the work of a literary 
 journeyman, whose memory has garnered the experience of a 
 youth and manhood spent in the very whirlpool of metropo- 
 litan life, and who has read and dreamed and thought super- 
 abundantly in his leisure hours and his wanderings to and 
 fro — when such a man girds up his loins and says, 'Enough 
 of the hard facts of life — now 1 will give myself full play in 
 the garden of fancy,' the chances are that he will write a 
 novel that shall be famous. 
 
 Serizier was cdidemned to death on the 17th of February, 
 1872, by the sixth council of war. He appealed against this 
 sentence, setting forth the service which he had done to 
 General C!hanzy, on the IDth of March '71, in defending him 
 against the revolutionary mob. It was rumoured in the 
 )ieighbourhocd of the Place dTtalie that Sdrizier would' liOt 
 be executed ; whereupon an unprecedented agitation arose 
 among the people. The inhabitants of the neighbourhood,
 
 AOmcmeut 147 
 
 remembering the agony of terror under ■wliieli tbey luid lived 
 on account of this man, signed a petition demanding that no 
 commutation of the extreme sentence should be accorded to 
 the iate chief of the 13th Legion, and entreating that, as an 
 example and a just expiation, he should be executed in fiont 
 of the prison over which he had ruled, and on the very spot 
 where he had presided over the massacre of the Dominicans. 
 This strange request could not be granted ; but Sdrizier's 
 crimes were of too black a dye to admit of mercy. He and 
 his lieutenant Bobcche were shot on the plain of Sator\'. 
 
 Gaston ]\Iortemar's novel was published in the following 
 autumn, and obtuined a more brilliant success thau any book 
 that had a])peared since Madame Bovary. There was a fire 
 and a freshness in the style which made the appearance of 
 the story a sensation, an event ; and Gaston saw himself 
 released for ever from the treadmill routine of a third-rate 
 newspaper, a man with jjlace and name in the ranks of 
 literature, free to write what he liked, and secure of publisher 
 and public. And as the years wore on — years of peace and 
 prosperity — those two households of the Durands and the 
 Mortemars Avere undarkened by so much as a passing cloud. 
 Industry, honour, and domestic love luled in each menage, 
 and there was no break in the union between the sisters ; 
 albeit, Duraiid and Rose remained constant to their town 
 quarters in the Ivue Git le C<eur, while Gaston and his wife 
 transferred their household gods to a dainty little villa at 
 Passy, where the husband could write in his garden among 
 the birds and tlowers, while his young wife guided the foot- 
 steps of her yearling baby up and down the little grassplot. 
 
 The carved-oak sideboard was bought by Sir Ilichard 
 A\'allace, and Durand's fame as a craftsman and artist wa^i 
 safely established from that hour : and so, where there had 
 been cloud there was sunshine, where there had been storm 
 there was perfect and holy calm.
 
 DROSS ; OR, THE ROOT OF EVIL 
 
 BEAM ATI S PERSON.^. 
 
 Tremaine Darracott. 
 Thomas Cuugg. 
 
 ElCIIARD AVERV. 
 
 Nicholas Pugsley, groum. 
 Bates, grocer. 
 Captain Vanjjeax. 
 
 Lady Skimphr. 
 Leonora Skimper. 
 Sylvia Scobell. 
 Mary Chugg. 
 Mrs, Hammick. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene. — A farruliousc interior. Summer layidscape seen through 
 open lattices. Village in the distance. Furniture good artd 
 substantial., hut verij old-fashioned ; hnreau, eight-daij 
 clock, &c., £r, 
 
 Mrs. Hammick seated shelling peas^ 'M.^wx standing hij 
 her chair ; IJiciiard, with his hat in his hand, near the 
 door. 
 
 Mrs. Hammick. I do wish you would go out or come in, 
 Dick. It's £0 uncomfortable to have you hovering there, as 
 if you wanted to go, and didn't know how to curry out yiur 
 intention. 
 
 Kichard. That's just what I almost always feel in this 
 house, Mrs. Hammick — not the wanting to go, hut the not 
 being able to do it. And to-day I'm rather more unsettled 
 than usual. I suppose it's in conse(|uence of the old Squii'e's 
 funeral. That is an event, you know, Mrs. Hammiclc ; we 
 don't bury an old Squire every day. 
 
 Mrs. Hammick. Ah, well, he was quite one of the old 
 school, wasn't he i
 
 Dnuss liO 
 
 ]\[a:iy. If lie wore still iilive, I should say he w.i.s a nasty 
 oUI man ; but, I sni)pose, now ha's dead we are all to make 
 believe that we always thought him nice. 
 
 riJiiARD. I wouldn't say anything against him for the 
 world, as he is dead ; but he ceitainly was the meanest oUl 
 h 1'ind 
 
 .Mary. Richard ! 
 
 lltcriARU. The falsest old hypocrite, and the most tyranni- 
 cal old skinflint 
 
 ]\ri'.s. Hammicic. Richard ! 
 
 Richard. See how he treated Tremaine Darracott, his own 
 grandson. 
 
 Mary. Ah, that wa^ a cruel act— to turn his grandson 
 out of doors, because he had fallen in love with a jienniless 
 gill, and that girl one of the sweetest young laJies that ever 
 lived. 
 
 JiIrs. Hammick. Yes, and the orphan daughter of one of 
 the Squire's dearest friends. I used to think the Squire wa^ 
 very much attached to Miss Sylvia Scobell, in his way. 
 
 Richard. Yes, his way of being fon i of a person is rather 
 like anybody else's way of detesting them. However, I 
 suppose Mr/Tremaiue will be able to do what he likes now, 
 and that the tirst thing he will do will be to marry Miss 
 Scobell — that is to say, as soon as he decently can after his 
 grandfather's death. 
 
 ]\Iary. But what if the Squire should have altered his 
 will, and left his fortune to a huspitai, as he often threatened '{ 
 I know people who have heard him. 
 
 M us. Hammick. Nonsense, Mary. The old Squire would 
 never leave his money to a charity, it would vex hini 
 to tiiiuk of having done so ranch g 'od. Besides, Mr. Tre- 
 maine Darracott is the only son of his only son — his natural 
 heir. 
 
 Richard. There's not an acre of Darracott Manor en- 
 tailel. The Squire could dispose of his esUite as freely as 
 
 if it was one of his old hunting coats 
 
 ]SrARY. He usen't to like giving them awav, Dick. Vm 
 sure he wore them till they were too shabby for anything 
 but a scarecrow. 
 
 Richard. He was a close-fisted, obstinate old man, !N[ary. 
 T shouldn't be a bit astonished if Tremaine Darracott v>ere 
 left a pauj)er. 
 
 Mary'. Then all I hope is that he'll marry Sylvia Scobell 
 ne.xt week, and that they'll live hapj^y ever :«ftei wards.
 
 150 Under the Red Flari 
 
 EiciiAED. Without a penny between them, Mary ? They 
 can't live upon love. 
 
 Mary. Oh, yes, they can, if it is true love. Providence 
 always takes care of true lovers, just as the dear little robins 
 took care of the children in the wood. 
 
 EiCHAKD. Gave them decent burial after they were starved 
 to death. That's about as much as Providence, in the shape 
 of wealthy relations, generally does for a foolish young man 
 and woman who marry for love. But here comes Mr. 
 Chugg ; and now, I suppose, we shall hear all about the 
 Squire's will. 
 
 [CnuGG heard singing outside. 
 
 " I'll sell you for a crown, my boy. 
 And that won't be too dear ; 
 For 'tis my delight on a shiny night, 
 In the season of the year." 
 
 \_Stops himself suddenly as he enters, dressed 
 in deep mourning. 
 
 Chugg [handing his hat to Mary). Take the band off 
 Polly, my pet. And you, Dick, give us a hand with this 
 double-milled doeskin imposture. (Pulls of his coat.) 
 Away with melancholy ! I feel like a gigantic Spanish fowl 
 trussed ready for roasting, with all his feathers on him. Ah! 
 now I begin to breathe again. (Tales of his hat.) Bring 
 me my liveliest waistcoat, Mary, the brightest bit of colour 
 you can find in my wardrobe, lassie, and the cheerfullest 
 thing you can lay your hand on in the way of a necktie. 
 (Exit Mary.) I do believe I never had such a sickener in 
 my life as when I stood in that churchyard among a lot of 
 other hypocrites, all of us pulling the longest faces we could, 
 and not one of us honestly sorry in his heart. Why, the 
 very parson never had a good word for the Squire while he 
 was alive ; and Mr. Carlyon, the J.P., who kei)t his face 
 smothered in a pocket-handkerchief, as if he was convulsed 
 with grief, hated the old man like poison. And there was 
 poor Trcmaine Darracott, who had been kicked out of doors 
 by that old tyrant, standing beside his grave as chief mourner, 
 with a pale, steady look upon his handsome face, but not 
 making believe half so much as the others. 
 
 Mary. How about the will, father ? What has the Squire 
 done with his money ? We're all dying to know that. 
 
 Chugg. Then I'm sorry to say I can't bring you to life, for
 
 Dr<>s.-< 16] 
 
 I tlun't know anvtliiiio- about it. H'ome alons; wiili us and 
 hear the will read, Chugf^f,' says I>Ir. Brooke, the lawyer ; but 
 I wasn't going into that gloomy old manor-house a^^ain, just 
 for a chance of a glass or two of the Scjuire's '47 port. 
 
 Mrs. Hammick. There may be a legacy for you, Tom. The 
 Squire and you were always friendl}'. 
 
 Chugg. Weil, I was about tlie most improving tenant he 
 had, and I was able to be useful to him in a good many ways. 
 That's just what Brooke said — 'There may be a legacy for 
 you, Chugg ; who knows 1 '' and by the signiticant way Lawyer 
 Brooke spoke, I should rather tliiid< I do stand in foratrit'e. 
 But I'm no legacy diunter. If the old m:in should have left 
 me fifty guineas or so, why, I'll divide it between you and 
 Mary, Betsy my dear, and you shall buy a new gown apiece. 
 
 Mary. Oh, father, yi>u duu't suppose our gowns cost five- 
 and-twenty guineas ? 
 
 CiiUGG. Of course not, my dear ; but that's my delicate 
 way of putting it. You may want other things— cufi's and 
 collars, sashes and neckties ; young women are always wanting 
 some kind of finery. 
 
 Mary. You are a dear, generous old dad ! 
 
 CnuGG. Well, my love, I hope I shall never be mean. I 
 am not a rich man. It's about just as mucli as I can do to 
 keep things going comfortably, so that everybody in the 
 neighbourhood should be able to say, ' If you want to see a 
 farm, look at Chugg's farm ; that w farming. When I grow 
 corn I like it to be corn, not half thistles and hogweed. 
 When 1 breed sheep I like 'em to be sheep. And as for the 
 liouse I live in, Avhy, I like it to be home — home for me, and 
 open house for my friends : a house in which a man can feel 
 sure of a hearty welcome, a good cut out of a joint, and 
 a tankard of home-brewed beer — no pretence, no finery, but 
 solid English comfort. That's my motto. {PiUtimj on 
 iraistcoat and tic ic/iich Mary haa fcti'hed from adjacent room ) 
 Here goes for the coloured \\aistcoat, and away with melan- 
 choly. That's another of my mottoes. 
 
 Mrs. Hammick. Well, Mr. Chugg 
 
 CiiUGG. Who are you talking to? Where's !Mr. Chugg? 
 Tliere's no such person here, that I'm aware of, for you. Why 
 can't you be friendly, and say Tom ? 
 
 Mrs. Hammick. I always feel as if I were taking a liberty. 
 
 CuDGG. AVell, that's rank nonsense. Don't 1 call you 
 Betsy? Wasn't your poor husband my second cousin, and 
 ain't you my own tlosh and blood, in a manner of speaking 1
 
 102 UwJer the Bed Flaj 
 
 Mrs. Hammick. Oh, Mr. Chngg ! Tom, it's only your 
 gooduess which tries to make out a tie between lis, as an 
 excuse for giving me a home, and so that I mayn't feel as if I 
 were eating the bread of cliarity. 
 
 C'uUGG. Bread of charity, indeed ! Why, you're the most 
 useful person in the house. In fact, the house couldn't go 
 on without you, could it, Mary 1 
 
 MARr. No, indeed, father. My poor giddy head would 
 never be equal to all the care and thought that are needed to 
 keep everything as you like it kept — the dairy, and the 
 poultry-yard, and the brewing, and the cider-making, and 
 the cheese. 'Ihere isn't room encragh in my mind for half 
 of it. 
 
 Chugg. I don't believe there is, Mary, especially as a very 
 large portion of your mind is let oft" to Mr. Eiclua-d Avery. 
 Don't blush, Dick, we all know all about it; and it slian't be 
 my fault if that little story of yours doesn't end happily. 
 
 IliciiARD. You are so thoroughly good-natured, Mr. Ohugg. 
 
 ( !hugg. Well, I don't come of a bad-natured lot, anyhow. 
 There's very little ill-nature in my family histoiy. The 
 Chuggs were never grand — never troubled themselves about 
 coats-of-arms, or quarterings, or crests, or such-like foolery ; 
 although, mind you, the old Squire and I came of the same 
 stock, for my grcat-grandniother was a Darracott. 
 
 Mrs. Hammick. Ah, to be sure ! You're a kind of cous'n 
 of the Squire's. I've lieard peojjle say so. 
 
 Mary. Goodness gracious, father, suppose he has left his 
 estate to you — as his only surviving relation^ extept Mr. 
 Tremaine ! 
 
 Chugg. No fear, Marj^ The Chuggs were never what you 
 can call a lucky lot. No dropping into fortunes promis- 
 cuously ; no finding a tin mine in a meadow ; no unexpected 
 legacies for them. The Chuggs began poor, and they've gone 
 on poor ; but who cares ? We've never been in debt, or out 
 at elbows, any of us ; and we've always had a crust of bread 
 and cheese to share with a friend. Jolly Chugg, folks call 
 me ; and I don't envj^ any man living his riches. If I was a 
 rich man — well, I believe I should do a power of good in the 
 world, for my greatest delight would be in s])ending my 
 money freely and making other })eople happy. 
 
 Mary. I'm sure it would, father. 
 
 Mrs. Hammick. I know how generous you's^e been with 
 m oderate means, Tom. 
 
 Chugg. Vv'ell, I Ikj e, if ProvideEce ever was to make me
 
 Dross 153 
 
 a rich man — but of course it Avou't — I sliould bj like the 
 gentleman in the song, who meant to make everybody haj)py, 
 provided he could first l.iy his hand u[iou the faur-leaved 
 >; ham rock — 
 
 "And hearts that hul been long estranged, and friends that 
 
 had grown cold, 
 Should meet ai^Miii, like parted streams, and mingle as of old. 
 C)h I tliii-i I\l play the enchanter's part, thus scatter bliss 
 
 around, 
 And not a tear or aching heart should in the world be 
 
 found : '■' 
 
 [As he sings the last line he knocks up against 
 TiJEMAiSE, u-ho enters while he is singing. 
 
 CnroG. I beg your pardon, Mi*. Treniaine. Nothing should 
 Inve tempted me to burst into a secular song on such a — a — 
 melanclioly occasion, if I'd known you were near. 
 
 Trfmaixe. Don't apologise, my dear Chugg. I am very 
 glad to know there is some one cheerful in this world; for my 
 own outlook at this moment is so black that 
 
 CuuGG. Yes, no doubt you will be expected to wear black 
 for some time — for a si'i^'tlfi^ther — and it is not a cheerful 
 colour. In double-milleel Saxony or doeskin it is certainly 
 the reverse of livcl}', especially in hot weather, and with the 
 lanes so given over to dust — I say given over to dust, and not 
 a Y/ater-cart in the parish. 
 
 Tremaink. It is not the idea of a mourning suit that 
 troubles me, Chutrg. In fact, my troubles are much more 
 likely to take the form of no clothes at all — when these are 
 worn out. 
 
 t^ucGG. Why, you don't mean to say that tlie Siiuire 
 has 
 
 Tremaine. Disinherited me. Yes, he has, Chugg. "When 
 he turned me out of his house six months ago, for no other 
 reason than that I was true to the girl I loved, and with the 
 change of a five-pound note between me and starvation, he 
 told me he meant to cut me off with a shilling, lie has 
 carried out his intention m. st completely — except that he 
 has forgotten the shilling. 
 
 CnuGu. You'll dis|)u(e the will, of course. I'll help you. 
 I'll back you uj). I'll lend you my last shilling to fee tlie 
 lawyers, and 111 swear the Squire was a lunatic — 7ion compos 
 h(CiUis — when he made this most unnatural and iniquitous
 
 154 Under the Ri'd I'lar/ 
 
 will ; for that it is a most unnatural and iniquitous will I do 
 declare before all men— and 
 
 Marv. And so it is, Mr. Trenmine. 
 
 Tremaine. You're a good fellow, Cliugg, an excellent 
 fellow — you've always been kind to me. Perhaps you'll modify 
 your views when you know all. Circumstances alter cases, 
 you see, Chugg. That's an old saying, and there's wisdom in 
 it. I have come here to ask you to do me a kindness. You 
 and my father were boys together. 
 
 CnuGG. I should think we were, indeed ! Boys together! 
 Why, in the hunting field we were like brothers. No place 
 like that for finding your level. Every man is equal across 
 a stiff" bullfinch ; and your father and I have taken many a 
 rasper neck and neck. My father bred the first hiinter your 
 father ever rode to hounds, and I broke him. Wasn't he a 
 devil to go 1 But, I say, Mr. Treniaine, you don't mean to let 
 this will of your grandfather's stand, do you ? 
 
 Tremaine. Well, I don't know, Chugg. I am going to 
 London by the evening mail. 
 
 CiiUGG. And you want a few pounds to start you in life 1 
 I understand. You shall have it, Mr. Tremaine. I've got a 
 little sum put away in a stocking for one of those new-fangled 
 reaping-machines. Now, I don't much care for these iron 
 contrivances, which cost a power of money to buy, and which 
 throw flesh and blood out of work ; so you're welcome to 
 the hundred I've put by, and Jack and Bob and Bill and 
 Joe shall reap my corn, as they used to do in my old father's 
 time. 
 
 Tremaixe. My dear Chugg, you are the most generous of 
 men ; but I've not come here to sponge upon you — at least, 
 not in that way. I'm off" to London to fight the battle of life 
 I've been called to the Bar, you know ; and I suppose if I sit 
 in my chambers and read law, and wait for the turn of the 
 tide, briefs will begin to drop in — some day. The favour I 
 have to ask is this : Miss Scobell is now without a home ; if 
 we were to marry at once, matrimony would mean starvation. 
 We must wait for better days. But what is to become of her 
 in the meantime ? She is not the kind of girl to go into the 
 world and get her own living. I know Miss Chugg and she 
 are great friends. Now, if you and your daughter would 
 
 Chugg. Make her happy here until you can afford to 
 marry ? Why, of course we will. Let her consider Hazle 
 Farm her home from this hour. She shall have the spare 
 bedroom with the bow window facing south and looking
 
 Dross 155 
 
 over Mary's flower-garden. She shall have larks aiul black- 
 birds in fanciful cages to hang in her window, and sing to 
 her when she feels melancholy. I say, Mrs. Hanimick, 
 su})pose you run across the fields to the Manor and fetch 
 Miss Scobell. She'll be glad to get away from that melan- 
 choly old house. And I daresay she'd like to have a chat 
 with Mr. Tremaine here before he starts. Go as fast as you 
 can, like a good soul. It's only ten minutes' walk. {L'.vit 
 Mrs. II.vmmicic.) We'll make her comfortable, won't we, 
 Mary I 
 
 Mary. Yes, father ; she shall be my adopted sister, if she 
 will. 
 
 TuK-MAiN'E {clasping their hands). Chugg, you are a good 
 man. I felt that 1 might depend ii]3on you. My dear ]Mary, 
 I am more grateful than words can say. And now that I've 
 tried your metal it's time I should tell you what the Squire 
 has done with his estate. There are men in my jDOsition who 
 would hate you, Chugg. 
 
 ( 'iiUGG. You hate me, Mr. Tremaine I Why, I never 
 injured you by so much as an unkind thought. 
 
 Trkmaixe. I am sure of that, and you have done me many 
 a kindness. When my grandfather turned me out of doors 
 you otlered me free quarters here, and you lent me money to 
 carry on with in the Temple. I am not likely to forget that 
 you wei-e my best friend when I most wanted one. But you 
 have been made the instrument of my grandfather's revenge 
 upon his only son's only son. 
 
 Chugg (puzzled). As how, Mr. Tremaine ! 
 
 Tremaine. He has left the whole of his fortune, real and 
 ]>ersonal, to you, with a request that you will, as speedily as 
 may be practicable, assume the name and arms of Darracott. 
 
 Mary. Oh, Mr. Tremaine, what a wicketl, unjust act ! 
 
 Cnuoa (absorbed in himself). Squire Darracott — Chugg 
 Darracott. Yes, Squire Chugg Darracott. That sounds 
 uncommonly well. And every rood of his land is mine ! It 
 is land on which I was born and reared. His woods and 
 commons, the meadows and corn-fields, that we Chuggs, 
 father and son, have farmed for fifty years, and on which he 
 wouldn't let me shoot a rabbit, all mine ! The old Manor 
 House, pictures, jilate, armour ; the orchards I used to rob 
 when I was a boy ; the gardens which I fancied were the 
 exact copies of the Garden of Eden — mine, all mine ! ( Walls 
 sloH-li/ across the stage, and comes face to face vith Tremaine). 
 
 Tremaine. Well," Chugg, do you still maintain that my 
 grandfather's will is unnatural and iui(|uitous ?
 
 156 Under the Red Flag 
 
 Chugg. My dear Ti^emaine, a-^ you most si irewdly observed 
 jusl now, circumstances alter cases. Had your grandfather 
 bequeathed his wealth to a hospital or an almshouse, had he 
 impoverished you, his own flesh and blood, in order to fatten 
 the widow and orphan of the indifferent stranger, I should 
 have held to my opinion that the will was an unnatural will, 
 an iniquitous will, a will to be held up to universal con- 
 tumely and reprobation. But when this line old couutry 
 gentleman shows his respect for the claims of consanguinity, 
 even in a somewhat distant relative ; when he testifies that 
 the blood of the Darracotls, filtered throngh three generations 
 of Chuggs, is still to his mind the true Darracott blood ; 
 when he passes over the Darracotta of the ]iresent to recog- 
 nise the Darracotts of the past, I say that he gives evidence 
 of those good old true-blue Church and State principles 
 which every true-born Englishman ninst honour. 
 
 Tremaink. Good-bye, Mr. Chugg 
 
 Chugg. Darracott, sir, Dari\acott. From this instant I 
 assume the name of my maternal great-grandmother. 
 
 Tremiine. Good-bye, Mr. Darracott. You'll be kind to 
 Sylvia, won't you '] I suppose you'll be taking possession of 
 the Manor House in a day or two ? 
 
 CnuGG. I shall sleep there to-night. Nobody shall say 
 that I shirk my responsibilities. The old Squire looked to 
 me to maintain the honour of the Darracotts, and he shall 
 find me equal to the occasion. He was a shrewd old man, 
 anil no doubt he had taken my measure before he made that 
 will. 
 
 Tremainr. You'll not furgtt Sylvia? 
 
 CiiUGG. Certainly not, my dear fellow, {Re-enter Mrs. 
 Hammick witk Sylvia). Ah, here she comes. My dear Miss 
 Scobell, Tremaine has t'dd me everything. Hard for him— 
 hard for you. But you have youth, health, hope, kind friends 
 left. Money is not everything. So long as I live you shall 
 have a home at the Manor. 
 
 Sylvia. Ah, Mi\ Chugg, such an obligation — what claim 
 have 1 1 
 
 Chugg. Don't mention obligation. "VVe shall be able to 
 make you useful, I've no doubt. Mary likes you, and Mary 
 shall find a gi'oove for you— a groove, you know. [Looking at 
 Mary, wJto situ at the table with her face hidden in Iter liands, 
 Richard standing hy her.) Why, Mary ! I declare the girl is 
 crying ! What's the matter now, child ? 
 
 Mary. Oh, father, it seems so strange, so wrong, that you 
 should profit by Mr. Tremaine Dari'acott's loss.
 
 Dross 157 
 
 CiiUGG. My dear cliilil, no inaii can profit except by sonie- 
 boJy else's loss. It is the inevitable law of property, vhich 
 is always changing hands, somehow or other. As for Mr. 
 Treiiiaine — why, at liis age a fortune would be a millstone 
 round his neck. He doesn't .see it in that light just at present, 
 perhaps, but he will when lie is Lord Chancellor. 
 
 Thkji.vine. At any rat.^, Mr. Chugg — Darracott, I can 
 admire the philoso^^hy of my friends. 
 
 {Chnjg goes up the stage, leaving Tremaine and Sylvia together. 
 
 Trkmaine. Sylvia, my best and bravest of girls ! You 
 were never afraid to stand between me and my grandfather'.s 
 anger when I was a boy. I don't think you'll be afraid to stand 
 by my side in jioverty now that I am a man. 
 
 Si'LviA. Afraid ? no, Tremaine. But how can I ever forgive 
 myself for having brought that poverty upon you ? If you 
 lia'l never loved me 
 
 TiiEMAi.vK. Don't talk about impossibilities, Sylvia. Who 
 could know you and not love you ? Besides, if he hadn't 
 tin-own me oil" on your account, the old sijuire would have 
 found some other reason for (piarrelling with me. He had 
 the genuine disinheriting disposition. 
 
 SvLvi.v. If I could o!dy help you in any way, Tremaine I I 
 wish the people who educate girls would teach them to do one 
 thing well instead of a good many things badly ; for then a 
 woman would not be a useless creature in the time of calamity. 
 
 Tremaine. Your love will lielj) me to be patient, and 
 steadfast, and brave, and honest, Sylvia. That is enough. 
 
 [TViey go up the stage. 
 
 Marv. Father, aren't you going to otier Mr. Tremaine 
 some compensation for that wicked will ] AVon't you make 
 sjme division of the jjroperty, giving him at least half? 
 
 CiiUG3. I blight that young man's jn-ospects, cripi)le bis 
 ambition ? No, JSEary ! Who ever heanl of a wealthy young 
 man working his way to the front I They never do it, my 
 dear. There's no incentive for them. Poverty is the true 
 school for greatness. Go and pack your trunks, Mary. 
 
 Mary. Oh, father, do you really mean that we are to leave 
 Ilazle Farm — the dear old house in which I was born, where 
 my dear mother lived and died \ 
 
 Cnt'tiG. My dear, we must not sliirk our responsibilities. 
 Property has its duties as well as its rights. Tli.it is au 
 observation which you may have heard before.
 
 158 Under the Red Flwj 
 
 Mart. I'm sure I shall never be so liappy in any other 
 house. 
 
 CnuGa. Mary, you are sadly deficient in self-respect — you 
 have no proper idea of your own value, I'm afraid. The blood 
 of the Darracotts suffered a good deal by adulteration before 
 it came to you. Now, then, Mrs. Hammick, stir your stumps, 
 and let us have dinner. Tremaine, you'll dine with us, of 
 course. I can't give you such a bottle of port as I shall be 
 able to crack with you by-andby at the Manor but as far 
 as home-brewed goes yoii'll have no cause for com23laint. 
 
 Tremaine. I shall be delighted. 
 
 Richard. Good day to you, Mr. Cliugg. Good-bye, Mary. 
 {Aside to Mary) I'm afraid I shan't be quite so welcome at 
 the Manor as I have been at the Farm. 
 
 Mary. Ob, yes, you will. Father, Dick thinks you are 
 going to forget old friends now you are rich. 
 
 CuuGG. Forget ! No, Eichard. The Darracotts are 
 staunch — staunch, sir. I shall not forget you. No, Richard, 
 I shall find a groove for you, as well as for Sylvia Scobell. 
 You are an intelligent young man, and I can turn your 
 intelligence to account. You shall have the management of 
 tliis farm, and you shall help to look after vaj aiTairs at the 
 jSIanor — examine the tradesmen's accounts, see that I don't 
 get cheated. It will be a position of trust, and I shall be able 
 to give you a very comfortable salary — say fifty pounds a 
 year, with the run of your teeth at the Manor House. 
 
 Ma.ry {aside to Chugg). Fifty pounds a year! Why, father, 
 a little while ago you were going to give me five-and-twenty 
 jiounds to buy a gown. 
 
 Chugg. That was when I was a poor man, my dear. The 
 poor are always improvident. 
 
 Richard. Gentlemanly drudgery at fifty pounds a year. 
 It isn't a brilliant prospect for a young man with his future 
 to make ; but to be near Mary is worth a sacrifice. {Aside.) 
 
 Chugg (to Mary.) Now I hope you're happy. 
 
 Mrs. Hammick. And now that such a chauge has taken 
 place in your circumstances, Tom — Mr. Chugg 
 
 Chugg. I beg your pardon, Darracott, 
 
 Mrs. Hammick. He doesn't tell me to call him Tom now. 
 {Aaside.) I had better look out for another home. 
 
 Chugg. No, Mrs, Hammick. You shall have a corner at 
 the Manor House. We'll find a groove for you, madam. 
 Come, bustle, bustle, let's have dinner soon, and be sure it's 
 a good one. It's our last day in this shabby old hole,
 
 Dru^s 159 
 
 remember. You miglit seiul to tlie village for a dozen of 
 champagne, if tliere is such a thing as a dozen of champagne 
 in the vilhige {(jiving money). Stay, what a fool I am. Send 
 across to the Manor, to my cellar, for a dozen or so. Where's 
 the key 1 Here's a pretty thing, for a man not to be able to 
 put his hand on the keys of his own wine-cellar. Come, I 
 say, bustle, bustle, you seem all struck slow and stupid. 
 {Aside crossing in front of the stage, tv/tile they allicatch him in 
 astonishment and anxiety.) 
 
 Chugg Darracott ! It's all like a dream ! Property — 
 responsibility — the land — the Manor House — all mine ! 
 {Clutching at his throat) There's a kind of choking here as 
 if I were going to have a tit. (Snatching ojf his necktie). 
 Upon my soul, I don't know yet whether I'm glad or sorry. 
 {He siiils into a chair in the centre of the stage, and they all 
 cluster round him, alarmed at his apf,carance ) 
 
 End of Act I. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene, "Wixter Evenixg. — Hall at the Manor House, used as 
 a living-room, opining at the hack into gardens. Door on 
 one side hading to draicing-room, on the other to Chugg's 
 private sitting-rocm. Easy-chairs; occasional tables in 
 foreground. 
 
 Mrs. Hammick seated at afternoon tea-table in front of 
 a wide early-English fire-place. Eichard Avery seated 
 at icriting table on opposite side of stage, disinissing Bates, 
 grocer. 
 
 EiciiARD {handing cheque to Bates). There is your 
 nccoimt, Mr. Bates. 
 
 Bates. Ten per cent, discount, sir ! That brings down my 
 profits to next to nothing. I'm almost out of pocket by such 
 an account, sir. The old Squire was close, but he never 
 asked for ten per cent, discount on a quarterly account. 
 
 Richard. Mr. Chugg Darracott is a man of business, the 
 old Squire wasn't. Besides, the present consumption is about 
 six times what it was in the old Squire's time. However, if 
 you're dissatisfied we'll close the account. "We can deal witii 
 the Co-operative Stores. 
 
 Bates. No, sir, no. I would rather supply you at a loss. 
 I'd rather give you my good.s, sir, than knuckle under to them
 
 IGO Under tlte Red Flag 
 
 Co-operatives. I'ut Mr. Chngg Darracott does cut thing.^ a 
 little too fine, (iood night, sir. \^E.vit Batis. 
 
 EiciiARD. GiooJ night to you. Upon my soul,Mi"S. Hamniick, 
 I feel a.shamed of myself when I have to grind down those 
 poor fellows like that. I've no doubt tliey all cheat andover- 
 chnrge, more or less. But for a man in Mr. Darracott .s 
 position, and with his large means, to giind and screw as he 
 does ! It's dreadful. 
 
 Mrs. Hammick. Ah, and if you only knew what a noble- 
 hearted felloAV he was before he came into this fortune — how 
 frank, how con tiding ! 
 
 EiCHxVr.D. Now he suspects everybody — thinks we are all 
 in league to cheat him. 
 
 Mrs. Hajijiick. And although he doesn't care how much 
 lie expends upon splendour or display, he grudges five shillings 
 given away in charity. 
 
 EiCHARD. Unless it is for one of those local charities in 
 which his name appears at the top of the list as the largest 
 donor. 
 
 Enter Sylvia. 
 
 Sylvia. I shall be so glad of a cup of your excellent tea, 
 Mrs. Hammick. Still at your accounts, Mr. Avery 1 I've 
 had such a skirmish with the head-gardener in order to get 
 enough hot-house flowers for tlie dinner-table and drawing- 
 room. He's such a very grand man, compared with old Peter, 
 who was head-gardener in the Squire's time, that I'm afraid 
 to speak to him. And Mr. Chugg Darracott was quite angry 
 with me yesterday, because there were not enough flowers on 
 the table, and I believe he expects some very stylish people 
 this evening. Staying company, as the butler calls them. 
 
 Mrs. Hammick. Yes ; I have been told to prepare three of 
 the best bedrooms, and that the dinner is to be something 
 superlative; but Mr. Darracott did not honour me so far as 
 to confide the names of his guests. 
 
 Enter Mary, overhearing last speech. 
 
 Mary. Don't you be grumpy, auntie dear. I'll tell you all 
 -.about our fine visitors. They are some people whose acquaint- 
 ance father made the day before yesterday in the hunting- 
 field. There are two ladies ; Lady Skimper — the widow of 
 a City knight, I believe, but altogether a very .superfine 
 person — and her daughter, Leonora Skimper, who is supposed 
 to be a very nice acquaintance for me ; and then there is
 
 Dross 161 
 
 C.-iptiiin Yandean, of the 19tli Lancers, a tremendous 
 individual. 
 
 Richard. Also supposed to be a very nice acquaintance 
 for you. 
 
 Mary. Don't be disagreeable, Richard. They are all coming 
 in time for dinner ; and they are to stay till after Chi'istmas, 
 or as much longer as they like. I think Lady Skim per 
 would like to stay here all her life ; but I hope ni}' father 
 will be too wise — • — 
 
 Richard. To fall into that trap. I don't know, Mary. A 
 man who has great confidence in his own wisdom is generally 
 an easy victim under such circumstances. Do you like these 
 people 1 
 
 Mary. No, Richard ; I only like old friends. {Puttinrfher 
 arm round Sylvi.\.) How grave you look, darling ! Was 
 there no letter from h im this afternoon ? 
 
 Sylvia. Yes, dear, there was a letter, and he wrote in very 
 good spirits. He even talks of running down to see me before 
 Christmas is over. But I have been a little troubled about 
 the table decorations. Your father was not fjuite satisfied 
 yesterday, and I am so anxious to jjlease him — I am under 
 such heavy obligations 
 
 Mary. Sylvia, if you have any sense of obligation we must 
 be treating you badly. There must be something wrong, 
 somewhere. Obligation, indeed ! Why, all the obligation is 
 on our side ; for what would my father and I have done in 
 this tine old house, and at the head of a large establishment, 
 if you had not been here to tell us all the ways of the landeil 
 gentry — how to write a note of invitation, and how to answer 
 one ; how to order a dinner, and how to decorate a table 1 
 
 Sylvia. You learnt everything so quickly, Mary ; it was 
 a pleasure to teach you. But Mr. Darracott — I don't want 
 to be ungrateful — but I can't help saying that Mr. Darracott 
 has ways of his own. 
 
 ^[ary. Decidedly his own. My father is a deai-, good man, 
 but he is obstinate. I dare say, many dear, good men are 
 obstinate. Now, I begged him not to invite these people who 
 are coming to-day, but he would do it. He thinks they are 
 high-bred, aristocratic, evei'ything that is delightful. I think 
 them flashy, vulgar adventurers. But it was no use talking. 
 Father always will have his own way. 
 
 Enter Chugg. 
 
 CnrcG. His own way, indeed ! I shoidd think he ought 
 to have his own way. What's the use of a man being Lord 
 
 M
 
 162 Under the Red Flag 
 
 of tlie Manor, if he is to be domineered over by his daughter? 
 You hear that, Mary— no domineering. I hope you are 
 going to make the drawing-roim a bower ot rcses this 
 evening, Sylvia, and the dinner-table something to dream of. 
 Tliat's your groove, you know— the elegances of life. You 
 are to look after the elegances ; push about the chairs in a 
 degage svAj, as if people had been sitting on 'em ; scatter about 
 the books and magazines as if peojile had been reading them ; 
 arrange the old china in an artistic way — ascetic, you know, 
 ascetic — one must be ascetic nowadays. 
 
 Mary {gendij). ^'Esthetic, papa. 
 
 Chugg. Mary, no domineering. Now, Mrs. Hammick, 
 your depa.rtraent is the substantialities, and that's still more 
 important. We can't get on without the substantialities. 
 Where's your menoo ? 
 
 Mks. Hammick. I beg your pardon, Mr. Darracott. 
 
 CuuGG. Your menoo — menoo — m-e-n-double-o. 
 
 Mary. Father means the bill of fare. 
 
 C'liUGo. No domineering, Mary. When your father means 
 English, he speaks English. When he means French, he 
 speaks French. Where's your menoo ? (Mrs. Hammick 
 hands hUl of fare.) Potage a la bonne femmc, Saumon a la 
 Pompadour — Pompadour's French for lobster sauce, I suppose 
 — Cotelettes aux triiffes, Petites timbales de gibicr, Dinde aux 
 Imitres, Selle de mouton, Gelee a la Marischino, Charlotte 
 I'lombleres, Fondu de Parmesan. Ha ! humph ! a tidy little 
 dinner— nothing original, no inventive power, but I suppose 
 it's about the best Monnseer Bainraarie can produce. The 
 man is not a genius ; he can cook, but he doesn't soar. Snow 
 again ; no chance of a run on Boxing-day. Eather hard to 
 have a stud of hunters eating their heads off in one's stable. 
 
 EicHARD. Harder for the man who can't afford to keep a 
 horse at all. 
 
 CiiUGG. Ah, that's your confounded radical way of looking 
 at things. Have you settled all those accounts 1 
 
 EicriARD. Very nearly. Bates called for his cheque just 
 now. He was rather cut up about the ten per cent, discount. 
 
 CnuGG. He'll be cut up a good deal smaller if he doesn't 
 take care what he's about. I've half a mind to transfer my 
 custom to one of the (!o-operative Stores. I had a catalogue 
 by post this morning. \\ hat does Bates charge us for the 
 best Patna rice ? 
 
 Richard. Fourpence a pound. 
 
 CiiUGG. I thouglit so. Bates is a swindler ! a bird of prey!
 
 Dross 1G8 
 
 I can get Patna at the Stores for threepence-three 
 faitliiiigs. 
 
 Makv. Oil. father, what can a farthing matter ? 
 
 CiiCGG. What can a farthing matter ? Everything ! 
 Colossal fortunes are made by economy in farthings. Tlie 
 millions of the future are created from the farthings of the 
 ])re.sent. How are you to keep your sovereigns if you let 
 tliem leak away in unconsidered farthings? You'll tell 
 Bates that in future he must supply Patna at threepence- 
 three farthings. 
 
 IlicxiARD. Yes, sir. 
 
 CnuGG. And I have an idea that his sugars contrast un- 
 favourably with the Co-operative Stores. Let him look to his 
 sugars. And now to a more agreeable subject. We have 
 to arrange our Christmas festivities. Christuias in the olden 
 times, as depicted in the Christmas number of the Jllus- 
 trated London Neus—ihe old English gentleman's Christmas, 
 with carol-singers, bell-ringers, mummers, the whole business. 
 Have you been making your jireparations, Eichard ? 
 
 Richard. Yes, sir. Everything is arranged. The carol- 
 singers will be in front of the hall-door at nine o'clock this 
 evening. The mummers reserve their sports for to-morrow 
 afternoon. I have been making a list of the poor in the 
 three parishes in which your pro])erty lies, thinking that you 
 would wish to make n distribution of coals, blankets, and 
 beef, and i)erhaps a little money, at this season. 
 
 Chugg. Beef, coals, blankets, money ! Did the old Squire 
 make any such distribution 1 
 
 Richard. You know what he was. Christmas was to him 
 like any other time. He took no notice whatever of the 
 festival. 
 
 Chugg. Then I will not be so disloyal to my benefactor as 
 to set myself up in opposition to hini by ill-advised benevo- 
 lence. I will not have it upon my conscience that I have 
 pauperised my neighbourhood. 
 
 Mary. But, dear father, it is surely right for the rich to 
 help the poor, especially in such a hard winter. 
 
 Chugg. Mary, I will" have no domineering. Richard, my 
 good fellow, I should like you to stick to those accounts 
 until you dress for dinner (Richard goes off to stud//). jNlrs. 
 Ilannnick, I wish you'd give an eye to the rooms that 
 have been prepared for Lady Skimper and her daughter. 
 
 Mrs. Hammick. Yes, sir. There are only a few finishing 
 touches wanted. [i-rtt.
 
 164 Under the Eed Flag 
 
 SvLViA. And I must see what can be done with that terrible 
 Mr. MacCandlish. 
 
 l^Wraps a shawl round her, and exit to garden. 
 
 Chugg, And now, Mary, that we are alone together, I want 
 to talk to you -seriously. What do you mean by your un- 
 justifiable condescension to my steward, Eichaixl Avery ? 
 
 Mary. Unjustifiable condescension to Richard — to your 
 old friend's son — to the man whom I, and everybody else, 
 have always looked upon as my future husband ! Surely, 
 father, you can't forget ? If we have never been formally 
 engaged, still it has alwaj's been understood that Richard 
 and I would be married some day, and with your complete 
 approval, 
 
 Chugg. With my ajjproval 1 1 approve of tlie heiress of 
 all the Davracotts throwing herself away upon a small farmer's 
 son ! Why, the girl must be mad. While you were Miss 
 Chugg of Hazle Farm, it was all very well for you to play 
 at sweethearting with my old friend Avery's only son, who 
 will come into a tidy little freehold of a hundred and fifty 
 acres, there or thereabouts, when his father's under the sod. 
 But Miss Darracott must look higher ; Miss Darracott must 
 aspire. That's an involuntary burst into poetry, which I was 
 not prepared for. 
 
 Mary. Whether my name is Chugg or Darracott, father, 
 my heart is made of exactly the same stutf ; and as long as 
 it beats it will always belong to Richard Avery. 
 
 Chugg. How she ups and talks to me ! Have a care, child. 
 Take care that I do not disinherit you. I could do it, in more 
 ways than one. I am not an old man, Mary. The bloom of 
 youth has not yet faded from these locks. I might marry 
 again. 
 
 Mary. Nothing would please me better, fathei-, if you were 
 to marry wisely, choosing one wlio loves you and would make 
 your declining years happy. 
 
 Chugg. You may be sure of one thing, that if ever I 
 should enter into matrimonial bondage, I shall marry as 
 beseems a Darracott. I shall not degrade that ancient name 
 by a low alliance. I shall choose a lady whose rank and 
 fashion will be an ornament to my table, an embellishment 
 to my home. 
 
 Mary. You'd better have true love than all the rank and 
 fashion in the world, father. 
 
 CuuGG. Mary, I will not be domineered over. With regard
 
 Dross 165 
 
 to Richard Aveiy, you will be kind enough in future to 
 couHider him as my liouse-steward, and in no otlier light. 
 C'aptaia Vandeaa is a gentleman of old family, and, as I 
 hear, of good means. Ilis father is an honourable, his grand- 
 father was a nobleman. 
 
 Mary. If hi.s father were a duke it would be all the same 
 to me. Let us understand each other, father. Eichard and 
 I loved each other when we Avere boy and girl together in 
 the okl happy days at the farm, and you smiled upon our 
 love. What would you think of me, what could I think of 
 myself if my feelings could change now because of the change 
 in our fortunes ? If w-e were ten times richer than we are I 
 would never marry any one but the man I loved when we 
 were poor? [^Exit. 
 
 Chugg. How that girl has deteriorated since she became a 
 Darracott ! Faults which in a Chugg were hardly noticeable, 
 stand out in tiery characters upon the front of a Darracott. 
 Let me see, what have I to do next ? {Looks at his watch.) 
 Lady Skimper and her daughter are to arrive about seven ; 
 they will drive over from the hotel at Dawlish, where they 
 have been staying. Deuced fine woman, Lady Skimper — 
 took her fences admirably, though I didn't think much of 
 her cattle. Such a woman would be an ornament to any 
 gentleman's table. What bosh Mary talks about true love! 
 There was a time when — when I had a sort of sneaking 
 kindness for Betsy Hammick, and when I fancy Betsy Ham- 
 mick had a sort of sneaking kindness for me. But that 
 would never do now. She's a good-looking woman, a nicely 
 rounded figure, no angles, a fine fresh complexion ; but she's 
 vidgar, decidedly vulgar — a thoroughbred plebeian. No, 
 Thomas Chugg Darracott, property has its duties as well as 
 its rights. 
 
 Enter FooxiiAy. 
 
 FooTMiX. If you please, sir, Pugsley would be glad to 
 speak to you. 
 
 Chugg. What does he want ? Tell him I've no orders for 
 him. 
 
 FooTMAK. lie knows that, sir ; but he would like to speak 
 with you on a little matter of business. 
 
 CnuGG. Business, indeed ! One would suppose I owed the 
 fellow money. Let him come in. {£.cit Footman.) I don't 
 know how it is, but I've a most uncomfortable feeling about 
 that old stud-groom of the Squire's. He's the only one of
 
 166 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 the old servants I kept. I made a clean sweep of all the 
 rest — no domestic tyranny from old retainers for me ; but 
 there was a look in this one's eye which stopped me, somehow, 
 when I was going to dismiss Iivm. He's not a bad servant, 
 knows a lot about horses ; but he has no figure for a hunting- 
 groom, and he's got a masterful way that I don't half like. 
 Thei-e are looks and tones of that man's which make me feel 
 as if I had cold water down my Ijack. But I'm not going to 
 be domineered over by a servant. 
 
 Enter Pugsley. 
 
 Well, Pugsley, what's the row ? 
 
 Pugsley. The row is, that Mr. Avery have been tampering 
 with my accounts, and I don't mean to stand it. 
 
 CnuGG. Your accounts ? 
 
 Pugsley. Yes, my accounts — my corn merchant, and my 
 saddler, and my carriage-builder. Mr. Avery have been 
 taking ten per cent, oif the stable accounts ; and how do you 
 suppose the tradesmen are to give me my commission if 
 they are to be swindled out of ten per cent, discount by 
 you ? _ _ 
 
 CnuGG. Pugsley, this is not over- respectful. 
 
 Pugsley. It is not meant to be respectful. Quite the 
 contrairy. Ain't you ashamed of yourself, for trying to in- 
 tercept your own servant's legitimate profits ? Don't you 
 think poorly of yerself, now, for taking the bread out of an old 
 servant's mouth ? Aren't you ready to blush for your 
 meanness 1 
 
 Chugg. Pugsley, when I took you into my service 
 
 Pugsley. You didn't take me into your service. I was here 
 before you was. You're a parwenny compared with me. 
 
 Chugg. Pugsley, as I remarked before, your language is 
 the reverse of respectful. I was about to observe that when 
 you became my servant there was no question of your receiv- 
 ing commissions from the tradespeople. If such a question 
 had been mooted I should have said no — emphatically no. 
 
 Pugsley. Then I wouldn't have stayed. 
 
 CiiuOG. In that case, my good fellow, I should have been 
 comj)elled to dispense with your services. {Aside) I feel the 
 cold-watery sensation creej)ing over me ; but it won't do to 
 quail before a hireling. {Aloud) I must rejieat, Pugsley, that 
 you don't ajipear t(; know your place. 
 
 Pugsley. Me not know my place ! Perhaps it's you don't
 
 Dross 167 
 
 know your place, IMr. Chugg Darracott, or Mr. Darracott 
 Chugg, or Mr. Cliugg without the Darracott. Me not know 
 my place 1 I've been on the^e premises, man and boy, over 
 thirty year, and I ought to know my place by this time. I 
 know every inch of this house, and all that belongs to it. I 
 know a precious deal more than you know, Mr. New-comer ; 
 and you'd better be careful. 
 
 CnuGG (aside). This is dreadful ! The man must know 
 something — some horrible secret, the very thought of which 
 turns my blood to ice. He would never dare to be so inso- 
 lent unless he had some kind of })ower. Perhaps he is a son 
 of the old Squire's by a secret marria(,'e — the rightful heir. 
 He isn't like the Squire ; but that's neither here nor there. 
 He may take after his mother. I must conciliate him at any 
 price. [Aloud) Well, Pugsley, we'll say no more about the 
 ten per cent, discount. You can tell the tradespeople that 
 will be made all right. It wasn't I who cut down their 
 accounts ; but I have a steward, Pugsley, and he has his own 
 view of these little matters. For my own part I like things 
 done in a large-hearted, liberal manner. And as for your little 
 commission— why, you're a valuable servant, and you deserve 
 it. Go along, Pugsley, and make your mind easy. I am not 
 the kind of man to stint a faithful old servant. 
 
 Pugsley. You'd better not try it on with me. [Exit. 
 
 CnuGG. He doesn't even pretend to be grateful. There 
 must be some secret. I begin to think he really is the right- 
 ful heir. But in that case why doesn't he declare himself, 
 and claim his own ? Perhaps there is some difficulty about 
 his mother's marriage certificate. He may be waiting for 
 documentary evidence. This is terrilde i I am to live with 
 this danger constantly threatening me — a sword of whal'a- 
 his name suspended above my head by a single hair. 
 
 JSnter Butler announcing 
 Lady Skimper, Miss Skimper, and Captaix Vandean. 
 Sylvia and Mart re-enter at the same time. 
 
 CiiroG. My dear Lady Skimper, charmed, too charmed at 
 this delightful visit. My daugliter you already know ; my 
 daughter's friend, Miss Scobell— Lady Skimper, Captain 
 Van dean. 
 
 Lady Skimper. What a delicious old house ! I was pre- 
 pared for something uni(jue, but this is really 
 
 YAyoEAN'. Yes, this is really
 
 168 Undo- the Bed Flag 
 
 Miss Skimper. Quite too distinctly precious. Mother, do 
 observe the panelling. 
 
 Lady Skimper. And the chimneypiece, so truly Jaco- 
 
 Lean 
 
 Sylvia {aside to Mary). How much more impressed she is 
 by the furniture than by us ! 
 
 Lady Skimpeh. Mr. Darracott, I congratulate you upon 
 being the owner of such a noble old house. 
 
 Chugg. Yes, it has been in my family for a good many 
 generations. It was built by a Darracott in the reign of 
 Henry the Seventh. 
 
 Lady Skimper. How you must love it ! You were born 
 beneath this fine old roof-tree, of conr.",e ? 
 
 Chugg. No, I was not actually born in this house, not 
 actually — in point of fact, I hap^Dened to be born elsewhere. 
 
 Lady Skimper. I understand. Your parents were tra- 
 velling at the time of your birtli. Have you travelled much, 
 Mr. Darracott ? 
 
 Chugg. Yes, I've been a goodish bit of a rover in my 
 time. I've been to Torquay, and to Ilfracombe, and to 
 Weston-sujjer-Mare, and I have been to Loudon ; but that was 
 rather a long time ago, 
 
 Lady Skimper. I think I begin to read your character, 
 You are the real, true-blue, flue old English gentleman, fond of 
 hunting, shooting, sport of all kinds — a character one too 
 rarely meets in these days of tinsel and shoddy. And how 
 splendidly you ride ! It is a delight to follow any one with 
 such a seat, and such hands. 
 
 Van dean. And such a horse ! Very fine animal that 
 second horse of yours the other day. 
 
 Chugg. Yes. I rather pride myself upon my hunters. I 
 have ridden to hounds ever since I w^as seven years old. My 
 daughter has ridden to hounds ever since she was seven 
 years old. 
 
 Vandean, And most magnificently she rides in conse- 
 quence. Nothing like early training, (TbMARY) I suppose 
 you adore hunting, Miss Darracott, 
 
 Mary. I like a good run when my father and I are out 
 together, but there are many things I like just as well. 
 
 Vandean {aside). I see. No gush, not enthusiastic. Com- 
 mon sense is the line here. Pretty, and as things stand at 
 present, the natui-al inheritor of this place and all the father's 
 money. But the father is young enough to marry; and Lady 
 Skimper means to have him.
 
 Droxs 169 
 
 Lady Skimpbuj. And now, dear Mr. Darracott, before we 
 dress for dinner, I should so like you to show me this lovely 
 old house. I am piniii<,^ to see the picture-gallery— of course 
 you have a ))icture-gallery. And you must tell me all about 
 the ghost — of course you have a ghost. Come, Leonora, I 
 hope you are making friends with Miss Darracott. 
 
 Lkoxora. Yes, mother. We are going to be no end of 
 chums. I have just been telling iMiss Darracott that she must 
 try my dressmaker, and that her sleeves have been out for the 
 last six months. 
 
 CdUGG {severely). What do you mean, Mary, by going 
 about the house with your sleeves out ? Haven't you your 
 own lady's maid to mend your clothes for you ? 
 
 Leonora. I only meant that your daughter's sleeves are 
 out of fashion, Mr. Darracott. You middle aged gentlemen 
 are so awfully ])ractical. 
 
 C'lJULiG {((aide). Pert minx ! calls me mi^ldle-aged to my 
 teeth. 
 
 Leonora. Mayn't I come with you, mother, and bu intro- 
 duced to the ghost? Come, Mary. Please let me call you 
 ]\rar\' ; Mi.ss Darracott is so awfully formal. 
 
 Marv. I'd much rather be called Mary. 
 
 Leonora. Of course you would. Call me Nora, please. 
 That's wliat all my spoons call me. 
 
 [Exeunt Chugg, Lady Skimper, Leonora, and Mary. 
 
 SvLViA moves cibotit, arrcnifiing Jioirers. Vandean lounges in 
 doorway, lighting cigarette. 
 
 Sylvia. His letter says very soon. I wonder whether that 
 means immediately. Poor, dear Tremaine ! Last Christmas 
 Eve we were so hajjpy together, hanging up holly in the old 
 church, and sitting telling each other ghost stories in the 
 evening, while the Si|uire enjoyed his after-dinner nap. 
 There were no visitors ; there was no feasting. It was what 
 most ]ieople would call a very dreai-y Christmas. But oh, 
 howhapjiy we were ! Love makes all the difference. 
 
 ^'ANDEA^• (aside, watching her). Very nice little girl. Poor 
 dependent, evidently, from the way in which our friend intro- 
 duced her. (Aloud) How very sweetly you are ai-ranging 
 those flowers ! Quite artistic, ujion my word. 
 
 Sylvia. Do you know that people don't generally smoke in 
 this room ? 
 
 Vandean. Don't they ? I thought, from the look of the
 
 170 Under the Red Flag 
 
 place, that it was liberty hall. Guns, whips, fishiug-rods, 
 rackets ; why not tobacco 1 
 
 Sylvia. Perhaps, partly because this room is used by the 
 ladies of the family, and partly because Mr. Uarracott detests 
 tobacco. 
 
 Vandean. Say you dislike it, and I throw my cigarette 
 away that instant ; but if you'll join me {offerivg cigar-case), 
 I'll go on and defy Darracott. 
 
 Sylvia. No, thank you. I neither like cigarettes, nor peo- 
 ple who smoke, unpermitted, in a room occupied by ladies. 
 
 Vandean. Don't be severe ; it doesn't suit your cast of 
 features. A pretty girl should never frown. When she 
 does, she unconsciously invites the approach of wrinkles. 
 Why weren't you out with the hounds the day before 
 yesterday 1 
 
 Sylvia. Because I have no horse, and never hunt. 
 
 Vandean. Ah, but you ride, splendidly ! I am sure of 
 that. You have just the figure for a habit ; you have really. 
 
 [Sylvia tries to cross towards drawing-room. Vandean 
 intercepts her. 
 
 Vandean. Why are you running away % Can't you be 
 sociable % I want you to tell me all you can about Mr. 
 Chugg Darracott and his daughter- I have been dragged 
 here by Lady Skimjter, and, of course, care nothing for the 
 people, so you can say what you like. I can't quite make the 
 gentleman out. He has all the bad style of a parvenu, and 
 yet Darracott is a good old name. 
 
 Sylvia. I had rather you obtained your information from 
 somebody else. Mr. Darracott is my benefactor. 
 
 Vandean. Your benefactor ; yes, and he lets every one see 
 that you are hei-e in a subordinate position. I knew at a 
 glance that you were thoroughbred, and that he isn't. The 
 daughter's a nice girl —uncommonly nice ; and will have 
 plenty of money, I suppose 
 
 Sylvia. You had better go and ask her. 
 
 Vandean. No, I shan't. I'd rather ask you. Why are you 
 «o unfriendly 1 You can see how much I admire you. 
 Why are you making for that door ? I su.-^pect there's a bit of 
 misletoe over it, and you mean a fellow to steal a kiss, don't 
 you, now ? {Trying to kiss her.) 
 
 [Tremaine enters at c. door, vnth rug and travelling- 
 hag, comes down stage, takes hold of Captain 
 Vandean's collar, and pushes him aside.
 
 Dross 171 
 
 Sylvia. Tremaiae ! What a deli<^litfiil surprise ! 
 
 Tremaine. Ye3, I held my first brief last week, so 1 
 thought I'd take advantage of the Christmas excursion trains 
 and come and tell you all about it. I hope I didn't startle you. 
 
 Sylvia. Just a little, but it was a very pleasant surprise. 
 
 Vandk.vn. You startled me, sir, in a manner which I con- 
 sider particularly iuij)leasant, and for which I must request 
 an apology. 
 
 Tremaine. You had better apologise to this lady, to whom 
 you were making yourself exceedingly offensive. 
 
 Vandean. I was merely expressing my admiration for the 
 lady, sir. I don't think that is an offence for which a man 
 ought to be collared by an unknown individual. 
 
 Tremain'e. My name is Dan-acott — Tremaine Darracott. 
 
 Yandeax. Son of the present proprietor ? 
 
 Tremaine. Grandson of the late Squire — no relation, or 
 only a very distant one, to the present Mr. Darracott — and 
 this lady's affianced husband. Tho next time you wish to 
 express your admiration for a lady, sir, you had better take 
 the trouble to ascertain beforehand that your compliments 
 will be welcome. 
 
 A^'andean. Oh, hang it I Every woman likes to be told 
 she's handsome ; (aside) even if she is engaged to a cad who 
 travels by an excursion train. 
 
 Re-enter Chugg, Lady Skimper, Leonora, and Mary. 
 
 Lady Skimper. The more I see of this delicious old place, 
 the more 1 adore it. So historical, so mediaival, so thoroughly 
 sweet. 
 
 CiiUGG. Well, I flatter myself that in the matter of drain- 
 age my house leaves nothing to be desired. No sewage g;is, 
 no ugly smells. 
 
 Lady Skimper. Oh, but I meant sweet in its aesthetic sense. 
 
 Ohugg. Tremaine I How d'ye do ? This is a suri)rise. 
 I thought you were sticking to your work in your Temple 
 chambers. 
 
 Tremaine. " All work and no play " — you know the adage. 
 Besides, I rather distinguished myself last week defending a 
 West-end dairyman who was sued by the proprietor of a 
 monster hotel for supplying adulterated milk. I brought the 
 iululteration homo to the hotel sei-vants, and brought off my 
 dairyman with flying colours. So I thouglit I'd run down 
 and spend Christmas in the old home. I may have a room 
 som.nvhere, mayn't I, Chugg — I beg pai'don, Darracott \
 
 172 Under ilie Red Flag 
 
 Chugg. Yes, no doubt we can find you a shakedown some- 
 wliere. 
 
 Tremaine. My own old room, perhaps. 
 
 Chugg. Why, no ; your room has been appropriated to 
 Miss Skimper. Lady Skimper, allow me to present to you 
 my young friend and kinsman, Mr. Tremaine Darracott, a 
 scion of the old stock. Mr. Darracott — Lady Skimper, Miss 
 Skimper. {Gong sounds in vestibule.) Ah ! there goes the 
 gong. Cheerful sound, isn't it ! 
 
 Vandean. Delightful, after a cross-country drive. 
 
 Chugg. That's the warning gong, I hope you'll make a 
 very quick toilet tliis evening, ladies. You can reserve your 
 last new gowns for Christmas Day. My poor old mother 
 always sported a new gown on Christmas day, and a new 
 bonnet on Easter Sunday. It was part of her religion. You 
 girls can show Lady Skimper her rooms. 
 
 Vandean {aside as he goes out). Talks of his poor old 
 mother's gowns and bonnets. What a howling cad ! 
 
 [Exeunt Lady Skimper, Leonora, Mart, Sylvia, 
 and Chugg and Vandean. 
 
 Chugg, Oh, here's Mrs. Hammick. 
 
 Filter Mrs. Hammick. 
 
 Chugg. Just see about a room for Tremaine somewhere, 
 Avill you, Mrs. Hammick ? He'll be with us till Boxing 
 Day. 
 
 Tremaine {aside). A room somewhere ! Rather an off- 
 hand way of putting it, I'm afraid my grandfathei-'s fortune 
 has not improved my old friend Chugg. Sylvia does not look 
 liappy. 
 
 Mrs. Hammick, Mr. Tremaine ! This is indeed an un- 
 expected pleasure {shahing hands with him). 
 
 Trem\ine, Thank you, Mrs. Hammick, That sounds like 
 welcome. 
 
 Mrs. Hammick. I'll go and get you a nice room ready. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Tremaine. Well, Mr. Darracott, I suppose by this time 
 the novelty of your position has quite worn off, and that 
 you've settled down into the country squire. 
 
 Chugg. I hope, Tremaine, that the duties of that position 
 do not sit ill upon me. I have done my best to uphold the 
 dignity of the oixler. The style of housekeeping at the
 
 Dross 173 
 
 Manor House has undergone con3iderable expansion since I 
 have been master here. I have a French cook, a pair of 
 match footmen, a tine stud of hunters, and if I could find a 
 woman fitted to take the lead in such an establishment — a 
 lady, sir, whom I could proudly place at the head of my 
 table 
 
 Tremaine. You have some thoughts of matrimony. 
 
 Chugg. I was forty-five on my last birthday, Tremaine. I 
 liope that age does not forbitl a man ruminating ujion a 
 wedding-ring. 
 
 Tremaine. My dear sii*, it is the jirimeof life. And if you 
 are happy in your choice, you could hardly do a wiser thing 
 tlian marry. Do you know, I used once to think you were 
 rather sweet upon Mrs. Hammick. 
 
 Chugg. Tremaine, you astonish me. Mrs. Hammick is 
 my housekeeper. I pay her a salary, or to put it with broail 
 vulgarity, wages — wages, sir, wages. 
 
 Tremaine. Ah, you didn't pay her anything, except kind 
 attentions, in the days I am talking of. She was not your 
 paid servant, but your honoured friend. I wonder she can 
 lower herself to take payment for her services. 
 
 Chugg. I insisted ujion it. I would have her here on that 
 footing and no other. My housekeeijer — a lady housekeeper, 
 as they call it in the advertisements. That was the groove I 
 made for Mrs. Hammick. 
 
 Tremaine. I'm sorry I was mistaken. She s an admirable 
 woman — "ood-looking too — buxom. I should have thought 
 she possessed every quality which a sensible man of five-and- 
 forty would desira in his wife. 
 
 CnuGG. Except blood, sir, blood I Old family, ancient 
 lineage, a place in the sacred pages of Burke. The wife of a 
 Darracott must be l)orn in the purple. Fine woman Lady 
 Skimper. 1 dont know whether you noticed her. 
 
 Tremaine. Rather a showy outline, but bailly tilled in. 
 
 Chugg. Good points, Tremaine ; a trifle weedy, j^erhaps — 
 l)ut uncommonly good points. 
 
 Tremaine. Who is she 1 
 
 Chugg. A widow. 
 
 Tremaine. That is obvious. 
 
 Chugg. How so ? 
 
 Trem.\ine. She has the adventni-ous eye, the brazen front, 
 the hardened manner of a woman accustomed to light her own 
 battles, to bully landlords, and quarrel with livery stable 
 keepers, and cheat at whist, and pounce upon the wings of the
 
 174 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 chickens at table d'hote. She ha? the keen outlook of the 
 woman who has been occupied for the hist ten years or so 
 in trying to catcli a second husband. How long lias she been 
 a widow l 
 
 Chcgg. I haven't asked her. 
 
 Tremaine. And who and what was her husband 1 
 Chugg. Sir Paul Skimper. 
 Tremaine. Baronet 1 
 Chugg. Knight. 
 
 Trematne. I thought so. The flimsiest rag of gentility 
 which can do duty as a title. I remember there was a Bristol 
 brewer called Skimpei', who was knighted when the (^ueen 
 opened a local hospital. 
 
 Chugg. Tremaine ! I consider Lady Skimper a woman of 
 the highest ton, and I do not seek to pry into her husband's 
 antecedents. If he perchance belonged to the trading classes, 
 some of the bluest blood in the country flows in her veins. 
 She told me as much the day before yesterday in a quiet 
 corner to leeward of Simmons's windmill : and I can see it 
 in her countenance. There is race in every feature. 
 
 Tremaine. Well, I'm not going to quarrel with an old 
 friend about Lady Skimper. And if your matrimonial ideas 
 do tend that way, I can only wish you happiness. I wish 
 my own marriage could be as easily managed. I fancy Sylvia 
 is not looking particularly well ; she has rather an anxious, 
 worried look. 
 
 Chugg. I can't see what she has to worry her. She has a 
 good dinner every day, a good gown to wear, and a carriage 
 to ride in — now and then. Anything over and above that 
 is mere fancy. 
 
 Tremaine. Perhaps ; but fancies go a good way with a girl 
 of nineteen. However, I hope, before another year is over, 
 I may be able to relieve you of the burden of Sylvia's main- 
 tenance, 
 
 Chugg. Don't give yourself any uneasiness about that. 
 The girl is useful. She has a good deal of taste, and is 
 very handy in various small ways. How do you like my 
 improvements? I've smartened up the old place a bit, you 
 see 1 
 
 TiiEMAiNR. You've made it absolutely gorgeous ; but I 
 hear you've dismissed all the servants, except Pugsley. I 
 wonder you made an exception in his favour. 
 
 Chugg. Well, you see, Tremaine, I don't particularly like 
 the man, but I'm passionately fond of horses, and Pugsley is 
 a first-rate fellow for horses.
 
 Dross 175 
 
 Tremaink. I'm not so sure of that. If I were passionately 
 fond of a horse I shoukl never trust him to Pugsley. The 
 felhjw may be a good groom, but he's a bad man. Do you 
 know that I once thr;u;hed liim to within an inch of his life 
 foi' ill usino: an old mare that used to carry me to hounds? 
 
 CnuGO. Dill you, really ? I honour you fur the act, and for 
 the feeling that ])romi)ted the act. But how did Pugsley 
 take it ? He seems to be scarcely the kind of man one could 
 horsewhip with impunity. 
 
 Tkemain'k. Oh, a bully is always a coward. He blustered 
 a good deal ; swore he would tell my grandfather, and 
 didn't ; swore he would pay me out somehow, and didn't 
 pay me out anyhow. You know the kind of thing. But I 
 don't think he ever handled Grey Molly roughly after that — 
 at any rate, not Avhile I was on the premises. 
 
 Chl'gg. Then you think that he's afraid of you ? 
 
 Tremaixe. I cio. 
 
 C'liUGG. My dear Tremaine, I really am very delighted to 
 have you here, at this festive season too ; it makes Christmas 
 more Christmasy. You must try and stay a little longer 
 than we originally proposed. Why confine yourself to Boxing 
 Day ? Whv not make it New Year's Day, or even Twelfth 
 Niglit? 
 
 Tremaixe. My dear (.'hugg, you may be sure I shall be 
 in no hurry to leave the house that holds Sylvia. 
 
 CiiUHG. Of course not. By the way, talking of Pugsley, 
 there is a something odd about the man — a i)eculiar strange- 
 ness, a strange peculiarity. Do you know anything about 
 his origin ? He is not — not — a poor relation of the old 
 Squire's, is he i {Asi:Ie) I don't like to put the question 
 plainer. 
 
 Tremaixe. Pugsley — that low-bred, illiterate ruffian — a 
 relation of the l3arracotts ! How can you suggest such a 
 thing ? 
 
 CnaoG. It's too absurd, isn't it? But the fellow take so 
 much u{)on himself, he conducts himself with an amount of — 
 cheek, which only some kind of unacknowledged family con- 
 nection cuukl justify 
 
 Tremaixe. He lias grown insolent on the strength of being 
 the only one of all the old servants retained by you. He 
 fancies you can't do without him. The man is a rogue as well 
 as a bully. Sack him, my dear fellow, s-ack him ! 
 
 CiiUGG. Yes, I'll sack him. (Aside). If I could only 
 screw my courage to the sacking-point! {The go7ig sounds
 
 176 Under the Red Flag 
 
 again. Re-enter Omncs). There goes the gong. IVIy dear 
 Lady Skimper, may I offer you my arm ? Captain Vandean, 
 3"ou will bring my daughter, Richard, take care of Miss 
 Skimper. Tremaine will bring up the rear with Miss Sco- 
 belland Mrs. Hamniick. 
 
 Mary. I would rather not go into dinner, father, if Lady 
 Skimper will be good enough to excuse me. I was out in 
 the wind after luncheon, and it gave me a headache. 
 
 EiciiARD. And I dined early, sir. So, if Captain Vandean 
 will take Miss Skimper, the table will be better balanced. 
 
 Leonora. Oh, I daresay he won't mind. Come along, 
 Charlie. 
 
 Chugg {aside). Damn the table. That only daughter and 
 heiress of mine means mischief. 
 
 Lady Skimper (as they go vp stage). Now, remember 
 you are to tell me all about the family ghost. I am sure 
 there is no skeleton in this happy household, but there 
 ought to be a family ghost. 
 
 \_Exeimt all except IIichard and Mary. Mary seats her- 
 self hy the fire and takes up some fancy-worh. 
 
 Richard. Is your head very bad, Mary ? Do you think it 
 would make you worse if I were to sit here and talk to you for 
 a little bit ? {Seating himself on a stool at her feet in the fire- 
 light.) 
 
 Mary. Well, no, Richard, I think I might endure it. 
 Some voices are very trying when one has a headache ; but 
 yours — I don't want to flatter you, Dick — but yours is a 
 sympathetic voice. 
 
 Richard. She called me Dick ! Mary, do you know it is 
 nearly six months since you called me Dick ? I don't think 
 you have done it once since you became a great heiress. 
 
 Mary. You don't .suppose that makes a difference ? 
 
 Richard. I know that something has made a difference. 
 There has been a gulf between us ever since your father 
 became Squire Darracott. 
 
 Mary. If there has been a gulf, Richard, it has not been 
 of my making. If other people choose to be stand-offish, and 
 to keep an old friend at ami's length 
 
 Richard. Mary, do you really mean that you are un- 
 changed — that if I, Dick Avery, only a well-to-do farmer's 
 .son, with no better prospect in life than to succeed to my 
 fathei's farm ; if I were to ask you to keep an old promise 
 made years ago when we were little more than children ; if
 
 Lv'-s 177 
 
 I were to ask you to be my wife, Mary, what would you 
 s ly ? 
 
 Marv. I should say that you have taken a very long time 
 about it. 
 
 EiciiARD. Oh! my darling ! {Checking himself.) And vnu 
 would nut tli'nk meanly of me ? You would not think th at 
 the change in your fortune can make you one whit dearer to 
 nie than you wei'e in those old days 1 
 
 ]\Iarv. Oh ! Dick, I think you and I know each other too 
 well for tliat. What is the good of our having played 
 together as children if we c.in't understand each other as 
 man and woman 1 
 
 Richard. God bless you, my darling. You have made me 
 the happiest man in the three kingloms. But, oh! Mary, 
 how do you think your father will take our engagement? 
 
 Marv. Like a dose of medicine : thafs to say, I'm afiaid 
 he'll make a few wry faces. But whatever poor dear fatlu-r 
 may do or say under the influence of Mammon — he is a devil, 
 isn't he, Dick, that horrid Mammon ? — I know his heart is in 
 the right place, and that it is a warm, true heart if one only 
 appeals to it properly ; so I'm not afraid of speaking my 
 mind to him. 
 
 EicHAKD. Yo;i are the dearest, prettiest, pluckiest of girls. 
 (Voices of carol singers sounding in the distance.) Mary, do 
 you remember our last Christmas Eve at Hazle Farm I 
 
 Mary. When we all sat round the parlour table playing 
 speculation, with Barcelona nuts for counters ; and w hen we 
 all went out to the kitchen to stir the pudding : and when 
 you beat the eggs fm- the Hip ; and when father was so— so 
 very cheerful after drinking it I Of course I do. 
 iliCHARD. It was all very vulgar, wasn't it I 
 Mary. Awfully vidgar. 
 
 IvicuARU. Which Christmas Eve did you like best 1 
 Mary. Last year's. 
 
 lliCHAUD. So did I, Mary, ever so much ; for I was able 
 to steal a kiss in the dark passage as we came back from 
 stirring the pudding ; and I don't see any chance of such 
 luck to-night. 
 
 'Ma.-ry {coyly). Ah ! but to-night we are engaged, Dick, 
 and you need not steal kisses. You can take one. 
 
 He kisses her. Enter Vandeax and Leoxora. 
 
 Yandkan. Pray don't ajiologise. Yon made such a pretty 
 group in front of that Jacobi-au mantelpiece, under the
 
 178 Under the Red Flaej 
 
 mistletoe. Just the kind of thing for the "Illustrated" or 
 the " Graphic ; " old as the hills ; been done over and over 
 again for the last forty yeai-^. hut its a kind of thing that 
 always fetches the British public. 
 
 Mary. Did you find the dining room unpleasantly warra, 
 Miss Skimper ? 
 
 Leonora {seated, fanning herself languidly). No, Miss 
 Darracott ; the dining room was comfortable enough, and 
 the dinner was excellent — I pride myself upon being a judge 
 of a good dinner ; but your poor dear father and my poor 
 old mother became so intolerably prosy that I was obliged 
 to come away. You see there was no one to give the 
 signal for departure, and though I scowled at my parent 
 with all my capacity for scowling, I could not make her 
 budge. If your table wasn't so wide I should have kicked 
 her favourite corn. She would have felt that. 
 
 Ya'^'D'EAth (gazing at her admiringly/). Nice girl ! Quel chic. 
 
 Leonora. Miss What's her name, your little friend 
 
 in the black frock ? 
 
 Mary. Scobell. 
 
 Leonora. Miss Scoburne sat on like a martyr ; but as 
 she and young Mr. Darracott were spooning each other all 
 dinner time, I suppose she didn't find the thing as tedious as 
 I did. 
 
 Vandean. Rather rough on me. Wasn't I sitting next 
 you all the time ? 
 
 Leonora. With your nose in your plate. You didn't begin 
 to be attentive till after the Parmesan ramequins, and even 
 then you divided your attentions between me and Mr, 
 Darracott's Lafitte. 
 
 Vandean. Clever girl. Quel zing f 
 
 Leonora. Nice young fellow, that Tremaine Darracott. 
 Rather a pity his grandfather left him out in the cold. If 
 the old Squire had given him a thousand a year or so, he 
 would not have been such a desperately bad match. {To 
 Mary) I suppose those two poor creatures mean to marry 
 and starve 1 
 
 Mary. I know they mean to marry, and I hope Provi- 
 dence will take care of the rest. 
 
 Leonora (sighing). Providence has enough to do with all 
 
 the imprudent lovers who begin life without any other banker. 
 
 Vandean (a.5i(ie). Splendid girl. QuelxHan! (Ahmd^lnoHng 
 
 out into garden). What a bright moon. I say, Nora, what 
 
 do you think of a stroll to that lake yonder ?
 
 Dross 179 
 
 LeoXORA. And a cigarette. Delightful ! .^I'ips across to 
 him. lie picks up a icrapfrom a chair and puts it on hcr.^ 
 
 Van D KAN. Smokes like a life-guardsman. Quel chien! 
 Exeunt VAXDEAxancZ Leonora through porch togarden. Mary 
 and PiicHARD retire to billiard room. Enter Sylvia and Tre- 
 MAINE from dining-room. 
 
 Tremaine {aside to Sylvia). In spite of your assurances to 
 the contrary, I know you are not happy here. 
 
 Sylvia. Then I must be very ungrateful, for Mary is all 
 goodness to me. 
 
 Tremaine. But how about Mary's father ? 
 
 Sylvia. Mr. Darracott is not unkind, but he is sometimes 
 a little overbearing, just a little spoiled by good fortune. 
 
 Tremaine. So I fancied from his manner. Squire Darra- 
 cott is not half so good a fellow as Tom Chugg— jolly Chugg, 
 as people used to call him. But never mind, Sylvia, I am 
 be'dnuing to see my way to a modest little income, just big 
 enough for love in a cottage. I have held my first brief not 
 unsuccessfully, and I have earned a few pounds by literature. 
 You don't know what a delight it is to me to work hard for 
 your sake. 
 
 Sylvia, llov^ good antl brave you are, and how few youug 
 men woidd have borne such a reverse of fortune as bravely ! 
 
 Tremaine. I am pretty mucli of Horace's opinion, that a 
 man's mind should be ])repared for change of fortune— that 
 in prosperity he should fear the approach of evil, and in mis- 
 fortune expect a change for the better. The very day that 
 1 feel myself secure of three hundred a year, I shall write to 
 our old Vicar to put up the banns. Don't you think we might 
 live on three hundred 'i 
 
 Sylvia. Don't you think we might manage with two 
 hundred and fifty ? 
 
 Tremaine. My dearest girl, how happy you make me ! 
 That means you will marry me early in the new year. Oh, 
 Sylvia, you don't know how hard a man can work when 
 he is over head and ears in love, and has one tlear face 
 always smiling before him, leailing liim onward over the stony 
 ways of life. And you are not afraid of living in a small 
 house, S}dvia— a house at forty pounds a year, for instance ] 
 You have no idea how small a house London landlords have 
 the conscience to give for forty pounds a year. 
 
 Sylvia. However small it is, Tremaine, it will be big 
 enough for you and me to be hapjiy in it. 
 Tremaine. To be sure it will ; and we can change it for a
 
 180 Under tlic Red Flag 
 
 bigger house Ly-aiid-by, when I have made my mark ii-i my 
 professioD, and when — there are more of us. 
 
 [Carol singers appear before the porch^ and sing a carol. 
 
 Re-enter Cuugg, Lady Skimper, and Mrs. Hammick/?"o«i 
 dining room. Chugg seats himself on centre ottoman, 
 between Lady Skimper and Mrs. Hammick. Sylvia 
 onciJTREMAiNE ai-e seated on one side of stage. Eichaed 
 and Mary on the other. 
 
 Lady Skijiper {at the close of the carol). Very sweet, 
 really. So suggestive of the good old times. 
 
 Mary. The good old times must have been slightly out 
 of tune if they were like that. 
 
 Chugg. It's rather jolly, ain't it ? My idea, you know. 
 
 Lady Skimper. An idea that does you credit. So truly 
 Shakespearian. 
 
 Chugg. How do you like it, Mrs. Hammick? 
 
 Mrs. H. I think it would have been better if Stubbs, the 
 cobbler, had kej^t time, and if Crow, the saddler, hadn't such 
 a cold in his head. [Loud laughter outside. 
 
 Cuugg. Richard, will you be good enough to go and see what 
 they are doing in the servants' hall ? There is an exuberance 
 of mirth which indicates recklessness with the beer-barrel. 
 
 EiCHARD {to Mary). You see, I'm not even allowed five 
 minutes' quiet talk with you. 
 
 Chugg. Mrs. Hammick, I hope there is some limit in the 
 matter of beer. I should be very sorry to encourage drunken- 
 ness in my household. I should regret extremely that 
 liberality should degenerate into licence. 
 
 Mrs. Hammick. That is rather the butler's department 
 than mine. He would object if I were to interfere. 
 
 Chugg. Nonsense, Mrs. Hammick. Butler, forsooth ! Am 
 I to be domineered over by a butler ? General economy is 
 your department, Mrs. Hammick. Everything that can save 
 my purse is your de})artment. Do you want to see me end 
 my days in a wc>rkhouse ? .Judging by the present rate of 
 expenditure, I should say that the Union must be ray ultimate 
 destination. Beer, Lady Skimper, the profligate use of beer 
 is the curse of this country. Tlie influence of beer is under 
 mining the British Constitution, morally and physically. 
 {Aside) (iood gracious ! I foi'got that her husbantl was a brewer. 
 
 Lady Skimper. Come, now, Mr. Larracott, I am sure that a 
 man of your large mind must rejoice in the happiness of others.
 
 Dross 181 
 
 {Laujhter outside). I think tliose sounds of merriment, though 
 somewhat boisterous, are truly deliglitful. They suggest so 
 much. 
 
 CiiL'GG. They suggest tluit a pack of lazy, over-fed 
 rutrKins are getting tipsy at my expense, {Aftide) I begin 
 to tliink that Lady Skimper is afool. (Aloud) Mrs. Hammick, 
 you'd better go and see what those servants are up to, and 
 bring me the key of the beer-cellar. 
 
 Tkemaine. Isn't it rather hard to put a damper on their 
 festivities at such a season ? 
 
 CiiUGG. Sir, their festivities are damp enough already. If 
 Christmas in the olden time means notliing but beer, I shall 
 take care that in fviture my Cliristmases are distinctly modern. 
 Pray pardon me. Lady Skimjjer, for intruding these sordid 
 details upon your elegant mind ; but a man must be master 
 in his own house ; he must not be domineered over by butlers, 
 nor by lady housekeej)ers {lodkincj at ]Mrs. Hammick), who 
 are too fine to attend to their own .special groove. 
 
 Mrs. Hammick. lam going, Mr. Darracott. I hope I know 
 my place. \_Exit indignantly. 
 
 CiiUGG. I hope you do, madam. I am not going to be 
 trampled upon. 
 
 Lady Skimper. Old servants are always tyrants. Your 
 ]Mrs. Hammick seems a very worthy person ; but I think you 
 allow her too many liberties. I never have believed in the 
 lady-help system. 
 
 Enter Vandkan and Leoxora from garden. 
 
 "What have you been doing out of doora at such, a time of 
 night, Nora ? 
 
 Leonora. Oh, mother, the moon is positively too entrancing. 
 Captain Yandean and I have been as far as the lake to see if 
 the ice would bear. 
 
 Tremaixe. And will it ? 
 
 Leonora. Well, it was just thick enough to bear us. We 
 had a most delicious w?ltz by moonlight. The ice was very 
 shaky. We might have tumbled through at any moment and 
 been drowned together — so deliciously exciting. Wc shall 
 be able to skate to-morrow, 
 
 Tremaine. Ladies, what do you say to a game at pool? 
 Mygrandfatlier's billiard-table is one of the best in Devonshire. 
 
 Cnuoo. What do you mean by talking about your grand- 
 father's billiard-table ? What do you suppose he can want 
 with a biUianl-table in his present condition?
 
 182 Under the Red Flag 
 
 Lkonora. I should like it of all things. Mother, you must 
 come and join us. 
 
 Lady Skimper. You play pool, of course, Mr. Darracott ? 
 
 Chugg. Occasionally. It's not a bad game for ladies, but 
 there's no real ])lay in it. {Aside) I never rose above baga- 
 telle at the George and Dragon till I came into my fortune. 
 
 Lady Skimper. Then give me your arm to the billiard- 
 room. 
 
 Re-enter Eichard. 
 
 Chugg. Did you ascertain the cause of their hilarity 1 
 
 Eichard. The cause of their hilarity is undoubtedly beei', 
 aided by various di'inks of a stronger nature. They have 
 invited the carol-singers to supper, and I am sorry to say 
 there are one or two cases of decided intoxication. Your stud- 
 groom, Pugsley, is the worst of them. 
 
 Tremaine. I really should sack that man if I were you, 
 Darracott. He is a drunken scoundrel, and a disgrace to 
 your establishment. 
 
 Chugg. I will not be dictated to. If I choose to fill my 
 house with drunken scoundrels, that is nobody's business but 
 my own. Come along. Lady Skimper. 
 
 [Exeunt Chugg and Lady Skimfkr, followed hy Sylvia, 
 Leonora, Tremaine and Vandean. As Mary is 
 following, Eichard stops her and kisses her. 
 
 Eichard. This is almost as good as the dark passage at 
 Hazle Farm. 
 
 Mary. Ah, Dick, how I wish we were back there ! I can't 
 help thinking that there are none of us so happy at the 
 Manor as we were at the Farm. 
 
 Eichard. At least, I know of one who isn't. 
 
 [Exit iviih Mary. 
 Enter Mrs, Hammick. 
 
 Mrs. Hammick. I've obeyed orders and secured the key of 
 the beer-cellar ; but it was a most unpleasant thing to do. 
 Digges, the butler, w^as horribly rude ; and that odious 
 Pugsley was most abusive, and even violent in his language. 
 The carol-singers all sat staring with their mouths wide open, 
 and one of them, Joey Stubbs, the cobbler, said that things 
 were better in the old Squire's time, when there was no 
 make believe liberality. I can't think what has come to Tom
 
 Dross 183 
 
 Cliiigrg ; for Tom C'hugg I shall always call him in my own 
 miud, in spite of all theii' Darracotts. lie used tu be so kiiid- 
 liearted and so liberal, delighting in seeing other people 
 hapi)y ; and now he seems to grudge eveiy^ sixpence he 
 spends. ^Vhat can an extra cask of ale matter to a man who 
 has thousands a year? after talking of a line old English 
 gentleman's Christmas, too. And he has so changed to me 
 that I can hardly believe he is the same man who used to 
 be so kind and friendly, and who used to treat me like a 
 sister ; except that he was ever so mucli kinder than the 
 common run of brothers are to their sisters. 
 
 Re-entei' Chugg. 
 
 Chugg. I call thai a humbugging game. I wasn't going to 
 stay to be laughed at by a parcel of young people, and to lose 
 my lives and my sixpences for the amusement of pert minxes. 
 I repeat, pert minxes. Why, I miscued, gotHuketl, and then 
 Tremaine had the impertinence to say I had played on the 
 wrong ball, and asked if I'd star. As for Lady Skmiper, I'm 
 afraid she is a gambler. I saw a fire in her eye which denoted 
 the gamester. {Seeing Mrs. Hammick.) Ah, here's my lad}' 
 housekeeper, with her handkerchief to her eyes. What's the 
 matter, Mrs. Ilanmiick ? You ve been crying. 
 
 Mils. Hamjiick. No, I have not, Mr. Darracott. There is 
 the key of your beer-cellar {offering him an enormous key). 
 
 Chugg. Thank you. You don't expect me to put it in my 
 waistcoat-pocket, do you ? You don't consider that a nice little 
 appendage for a man's watch-chain ? 
 
 Mr.s. llAiiJiicK. You told me to fetch that key, Mr. 
 Darracott. 
 
 CnuGG. I did, Mrs. Hammick ; because I did not wish my 
 ancestral halls to become the scene of unseendy rioting. I 
 heard the revel degenerating into an orgy, and I knew that 
 beer was at the bottom of it. Now you have secured the key 
 you'd better keep it ; and I should wish you in future to give 
 out the beer daily, for dinner and sujjper. 
 
 Miis. Hammick. I shall obey you, Mr. Darracott. But 
 you will place me in an unpleasant position. 
 
 CnuGG. Why, you used to give out the beer at Hazle Farm. 
 I've seen you do it, many a time. 
 
 Mrs. Hammick. Yes, Mr. Darracott, I know that in those 
 happy days I used to give out the beer ; but I must venture 
 to remind you that a style of housekeeping which was suitable 
 to the Fai'm would be considered unworthy of the Manor.
 
 184 Undrr fhr Red Flan 
 
 CiiUGCJ. I uuderstaud. I am to be lleeced by everybody. 
 Brewers are to batten on me, butchers are to devour my sub- 
 stance, grocers are to overcharge me, my servants are to 
 wallow in expensive luxuries. I am to contribute to every 
 charity in the kingdom, to be the mainstay of horticultural 
 societies, the chief support of every fancy fair, the backbone 
 of the hunt. Every pauper in the parish is to come to me for 
 food and raiment ; every village brat is to be educated at_my 
 expense ; because, forsooth, I am the richest man in the neigh- 
 bourhood. At this rate I should very soon be the poorest. 
 What is the woman whimpering for ? 
 
 Mrs. Hammick. I— I can't help it, Mr. Darracott. You 
 are so changed, everything is so changed. When I remember 
 the happy days at Hazle Farm! 
 
 Chugg. They were not happy days ! How dare you say 
 that they were happy days ? ilow'dare you insult me by 
 suggesting that I was happier when I was Tom Chugg than I 
 am now 1 
 
 Mrs. Hammick. I don't know about your feelings, I can't 
 presume to enter into them ; but I know that in those days 
 you used to make those around you happy, while now 
 
 Chugg. I don't ? You have the cool impertinence to tell 
 me that I am not a source of happiness to my family and 
 dependents. I provide them with every luxury, I feed them 
 on the produce of a French cook, I clothe them in silk attire : 
 and you have the base ingratitude to tell me, with that gown 
 on your back, tliat I don't make you happy. Woman, you 
 are a viper ! 
 
 Mrs. Hammick. Mr. Darracott ! 
 
 Chugg. I repeat it : you are a vijjer ! You turn and sting 
 the hand that has warmed and fed you. 
 
 Mrs. Hammick. Very well, Mr. Darracott. After this 
 there is only one course open to me. You have been very good 
 to me in the past.and I hope I shall never forget all I owe you; 
 but after what you have just said, I could not stay another 
 hour under your roof. There is the key of the beer cellar. 
 
 CiiuciG. D n the key of the beer-cellar. I will not be 
 
 pestered by that key. 
 
 Mrs. Hammick. I beg your pardon, Mr. Darracott. {Laying 
 hey on table.) I forgot your objection to it. Good-night, 
 sir, and good-bye. 
 
 Chugg {running after her, as she is going out.) I will not 
 be abandoned in this ruthless manner. I will not be called, 
 air. Mrs. Hnmmifk, what do you mean by this conduct?
 
 Dnm 185 
 
 (Exit Mrs. Hammick ) Mrs. H , Mrs. Haramick — Betsy ! 
 
 She didn't hear me call her Betsy. She must have melted at 
 that old familiar name. I hate to see a woman cry. I hate 
 it most of all when I think I've made her cry. But they can all 
 turn on the waterworks. (Rings bell.) Here, John, William ! 
 Where is that pair of powdered blockheads of mine ? Bring 
 some brandy and soda. The liqueur stand, sirrah, d'ye hear? 
 Do you want to keep all the drinking to yourselves in the 
 servants' hall 1 
 
 \_Footmen bring spirit stand, glasses, si/phons, <&c., 
 and arrange them on table at side of stage. Chugg 
 helps himself freehf. 
 
 Re-enter Lady SKiMPER,MARr, Leaxora, Sylvia, Bicuard, 
 Tremaine, and Captain Vaxdeax. 
 
 Mary. Father, we are going to have a waltz in the draw- 
 ing-room. You don't mind, do you ? Sylvia and I can take 
 it in turns to play. C'unie, Richard, Tremaine, Captain Van- 
 dean, you must all help to move the furniture while the 
 servants are having their fun in the servants' hall. 
 
 Vandeax, Oh, but upon my soul, you know — Poole doesn't 
 make a dress coat to stand that kind of navigator's work. I 
 should have my sleeves out of the shoulder if I liftetl a table. 
 Can't those flunkies do it \ 
 
 Richard, ^fy coat was made by a country tailor. {Aside 
 to Mary). I'd move an ujiholsterer's van for the sake of a 
 waltz with you. 
 
 Mary. Tremaine, will you bring one of the lamps ] and you 
 another^pleaae, Captain Vandean. Don't spill the oil. Come, 
 Mrs. Hammick, dear, you must be everybody's chaperon. 
 
 [Tremaine and Vandean each tale a lamp, leaving 
 only the shaded lamp on a table near front of 
 stage. The background is lighted by the red glow 
 of the wood fire. They all e.veunt to the drau-uig- 
 room, cvcep't Lady Skimper, u-ho seats herself on 
 the central ottoman, and icses her fan with an 
 cvJiaiisted air. 
 
 Lady Skimper. Giddy, thoughtless creatures ! flitting like 
 the butterfly from flower to flower — from one pleasure to 
 another. Why did you desert us so soon, Mr. Darracott 1 
 
 CiiUGG. Lady Skimper, I felt that my position was rapidly 
 becoming igiu)miuiou-!, an 1 I have to > proud a spirit to
 
 188 Under the Ued Flag 
 
 brook ignomiuy. If I'm not winning at a game, I cut it. I 
 liojae fox'tune favoured you. 
 
 Lady Skimper. Tlie tickle goddess was not unkind ; I 
 won a pool or two : but I only went on with the game to 
 please those young people. Conversation with a congenial 
 spirit would have been much more interesting to me. I want 
 you to tell me all about this delicious old house, and above 
 all, about the ghost. This old hall, in the red light of that 
 log tire, is the very loom in which to talk about ghosts. This 
 dear old house is just the kind of place to be haunted. 
 
 Chugg. Would you like it any better if it were ? 
 
 Lady Skimper. Indeed, I should. I adore ghosts. 
 
 Chugg. Did you ever see one ? 
 
 Lady Skimper. Nevei*. It is the one regret of my exist- 
 ence that I have never been so fortunate, 
 
 Cfiugg. And if you v/ere to see a ghost you wouldn't run 
 away, as most peoj^le do ? 
 
 Lady Skimper. Eun away ! No, I would interrogate that 
 messenger from the spirit world. I would entreat that 
 dweller in the shadow-land to let me hear his thrilling voice. 
 But I am sure, from your questions, that there is a ghost. 
 The old Squire walks. 
 
 Chugg (puzzled). He walks ? 
 
 Lady Skimper. Yes, He has been seen at midnight in a 
 dark corridor, like Hamlet's father, in his habit as he lived. 
 What did he usually wear, by the bye 1 
 
 Chugg. Hamlet's father 1 
 
 Lady Skimper. No, the old Squire. 
 
 Chugg. Oh, I'm sorry to say he was a desperate old sloven. 
 He was very fond of hunting, and he liked his hunting 
 clothes better than any other. I used to think he slept in 
 them. His favourite costume was an old red coat, buckskin 
 breeches, and mahogany tops. 
 
 Lady Skimper. Eccentric old darling ! And he has been 
 seen in that picturesque attire ? 
 
 Chugg. He was seldom seen out of it during the hunting 
 season. 
 
 Lady Skimper. But I mean since his death. He has 
 walked ! The servants have seen him, after dark ? 
 
 Chugg. Not that I know of. (Aside) How she harps upon 
 the supernatural ! (Aloud) My dear Lady Skimper, let us 
 leave this theme for a more congenial to])ic. I'm glad you 
 like my house; but, Lady Skimper, the most perfect establish- 
 ment is wanting in its proudest ornament when it lacks
 
 Dross 187 
 
 the charming presence of woman — lovely woman. {Aside) 
 I'm not so eloquent as a lover ought to be. Perhaps a 
 thimbleful of Ilennessy miglit inspire nrn {hc^ps himself a jain 
 to brand;/). 
 
 Lady Skimter. That charm i.s not deficient in this fine ohl 
 mansion. You have your daughter. 
 
 Chugg. My daugliter is a mere chit, and she would abandon 
 me to-moirow for a husband. May I ofter you a thimble- 
 ful of Hennessy, Lady Skimper? 
 
 Lady Skimpkr. Hennessy \ 
 
 CiiUGG. Cognac. 
 
 Lady Skimper. Mr. Darracott, do you suppose that 
 brandy is ever tasted by women in society ? 
 
 C'HUciG. Not in society perhaps — but I've heard they some- 
 times take a little on the quiet. You won't ? Innocent as 
 my daughter appears, Lady Skimper, she has a husband in 
 her eye already. 
 
 Lady Skimper. And you have your estimable housekeeper. 
 
 CnuGG. Estimable undoubtedly — in her place. But that 
 which this ancestral mansion requires is an aristocratic mis- 
 tress, a patrician mind, a woman who could take the lead in 
 county society, and who couKl assist her husband to climb to 
 the hifdiest run^ of the social ladder. I feel that it is in 
 me to climb, but I want a helping hand — I Avant a fellow- 
 climber. Lady Skimi)er, will you be that fellow-climber ? 
 
 Lady Skijiper. Mr. Darracott, is this a declaration ? 
 
 Chugg. It is. 
 
 Lady Sktmper. Mr. Darracott, you have moved me more 
 deeply than words can describe. There is a fervour in your 
 language, rare among the liollow-hearted throng. But— I 
 am no longer in the bloom of youth — I have ties, responsi- 
 bilities. I married in the nursery, and the consequence of 
 that girlish folly is thatat — {calcxdates and counts on her fingers) 
 — at tive-and-thirty I find myself confronted with a grown- 
 up daughter. If — if I were to bs tempted to marry again, 
 my daughter must shai'e my new home. 
 
 Chugg. She shaU. 
 
 Lady Skimper. And for her sake, in orderto make her future 
 prosperity secure, I could not marry without a settlement. 
 
 Chugg. You should have a settlement, a liberal one ! Every 
 penny of your own fortune should be settled on yourself. I 
 wouldn't sponge upon a wife's means for worlds. 
 
 Lady Skimper. You are all generosity. But I alluded to 
 the income, the six or seven hundred a year of pin-money,
 
 188 Umhr the Bed Flag 
 
 which a man of your position would naturally settle on a 
 wife. Bat that is a question for our family lawyers ; let us 
 not enter upon such sordid details. 
 
 CnuGG. (Aside) Six or seven hundred a year ! She puts 
 herself at a tidy figure. Then, dearest, I may dare to hope 
 that I am not indifferent to you ? 
 
 Ladv Skimpp:r [girliskli/). Mr. Darracott, itislikeadream, 
 I can hardly believe that it can all be real, after so short an 
 acquaintance. 
 
 Chugct. Call it not by so cold a name ; call it friendship — 
 call it love. Sweet one, say thou wilt be mine. 
 
 [ Waltz tune sounds noio and again from draioing-room. 
 
 Lady Skimper. You know so little of me. 
 
 Chugg. I know that you are the finest woman I ever met ; 
 that you will grace my dinner-table and ornament my home ; 
 that, with you by my side, I can boldly enter the proudest 
 society in my native county. You shall retain your title — 
 " Mr. Darracott and Lady Skimper." How do you think 
 that sounds as an announcement ? 
 
 Lady Sktiiper. Poor Sir Paul ! 
 
 Chugg. Brood not upon the past, beloved one. The future 
 smiles before thee. See {extending his arm in a romantic 
 attitude, and pointing towards hack of stage), behold, how fair 
 a prospect awaits thee ! 
 
 [PuGSLEY appears at had- of stage in an old hunting- 
 coat, hat on one side, buckskins and toj^is, whip in 
 liand. The clock strikes twelve. Pianissimo 
 vxdtz music from adjoining room. 
 
 Lady Skimper. The old Squire's ghost ! (Rttshes out 
 shrieking.) 
 
 Chugg {frightened, recoiling from figure and slowly hacking 
 towards door). I never have believed in ghosts, but this 
 looks like one. 
 
 PuGSLEY {coming forward, tipsy). Stop, Tom Chugg — stop, 
 I say ! It's no ghost, but flesh and blood. And flesh and 
 blood that wants to have a word of a sort with you. 
 
 CnuGG. Fellow, avaunt ! What do you mean by frighten- 
 ing an aristocratic female out of her wits? How dare you 
 dress yourself up in that ridiculous costume 1 
 
 PuGSLEY. "Why shouldn't I ? The togs are my oypn pro- 
 jjerty. The old Squire always used to give me his cast-ofF 
 clothes. PTavcn't T a right to wear 'em, Tom Chugg ?
 
 Dross 189 
 
 CiiUGG. How dare you call me Tom Chugg ] 
 
 Pluslev. Why shouldn't I ? Will you be kind enough to 
 explain why I .shouldn't'? 
 
 Chugg. For two very good reasons — first and foremost, 
 because my name is not Chugg ; and secondly because I'm 
 your master. 
 
 PuGSLEY (snapping his fingers in Ciiugg's face). That 
 for your reasons ! Your name is Chugg, and you are not 
 my master. I dismiss myself from your service. I give 
 myself a month's warning, and I claim a month's; wages, 
 and a mouth's keep. Hand over. 
 
 Chugg (aside). He must be the rightful heir. Nobody else 
 coiUd dare to be so insolent. What shall I do ? Shall I defy 
 or conciliate him ? I'll defy him first, and conciliate him 
 afterwards. (Aloucl) Fellow, I refuse to pay wages wh'ch 
 you have not earned, and I dismiss you on the spot for 
 drunkenness. You are intoxicated, sir I Leave my house ! 
 
 PuGSLKr. Your house ? I like that I Your house ? It's a^ 
 much my house as it is yours. I've as much right to be here 
 as you have, and I mean to stay here. I repudiate your 
 st i on as my master. I scorn your wages. 
 
 Chugg (aside). Defiance won't answer. I must try con- 
 ciliation. (Aloud) Pugeley, my good fellow, you have been 
 drinking ! Don't be angry. I do not make the remark 
 oft'ensively. At this festive season it is rather meritoi ious in 
 a man to be drunk. It bespeaks the open heart, the genial 
 nature, the social soul. But you are not in a state to take a 
 calm view of our relative positions. Grant that you are the 
 victim of a youthful error on the p.irt of our deceased friend. 
 C4rant that, as a man of honour, the old Squire ought to have 
 married your mother. But he didn't, you see, my poor friend. 
 He did not. 
 
 PuGSLEV. What are you talking aljout ? Drunk, indeed ! 
 Why, it's you that are drunk — roaring drunk. (Tilling out 
 paper and^Houris/iing it over his head ) Look at this. 
 
 CiiuGG (aghast). Your mother's marriage certificate ! 
 
 PiGsr.EV. ]\Iy mother be blowed. I i.ev 'r had a mother — 
 at least, not to know of. Do you see this djcumeut I 
 
 Chugg (aside). He denies his claim, and I may snap my 
 fingers at him. 
 
 PuGSLEY. Tom Chugg, do you see this paper ? 
 
 Chugg. Get out of myjiouse, fellow ! I discharge you. 
 
 PuGSLEY. Do you mean that \ 
 
 Chucs. Most "distinctly.
 
 190 Under the Red Flag 
 
 PuGSLET. Then good-night, Tom Chugg. To-morrow 
 Tremaine Darracott will be in possession of the old Squire's 
 last will and testament — a will made six months after that 
 under which you inherit — and on the following day you'll 
 get notice of ejectment. 
 
 Chtjgg. What do you mean] 
 
 PuGSLEY. Exactly what I say. A fortnight before the 
 old Squire died he began to relent towards his grandson, 
 young Tremaine. He called me into his room one evening. 
 I was his oldest servant, rode his second horse out hunting, 
 and he was more familiar with me than with any of 'em. 
 "Jim," he says, " I don't feel comfortable in my mind about 
 my grandson. I'm going to make a fresh will. Lawyer 
 Brooke is up in London, but I know pretty near as much 
 law as he does, and I know how to make a will. Yoit and 
 Dolly Stokes, the daii-ymaid, can witness it for me, and 
 don't you say nothing to nobody." Well, he wrote out his 
 will, sure enough, on this sheet of foolscap, leaving everything 
 to his grandson, Tremaine Darracott ; and me and Dolly 
 wrote our names at the bottom as witnesses, each in the pre- 
 sence of the other, all reg'lar. And then he j)ut the paper 
 away in a drawer of his old mahogany bureau. I see where 
 he put it, and when he was seized with a fit a week after- 
 wards I got hold of his keys and took out that papei\ 
 Mr. Tremaine broke his hunting-whip over me a year 
 ago, and I meant to make that broken whip cost him the old 
 Squire's fortune. Nobody knows of the will, except me and 
 Dolly. Dolly went to America with her father while the old 
 Squire was lying ill ; so she is out of it. 
 
 Chugg. James Pugsley, give me that paper. You must be 
 perfectly aware that at the time the old Squire penned that 
 document he was a raving lunatic. 
 
 Pugsley. No, he warn't. He was what the lawyers call 
 of sound disposing mind. He was as right as a trivet. As 
 for this sheet of foolscap, it's either an instrument of retribu- 
 tion to bring down ruin upon your head, or it's a bit of waste 
 pa])er for you to light your cigar with. If you want it for 
 waste paper you can have it ; but the price of the article is 
 ten th(jusand pounds. {Folds iip paper, puts it in his hreast- 
 pocket, buttons coat, and st<dLs out.) 
 
 Re-enter Omnes, except Lady Skimper. 
 
 Mary. Father, we all want you to join in " Sir Roger 
 de Coverley." 
 
 Chugg. No, my love, no. I don't feel in a dancing humour.
 
 Dross 191 
 
 Mary {holing at him). Why, father, how pale you are ! 
 You look as if you'd seen a ghost. 
 
 CnuGG. That's it, my dear. It was a kind of a ghost. 33ut 
 no matter ! Sir Roger de Covcrley, did you say ? Yes, by 
 all means. Where's Lady Skimper ? If she won't Le my 
 partner, perhaps you will. Miss Skimper. Youth and beauty, 
 mirth and jollity.' Come along, come along. (Chugo dances 
 of loit/i lu/sterical mirth, followed by the others, to the air of Sir 
 Roger de Covcrley. 
 
 EXD OF ACT II. 
 
 ACT 111. 
 
 MORXING.— ScKNE same as in Act II.— Maky u seated at 
 needlework beside the fire, Richard standing near. 
 
 Richard. Your father does not seem particularly cheerful, 
 Mary, in spite of his matrimonial engagement. Do you think 
 he begins to repent already ? 
 
 Mary. I don't know. There is something wrong, evidently. 
 Poor papa has changed very much since Christmas Eve. If 
 I were to tell you a secret, Dick, do you think you could 
 keep it? 
 
 Richard. I am not a woman, so perhaps I coidd manage — 
 with a struggle. 
 
 Mary. Don't be absurd, sir. Men are even fonder of 
 hearing themselves talk than women are, and it is people's 
 love of talking which makes it difficult to keep a secret. 
 However, I suppose when you and I are married I shall be 
 bound to tell you everything. 
 
 Richard. Of course you will, so you'd better begin at once, 
 and get your hand in. What is thi.s tremendous secret % 
 
 Mary (mysteriously). The old Squire walks. 
 
 Richard. What? 
 
 Mary. At midnight on Christmas Eve he appeared to pajsa 
 and Lady Skimper. They were sitting on that Ottoman, 
 when exactly as the clock struck twelve they looked up 
 and saw the old Squire standing facing tliem in the tirelight 
 — in his hunting clothes — just as he looked when he was 
 alive. 
 
 Richard. My dear M iry, who put this absurd nonsense 
 into your head ? 
 
 ^LvRY. It was Lady Skimper herself who told me. I am 
 not sure that it is nonsense. You know how frightened poor 
 father seemed when we all came in here to ask him to dance.
 
 192 Under ike Red Fhvj 
 
 I remember telling him that he looked as if he had seen a 
 gho:-t. I little thought that he had. 
 
 Richard Yovi surely don't believe this absurd story 1 
 
 Mary. There must be something in it. Lady Skimper was 
 frightened out of her wits. She described the old Squire's 
 appearance exactly as I remember him. If it had been only 
 fancy on her part, how could she, a stranger here, know what 
 old Mr. Darracott was like 1 
 
 Richard. Has your father said anything about this 
 apparition ? 
 
 Mary. Not a word. But any one can see that he has some- 
 thing on his mind. He is sometimes boisterously cheerful, at 
 other times sunk in gloom. It makes me unhappy to see him. 
 
 Richard. I dare say this is the pleasing device of some 
 practical joker. If I can find out who the gentleman is, I'll 
 — I'll give him a sickener of all such jokes. 
 
 Enter Lady Skimper. 
 
 Lady Skimper. Good morning, Mary ; good morning, Mr. 
 Avery. Snow again — no hunting ; and no chance of visitors 
 with the roads in their present state. I I'eally begin to realise 
 in some degree what Noah and his amiable family must have 
 felt during the Deluge. Ah, Mary, what a happiness to be 
 staying with congenial spirits at such a time ! What has 
 become of my Nora ? 
 
 Mary. Nora, Sylvia, Tremaine, and Captain Yandean are 
 all on the lake. 
 
 Lady Skimper. Skimming, swallow-like, across the ice. 
 And your dear father ? 
 
 Mary. He is about the grounds — or the stables, I believe. 
 
 Lady Skimper. Active creature ! Mr. Tremaine is to leave 
 us to-day, is he not ? 
 
 Richard. Yes. He talked of going this morning, but he 
 allowed himself to be persuaded to join the skaters and defer 
 his departure till the evening mail. 
 
 Lady Skimper. No newspapers yet, I suppose? 
 
 Mary. No. The post is due at one o'clock ; but I suppose 
 in this weather we must think oui'selves lucky if we get our 
 letters and papers at afternoon tea. 
 
 Lady Skimper {seatedat small table, yavms, takesup evening 
 paper). It is really dreadful to find oneself reduced to reading 
 yesterday's news over again. 
 
 Mary. Do you never read books? 
 r Lady Skimper. No, my love. I never waste my intellect 
 upon bygone inteiefcts. A woman who wishes to please iji
 
 J)r.>s:i 193 
 
 the best society slioulil be posted in the faets of tlio present, 
 should liave original ideas about the future, and shotild 
 leave history and belles-lettres to bookworms and bluo- 
 stockinfjs. 
 
 Marv. I detest newspapers. 
 
 Ladv Skimpkr. You are young, my dear, very young. 
 
 Enter CiiuaG from garden. He has an abnent, abstracted air. 
 He trios to be cheer ftd, but is evidently fidl of anxiety, 
 
 CiiUGG. Good morninir, Ponelope. Why is mv sun so shiw 
 to appear above tlv? wintry horizon ? The breakfast-table was 
 dt'solate without your smile, beloved one. 
 
 Lvov Sk'Imper. T had a slight headache, and these frosty 
 moDiiiigsare so uninviting. 
 
 Chugg {reproach f idly). Uninviting: ! When thy Thomas 
 pined for thy coming— lanjruished for the sunli<,'ht of thv 
 smile. {To Mary) I saw Tremaine on the ice just now. I 
 thought he was fj^oing by the eleven o'clock express. 
 
 Marv. Tie wa«, but we all persuaded him to stay. 
 
 Chugg. You did, did you ? That was kind. 
 
 Mary. I am sure it nmst l);^ such a pleasure to you to have 
 him here — to see him thoroughly happy in his old home. 
 
 CiiUGG. Oh, yes, I like to see him make himself at home- 
 almost as if the ^tanor TTouse belonged to him — as if he were 
 the real owner and as if I were an intei'loper. 
 
 Mary. J5ut, doar father, he doesn't presume in the least. 
 
 CnuQO. T^oesn't presume — no— no— he doesn't ])resume as 
 yet. He has not yet becfun to presume ; but it will come — 
 I shall be trampled upon by-a-id-bv. 
 
 Mary. Dear fatlu-r, you are so needlessly sensitive. 
 
 Lady Skimper. I can thoroughly sympathise with your 
 father, Mary ; and I wonder you are so obtuse as not to 
 understand him better. It must be extremely un]ileasant to 
 him to have that young man on the premises — a young man 
 who, no doubt, in his inmost heart, considers liimsilf th(i 
 rightful heir, and fancies that your father is enjoving woilth 
 which oucrht to be^uig to him. Good gracious, Tom, what a 
 convulsive start ! Is it lumbairo ? 
 
 Chugg. No, no— sciatica. The sciatica nerve, which runs 
 from the hip to the heel, a nerve as thick as your wrist, an 1 
 when that gets a wrench you— well, you reuT'.Miiber it. 
 
 Lady Skimper. I know I shall feelall the more comfortable 
 v;hen Mr. Tremaine has left u^ An 1 if I wuv yo'i. To;n, T 
 
 O
 
 194 Uud(y)' the Rnl Flag 
 
 should get rid of Miss Seobell. No doubt she's a snake in 
 the grass — a domestic spy, always on the watch for something. 
 
 Mary {indignantly). I wonder you can talk so, Lady Skim- 
 per. Sylvia Seobell is as good as gold and as true as steel ; 
 and even if she were the kind of person you speak of, what 
 have we to fear from a domestic s})y ? One would think my 
 father's life were not all fair and above-board. 
 
 Lady SKiMrER. I meant nothing of the kind, my dear. 
 But I maintain that it cannot be pleasant to your father to 
 know that his every action is noted and his every word weighed 
 by a young lady who no doubt considers her lover the victim 
 of an unjust will. (Ciiugg starts as before.) That conviilsive 
 movement again, Tom ! 
 
 CiiUGO. Lumbago 
 
 Lady Skimper. You said sciatica. 
 
 Chdgg. This is lumbago. Surely I am entitled to know. 
 
 Lady Skimper, Your father doesn't seem much inclined for 
 conversation, Mary. Suppose we go and look at the skacers 1 
 Mr, Avery, would it be too much trouble for you to get me my 
 fur cloak which I left in the porch last night ? (Richard brings 
 cloak from porch, and assists Lady Skimper to put it on. Mary 
 puts oil a wrap.) A thousand thanks. We are all going for a 
 constitutional before lunch, Mr. Darracott. {Aside as they go 
 02U.) Mary, your father's nerves are terribly shaken : he h?s 
 not yet got over our dreadful experience of Chiistraas Eve. 
 
 Chugg (alone). I feel as if it would be a relief to tear xnj 
 hair, but I mustn't do it. The head of a family, a justice of 
 the peace, the lord of the manor, cannot be allowed to tear 
 his hair. That is a luxury denied to greatness. What am I 
 to do 1 I have been gratified with a perusal of that fatal 
 document — Pugsley holding on to it all the time — and there 
 is no doubt as to its being genuine. Nor is thei'e any doubt 
 that the old Squire was in his right mind when he wrote that 
 paper. Every word is I'ational and to the purpose. No, there 
 is no escape from the fact that if that will were made known 
 I must become again Tom Chugg, tenant farmer — and a 
 pauper. I — Squire Darracott — I who have revelled in the 
 possession of seven thousand a year, who have been courted 
 and made much of by an impoverished landed gentry — I, the 
 plighted husliand of Lady Skimper, to descend from that 
 proud elevation — to come down with a sudden slide from that 
 giddy peak ! No, no, Darracott, thy motto must still be 
 Excelsior ! And yet, how is the situation to be faced ? If I 
 give Pugsley ten thousand pounds for that will and destroy
 
 Drcsi 195 
 
 it, am I not a cheat, a robber ] atu I not a felon, liable to the 
 law's worst ignominy — penal servitude, hard labour on the 
 breezy plains of Dartmoor ? The picture is too horrible ■ I 
 gave 'Pugsley a hundred pounds on Christmas day to keep 
 him quiet — he has been placidly drunk ever since — and I told 
 him I'd think about the ten thousand. He gave me till to- 
 night for thought ; and I have been cudgelling my brains ever 
 since, without getting any nearer a decision. There is Mary, 
 too, poor innocent child ! 1 am bound to make some sacrifice 
 of conscience, if it were only for her sake. Can I ask her to 
 step out of the lap of luxury into the stony path of self- 
 denial ? No ! I am a father ; and a father's devotion to his 
 child must rise superior to abstract morality. 
 
 Enier Mary. 
 
 Mary. Dear father, I wish you would come and look at the 
 skaters ; it is such a gay, pretty scene. The Vicar's family 
 have joined us, and I am going to ariange a kind of picnic- 
 luncheon in the Dutch summer-house. You don't mind, do 
 you? 
 
 CnuoG. Mind, my dear ? No. Be hof.pitable, Mary. Let 
 everybody in the yiarish understand that the Darracotts of 
 the maternal branch have princely souls. Eace, my dear, race. 
 Excelsior ! Let us be benefactors in our neighbourhood. Are 
 there any little charities you would like to bestow upon the 
 poor'? 
 
 Mary. Dear father, Eichard and I wanted you to give 
 blankets, and coals, and beef on Christmas Eve, but you 
 refused. 
 
 Chugg. Did I? It was absence of mind, Mary — mere 
 absence of mind. To-morrow will be New Year's Day ; we'll 
 distribute a dozen waggon-loads of best Wallsend ; we'll cut 
 up half a dozen fat bullocks. 
 
 Mary. Ah ! now you are my own dear, kind-hearted father 
 once again — just what you used to be at the Farm. 
 
 Chugo. Don't mention the Farm, Mary. "We were paupers 
 at the Farm — beings unworthy of mention in the county 
 papers, which now chronicle our every movement. I wonder 
 we took the liberty to exist in those humiliating days. Is 
 there any otiun- little kindness which you would like me to 
 bestow upon my fellow-creatures, Mary ? I feel in an 
 expansive mood. I feel as if I could embrace the whole 
 human species. 
 
 Marv. Dear father, you are so good. If you really wish
 
 196 Under the Red Flag 
 
 to make two people happy, I think you might do so very 
 easily. 
 
 Chugg. How so, Mary ? 
 
 Mary. Richard has been wishing to speak to you ever so 
 long. He wants me to marry him, early in the New Year. 
 His father will settle the farm upon us — it is Mr. Avery's 
 own freehold, you know — and will go and live at Torquay for 
 his health. 
 
 Chugg. — Oh, old Avery will go and live at Torquay for his 
 health, and my daughter — Miss Chugg Darracott, sole 
 daughter and heiress of the Lord of the Manor— is to sink 
 into a farmer's wife — to milk cows, to feed pigs, to 
 administer peppercorns to dyspeptic chickens. Never, Mary, 
 never. On this point I am adamant — yes, child, adamant. 
 
 Mary. Then you are very unkind, father, and I can hardly 
 help calling you unjust. Fori are going to be married — t/ou 
 have chosen for yourself. 
 
 Chugg. But what a choice — a choice which the proudest in 
 the realm might point to with a swelling breast. A title, too ! 
 Ah, Mary, did you ever expect to see your father the husband 
 of a title ? " Mr. Chugg and Lady Skimper." How do you 
 like that style of announcement ? 
 
 Mary. I don't like anything connected with Lady Skimper 
 — an artificial, selfish, scheming person, who only cares for you 
 because you are rich, and can make her the mistress of 
 Darracott Manor. 
 
 Chugg. Mary, you are an impertinent minx — I repeat, a 
 minx ! How dare you insinuate that your father is devoid 
 of personal attractions, that he cannot be loved for his own 
 sake 
 
 Mary. Indeed, father, I do not mean that. I know of 
 one person who loved you truly, and for yourself alone — 
 who loved you long before you were owner of Darracott 
 Manor. 
 
 Chugg. Eh, Mary ? "Who was that individual ? 
 
 Mary. I would not betray the secret for the world. 
 
 Chugg. No matter, child. I am Lady Skimper's affianced 
 husband. It were an idle dream to think of another attach- 
 ment. I am bound, Mary — bound by the sacred ties of 
 honour and loyalty to lovely woman. {Imitating a servant's 
 announcement) "Mr. Darracott and Lady Skimper." 
 
 Mary. Oh, papa, I hope not. I hope your engagement is 
 not irrevocable. I can't bear to think of your marrying 
 auch a meretricious person .
 
 Dross 197 
 
 Chugo. Meretricious is a long word, Mary, It ought to 
 nieau a good deal. 
 
 ]\Iaky. It means moi'e than I should like to say. I can't 
 think M hut altractiou you can see in a woman whose hair is 
 every bit of it false. 
 
 CiiL'GO. No, Mary, not all false— a plait or two, perha])S, a 
 wandering tress here and there— an artistic touch introduced 
 to give elFect to the whole picture ; but some of those 
 luxuriant locks must be grown on the premises. 
 
 Mary. A woman who paints her face. 
 
 CuuGG. Paints ! No, Mary, no, she does not paint. 
 
 JMaky. My dear father, have you eyes ? 
 
 Chugg. Well, I flatter myself that I have. 
 
 Mary. Then surely you must see that Lady Skimper's 
 complexion is a work of art — that those cherry-coloured lips 
 of hers are painted. 
 
 CuuGG. No, Mary, not her lips. ( Wiping /lis own, with a 
 vyry face.) Say not that those lips are painted. 
 
 Mary. Eut I do pay it, and I can prove it. Mrs. 
 Ilaramick saw stains of carmine on her ladyship's dinner- 
 napkin. 
 
 CuL'GG. Mrs. Hammick is a prying female — a househokl 
 spy : she shall leave us to-morrow. 
 
 Mary. But, dear father 
 
 CflUGG. No remonstrance ! Mrs. Hammick goes. 
 
 Mary. Oh, father, how can you be so blind as to throw 
 away the purest gold for the sake of tinsel '? 
 
 Chugg {repeating announcement) . " Mr . Darracott and Lady 
 Skimper — Lady Skimper and the Lord of the Manor." 
 
 Mary, In common justice, as you have made your choice, 
 I must be free to make mine. I cannot live in the same bouse 
 with Lady Skimper ; so, even at the hazard of being called 
 disobedient and undutiful, the day which sees you married to 
 Sir Paul Skimper's widow will see me the wife of Eichard 
 Avery. 
 
 Chugg. Mary, take care that I don't disinherit you. Take 
 care that I don't alter my will. {At the word *UciU" he gives 
 a convulsive leap.) 
 
 Mary. Father, what is the matter? 
 
 CucoG. Neuralgia. 
 
 Mary. Last lime you said lumbago. 
 
 Chugq. This time I say neuralgia — acute neuralgia, a 
 sudden convulsion of the motor muscles, a something aji- 
 proaching tetanus — tetanus, Mary ; perhaps you have ne^ er
 
 198 Under the Red Flag 
 
 heard of tetanus. Go, girl ; go and disport yourself among 
 those giddy revellers on the ice. Leave me. Abandon me 
 to my own gloomy thoughts. 
 
 Mary. Dearest father, I would not leave you for the wox'ld 
 if you are in pain, or unhappy. 
 
 Chugg. No, Mary, don't leave me. Don't abandon your 
 poor father. Why should wealth and splendour part us — 
 we who were all the world to each other when your dear 
 mother died. You were a little toddling child at that sad 
 time, Mary ; and you crept up to me, in the midst of my 
 grief, and you put your soft little arms round my neck. 
 " Don't be so sorry, father," you lisped, in your little childish 
 voice ; and though my tears flowed all the faster, Mary, at 
 those words of yours, they were tears that brought comfort 
 somehow to my troubled heart. And now you talk of leaving 
 me. 
 
 Mary. Not if you are in trouble of any kind, father 1 
 
 Chugg. In trouble, child ? My whole system is an instru- 
 ment of torture — a boot, a thumbscrew. Unhappy child, 
 you behold in me the embodiment of an unparalleled despair. 
 
 Mary. But, dear father, there must be some reason for 
 these dreadful feelings. Is it true that your nerves received 
 a shock — on Christmas Eve ? 
 
 QiivQG {aside). Does she know ? Can she suspect 1 {Aloud) 
 Christmas Eve — who spoke of Christmas Eve 1 — the jolliest 
 night in all the jolly year. The night on which I joined in 
 " Sir Roger de Coverley " with my child and my friends. 
 
 Mary. But since that night, papa, there has been some- 
 thing wrong with you. You have not been yourself. If it is 
 your engagement to Lady Skim])er that is making you un- 
 liappy, pray break it off. 
 
 Chugg. That would not be easily done. 
 
 Mary. Oh, yes, it would, if you would stoop to a little 
 ruse, a quite harmless deception. Lady Skimper has known 
 you less than a fortnight. It is not possible that she can have 
 a disinterested affection for you. Let us make believe that 
 there was some flaw in the old Squire's will — that a discovery 
 lias been made which reduces you to your old position of 
 Thomas Chugg, tenant farmer. 
 
 Chugg {laughiiuj hysterically). A brilliant notion, Mary, a 
 splendid joke. 
 
 Mary. And you will carry out the idea % 
 
 CauGG. No, my dear, I think not. The sacred rights of 
 pi'operty should not be tampered with. I cannot afford to
 
 Dross 199 
 
 make sport of my position. It is beneath my dignity aa Lord 
 of tlu' Manor. ^lary, if by some sudden turn of Fortune's 
 wheel, you and 1 were to become once a<fain the oljscure 
 occupants of llazle Farm, how would you bear the blow { 
 
 Mary. My ilear father, I was hai)pier at the Farm than 
 ever I have been at the Manor. Our life here is very fine ; 
 bat I always feel as if everybody, even our own servants, 
 must be laughing at us. At the Farm we had everything 
 that could make life pleasant. We were not rich, but we had 
 ample means for comfort and content ; we had the means of 
 helping those who were poorer than ourselves. We were 
 obliged to be industrious ; but the work we had to do suited 
 us, and the days were never too long. Here the hours some- 
 times hang wearily for want of occupation ; and we have so 
 many grand visitors that we can seldom feel at home. 
 
 CnuGG. Mary, I am astounded by your low ideas. There 
 is not a drop of the Darracott blood in your veins. You 
 are a Chugg — an unadulterated Chugg. Go and skate, girl, 
 go and skate. [Exit Mart. 
 
 Chugg. What humbugs women are ! She pretends that 
 she was happier in the days of obscurity. Betsy Hammick 
 ])retenils that she was happier. If those two foolish women 
 could have their own way they'd make me believe that I was 
 happier when I was Farmer Chugg than I am now. But it 
 won't do. Excelsior, Darracott, Excelsior ! Does Lady 
 Skimper paint 1 I'll not believe it ! I'll put her in a strong 
 north light the next time I get hold of her, and if that 
 complexion is bismuth — if tliose lips are rose-madder — 
 I'll 
 
 Fnter Tremaine. 
 
 Trexiaine. I am very glad to catch you alone, my dear 
 Darracott, because I've something rather particulai" to say. 
 
 Chugg {alarmed). Eh — what ? 
 
 Tremaine. It's ab^)ut that fellow Pugsley. 
 
 Chugg. You — you have made some discovery ? 
 
 Tremaine. Yes, I discovered that scoundrel in the saddle- 
 room this morning helplessly drunk, while one of your finest 
 hunters was given over to the tender mercies of a lad of 
 thirteen, who was riding him round the strawyard in a way 
 which threatened sj)eedy destruction to boy anil beast. You 
 really oughc not to keep such a man. When I tried to shake 
 some sense into him just now he talked in a most extraordinary 
 w.iy.
 
 200 Uiidrr IJie Bed Fia 
 
 7 
 
 Chugg. Oil, lie talked did lie ? 
 
 Tremaixe. He muttered something about a secret — said 
 Tie had you under his thumb. Take my advice, and sack 
 him. 
 
 CnuGG (iviih dignity). 1 thank you, Tremaine. I am 
 always glad to receive advice, even from my juniors. I have 
 for some time intended to dismiss Pugsley ; but as the man 
 is an old retainer — a favourite of the Squire's, too — I shall 
 assist him to emigrate. The man would do well in San 
 Francisco. {Aside.) He'd drink himself to death in a 
 twelvemonth. I shall give him ten thousand pounds— — 
 
 Tremaine. Ten thousand ! 
 
 Chugg. Did I say ten thousand 1 I meant five hundred. 
 
 Tremaine. Very liberal on your part, but hardly deserved. 
 The fellow is such a thorough -paced scoundi-el. And now, 
 as I am off by the evening mail, I'll take this opportunity 
 of thanking you for your kind hospitality. 
 
 CuuGG. Don't mention it. Come again as often as you 
 like — make yourself at home here. 
 
 Tremaine. You are very good. The next time I come I 
 hope it will be to claim Sylvia. We have decided that we 
 can manage to live ujjon a very modest incoino — two hundred 
 and fifty a year to begin with — and we shall trust to industry 
 and good fortune for a gradual improvement of our position. 
 Festina lente. 
 
 Chugo. Who is she ? 
 
 Tremaine. I mean that we shall not be too eager to get 
 rich. No doubt there are many people who would call such 
 a pittance beggary — you among them, perhaps. 
 
 Chugg. No, my dear boy, no. I am not one of those 
 snobbish persons. I consider two fifty a very snug little 
 income — snug and compact, easily reckoned, no ragged edges 
 to it, no delusive margin. But as Sylvia will marry from 
 my house, I feel bound to give her a dowry. What do you 
 say to twenty thousand pounds ? 
 
 Tremaine. My dear sir, you are joking. 
 
 Chugg. I was never more serious. The Squii-e left a nice 
 little lump of money — thirty thousand pounds — in consols. 
 Consols are now at par, so I can sell without loss. I have a 
 use for ten thou.sand pounds, the remaining twenty shall be 
 Sylvia's dower. 
 
 Tremaine. My dear Darracott, this generosity overpowers 
 me. I am utterly unable to express my gratitude. I, who 
 thought my grandfathei-'s wealth had corrupted you — I
 
 Di-oss 201 
 
 cannot forgive myself for Iiavin<^ so little understood your 
 noble nature. 
 
 Cuuoa. Don't mention it. I always gloried in doing 
 good. 
 
 Tremaine. May I go and tell Sylvia 1 Dear girl, Low re- 
 joiced she will be ! [E.cit. 
 
 CiiUGG. Now, nobody would suppose that after performing 
 such an action as that a man could feel small — that after 
 giving away such a sum of money a man could feel mean. 
 And yet I do feel both small and mean. What an anomaly 
 is human nature ! 
 
 Enter Mrs, Hammick. 
 
 Mrs. Hammick. Mr. Darracott, I am sorry to be trouble- 
 some, but in spite of your kind wish that I should retain my 
 situation as housekeeper in your establishment, I am con- 
 strained to leave you this day. I am going to pack my 
 boxes. 
 
 Chugg. You have been crying again, Mrs. Hammick. 
 What's the matter ? 
 
 Mrs. H.\iimick. I have been insulted, Mr. Darracott — my 
 feelings have been wounded, my womanly pride outraged 
 by one of your guests. 
 
 CuuGG. By which of them, Mrs. Hammick 1 That guest 
 shall receive notice to quit. 
 
 Mrs. Hammick. Lady Skimper has been most rude to me. 
 
 Chugg. Lady Skimper ! That is awkward. 
 
 Mrs. Hammick. She has insinuated that I am a spy — an 
 interloper. She called me fat and vulgar. 
 
 Chugg. A little burst of feminine petulance — meant in 
 mere playfulness, perhaps. Let it not rankle in your 
 memory. 
 
 Mrs. Hammick {crying). I shall never forget it. I could 
 
 not stay in your house another hour with that painted 
 
 female. I hate her. 
 
 CiiLGG. Eetsy, don't be vehement. Lady Skimper is my 
 affianced bride. {As before.) — "Mr. Darracott aud Lady 
 Skimper." 
 
 Mrs. Hammick. More shame for you both. She doesn't 
 care a straw for jou, and you don't care a straw for her. I 
 call such a marriage wicked. 
 
 CiiuoG. Betsy, you are expressing yourself with a vigour 
 ■which does not become you. 
 
 Mrs. Hammick. I can't help it, when I see you throwing
 
 202 Under the Bed Flan 
 
 yourself away on a brewer's widow, just because she has 
 a twopeuuy-halfpenny title. 
 
 Chugg. It is not a twopenny-halfpenny title, Mrs. Ham- 
 luick : many a true-born I3riton has given as mucli as five 
 thousand pounds, indirectly, for such a handle to his name. 
 Lady Skimper — her ladyshi]) — my lady. If she wei-e a 
 countess — nay, even if she were a marchioness, she could 
 be called by no loftier name. And, apart from this proud 
 distinction, she has other claims to my respect, my ad- 
 miration. She is a woman of the world. 
 
 Mrs. Hammick. Yes, so much so, that if you were not the 
 master of this house she would never dream of marrying 
 you. However, it is no business of mine. You must know 
 your own mind. Good-bye, Mr. Darracott. 
 
 Chugg. Call me Tom. Let us part friends, Betsy. You 
 and I have known each other a good many years. 
 
 Mrs. Hammick. It is just seven years since poor James 
 died and you oifered me a home ; and for six and a half 
 years out of those seven your house was a happy home for me. 
 
 CiiUGG. Well, yes, we contrived to be happy in those days. 
 We had never ascended society's giddy peaks. We were 
 nobodies, but we were — yes, I admit it — we were happy. 
 
 Mrs. Hammick. Do you remember the Harvest Home, 
 and the speech you used to make after supper — you were 
 always such a good speaker — and the comic songs you used to 
 sing 1 
 
 Chugg. I haven't forgotten anything, Betsy, even to the 
 flavour of the bacon and beans. 
 
 Mrs, Hammick. And do you remember our winter even- 
 ings round the fire, when Mary and I used to sit at needle- 
 work, and you were so cheerful and so talkative ? And do 
 you remember how you and I used to take a hand at cribbage 
 now and then, and how you always used to beat me ? 
 
 Chugg. And our cosy little hot supper, and my tumbler of 
 gin-and-water afterwards. Betsy, I have not tasted gin- 
 and-water since I became a Darracott. Yes, those were 
 happy days. 
 
 Mrs. Hammick, Indeed, they were. But there's no use in 
 dwelling upon the past. Good-bye, Tom. 
 
 Chugg. Good-bye, Betsy. One kiss before we part. {She 
 shakes her head^) No, Betsy, don't deny one parting kiss to an 
 old friend. {He kisses her.) There was a time, Betsy, when 
 I thought that you and I might be something nearer and 
 dearer than friends. But those days are past, I am the 
 betrothed of another.
 
 Dross 203 
 
 Enter Lady Skimper, 
 
 IjAuy Skimper. Can 1 believe my eyes ? Mr, Darracott, is 
 this possible ? 
 
 CiiUGG. Lady Skimper, I was only bidding farewell to an 
 old friend. Mrs. Ilammick is about to leave me. 
 
 Lady Skimper. I am glad to bear that; for after what I 
 have just beheld, it would not be possible for me to dwell 
 under the same roof with Mrs. Ilammick. 
 
 Mrs. Hammick. Don't alarm yourself, madam. I am 
 going. 
 
 £/Uei Tremaine, Kichard, Mary, and Sylvia. 
 
 Chugg. Stay, Betsy ; not yet. I have a feAv words to say 
 before you depart. (Aside) By heavens, I'll do it ! I'll test 
 Lady Skimper's sincerity— I'll discover whether she is as false 
 as her complexion. {Aside to Mary) Mary, I am about to put 
 your future stepmother through a terrific ordeal. {Alotid) 
 Tremaine Darracott, I have something of vital importance to 
 communicate to you (Aside) I can't exist any longer with the 
 sword of what's-his-name dangling over my head. I'll cut 
 the hair. (Aloud) Lady Skimper, while you have been watching 
 the skaterd a strange discovery has been made — a discovery 
 which will sternly try your metal as a woman and an affianced 
 wife. Look me in the face, Penelope. Let me peruse your 
 countenance (turning her to tlie light). (Aside) It is bismuth. 
 
 Lady Skimper. Is this madness, Mr. Darracott ? 
 
 CiiUGG- No, Lady Skimper, it is the voice of reason — it is 
 the voice of conscience. I am no Darracott. 
 
 Lady Skimper. No Darracott ! 
 
 Chugg. No, Lady Skimper; that proud ir\me is not mine, 
 or has only become mine by a tluke. The will under wliich I 
 inherited this mansion and its surrounding lands is made null 
 and void by the discovery of a later will leaving everything 
 to my young friend Tremaine Darracott, the Squire's grand- 
 son, and sole lineal descendant. 
 
 Tremaine. Is this possible ? 
 
 Mary {aside to him). It is only a trick to test Lady Skim- 
 per's sincerity. 
 
 Chugg. Kichard, send for Pugsley. I want him instantly. 
 
 [Exit Richard, who returns almost immediateli/. 
 
 Tremaixe. I don't think you'll find him in a very suitable 
 condition for the society of ladies.
 
 204 Under the lied Flag 
 
 Chugg. We must risk that. I have business with Piigsley 
 in the presence of you all ; drunk or sober tliat man must 
 stand forth among you, and answer my interrogations. 
 
 Enter Pugsley, intoxicated, hut not helpless. 
 
 PuGSLEY. Here I am, Tom Chugg. "What do you mean by 
 sending for me in such a plague of a hurry ? Are you going 
 to settle with me % 
 
 Chugg. I am going to settle — for you. 
 
 Pugsley. There's rather too large an audience for a trans- 
 action of a delicate nature. Don't you think me and you had 
 better square up in private ? 
 
 Chcgg. No, Pugsley, I do not. Whatever business has to 
 be transacted between you and me must be done in the broad 
 light of day — before the face of my fellow-man. Pugsley, I'll 
 trouble you for that document for which you wanted to 
 extort from me the modest price of ten thousand pounds. 
 
 Pugsley. What document l You're a lunatic. 
 
 Chugg. No, I'm not. I'm much nearer my right senses 
 than I was a week ago, when I was half disposed to stifle the 
 voice of conscience and to become your accomplice in a felony. 
 Tremaine, that man has either about his person or somewhere 
 on these premises, the last will and testament of old Squire 
 Darracott, executed within a fortnight of his death. There ! 
 The murder is out ! I've made myself a pauper, but I never 
 felt happier in my life. 
 
 TuEMAiNE {aside to Chugg). I understand it all — a trick to 
 test the widow. 
 
 Chugg. No, Tremaine, it is no tinck. Yoit are the rightful 
 heir. I am an impostor : but I've only known the truth 
 since Christmas eve. I've tried to be a rascal, Mary, but it 
 wasn't in me. The character didn't fit. Tremaine, my 
 generosity just now was all bosh . The estate is yours — yours, 
 my boy — never was mine for an hour. That villain yonder 
 {pointing to Pugsley) stole your grandfather's last will— a 
 will made months later than that under which I inherited. 
 Lady Skim per, you accepted the addresses of T. Chugg 
 Danacott, Esq., J. P., Lord of the Manor, Custos llotuloruni, 
 &c., &c. Will you allow plain Tom Chugg, tenant farmer, to 
 stand in his shoes 'J 
 
 Lady Skuiper. My dear Mr. — Chugg, my feelings are 
 unchanged, but I am no longer in the bloom of youth. I 
 have a daughter. By the by, where is my daughter ? She 
 left the ice two hours ago with Captain Vandean.
 
 Dross 205 
 
 Tremaink. And they were seen to leave the village by the 
 Exeter express just half an hour afterwards. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Servant. A telerrram for Lady Skimper, Eighteenpence 
 to pay the messenger. 
 
 Lady Skimper (snatchinfj telegram). Some one kindly settle, 
 my purse is upstairs. {Reads) " From Leonora Vandean, 
 Queen's Hotel, Exeter, to Lady Skimper. Have just married 
 Captain Vandean before the Registrar. Kindly forward 
 luggage." This is a blow. Mr. Chugg, I regret your reverse of 
 fortune, but what are your feelings compared with those of a 
 mother ? I must leave by the Exeter express. Please let 
 some of your people get me a carriage. \_Exit Lady Skimper. 
 
 Tremaine. Mr. Pugsley, you will be good enough to give 
 up a document of which you are feloniously possessed, or it 
 will be my painful duty to introduce a police-constable into 
 this peaceful abode. 
 
 Pugsley {ii.nhuttoning his coat and talcing out the will). Tom 
 Chugg, you're a lunatic ! Tom Chugg, you're an idiot 1 I 
 made you a gentleman, but you hadn't the pluck to keep the 
 position. Yah, I'm ashamed of you ! I'll emigrate, and 
 forget that I ever knew such a mean cur. 
 
 Chugg. Stop I What has become of the hundred pounds 
 I gave you on Oiristmas morning in hard cash — eight ten- 
 pound notes and twenty sovereigns out of my cash box. You 
 can't have spent it all on beer. 
 
 Pugsley. No ; I spent some of it on brandy. 
 
 Tremaine. a hundred pounds, had he ? Tlien by heaven 
 he shall disgorge ! Not a sixpence of Darracott money shall 
 go to enrich such a thorough-paced scoundrel. Come, sir ; 
 you've got the cash about you, I'll swear. Turn out your 
 pockets — turn them out, I say, unless you want me to break 
 another hunting whip over your bones. 
 
 [Pugsley rehtctantb/ turns nut his pockets and disgorges cash 
 — soyjie in necktie, some in boots, and some in hat lining. 
 
 Tremaine. Is that all ? 
 
 Pdgsley. Yes — all, except *hree pun' seventeen and six, 
 as I spent at the publics. You've got it all, Cluster Tre- 
 maine. You was always a mark on me from a boy. 
 
 Tremaine. Because I alwavs knew you were a scoundrel. 
 And now, Mr. Pugsley, 3-ou'd better emigrate at your earliest 
 convenience, or you may tind yourself ]>rovided witli airy 
 lodgings on Dartmoor. {Looks at v:ill.) Yes, this is a holo-
 
 206 Under the Red Fhvj 
 
 graph will duly executed, leaving tlie Squire's whole e&tale, 
 real and personal, to his grandson Treniaine. Mr. Chiigg, I 
 am very sorry for you. This document deprives you of 
 evei-y thing. 
 
 Chugo. I am perfectly aware of the fact. Society is no 
 more my glittering bride. I am no longer Lord of the 
 Manor, justice of the Peace, Gustos Rotulorum : but I am 
 an honest man. I can bear the shock. 
 
 Mary {embracing him). Father, dear father, is it all true, 
 then ? 
 
 Chugg. Stern fact, my dear. I am sorry for you, Mary. 
 
 Mary. And I am glad, very glad. I never wanted to be 
 rich ; and now I suppose you won't mind my marrying Dick 1 
 
 CnuGG. No, my dear, you have descended to Richard's 
 level — your father is only a tenant farmer. 
 
 Tremaixk. Stop a bit, there is a second sheet of foolscap 
 here, a codicil, dated three days later, in which the old Squire 
 bequeatlis to his good friend Thomas Chugg all that free- 
 hold land, with homestead and all farm buildings belonging 
 thereunto, known as Hazle Farm ; and the codicil is every 
 bit as sound an instrument as the will. Mr. Chugg, I no 
 longer condole with you, I congratulate you. You are owner 
 of some of the best agricultural land in Devonshire, with 
 building frontages which must be a mine of wealth to your 
 descendants. 
 
 Chugg. And you mean to say that Hazle Farm — three 
 hundred and seventy acres of pasture and arable — is my 
 freehold ? 
 
 Tremaine. Every rood, every perch. 
 
 Chugg. This is the reward of honourable dealing. Betsy, 
 I am a free man — Lady Skimper has renounced me. Will 
 you 1)6 mine — mine and the j)roud mistress of Hazle Farm 1 
 
 Mrs. Hammick. Oh, Tom, this is too much happiness. 
 Can it be real ? 
 
 Chugo. I have loved you all along. I made the discovery 
 just now when we were going to jjart. Tremaine, may you 
 be happy in the halls of your ancestors. Sylvia, God bless 
 you ! As for me, I don't think there is a happier man in 
 Devonshire than ]j]ain Tom (Jhugg. Chugg Darracott was 
 an impostor, but Tom Chugg is true metal ; and as for the 
 wealth which 1 renounced — why, money without content, 
 money without a clear conscience, is only — Dross. 
 
 Tableau and Curtain,
 
 SIR PHILIPS WOOING 
 
 ' Well, sirrali, what is your news of the house to whicli I 
 directed you r asked Sir Philip Stanmore of his servant, as 
 that worthy entered tlie baronet's Iodf,dng, flushed and breath- 
 less as if with hurried Aval king. 'Is the lady I saw at the 
 j)lay last night maid, wife, or widow ? ' 
 
 ' She is the lady of a wealthy gentleman from the country, 
 Sir Philip,' answered the valet, ' Master Humphrey Mar- 
 dyke.' 
 
 ' My cousin Mardyke, as I live ! ' exclaimed the baronet. 
 
 ' Your cousin, sir i ' 
 
 ' Yes, fellow, a cousin I never met, but whose father T knew 
 well enough twenty years ago. I have little cause to love 
 this Humphrey Mardyke, for he inherited a fine old place in 
 Warwickshire, which, but for his existence, might have come 
 to me. And so that lovely girl is my cousin Humphrey's 
 wife ! I saw her but a few minutes, when she removed her 
 mask for coolness ; but I swear I am over head and ears in love 
 with her. Never did I look upon a fairer face. Did you ask 
 all the questions I bade you 1 ' 
 
 'Yes, Sir Philip ; I contrived to scrape acquaintance with 
 Master Mardyke's .servant, a country fellow. The house is 
 only a lodging-house, but the gentleman is rich. They see 
 few visitor.s, and have been only six months married.' 
 
 * Good ; I will call upon my cousin this afternoon.' 
 
 In all the libertine court of Charles Stuart there were few 
 men more deeply ilycd in sin than Philip Stannmre. He had 
 begun life with every advantage, but had wasted his substance 
 amongst the most profligate men of the day, and now lived 
 chiefly by his protits at the gaming-table, and by the victimi- 
 sation of younger men fresh from the ]n'ovinces, wh<i, in their 
 ignorance of court and town, regarded the accon>plished 
 bai"ouet as the arbiter of taste and fashion. He had spent a
 
 £03 Under the Red Flag 
 
 handsome fortune, and had yet the reputation of the wealth 
 that lie had wasted. At thirty-seven years of age he had 
 learned the sharper's wisdom, and contrived to hoodwink his 
 friends and creditors as to the real state of his purse. Sir 
 Philip had never married ; but the time had now come in 
 which he felt the necessity cf pome hap))y stroke in the 
 matrimonial market. He was still an eminently handsome 
 man, and on the strength of an occasional epigram and a few 
 graceful love-songs modelled upon the verses of Dorset and 
 Rochester, and popular among the beauties of the court, he 
 enjoyed the reputation of a very pretty wit and poet. 
 Trading upon these gifts, it must go hard with him if 
 he failed to fascinate some wealthy maid or widow. But 
 in the meantime Sir Philip was so ardent an admirer of 
 beauty as to be won by the first glance of a lovely face, and 
 so firm a believer in his own powers of conquest that he 
 fancied he had only to secure access to the fair stranger whose 
 charms had attracted his bold roving gaze in the crowded play- 
 house in order to obtain her good graces. His surprise on 
 finding the name of the lady was very great, and not altogether 
 unjileasant. 
 
 ' Humphrey Mardyke,' he muttered, as he paced the room to 
 and fro when his servant had left him, 'Humphrey Mardyke, 
 that smooth favourite of fortune, whom my rich uncle chose 
 for his heir for love of a wdmau who had jilted him to marry 
 the lad's father ! Was there ever such a reason for favouritism ? 
 And so that lovely creature is the wife of my country cousin, 
 — a woman born to adorn a court. I will call upon these 
 newly-found lelations without an hour's dela}'.' 
 
 The baronet put on his plumed hat, and then paused to 
 contemplate himself thoughtfully in the glass before leaving 
 his lodgiugg. 
 
 'The crow's-feet begin to show, Phil,' he said to himself ; 
 ' 'tis time thou wert promoted to the holy state of matrimony, 
 couldst thou but find an oliject worthy so great a sacrifice.' 
 
 He strolled slowly down tlie staircase and out into the street, 
 where he gave many a careless greeting to acquaintance as he 
 made his way to the neighbourhood of Covent-garden, in 
 which locality his kinsman's lodging was situated. 
 
 Master Mardyke was out, the servant told him, but his 
 lady was within, and alone. 
 
 Sir Philip was in nowise displeased to avail himself of this 
 opportunity. He bade the man announce his name, and 
 followed so swiftly on the lacquey's heels that Mistress Mar- 
 dyke had no time to decline his visit.
 
 Sir Philip's Wooing Q09 
 
 He introduced himself with a perfect grace that went far 
 to get the hidy at her ea.se. The lovely face that had caught 
 hi.s attention in the playhouse appeared to him still more 
 ench.mting in the broad light of day, and the girlish timidity 
 of manner, which testilied to the young wife's provincial 
 rearing, seemed to him only to enhance the charm of her 
 youtlif id beauty. lie set to work at once to ingratiate himself 
 into her favour by his lively description of town life and 
 town pleasures, of which she was completely ignorant. 
 
 * I cannot get my husband to take any interest in London,' 
 she said. ' He is always sighing for Ilulmwood and his rural 
 occupations.' 
 
 * He is an ardent sportsman, I presume ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied the lady with a sigh ; ' he hunts from 
 October to April, and in summer-time is occupied wholly with 
 the cai-e of his farms.' 
 
 'A dull life for you, madam.' 
 
 To this proposition Constance Mardyke was fain to assent ; 
 but she hastened to declare that Humphrey was the most 
 indulgent of husbands, and that it ill became her to be dis- 
 contented. 
 
 M ister Mardyke came in while his wife was praising him, 
 and on Sir Philip introducing himself as a kinsman, gave that 
 gentleman a hearty welcome to his lodgings. 
 
 ' It is vastly kind in you to seek us out, cousin, all things 
 considered,' he said. ' I feared my Uncle Antony's will 
 might have set you against me ; but I see you are too generous 
 to grudge me the favour which habits and neighbourhood won 
 for me from the old man, while you were following his 
 majesty's fortunes abroad.' 
 
 On this they shook hands a second time, and the baronet 
 offered to introduce Lis kinsman to society which would 
 make London [)leasant to hiiu during his sojourn. 
 
 ' 'Tis but a desert at best, unless one knows the right 
 people,' said Sir Philip. ' You must dine with me at half jxist 
 twelve, cousin Mardyke — a mere bachelor's dinner ; and in 
 the evening we will escort your lady to some pleasure-gardens, 
 where she will see the beauties of the court. She will tind 
 their graces but faded and artificial beside her own fresh 
 loveliness,' he added with a low bow. 
 
 After some slight hesitation, Humphrey Mardyke 
 accepted his cousin's invitation ; and from this time the 
 baronet scarce allowed a day to pass without showing some 
 attention to the country gentleman and his wife. He coa-
 
 210 Under the Red Flag 
 
 trived to make Limself equally agreeable to both. Before 
 a month had passed, Humphrey had learned to take pleasure 
 in all the dissipations of his cousin's proliigate existence ; 
 while Constance had fallen into a fatal habit of making com- 
 parisons between her husband's counti'y-bred jjlainness of 
 speech and manner, and the subtle charm of Sir Philip Stan- 
 m ore's discourse, which flattered without seeming to flattei-. 
 She would have recoiled with horror from the idea that thid 
 man was more to her than any acquaintance should be to a 
 mai'ried woman, yet she found the hours between his visits 
 long and heavy ; and as the time drew near for the return to 
 "Warwickshire, she looked forward with supreme dislike to 
 the dulness of her country home. 
 
 The time came at last, however, when the return journey 
 could no longer be delayed. The London visit had cost 
 Uumphrey a yeai's income ; for he had lost considerable 
 sums to Sir Phdip at cards, and bad paid heavy scores for 
 tavern su|)ptrs given to that gentleman and his boisterous, 
 hard-drinking Iriends. Nor was this the only objection to 
 London dissipation. Constance Mardyke was beginning to 
 lose the freshness of her beauty in the feverish atmosphere 
 of pleasure-gardens and jjla^houses. Her spirits were titful, 
 her nights sleepless, and Jier manner was altogether changed 
 from Its girlish gaiety to the weary, languid listlessuess of a 
 woman of fashion. 
 
 It was in vain that Sir Philip entreated his cousin to re- 
 main longer in London. The liunting season Avas close at 
 hand, and Humphrey was obstinate. 
 
 ' You must spend your Christmas at Holmwood, Philip,' 
 he said, cordially ; but Constance did not second the invita- 
 tion. She stood a little way apart, yet the baronet saw she 
 waited anxiously for his reply. 
 
 He made the answer a doubtful one. He had so many 
 invitations for Christmas ; but, if pos-sible, would spend a 
 few nights at his cousin's house. 
 
 ' I should like to see Holmwood once more,' he said. ' I 
 was there when a boy, and well remember the tine old place, 
 which my father was foolisli enough to tell me might be my 
 own some day. L>o not think i envy your ownership, 
 Humphrey. \'ou make a better squire than I should have 
 done.' 
 
 With this they parted : with much cordiality between the 
 two men — with a reserve that was almost coldness on the 
 part of Constance. Her hand trembled faintly as she gave
 
 Sir Philip's Woohvj 211 
 
 it to Sir Philip, and the one piercing glance which he shot 
 into her eyes as she raised them timidly to his face told him 
 that his tactics had been aiiccessful. lie had played his 
 carild witli supremo caution, taking care that no word of his 
 should otiend the wife's modesty, or give her an excuse for 
 banishing him from her presence. By ev-ery assiduous atten- 
 tion he liail made his friendship valuable to her, and he 
 trusted to the future to recompense him for the trouble he 
 had taken. 
 
 Christmas drew near, after an interval that had seemed 
 long and dreary to Constance Mardyke, fair as was the 
 home to which she and her husband returned when they left 
 London. To Humphrey the autumn months had brought 
 ])lea3aiit occupation ; and he fancied the simple course of 
 their country life must needs be as agreeable to Constance as 
 it was to himself ; especially as she made no complaint of the 
 dulness of her existence, and indeed contrived to assume an 
 air of gaiety in his ))resence which beguiled him into a com- 
 plete belief in her happiness. She was no skilled hypocrite, 
 but a secret consciousness of her own sinful folly had taught 
 her artifice. The pain of parting with Pliilii) Stanmore had 
 awakened her to tlie shameful truth. It was not as a common 
 acquaintance that she had learned to take pleasure iu his 
 society. Unconsciously she had allowed his intluence to be- 
 come paramount in her mind, to the utter destruction of her 
 liaj)piiiess. 
 
 As Christinas approachetl, she was tortured by suspense ; 
 now hoping for his coming, now praying that he might not 
 come. 
 
 ' What good cxw arise from his visit ? ' she asked herself ; 
 ' the place will seem only drearier when he is gone.' 
 
 But however she might argue with herself, the secret feel- 
 ing of her heart was an ardent desire to see Philip Stanmore 
 again ; and when his horse trotted up to the gothic porch 
 of Holmwood House one tine December afternoon, it seenud 
 to her as if dulness and sorrow vanished before the coming of 
 that expected guest. 
 
 He came quite alone, unattended by his servant, who 
 knew a little too much of his mastei-'s life to be safely trusted 
 in a country house, where his tongue might have been fatally 
 busy to the baronet's detriment. 
 
 Sir Philip was not a hunting man, and his mornings were 
 given wholly to the society of his hostess. Humphrey had
 
 ^12 Under the Red Flag 
 
 a perfect confidence in his wife, and knew no thought of 
 jealousy. The baronet was, moreover, ten years his senior, 
 and the simple country gentleman had no idea of the 
 insidious power that lurks in the conversation of an accom- 
 plished courtier and diplomatist. 
 
 Left thus to their own resources, it was not long before 
 the acquaintance between Sir Philip Stanmore and Constance 
 Mardyke ripened into something more than friendship. Sir 
 Philip knew himself to be beloved, and after a prudential 
 delay ventured to reveal his i^assion. The avowal came 
 when his victim's entanglement made her too weak even 
 to assume indignation, and she could only im})lore him to be 
 silent and to leave her. 
 
 ' It was an evil hour in which we met,' she said. * You 
 know not how much I owe my husband for his disinterested 
 affection. I was a penniless girl when he chose me for his 
 wife, and from that hour to this have known nothing but the 
 most indulgent kindness at his hands.' 
 
 Sir Philip responded to this speech by a lamentation of his 
 own un worthiness, and an expression of his warm regard for 
 Humphrey. He i:)retended that his avowal had escaped him 
 against his own will, talked of a hopeless love which asked 
 no reward from its object, and promised to offend no more. 
 
 ' Forget what I have told you,' he said, imploringly. 
 ' Your friendship is more to me than the love of other 
 women. Trust me, Constance, and I will try to prove 
 myself worthy of that friendship.' 
 
 Eeassured by this declaration, Constance no longer urged 
 the curtailment of Sir Philip's visit ; nor did he again offend 
 her by any allusion to his guilty passion. The days passed 
 rapidly in the dangerous pleasure of his society, while the 
 evenings were rendered profitable to him by games at cards, 
 in which his superior skill generally made him a winner. 
 Humphrey could afford to lose, and lost with a good grace, 
 little knowing how welcome his coin was to the empty 
 pockets of his elegant kinsman. The simple-minded country 
 gentleman had a perfect belief in his cousin's friendshij^, and 
 gave him his entire confidence upon every subject. 
 
 ' Yes,' he said once, when Sir Philip had been congratu- 
 lating him on his good fortune, 'there are few finer estates 
 than Holmwood ; and shouUl anything happen to me in the 
 hunting-field, my widow will be one of the richest women in 
 the county.' 
 
 * What, are you so prudent as to have made your will 
 already, cousin ? '
 
 Sir Philip*s Wooiivj 213 
 
 ' I made it a month after my marriage. A hunting-mau 
 had need be prepared for the worst. In default of a son, my 
 wife will inherit every acre and every sixpence I possess.' 
 
 Sir Philip had been artfully leading the convei'sation to this 
 very point. Much as he admired, nay, after his own fashion, 
 loved Constance Mardyke, it was far from his thoughts to 
 eucumber himself with a runaway wife, a penniless woman, 
 whose dishonoured career would Ije a burden to himself in 
 the future. Very different would be his prospects should 
 some accident remove the owner of Holmwood from his 
 path. 
 
 Once assured that the estate was secure to Constance in the 
 event of her husband's death. Sir Philip gave himself uj) to 
 guilty dreams and guilty wishes ; and if a wish could have 
 killed Humphrey ilai'dyke, that gentleman would not have 
 had long to live. 
 
 With Christmas came other'guests to Holmwood : Constance 
 Mardyke's father, a gray-haired country parson, a squire 
 and his wife with a cou])le of pretty daughters, from their 
 home at some twenty milts distance, and a young man called 
 Basil Hungerford, a liachelor cousin of Humphrey's. To 
 these guests Sir Philip contrived to make himself intinitely 
 agreeable ; and the festival season passed with much mirth 
 and joviality on the part of all except the hostess, whose 
 guilty conscience weighed heavily upon her amidst these 
 simple domestic pleasures. On New Ycar's-day theie was to 
 be a great meet and hunting-breakfast at a Ducal mansion 
 house thirty miles from Holmwood, and Humphrey Mardyke 
 had given his promise to be present at the breakfast as 
 well as in the hunting-tield. This would oblige him to leave 
 home on the ]n-evious day ; and on hearing this Sir Philip 
 declared his intention to depart at the same time. 
 
 ' I came here from Lord Scarsdale's,' he said. ' His place 
 is but fifteen miles distant, as you know, and my road will be 
 with yours for ten miles of the way. We can go together, 
 cousin. I promised Scarsdale to return long before this ; but 
 you have made my visit so agreealile, it is hard to tear myself 
 away.' 
 
 Sir Philip and his host sot out together on the appointed 
 morning, accomjianied by Basil Hungerford. Constance came 
 to the porch to bid her husband and guests good-bye. SIip 
 was Looking paler llian usual, and strangely careworn, as it 
 seemed to her husband, who looked at her anxiously as he 
 beni down from his saddle to give her his farewell kiss.
 
 214 Under the Red Flag 
 
 ' Why, you are as pale as a gliost, mistress,' lie said ; 
 ' what is amiss? ' 
 
 She assured him, in hurried accents, that there was 
 nothing amiss ; she was only a little tired. 
 
 Sir Phihp Stanmore was the last to bid her good-bye, and 
 as he did so he contrived to slip a letter secretly into her 
 hand. Had she been inclined to reject the missive, she could 
 not have done so without at once betraying herself and her 
 lover ; but she had indeed little inclination to decline this 
 first letter which she had ever received from him. As the 
 horses trotted gaily down the a\-euue leading to the park gates, 
 she hurried to her room to read the baronet's communication 
 at her leisure. 
 
 It was a passionate love-letter, in which the writer dwelt 
 despairingly on the agony of this parting, deploring in elo- 
 quent words the fate that severed him from the only w^oman 
 he had ever truly loved. "Weakly, fondly, Constance dwelt 
 upon these passionate w^ords, and her tears fell fast upon the 
 letter before she folded it and hid it in the bosom of her dress. 
 For two days she was to be alone ; ample leisure in which to 
 brood upon a missive that seemed to her like a first love-letter. 
 Humphrey had written to her but seldom before their mai'- 
 riage, and his epistles were very poor and schoolboy-like 
 when compared with the composition of the courtly wit and 
 rhymester. 
 
 Throughout those two long days of solitude Constance 
 ISIardyke was haunted by thoughts of the man who had won 
 her heart from the path of duty. Vainly did she endeavour 
 to banish his imai^e from her mind. He had taken too com- 
 ]>lete a possession of her soft yielding nature, and happiness 
 in a life-long separation from him seemed impossible to her. 
 
 The day appointed for the hunt was wet and stormy, 
 and she roamed listlessly through the empty rooms, listening 
 to the rain beating against the windows, and towards evening 
 trying to distinguish the sound of horses hoofs in the avenue. 
 But night closed in, and her husband did not return. She sat 
 up late waiting for him, but at midnight he had not arrived. 
 
 ' He will come to-morrow, no doubt,' she said, as she dis- 
 missed the servants and retired to her own room. Strange 
 dreams haunted her that night — dreams with which the sound 
 of the falling rain mingled dismally. She fancied that she 
 was walking with her husband through the rain and darkness 
 upon the road by which he must needs return ; but although 
 they seemed to walk rapidly, they could make no progress.
 
 Sir riiiUpn Wouinrj 215 
 
 One particular turn of the road, with three gaunt poplars 
 growing? on one side, ami on the other some pollard willowd 
 shading a stagnant pool, a spot »he remembered well, was 
 always before her in that weary, nightmare-like dream. 
 
 She woke in the morning, unrefreshed and low-si)irited, to 
 drag through another day. It waa growing towards dusk, 
 when she rose with a sense of weariness from her tapestry- 
 frame, and opened the cabinet in which she liad hidden Sir 
 Philip's letter. An idle fancy had seized her to read it once 
 more before her hut^band's return ; and then she miglit perhaps 
 bring herself to destroy the precious document. She opened 
 the door of the cabinet, took out the letter, and began to re- 
 j>eruse the lines that were already but too familiar to her. 
 As she read the first words, a faint sound near at hand, like a 
 half-suppressed sigh, startled her. She looked up suddeidy, 
 clutching the guilty letter to her breast, and in a mirror 
 opposite the open door she saw the reflection of her husband's 
 face. He was standing on the threshold. She turned, in 
 supreme confusion, to meet him. He stood within the door- 
 way, his countenance, as it seemed to her, gravely rejiroachful; 
 but before she could utter a word, the familiar figure melted 
 into thin air. She hurried to the landing place outside the 
 door, but there wa.s no living creature there. The thing which 
 she had seen was a shadow. Slie fell at the foot of the great 
 staircase in a dead swoon, and it was not till an hour after- 
 wards that her maid fovind her there, with Sir Philip's letter 
 clasped in her hand. Her first thought on recovering con- 
 sciousness was a fear lest this letter should have been seen : 
 but through<nit her swoon she had clutched the crumpled 
 paper in the palm of her clasped hand. 
 
 ' Has my husljand come home ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' No, madam.' 
 
 ' You are quite sure 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes, indeed, madam,' the girl answered, with surprise. 
 
 That night passed, and there were no tidings of Humphrey 
 Mardyke, although his c'room, who brought home the horae 
 on which his master had hunted, said he had expected to find 
 him at home. 
 
 'He left "Wetherby before T did,' said the man, * but I 
 believe he had some notion of breaking the journey at Scars- 
 dale Castle. T heard Sir Philip Stanmore give him the 
 invitation to lie there for a night as they parted comj^auy at 
 the cross-roads on Monday last.' 
 
 This seemed likely enough, and the prolonged absence of
 
 216 Undcf the Red Flag 
 
 the master gave no uneasiness to the household at llolmwood, 
 though Constance could not banish the memory of that pale, 
 shadowy figure, so like and yet so different fiom life, -which 
 she had seen in tlie twilight. To the servants she had not 
 dared to mention this figure, believing it an emanation of her 
 own guilty mind, and fearing their ridicule of 1 er folly, or 
 possibly their susjiicion of her sin. She waited anxiously for 
 her husband's return, resolved to welcome him with affection, 
 and fo struggle with all her might against her fatal regard 
 for Sir Philip. Unhappily, the opportunity to fulfil this 
 penitent resolve was not to be afforded to her. Next day 
 passed without any tidings of the absent ; and on the following 
 evening there came the news of her husband's murder. He 
 had been found, shot through the heart, lying on the brink 
 of the stagnant pool, at that very spot which she had seen in 
 her dream. 
 
 The country was up in arms to discover the doer of this 
 evil deed. Humplirey Mardyke had been as jjopular as he 
 was wealthy, and people were eager to see his assassin brought 
 to justice. Lord Scarsdale was one of the witnesses at the 
 inqiiest. He described how his guest had left him at noon, 
 intending to ride straight home. He had another guest, who 
 left him at the same hour ; but the roads of the two men lay 
 in opposite directions, for Sir Philip Stanmore was to ride to 
 a town twenty miles distant from Scarsdale on the London 
 road, there to join a coach that plied to and fro the metropolis. 
 
 This was all Lord Scarsdale could tell. He had seen the 
 two gentlemen part company at the lodge-gates, and had 
 then returned to his house. 
 
 The inquest was brief, and threw little light upon the 
 circinnstances under which Humphrey Mardyke had met his 
 death. His pockets had been emptied of their contents by 
 hasty hands, for they were found turned inside out. His 
 horse was discovered loose in a field some distance from the 
 scene of the murder, and the state of his mud-stained 
 garments gave evidence to the fact that the fatal shot had 
 been fired while he was still in the saddle. "Who could doubt 
 that the deed was the work of some highway robber 1 
 Humphrey Mardyke had not an enemy in the world ; and 
 what personal motive could prompt so vile an assassination 
 except the vulgar greed of grain 1 A large reward Avas 
 offered for the apprehension of the murderer ; but days and 
 weeks went by, and no information was brought to Holm- 
 wood, or to the little country town where the inquest had
 
 Sir Philijj's Wooing 217 
 
 been held. News was slow to travel in those days, and 
 three weeks elapsed before Constance received a letter of 
 condolence from Sir Philip Stanmore — a letter in which he 
 dwelt with generous warmth upon the merits of the deceased, 
 and delicately forbore from any alliisicii to his pas.^ion for 
 her who was now free to return his affection. Weak and 
 wicked as she had been, Constance Mard}ke lamented her 
 husband's untimely fate with genuine grief. The thought of 
 her own guilty preference for another man filled her with 
 self-reproach, and now that it was too late to atone for her 
 error, that error seemed doubly base. She was not, however, 
 ■sulfered to mourn long in her country solitude. Within two 
 months of her husband's death Sir Philip paid another visit 
 to Holmwood, riding over from his friend Lord Scarsdale's 
 as on the previous occasion, in order to give a kind of acci* 
 dental appearance to his ccming. 
 
 He hail not been many hours at Holmwood before he 
 assumed the speech and bearing of a lover, nor did he fail to 
 win the widowed girl from her ])enitential grief. In the 
 presence of the observant old butler he was, however, care- 
 fully ceremonious. It was too early yet to show his cards, 
 except to the weak girl, of whose heart and mind he had long 
 ago made himself master. A faint flash of triumph brightened 
 his eyes every time he glanced round the noble rooms, or 
 towards the wide expanse of park and wood before the old 
 Tudor windows. The only obstacle to his possession of this 
 l>lace and all its belongings had been removed from his path- 
 way. _ He knew that he had but to wait a titting time in which 
 to claim the widow and her fortune, nor did he leave Holm- 
 wood until he had made Constance promise two things : first, 
 that she would come shortly to London, where change of air 
 and scene would help to banish the haunting memory of the 
 dead ; and secondly, that she would become Lady Stanmore 
 as soon as a decent period of mourning had elajised. While 
 talking of her dead husband she had told Sir Philip, some- 
 what reluctantly, of the strange vision she had seen on the 
 threshold of her bed-chamber. Put this a])parition he 
 riiliculed as the work of a distempered fancy. 
 
 'It is little wonder for you to see ghosts in the solitude of 
 this dull old house,' he said ; and it was ujion this that he 
 persuaded her to consent to a sojourn in town. 
 
 Once in London, remote from village gossips, he knew that 
 it would be easy for him to hasten the marriage which 
 would make him master of Humphrey's noble estate; and
 
 218 Under the Red Flag 
 
 he had pressing need that this change should take place 
 speedily, as his finances were at the lowest ebb. 
 
 His hopes were not disappointed. Constance Mardjke 
 came to London accompanied only by her faithful serving 
 woman. She occupied the lodging* in which she had lived 
 with her husband during the previous year, and being utterly 
 ignorant of all business matters, and without friends in the 
 metropolis, she very soon allowed Sir Philip to assume the 
 management and to obtain the complete control of her affairs. 
 No suspicion of mercenary motives on his side had ever 
 entered her mind ,: she supposed him to be as wealthy as he 
 was fashionable, a delusion which he took good care to sustain. 
 He thus became, even before his marriage with the widow, 
 absolute master of Humphrey Mardyke's fortune. 
 
 Sir Philip was not, however, less eager for the celebration 
 of the marriage, and at the close of the summer Constance 
 consented to become his wife. They started for Holmwood 
 almost immediately after the marriage ceremony, the bride- 
 groom secretly eager to inspect the estate which was now his 
 own. He found it even wider in extent than he had hoped, 
 and was much gratified by the reception he met with among 
 the tenantry,who were fascinated by his easy, affable manners, 
 and somewhat inclined to prefer him to the late lord of the 
 soil, as a more friendly and familiar personage from whom 
 greater favours might be expected. 
 
 For some months the novel duties and occupations of his 
 position made life tolerably agreeable to the baronet ; but he 
 was a man of restless nature and long habits of dissijjation. 
 The time came when he grew weary of Holmwooel ; weary 
 too of his wife's society, as it seemed to Constance, who kept 
 a close watch on the changes of her husband's countenance. 
 Tne accomplished courtier, who had been so devoted as a 
 lover, was now often moody and absent-minded, and when 
 his wife questioned him with tender anxiety, was sorely 
 puzzled to account for his gloom. 
 
 ' Nay, Constance, few men who think at all ai'e without 
 some subject for dark thoughts,' he said impatiently. ' You 
 must not Avatch me so closely by day and night. The truth 
 of the matter is, Holmwood is too dull a residence for a man 
 wlio has spent his life in the society of a court. We must live 
 in London if you would see me cheerful. There is a funereal 
 atmosphere in this place, as if it were haunted by the 
 shadows of every master who ever inhabited it in the j^ast.' 
 
 'What, Philip, have you seen a ghost?' 
 
 ' No, Constance, I am too much a man of the world for 
 that ; but the dulness of the place gives me bad dreams,'
 
 sir Fhilii/s Woumy 219 
 
 * Yes, I have heard you cry out in your sleep,' answered 
 his wife thouL,'htfully. 
 
 ' Indeed ! Have I uttered words that you could dLs- 
 tiiiguish 1 ' 
 
 ' Not often. Once you spoke of the place where they 
 found my husband. " Under the willows by that black 
 stagnant pool ! " you cried. Strange, is it not, that the place 
 should haunt you in your dreams, as it haunted me on the 
 night before the murder ? ' 
 
 Sir Philip's brow darkened in gloomy thought, but he 
 made no reply to his wife's speech. He left her presently to 
 ride alone, and an idle fancy took him to the spot of which 
 she had spoken — the bend in the road where three tall 
 ])oplars stood out black agaiust the winter sky, and where 
 the pollard willows bent their weird trunks across a shallow 
 stagnant pool. Tie looked at the place for some minutes, 
 lost in thought, and then turned and galloped home again, 
 as if the foul tiend had been behind him. 
 
 From this time he daily became more restless in his habits 
 and more gloomy in his temper. The wealth that he had won 
 for himself could not give him happiness. His wife's beauty 
 had no longer power to charm the tickle mind that had ever 
 sought new conquests ; nor was her gentle, yielding nature 
 calculated to maintain ascendency over his fitful soul. He 
 had determined to go to London soon after the beginning of 
 the new year, and if possible to go there alone. 
 
 On the anniversary of the night on which the shadow of 
 Humphrey Mardyke had appeared to his wife, it came again, 
 but this time to the new master of Hohnwood, who met the 
 ghostly form of his dead rival in the corridor upon which his 
 bedchamber opened. Again it was in tlie early twilight that 
 the vision ajjpeared, pale, grave, reproachful of aspect, with 
 fixed eyes and solemn motion ; and again Sir Philip tried to 
 convince himself, as he had tried to convince Constance, that 
 the figure was but the emanation of a disordered brain. He 
 did not succeed in this attempt, however. Men were prone 
 to superstition in those days ; and the baronet was inclined to 
 regard this spectral visit as an omen of his own untimely death. 
 
 He was on the point of starting for London next day, after 
 declaring that he would not spentl another night in that 
 accursed house, when a couple of messengers came from the 
 nearest town to recjuest his immediate presence there. Some- 
 thing had transpired whicli promised to throw light upon the
 
 220 Under the Red Flag 
 
 circumstances of Humphrey Mardyke's assassination, and 
 the county magistrate wanted the attendance of Sir Philip 
 and Lady Stanmore — the latter to identify some property 
 which was supposed to have belonged to her first husband. 
 
 The baronets face grew ghastly pale as one of the men 
 stated their errand. He was at first inclined to resist the 
 summons on the plea of liis journey to London ; but the elder 
 of the two men declared the magistrate's ordei's to be impera- 
 tive. They were not to leave Holmwood without Sir Philijs ; 
 and Lady Stanmore was to follow immediately, in her coach 
 or on horseback, as might be most convenient to herself. 
 
 'It is not a four miles' ride,' said the man, with grim 
 politeness, as Sir Philip and he rode abreast along the 
 avenue. The baronet said nothing. This sj^ecies of summons 
 was strangely like an arrest ; bnt any attempt at resistance 
 would have been worse than useless. He saw that both 
 men were fully armed, and that their horses were as good as 
 his own. 
 
 Arrived at the town, he was conducted at once to the chief 
 inn, where he found one of the county magistrates, Lord 
 Scarsdale, and some other gentlemen seated in the principal 
 room awaiting his coming. 
 
 The magistrate received him with stately looliteness ; but 
 his familiar friend. Lord Scarsdale, saluted him coldly, and 
 scarce touched the hand which he offered. 
 
 ' You were not jiresent at the inquest held on the remains 
 of Mr. Humphrey Mardyke, I believe. Sir Philip Stanmore]' 
 said the magistrate. 
 
 'I was not. I was in London at the time, and did not 
 even know of my friend's unhappy fate. Nor should I 
 have been able to offer any evidence had I been present at 
 the inquest.' 
 
 'Indeed! You were in London at the time. Can you 
 swear to having reached London on the fourth of January 
 in last year I ' 
 
 ' Certainly, if there is any occasion for my taking an oath 
 on the subject, which I cannot myself apprehend. Lord 
 Scarsdale is aware that I left his house at noon on the third 
 of the month, with the avowed intention of riding to 
 Gorsham, on the London road, there to join the mailcoach.' 
 
 "And you never saw Mr. Mardyke after bidding him good- 
 bye at Scarsdale gates ? ' 
 
 ' Never. Our ways lay separate from the moment of 
 leaving the gates.'
 
 Sir Philip's Wooing 221 
 
 'And how about your horse, Sir Philip — what became of 
 hiru when you joined the coach ? ' 
 
 • I left him at the inn at Gorsham, to be brought up to 
 London by a packhorse driver next day.' 
 
 ' Will you swear that you were not in Ha\"erfield village 
 on the night of the third of January, several hours after the 
 mail coach left Gorsham, and that you did not there exchange 
 a broken-knee'd horse and a gold watch for a sound 
 animal ? ' 
 
 Sir Philip started and grew deadly pale. 
 
 " I was never in any place called Ilaverfield in my life, 
 that I am aware of,' he said, ' nor did I ever make such a 
 bargain as that you speak of.' 
 
 " Indeed !' replied the magistrate. ' Then, Lord Scarsdale's 
 groom must be mistaken as to the identity of a horse which 
 was offered for sale here in yesterday's market, and which he 
 swore to be yours— a bay gelding, with a white streak on 
 one side of the face. Did you ever own such a horse, Sir 
 Philip ? ' 
 
 'Nay,' interposed Lord Scarsdalc, while the baronet 
 hesitated, ' he cannot deny that the hoise was once his. I 
 remember the animal j)erfectly, and will swear to the watch 
 as Humphrey Mardyke's.' 
 
 'The watch 1' gasped Sir Philip. 
 
 'Yes,' rejjlied the magistrate, producing a massive gold 
 watch. • On being questioned, the man who offered the horse 
 for sale declared himself to be an innkeeper at Ilaverfield. 
 He received this watch and a broken-knee'd horse from a 
 traveller who took shelter at his house on the night of the 
 third of January, after having broken his horse's knees in 
 the attempt to jump a fivebarred gate that divided a short 
 cut across fields from the main road. The man exchanged 
 a good horse of his own for the injured animal and this 
 watch, which he was wearing yesterday. His account of 
 the circumstance seemed thoroughly honest, and his 
 voluntary description of the traveller tallies in every respect 
 with your appearance. You will scarcely be surprised, there- 
 fore. Sir Philip, that I considered it my duty to order your 
 arrest, under the suspicion of being a ])arty to the death of 
 Lady Stanmore's first husband.' 
 
 ' The story is a tissue of lies,' cried the baronet, ' a 
 conspiracy.' 
 
 ' In that case you can have no objection to see the man who 
 offered the horse for sale, and whom we found wearing this
 
 222 Under tU Red Flag 
 
 watch,' answered the magistrate ; and at a nod from him a 
 respectable-looking countiyman was brought into the room. 
 
 He swore immediately to the identity of Sir Philip 
 Stanmore with the traveller who had taken shelter at his 
 house, drenched to the skin, and worn out with a cross- 
 country ride on the night of the third of January. His 
 evidence was perfectly clear and straightforward, and no 
 questioning of Sir Philip's could shake his statements. Lady 
 Stanmore had now arrived, and on being shown the watch, 
 at once recognised it as her late husband's property. She had 
 yet to learn the awful inference to be drawn from the manner 
 of its recovery. 
 
 ' If you are indeed unconcerned in this business, it will be 
 easy for you to prove an alibi, Sir Philip,' said the magistrate ; 
 ' but in the meantime you must consider yourself under 
 arrest, and I shall be compelled to order your removal to the 
 town gaol, there to await your trial at the next assizes.' 
 
 Constance uttered a cry of horror on hearing this, and sank, 
 lialf-faiuting, into the chair that had been placed for her. Sir 
 Philip had by this time recovered his usual self-possession. 
 He protested against his arrest as an infamous and prepos- 
 terous proceeding. 
 
 ' In all probability this man is himself the assassin,' he 
 said. 
 
 ' We have the evidence of Lord Scarsdale and his groom 
 as to the identity of the horse. Sir Pliilip. It is that which 
 justifies your arrest.' 
 
 ' And 1 have twenty people at command who will swear 
 that I was at home at Haverlield all through the day of the 
 murder,' said the innkeeper. 
 
 Sir Philip Stanmore was removed to the town gaol, after 
 having been compelled to surrender his sword and travelling 
 pistols. He parted tenderly from his wife, who believed him 
 the victim of some fatal error, and who would fain have 
 accompanied him to his ])iison. This he forbade, and departed 
 between his gaolers in haughty silence, after giving his wife 
 the aildress of a London lawyer whom she was to summon 
 immediately to his aid. A month would elapse before the 
 assizes, and if the baronet were indeed as innocent as he pro- 
 tested himself to be, there could be no great difficulty in 
 proving the fact of his journey to London. It was impossible 
 for him to have reached London on the foui-th, if he had been 
 at Haverfield at the time sworn to by the innkeeper. 
 
 He was not destined again to face his accusers. His health,
 
 Sir PhiUji's Wooing 223 
 
 which had been in a declining state ever since his coming to 
 Holmwood, broke down completely under the misery of his 
 position, and an attack of gaol-fever brought him to a grave 
 at least less shameful tliau that which would have awaited 
 him as a condemned murderer. Uu the night before his death 
 he sent for his wife, and to her ears alone confessed his crime. 
 He had turned his horse's head about immediately after 
 leaving Searsdale gates, had ritlden across a common that 
 skirted Humphrey's road home, and had overtaken him by 
 the three poplai's, where he shot him through the heart with- 
 out a moment's parley. He sto]ij)ed to ritle his victim's 
 pockets, in order that the act might seem that of a highway 
 robber, and had then ridden off across country, reckless whicli 
 way he went in the great horror and agony that came upon 
 him after the commission of tl;e crime. At Haverfteld, finding 
 his horse completely lime, and having very little money, he 
 had been compelled to offer the dead man's watch as a tempta- 
 tion to the landlord, who, seeing the traveller's distress, drove 
 a hard bargain for his own animal. 
 
 ' It was for your sake I did the deed, Constance,' he said ; 
 and the unhappy woman believed him. ' There was only his 
 life between us. I knew that you loved me, and in the last 
 half-hour before I left Searsdale, I came to the desperate 
 resolve that resulted in your husband's death. The act was 
 as mad as it was wicked, and I can truly swear that I have 
 never known an hour's peace of mind since it was done.' 
 
 He died at daybreak ; ami Constance leturned broken- 
 hearted to Holmwood, there to lead a life of solitude and 
 repentant sorrow for a few- years, at the end of which time 
 she fell into a decline and died, leaving the tine old place to 
 fall into the hands of her first husband's distant relations, 
 who came from a northern shire to take possession of the 
 estate, and who were never troubled in their occupancy by 
 the shadow of ITuni])hrey Mardyke.
 
 DOROTHY'S EIVAL 
 
 'I am more and more convinced that none escape being 
 evil spoken of but those who deserve not to escape it.' — Charles 
 Wesley. 
 
 In the days when the thunder of Whitfield's voice had but 
 newly resounded above the crowd at Moorfields, Mr. William 
 Bolton, a simple country parson of the Established Church, 
 lived very happily with his only daughter, Dorothy, on the 
 outskirts of Hammersley. 
 
 The parsonage was a comfortable red-brick house, very 
 square and very uninteresting from a picturesque point of 
 view. It stood a little way back from the high coach road to 
 London, with an orchard on one side, and on the other a 
 common cottage garden, with two long flower-beds and a 
 broad gravel-path, and vegetables growing in the middle 
 distance, and espaliers in tlie background. All the roads 
 were London roads in those days ; and people lived and died 
 on the London road without ever seeing the metropolis, 
 which figured, glorious and radiant, in their day-dreams : an 
 enchanted city — not actually paved with gold, but altogether 
 marvellous and beautiful. 
 
 To Dorothy Bolton the square red house, the orchard, and 
 the garden were very pleasant and dear. What, indeed 
 could be more beautiful than the jjarlour, with its two prim 
 bookcases, the needlework pictures of a shepherd and shejj- 
 herdess smirking from their oval frames ; the little room in 
 which lier father composed his sermons, with much aid from 
 grim-looking black-leather-bound books, labelled Barrow and 
 Tillotson ; the infallible eight-day clock in the hall, which 
 groaned and rattled in such an awful manner before the 
 striking of an hour, and above the dial of Avhich there was 
 something scientific in the way of a sun and moon that was 
 never quite in working order. All these things to the eyes 
 of Miss Dorothy were beautiful ; nor did she pine for any 
 brighter or gayer existence than that which she enjoyed, or
 
 Durothijs Rival 225 
 
 l;inguish for any respite from the many duties of her simple 
 life. She had no higher aspiration than to sit in the parlour 
 wearing out her bright young eyes in the tinestitching of 
 her fatlier's shirts, to help her mother at bread-making, or to 
 trudge into llammersley on a fine morning by the parson's 
 side, to share in his round of visits among the poor folks, or 
 to read that delightful story of ' Sir Charles Grandison ' aloud 
 to her father and mother in the long winter evenings. These 
 things were at once her duties and her pleasures. In tiiis 
 peaceful home she had grown from childhood to womanhood, 
 and was so innocent and childlike still, that she thought it 
 was her gipsy-hat and scarlet ribbon that made such a picture 
 of brightness and beauty in the little mirror that reflected 
 her fair young face every Sunday morning while the bells 
 were ringing for church. Yes, Miss Dorothy Bolton — or 
 Mrs. Dorothy, as people were more apt to call a damsel in 
 those days— iiad grown from a sunburnt, hoydenish girl into 
 a very lovely young woman, without any consciousness of the 
 transformation. The pai-son and his wife saw that their only 
 child was now, indeed, a comely young person ; but these 
 good people would have cut their tongues out rather than 
 they would have confessed as much to the damsel herself. 
 
 ' Handsome is who handsome does,' said Dorothy's mother ; 
 and the girl felt as if her good looks were in some manner 
 dependent on the neatness of her stitching and the lightness 
 of her last batch of bread. 
 
 By-and-by, however, there came to Hammersley Parsonage 
 some one who, although by no means prone to dilate upon 
 Dorothy's personal attractions, permitted the young lady to 
 discover her power to charm. This new-comer was a certain 
 Matthew Wall, a young clergyman, who came to share the 
 burden of the vicar's duty, and who had so far proved him- 
 self a very worthy and efficient member of the Church. 
 
 Indeed, in sober truth, efficiency and energy were much 
 needed for the cure of souls in Hammersley. The town was 
 large and crowded, the population was rough and disorderly ; 
 and an awakening voice was needed to arouse a people who 
 had long been dead to the spirit and careless as to the letter 
 of the faith. 
 
 William Bolton, the vicar, had a simple mind and a kindly 
 nature ; but something more than these are required for the 
 salvation of such a town as Hammersley ; and this something 
 more seemed to have been given to the poor benighted 
 creatures in the pei'son of Matthew Wall. 
 
 Q
 
 226 Under the Red Flag 
 
 The vicar preached a very orthodox sermon of the soporific 
 school, aud had a heart and hand ever open to the appeal of 
 the poor ; but, aa his means were small and his judgment 
 very fallible, he effected, with the best intentions, very little 
 real good. He was getting old ; and he liked his after- 
 dinner pipe in the orchard in summer, and by the chimney- 
 corner in winter. He liked to take his nap in the long 
 winter evenings, while Dorothy I'ead ' The Life and Sur- 
 prising Adventures of Eobinson Crusoe,' or ' Religious Court- 
 ship,' or an odd number of the Ramhler. He visited his poor 
 from time to time, and he was not unwelcome to them even 
 when he came empty-handed ; but it seemed as if his visits 
 did very little good. Hammersley was, in truth, too big a 
 place for this simple pastor, and the people of Hammersley 
 too lugged a race for his mild rule. 
 
 Matthew Wall was a very different kind of pastor. Fatigue 
 and discouragement wei^e alike unknown to him. He had the 
 energy of a Whitfield or a Wesley ; and, in that day, AVhit- 
 lields and Wesleys were needed in the Established Cliurch as 
 well as out of it. 
 
 William Bolton invited his curate to dinner on Sundays ; 
 a dinner served directly after morning service — plain and 
 substantial, after the old English fashion. But Mr. Wall 
 would eat very little between the services ; he did better 
 justice to the nine o'clock supper. The vicar, who ex- 
 hibited a hearty appetite both at dinner and suppei", 
 called Matthew a poor trencherman. It is possible that 
 Matthew's chief delight at the parsonage was not to be found 
 in his trencher. He sat by Dorothy at supper, and seemed 
 to derive much satisfaction from her society. He found her 
 sweet-tempered and modest as Pamela, pious as Dorcas ; and 
 before he had been six months at Hammersley he made a 
 formal demand for her hand. 
 
 The vicar hummed and hawed, and consulted his wife. 
 
 ' Sure 'twould be but a poor match for the w'ench,' he said. 
 ' Matt Wall has but his cure of seventy pounds a year, and a 
 few hundreds to come from his father by-and-by. The rogue 
 has good j)arts, I daresay, and has done good service amongst 
 Hammersley folks with his fiery talk and hunting them out 
 in their dens ; which is pushing a parson's trade farther than 
 I should care to push it. I doubt but he's touched with the 
 Wesley and Wliitfiuld madness ; and we shall have him 
 deserting the Church some day, as the two Wesleys did — to 
 the shame of family and friends.'
 
 Dorothijs Rival 227 
 
 Happily for Matthew Wall, the vicar, after consulting his 
 wife, tlKJUght tit to say a few words to his daughter. 
 
 The girl reddened and cast down her eyes, and when hard 
 pushed by her father's questions, confessed with tears that 
 she loved Matthew very dearly, and would go to her grave 
 unmarried sooner than she would give her hand to any but 
 him. The vicar was no Squire Western. He expressed his 
 astonishment by a long whistle, and reproved his daughter 
 for a sly {)uss ; after which feeble protest he consented to 
 receive Matthew Wall as his future son-in-law. But there 
 was to be no marriage for three good years to come. Matthew 
 was but tive-and- twenty, Dorothy just turned eighteen. The 
 young peojjle pledged themselves very readily. They met on 
 Sundays, walked to and fro together between the parsonage 
 and the church, dined and supped together ; and whenever 
 Matthew's business happened to bring him near the garden- 
 gate on week-days, he would step in to say a few words to his 
 Dorothy. 
 
 Tiie three years passed very pleasantly. Matthew Wall 
 had become a power in Hammersley before his period of 
 probation was ended. There was some who called him wild 
 and fanatic, — for to be earnest in those luke-warm days 
 seemed a kind of fanaticism ; but since, in many instances, 
 the drunken became sober, and the reprobate became decent 
 beneath his sway, folks were fain to admire his earnestness. 
 The bishop of the diocese complimented the young man on 
 the change he had brought about in Hammersley. 
 
 ' I'm j)leased you should show these Methodist folk that 
 'tis possible to do good without forsaking the Church we 
 have sworn to hohl by, sir, and that 'tis as easy to bring the 
 stray sheej) back to the true fold as to lure them into a 
 strange one,' said the bishop, at a grand ceremonial dinner 
 of which he deigned to partake on a certain occasion. 
 
 Parson Bolton was gratified that his curate and future 
 aon-iu-law should win this meed of praise from the episcopal 
 lips. 
 
 • But there's more of the Methody about our Matt than I 
 quite relish, for all that, my wench,' he said to his wife in 
 the conhdence of connubial discourse. 
 
 It is not given to mortal man — least of all to a religious 
 reformer — to please everyone. There were jieople in Ham- 
 mersley who did not like Matthew Wall. His long, earnest, 
 even fervid, discourses displeased a few. He had refused 
 invitations to tea and supper-parties, — solemn and yet
 
 228 Under the Rei Plag 
 
 boisterous festivities given by the richer tradesfolk of Ham- 
 mersley — and had thus offended many. There were Wallites 
 and anti-Wallites in Hammersley ; and the anti-Wallites 
 were strong. Amongst them tlie most notable people were a 
 certain Mr. Jorboys, grocer and cheesemonger, his wife and 
 daughters. The Misses Jorboys — Sally and Letty — were 
 accounted beauties. They wore hats and muffs and gowns 
 which their father brought from London when he went 
 thither for colonial produce ; and tliey took it ill of Mr. Wall 
 that he had been so prompt to devote himself to the parson's 
 dowdy daughter, who had never known what it was to 
 powder her Jiair, or sail along the High Street prim and 
 stately in pannier-hoops. 
 
 It was nigh upon Christmas, and there was to be much 
 joviality at the j)arsonage, for this must be Dorothy's last 
 Christmas at home. A neat little house in Hammersley had 
 been hired by the curate, and comfortably furnished out of 
 funds provided by his father, with certain additions in the 
 way of a dragon-china tea-service, a brass-hardled bureau, 
 and liberal store of home-spun linen, provided by Mrs. 
 Eolton, who with her own'hands prepared the nest for these 
 young turtle-doves. 
 
 ' I could have wished my Dorothy had fancied Squire 
 Hever of Hever Farm, who was like to die for her last 
 winter,' the parson's wife said to her gossips ; ' but she's 
 been like one bewitched since Matthew courted her. " Suie, 
 would you have me break my faith with a saint, dear 
 madam r' she cried, when I told her how young Hever 
 would have made a lady of her, with her own coach and a 
 black footboy. And I do think the simpleton's right in 
 that,' Mrs. JJolton would add with an air of conviction. 
 ' I've seen young men more mannerly in turning a compli- 
 ment, and softer spoken ; but if there ever was a saint on 
 earth since St. Faul, I think Matthew Wall is one.' 
 
 Of late the lady's gossips had been somewhat slow to 
 respond to this observation ; and she was not a little vexed 
 on one occasion by the conduct of her particular friend Mrs. 
 Jorboys, who went so far as to shake her head and groan 
 audibly at this point in the conversation. 
 
 ' 1 hoije you iiave nothing to say against my daughter's 
 sweetheart, ma'am 1 ' the parson's wife observed with some 
 acidity. 
 
 ' Oh no, ma'am,' Mrs. Jorboys replied with a sigh more 
 dismal than the last ; ' I ha,ve nothing to say against him.'
 
 Dorothrjs Bival 229 
 
 There was an uii]ileasant emphasis on the word sa>/ that 
 went uii,'h to freeze Mrs. Bolton's marrow. 
 
 'I don't quite take your meaning, ma'am,' slie said stiflly. 
 ' Matthew Wall may not be a rich liusband for our Dorothy, 
 but lie don't need to be groaned over as if he was a beggar.' 
 
 ' You wasn't talking of beggars, as I know of, ma'am,' 
 Mrs. Jarboys answered with acrimony. ' You was talking 
 of saints.' 
 
 'And what then, ma'am 1 ' 
 
 ' I have my thoughts, ma'am, I should be vastly sorry to 
 liurt your feelings, Mrs. Bolton, but my thoughts are not my 
 own making, and I can't help it if they are of a nature to 
 lead to what you was so civil as to call groaning ; ' and here- 
 upon Mrs. Jorboys sighed again, while Miss Letty and Miss 
 Sally sighed in chorus. This occurred at a Hammersley tea- 
 party, from which Dorothy chanced to be absent. 
 
 The ])arson's wife went home perplexed and miserable. 
 The next batch of bread was heavy, and by no fault of 
 Dorothy's, though her simple head was a little distraught by 
 thinking of the great change so near at hand. It was the 
 chief bread-maker whose mind was most troubled, whose 
 hand was most uncertain. Those groanings and head- 
 shakings of Mrs. Jorboys haunted the good soul by day and 
 night, and Dorothy could but wonder what made lier mother 
 so thoughtful. 
 
 ' I fear there's something troubles you, ma'am,' the girl 
 said, after the respectful manner of those days. 
 
 ' Nay, my dear, I have no trouble but the thought of losing 
 thee,' answered the mother; 'and if it's for thy good, I'm 
 content we should part.' 
 
 'But it's not parting, dear madam; 'tis but living in 
 separate houses. Do you think there's a week will p;iss 
 without my paying my duty to you ? And I'll come to 
 help with the bread-making, if you'll sutler me.' 
 
 This was on Christmas-eve. There was to be fine fun at 
 the parsonage that evening, ending with the compounding of 
 a beverage, made of eggs and spices and ale, that had been 
 80 compounded at the same hour on eveiy Christm;is-eve since 
 the vicar had kept house. The beverage wjis always com- 
 jiounded in the ])arlour, an<l partaken of with all solemnity 
 out of a great silver tankard that was .said to have belonged 
 to Oliver Cromwell. Dorothy vowed that it was but a 
 battered old thing, and sJie had seen finer, sjiick-aud-span 
 new, at a silversmith's in the Iligh Street.
 
 230 Under the Bed Flay 
 
 The curate was to drink tea at the parsonage, and assist, 
 not only in the compounding of the beverage, but in the 
 composition of that much more sacred mixture, the Christ- 
 mas pudding. To these simple diversions Dorothy looked 
 forward with extreme pleasure. She thought of her 
 betrothed with unmeasured tenderness, with reverence and 
 devotion, amounting almost to fanaticism. She believed in 
 him as a being almost too saintly for earth. 
 
 Mrs. Bolton had ample occupation for her hands on 
 this eve of the great Christian festival ; but her mind was 
 not free to devote itself to her labours. The image of Mrs. 
 Jorboys pursued her through ail her duties. 
 
 ' I'm very like to want more raisins and spices for the 
 puddings between this and the New Year,' she said to 
 herself ; ' I'll walk to Hammersley this afternoon, and have 
 it out with Mrs. Jorboys.' 
 
 Having once resolved on this course, the matron was 
 more at ease. She set out on her expedition directly after 
 dinner, leaving the vicar smoking his pipe by the chimney- 
 corner, and Dorothy busy with her plain sewing. The girl 
 had offered to accompany her mother, but the offer had been 
 refused. The dame departed in very good spirits, promising 
 to return by tea-time. Dorothy sat sewing while her father 
 smoked and dozed, and dozed and smoked ; and at five o'clock 
 in came the curate, tired with a day's hard work, but 
 cheered by his Dorothy's welcome, and well pleased to find 
 himself seated by her side. 
 
 ' I've come all the way from Liscott Common,' he said, as 
 he seated himself in the old-fashioned arm-chair which 
 Dorothy had set ready to receive him ; ' and it's a long 
 trudge.' 
 
 It was five o'clock, and Dorothy had brewed the tea, 
 which was an infusion to be partaken of with a certain 
 ceremony in those days as an expensive luxury implying 
 refined taste and much gentility on the part of the consumer. 
 Parson Bolton took no tea— but the curate liked all that 
 Dorothy liked. 
 
 The pretty little china teacups— fragile things, without 
 handles, like a child's toy cups and saucers — and the quaint 
 little teapot were set out on the polished mahogany board, 
 but there were no signs of Mrs. Bolton's return. So 
 the lovers sat talking together in undertones while the 
 father dozed, for one brief happy hour ; and then, after 
 the usually ]:)reliminary groaning, the infallible eight-day 
 clock struck six.
 
 Doi-othi/s Bical 231 
 
 ' I should be quite frightened about niolher,' saitl Dorothy, 
 ' if I didn't know that Jorboys' mun is to come home behind 
 lior with the jtarcels.' 
 
 She had scarcely spoken when the door was opened, and 
 shut again with a slamming noise, and Mrs. Bolton stalked 
 into the room. 
 
 The matron's cheeks were crimson, and the matron's eyes 
 flashed tire. Never before had Dorothy seen such a look in 
 her mother's face. 
 
 ' You're late home, madam,' she said, trembling, she 
 scarce knew why, unless it were because of the strange look 
 in her mother's face. 
 
 'Thanks be to God that I'm not too late,' the parson's 
 wife answered solemnly. 
 
 The unfamiliar tone of her voice startled her husband 
 from his comfortable doze, and he looked up alarmed, crying, 
 'What, what?' like his revered sovereign King George in 
 after-days. 
 
 ' Sit down, and drink thy tea, mistress,' said the good- 
 natured parson, as his wife stood tugging at the string of 
 her cloak, hindered by Dorothy, who made believe to assist 
 with trembling fingers. 
 
 ' Never, while that bad man is under this roof,' answered 
 the dame, pointing to Matthew Wall, who had risen to 
 receive her. 
 
 'Bad man I' cried the parson; 'art thou dreaming, wife ? 
 There's no one here but Matthew Wall, thy son-in-law tliat 
 is to be.' 
 
 ' My son-in-law that never shall be ; I would see my 
 daughter in her winding-sheet first.' 
 
 ' Why, what maggot has bitten thee, wife ? ' 
 
 ' May I ask the meaning of this strange talk, madam ? ' 
 asked the curate, with that awful calmness peculiar to a 
 proud man who feels himself outraged. 
 
 ' Thou mayst ask, and shalt be told too, as plain as I can 
 speak before this simjde tender soul that loves thee,' an- 
 swered the matron. ' I wonder thou art not ashamed to 
 come to an honest man's house and steal his daughter's 
 heart — you, that play saint on Sundays, and sinner on 
 Mondays, and hypocrite all tlie week round.' 
 
 'Mother!' cried the girl — indignation, astonishment, 
 anguish, reproach, all expressed in that piteous cr)^ 
 
 ' I must ask for the second time what you are pleiised to 
 mean, madam ?' said Matthew Wall with unshaken calmness.
 
 232 Under the Red Flag 
 
 ' I'll answer that question with another, sir,' returned the 
 matron. ' Will you be so good as to tell me here — before 
 my husband and daughter — whether you know Liscott 
 Common % ' 
 
 There was nothing very awful in the question itself, but 
 Mrs. Bolton's tone made it awful, and it went like a pistol- 
 shot through Dorothy's heart, as she remembered how her 
 lover had talked of his walk from Liscott Common that very 
 afternoon. 
 
 ' Yes, Mrs. Bolton, I know Liscott Common.' 
 
 ' So, sir, you don't deny your wickedness ? ' cried the 
 dame ; ' but perhaps you will deny your knowledge of Jane 
 Gurd's cottage, on the other side of the common, where 
 you've been seen to go twice, three times, four times a week 
 for this last six months ; and where you've been known to 
 stay two hours at a spell, times and often — you, that com- 
 plain of wanting leisure for good works ! You could find 
 leisure for bad works, and to spare, I reckon. What, you 
 start and change colour at last, my fine master ! I doubt 
 you did not think Hammersley folks were sharp enough to 
 find out your doings.' 
 
 ' I did not think Hammersley folks were so wicked as to 
 impute evil to a man who, when most unworthy, is at least 
 urgent in his duty.' 
 
 'Upon my word, sir,' exclaimed the infuriate matron, 
 pushing aside the trembling girl, who would fain have 
 restrained her wrath, ' you carry matters with a bold front ; 
 and I must needs speak plainer than I care to speak before 
 this simple child here, who was too quick to love and trust 
 you against her parents' will, that had higher hopes for her. 
 Nay, dry thy tears, Dolly ; I'll see thee mistress of Hever 
 Grange, belike, instead of drudge and draggletail for love of 
 that dirt yonder.' 
 
 And the matron pointed at Matthew Wall with a trembling 
 finger — at Matthew, whose calmness was not yet shaken. 
 
 ' Will it please you to speak quietly and civilly, madam ? ' 
 he said. ' You ask me if I know Liscott Common, and I 
 answer yes ; if I know Jane Gurd's cottage, and I answer 
 yes again. I came straight from there to this house an hour 
 ago.' 
 
 You came from there to my child ? ' shrieked Mrs. Bolton ; 
 ' then, indeed, you are a shameless villain ! ' 
 
 ' Come, comC; dame,' expostulated the parson ; ' civil words, 
 civil woids,'
 
 Dorothy's Rival 233 
 
 "Tis easy talkiii;:,' for you. William ; bat am I to pick and 
 choose my wonl-<, wlieii my heart is like to burst for grief 
 and shame ? That wretch yonder, that was to be married 
 to our Dorothy a fortnit^dit come Saturday — him that i^retends 
 to be a saint — must needs have his fancy, like a London 
 rake-hell. lie keeps a tine madam hid away in Jane Gurd's 
 cottage, and there's scarce a day passes that he does not 
 waste a couple hours in paying liis duty to the lady ; and he 
 comes straight from that woman to my daughter ; and you 
 ask me to keej) my jiatience, AVilliam Bolton !' 
 
 ' I'll not believe'^ it ! ' cried Dorothy suddenly, flinging her- 
 self away from her mother, and standing bolt upright, look- 
 ing at the dame Avith flaming eyes. ' I'll not believe it, 
 mother, if all the people in Hammersley were to swear it 
 on their Bibles.' 
 
 'There is no need for so much warmth, Dorothy,' the 
 curate said gently. ' I do not fear thou wilt believe ill of 
 thy chosen husband. And you, madam, will soon be sorry 
 for having done me so much wrong. Pray, who was it told 
 you this pretty story 1 ' 
 
 ' I heard it f nan Mrs. Jorboys ; but 'tis the common talk 
 of Hammersl'jy.' 
 
 ' I am sorry Hammersley should choose such vile dis- 
 course.' 
 
 ' Can you deny this story ? ' 
 
 ' I will not trouble myself to deny it.' 
 
 ' Oh, indeed, Mr. Brazenface ! You won't deny, then, that 
 there is a young woman living in Jane Gurd's cottage, and 
 that you took her there ?' 
 
 'That is quite true.' 
 
 ' And is it true that you have paid for the vermin's boai'd 
 and lodging '] ' 
 
 'Vermin is a very hard word, Mrs. Bolton, and the girl at 
 Jane Gurd's cottage deserves no such bad name. I have 
 paid for her meat and drink hitherto ; Jane is kind enough 
 to give her shelter without recompense.' 
 
 'And you took her there ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I took her there.' 
 
 ' You ai'e a bad man, Matthew Wall.' 
 
 ' I thought you were too gooil a woman to be so ready to 
 think ill. or to listen to gossip that is as idle as it is wicked,' 
 answered the curate with the gentle gravity that had dis- 
 tinguished his manner throughout this interview. 
 
 ' If there is no harni in your doings, why have you kept
 
 23 J: Under the Red Flag 
 
 them secret?' asked the dame with no less anger, but with a 
 certain admixture of uncertainty. 
 
 'I can but answer you with Shylock, it has been "my 
 humour." There are things a man does not care to talk 
 about. I have had my fancy about that poor wench at the 
 cottage on Liscott Common. The fancy might have proved 
 a foolish one, and I might have been laughed at for my pains.' 
 
 ' And this is all you have to say ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; I will say no more to-night. If you want to know 
 more, Mrs. Bolton, or if you would know more, Dorothy dear, 
 you have but to walk to Liscott Common with me after 
 service to-morrow, and you may find out more of j^oor Betty 
 than you can learn of Hammer si ey gossip.' 
 
 ' Betty ! ' exclaimed the matron, ' Betty what, pray, sir ? ' 
 
 ' She has no other name,' replied Matthew ; ' she had one 
 when I first met with her ; biit I have done my best to rid 
 her of it. And now I will wish you good-night, madam, and 
 a heart less prone to give heed to slander. Sure I know 'tis 
 a kind one.' 
 
 He took Dorothy's hand as he passed her, and pressed it 
 tenderly to his lips. 
 
 ' Thou art too pure to doubt me, dear creature,' he mur- 
 mured. 'I will show thy kinsfolk to-morrow that thy purity 
 is wiser than their experience.' 
 
 In the next moment he was gone. The parson's wife sent 
 Dorothy to bed — for in the da3's of Pamela and Clarissa it 
 was within the scope of maternal authority to send a daughter 
 of twenty-one years of age to bed— and immediately sat down 
 and began to cry. She had her cry out, and then consented 
 to answer lier bewildered husband's inquiries. She told him 
 how her suspicions had been aroused by certain hints and 
 head-shakings on the part of Mrs. Jorboys ; and how she had 
 gone that afternoon to Hammersley determined to have it 
 out with that lady ; and how i\Irs. Jorboys had told her with 
 due solemnity that Matthew Wall's wickedness was the com- 
 mon talk of Hammersley, since he was known to have a 
 mistress, some low common rubbish picked out of Hammers- 
 ley gutter, hidden away in Jane Curd's cottage; and how his 
 frequent visits to Mrs. Curd's abode had in the first place 
 aroused suspicion, after which he had been watched by good 
 and zealous Christians anxious for the repute_of their holy 
 Church. 
 
 ' But how do these spies and watchers know that the girl 
 is Matthew's mistress % ' asked the parson.
 
 Dorotlii/'n Rival 235 
 
 * What else sliould she be, William ? ' exclaimed the dame, 
 with an awful shake of the head. 
 
 There was no compounding of spiced drink on this Christ- 
 mas-eve. The i)ar.siin and lii.s wife sat by the tire, sad, angrv, 
 bewildered, altogether ill at ease. Dorothy lay awake very 
 unhappy. It was not that she suspected her lover of any 
 wrong-doing. That was impossible. She wept over the 
 breach between those two whom she loved so dearly, and fell 
 asleep at last in the midst of a prayer that all might he made 
 right again to-morrow. 
 
 The Misses Jorboys and their mother nodded and smirked 
 at Dorothy as they passed her pew in their Christmas finery 
 before morning service. They marvelled to see the girl's 
 peaceful face, after the revelation at which they had assisted 
 on the previous afternoon. It was the curate's turn to preach, 
 and he chose for his Christmas discourse a very familiar 
 text about the charity that thinketh no evil. Matthew Wall 
 was a powerful preacher at all times ; but to-day he seemed 
 as one inspired, and the hearts of Mrs. Jorboys and her 
 daughters quailed beneath their ribbon-bedizened stomachers 
 as they heard him. 
 
 ' It was but the common talk I repeated, ' thought the 
 grocer's dame ; ' and 'tw;xs iot the good of yonder silly child 
 I spoke so plain to her mother.' 
 
 The parsonage dinner had been put oil" till half-past two 
 o'clock, much to the jiarson's discontent, in order that there 
 might be time for the visit to Liscott Common. 
 
 ' It goes against me to go near the place where the creature 
 lives,' said Mrs. Bolton, when the matter was discussed ; 'but 
 it's best to hear the truth from Jane (iurd.' 
 
 Mrs. Gurd was the widow of a Hammersley tradesman 
 who had died in extreme poverty. She lived partly by her 
 own labour, partly on charity, and was supposed to be a 
 decent sort of j)erson. 
 
 The day was clear and bright. ISIr. Wall and the vicar 
 met Mrs. Bolton and her daughter at the gates of the church- 
 yard ; Matthew otlered his arm to Dorothy, and the mother 
 did not interfere to prevent the girl taking it. In sober 
 truth the dame was .somewhat shaken by the young man's 
 firmness, and she had been not a little melted by that eloquent 
 discourse on the charity that thinketh no evil. 
 
 The walk was not unjjleasant to Dorothy, in spite of the 
 cloud that darkened her horizon. Matthew Wall, with a rare 
 delicacy, avoided all allusion to the business of the last even-
 
 236 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 ing. He talked of his parish work, in which Dorothy was 
 deeply interested. The parson and his wife trudged after 
 the young people, both silent. 
 
 ' He could never take us to that house if he was the 
 wicked wretch Mrs. Jorboys would have me think him,' the 
 dame thought with some sense of remorse. Her confidence in 
 her informant was beginning to falter. She had always liked 
 Matthew, even when most ill-pleased that her daughter 
 shoiild make so poor a match. 
 
 They came to the humble little cottage. Matthew lifted 
 the latch and entered, followed by his three companions. 
 Jane Gurd was nodding in a roomy old chair by the chimney- 
 corner ; a girl was sitting by a window staring out at the 
 common. Such a girl ! If this was Matthew "Wall's fancy, it 
 was a passing strange caprice. The girl was the ugliest speci- 
 men of womankind on which Mrs. Bolton had ever looked. 
 There was indeed something more than common ugliness in 
 the dull vacant face, the heavy lower jaw, the low narrow 
 forehead, scant sandy hair, and thick-set lumpish figure. 
 The girl escaped by very little from being a monster. 
 
 ' I have brought the vicar and his lady to see Betty, Mrs. 
 Gurd,' said the curate, as the widow stood up and curtsied 
 to the quality. 
 
 The girl neither rose nor turned her head at the entrance 
 of strangers. A figure of stone could not have been more 
 still than this clum.sy peasant girl. 
 
 ' You havG not taught the creature manners, Matthew 
 Wall,' said tlie outraged matron, ' or she'd be quicker to 
 show her reverence for her betters.' 
 
 The curate smiled, and turned with a gentle compassionate 
 look to the monster by the window. 
 
 ' Bless your dear heart, ma'am,' cried the widow Gurd, 
 ' Betty knows no more of your honour's coming in at that 
 door than the Emperor of Chaney.' 
 
 ' What ! ' cried the dame ; ' can't the creature see us 1 
 
 ' Lord, no, ma'am ; she's stone blind.' 
 
 ' But she can hear us, at any rate ? ' 
 
 ' Not she, ma'am ; the postes isn't deafer.' 
 
 ' But — but she can speak, I suppose ? ' 
 
 Tour words, ma'am, as Mr. Wall lias taught her in this 
 last six weeks. The Lord knows how he found the patience 
 and the cleverness to do it.' 
 
 ' Blind, deaf, and dumb ! ' cried the vicar's wife, aghast. 
 ' Oil, Matthew Wall, can you forgive me ]*
 
 Dnrnfl-i/'s rural ^^1 
 
 ' With all my heart, dear madam. It was Ijut a fooli.rli 
 mistake of the Ilamnierfley folk ; ' and the curate held out 
 his honest hand to the woman who had wronged liim. ' Yes, 
 poor Betty yonder is blind and deaf and dumb. I found her 
 in one of the back slums of the town, worse treated than ;\ 
 dog ; for the sorriest cur has some ragamuiHn that will stand 
 by him ; and Betty had no friend. She was beaten, starved, 
 kept in a Jiole like a rat — a horror to look at, a horror to 
 think of. 1 told those she belonged to that it was a sinful 
 piece of work, and they only lauglied at me. I told them it 
 was against the law ; but the law is a slow business, and 
 they snapped their fingers at my talk of constables and 
 justices of the ])eace. What could I do to help the poor 
 wietch? They called her Idiot Betty, and said she wasn't 
 worth the bite and sup they gave her. I asked if I was free 
 to take her away. Tliey said yes, and welcome too- So I 
 brought her to Dame Gurd. The good soul was willing to 
 take the charge of her and give her a comfortable shelter for 
 nothing, and her bit of victuals costs but a few shillings a 
 week. She was a little stvauge and diHicult to manage at 
 first, from never having known kimluess since her wretched 
 craille : but slie soon got to understand that we meant well 
 by her, and between us we liave taught her a good deal.' 
 
 ' Between us ! ' cried the widow ; * 'twas all your doing, 
 first and last, INIuster ^Vall.' 
 
 ' No one need call her Idiot Betty, now,' continued the 
 curate ; ' she has learnt to make baskets and rush mats, and 
 can ask by signs for what she wants.' 
 
 As he said this, the curate went softly towards the place 
 where the girl sat, with the winter light shining on her 
 dull sightless face. As he came close behind her chair the 
 face changed all at once, and when he laid his hand gently 
 ujjon her head, it was the face of a creature with a soul. 
 The dull common clay — the mindless lump of ill-used 
 liunianity — brightened into life beneath that pityiug hand. 
 Here was a new Pygmalion wdio might well be proud of 
 his work. 
 
 ' i have been teaching her to talk,' saiil Matthew, ' and I 
 have hopes that she will do something in that way by-and- 
 by. She can say four worils — God, bread, mother (meaning 
 the kintl hearted widow there), anil parson (meaning me).' 
 
 He put his hand upon the girl's clumsy fingers. She 
 understood the sign, and obeyed it. Her mouth opened 
 like a box, and a sound came out of it — a loud, harsh,
 
 238 Under tlie Red mag 
 
 snapping, disagreeable sound, which was meant for the 
 word 'parson.' It was more startling than pleasant, but to 
 Matthew Wall it was sweeter than music. 
 
 ' You'd never guess the trouble he had to bring her to 
 that, your honours,' said Mrs. Gurd, proud of this success- 
 ful performance. 
 
 Mrs. Bolton took a seven-shilling piece from her capacious 
 pocket, and bestowed it upon the widow. 
 
 'She shall want for nothing while I am alive,' cined the 
 mollified matron ; and then she turned to Matthew and kissed 
 him. It was an audible smack that resounded in the cottage 
 chamber. 
 
 ' God bless you, Matthew Wall !' she said ; ' I'd rather see 
 my Dolly the wife of so good a man than riding in the squire's 
 chariot.'
 
 AT DAGGERS DRAWN 
 
 Business had been ratlier dull at the Royal Terence Theatre 
 when Mr. Lorrain, the lessee and manager, went on a star- 
 ring tour in the provinces. It was in the course of this tour 
 he met with a man who had attained some distinction as a 
 local favourite in the large manufacturing town of Bi-azenam. 
 The man was a low comedian, and played certain characters, 
 which he had made his own, better tiian IVlr. LoiTain, the 
 London manager, had ever seen them played before. 
 
 Mr. Lorrain happened to say as much in the green room 
 one evening, and tlie friends of Mr. Joseph Munford, the low 
 comedian, took care to tell him what the Loutlon manager 
 had said — the lijjs of a London manager being as the lips of 
 the young person in a fairy tale, and every woi'd that falls 
 therefrom a jewel of j)urest water. 
 
 ' You miml what you're about, Joey,' saiil the friends of 
 Mr. Munford, 'and you'll get an opening at the Terence. 
 Lorrain was standing in the ])rompt entrance the other night 
 when you were on in " iJingleton's Little Diimer," and I know 
 he was pleased.' 
 
 'Did he laugh 1' asked Mr. ^Slunford anxiously. 
 'Not a bit of it. A manager never laughs when he means 
 business. He was watching you, my boy. I had my eye upon 
 him while you were doing that by-play with the mustard-pot; 
 and I wouldn't mind laying a tiver that he'll otler you an 
 engagement before he leaves the place.' 
 
 Mr. Munford shook his head despondently. He had 
 acted at more than one London theatre, and the London 
 managers had beguiled him by delusive laughter. They 
 had apjjlauded his business with the mustard-pot ; and 
 had straightway gone away and forgotten him. Tlie 
 fact that the manager of the Terence had not laughed was 
 
 1)erhaps a favourable symptom ; but Joseph Munford steeled 
 us heart against the flatteries of that false charmer, Hope. 
 He found himself watching the prompt entrance, neverthe-
 
 240 Un/ler the Red Flag 
 
 less, during the remainder of the London manager's engage- 
 ment ; and on several occasions he perceived that gentleman 
 ostensibly engaged in conversation with the prompter, but 
 obviously interested in the business of the stage, 
 
 ' I wonder whether he does mean anything ? ' Joseph 
 Munford asked himself anxiously. 
 
 Life was a somewluit ditUcult business for the local favour- 
 ite, who had given hostages to Fortune in the shape of a wife 
 and six children, and who found the healthy appetites of the 
 liostages press ratlier heavily ujjon him now and then. The 
 salary of a provincial favourite, be he never so beloved of pit 
 and gallery, does not atibrd a very liberal income for a family 
 of eight ; and actors are such imprudent people, that a man 
 with a wife and six children rarely manages to secure a 
 provision for his old age out of a weekly stipend of three 
 guineas. Mr. Munford was wont to remark with doleful 
 facetiousness that he found three pound three an uncom- 
 monly tight tit. These things happened many years ago, 
 before the days of big salaries and touring companies. 
 
 Wliile Joseph Munford steeled himself against the in- 
 sidious flatteries of the enchantress Hojae, Mr. Lorrain of the 
 Terence deliberated with himself after the following fashion : 
 
 ' The fellow is certainly funny — rather broad, perhaps ; 
 but he'd tone that down a little, I daresay, for a London 
 audience. I really think he might draw. But then there's 
 Tayte. Wouldn'i it make Tayte angry if I engaged anyone 
 likely to interfere with him '^ However, I can't help that. 
 JJusiiiess has been very Hat for a long time ; and I really 
 tliink people are beginning to get tired of Tayte — toujours 
 ptrdri.i\ and all that kind of tiling. I fancy the public 
 would like Tayte all the better if they saw rather less of 
 him. At any rate, I can but make the experiment.' 
 
 The result of this deliberation was the engagement of Mr. 
 Munfoid for the Koyal Terence Theatre, at a salary of six 
 guineas a week. He would gladly have accepted four ; but 
 jvlr. Lorrain was a liberal man, willing to give twelve honest 
 pence for an honest shilling's-worth, and above trying to 
 obtain his shilling's-worth for elevenpence halfpenny. 
 
 If an unknown uncle had suddenly revealed his existence 
 by dying and leaving Joseph Munford half a million of 
 money, the low comedian could scarcely have been more 
 elated than he was by the engagement for the Terence. His 
 wildest ambition was realised. He was going to play Din- 
 gleton before a London audience ; he was going to tread the
 
 Ai Dwjgi-rs DraiCit, 241 
 
 toards made slippery by the soles of the great Tayte— the 
 favourite of favourites— the man on whom the mantle of 
 Liston had descended. 
 
 Mr. Munford had a considerable opinion of his own merits, 
 and he had battened on the praises of local admirers; but 
 there were times when his soul sank witliin liim as he 
 thought that he was to enter the lists against the mighty 
 Tayte ; and he said as much to his friends and comrades at 
 the snug little tavern ne.xt door to the theatre. 
 
 His friends bade him be of good cheer. They laughed to 
 scorn his apprehension of failure. 
 
 ' Let Tayte look to his laurels,' they exclaimed, ' when 
 you make your tirst appearance as Diugleton. Tayte is a 
 very good actor ; but tlie London public have never seen 
 anything like your by-])lay with the mustard-pot.' 
 
 Joseph Munford gave his friends a farewell supper at the 
 snug little tavern and departed, carrying with him the seven 
 hostages and all those eccentric wigs, dropsical gingham um- 
 brelhus, impossible swallow-tailed coats, preposterous plaid 
 trousers, outrageous satin waistcoats, and tlutfy beaver hats, 
 which had long been the delight of his local admirers, and 
 the pride of his own heart 
 
 He took lodgings for liimself and his hostages in the 
 r.cighbourhood of the Terence Theatre. The consciousness of 
 liis improved circumstances made him just a little extrava- 
 gant : and his prudent wife looked around her with awe- 
 stricken glances when she beheld the splendours of her new 
 abode. 
 
 ' Oh, Joseph,' she cried, ' the carpet is Brussels, and quite 
 new : and look at those green-glass candlesticks on the 
 mantelpiece ; I'm afraid the rent must be euonnous.' 
 
 Asa sudden thunderclap tliat startles a drowsy traveller 
 amidst the sultry calm of a summer day came the intelligence 
 of Joseph Munford's engagement on the illustrious Tayte. He 
 saw the new farce, ' Dingleton's Little Dinner,' luuler- 
 iined in the bills of the theatre, and shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 ' More study for me,' he grumbled. ' 1 wonder what the 
 consciences of managers are made of. When shall I have a 
 little rest, I should like to know I I haven't been out of the 
 bill since Christmas ; and I don't tliink it does a man any 
 good to be so much before the public' 
 
 It is the speciality of popular low comedians to grumble ; 
 but those who best knew Mr. Tayte knew that he was very 
 
 R
 
 242 Under the Red Flag 
 
 fond of acting, and would ill have brooked a rival near the 
 throne. When it did transpire that ' Dingleton's Little 
 Dinner' was intended to introduce a j^rovincial favourite to 
 the London public, the countenance of Tayte was terrible to 
 lieliold. The fact burst upon him when he read the cast, 
 which had been put up over the green-room mantelpiece. He 
 stood upon the hearth-rug for five minutes by the green- 
 room clock, staring at the document with a hxity of gaze 
 that was almost apopletic, and breathing stertorously. 
 
 ' And who is Mr. Munford ? ' he demanded jjresently, 
 in an awful voice, pointing to the obnoxious name on the 
 little slip of i^aper. 
 
 Nobody in the green-room professed to know anything 
 about Mr. Munford. Perhaps anyone who had known the 
 particulars of the new engagement would have shrunk from 
 imparting his knowledge to the outraged Tayte. 
 
 ' I'll ask Lorrain what it all means,' he said presently, and 
 in due course Mr. Tayte had an interview with his manager 
 — an interview at which no third person was jDresent. It was 
 rumoured that Tayte had been seen to issue from the 
 Treasury pale of visage, and clutching the slim silk umbrella 
 of private life with a convulsive grasp ; and that was all. It 
 was observed that during the fortnight preceding the first 
 appearance of Munford, Tayte played with a feverish energy ; 
 that he, the past master in the art of ' gagging,' indulged in 
 even wilder gags than were usual to him ; that he surpassed 
 himself in the science of ' mugging,' and that he contrived there- 
 by to keep the audience in a continuous roar of laughter from 
 his entrance to his exit. He seemed to derive a grim kind of 
 satisfaction from this fact ; but his countenance as he stood at 
 the wings waiting for his cue was very dark and repellent,and 
 his oldest friends were afraid to speak to him. Two or three 
 toadies and sycophants ventured to hint that this obscure pro- 
 vincial person, Munford, was foredoomed to be a failure ; but 
 Mr. Tayte turned upon these flatterers with unwonted ferocity. 
 
 * Who told you I was afraid of Mr. Munford ? ' he said, ' I 
 have held my own in this house for nine years and a half, 
 and I daresay I shall manage to hold my own a year or two 
 longer.' 
 
 There was not much in the words : but with such men as 
 Tayte the tone is everything ; and there was a crushing 
 irony in the tone. 
 
 ' Dingleton's Little Dinner ' was performed, and the new 
 comedian's dehut was eminently successful. All the papers
 
 At Daggers Drawn 243 
 
 concurred in the opinion that Mr.Munfoicl was an acquisition 
 to the company at the Terence ; and all the papers concurred 
 in praising the by-play -witli the mustard pot. Mr. Tayte 
 studiously avoided seeing the new cumedian, but he heard 
 the laughter of tlie audience as he dressed to go home after 
 the tirst jiiece ; antl the dresser who atteiuled upon him beheld 
 his flexible lips shape tliemselves into the monosyllable 
 ' Fools !' as the loudest of those peals of laughter reached 
 him. He made a ])oint of reading the papers the next morn- 
 ing, and his lips shaped themselves into the same form as he 
 read of the business witli the mustard-pot. 
 
 ' Dingleton's Little JJinner' had a triumphant run ; and 
 Josejjh Munford's success became an established fact. Itwasnot 
 tobesupposed, however, that the audience of the Terence were 
 in any way inconstant to their old favourite. The great Tayte 
 Avas playing one of his most uproariously funny characters 
 in the piece which formed the chief feature of the evening's 
 entertainment, Eoars of laughter greeted his entrances and 
 followed his exits. He went up in a balloon ; he was caught 
 in the rain attired in dancing-pumi)s and a swallow-tailed 
 coat ; he hid himself in a cupboard where there were jam-pots 
 and pickle-jars, and emerged therefrom bedabbled with 
 treacle ; he had his head jammed between area-railings when 
 in the act of listening to a conversation between two 
 servant-maids, and kept the audience enraptured for five 
 consecutive minutes by means of his facial contortions while 
 in that attitude ; and what more could the heart of a low 
 comedian desire ? 
 
 The desires of a low comedian are not easily satisfied. The 
 great Tayte hankered after that business with the mustard- 
 pot, and grudged tliose peals of laughter which he heard every 
 night while he was exchanging a suit of scarlet and gi-eeu 
 tartan and a red scratch-wig for the sombre attire of everyday 
 life. 
 
 Although he took very good care not to see Mr. Munford 
 in the jjart of Dingleton, he could not avoid occasional 
 encounters with the comedian at the wings or in the green- 
 room. The two men looked at eacli other with that stony 
 ferocity of exi)re3sion to be seen in the countenances of rival 
 cats, who stand a few paces apart, glaring at each other, stift' 
 and statue-like, on the steps of an area. 
 
 ' Morning,' saiil Munfonl. ' C'ohl, ain't it 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Tayte, ' almost as cold as the audience last 
 night when you were playing Dingleton.'
 
 244 VmJev the Itcd Fla'j 
 
 'Ah,' answered Munford, 'you see I don't go in for area- 
 rails and tartan trousers.' 
 
 'No,' cried Tayte ; 'you go in for mustard-jiots.' 
 
 And then the rivals turned ujjon their heels, each man 
 thinking he had been witty. Mr. Lorrain, the manager, did 
 his best to soften the feelings of the old favourite. 
 
 ' You can't suppose I want to put anyone over your head, 
 Tayte,' he said ; and again Mr. Tayte's breathing became 
 stertorous. ' I thought this fellow would be useful to pull up 
 the half-price ; and I'm sure you get the lion's share. Do be 
 civil to him, Tayte. He's not a bad fellow, when you come 
 to know him. We've been such a snug little family party in 
 this house, that it goes against me to see two of my company 
 at dasffers drawn.' 
 
 ' At daggers drawn ! ' cried Tayte ferociously. ' Daggers 
 
 be ! Do you suppose I'm afraid of such a fellow as that'^ 
 
 Why, I pity him.' 
 
 ' Pity him, Tayte ! What for ] ' asked the manager 
 innocently. 
 
 'Because you've done him the worst injury you couM 
 possibly do him by bringing him up to London,' said Tayte. 
 'That business with the mustard-pot ^oes because it's new. 
 AVait till he plays in another piece. Mark my words, 
 Lorrain — and I speak without prejudice — when he does, the 
 audience will drop him like a hot potato.' 
 
 ' Very likely you're right, Tayte,' Mr. Lorrain answered 
 meekly. And this was mean of him, for he fully believed 
 that Tayte was wrong. 
 
 The event proved that the manager had judged wisely. 
 Joseph Munfurd ])layed in other pieces, and the half-price 
 ajiproved of him. A drama was produced by-and-by, in 
 which there were parts for the two low comedians. Each 
 man thought his rival's part better than his own ; each man 
 watched his rival, and counted the peals of laughter extorted 
 from the unconscious audience. Tayte still held his gi'ound 
 as leading favourite of the Terence ; and there was neither 
 wavering nor inconstancy in the minds of his audience. But 
 there are monarchs who will endure no second power in the 
 state ; and a popidar low comedian is of the same arbitrary 
 temper. 
 
 Tayte was compelled to witness the performance of Mun- 
 ford now that the two men played in the same piece and were 
 on the stage together ; but on no occasion had the greater 
 man been beguiled to smile at the buffooneries of the lesser
 
 At Daf/gers Brawn 245 
 
 man. The audience might be convulsed with laughter, the 
 rest of the actors might abandon themselves freely to mirth; 
 but let the drolleries of Munford be never so huraomus, the 
 countenance of Tayte was as a visage hewn out of stone. 
 
 The rival comedians met in the green-room every night 
 during the run of the new drama ; and as a London green- 
 room is a grand place for talk, it is not to be sui)posed that 
 either of the two could keep ])erpetual silence- Then arose 
 those arginnents and disputations which fully justified the 
 general idea that Tayte and Mnnford were at daggers drawn. 
 On no possible point would these two men agree. In politics, 
 in theology, in literature, their ideas appeared wide as the 
 ])oles asunder. If Munford gave expression to sentiments 
 of a Radical character, Tayte became on the instant a staunch 
 Conservative. If Munford showed himself an orthodox 
 (iiristian, Tayte boldly propounded doctrines whicli would 
 have been too much for Voltaire or Tom Paine. If Munford 
 spoke with enthusiasm of Garrick, Tayte proclaimed his con- 
 viction that the only decent actor of that ])eriod was Barry. 
 If Munford recited a vei-se of Moore or Byron, Tayte planted 
 himself beneath the banner of Wordsworth, and loudly 
 averredthat no poet had ever produced a more thrilling com- 
 position than the history of Peter Bell, the waggoner. 
 
 The audience of the green-room looked on and listened, and 
 enjoyed the fray. The antagonism between the two men gave 
 a zest to every-day life in the Terence ; and on Saturday 
 morning, when there was a good deal of lounging and idleness 
 outside the treasury-door, the fun was almost riotous. 
 
 Munford held his own bravely, but he complained bitterly 
 to his own pariicular friends. ' That man would crush me if 
 he had the i)ower,' lie said ; 'I really tiiiuk he would like to 
 cut my tlimat.' 
 
 And indeed thei-e were times when Mr. Tayte felt as if he 
 might have derived a grisly satisfaction from the act of 
 hacking asunder his rival's jugular vein with a blunt 
 razor. 
 
 Things went on in this fashion for nearly a year, when all 
 of a suiden Munford fell ill, and the farce in which he had 
 been playing was withdrawn. A farce of Tayte's was repro- 
 duced, and once more Tayte had the burden of the half-price 
 on his shoulders. 
 
 Did this state of affairs afford satisfaction to the mind of 
 Tayte ? He little knows the soul of a popular low comedian 
 who would sup])0se so. When Tayte heard for the firet time 
 of Munford's illness, he drew his shoulders up to his ear», and
 
 246 Unrhr the B.o(l Flwj 
 
 indulged in one of those facial contortions for which he was 
 renowned. 
 
 ' 111, is he ? ' said he ; ' I think I can guess the nature of 
 his indisposition. The new farce, " Coals and Potatoes " — a 
 literal translation from the last Palais-Eoyal absurdity, " Un 
 Marchand de Charbon," by the way — was a failure, sir ; a frost 
 bitter and bleak as the February of 1814, when there were 
 live oxen roasted on the Thames ; and Munford is shamming 
 ill in order to get out of the part. lie's an artful card, my 
 child, and knows the audience are tired of him. When the 
 houses pick up again, Munford will pick up again ; mark my 
 words.' 
 
 This was the second occasion on which Mr. Tayte had 
 requested that his statements in reference to Mr. Munford 
 might be noted ; and again the event proved that he had 
 been wrong. 
 
 Joseph Munford's illness was not an affair of a few days 
 or of a few weeks. He languished and drooped week after 
 week and month after month. Again and again there was 
 talk aboiit his returning to the theatre, and one of his pieces 
 was announced for performance ; but again and again the 
 doctor interfered at the last moment, and declared that it 
 must not be. Poor Munford was wont to sigh wearily when 
 people talked of his reappearance. 
 
 ' I begin to think I shall never play Dingleton again,' he 
 said. 
 
 His wife did her uttermost to console him, though very 
 sad at heart herself. She reminded him how great he had 
 been in the by-play with the mustard-pot, and how on one 
 never-to-be-forgotten occasion in the provinces — his benefit — 
 the mustard-pot business had been encored by an uproarious 
 audience. 
 
 For four months Joseph Munford had been an invalid ; 
 for four months Mr. Lorrain the manager had sent him his 
 salary every Saturday without question, as ungrudgingly as 
 if the sick man had been workins; his hardest at the theatre. 
 At the end of the fourth month, however, Mr. Lorrain called 
 on the invalid, and tcjid him, as kindly as it was possible to 
 impart unpleasant tidings, that at the end of one more month 
 the salary must cease, unless the actor should be well enough 
 to return to his duties. 
 
 ' If the season had been a good one, God knowa I wouldn't 
 grudge your screw, Joe,' said the manager ; ' but you know 
 yourself I have been losing money. After next month you 
 must see what your friends can do for you.'
 
 At Daggers Drawn 217 
 
 Uiilia]>pily Joseph Munford had no friends, or none capable 
 of giving liim substantial assistance in the hour of need. 
 He did not tell the manager this ; for he knew that he had 
 been generously treated, and to sponge on generosity is no 
 attribute of the Thespian mind. 
 
 ' You've been very good to me, Lorrain,' be said ; ' and I 
 shall never forget your goodness. If I am ever to act again, 
 1 ought to be able to act before the month is out.' 
 
 Mr. Lorrain looked mournfully at the wasted figure and 
 haggartl pinched face. Alas, it seemed very improbable 
 that the weak creature propped up by pillows and sustained by 
 doctor's stuff would ever again make mirth for a delighted i)it ! 
 
 And were the two low comedians still at daggei's drawn 
 now that one of them lay on a sick-bed ? Ah, he little knows 
 the heart of a comedian who fancies that Tayte's hatred 
 endured when the object of it had such need of tenderness 
 and compassion. For the man who had made a hit in 
 ' Dingleton's Little Dinner,' the favourite of the Terence had 
 no feeling but aversion ; for poor Joey JMunford languishing 
 in a London lodging James Tayte had nothing but pity and 
 love. There were many who were kind to the sick man ; but 
 the old port which warmed his poor sad heart, the hothouse 
 grapes which cooled his poor parched lips, the comic periodicals 
 which beguiled him into feeble laughter, were paid for out 
 of the coffers of James Tayle. 
 
 Nor did Tayte confine liis benevolent offices to such small 
 gifts. He gave that wliich is grudged by many who will 
 bestow hothouse grapes or rare old wines with liberal hands. 
 He gave his sometime rival time and trouble. The atmosphere 
 of a sick-room is apt to be stifling, the society of a sick man 
 is apt to be deju-essing ; but when Tayte had a leisure hour 
 before a late piece, or after an early piece, or in the pauses of 
 a long rehearsal, it was his habit to run round to the invalid's 
 lodgings for an liouv's chat, or a hand at cribbage, as the case 
 might be ; and nothing so revived the spirits of Joseph 
 Munford as one of these visits from his mighty rival. 
 
 ' I used to hate you like poison when you jjlaycd I Jingleton,' 
 said Tayte frankly ; 'and I shall hate you like ])oisou again 
 when you come back to the slum. Two men who play the 
 same line of business are bound to hate each other. It's 
 human nature. But in the meantime let's be friends, old 
 fellow, and take life pleasantly.' 
 
 And then Tayte showed his big white teeth in a grin 
 which would have extorted a laugh from Soci'ates after he 
 had swalloweil the hemlock.
 
 24.8 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 It was in the dark and dispiriting month of November 
 that the manager of the Terence gave notice that in four 
 more weeks he must needs stop the siclv man's salary. The 
 four weeks went by on the wings of the wind, and Joseph 
 Munford was no better fitted for a return to his duties. He 
 knew and felt that he was weaker and worse than when Mr. 
 Lorrain had last called i;pon him. He appealed piteoiisly to 
 the doctor for comfort, and the doctor murmured something 
 hojieful about next summer. Next summer ! And it was 
 December. There were five or six weary months to be lived 
 through somehow or other, with seven hostages given to 
 Fortune, and no visible means of subsistence. Chi'istmas 
 was near at hand too ; and that seemed to make it worse, 
 poor Mrs. Munford said pathetically. Indeed the rich do 
 well to be open-handed and j^itiful at Christmas time ; for 
 many a dole in the way of beef and blankets, and wine and 
 tea, and coals and flannel, are needed to compensate the poor 
 hungry ones for the bitter thoughts that must arise when the 
 haggard eyes peer wonderingly in on the Christmas fruits 
 and Christmas dainties, the toys and trinkets, the holiday 
 food and holiday raiment, glittering and twinkling in the 
 light behind the plate-glass shop windows. 
 
 As that time drew near, and the last shilling of his last 
 sovereign melted away, Joseph Munford's fortitude abandoned 
 him. His poor aching head fell upon his wife's shoulder, 
 and he wept aloud. 
 
 ' I know it's weak and childish, Mary Anne,' he said ; 
 ' but I can't help it. I'm a mean hound ; but there's only 
 one hope : I must appeal to Lorrain, and ask him to let the 
 salary go on a few weeks longer. It won't be more than a 
 few Aveeks, I'm afraid, Polly.' 
 
 And then the two poor creatures wept together ; while the 
 mutfin-bell went tinkling cheerily down the street, and the 
 twinkling lights shot up in the December dusk, like so many 
 flaming daggers piercing a blanket of fog. 
 
 If it had rested with Josei»h Munford to entreat the 
 manager's charity with his own lips, he could never have 
 shaped them into the prayer. He relied on the influence of 
 Tayte, the established favourite, who was known to be a 
 power in the theatre. 
 
 'Tayte is a noble fellow, an rl I know he'll i)lead for me, 
 said Munford. 
 
 But when Tayte heard what was required of him he shook 
 his head dejectedly. 
 
 ' I'll ask if you like, Joe,' he said ; ' l)ut upon my word, I
 
 At Da^/'j'-rs Drawn 219 
 
 dou't think it's any use. Loiraiii lias behaved very hand- 
 somely to yon, old boy, you see ; and business has been so 
 confoundefUy bad, you know, since ' 
 
 ' I know I oughtn't to ask it,' replied the other piteously ; 
 'but I must die of starvation if the salary stops. I'm in 
 debt as it i.-<, and everything is so dear, and the children eat 
 so. By heavens, Tayte, you can't conceive the amount six 
 children can devour ! If it were likely to be for long, I 
 wouldn't ask it ; but it won't be for long.' 
 
 Tayte nnirmured something to the effect that so far as an 
 occasional pound or so would go, jNIuufortl might rely upon 
 him ; and then departed, compelled, despite his better reason, 
 to assume some show of hope, so heart-piercing was the 
 de.sjjair of his friend. 
 
 The interview with the manager was a painful one, though 
 no manager could have shown more feeling than Mr. 
 Lorrain. 
 
 ' I put it to you, Tayte,' he .saiil, ' whether I am bound to 
 continue the salary. You know how bad business has been 
 since Easter, and you know I've been paying that poor fellow 
 six guineas a week for the last five months, during which 
 time he hadn't set his foot inside the theatre. He ought to 
 have saved a little — -he really ought, you know.' 
 
 Tayte dropped a word or two about ' six children ' and 
 ' doctor's bills.' But Mr. Lorrain shook his head. 
 
 ' Munfunl had only three guineas a week at ]b-azenam,' he 
 said, ' and he might have saved something since he has been 
 with me. I'm very sorry for the jioor fellow ; and so far as 
 a sovereign now and then will go, I — ' And he un- 
 consciously echoed the words of Tayte. 
 
 Very heavy was the heart of the comedian as he went to 
 the street near the Strand that evening after the first piece. 
 He knew how bitter the interval of suspense must have been 
 to the actor's penniless household ; he knew how much more 
 bitter would be the tidings which he had to inii)art. 
 
 He was obliged to walk up and down the street once or 
 twice before he had courage to knock at the dojr. But a 
 last he did knock, and was admitted by the TiOndon slavey 
 He went softly upstairs, unannounced. Mrs. Manford came 
 out to meet him on the landing, and her look went to his 
 heart. 
 
 'He's very low to-night,' she said, a? shi opened the door 
 of the sick-room. 'Oh, dear Mr. Tayte, I hope yo i bring us 
 good news ! ' 
 
 Tavt? cniUl not answer her. He made a little choking
 
 250 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 noise— which might have been a fortune to him, if he could 
 have done it in serio-comedy — and went into the sick- 
 chamber. Munford was lying back upon the pillows pale as 
 ashes: but he started up as his friend entered, as if galvanized 
 into life. 
 
 /Poor lad!' thought Tayte, sadly: 'I think he's about 
 right. Lorrain might have let the salary go on ; it wouldn't 
 have been for long.' 
 
 ' Well ? ' gasped Munford hoarsely. And then he cried in 
 a faint voice : ' Oh, Tayte, there's good news in your face ! 
 It's all right, isn't it ? Ah, Tayte, dear old fellow, say it's 
 all right T' 
 
 Tayte looked fixedly at that white wan face, in which the 
 agony of suspense was so painfully visible. 
 
 ' Yes,' he said at last, drawing a long breath ; ' it's all right, 
 dear boy. You're to have the salary.' 
 
 ' God bless him for it ! ' cried Munford ; ' and you too.' 
 
 He could say no more, but covered his face with the bed- 
 clothes, and wept aloud. 
 
 It was a grand sight to see Tayte seated by the bed, and 
 patting the counterpane as if his late rival had been a 
 wakeful baby. 
 
 ' Cheer up, old fellow,' he said ; ' you'll play Dingletou 
 again, and I shall hate you again, depend upon it.' 
 
 Joseph Munford did not live to reappear as Dingleton ; but 
 he lingered for many months, now better, now worse ; and 
 on every Saturday during those months Tayte took him six 
 guineas, neatly packed in white paper and sealed with a 
 business-like seal. This was rather a hard pull upon Tayte, 
 who had himself given hostages to Fortune. He was 
 observed to wear a shabby overcoat during that spring, and 
 to ride in omnibuses when a nobler-minded man would have 
 ridden in cabs — whereupon his intimate enemies were very 
 sarcastic on the subject of his meanness. 
 
 ' Don't say anything to Lorrain about the salary when he 
 calls upon you,' the arch-hypocrite said once ; ' he told me he'd 
 rather you didn't mention it to him. It's a false delicacy of 
 his, you know; but you may as well give way to it.' 
 
 So when Mr. Lorrain called at Munford's lodgings, 
 bringing the sick man wine, or fruit, or flowers, no mention 
 was made of the salary. There were only vague protestations 
 of affection and gratitude on the part of the actor, which the 
 manager had fairly won by liberality in the past and kindly 
 sympathy in the present-
 
 At Bafjfjers Drairn 251 
 
 At last the day came when tlie Farce was to ho fiiiisheil 
 and the curtain to be drop])od. The doctor told Munford 
 that the end was very near ; and the dying comedian bade 
 good-bye to the poor faithful wife who had ho2x>d such bright 
 things for him. 
 
 ' 1 think your sister Susan will be kind to you and the 
 little ones, Polly, when I'm gone,' he said. ' She set her face 
 against my profession ; but I believe she's a good Christian, 
 though slie does come it just a little too strong about the 
 wickedness of her fellow-creatures. She can't set her face 
 against a poor friendless widow and six fatherless children. 
 And then there's Lorrain, we know he's, a trump ; and I'm 
 sure he'll do what he can for you ; and Tayte is a good fellow, 
 too, in his way, and he'll stand your friend.' 
 
 'riiis the comedian said in faint gasps, with a wan smile 
 upon his lips, and tears in his eyes, while his wife sat by his 
 bedside with her hand locked in his. 
 
 ' 1 think they'd give you a benefit at Brazenam, Mar}',' 
 he said after a pause ; ' and it would be a bumper. Do 
 you remember my reception the last time I played l3ingleton 
 down there ? ' 
 
 On this bitter day Tayte boldly turned his tack upon an 
 important rehearsal. The poor wife was worse than useless, 
 anil in this sad extremity Tayte was the nurse as well as the 
 comforter of his fading friend. The manager of the Terence 
 heard how niatteis were, and came without delay to the sick- 
 chamber. 
 
 lie found Joseph Munford lying asleep wit li his head on 
 Tayte's arm, while the popular favourite sat by the bed like 
 patience ou a monument. 
 
 'This is a change indeed, Tayte,' said Mr. Lorrain in a 
 whisper ; 'you and he used to be at daggers drawn.' 
 
 ' I only wish there were any chance of our being at daggers 
 drawn again,' Tayte answered with a stided sob. 
 
 The sound woke the sick man. He looked up with a start, 
 and recognised the manager, 
 
 ' Give me your hand, Lorrain,' he said ; ' thank Cioil you've 
 come in time to hear me say it. I thank and bless you with 
 all my heart for your goodness to me and mine in the last six 
 months.' 
 
 ' Don't .say that, my dear ]Munford,' saiil the manager, 
 taking the wasted hand in his very tenderly; 'I've done 
 little enough, but God knows how it went against me to refuse 
 you the salary last Christmas.'
 
 252 Under the Red Flag 
 
 ' Refuse ! You refused ? ' 
 
 ' Business had been so bad, you see, my dear boy,' murmured 
 the manager. 
 
 Joseph Munford turned his dying eyes on Tayte, down 
 whose cheeks big tears were rolling thick and fast. 
 
 ' James Tayte,' he cried, ' I did not think there was so good 
 a man uj)on this earth ! ' 
 
 He groped feebly for the hand of his benefactor, found it, 
 ])ressed it to his lips, and, kissing it, died.
 
 A GREAT BALL A^D A GREAT BEAR 
 
 A Story of Two Birtlidays. 
 
 Birthday the Fiusr. 
 
 Ox a certaia Cliristmas-eve, some eight or nine years ago, 
 there was a very noisy gathering on tlie third floor of a 
 house in iryde-i)ark-gardens. The party had assembled 
 very early in the afternoon, and tlie great bare branches of 
 the trees, tossed savagely by bleak December winds, and 
 groaning as in mortal agony, were still visible in the winter 
 dusk. Below, in the Bayswater-road, the lights were 
 twinkling ; and the bell of the mullin-man, J>lying his 
 ])lebeiau trade even in that patrician district, made merry 
 music. Upstairs, in the spacious, cheery third-floor school 
 room, tlie Christmas flrelight shone brightly upon the haj)py 
 faces of a circle of young people, who were seated on the 
 carpet for the performance of the mystic rites of that 
 favourite Christmas game called ' hunt the slipper.' 
 
 The ages of the revellers ranged from live to fifteen. 
 One of the eldest among them was the damsel in whose 
 lionour the festival was held — Miss Laura de Courcy, who 
 had made her first aj)pearance on the stage of life on a 
 (.-'luistmas-eve fifteen years before, and who was entertaining 
 her cousins of all degrees with certain mild dissipations 
 appropriate to the occasion. They were to drink tea in 
 tliese third-floor regions, which were sacred to Miss de 
 Coui'cy, her younger brother, her reliable English governess, 
 her accomplished Parisian governess, and the patient maid 
 who brushed the damsel's silken curls some si.\teen times in 
 the day, after those hoydenish skirmisliings with her younger 
 brother, in which the vivacious young pei^son was wont to 
 intlulge. 
 
 Miss de Courcy was an only daughter, anil an heiress to 
 boot. A grandmamma of unspeakable descent and incal- 
 culable wealth had bequeathed all her possessions to this 
 favoured damsel ; and the damsel carried the sense of her
 
 254 Under the Red Flag 
 
 wealth and her dignity as lightly as if it had been one of the 
 commonest attributes of girlhood. 
 
 It was her own pretty little black-satin slipper for which 
 the dis])utauts were now struggling. The door was opened 
 suddenly while the noise was loudest, and a young man put 
 his head into the room. 
 
 ' Our bear-fights at Maudlin are nothing to this,' he 
 said. 
 
 Laura de Courey si^rang to her feet as he spoke. 
 
 ' How dare you come here, sir ? This is my room, sir, and 
 my party. You are to be downstairs, with papa and mamma. 
 I won't have grown-up people intruding on my friends.' 
 
 ' Not if grown-up people bring you a pair of bullfinches 1 ' 
 
 ' Bullfinches ! Oh, Abberdale, that is quite a different 
 thing ! I have never had bullfinches. Oh, what a pretty 
 cage ! ' 
 
 Tlie cage was a Chinese pagoda, in delicate wirework, with 
 little bells that rang merrily as the intruder carried the cage 
 to a table. There was a diversion among the slipper-hunters, 
 and the children all clustered round the new-comer. This 
 new-comer was Viscount Abberdale, a dark-eyed handsome 
 young fellow, with a kind pleasant face, and one amongst 
 Miss de Courcy's numerous cousins. 
 
 ' So you remembered that to-day is my birthday, George?' 
 said Laura, when the bullfinches had been rapturously 
 admired. 
 
 ' My dear Laura, you know how kind your cousin always 
 is,' remonstrated Miss Yicker, the reliable English governess. 
 
 'Ah, mon Dieu ! is it not that he is good % ' exclaimed the 
 irrepressible Parisienne in her native tongue. 
 
 ' As if I could forget your birthday, Laura ! Who was 
 that unfortunate person who had Calais written on her 
 heart ? I have your name, and the date of your birthday, 
 and ever so many memoranda respecting you, written on my 
 heart, Laura. I don't think there can be room for any more 
 writing.' 
 
 ' We all know that Lord Abberdale possesses a talent for 
 talking nonsense,' said the reliable one, as a hint that this 
 kind of nonsense was inapjirojjriate to the third floor, 
 
 ' But I have disturbed all the fun, Lorry,' cried his 
 lordshii). ' (;let away, Leo,' lie added unceremoniously to 
 the heir of the De Courcys, who was dragging at his coat 
 tails ; ' it isn't your birthday ; and if you're looking out for 
 anything from Siraudin or Boissier, you won't find it in my
 
 A Great Ball and a Great Bear 255 
 
 dress-coat. I left a great coat in the hall, and I shouldn't 
 be surprised if there were a few thousand boxes of goodies in 
 the pockets of that.' 
 
 Off sped the heir, swift as a lapwing. 
 
 ' And now we 11 have " liunt the slipper," ' said Abberdale. 
 
 ' Ah, that is a droll of a young man ! ' shrieked the 
 irrepressible. 
 
 'Laura, my love, I think the little ones will bo anxious for 
 their tea,' said the Reliable ; ' suppose we adjourn to the next 
 room. Lord Abberdale, may we give you a cup of tea ? ' 
 
 ' Thanks — yes. But why not more " hunt the slipper ' ? " 
 
 ' Miss de Courcy's little friends will be leaving her very 
 early, and tea is ready. If you would realli/ like a cup, you 
 can go into the next room with us, Lord Abberdale." 
 
 ' C), yes, if you please. Miss Vicker ; I want to drink tea 
 with my cousin on her birtliday.' 
 
 They went into the next room, another sitting-room, 
 brightly but plainly furnished, like the first ; and here was a 
 table spread with all that is prettiest and most temjiting in 
 the way of tea. 
 
 ' Oh, what pretty-looking cakes ! ' cried the undergraduate 
 of Maudlin ; ' a diunei"-table isn't half so pretty as a tea-table ; 
 and there's something so social and pleasant about tea. We 
 always have coflee at our " wines " you know, but they don't 
 allow us such cakes as those when we are training.' 
 
 Lord Abberdale insisted upon staying all tea-time, and 
 further insisted upon making himself veiy busy with the 
 dealing out of cups and saucers, and the nice admeasurement 
 of cream and sugar. 
 
 Lionel de Courcy came shouting up the staircase, laden with 
 bonbon boxes ; and the tea-table was thrown into confusion 
 presently by the appearance of these treasures, and the excite- 
 ment caused thereby. 
 
 All quiet Miss Vickei-'s excellent arrangements for her 
 pupil's youthful guests were thrown out of gear by this 
 wild Oxonian. The two white-ai^roned waiting-maids could 
 scarcely make head against the confusion ; and that Babel 
 and riot arose which is common to all juvenile communities, 
 unless kept down by the iron hand of despotism. Little 
 ones clambered from their chairs, and bigger ones stretched 
 out eager arms across the table to clutch at a satin bag 
 of pralines or a daintily painted box of violettcs glac^es. Cups 
 of tea were spilt over ;vsthetic or fantastic frocks, devised by 
 fond mothers and clever maids for this special occasion j
 
 25S Viida- the Bed Flaxj 
 
 pyramids of cake were overthrown, a glass preserve disli wai? 
 broken, — all was chaos : and across the ' wrack ' which she 
 surveyed from her seat at the head of the table, Miss Vicker 
 beheld, as in a vision. Lord Abberdale and Laura de Courcy 
 seated calmly side by side, engaged in that kind of 
 discourse which, had the damsel been 'out,' would have been 
 called flirtation. 
 
 'How very wrong of Mi's. De Courcy to allow him to 
 come upstairs ! ' she said to herself. 
 
 And then she sank back in her chair, and abandoned herself, 
 with a sigh of resignation, to the inevitable. 
 
 ' What an awfully rigid individual your Miss Vicker is I ' 
 said the young man ; ' she will hardly allow me to look at 
 3'ou : as if we were not cousins, and as if we are not going to 
 be something more than cousins one of these days." 
 
 ' And pray what more than cousins shall we ever be, sir?' 
 asked Laura, who was q\iite able to hold her own against this 
 impertinent young nobleman. 
 
 'Nevermind now, you will find out by and by. Do you 
 know, I have secured a talisman which I shall keeji as long 
 as I live \ ' 
 
 ' What kind of talisman 1 ' 
 
 ' The magic slipper, — la pianella magica ! The slipper you 
 were playing witli just now. Was it made for Titania ?' 
 
 ' It was made for me, sir ; and it is too large.' 
 
 ' You won't be troubled with it any more : I hope you have 
 one on.' 
 
 ' Of course. That slipper was fetched from my room. Do 
 you think I would hop about with one shoe on this cold 
 winter's night ? O dear, I hope there are no jioor people 
 without any shoes ! ' 
 
 'I'm afi'aid there are, my dear. But don't think of them 
 now ; it makes you look so sorrowful. I mean to keep this 
 slipper.' 
 
 ' You are a most presuming person ; and I shall tell Miss 
 A^icker.' 
 
 ' Oh, no, you won't ! Poor Miss Vicker ! She is watch- 
 ing us now. How awful she looks, doesn't she ? Quite a 
 genteel Medusa.' 
 
 * And jjray what are you going to do with my slipper ?' 
 ' Keep it to be thrown after you on your wedding-day.' 
 'You will throw it r 
 
 ' dear, no ! ' 
 
 * And why not % '
 
 A Ch-eat Ball and a Great Bear 25? 
 
 * For the best possible reason : I shall be with you iu the 
 carriage.' 
 
 Miss de Courcy blushed and laughed. For a beauty of three 
 lustres she was tolerably advanced iu the art of coquetry. 
 
 Tea was finished by this time. The younger guests were 
 cloaked and shawled, and hooded and muffled, for departure. 
 The elders were to go down to the drawing-room after dinner 
 for a quadrille or two. There were visitors to the heads of 
 the house expected, but not many. Town was empty ; and 
 ouly urgent parliamentary business had induced Mr. de 
 Courcy to spend his Christmas in Hyde-park-gardens. Far 
 away on the Scottish border there was a noble old castle 
 where the family were wont to pass this pleasant season, with 
 much festivity, and great advantage to the poor of the dis- 
 trict. Of course arrangements had been made whereby the 
 poor should be no losers because of the family's absence ; but 
 their absence was regretted in that Border district neverthe- 
 less ; and blankets and flannel cloaks and comfortable winter 
 gowns scarcely seemed of as good a quality when received 
 from the hands of a grim old housekeeper, instead of the 
 ladies of the mansion. 
 
 The party in the drawing-room assembled between nine 
 and ten. Miss de Coui-cy and her three or four chosen 
 friends came down at nine, and met her cousin ascending 
 from the dining-room. She sat down to the piano and played 
 to him, while her mamma dozed in the further drawing- 
 room ; and then the grown-up company arrived, and there 
 was a great deal of music and a little impromptu dancing. 
 It was altogether a delightful evening, Laura thought. 
 
 ' I shall keep my next birthday at Courcy,' she said. 
 ' Shall you be with us, Abberdale V 
 
 ' I think not. I am going in for travelling when I leave 
 Oxford.' 
 
 ' You will go to Switzerland and Italy % How delightful !' 
 
 'I shall do nothing .so slow. I shall go to Africa, or the 
 Caucasus. I mean to do the Caucasus completely.' 
 
 ' Is the Caucasus a nice place V 
 
 ' Oh, it's perfectly sweet ! And the Amoor, and the Hima- 
 layas. "When one considers the encroachments of Russia 
 upon our Indian empire, you see. Lorry, it's a kind of duty 
 every man owes his country to get himself coached-up in the 
 Amoor and the Himalayas.' 
 
 'Shall you be long away?' asked Laura, with a dis- 
 appointed face. 
 
 S
 
 258 TJirJrr the Bed Flwj 
 
 ' Oh, no ; only half-a-dozen years or so. Of course I shall 
 go in for the North Pole. A man who isn't well up in his 
 Arctic regions gets snubbed by somebody every time he goes 
 out to dinner. In fact, the Arctic regions are getting almost 
 as common as the Matterhorn.' 
 
 ' Then if you're going to all these places, I'm sure you 
 won't be at home when I come of age. And papa has 
 promised me all sorts of grand doings then. A fancy ball at 
 Courcy. And I have so longed for a fancy ball : but I shall 
 be dreadfully disapjwinted if you are not at my ball. I have 
 always thought what fun it would all be, and what an 
 absurd dress you would wear — a dress that no one would 
 know you in, you know — a chimney-sweep or a baker's man.' 
 
 ' I should like amazingly to come as a chimney-sweep. 
 You will be something magnificent, of course — a princess of 
 the Middle Ages, in that dim period of shadowy kings and 
 queens, and Princes of Wales trying on their father's crowns 
 before the cheval-glass in the royal bed-chamber, when there 
 were sumptuary laws to regulate the height of the women's 
 head-gear. I can fancy you in one of those high-peaked head- 
 dresses, with a cloth-of-gold gown. You would look very 
 jolly.' . 
 
 'Jolly!' repeated Miss de Courcy; 'I shall not spend 
 poor dear grandmother's money on a cloth-of-gold gown in 
 order to look jolly.' 
 
 'You will look an angel; and I shall dance the first 
 quadrille with you — chimney-sweep and princess. The con- 
 trast will be sweet.' 
 
 ' Very sweet. You will be at the Caucasus, or on the 
 North Pole, I daresay, when I come of age.' 
 
 ' From the heights of Caucasus, from the I'emotest depths of 
 Polar regions, from the snow-drifts where the bleached bones 
 of perished wanderers gleam ghastly white against the ghastly 
 snow, from the Ganges, from the Chinese Wall, I shall come.' 
 
 ' Very well, sir. I shall remember your rash promise 
 when njy ball begins without a chimney-sweep. However, 
 the loss will be yours if you forget the occasion.' 
 
 ' I shall not forget.' 
 
 'Mother is beckoning to me,' said Miss de Courcy, and 
 thereupon slipped away to take shelter beneath the maternal 
 wing. Miss Vicker, the reliable, had just drawn Mrs. de 
 Courcy's attention to the fact that his lordshi|)'s atten- 
 tions to his cousin were rather more pronounced than was 
 consonant with the damsel's tender years.
 
 A Great Ball and a Great Bear 259 
 
 ' You are not paying any attention to yoiu- friends, Lorry,' 
 said mamma ; 'there is Bella Hargrave turning over a book 
 of photographs in the dreariest manner. I shall not give 
 you birthday-parties unless you behave better. You are 
 always laughing with your cousin.' 
 
 ' Abberdale is so funny. What do you think, mamma ? He 
 has actually pledged himself to appear at my birthday Ijall 
 when I come of age. It is to be a fancy ball, you know — that 
 is an old promise of father's ; and Abberdale declares he will 
 dance the tii-st quadrille with me dressed as a chimney-sweep. 
 
 ' D.V.,' murmured the Keliable One piously. 
 
 After this, Laura de Courcy danced more than one dance 
 with her cousin Abberdale, "When eleven o'clock chimed from 
 the clock on the chimney-piece, Miss Vicker came in search of 
 lier charge. The young friends had all departed within the 
 last half-hour : only grown-up company remained. A young 
 lady was singing an Italian canzonette in the second drawing- 
 i-oom. Abberdale and his cousin were almost alone in the 
 large southward-looking room where they had danced. The 
 birthday was over. Miss de Courcy was no longer queen 
 of the occasion : she was there on suti'erance, and was liable 
 to be sent to bed at any moment. Miss Vicker and the 
 moment came. 
 
 ' I was just coming, Carry,' cried Miss Laura. She called 
 her monitress by her Christian name on occasions. — ' Good- 
 night, Abberdale.' 
 
 'Good-night and good-bye, Lorry ; I'm off to Norfolk for 
 the shooting to-moiTow, and then back to Oxford, and 
 then ' 
 
 ' What then 1 ' 
 
 ' Two fellows and I have planned a trip to Africa in the 
 pring.' 
 
 ' To Africa ! You really mean it ? But there are tigers 
 and crocodiles, and dreadful things like that, are there not ? ' 
 
 ' Oh dear, no : not the genuine Bengal animal ; not the 
 splendid striped monster of India. The African tiger is 
 only a paltry spotted thing. There's no credit in shooting 
 such an imi)ostor.' 
 
 ' But that kind of impostor might eat you,' cried Laura, 
 in terror. 
 
 ' Oh dear, no. The genuine man-eater is only to be found 
 in the jungle. Besides, we shall have a tutor with us, to 
 take cai-e of the luggage and coach us in our classicid 
 geography, and all that kind of thing ; and, as a conscientious
 
 260 UiuJer the Bed F/ar/ 
 
 person, it will be his duty to be eaten first. Good-bye, 
 Lorry, until this night six years.' 
 
 ' Until this niglit six years ! ' repeated the young lady, 
 almost crying. ' I think you might kiss me, Abberdale, 
 if you are going to staj^ away as long as that.' 
 
 His lordship obeyed this hint, heedless of Miss Vicker's 
 murmured protest. He blushed like a girl as he set his lips 
 on the innocent uptuinied face, bade the governess a hurried 
 good-night, and was gone. 
 
 Birthday the Second. 
 
 Miss de Courcy at twenty-one was a lady of vast accomplish- 
 ments and considerable experience. She could converse veiy 
 agreeably, within ballroom limits, in three or four conti- 
 nental languages — could give her opinion of the arrange- 
 ments of a court-ball in Italian ; decline refreshments in 
 Danish ; accept a partner for the next waltz in German ; 
 and chatter all the evening through in very pure French. 
 She was musical, and performed with effect upon the violin 
 and piano : and beyond all this, in the eyes of that, unhappily, 
 shallow-minded section of humanity in which her lot was 
 cast, she was undeniably beautiful. The cold-hearted world- 
 ling who, when first introduced to her, remembered that she 
 had forty thousand pounds in her own right, had not been 
 ]ialf-an-hour in her society before he forgot evorythit'g 
 except that she was one of the loveliest and most charming 
 of women. 
 
 More than one advantageous opportunity of settlement in 
 life had offered itself to Miss de Courcy before her one-and- 
 twentieth birthday : but she had refused the most brilliant 
 of these opportunities without a moment's hesitation. She 
 had been something of a flirt, but had given no man the 
 right to consider himself ill-used by her. She was eminently 
 popular. Men called her a jolly girl, a lovely girl, no end of 
 a nice girl, according to their lights — or their darkness ; but 
 all agreed in the broad fact, that she was a good girl — good 
 in the widest sense of the word ; a girl to whom the simula- 
 tion of demi-mondain audacities and the lying arts of 
 Eachael and enamel were ' hateful as the gates of hell ' — a 
 genuine, true-hearted Englishwoman, worthy to become the 
 mother of brave and noble Englishmen in the time to come. 
 
 In the middle of December in that year, a British yacht, 
 built for honest work, and bearing traces of hard usage, lay at 
 anchor off the coast of Norway. This yacht was the ' Lorley,'
 
 A Great Ball and a Great Bear 261 
 
 commanded by George Lord Abberdale ; and that young 
 nobleman, with three chosen friends, was roughing it in a 
 Norwegian hostelry while the ' Lorley ' was relitted for her 
 homeward voyage. Lord Abberdale and his companions 
 had spent their summer in the neighbourhood of Baffin's 
 Bay, and, having been very fortunate in the matter of sport, 
 were returning to their native shores in excellent spirits and 
 temper. Vasco di Gama or Marco Polo, Columbus or 
 Raleigh, would have been struck with amazement on perusing 
 the notebook of Lord Abberdale, in which was recorded the 
 extent of country over which that young nobleman had 
 travelled. But the heir of all the ages has the advantage 
 of medi;eval explorers, and the day may come when, in 
 the handsome squares and crescents, streets and terraces of 
 Baffin's Town or Behringville, lighted by electricity, and 
 warmed by mineral oil from the Caucasus, the dwellers of a 
 northern world may mangel to hear how English travellers 
 once perished, forlorn and hopeless, in the regions of un- 
 trodden snow. 
 
 Lord Abberdale had ' gone in ' for Arctic exploration, and 
 the last few years of his life had been given entirely to the 
 cultivation of the exj)lorer's renown. He had not even had 
 time to regret his long separation from that favourite cousin 
 who, he liad long ago i)romised himself, should some day be 
 something nearer and dearer than cousinship, jileasant as that 
 tie between them had been to him. He told his love-story 
 to his companions to-night in the Norwegian hostelry. He 
 had no idea that reticence as to the liege lady of his love was 
 a point of honour. 
 
 'I shall call that love-story of yours the thousand-and-one 
 nights, George,' said one of his friends. ' I'm sure we've 
 heard it a thousand-and-one times. It seems to me rather 
 a spoony notion of yours, falling in love with a chit of 
 fifteen.' 
 
 ' Fifteen ! ' cried George, ' I've been over head and ears in 
 love with my cousin Laura ever since she was seven. Not 
 having any people of my own, you know, and De Courcy 
 being my guardian, I used to spend my holidays at Courcy ; 
 and sometimes in the summer months they used to have a 
 house at Maidenhead, or Old "Windsor, or somewhens there- 
 abouts, Avhile I w;is at Eaton, and, of course, I was always 
 hanging about the place — boating and lishing — and, in a 
 general way, playing Old Gooseberry. I was within an inch 
 of drowning Lorry half-a-dozen times or so ; but she didn't
 
 262 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 seem to mind it. And her brotliei' Lionel has no end of 
 phick, and used to take his duckings sweetly. 
 
 And then Lord Abbei'dale told the story of the birthday 
 ball, and produced the treasured slipper, which he carried in 
 a pocket of his log-book, the log and the slipper being about 
 equally sacred in his eyes. 
 
 ' And you mean to be home in time for the fancy ball ? ' 
 asked one of his companions. 
 
 ' I should think I do, indeed ! Why, I'd smash the "Lorley" 
 and every man aboard her sooner than break my word to that 
 dear girl ! ' 
 
 ' Then I fancy you'll have a tight squeeze of it,' replied 
 his friend. " We haven't been paying much attention to the 
 operations of the enemy since we've left off keeping the log. 
 This is the 15th of December, and the " Lorley" won't be ready 
 for sea in less than a week.' 
 
 ' She shall be ready in three days, Hal,' roared Abberdale ; 
 ' I'd sooner miss a pot of money on next year's Derby than 
 that ball.' 
 
 ' You may do it, with luck.' 
 
 ' I'll do it with luck or without luck,' replied his lordship, 
 unmindful of that ' D.V.' piously interjected by Miss Vicker 
 on a previous occasion. 
 
 ' How about your dress ? ' 
 
 ' What dress '? ' 
 
 ' Your costume for the fancy ball ] ' 
 
 ' I've got that safe enough with the rest of my traps on 
 board the "Lorley,"answered Abberdale with a laugh ; ' I had 
 it from a costumier in the neighbourhood of Baffin's Bay.' 
 
 Late in the afternoon of December 24th a gentleman 
 might have been observed — if travellers generally were not 
 too much occiipied by their own affairs to observe anyone — 
 journeying by expi-ess, northward to Kelton, the nearest 
 station to Courcy Castle. When the train stopped at this 
 small station, for the s]>ecial accommodation of this traveller, 
 there was some little difficulty about the luggage, and a certain 
 black case was missing, the temporary loss of which threw 
 the traveller into a fever of rage and impatience. 
 
 Happily, it was fished out of some darksome cavern of a 
 luggage- van before the express — snorting defiant and angry 
 snorts all the time of the delay — had snorted itself out of the 
 station, with a farewell shriek of rage at having been detained 
 at so insignificant a halting-place. The traveller glared at
 
 A Great Ball and a Great Bear 263 
 
 the portov who ultimately produced the case with a most 
 appalling glare. 
 
 'It's very lucky for you it turned up,' he said, 'or I 
 should have been very much tempted to break every bone in 
 your body.' 
 
 ' Do you know who that is ? ' asked the porter of the station- 
 master, when the furious traveller and his black packing-case 
 had been driven away in a fly. 
 
 ' No — do you ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; it's Lord Abberdale, nephew to Mr. de Courcy. He's 
 going to the ball. That's his fancy-dress as he's got in that 
 box, I'll be bound.' 
 
 The eventful night had arrived. Lights shone from all the 
 windows of Courcy Castle, and the poor of the district 
 rejoiced and made meny, inasmuch as their dole of this year 
 was double the customary bounty, and that was a royal one. 
 Scarlet cloaks and comfortable blankets, packets of grocery 
 and baskets of wine, had been dealt out with liberal hands. 
 Miss de Courcy had been driving about the neighbourhood all 
 the week in her i^retty basket- carriage ; and if there were 
 sad hearts or cheerless hearths within twenty miles of Courcy 
 on this cold Christmas-eve, it was because of no shortcoming 
 or stint on the part of the Castle that there was sadness 
 and cheerlessness. 
 
 In Miss de Courcy's dressing-room there was much excite- 
 ment as the hands of the little timepiece drew near ten o'clock. 
 At ten o'clock the guests had been bidden ; and the guests 
 bidden to this birthday ball included some very important 
 people. It was to be altogether a most brilliant allair ; and 
 everybody in the Castle seemed in the highest possible spirits 
 — except Laura, the one jierson who ought naturally to have 
 been the most joyous of all. The faithful Miss Vicker — still 
 retained as monitor and friend, though for some time super- 
 seded as instructress — watched her late pupil with mingled 
 anxiety and wonder, as the young lady sat before the cheval- 
 glass, while her maid was occupied with the solemn task of 
 adjusting her head-dress. 
 
 The head-dress was a diflficult one, demanding great skill 
 and nicety in the adjustment thereof. It was one of those 
 lofty sugar-loaf head-gears afTected by the women of the 
 Middle Ages. Mrs. de Courcy had suggested the j)owder and 
 patches of the Watteau period for her daughter's adorn- 
 ment ; but the young lady had her own whims, and adhered 
 obstinately to her own fancy.
 
 204 Uwler the Red Flay 
 
 ' I will be a mediaeval princess and nothing else, mother,' 
 she said ; ' and my dress must be cloth-of-gold. I have found 
 the costume in father's illustrated edition of Planch(5.' 
 
 Mrs. de Courcy turned up her nose at the conical head- 
 gear. 
 
 ' Why, the hideous thing must be a foot and a half high,' 
 she said. ' I'm sure I don't know what you'll look like, child, 
 — you, who are rather too tall at the best of times.' 
 
 The conical head-gear was ordered, nevertheless ; and the 
 trailing robe of cloth-of-gold, with lions and leopards in black 
 velvet laid thereupon, with broideries in spangles and bullion 
 of unutterable splendour. The petticoat was of cherry- 
 coloured brocade ; the shoes were long and pointed ; the ruff 
 was a marvel of historical research ; the sugar-loaf head- 
 piece an epitome of the old chroniclers ; and the result was 
 an embodiment of the grotesquely beautiful. The quaint 
 moyen-age dress imparted something uncanny and fantastic 
 to the damsel's loveliness. So might appear the vision of 
 long-buried beauty, if we could conjure it from its chilly 
 resting-place ; and so might shine, in all the glamour of 
 unreal loveliness, the ideal princess of a dreaming Chaucer. 
 
 All the best people within a reasonable distance of Courcy, 
 together with distinguished visitors staying at the Castle,were 
 assembled in the great drawing-room at eleven o'clock. The 
 costumes were good ; many of them had figured at the court 
 balls of forty years ago. The people were agreeable, the 
 arrangements seemed perfection, except to one jjerson, and 
 that person was the mediteval princess. 
 
 Mr. de Courcy had several times suggested that the signal 
 should be given to the band in the gallery for the first 
 quadrille, but the princess made some objection on every 
 occasion. 
 
 ' The bishop has not come yet, father,' she said; 'it would be 
 the worst possible taste to begin dancing before he comes. I 
 consider it so very liberal of him to come at all, especially 
 as he is rather low.' 
 
 It must be remembered that Miss de Courcy used this last 
 obnoxious word in the ecclesiastical, and not the vulgar 
 sense. 
 
 The bishop came presently, attired as William Penn, in a 
 cheap, and not especially comj)roniising costume. But his 
 daughters were all that there is of the most Pompadour, and 
 his son was attired as Lord Dundreary, and came prepared
 
 A Great Ball and a Gnat Bear 265 
 
 to aftlict the company with weak imitations of Mr. Sotheru. 
 iSIr. tie Courcy again suggested the signal for the first 
 (juadrillo, but again Laura resisted. 
 
 ' There is Lady Louisa Sparkleham, father. Dobbins 
 walked home from church with her maid last Sunday, and 
 she is coming as Queen EIizal)eth, in the costume she wore 
 at Buckingham Palace forty years ago ; and I am sure she 
 is just the sort of person to be otfended if her appearance pro- 
 duces no effect ; and of course it won't if we're all jogging 
 about in a quadrille.' 
 
 'I don't see why you need be jogging about,' grumbled 
 Mr. de Courcy. ' It's eleven o'clock. People expect to be 
 earlier, you know, in the country.' 
 
 At last the time came when excuses would be no longer 
 accepted. The inevitable signal was given. The band in the 
 gallery began one of D'Albert's Introductions with a great 
 crash, then a series of smaller cra.shes — slow, quick, crescendo, 
 tremulo ; a plaintive little pianissimo bit for the cornet, 
 rallentando — and off we go intoPantalon. 
 
 The meditijval princess and Lord Dundreary are partners. 
 William Penn smiles benignly on his son from the circle of 
 lookers-on, in spite of his lowness. Is it not written in the 
 dowager Mi-s. de Courcy's will that the mediiBval princess 
 shall have forty thousand pounds '>; 
 
 ' Eleven o'clock,' says the inward voice of the princess, 
 ' and no chimney-sweep. His promise is quite broken 
 now.' 
 
 The thought has scarcely shaped itself in her mind when 
 there is a sudden confusion among the lookers-on. The 
 evangelical bishop is pushed irreverently on one side, Lord 
 Dundreary recoils horror-stricken, the ladies scream in their 
 usual charming manner, as an appalling form plunges 
 clumsily in among the dancers. 
 
 A Polar bear — white as the icebergs of his native land, 
 shaggy as the ragged drifts of snow that fringe those icebergs, 
 awful as the dangers of those trackless regions — displaces the 
 bishop's son, and seizes the shrinking hand of the princess in 
 his ponderous paw. 
 
 No Avord spoke this hideous brute ; no heed took he of 
 Dundreary's remonstrances, the bishop's indignation, the 
 titters and little screams of the company ; but through the 
 mazy figures of the dance — in the .solemn settings of L'Kte, 
 the see-saw movements of La Poule, the graceful advaiicings 
 and retirings of Pivstourelle, the whirl and riot of the final
 
 266 Under the Bed Flan 
 
 gallopade — did the monster drag the mediteval princess, to 
 the surprise and admiration of the assembled multitude. 
 
 When the quadrille was finished he led the damsel to her 
 parents, and lifting the grim jaw and throwing back the 
 shaggy head as if it had been a knightly visor, the uncouth 
 visitor revealed the countenance of Lord Abberdale. 
 
 ' I'm afraid I've been very rude to a lot of people,' he said ; 
 ' but you must inti'oduce me to them presently, aunt Sophia, 
 and I must make my peace somehow. I didn't reach the 
 Castle till five minutes before I came into the room. Six 
 years ago, in Hj'de-park-gardens, I promised Lorry I'd 
 dance the first dance with her on this night, and I've done 
 it. And, by Jove, I don't much care whom I have 
 oflfended ! ' 
 
 ' But you were to come as a chimney-sweep,' said Laura. 
 
 ' Well, you see, I hadn't time to think of the elegances of 
 costume. I shot this jjoor beggar — I beg your pardon. 
 Lorry — this unfortunate animal — in Baffin's Bay ; and very 
 sorry I was to do it, considering how tame the poor creatures 
 are when they haven't the honour of our acquaintance.' 
 
 ' You see /remembered the dress you said you'd like me to 
 wear,' Miss de Courcy said later, when a compact of peace, 
 or at least armed neutrality, had been made between Lord 
 Abberdale and the bishop, and these twocousins had danced 
 more than one dance together. 
 
 ' Yes, darling, and very lovely you look in it. And now 
 there is only one other dress that I languish to see you in.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! and what may that be ? ' 
 
 ' White satin and orange blossoms.' 
 
 And to oblige this audacious young nobleman. Miss de 
 Courcy made her appearance in this costume at St. George's, 
 Hanover-square, early in the ensuing April.
 
 THE LITTLE WOMAN IN BLACK 
 
 There was hanlly anything talked about in the clnbs and 
 the coffee-liouses that November of 1753, but the approaching 
 marriage of Miss Sarah Pawlett and Lord Bellenden. My 
 k)rd was one of the finest gentlemen in England, a statesman 
 and a diplomatist, a man of great learning, eight-and-thirty 
 years of age, honoured and favoured at Court, on terms of 
 friendly intimacy at Strawberry Hill and Marble Hill, where 
 Lady SutTulk swore he was the one honest man in his 
 Majesty's dominions. He was owner of a splendid estate in 
 Hertfordshire, and a fine house in St. James's Park ; he had 
 a castle in Ireland, and a deer forest in North Britain. In a 
 word, he was the best match in all London. 
 
 Had the beautiful Sarah been about to marry somelordling 
 of the fribble and fop tribe, instead of this splendid gentle- 
 man, the town would doubtless have had a good deal to say 
 about her j)romotion ; for it is not an every-day incident for 
 an actress to be raised to the peerage, albeit Polly Peacham, 
 after more than twenty years of probation, had lately been 
 made b)uchess of Bolton ; but for the Covent Garden actress 
 to cai'ry otl' the finest gentleman in London was another 
 matter, and folks were greatly amazed at her high fortune. 
 She herself bore her success calmly, was said, indeed, to have 
 a somewhat melanclK»ly air when she showed herself in her 
 coach in the i)ark, or attended a fashionable auction to bid 
 for some old delft jav or Indian monster. But a pensive air 
 best became that statuesque loveliness of hers, and rollicking 
 and blithsonie as she was in a comedy part, she had ever in 
 society the look of a tearless Niobe, ]tale as marble, and with 
 large violet eyes full of a strange pathos. 
 
 ' She had not always tliat doleful air,' said little Tom 
 Squatt, the critic, an early admirer of Sarah's ; ' I remember 
 the time when she was as gay as a bird — ready to jump over 
 the moon — and that was when she was not always sure of her 
 dinner.' 
 
 ' Ah, that was before she took the town,' said another 
 literary gentleman at the Little Hell Fire Club, a romn over 
 a tavern in Covent Garden, where a choice circle of garret teers 
 and hireling wits met every night after the play. ' Success
 
 268 Under the Bed F/wy 
 
 sobers 'em all. They begin to think of saving money, and 
 turn religious. Besides, that was before she fell in love with 
 Ned Langley.' 
 
 At this there was much head-shaking and elevation of eye- 
 brows in the little assembly, and divers pinches of snufF were 
 taken with an air and a shoulder-shrug, as who should say, 
 ' "We could, an' if we would,' and so on. Yet scandal had 
 hardly breathed its venom over the young actress's fair fame. 
 She had never left the wing of the old half-pay Major, her 
 father, who had fought with King George at Dettingen, and 
 v/ho was punctiliousness itself upon all points of honour ; and 
 she was known to have supported a brood of younger sisters, 
 down-at-heel slatterns, with pretty faces and towzled heads, 
 out of her earnings as an actress. 
 
 True ! But she was also known to have been for at least 
 one brief season — the girl's dream-land time — over head and 
 ears in love with handsome Ned Langley. Langley the 
 ii-resistible, the beau-ideal lover and reprobate of the dear 
 old repi-obate-drama, the Wildair, the Lovelace, the Mirabel, 
 the Ranger of fashionable comedy ; polished, elegant, supple, 
 villainous, bewitching. 
 
 Ned could haixUy help carrying some of his comedy 
 chai'actei'istics into real life. The town would not have had 
 him otherwise. Society began by giving him his diabolical 
 reputation, and poor Ned had to live uj) to it. He must be 
 Don Juan or nothing. His fashion would have waned in a 
 season had it been hinted that he lived soberly and had 
 ceased to intrigue with women of quality. In dress, and 
 manner, and morals, he must needs be as the heroes of 
 Wycherley and Vanburgh, if he would keep his vogue. And 
 Ned was vain, acd loved to be the fashion ; and he deemed 
 it his first duty to himself and society to ruin the peace of 
 any beautiful woman who came within his ken. 
 
 Sarah Pawlett came into Covent Garden Theatre innocent, 
 fresh, warm-hearted, pure-minded, pious even, in an age when 
 unbelief was the last fashion. She came from her humble 
 training in booths and barns, and queer little provincial 
 theatres, and took the town by storm. Her beauty, her 
 youth, her buoyancy came upon the jaded London playgoer 
 as a surprise. It was long since so bright and spontaneous 
 a being had flashed and sparkled on those boards. She 
 seemed the very spirit of comedy ; and to see her act a love 
 scene — half sentiment, half mockery — with Ned Langley, was 
 to see the very perfection of acting.
 
 The Little Woman in Blark 269 
 
 The town flocked to hear these two interchange the joyous 
 banter of Wyclierley or Congreve, charmed with their sjmrkle 
 and fire, their dasli and exuberance. 
 
 Of course, stage-lovers so deliglitful must be lovers off the 
 stage and in earnest. The tumultuous love scenes of that 
 broad, bright comedy must find their counterpart oft' the 
 stage in a deeper and more fatal love. This is the universal 
 belief of the playgoer. 
 
 For once in a way the audience were right in their guess- 
 work. Those stage-lovers had not wooed and bantered each 
 other in the shine of the oil lamps for half a year before they 
 had fallen deeper in love than ever Wycherley or Congreve 
 dreamed of in their gamut of passion. She gave up heart and 
 soul to the gallant lover, surrendurod her young fresh lips to 
 his stage-kisses, melted in his ai-ms, heart beating against 
 heart, sweetest eyes lifted confidingly to his, while the 
 audience applauded and cried, ' How exquisite, how natural I' 
 
 She was to be his wife. No shadow of any other thought 
 had ever crossed the unsullied surface oi her mind. As yet 
 there had been no word spoken of their marriage. They two 
 had been but seldom alone together. The old Major was at 
 his })ost behind the scenes every night, and carried his 
 daughter oft' to their lodgings in Holborn directly after the 
 performance. He attendefl rehearsals, took snutf with the 
 actors and actresses, and bored them exceedingly with his 
 prosy old stories of Dettingen, or the forty-five. He had 
 been stationed at Derby when the young Pretender turned 
 back with his rabble army. He was Hanoverian to the marrow. 
 
 No, there had been no word of marriage. The wooing had 
 been all stage-wooing— tender embraces, eyes entangling 
 themselves in eyes, swooning sighs, impassioned kisses, hearts 
 beating to suffocation, but all stage-play. If the Major com- 
 plained that these love scenes were too natural, the town was 
 enraptured, and greeted those two young lovere as if the pair 
 had made but one perfect whole. Apjilause given to her was 
 sweetest laudation for him. He looketl down at her fondly, 
 proudly, as they stood hand in hand at the fall of the curtain. 
 He was much more exjierionced in stage-craft than she ; and 
 it may be that lie fancied he had taught her to act. Those 
 who know genius when they see it, knew that with her acting 
 was as the gift of song to the bird, Godgiveu, spontaneous. 
 
 After that first half-year of stage courtshij> there came a 
 time when little hints and faint breathings of venom l)egan 
 to be heard in tlie side-scenes and green-room : shrugs,
 
 270 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 innuendoes, a suggestion that the prosy old Major was being 
 hoodwinked by those fiery spirits ; that the lovely girl who 
 walked off to her dingy lodgings so meekly every midnight, 
 niulMed and hooded, and clinging to the father's arm, had 
 begun to be experienced in the ruses by which ladies of 
 quality overreach a tyrannical parent or a jealous husband ; 
 that the frank smile and the sparkling eye now served to 
 mask a secret. 
 
 ' Why don't they marry % ' asked the comic old man. 
 
 ' The old Major would never consent to throw away his 
 clever, beautiful daughter upon an extravagant wretch like 
 Langley,' answered the lady who played the heavy mothers. 
 ' Why, her salary has to keep the whole family — yes, feed and 
 clothe all those hulking sisters, and find the old man in grog. 
 She is the milch-cow ; and if she were to marry Langley they 
 must all starve.' 
 
 ' If Ned were a man of spirit he would run away with hei',' 
 said the actor ; ' or get himself spliced by one of your May 
 Fair parsons.' 
 
 ' Ned has too many strings to his bow,' answered the lady, 
 with her tragic air ; ' half the women of quality in London 
 are in love with him. He has the ton at his beck and call. 
 Ned would be a fool to marry.' 
 
 ' Not to marry Sarah Pawlett, my good soul. That girl is 
 a fortune in herself. She is a genius, madam, a genius. Ned 
 must be a man of snow if he can resist such charms, such 
 graces. When she comes on the stage it is like the sun break- 
 ing through a cloud. The whole scene — nay, the Avhole 
 theatre brightens.' 
 
 But time went on, and there was no hint of marriage be- 
 tween those ideal lovers. The old Major was laid up with 
 gout, and unable to haunt the side-scenes as of old ; but he 
 was re2)resented by a duenna of Irish extraction — an old 
 servant who had nursed all the towzle-haired girls, including 
 Sarah herself. This dragon was of a mild nature, and the 
 lovers enjoyed each other's society very freely while the 
 demon Podagra laid the old soldier by the heels. They 
 seemed to move in a paradise of their own, regardless of those 
 around them, thoughtless of the morrow, forgetful of yester- 
 day, infinitely happy in the present hour, 
 
 Tiieir careless joy gave occasion for more shoulder-shrugging 
 among their worldly-wise comrades. There were some who 
 gave the lovely Sally over for lost, some who denounced the 
 handsome Ned as an arrant scoundrel — behind his back,
 
 The Little Woman in Blacli ,271 
 
 mark yoii ; but if this beautiful butterfly creature were hover- 
 ing on the brink of a ]necipice, there was no hand stretched 
 fortli to hokl her back from the abyss. 
 
 Suddenly the stream of gossip was turned into a new 
 channel, and the only talk of wings and green-room, club 
 and cotfee-house, was of the wonderful conquest Sarah 
 Pawlett had made in my Lord Bellenden — no light-minded 
 haunter of play-houses and French taverns, but one of the 
 magnates of the lantl, a gentleman of the purest water, a gem 
 without a flaw, white and perfect as the Eegent's diamond. 
 While Ned Langley had trifled and fooled, this most estimable 
 gentleman had stooped from his high estate to make the 
 actress an honourable offer of marriasfe. 
 
 Old Major i'awlett was on his legs again by the time this 
 happened. His gout had fled before the magic wand of 
 supreme good luck. lie proudly accepted his lordship's 
 generous ofi'er. The gii'l was but a child — not nineteen until 
 next April — and she had all a child's waywardness. Yet she 
 could not be otherwise than deeply gi-ateful, moved and 
 melted to her heart's core by his lordship's generosity. 
 
 The girl herself said nothing of gratitude, or any other 
 feeling. She stood up in the midst of the shabby ludging- 
 house parlour, thin and straight and pale, like a tall white 
 lily, and allowed herself to be given away to this stately 
 nobleman as if she had been a chattel. 
 
 He looked down at her with his grave, grand face, smiling 
 calmly ; confident in his jiower to hold that which he won, 
 strong in past triumphs over the hearts of women, strong in 
 the consciousness of his own worth. He put a diamond hoop 
 on the third finger of the cold, unresisting hand — so cold 
 albeit so yielding. 
 
 ' Let our wedding bells sound as soon as may be, dear one, 
 he said ; ' we have nothing to wait for.' 
 
 ' Oh, not too soon, not too soon,' she pleaded piteously ; 
 * your lordship is almost a stranger to me.' 
 
 ' Never again lordship, and not long a stranger,' he 
 answered gently. 
 
 He saw that look of anguish in the lovely face, and knew 
 that her heart was not his ; but he saw the pure and candid 
 soul shining out of the sorrowful eyes ; and he told himself 
 that such a heart was worth winning. 
 
 There was a painful scene between Sally and her old father 
 as soon as the nobleman's back was turned. The girl grovelled 
 at the Major's feet, vowed with p;\ssionate sobs that she
 
 272 Under the Ral Flag 
 
 woiild do anything for her father and her sisters, except this 
 one thing that was wanted of her. She would work like 
 a pack-horse. She would bring them evey guinea she earned 
 — she would wear one old grogram gown from year's end to 
 year's end. She would live on bread and cheese. But the 
 Major upbraided her with basest ingratitude to him and to 
 Providence — to Providence for having given her such a lover 
 as Lord Bellenden, to her father for his having been clever 
 enougli to bring such a lover to honourable proposals. 
 
 ' Do you suppose if I had been anything else than an officer 
 and a gentleman, and a man of the world to boot, his lordship 
 would have offered you marriage?' he demanded indignantly. 
 
 'Nay,' answered the girl, with a touch of pride that 
 ennobled her — pride in the man who loved her, albeit she 
 could not return his love, ' his lordship is a man of honour, 
 and would not have made dishonourable proposals to the 
 lowliest orphan in the land. He is like King Cophetua in 
 the old ballad.' 
 
 ' I wonder you have the impudence to praise him after 
 the fuss you havi! been making,' said the old man angrily, and 
 he emphasised his speech with sundry forcible epithets com- 
 mon to the conversation of military men in those days. 
 
 He watched his daughter like a lynx that night at the 
 theatre. Not a word could Ned Langley and she say to each 
 other in the green-room or at the side-scenes ; but there was 
 one opportunity on the stage when they two were standing 
 together at the back of the scene, while the low comedian 
 and the comic old Avoman were fooling in front of the foot- 
 lights. 
 
 She told him what had happened, clasping his hands in 
 hens, looking up at him with divine love and confidence. 
 
 * You must marry me, and quickly too,' she said. ' There 
 is no other way out of^it. If you don't I shall be married to 
 Lord Bellenden, willy nilly. My father's heart is set upon 
 it, and all the girls were in tears this afternoon beseeching 
 me. If you love me, Ned, as you have sworn you do, ah, so 
 often — so often, you must make me your wife without a 
 day's delay.' 
 
 He looked at her with passionate earnestness, betwixt love 
 and pain. ' My dearest, it can't be,' he said, ' it can't bo.' 
 
 ' But, why not 1 ' 
 
 ' Don't ask me, love, it can't be— and only reflect, sweet 
 one, what a chance you are throwing away. Such a match 
 as Lord Bellenden is not offered to an actress twice in a
 
 The Little Woman in Blade 273 
 
 century. You would be doing better than either of those 
 Oiiiiniiig girls about whom we have all heard so much — and 
 indeed you are handsomer than either ; and what,' he 
 whisperetl in her ear, drawing close to her as the serpent to 
 Eve, ' what is to prevent us loving each other till the end 
 of the chapter, even if you are Lady Bellenden ? ' 
 
 Her hands grew cold as death, and she wrenched them 
 from his, as she would have snatched them out of a fiery 
 furnace. She recoiled from him, stood apart from him for 
 the rest of the scene, neither looked at him nor spoke to him, 
 save when the business of the stage compelled her. 
 
 Three days afterwards Ned Langley went over to the 
 enemy, accepted an engagement at the rival house, and the 
 manager was left in despair. 
 
 ' What the plague am I to do ? ' he asked piteously, with 
 his wig pushed on one side, from sheer vexation. ' There 
 is no comedian like him in London — not in the world, perhaps 
 — in spite of their talk of those frog-eating jackanapeses in 
 the Rue St. Uonore.' 
 
 ' Play tragedy,' said Sarah, ' and then you won't miss him. 
 You have Mi'. Deloraine, who took the town in Romeo. I 
 am dying to act tragedy,' 
 
 'What, you, Mrs. Madcaji ? Do you think that you, avIio 
 have kept the town laughing so long, will ever set them 
 crying?' 
 
 'Try me ! ' she answered, fixing him with those beautiful 
 eyes of hers, so large, so lim{)id in their exquisite azure. ' I 
 can cry myself, mark you, sir ; and that's half the battle.' 
 
 She stood a little way from him, threw her head slightly 
 backward, and lifted up her eyes to heaven, in a Carlo 
 Dolci attitude. Slowly, gradually, the beautiful eyes tilled, 
 and slowly overflowed. Pearly drops chased each other down 
 the delicate cheeks ; not a contortion disfignreil the chiselled 
 features ; no flush disturbed the pure pallor of that ivory skin. 
 ' Yes, you will do it,' cried the manager. ' What a face 
 to prelude Juliet's potion scene, when mother and nurse have 
 left her, and she stands alone, like Niobe, fixed in despair. 
 Yes, you shall play Juliet next week. Deloraine is at his 
 best in Romeo, and at forty looks an admirable twenty-five.' 
 The manager kept his word, and mistress Sarah's Juliet 
 was the mode for a month. The town was all agog about her 
 matrimonial engagement, and flocked to see her act with 
 ever increasing fervour. She had refused to leave the stage 
 till the eve of her wedding ; refused with a charming feminine 
 
 T
 
 274 Uii'Jer tlic ]{e(l Flag 
 
 obstinacy which delighted her lover, though he would have 
 had it otherwise. A man so deep in love is all the more 
 smitten by having his every wish denied. Sarah was the 
 coyest, pi-oudest, most tormenting of mistresses ; and there was 
 that shadow of sadness, which came and went like the clouds 
 that drift across the moon on a windy autumn night, and 
 only made her more beautiful. 
 
 Mr. Deloraine was plain and pock-marked, and lacked all 
 the graces of handsome Ned Langley ; but he contrived to 
 make himself handsome on the stage, by the aid of white 
 lead and ceruse, and he was a highly respectable gentleman, 
 who paid his way and went to church on Sundays. He had 
 a dull wife and eleven children, so Lord Bellenden had 
 no cause for jealousy about this Eomeo, even when he saw 
 Juliet in his arms at the passionate hour of parting, what 
 time the lark carolled above the olive woods beyond Verona. 
 Little by littk- — by infinitesimal stages of days and hours — 
 Sarah learnt, first to honour, and then to love her noble wooer. 
 He was a man wortliy to be loved — generous, chivalrous as 
 that lover in the old ballad which Sarah knev/ by heart — 
 nobler than the ideal of her girlish dreams. She surrendered 
 her heart to him almost unwillingly, deeming herself unworthy 
 to be loved by him, unworthy even to love him ; but she could 
 not withhold her love. He commanded her aflfection, as he 
 had first commanded her respect. 
 
 She loved him, and in a few weeks she was to be married 
 to him. The most fashionable mantua-maker at the West 
 End was busy with her gowns and falballas : the Bellenden 
 diamonds were being remounted for her : a chariot of the 
 newest shape and style was being built for her : and ladies of 
 the highest ton stood up \i\ their carriages to stare at her as 
 she drove through the Park in a hired Berlin with her father. 
 With all this she was not hap])y, and she had more than 
 one reason for her unhapj^iuess. First, there was the thought 
 of Ned Langley's treachery, and the love she had wasted 
 upon him. This rankled like a green wound. Then there 
 was the stinging memory of certain girlish half-mad letters 
 she had written to him, when she had believed him noble as 
 a Greek god. Thirdly, there was the haunting pi-esence of a 
 little woman in black, who dogged her in the street by day, 
 now following her, now lurking at corners to watch her, and 
 who sat on the same bench, in the same spot — the third seat 
 from the end near the door on the prompt side, in ths 
 second row of the pit— everv iiight.
 
 Th'' Little Wumait in, lUai-k 275 
 
 At first, Sarah had been interested, amused, flattered by 
 the lady'8 constant attendance. She had pointed her out to 
 Ned Langley, solitary, silent, intent upon the play; evidently 
 a friendless creature, alone in the desert of the town, with no 
 amusement but the play-house. 
 
 ' She looks a poor little shabby-fjenteel creature, but a 
 lad}' all the same,' Sandi had said to Langley, ' and how she 
 watches you and me, and hangs upon every word we utter. 
 I am quite taken with the poor harmless soul. I v\nsh you 
 would find out who she is l ' 
 
 ' Impossible, child ! ' a stranger from the country, most 
 likely. A waif thrown up by the ocean of change— a widow 
 who has lost her fortune and her husband, and has come to 
 London to seek new one-:.' 
 
 On another occasion, when Sarah talked of the little 
 woman in black, Ned had a vexed air. 
 
 ' I believe she is a political sjn-,' he said ; ' the Government 
 is still susj)icious of dealings with the Pretender, and has all 
 sorts of agents.' 
 
 And now, when she and Ned Langley were strangers for 
 evermore, Sarah found herself watciied more closely than 
 ever by the little woman in shabby black— a pale, sharp- 
 featured little woman, who might, perchance, have been 
 pi'etty in girlhood, but who had lost all her beauty at five- 
 and-thirty, which was about the age Sarah gave her. She 
 had a restless, lynx-eyed look, as of one who had worn her- 
 self out with watching other people. 
 
 One night tliat the ^lajor had stayed late at a convivial 
 party, Sarah, walking home with her maid, was overtaken by 
 a pair of lightly-tripping feet in Lincoln's Lin Fields, and 
 was startled by the tap of a hand on her shoulder. 
 
 She turned and fronted the little woman in black, whose 
 pale, pinched face seemed ghostly in the dim light of the 
 oil-lamp overhead. They had just turned the corner by hia 
 Grace of Newcastle's big stone mansion. 
 
 ' What do you want, woman ? ' asked Sarah haughtily. 
 
 'Five minutes' conversation with you, madam ; and it is 
 for your welfare tiiat you siiould grant me the interview.' 
 
 ' You can fall a little iu the rear, Margaret,' said Sarah to the 
 old servant. 'This lady wishes to talk with me in private.' 
 
 The Irishwoman looked doubtful, and fell back only a few 
 jiaces. The woman in black seemed too small a person to be 
 dangerous. Her head hardly reached the queenly Sarah's 
 shoulder.
 
 276 Under tlie Red Flag 
 
 ' You are going to make a great matcli, madam,' said the 
 stranger ; ' all the town is full of your good fortune.' 
 
 ' I hoj^e you have not stopped me so solemnly in order to 
 tell me that ! ' retorted the actress. ' I have noted you in 
 the pit many an evening, madam, and as you seem an admirer 
 of the drama I should be sorry to deem you crazy.' 
 
 ' No, madam, I am not crazy, though I have had more than 
 enough to make me so. A father's anger, aye, and the loss 
 of every friend I had in yoath, a fortune forfeited, and, for 
 a crowning mercy, an unfaithful husband — yes, unfaithful — • 
 though it was for him I sacrificed father and fortune, friends 
 and position. I was the only daughter of a bishop, madam, 
 and kept the best company before I was married.' 
 
 'Those facts are interesting, madam, to yourself or your 
 personal friends, but hardly so to me. I wish you good- 
 night,' said Sarah hastily, assured that the lady was a lunatic. 
 But the little woman pressed upon her steps. 
 
 ' I shall find means to awaken your interest presently, 
 madam,' she said. ' You are about to be married to the 
 best match in London, as I was saying, and your fortune is 
 to be envied by all your sex. I have heard wagers in the pit 
 as to whether the marriage would or would not ccnne off.' 
 
 ' The people who made such wagers were monstrously 
 insolent.' 
 
 ' No doubt, madam ; but insolence is the order of the day. 
 Now, I myself would not mind wagering that your engage- 
 ment with Lord Bellenden would be oif to-morrow if he knew 
 as much as I do ; and if he were favoured with the peiusal of 
 certain letters which you wrote — and by the dozen — to hand- 
 some Ned Langley, your stage-lover, madam, and your very 
 earnest lover off the stage.' 
 
 'My letters !' cried Sarah, aghast. 'What do you know 
 of my letters 1 ' 
 
 She was utterly unskilled in deceit, unpractised in denial, 
 and aflmitted her folly as freely as a child would have done. 
 
 'What do I know of them 1 They arc my daily reading ; 
 they are my morning service. I know them by heart, madam. 
 Yes, and I know of your meetings, too ; your stolen kisses in 
 the old house by the river — among the rats and the spiders, 
 and the ghosts, madam — yes, the ghosts. You were scared 
 by a ghost once, I think, Avhen you and Ned were standing 
 side by side in the twilight in that empty house which you 
 chose for your rendezvous.' 
 
 ' Yes,' cried Sarah, ' there was a figure flitted by — noiseless
 
 The Little Woman in Black 277 
 
 — shadowy. It turned my blood to ice — a figure in black. 
 It was you ! ' 
 
 She stood gazing at the little woman in the moonlight — so 
 pale, so attenuated. Yes, that was the form which had tlitted 
 past on the shadowy landing by the open door of the room in 
 Avliich she and Ned were standing, hand clasped in hand, 
 pouring out their tale of love. 
 
 She had taken the little black figure for a visitant from the 
 other world ; and now she knew that it was even worse than 
 a ghost — a woman, mad, or it might be, only jealous— a woman 
 with a bitter, unscrupulous tongue bent on doing her mischief. 
 
 This creature wouhl betray her to her lord, whom she 
 reverenced, whom she loved. It was of Eellenden she thought 
 as .she faced her foe in the corner of the square by the turn- 
 stile, the moon shining down upon them, the shadows of the 
 houses making great blots of darkness here and there. 
 
 She had done this foolish thing, she, Sarah Pawlett, whom 
 Lord Bellenden deemed the purest of women. She had com- 
 promised herself deeply for that false lover of hers, consenting 
 to stolen meetings in an old enijjty house by the river, between 
 the Temple and Dlackfriars, a house that had been in t'lianccry 
 for fifty years, and which was supposed to be haunted. Ned 
 Langley had procured a key somehow ; and here they had 
 met with impunity between the morning rehearsal and the 
 evening ])erformance. AVhen Sally was late in returning to 
 the family dinner or the family tea, she had but to say that 
 the rehearsal had been longer than usual. 
 
 Tiiere had not been many such meetings, a dozen at most, 
 and the rendezvous had been of a j)erfectly innocent character; 
 but the mere fact of such secret stolen interviews would have 
 been cpiite enough to coin])romise or to condemn Sarah in the 
 opinion of such a man as Lord Bellenden. 
 
 Her letters were full of allusions to these meetings ; she 
 had dwelt with all a girl's romantic fondness ujion the delight 
 of being alone with her idol ; of touching his soft silken 
 locks, of looking up into his eyes. The letters were written 
 with all the self-abandonment of a young heart, written to 
 one who was to be tlie writer's husband, who was her all in 
 .all, the beginning and end of her universe ; written to one 
 whom she would no more have suspected of falsehood or 
 meanness than she would have doubted the purity of the 
 blue ether far away above the common earth, in a region 
 wljere defilement conu'th not. Shehad not asked for tlie return 
 of herlettois, for, until that never-to-be-forgotten night when
 
 278 Vn-ler th." P.efl TJarj 
 
 she had tolJ Ned Langley that the time had come for their 
 marriage, she had lived in the assurance that she was to be 
 liis wife. He had not detiiiitely spoken of their nniou, Lut 
 it had s-emed to her a tiling cf course from the hour in which 
 they confessed their mutual love. What else had they to 
 live for, either of them, but to love and wed ? they who 
 seemed made to be mated ; like two flowers on one stem, 
 turning to each other naturally as the wind of fate blew them. 
 After that bitter moment in which her lover had revealed 
 his worthlessness, Sarah had been too proud in her deep anger 
 to approach him, or conimunicate with him in any form, even 
 for the sake of regaining lier letters. She had hardly 
 thought of those letters, indeed ; thinking of the whole 
 love story as a cliapter in her life that was closed for ever ; 
 a vault sealed and secret, in which lay the dead corpse of her 
 first passionate love. 
 
 And now she was learning that there might be a second 
 love, sweeter even than the first ; graver, deeper, truer ; less 
 romantic, but more ennobling ; she was learning this and 
 forgetting everything else, when this new trouble came upon 
 her. Those letters, those foolish, wildly sentimental letters, 
 v,-eie in the keeping of this strange woman. 
 
 'How came you by my letters, madam ] ' she asked in- 
 dignantly. ' Are you a thief % ' 
 
 'No, madam. I am a much injured woman; and you 
 ought to take it kindly that I have borne my wrongs .so 
 I)atiently, and not disgraced you in your theatre, where you 
 fire like a queen. But stage queens have had mud thrown 
 in tlieir faces before to-day.' 
 ' Voii, disgrace me ! you ] ' 
 ' Yes, I, madam ; Ned Langley 's wife.' 
 ' Ned — Langley's — wife ! ' 
 
 Sarah repeated the words slowly, almost in a whisper. 
 ' Oh ! he did not tell you that he was a married man, did 
 he? he never does. You are not the first he has deluded. 
 He does v\'orse than that, for he tells villainous lies about me ; 
 he tells his fellow-actors that the poor little crack-brained 
 woman at his lodgings is not his wife, but his mistress— a 
 young lady of quality whom he ran away with, and who has 
 been a burden to him ever since. That's what he tells his 
 friends, madam ; because that story leaves him at liberty to 
 make love to the last fashi(mable actress, and to promise her 
 marriage. And I am fool enough to stay with him and to 
 slave for him, knowing all this ; to warm his slippers of a
 
 The Linie Uoman in Black 279 
 
 night before he comes home, iiiul mix his grog for him, and 
 bear with liim when he staggers liorae drunk fnjm liis Hell 
 Fire Club, and hear his boasts of women of ton who are over 
 head and ears in love with him. It was one night when he 
 was in liquor that I found the lirst of your letters in his 
 pocket ; and after that I watched liim, and picked them up 
 everywiiere. You've no notion how careless he is of such 
 letters ; and, madam, the women all write alike, and lovers 
 get tired of so much honey. I've heard him say, " More of 
 their precious scribble.'' We wives have the best of it, per- 
 hap-i, with sucli fellows ; for, at least, we are behind the 
 scenes, and we see tliem with their masks off.' 
 
 ' And you have my letters — all of them ? ' 
 
 ' Three-and-twenty, madam. I doubt that's all, for I 
 ransaok every corner in quest of such things. I know my 
 gentleman's ways ! ' 
 
 'Will you give them me back, to-night?' asked Sarah, 
 eagerly. 
 
 ' No, madam, neither to-night nor to-morrow. I will not 
 give them back to Sarah Pawlett ; I will only return them 
 to La ly B.dlonden. When you are his lordship's wife, 
 madam, the letters shall be yours." 
 
 ' I see,' said S;irah, gloomily, ' it is the old story. I have 
 heard of such things. Yon mean to keep the letters, and 
 liold them over me as a continual tlircat after I am married. 
 You will make me pay you to be silent about them.' 
 
 ' Pay me ! No, madam, I am not so b;ise as that. I have 
 no grudge against you. I cannot even blame your conduct, 
 tliough it w.is somewhat imprudent. You are but one of 
 many whom handsome Ned Langley has deluded. I am not 
 a double-dealer. The letters shall be yours when you are 
 Lady Bellenden. On your wedding-day, if you like.' 
 
 ' Why wait till then 1 Give me the letters to-morrow, and 
 I shall be your grateful debtor for life. There is nothing 
 in my power, as an honest woman, that I would not do for you ' 
 
 ' You promise fair, madam, but I have my fancy. I will 
 only surrender those letters to Lord Bellenden's wife.' 
 
 'But you must have your price — you must want something 
 of me.' 
 
 ' Well perhaps I do. Yes, every man has his ])rice, and I 
 suppose every woman has hers too. I shall tell you mine 
 when I give you back your letters on your wedding-day.' 
 
 Sarah tried, even with tears, to argue Ned Langley's 
 wife out of tliis rifjid determination. The three women —
 
 280 Under the Red Flag 
 
 Irish Margaret in the rear — walked round Lincohi's Inn 
 Fields twice in the moonlight, Sarah jaleading — the little 
 woman as firm as a rock. 
 
 ' On your wedding-day, madam, and no sooner,' she sad 
 at parting ; 'I shall be in the church, with the letters in my 
 pocket. I wish you a very good-night.' 
 
 She made a low curtsey as ceremoniously as if she had 
 been at Eanelagh, and tripped lightly off towards Clare 
 Market ; leaving Sarah and the maid to go on to Holborn 
 together. 
 
 After this midnight interview, came a period of keenest 
 anxiety, nay, almost of mental torture for Sarah Pawlett. 
 Three weeks had yet to pass before she would be my Lady 
 Bellenden. How she regretted her own persistency in 
 having postponed the wedding — her obstinacy in having in- 
 sisted upon acting until the eve of her marriage. She acted 
 now in fear and trembling, expectant of some demonstration 
 from the little woman in black. The little woman never 
 missed a night in her accustomed seat in the second row of 
 the pit. She had acquired a prescriptive right to that seat 
 by her constant attendance, and by being always one of the 
 first to enter the theatre. Regular pit-goers knew her by 
 sight, and gave way to her — a dramatic enthusiast, doubt- 
 less, a little distraught, but harmless. 
 
 Sarah's first look when she came on the stage was to that 
 seat in the pit. 
 
 She acted the potion scene in Juliet with her eyes fixed on 
 the little woman in black, fixed as if she had been face to face 
 with Nemesis. It was a wonderful expression : people re- 
 membered it, and quoted it a quarter of a century afterwards 
 as a marvel of finished art and high-wrought feeling. 
 
 Driving with Lord Bellenden in the park, or attending a 
 fashionable auction with him, or at an afternoon water-party, 
 Sarah was tortured by the exi^ectation of the same haunting 
 presence. The little woman seemed iibiquitous. Small, 
 active, insignificant, neatly dressed, and with lady-like 
 manners, she was able to push herself in anywhere. She 
 tripped about auction-rooms and looked at china monster.s. 
 She had her seat in the park, as she had in the pit. She 
 might even Ije seen on the river, alone with her waterman, 
 shooting about among the crowded wherries and gaily-clad 
 people — a creature of no more significance than a blot of ink 
 on a gaudy flowered wall. 
 Sarali was always dreading an explosion ; and her future
 
 The Little Woman in Blade 281 
 
 husband was so devoted to her, so chivalrous, so true. His 
 love lifted her to a calm heaven of proud contentment. To 
 be beloved by him was to enter into a state of tranquil 
 blessedness ; just ns she had ])ictured to herself the condition 
 of the elect in the world to come. 
 
 Sometimes she had a mind to fall at his feet and confess 
 everything : her romantic passion for Ned Langley, and the 
 way she had been fooled by him — even their secret meetings 
 in the deserted house — yes, she would have confessed all that, 
 she would have endured the shame of it ; but the idea that 
 those letters of hers, written in all the intoxication of a first 
 love, slioidd be read in cold blood, read by a man of 
 cultivated mind — those foolish, rambling sentences and 
 reiterations, the poor little stock of words so repeated and 
 misused, and, worst of all, the bad spelling. Yes ; Sarah 
 had been educating herself severely since her engagement 
 to Lord Bellenden, and in the course of her studies had 
 discovered how sorely she had erred in that matter of 
 orthography. To think that throughout those fatal letters 
 she had spelt affection with one f, and rapture with sh, 
 instead of t. Orthography is such an arbitrary thing ; has 
 neither rhyme nor reason in it, Sarah thought, submitting 
 her old lax notions to the rigid schooling of tlie dictionary. 
 
 And now came the wedding-dav. She was to be married 
 at St. Martin's-in-the-Fields, his lordsliip's house being in 
 that parish. The wedding was to be a very quiet cei-emonial. 
 His lordship's mother, a dowager of seventy years of age, 
 and of great dignity-, of whom Sarah lived in awe, was to be 
 the only relative ])resent on the bridegroom's side. His best 
 man was an old friend. On Sarah's side there were the four 
 sisters, ;iud an oahsli brother. The Major was to give his 
 daughter away, and was to have a new coat for the occasion. 
 Tlie eldest of her sisters was to be bridesmaid. 
 
 After the wedding, bride and bridegroom were to step into 
 a travelling carriage, and drive off as fast as six fine horaes 
 could take them tu Tunbridge Wells, where they were to 
 spend the honeymoon at the dowager's secluded villa near 
 Leeds Castle. It was said to be one of the prettiest seats in 
 Kent, on a small scale — gardens, fountains, shrubberies all 
 perfection. It had been the lady's delight in her thirty years 
 of widowhood to create and beautify the grounds and gardens. 
 
 ' We shall be vastly quiet there, Sally,' said his lordship, 
 when he was describing the beauties of the place ' I hope 
 you will not get tired of me.'
 
 232 mier the Rp'J Fkoj 
 
 ' Tired of you !' She looked up at Lini with worshippiufr 
 eyes— how strangely different from that despairing look with 
 which she had once enti'eated him to delay their marriage ! 
 
 He felt ineffably proud of his conquest. He had told 
 himself that he could win her, and sworn to himself to make 
 her his in heart and soul before the law bound her to him. 
 
 ' When we are very sick of each other we can go to the 
 Eooms or the Pantiles to see the modish peojile,' he said, 
 smiling at her. 
 
 'I would rather stay at home and hear you read to me,' 
 she answered gi'avely. ' Think how much I have to learn 
 before I shall be worthy to be your wife ! ' 
 
 ' I think you have learnt the only lesson I shall ever care 
 about teaching you,' he said. 
 
 ' How do you mean ? ' 
 
 'I think you have learnt to love nie, Sarah. That's the 
 only wisdom I ask of you.' 
 
 'Yes, I have learnt that wich all my heart. Yet when 
 you first came to this house I almost h ited you.' 
 
 'That was because you loved auother. Nay' — as Sarah 
 tried to speak — ' neither deny it nor confess it, my dear. I 
 want to learn nothing about the past. I am happy in the 
 present, and confident about the future.' 
 
 Sarah changed from red to pale and was silent. 
 
 How could she speak of those accursed letters after this 1 
 How could she ever let him look into the depth of her past 
 fully 1. 
 
 She was as white as sculptured marble next morning — as 
 white as her ostrich feathers, but a bride has a privileged 
 pallor. Nobody wondered at Sarah's colourless cheeks. 
 
 ' You look frightened, my dear,' said the out-spoken 
 dowager as she kissed her in the church. ' I hope you don't 
 repent what you are doing.' 
 
 ' No, madam. I love your son with all my heart, and am 
 prf^iud with all my heart of his love. 
 
 Then the organ played a psalm, and the little procession 
 went uj) to the altar rails, or the rails which defended that 
 table which should have been an altar. 
 
 Very clear and firm and full were Sarah's accents as she 
 gave the responses that made her George, Lord Bellenden's, wife. 
 
 ' There is some advantage in having been taught to speak,' 
 thought the dowager, as she heard those rich, round tones. 
 
 Anon came the business in the vestry. The old Major 
 was weeping for very pride that his daugliter was now one
 
 Th>' LitUo Woman in Bhirh 283 
 
 of the nobility. Sarah signed herself Sarah Pawlett for tlie 
 last time in her life, kissed her husband, and went out of the 
 church leaning on his arm, hajjpy, since he was verily hers 
 now, and yet painfully expectant. 
 
 So far there had been no sign of the little woman in 
 black. Sarah had looked about the church expecting to sec! 
 her in the corner of a pew, or hirking behind a pillar ; but 
 she had descried the pinched little face nowhere. ' How 
 could I suppose that she would keep her promise ? ' thought 
 Sarah despairingly ; 'she will treasure those letters as a 
 weapon to use against uie whenever the fit takes her.' 
 
 But in the church porch the little woman in black pressed 
 forward to speak to the bride, with a small brown jiaper 
 j)arcel, very neatly packed, in her hand. 
 
 'Mr. Jones, the glover, was anxious that you should havo 
 this ere you staited, my lady,' she said. ' He could not 
 execute your order sooner.' 
 
 'Give it to one of my servants, madam,' said his lordship, 
 but Sarah snatched the parcel. 
 
 ' I thank you, madam, from the bottom of my heart,' she 
 murmured, with an earnest look, while her bridegroom was 
 giving an order to one of the outriders who were to escort 
 them t ) Tunbridge Wells. 
 
 Another minute and she was in the chariot, sitting by her 
 husband's side, the brown paper parcel in her lap. 
 
 * Shall we open it and see what the gloves are like, which 
 the man sends you at the eleventh hour ? ' asked Lord 
 Bellenden. 
 
 'N"o,'she said, 'I knowall about them; I want to talk toyou.' 
 
 So they talked, and the i)arcel was not opened, and the 
 streets and the new briige, and the long suburban road, which 
 in those days so soon became rustic, ileeted by them like a 
 dream that is dreamt, a happy vision of sunlight and 
 glancing leaves, white houses, cottage gardens — now and 
 then a carriage, now and then a cart — and on to the woods 
 and j)astures, orchards and hop-gardens of Kent. 
 
 Before the bride ilressed for dinner she burnt every one of 
 tho.se foolish letters — burnt them without reading a line in 
 anv of them. 
 
 ' If I were to read them I should hate myself too much 
 for my silliness in ever having written such trash,' she said 
 to herself, as she thing them into the fire, and thrust them 
 down among the blazing coals, and held them there with the 
 poker till not a vestige of that romantic bosh remained. 
 
 B
 
 284 Tinder the Red Flag 
 
 Three days afterwards Lady Bellenden received a prim 
 little letter with the London postmark, written in a niggling 
 hand, and beautifully spelt : 
 
 ' Honoured Madam— 
 
 ' When we w^ere talking together that night you asked me 
 if I had a price for your letters, and I said perhajjs I had. 
 
 ' You are now Lady Bellenden. You will be a leader of 
 fashion before long, if you i)lay your cards cleverly. Ask me 
 to your parties. I have long languished for modish society. 
 The loss of that is a greater deprivation to me than any of 
 the troubles of my married life — wretched as that is. Ask 
 me to all your parties. I shall not disgrace you. I know 
 how to behave in company, and I shall always come in a chair. 
 
 ' God bless you. I am very glad you are happily married, 
 and have escaped that scoundrel, my husband. Be sure you 
 send me a card for your first rout.' 
 
 Lady Bellendtn readily complied with this request, and 
 Mrs. Edward Langley, of Castle-street, Leicester-sciuare, 
 received a card for her ladyship's first reception, and with 
 the caixl a parcel of black Genoa velvet for a gown, and 
 Spanish lace to trim the same. The little woman looked to 
 advantage in her velvet gown, and mingled in the throng of 
 English and foreign nobility, men about town, wits and 
 authors, without attracting any adverse criticism. But as 
 the years went by the little woman in black became as 
 familiar an object in Lady Bellenden's drawing-room as the 
 looking-glasses which her ladyship had brought from "Venice, 
 or the statues which his lurdsliip had brought from Rome. 
 She was very harmless ; she listened to the music, and looked 
 on at the dancing, and never obtruded herself upon any- 
 body's attention. But it was observed that Lady Bellenden 
 was always particularly kind to her, and by-and-by, when 
 there came a bevy of sons and daughters, the little woman in 
 black acquired the position of a maiden aunt or a godmother, 
 among these young ])eople, and spent the greater portion of 
 her life with the Bellendens either in town or country. 
 
 Ned Langley had vanished from the stage of the world 
 long ere this, after having dropped into disrepute as an actor 
 in consequence of his intemperate habits. 
 
 He died in a sponging house, very suddenly, struck down 
 by cerebral apojjlexy, after a midnight drinking bout. Most 
 people had heard the little woman in black sjjokcn of as Mrs. 
 Langley ; but very few people knew that she was the widow 
 of handsome Ned Langley, the famous comedian.
 
 ACROSS THE FOOTLIGHTS 
 
 PART I. 
 
 Fivii; and twenty years ago, Helmstone-by-the-Sea was almost 
 as gay and as fashionable a resort as it is now. It was the 
 holiday gromid — the lungs of London — just as it is now. 
 Of coui'se, it was not so big. The development of gay little 
 Helmstone during the last quarter of a century is in some 
 wise phenomenal. It has grown a new pier, a grand hotel, 
 an aquarium, a colossal and splendid swimming bath in place 
 of a small and shabby one. It has grown new churches, new 
 streets, new terraces, crescents, club-houses, rinks, concert- 
 rooms, gardens, promenades, winter-drives. All the good 
 things that a sea-side resort can oU'er to resident or visitor 
 are provided by Helmstone. It boasts the prettiest shops, the 
 cleverest doctors and dentists, the keenest lawyers, the 
 blandest riding-masters, the most accomplished professors of 
 music and art that all England can show. Novelties and 
 prettinesses come into being at Helmstone even before they 
 are seen in Bond Street. It is as if they were wafted across 
 the channel by some magical ])0wer. From the Palais Eoyal 
 to the Queen's Parade is but a step. 
 
 Yes, Helmstone has doubled, trebled, quadrupled itself in 
 wealth and splendour since the days when ' Pam ' was a power 
 and the Indian Mutiny was still fresh in the ndnds of men, 
 when Macaulay's History anil Tennyson's Idylls were the 
 books of the hour. It has swollen and spread itself over the 
 face of the surrounding country ; it has swallowed up its own 
 suburbs and green spaces, like another Saturn devouring his 
 children ; and elderly people look back upon that cosy little 
 Helmstone of a quarter of a century ago with a touch of regret. 
 
 What a pleasant jilace it was in those days, with its spark- 
 ling 2)arade, anil narrowest of side streets, its shabby old baths 
 and shabby old jiier, and old-fashioned hotels — not a table 
 d'hote in the whole town — i)rivate sitting-rooms, stately little
 
 288 UivJer the llej Flay 
 
 dinners, and wax candles, in the good old Georgian manner 
 — exiDensive, exclusive, dull. Helmstone had its own duke, its 
 own resident duke, in that corner mansion on the cliti' at the 
 east end of the town. Helmstone had its own single old-e&tab- 
 lished club. Helmstone had still a royal llavour, as having 
 been thirty or forty years before the chosen resort of princes. 
 
 To an old fogey it seems as if there were prettier ^girls 
 marching up and down the Queen's Parade in those days ; 
 better favoLired, grander-looking men. Every other man one 
 met between four and live on a November afternoon had the 
 air of Life Guards or Hussai-s. One seemed to hear the clink 
 of spurs, and the jingle of pabretache as those tall moustached 
 youths strode by, with golden lockets and fusee-boxes Hash- 
 ing on their waistcoats, clad in peg-top trousers and rough 
 overcoats. All the girls had golden hair shining under pork- 
 pie hats, and dainty little seal-skin jackets, and flounced silk 
 f rocks,showing the neat little boot, and slender ankle, just re- 
 vealing at windy corners that portion of the feminine anatomy 
 wdiich French novelists describe as ' the birth of a leg.' 
 
 It was at this lesser Helmstone, at the old Theatre Eoyal 
 —a smaller, shabbier building than the theatre of to-day— 
 thatMiss Rosalie Morton appeared as fairy-queen in the panto- 
 mime of 'Gulliver and the Golden Goose,or Harlequin Little 
 Boy Blue, and Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your 
 garden grow?' — in the new year of 1860. 
 
 Now the role of queen of the fairies in a Christmas panto- 
 mime is not the loftiest walk in the British drama. It does 
 not rank among the Portias and Juliets and Lady Teazles, 
 The fairy-queen is apt to be snubbed by the first singing 
 chamber-maid who plays ' Mary, Mary, quite contrary,' and 
 even to be looked down upon by the premihe dansexise : but 
 still there is a certain dignity about the part which is re- 
 spected by the gallery, and regarded kindly by boxes and pit. 
 
 Above all, the fairy-queen should be young and pretty. 
 A plain or an elderly queen would be a blot upon any pan- 
 tomime. The first dancer may be as old as she likes, provided 
 her legs are nimble and her petticoats well put on. It is for 
 her steps she is valued. But the queen of the fairies must 
 be young, and fair, and gracious looking. 
 
 So young, so fair, so gracious, was assuredly Miss Rosalie 
 Morton, the queen of that particular Christmas entertain- 
 ment of Gulliver and Mary. She w-as not quite eighteen 
 years of age, and she had only been on the stage just six 
 months. It had been considered great promotion for her
 
 Acwua l/ic FuutUijlds 287 
 
 wlien, after trying her young wings, as it were, and familiar- 
 ising herself witli tlie glare of the footlights at the little 
 theatre in the Isle of Wight, she had been engaged — for the 
 sake of her ])iH'tty face, hien entendu — by Mr. de C'ourtenay, 
 of the Theatre Itoyal, llehustone. 
 
 Mr. de Courtenay was the kindest of men ami of managers. 
 His actors and actresses adored him. He was so thoroughly 
 good, so friendly, so honourable, so conscientious, that it was 
 impossible to grumble at anything he did ; so as actors and 
 actresses must grumble, they all found fault with the stage- 
 manager, who was a good, honest soul, but not quite so 
 cultivated a person as a stage-manager ought to be, and who 
 cast the pieces in a rough-and-ready wny which was intensely 
 irritating to the artists whose talents and inilividual rights he 
 so often disregarded. 
 
 For once in a way, however, ^Ir. Badger was right when 
 he cast Rosalie Morton for the part of fairy-queen in the 
 pantomime. She had only about a hundred lines of doggerel 
 to pronounce, doggerel highly spiced with those local and 
 topical allusions which enhance the charm of such dialogue : 
 but she had to occupy the stage for a long time, and her 
 beauty would be of value to the scenes in which she appeared. 
 ' It is the prettiest face Courtenay has picked up for the 
 last three years,' said the leader of the orchestra, who was a 
 critic and connoisseur, and always gave his oi)inion freely. 
 ' She ought to have ])layed Mary, instead of Miss Bolderby, 
 who is as old as the hills, and sings out of tune, I could have 
 taught Miss JSIorton to sing her half-dozen songs in as many 
 lessons. She has a pretty little voice, and a caj)ital ear.' 
 
 ' She can't act a bit," said Mr. Badger, ' and Bolderby is a 
 roaring favourite wil!i the gallery. Morton will do very well 
 for fairy-queen.' 
 
 It was one of Mr. Badger's pleasing ways to call actresses 
 by their surnames, tout court. 
 
 So Miss Morton ])layed ' C'erulia, the queen of the azure 
 fairies in the hyacinthine doll ' — that is how she was described 
 in the play-bill. The wardrobe- woman made her a short frock 
 of palest blue tulle, starred with silver, and a silver tissue 
 bodice, which fitted her willowy figure and girlish bust to 
 perfection. She had the i)rettiest Ifgs and feet in the theatre, 
 and her satin shoes and sandals became her to admiration. 
 She had magnificent chesnut hair, with Hashes of gold in it, 
 large hazel eyes,aOrecian noso,and a mouth of loveliest mould. 
 She was delicately fiishioned ; of middle height, gracefid,
 
 288 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 refined ; altogether charming. Mr. de Courtenay felt that he 
 had secured a prize ; and he raised her salaiy from thirty 
 shillings a week to five-and-thirty without being asked. 
 Theatrical salaries did not range quite so high in 1860 as they 
 do nowadays. Under the present liberal management of the 
 Hehnstone theatre, so pretty a fairy as Rosalie Morton would 
 count her salary by guineas, and not by shillings. 
 
 That extra five shillings weekly was a godsend to Miss 
 Morton and Miss Morton's mamma. The mamma was a 
 clergyman's widow, whose annual revenue was of the smallest. 
 She had a married daughter among the professional classes 
 in Bloomsbury ; fairly, but not wealthily wedded. She had 
 a son in Somerset House, and another son in the colonies, 
 working for their daily bread. And she had this youngest of 
 all her children — her rose of roses — who adored her, had 
 never been separated from her for more than a week, and 
 who had found even a week's visit to kindest friends a dreary 
 exile from the beloved mother. 
 
 Rosalie had cherished a childish passion for play-acting 
 from the days of short frocks and sky-blue sashes, when she 
 had been taken to the York theatre by an uncle and aunt 
 who lived in that cathedral city, and with whom she occasion- 
 ally spent a day and a night. The father's vicarage was 
 in the rural village between York and Beverley. Rosie had 
 been to the theatre about three times in all ; but those three 
 nights of enchantment had made the strongest impression on 
 lier youthful intelligence. She and her brothers acted plays 
 in the old vicarage parlour, the shabbiest room in the house, 
 given over to the children, but a delightful room for play- 
 acting, since there were two closets and two doors, besides a 
 half-glass door opening into the garden. "What tragedies and 
 melodramas Rosalie and her brothers acted in the long winter 
 evenings ! The eider sister was too sensible and too busy to 
 waste her time with them. She had an idea of going out as 
 a governess, and had her nose always in an OJlendorf. 
 
 Poor little Rosie fancied herself a genius in those days. 
 She mistook her love of dramatic art for capacity, and 
 thought she had only to walk on to a stage in order to become 
 a great actress, like the star she had seen at York. She did 
 not know that the star was five-and-thirty, and had worked 
 laboriously for ten years before audiences began to bow down 
 to her. The vicar had been dead nearly three years when 
 Rosalie was seventeen, and the mother and daughter were 
 existing on a pittance in a dreary second floor in Guildford 
 Street.
 
 Across the FootligJds 289 
 
 Mrs. Melfonl — the ijirl's veal name was JMelford — was a 
 lady by birth and o(Uuation, and had no more power of earn- 
 ing money than if she had been a humming-bird. 
 
 Eosalie was i)anting to do something for the beloved 
 mother ; to bring home money and shower it into the maternal 
 lap. She had read of Ednnind Kean's London debut, the 
 startling success, the morningbefore his first benetit, the child 
 l)laying upon the Hoor of the actor's lodging, wallowing in 
 gold, the guineas having rolled in so fast from aristocratic 
 patrons and an enthusiastic jtublic that there was no one to 
 pick them up ; and she, poor child, thought that she too was 
 a genius, and could delight the town as Portia, just as Kean 
 had done as Shylock. She did not recall that other tradition 
 about the great actor which told how as a lad he had strutted 
 and ranted in a booth, learning the rudiments of his art in the 
 rough-and-ready school of Richardson's show, delighting the 
 yokels at country fairs before he thrilled the cognoscenti at 
 Drury Lane. 
 
 Much pleading and many long discussions were needed 
 before the mother would consent to her child's appearance on 
 the boards. The vicar's widow had heard terrible stories of 
 theatres ; and she had to be reminded again and again of the 
 glorious examples of feminine virtue to be seen on the metro- 
 politan stage ; and that if there were some shadows on the 
 dramatic profession, there are also spots upon the sun. And 
 then they were very ])oor, those two, in their shabby London 
 lodging. They had drunk deep of the cup of genteel penury. 
 And the mother could but own that it would be a nice thing 
 if her darling were earning from twenty to thirty pounds a 
 week at the ILaymarket or the Lyceum. That dear Mr. Buck- 
 stone would doubtless be delighted to secure this lovely young 
 Rosalie for his leading lady, in place of the somewhat 
 mature personage who now tilled that position. 
 
 So one morning Mrs. Melford gave her consent, and Rosalie 
 tripped off at once to the dramatic agent in Bow Street, and 
 paid him live shillings by way of entrance fee to the mysteries 
 of the drama, and opened her heart to him. The agent 
 smiled at her blandly, with his eyes half shut, looking down 
 at the toes of his varnished boots : and then he swei)t away 
 all her illusions in a sentence or two. He told her that she 
 would be lucky if she played Portia to a metropolitan 
 audience before she was forty ; lucky if she got an engage- 
 ment of any kind in a London theatre within the next ten 
 years. What she had to do waa to go to some country theatre 
 
 u
 
 290 Uiuhy fur Red Flay 
 
 mid work hard. She would have to play small parts for the 
 tirst year or so ; anything, everything, general utility ; nay, 
 perhaps, at the first, she would have to walk on. 
 
 Rosalie had not the least idea what the agent meant by 
 ' walking on,' but his manner implied that it was something 
 humiliating. All her high hopes had evaporated by this 
 time ; but she was not the less eager to secure an engage- 
 ment — yea, even walk on. 
 
 ' You have a nice appearance,' said the agent, who was too 
 superior a person to be rapturous about anything, ' and I 
 daresay I can get you an engagement in the country.' 
 
 Rosalie had to tramp backwards and forwards between 
 the Bloomsbury lodgings and Bow Street a good many times 
 before even this modest opening was achieved ; but, after some 
 heart-sickening delays, the agent engaged her for the Theatre 
 Royal, Ryde, at a salary of a i^ound a week. Oh, how happy 
 poor little Rosie was when she carried home the first pound 
 after a week's drudgery ! She had played a round of the 
 most humiliating parts in the British drama : Lady Capulet ; 
 a black girl in ' Uncle Tom's Cabin ; ' Maria, in the ' School 
 for Scandal ; ' and she had u-alked on in a cluster of five or 
 six ballet-girls, supposed to represent either a seething popu- 
 lace or a dazzling assembly in high life. But she had seen 
 the footlights ; she had heard the sound of her own voice — 
 which was more than the gallery had done — and she had 
 earned a golden sovereign. 
 
 It must be owned that Rosalie in this stage of her being 
 was something of a stick : but she s))oke like a lady, and she 
 was so pretty and graceful that the audience were always 
 pleased to see her. The good old manageress favoured her, 
 and cast her for pai-ts that were beyond her capacity ; and 
 then came Mr. de Courtenay, of the Helmstone Theatre, 
 which ranked next best in fashion to a London house, and 
 Rosie was speedily transferred from the Isle of Wight to the 
 full blaze of Helmstone-by-the-Sea. 
 
 And now all the Helmstone papers had praised the fairy 
 Cerulia'sbeauty,and Miss Rosalie Morton had a reception every 
 night. It was not such a reception as greeted Miss Bolderby 
 from her admirers, the gods, when shecamedancingon to the 
 stage as ' Mary, Mary, quite contrary,' with a very short red 
 petticoat bedizened with silver bells,and a black velvet bodice 
 garnished with cockle shells, and very de'collete'e. Rosalie was 
 the favourite of the stalls and the boxes. It was the young 
 military men from the barracks in the Brewis Road, or the
 
 Aa'oss the FootlijUs 291 
 
 cavalry barracks in tlie Castle, the Helmstone Bucks and 
 Dandies of all })rofessions, who used to applaud the fair girl 
 with the brilliant hazel eyes, and gentle girlish voice. Miss 
 Bolderby talked like a clown and sang like a nigger minstrel. 
 
 There was one young cavalry officer who used to occupy a 
 stall at the Helmstone theatre night after night during the 
 run of that eminently successful pantomime of ' Gulliver and 
 the Golden Goose.* Miss Bolderby thought that he came ex- 
 pressly to hear her sing her topical song, and see her dance her 
 break-down with Mr. Powter, the low comedian, who played 
 Gulliver, afterwards clown — the clown being, of course, some- 
 body else and not Mr. Powter. Powter thought it was his 
 gagging and comic singing which attracted cavalry and in- 
 fantry alike, and charmed and delighted the gallery. But 
 Herr Hopenfeuer,the leader of the orchestra,knew better than 
 Powter or Bolderby. He knew that it was Rosie's lovely 
 face and sweet manner which held that nice, frank-looking 
 young officer spellbound. A shrewd observer, Herr Hopen- 
 feuer, behind tliose blue spectacles of his. 
 
 Yes, it was Itosie whom Kaudolph Bosworth came night 
 after night to see. He abhorred Miss Bolderby and her nasal 
 twang ; he detested the irrepressible Powter. He seemed 
 only to live when that graceful form of the fairy-queen was 
 before his eyes. He drank in her smiles as if they had been 
 wine. How sweetly she looked as she waved her wand, with 
 that graceful sweep of the round white arm — such a lovely 
 curve of the slim wrist, the drooping hand with its tapering 
 fingers ! When she invoked the fairies to come forth from 
 their coral caves and disport upon the golden sands, she 
 looked really the ethereal and immortal being she repre- 
 sented — something too delicate to be of the earth, earthy. 
 What a stalwart, common herd the ballet-ladies looked as they 
 came lumpily bounding from the furthest wing, shaking the 
 stage at every bound ! 
 
 He was only a lieutenant, very young, very simjjle-hearted, 
 a thorough gentleman. He was the only son of a wealthy 
 father, and could allbrd to choose a wife without reference to 
 ways anil means. He meant to marry Posalie Morton, alias 
 Melford, if she would acce})t him as her husband. No other 
 thought had ever entered his mind in relation to that stage 
 divinity. His mother ami father would hardly like the idea 
 of his choosing a wife from the theatre. His father was a 
 Devonshire squire, and had all the usual rustic prejudices, 
 anil would have liked him to marry a county heiress, some
 
 292 Under the Red Flag 
 
 Miss Sticktorights, whose land was conterminous with his 
 own future estate. 
 
 " If slie is a good girl they will be easily reconciled to her,' 
 Eandoljih told himself, and he contrived very soon to find out 
 that Miss Morton was a good girl, living with her widowed 
 mother, as secluded as a cloistei'ed nun. 
 
 Mother and daughter went for afternoon walks in almost 
 all weathers, but they never appeared on the Queen's Parade, 
 for the girl to be stared at or followed. They always turned 
 their faces to the country, and went roaming over the downs ; 
 cai^ital walkeis both of them. 
 
 All through that first month of the new year Randolph was 
 pining to get himself introduced to his divinity, and knew 
 not how to bring the matter about. If he had been more of 
 a man of the world he would have asked Mr. de Courtenay 
 to dinner, and would have made an ally of the manager, who 
 would have been glad to help him, once assured that his 
 views were strictly honourable. But Randolph was only 
 twenty-one, and was overpowered with shyness when he tried 
 to speak of his love. At last a happy accident seemed to 
 favour him. He made the accjuaintance of a Major in the line 
 regiment then stationed in the Brewis Road ; a mere casual 
 acquaintance initiated across a billiard table. Major Disney 
 was a man of the world ; had seen a good deal of foreign 
 service ; was nearer forty than thirty ; quite an old fogey 
 Randolph thought him. But he was a tall, handsome fellow, 
 broad shouldered, dashing, with a good manner, and a, tine 
 sonorous voice ; altogether a very agreeable man. Mr. Bos- 
 worth asked him to dinner at the Old Yacht Hotel, and they 
 swore eternal friendship over a bottle of Mouton. 
 
 Soon after eight o'clock the younger man began to grow 
 fidgety, looked at his watch, jilayed with liis wine-glass, 
 glanced uneasily at the door. 
 
 'I generally drop in at the little theatre of an evening,' 
 he faltered. ' They're doing a pantomime ; not half a bad 
 thiug — almost up to a London pantomime,' and then with a 
 sudden fervour, blushing like a girl, he asked, ' Would you 
 care to go ? ' 
 
 * Certaiidy, if you like,' answered the major cheerily. * Pro- 
 vincial j)antomimes are rather slow ; in fact, I consider the 
 whole breed of pantomimes ineffably stupid ; but one hears 
 the children laugh, and one sees the jolly grinning shop-boys 
 in the pit, and that sort of thing is always refreshing. Let's 
 go by all means.'
 
 Across the Footlights 293 
 
 'How kind of you !' cried Raiidolpli. * I shouldn't liave 
 liked to miss to-night.' He hurried on his coat, helped his 
 friend into a heavy Inverness, and tliey went off to the 
 theatre. 
 
 It was a cold snowy night,and the audience was thin. There 
 were plenty of vacant stalls when Randolph took his accus- 
 tomed seat, just behind Herr Ilopenfeuer. 
 
 The major and ho had not been seated five minutes before 
 the band playetl the melody to which the a/ure dell opened. 
 ' Ever of thee, of thee I'm fondly dreaming,' and then Kosalie 
 came on with her pretty gliding stej), and her waving arms, 
 like a syren's. 
 
 ' A tlevilish pretty girl,' muttered the major, and the tone 
 and the words sounded like blasphemy in the ears of 
 llandolph the devotee. 
 
 Later on in the evening he spoke again of the fairy queen's 
 beauty. 
 
 'Slieis like Heine's Lorelei,' he said, and then, looking at 
 Ilandolj)h, he saw the adoring expression in the frank blue 
 eyes, and knew that this fisher's bar4ue was in danger. 
 
 ' She s])eaks like a lady, too,' he went on presently. ' Do 
 you know who she is, and where she comes from ? She is not 
 the common stamp of stage fairies.' 
 
 Raudolpli imparted that information which he had gained 
 laboriously from the stage-doorkeeper at the cost of many 
 half-crowns, and more than one half-sovereign. 
 
 ' Her mother is a Mrs. Melford, you say, a Yorkshire 
 parson's widow ? ' exclaimed Major Disney. ' Why, what a 
 narrow little world this is in which we live. My eldest sister 
 went to school with that girl's mother. Mrs. Melford was 
 llosa Vincent, the daughter of old (loneral Vincent, wlio ditd 
 at Bath just ten years ago ; a siilendid old fellow, all through 
 the Peninsula with Wellesley, Burgoyne, and the rest of them.' 
 
 ' You know her mother ? ' gasped llandolph, breathless with 
 emotion ; 'then you can introduce me to them ; you can take 
 me to see them. I am dying to know them.' 
 
 'But to what end?' asked the major, looking at him 
 severely, with jienetrating gray eyes. ' She is a very pretty 
 girl, and we both admire her. But do you think it would 
 be wise to carry the thing any further]' 
 
 ' I adore her, and I mean to marry her — if she will have 
 me,' answered Riudolidi, all in the same agitated whisper. 
 ' U you won't introduce me to her I must find some one else 
 who will.'
 
 294 Under the Red lag 
 
 'And you are sure that you mean all fair and square?' 
 asked the Major very seriously. ' You won't make love to 
 her and propose to her, and then let your people talk you 
 over and persuade you to jilt her? That kind of thing has 
 been done, you know.' 
 
 'Jilt her ! not for worlds ! If she will have me, I shall 
 consider myself the luckiest young man in England. I am 
 an only son , you know, and I have some money of my own, 
 from an old aunt, that nobody can touch. I can afford to 
 marry to-morrow, with or without my father's leave. But I 
 shall try to make things pleasant at home ; and as Miss 
 Melford is a vicar's daughter ' 
 
 ' Well, I'll call upon Mrs. Melford to-morrow afternoon, 
 and ask leave to present you next day.' 
 
 ' Can't I go with you to-morrow ? ' pleaded Randolph. 
 
 'Certainly not. Remember it's altogether a critical business. 
 I have to introduce myself to the widow, whom I last saw 
 seven and twenty years ago, when she was just going to marry 
 her parson, and when I was a mischievous young imp of 
 eleven.' 
 
 ' You'll take her some hot-house flowers, some new book 
 from me?' entreated Randolph. 
 
 ' Take them to the widow ] ' 
 
 ' No, no — to Rosalie.' 
 
 ' Not a fragment,' said the stern Major. 
 
 Poor Randolph would have sent a truckload of presents if 
 he had been allowed. He was ])ining to know the size of 
 his dai'ling's hand, that he might load her with Jouvin's 
 gloves. How he would have liked to bu}' her a sealskin 
 jacket, instead of the poor little cloth garment he had seen her 
 wear as she walked beside her mother on the windy Downs ! 
 
 Mr. Bosworth had to languish for three dreary winter days 
 before he was allowed to ci'oss the syren's threshold. Then, 
 to his infinite delight, he was invited to take tea with the 
 widow and her daughter on Sunday evening. There was no 
 such institution as afternoon tea in that benighted age. Mrs. 
 Melford invited the two gentlemen to repair to her lodgings 
 after their seven o'clock dinner, and she regaled them with 
 tea and thin bread-and-butter, and sweet biscuits, at half- 
 past eiglit, in a neat little drawing-room within a stone's 
 throw of the Castle, where the Enniskillings were stationed. 
 Mr. Bosworth had not asked permission of the severe major 
 tliis time. He carried a large bouquet of camelias and other 
 hot^house flowers, such as those dark ages afforded, and he
 
 Across the Footlights 295 
 
 offered them blushiuglv to the syren, so soon as he had been 
 introduced to lier. lie had the satisfaction of seeing the 
 blossoms arranged in an old china bowl by the fair hands of 
 his beloved, but of speech he had but little from her : she, like 
 himself, was overpowered by shyness. 
 
 But, on the other hand, Mrs. Melford and Major Disney 
 founil plenty to .say to each other. The widowwas delighted 
 to talk of those unforgotten girlish days, before the shadow 
 of care had crossed her horizon ; her dearest friend Lucy 
 Disnej' ; the finishing school in Lansdown Crescent ; the 
 rapturous gaiety of li ith — so superior to any place she had 
 ever known since her courtship ; her last visit to the Disney's 
 fine old house in Wiltshire, when the Major was a lively boy 
 of eleven. 
 
 ' What ages ago I ' exclaimed the widow ; ' and yet when 
 I look back it seems as if it had all happened yesterday.' 
 
 And then with womanly tact, Mrs. Melford led the ISIajor 
 on to talk of himself and of his own career. He had not 
 married ! How strange ! said the widow. He had been 
 through the Crimean Wai-, and he had fought and marched 
 under Havelock in India the other day. In such a career 
 there had been much that was striking, heroic even ; and 
 without one woi'd of self-laudation, the Major told of many 
 thrilling adventures in which he had been concerned, while 
 the others all liung on his words and encouraged him by 
 their evident interest. 
 
 It was a co.sy little party round the Avinter fire in the 
 lodging-house drawing-room. Eosalie sat in a corner by the 
 fireplace, sheltered and shadowed by her raothei-'s portlier 
 form ; and from his seat on the opposite side of the hearth, 
 Randolph Bosworth was able to gaze at her unobserved, as 
 she listened almost breathlessly to the Major's stories. 
 
 No, there was no disenchantment in that nearer acquaint- 
 ance with the ' Queen of the azure dell.' Rosalie was ;is 
 lovely in this little room, between the glow of the fire and 
 the light of the candles, as ever she had seemed to him on 
 the stage, in the glare of the g;is, and the glamour of the 
 magnesium lamp. She was such a perfect lady, too, he told 
 himself with delight. No rouge or pearl powder tainted the 
 purity of her complexion. Her dark brown merino frock 
 and little linen collar were exquisitely neat ; her lovely 
 tai)ering hamls were a-s beautiful as the hands in an old 
 Italian jncture. How proud he would be of her, by-and-by, 
 in the time to come ! how delicious to present her to his
 
 296 Under the Red Flag 
 
 people, to his friends, and to say, ' This is the pearl I found 
 unawares on the beach at Helmstone ! ' 
 
 His heart beat high with joyous pride. He had no fear of 
 failing in his suit, now that he had once obtained an entrance 
 to the syren's cave. He had hardly exchanged half-a-dozen 
 sentences with Miss Melford to-night, but he told himself 
 that he could come again to-morrow, and again and again, 
 till he had won her. And in the meantime he was pleased 
 to see her hang upon Disney's words : it was sweet to see a 
 girl of nineteen so keenly interested in the adventures of a 
 battered old warrior. 
 
 He called in Blenheim Place the next day, and the next, 
 finding some fresh excuse for each visit ; a basket of hot- 
 house grapes for the widow, at a season when grapes were 
 fourteen shillings a pound ; llowers, books, music for Rosie. 
 Mrs. Melford protested against such lavish generosity. 
 
 * If you only knew how happy it makes me to come here — 
 to be allowed to droj) in now and then,' faltered the young 
 man ; and the widow did know, and hoped that her Eosie 
 would smile upon the young soldier's suit. 
 
 The Major had told her all about his young friend's pro- 
 spects, and they were both agreed as to his goodness of heart, 
 his high moral character, and that he would be a splendid 
 match for Eosie. The widow's heart thrilled at the thought 
 that her youngest and best beloved child might secure to 
 herself such a happy future. In her day-dreams she ruth- 
 lessly made away with old Squire Bosworth, who had never 
 done her any harm. She brushed him out of existence as if 
 he had been a withered leaf, so that Eosie should reign sole 
 mistress of Bosworth Manor. 
 
 Mrs. ]^,Icirord and the Major put their heads together like 
 a couple of hardened old match-makers, and planned the 
 marriage of the young people — the Major with a somewhat 
 mournful air, as of a man who had known heart-wounds, 
 whose part in life was renunciation. Mrs. Melford thought 
 him very kind, but regretted that he was not more cheerful. 
 
 When the time came for themother to talk to her daughter, 
 there was bitter disappointment. Eosalie was as cold as ice 
 at the mention of her lover's name. She declared that she 
 meant never to marry ; at least she thought not. She was 
 quite happy with her mother ; she liked her profession ; in a 
 word, she did not care a straw for Eandolph Bosworth. She 
 admitted his manifold virtues, his kindness, his chivalry. 
 The widow put forward his claims, item by item : those
 
 Acros!^ the FoolWjhh 207 
 
 grapes at fnurteL'U sliilliiif,'s a jiound ; that lovely copy of the 
 ' Idylls,' binmd in vellum ; the flowers tl«at transformed 
 their shabby lodgiiif^. 
 
 'And you would have such things all your life, Rosie. 
 You Avould have a grand old country house, with twenty-two 
 bedrooms— he admitted that there are twenty-two bedrooms 
 at the Manor, without counting servants' rooms — and you 
 would have carriages and horses. I used to dream of such a 
 life for my darling, but I never thought to see my dream 
 realised ; so quickly too, while my pet is in the fii'st bloom of 
 her beauty.' 
 
 'What nonsense you talk, mother dear ! ' said the girl, 
 ' Captain Bosworth has never asked me to marry him.' 
 
 ' No, love ; but he has asked me, and he means jjositiyely 
 to ask you, by-and-by, if you will only give him a little 
 encouragement. He adores you, Hosie, that dear young man. 
 He adored you at first sight. Don't make light of such a 
 love, dear. You are very pretty, and will have plenty of 
 admirers as you go through life ; but true love is not a 
 rtower that grows in every hedge.' 
 
 'Dear mother, it's no use talking,' pleaded Rosie, half 
 crying. ' I know how good Captain Bosworth is, but — but I 
 don't care for him ; and you wouhlu't have me marry a man 
 I don't love.' 
 
 ' Try to love him, Rosie,' urged the mother. ' Oidy try, dear, 
 and the love will come.' 
 
 Rosalie shook her head, and gave a low, long sigh ; a sigh 
 which miirht have told a "reat deal to a shrewder woman than 
 the widow ; but Mrs. Melford had not a penetratnig mind. 
 
 To please the match-making mother Rosalie was very 
 polite and agi-eeablc to the young othcer wl:en he called at 
 Blenheim I'lace. She was particularly grateful for the lovely 
 copy of the ' Idylls.' 
 
 ' She is reading it day and night,' said Mrs. Melford. ' I 
 never knew a girl so devoted to a book of poems. I'm sure 
 Mr. Tennyson ought to be flattered.' 
 
 ' He would be if he knew,' murmured Randolph fatuously, 
 gazing at Rosalie as if she had been a saint. 
 
 He asked her which character she most admired in the 
 ' Idylls.' 
 
 ' Oh, Launcelot,' she answered, clasping her hands, and 
 looking up at an imaginary knight, with just the same 
 radiant enthusiasm as might have shone upon the face of the 
 Lily-maid when she worshipped the real Launcelot,
 
 298 Undey the Bed Flcvj 
 
 Major Disney was announced at this moment, and the girl 
 flashed crimson ; no doubt because he had broken the spell. 
 
 The pantomime season was waning fast, and the Theatre 
 Roj'al, Helmstone, would shortly close. There was a talk of 
 Charles Mathews on a starring engagement after the 
 pantomime, and then the theatre must inevitably be shut ; 
 and Uosalie would have to earn lier bread elsewhere. Lovely 
 as she was, no eager London manager had offered to engage 
 her. Perhaps the London managers saw that Rosalie's 
 gamut hardly went beyond tlie fairy-queen line of business ; 
 and fairies are 'only wanted at Christmastide. Rosalie's 
 brightest prospect was an engagement at Coketown, in 
 the north, to play first walking ladies ; and that line of 
 business includes some of the most intolerable parts in the 
 British drama — ay, even Lady Capulet and Sheridan's Maria. 
 
 Mrs. Melford began to be very anxious. Captain Bos- 
 worth had been all patience and devotion. He had endured 
 Rosalie's coldness ; he had waited for the dawn of hope. But 
 patience cannot last for ever, and the widow felt that this 
 splendid chance must soon be lost, unless Rosie relented. 
 She had all manner of little schemes for bringing about tetes- 
 a-tetes between the lovers, but so far nothing had come of the 
 tetcs-d-tetes so planned. She had come back to the little 
 drawing-room after a quarter of an hour's seemingly enforced 
 absence, to find Rosalie and the soldier sitting on opposite 
 sides of the hearth, as prim and as cold as two china figures. 
 There are some young men who cannot propose in cold 
 blood. 
 
 One afternoon — a bleak February afternoon, the earth 
 ii-onbound with a black frost, the sky leaden, the sea livid 
 — Mrs. Melford proposed a long walk on the Downs. 
 Rosie had been complaining of a lieadache, slie said : nothing 
 so good as a walk to cure a headache. Perha2)s Captain 
 Bosworth would like to join them. 
 
 Captain Bosworth would have liked to go to Siberia under 
 the same conditions. He snapped at the offer. 
 
 * I adore those Downs,' he said. 
 
 But Rosalie did not want to walk. She was tired ; she 
 had the third volume of a novel that she was dying to finish. 
 She made at least half-a-dozen excuses. Major Disney was 
 announced just at that moment, and the mother appealed to 
 him. 
 
 ' Is not a long walk the very best thing for Rosie's head- 
 ache 1 ' she asked.
 
 Arro^ss the Fooni'jlih 299 
 
 * Of cour.se it is,' answered the ^Nlajor, 'and Miss ^felford 
 must obey her mother. "We will all go. I have been writing 
 letters all the nutrning, and am sadly in want of ox^^gen.' 
 
 Ro.sie went off to put on her hat ami jacket a.s meekly as a 
 lamb. It was nearly throe o'clock when they started, two 
 and two, ]?andolph and Eosie in the van, Mrs. Melford and 
 the ^Major in the rear. Just on the opposite side of the 
 gardens in front of Blenheim Place there is a narrow little 
 bireet almost as steep as the side of a house ; a shabby ragga- 
 mufKn of a street, but it leads straight up to the purity 
 and freshness of the Downs, just as Jacob's ladder led to 
 heaven. 
 
 Eandolph and Eo.se tripped lightly up that Mont Blanc of 
 Ilelmstone, but they found very little to say to each other on 
 the way. The Major and the widow followed at a good pace, 
 she Iamenting[Eosalie's folly, and pouring her maternal griefs 
 into the bosom of her friend. 
 
 ' It is certainly very strange that she should not care for 
 bin),' admitted the Major, ' for he really is a capital fellow — 
 handsome too.' 
 
 ' And young, and rich,' urged the widow. ' It is absolute 
 perversity.' 
 
 ' Do you think there is anyone else she cares for ? ' inquired 
 the Major after a pause. 
 
 He spoke with some hesitation, almost faltcringly, as if he 
 hardly dared to shape the question. 
 
 ' My dea,r Major, who else should there be ? Think what 
 a child Eosalie is ! We were buried alive for the three years 
 after her father's death, and she never saw a mortal except 
 my son-in-law, Mr. I'>ignell, who is about as plain a young 
 man as I ever met. And since she went on the stage, the 
 only gentlemen who have crossed our threshold are yourself 
 and Cajitain Bosworth. I call it sheer perversity,' concluded 
 the widow, with an ajjgrieved air. 
 
 The Downs were delightful on that keen winter afternoon. 
 Such bracing air, bracing yet not too bitter ; the breath of 
 the sea seemed to temper the north-easter. And how glorious 
 the sea looked from that airy height ; and how white and 
 clean and glittering that dear old Ilelmstone, which every- 
 body loves — ay, even those who pretend to loathe it. 
 
 Rosie's spirits rose as she tripped over the turf, and let the 
 wi:id buffet her. There was no more walking two and two. 
 ]Major Disney was at her side now, and he and she were 
 talking gaily enough. Iler spirits grew almost wild with
 
 300 Under the Red Flan 
 
 delight in the wind and the sea. ' Let us have a race,' she 
 cried, and flew otF like Atalanta, the two officers running on 
 either side of her, careful to adjust their pace to hers, till she 
 stopped breathless, and laughing at her own folly. 
 
 ' How lovely it is up here ! ' she said. 
 
 'If we're not careful we may have to stay here all night !' 
 cried the Major ; ' there's a sea fog coming.' 
 
 He was right. Drifting across from the ocean there came 
 a great white cloud, which began to wrap them round like 
 a dense veil. 
 
 ' We had better get back as quickly as we can,' said the 
 Major. ' Take my arm, Miss Melford, and double quick 
 march.' 
 
 And Rosalie took his arm without a word, 
 
 ' Run on and look after Mi's. Melford,' said the Major ; 
 and Randolph obeyed, hastening to rejoin the distant figure 
 in the midst of the white cloud. He thought it was not a 
 little unkind of his friend to order him otf upon outpost 
 duty, when he might have turned the sea-fog and the lonely 
 height to such good account with his divinity. He felt 
 that he should have had pluck enough to propose to her 
 under cover of that sea-fog. He was still very far from 
 understanding how the land really lay. 
 
 He steered Mrs. Melford homewards very skilfully ; but 
 Rosie and her guide were an hour later in their return, and 
 Mrs. Melford was devoured by two several apprehensions. 
 First, that her darling should be lost altogether, frozen to 
 death on those windy Downs, or crushed at the bottom of 
 a chalk-pit ; secondly, that she should not be home in time 
 to play her part in Harlequin Gulliver, and the Goose with 
 the Golden Eggs. She and Captain Bosworth sat staring at 
 the little clock on the chimney-piece and counting the 
 minutes, till a cab dashed up to the door, and she heard 
 her child's voice, silver-sweet, in the hall below. 
 
 Yes, Rosie and the Major had lost themselves upon the 
 misty Downs ; they had lost themselves, and had found bliss 
 unspeakable, the beginning of a new life, the threshold of an 
 earthly paradise, as it seemed to both. They had wandered 
 ever so far from Helmstone in that dream of bliss, and had 
 found their way back to the furthest end of East Cliff, 
 where they luckily encountered a strolling fly, which rattled 
 them gaily to Blenheim Place. 
 
 Rosie threw herself into her mother's arms in the little 
 passage, and sobbed out her bliss :
 
 Across tie Footlights 301 
 
 *0h, mother, I am so proud, so happy.' 
 
 And a now light dawned upon Mrs. ^Melford as she saw 
 the Major's radiant smile. She fjave him her hand without 
 a word. It was a very jioor match for Rosie, compared with 
 that other marriage which the girl might have made. But 
 (ieorge Disney was a soldier and a gentleman — almost a 
 hero, and ^Trs. Melford liked him. 
 
 Kaiidulph Bosworth accepted his defeat nobly, although he 
 was very hard hit, as near broken-hearted as a man well can 
 be. He bade liosie and her mother good-bye next morning, 
 and in his brief interview with the girl he told lier how he 
 had loved her from the first moment in which lier beauty 
 shone upon him across the Helmstone footlights ; how he 
 should cherish her image until the end of his life ; how he 
 never could care for any one else. And then tenderly, 
 gently, bravely, he bade her good-bye. 
 
 ' Let me kiss you once,' he said ; ' let me have something 
 to remember when I am far away.' 
 
 She turned her face to him without a word, as simply as a 
 child to a father, and he kissed the pure young brow. It was 
 the kiss of chivalry and liiglifeeling, the pledge of a life-long 
 devotion. 
 
 ' If ever you need a friend in the days to come, remember 
 me,' he .said ; 'to the last coin in my purse, to the last di'op 
 of my blood, I am your servant — your slave.' 
 
 And so they inirted, Rosalie deeply moved by his devotion, 
 lie contrived to get away on leave a few days afterwards, and 
 went to Ireland to shoot wild duck, and before Eosalie's 
 wedding-day he and the Enniskillings had sailed for India, 
 one of the first regiments to be ordered there under the new 
 dispensation. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 It was the Christmastide of 1880, and dear old Helmstone 
 had become Helmstone the new, Helmstone the smart, Helm- 
 stone in a state of daily and hourly development. The new 
 pier, the aquarium, the tramway, the monster hotel, the 
 colossal club-house, the new theatre, were all established facts. 
 The Helmstone of fifty-eight and tifty-nine, the Helmstone 
 which Thackeray praised and Leech ami Doyle drew, was a 
 place to be remembered by old fogie^i, and regretted by 
 middle-aged matrons, who had spent the gayest, brightest 
 hours of their girlhooil prancing up and down the tjueeu's 
 Parade.
 
 302 Under the Red Flag 
 
 Amougst those fogies who regretted the days that were 
 gone was a military-looking man who sat at his solitary meal 
 in one of the bow windows of the Old Yacht Hotel, there 
 where the wind-lashed surges seemed almost to break against 
 the door-step, so high rose the waves above the sea-wall. 
 It was a blusterous evening just after Christmas, and the 
 soldierly person yonder had only arrived at Helmstone by 
 the four o'clock express from Victoria. 
 
 He was bronzed by tropical skies, and he had the look of 
 a man who had been long upon foreign service. He was 
 about forty, tall, broad-shouldered, good-looking, with fiank 
 blue eyes, and a kindly smile when he spoke. But the ex- 
 pression of his face in repose was grave almost to sadness. 
 He sighed as he glanced round the old-fashioned coffee-room, 
 where three or four solitary diners, like himself, were dotted 
 about at the neat little tables. 
 
 'This house is very little changed within the last twenty 
 years,' he said to the waiter, presently. 
 
 'No, sir; we are an old-fashioned house, sir. I don't 
 think any of our friends would like to see anything altered 
 here. Our house is about the only thing in Helmstone that 
 has not changed during the last twenty years.' 
 
 'Indeed. I thought, as I drove from the station, that the 
 town looked much larger. But you seem to have increased 
 most of all in a perpendicular direction. All your houses 
 and streets have gone up into the skies.' 
 
 ' Whei-e we are limited in space, sir, we mount,' said the 
 head waiter, who was a superior personage, quite equal to any 
 discussion ; ' but when you go westward to-morrow, you will 
 see how we can spread. You will find a city of palaces where 
 there used to be a cricket held.' 
 
 ' Indeed,' said the soldier, with an absent air. 
 
 His eyes had wandered to a play-bill hanging against the 
 wall by the mantelpiece. 
 
 ' You have your theatre still, I see,' he said ; ' the same 
 old theatre, I suppose ? ' 
 
 ' Oh dear no, sir ; we have had a new theatre for the last 
 ten years. Very fine theatre, sir. Very well patronised. 
 Pantomime just out. Very good pantomime. Harlequin 
 Robinson Crusoe, Old Mother Shipton, and the Little Old 
 Woman who Lived in a Shoe.' 
 
 The soldier sighed, as if at some sad memory. 
 
 ' The usual kind of thing, no doubt,' he said ; 'and there 
 are fairies, I suppose, and dances, and a fairy queen ? '
 
 Aci'oati the Fuotliij'his 303 
 
 * Oil yes, sir, there is a first-class fairy scene. The Ruby 
 CJlade in the Sunset Glen, atid there is a fairy queen, and a 
 very jiretty Kirl she is too. I don't remember ever seeing a 
 prettier girl on the stage.' 
 
 'Ah !' sighed the othcer, 'perhaps you were not in Helm- 
 stone twenty years ago ? ' 
 
 ' No, sir,' replied the waiter, with a superior smile which 
 implied that he was hardly out of his mother's arms at that 
 period. 
 
 The waiter whisked the last crumb off the tablecloth and 
 left the soldier in silent contemplation of a dish of walnuts 
 and a claret jug. 
 
 So there was a pantomime being acted in these latter days, 
 thought Colonel Bosworth, and there were fairies, and dances, 
 and tinselled groves, and sham waterfalls, and the glamour of 
 coloured lights, and gay music, just as there had been twenty 
 years ago, when he was a young man, and lost his heart in 
 that little theatre at Helmstone — a youngster, an untried 
 soldier, almost a boy — and yet very steadfast, very certain of 
 himself in that tirst real passion of his life. 
 
 He had not over-estimated his constancy in those days. 
 "When he told Tlosalie Melford that he could never care for 
 any other woman, he had made an assertion which after 
 events had warranted. He had seen much of life since that 
 time. He had seen hard service in India, had marched with 
 Napier in Abyssinia, and had fought with Wolseley in 
 Ashantee. He had been courted and made much of in London 
 society during his brief intervals of foreign service ; hunted 
 by match-making mothers, Avho knew the number of his acres 
 and the excellence of his moral character : but not once 
 during those twenty years had iiandolph Bosworth yielded 
 to the fiiscinations of the fair sex. The one beautiful face 
 which had been the star of his youth w;is his only ideal of 
 womanly loveliness. He had never met any woman who 
 resembled Rosalie Melford ; and he told himself that until 
 he should meet such an one he was secure from all the pains 
 and perils which spring from womankind. He w;\s like a 
 man under a sj)ell. 
 
 And in all those years he had heanl hardly anything of his 
 lost love. The Major had married her directly after Eastei-, 
 and had carried her off to Canada, with his regiment. Six 
 years afterwards Disney was stationed at the Cape, and no 
 doubt Rosalie was with him there ; and then Randolph 
 heard that he had retired on half-pay, and that he w:vs living
 
 301 Uii&'y the lied Flag 
 
 with liis wife and family in some out-of-the-way Welsh 
 village, a rustic nook hidden among the hills. Eandolph 
 would have given much to know more about his darling's fate 
 — whether she was happy ; whether the Major was comfort- 
 ably oft" — but he had a delicacy in intruding himself upon 
 them in any manner ; and then so much of his own life was 
 spent far away. He thought that if Eosalie were in need of 
 a friend's help she would be sure to apjieal to him. 
 
 He sat and sipped his claret for half-an-hour or so, in a 
 dreamy mood, the very sound of the surges recalling old 
 thoughts, old fancies, the old hopes which had been so cruelly 
 disappointed, and then he got up and put on liis hat and 
 overcoat, and went to the theatre. 
 
 He was courting the tender, half sweet, half painful 
 memories which beset him in this familiar place. Yes, he 
 would go to the theatre. It was not the same theatre, but 
 it stood on the same spot : and the lights, and the music, and 
 the girlish faces would help to recall those old feelings which 
 were to him as a cherished dream. 
 
 The new theatre was much larger and handsomer than the 
 funny old house with its stage doors, and its old-fashioned 
 proscenium, and its suggestions of Mr. Vincent Crummies 
 and Miss Snevellicci, It had a more metropolitan air, and 
 was better filled than the old house. The pantomime had 
 begun when the bronzed and bearded soldier took his seat 
 in a corner of the stalls. There had been a dark scene in 
 which Mother Sliipton and a congress of witches had been 
 interviewed by Crusoe ; and now that bold mariner was 
 tossing on the southern ocean in imminent danger of ship- 
 wreck from the huge canvas waves which were flapiiing 
 against his wicker keel, and raising more dust than one would 
 expect to meet with in mid-ocean ; and the next scene, as 
 per bill, would be the Euby Glade in the Sunset Glen, and 
 Diaphanosia, the queen of the water nymphs, would appear 
 with her fairy court : and Senora Niiia Niiiez, of the Theatre 
 Royal, (Jovent Garden, would dance her renowned cachuca. 
 
 Colonel Bosworth wondered what kind of prettiness that 
 would be which the head waiter at the Yacht had praised. 
 A vulgar, trivial beauty, no doubt ; as different from Eosalie 
 Melford's poetic loveliness as a double dahlia from a wild 
 rose. 
 
 The scene representing a dark, storm-tossed ocean was 
 rolled slowly upward, revealing the sunset glen, a glow of 
 rosy light and sparkling coral, and golden sand, and a back-
 
 A<y)-oss the FootU<j1its 305 
 
 ground of ultramarine wfivelets. The band played a tender 
 melody — not that old, old ballad, ' Ever of thee,' which the 
 soldier remembered so well. It Avas a newer strain, by 
 Sullivan, a song with a waltz refrain, ' Sweethearts.' And 
 to the rhythm of the waltz some fifteen or twenty water- 
 nymphs came gliding on to the stage, and after the water- 
 nymphs their queen, with a single star shining on her fair 
 young brow. 
 
 Was he mad or dreaming ? Was his trip to Helmstone, 
 this scene in the theatre, all a foolish dream ; and would he 
 awake presently in his bedroom at the British Hotel, and 
 hear the London cabs and 'buses grinding over the stones of 
 Cockspur Street ? This was what Randolph Bosworth asked 
 himself as Diaphanosia came slowly forward in the rosy glow, 
 waving her wand with a slim, round Jirm, whose graceful 
 curve he remembered so well. 
 
 Sm-ely it nmst be a dream ; or time in Helmstone had 
 been standing still for the last twenty years. The fairy of 
 to-night was the fairy of twenty years ago. Rosalie Melford, 
 unchanged, as it seemed to him, since the hour in. which his 
 boyish heart first went out to her. And now he was a grave, 
 nxiddle-aged man : \et, as he gazed at the sweet face, with 
 its classic outline and alabaster purity of tint, his heart beat 
 as ])assionately as it had beaten twenty years ago. 
 
 He looked at his programme, tried to collect his senses, to 
 convince himself that he was not dreaming. 
 
 ' Diaphanosia : Miss K. Morton.' 
 
 Yes ; it was the old name even. And it was she herself, 
 the woman he had loved for twenty years of his life — 
 for half his lifetime. He knew every tone of that voice, 
 which had been as music in the days gone by. He I'e- 
 membered every movement of the graceful figure, the 
 carriage of the head — every turn, every look. 
 
 He sat gazing at her, breathless almost, with all his soul 
 in his eyes. But she gave no sign of having seen or recognised 
 him. She went through her part graciously, with a refined 
 elegance which was altogether charming, and wliich just 
 suited the colourless, passionless character. So might Titania 
 herself have looked and moved, an ethereal being, free from 
 all taint and stain of human nature. He stayed till tlie 
 transformation scene, patiently enduring the buffooneries of 
 Crusoe, and the street-boy twang of tiie lady who played 
 Crusoe's young woman, and who was evidently the idol of the 
 gallery, just as Miss Bolderby had beea twenty years before.
 
 306 U-nder the JRed Flag 
 
 He waited and watched, greedily expectant of Diaphanosia's 
 reappearances, which were of the briefest, and it was not 
 until she had changed Crusoe into clown, and condemned a 
 villainous sailor to the expiatory infamy of pantaloon ; it 
 was not until the golden temple and the peacock throne of 
 dazzling gems had been abruptly extinguished by a pork- 
 butcher's shop in the front grooves, that the Colonel rose 
 from his seat and left the auditorium. 
 
 He did not go back to the Old Yacht, but he groped his 
 way along a dar^ passage which he had known of old, and 
 planted himself close beside the stage door. There was a 
 little stone yard of about ten feet square at the end of the 
 passage, and here he could lurk unobserved. 
 
 He had lurked on that spot many a night in that winter of 
 1860, and had waited patiently, just for the brief joy of 
 seeing his beloved go swiftly past him by her mother's side, 
 two dark figures, thickly shawled and closely veiled, obscure 
 as phantoms in the sombre passage. 
 
 To-night he was bolder, and meant to accost his old love 
 when she came out of the stage door, to claim the privilege 
 of friendship, and to learn what sad reverses had brought her 
 back to that stage. He did not for a moment believe that it 
 was idle vanity which had impelled her to such a reappearance. 
 She came out of the door sooner than he had hoped, a tall, 
 slim figure, neatly dressed in black. She wore a cloth jacket, 
 such as he remembered her wearing twenty years before, and 
 a small black straw hat, which fitted close to her head, and 
 left the delicate profile unshadowed. 
 
 He came forward bareheaded to greet her. 
 ' I hope you have not forgotten me in all these years, Mrs. 
 Disney,' he said. ' My name is Bosworth — Kandolph Bos- 
 worth.' 
 
 ' Forgotten you ; no, indeed ! How could I forget anyone 
 who was so lund to my mother and me ? ' she faltered ; and 
 he knew from the tone in which she spoke her mother's nan e 
 that Mrs. Melford was dead. ' I have never forgotten you. 
 Only I should hardly have known you just at first, and in 
 this dark passage, if you had not told me your name. You 
 are much altered.' 
 
 ' And you not at all,' he answered tenderly. ' It seems 
 miraculous to me to find yoii after twenty years as young, as 
 beautiful, as when I saw you first.' 
 
 'You do not know what you are talking about,' she 
 answered, laughing a little at his enthusiasm. ' You have
 
 Across tlie Fuotli'jids 307 
 
 only seen rae across the footlights. I shall be nine-and- 
 thirty next week, and I am very old for my age. I have 
 seen so much trouble in the last six years.' 
 
 ' You have had trouble, and you never told me. Then 
 you forgot my parting prayer,' said llandolph, reproachfully. 
 
 'No, I did not forget those kind words of yours. But my 
 chief sorrow was beyond human aid. My dear husbamls 
 health broke down ; mental and bodily health both gave 
 way. I nursed him for three years, and in all that time he 
 only knew me once — for the last few minutes before he died. 
 Till just that last ray of light his mind had been a blank. It 
 was a sunstroke which he got at the Cape. We brought him 
 home an invalid, and settled in a little out-of-the-way nook 
 in Wales. He was fitful and strange in those days, but we 
 hoped that he was gradually recovering. But he grew worse 
 as time went on, and the doctors discovered that the biain 
 was fatally injured. The last three years were terrible.' 
 
 She gave a stifled sob at the recollection, and Colonel Bos- 
 worth could find no word of comfort for such a grief. 
 
 ' Good night,' she said, offering him her hand. 
 
 * Let me see you home,' he pleaded ; ' I want to know 
 more. Let me walk as far as your lodgings. Are they in 
 the old place ? ' 
 
 ' No, we are not in such a nice neighbourhood as Blenheim 
 Place ; and it is further from the theatre. I am afraid I 
 shall be taking you too far out of your way.' 
 
 ' You know that I woulil walk with you to the end of the 
 world,' he said quietly ; and she made no further objection. 
 
 It was such a new thing to her to hear a friend's voice, and 
 this was a voice out of the old time, when she had been 
 young and happy. 
 
 They had walked away from the theatre, and the cabs, 
 and lights, and the crowd by this time ; and they were in a 
 wide dark street leading to Prince's Scjuare, and the sea, and 
 the okl-f;ushioned hotels ; stately old houses still extant in 
 this older part of Ilelmstone. 
 
 'You spoke just now as if you were not alone here,' 
 hazarded Colonel Bosworth presently ; 'have you any of — of 
 — your family with you ?' 
 
 He spoke in fear and trembling. He had seen the 
 announcement of a child's birth long ago in the Tunc.-^, but 
 the child might have died an infant for all he knew. Mrs. 
 Disney might be a childless widow. 
 
 'i have them both with me. My boy and girl are both
 
 303 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 here,' she answered frankly. ' It is a dull life for them, poor 
 children, but they are such a comfort to me.' 
 
 ' Would you mind telling me what train of circumstances 
 led to your coming back to Helmstone to acti' he asked 
 presently. 
 
 ' That is easily told,' she answered. ' When my dear hus- 
 band died we were left very poor. His terrible illness had 
 swallowed up all our money. There was nothing but my 
 small pension, and I had my two children to provide for. 
 People advised me to go out as a governess, but I am not 
 accomplished enough to earn a large salary in these days 
 when everybody is so clever ; and I could not bear the idea 
 of parting from my children. I tried to get employment as 
 a morning governess, and after waiting a long time, and 
 spending two or three pounds upon advertisements, a lady at 
 Kensington was kind enough to engage me to teach her five 
 children, from half-past nine to half -past one, for a guinea a 
 week. I believe she considered it a rather handsome salary, 
 as I could only teach English, French, Italian, music, singing, 
 and drawing, while what she most wanted for her children 
 was German, the only thing I could not teach them. So I 
 was only a pis cdle); you see. It was very hard work, and I 
 was getting dreadfully tired of it last November, when I 
 happened to meet Mi's. de Courtenay, tlie widow of my 
 former manager. She recognised me directly — I believe I 
 have altered rather less in twenty years than people usually 
 (Jo — and she asked me what I was doing. She is the kindest 
 woman in the world, and when she heard how I had toiled 
 for a guinea a week, she declared she must find me something 
 better than that, and a few days afterwards I received a 
 letter from her asking me to jilay my old part of fairy queen 
 at a salary of four guineas a week. My darlings and I were 
 so rejoiced at this good fortune. It seemed like finding a 
 gold-mine. We hurried down here directly my Kensington 
 fady set me free : and my children and I have been as happy 
 as birds in this dear old place.' 
 
 ' I am deeply wounded to find how slight a value you put 
 upon friendship, Mrs. Disney,' said Colonel Bosworth, gravely. 
 ' If you had ever considered me your friend, surely you would 
 have let me come to your aid when your natural protector 
 was taken from you. You knew that I was rich, alone in 
 the world.' 
 
 ' What would you have thought of a woman who could 
 take advantage of a boyish fancy— a dream of twenty years
 
 Across fhf Fdofli'jhfs 309 
 
 old ? ' nuirmnred Rosalie. 'I had my own battle to fight, 
 my children to work for. I was not afraid of poverty.' 
 
 ' It was ungenerous to deprive me of the happiness I should 
 have felt in being useful to you — and to your children,' 
 replied Bosworth earnestly. 
 
 His tones faltered a little when he came to speak of her 
 cliildren. He could not picture her to himself as a widow 
 and a mother. To him she was still the fairy of his youth — 
 his ' phantom of delight '■ — the ethei'eal vision, the ideal of 
 liis boyish dream. They had crossed Prince's Square, and 
 they were on the broad parade that ascends the East Cliff". 
 A fvdl moon was shining on the sea and the town, steeping 
 all things in a clear and silvery light, and in this soft light 
 Rosalie's beauty seemetl to have lost none of its youthful 
 charm. There were lines perhaps ; the gazelle-like eyes 
 were hoUower : the oval of the cheek was pinched a little 
 towards the delicately-rounded chin. There must needs have 
 been some markings of advancing years in the face of this 
 woman whose nine-and-thirtieth birthday was so neai*. But 
 to Bandolph Bosworth the face was as beautiful as of old, 
 the woman was no less dear than of old. 
 
 'It is not a dream of twenty years old,' he said, after a 
 long jjause, repeating her own words. ' My love for you was 
 a reality then, and it is a reality now. It has been the one 
 great reality of my life. Give me some reward for my stead- 
 fastness, llosalio. I claim no other merit ; but I have at 
 least been steadfast.' 
 
 ' You cannot be in earnest,' she said. * I am an old woman. 
 The last ten years of my life count double, they have been so 
 full of sorrow. All my hopes of happiness are centred in my 
 children. I live for them, and for them alone.' 
 
 ' No, Rosalie, you are too young for all womanly feeling, all 
 personal ambition to be extinguished in you. Twenty years 
 ago I was at your feet, young, prosperous, ilevoted to you. I 
 thought then that I could have made your life happy ; your 
 mother thought so too. But it was not to be. You chose 
 an older and a poorer man. Ciranted that he was worthy of 
 your love ' 
 
 ' He was more than worthy,' interjected Rosalie. ' I am 
 proud of having loved him — I was his fond and hai)])y wife, 
 till calamity came upon us. I was his loving wife till death 
 parted us. I have never regretted my choice, Colonel Bos- 
 worth. If I had to live my life over again I would be 
 George Disney's wife,'
 
 310 Under the Bed Flar/ 
 
 ' I will not be jealous of his shade,' said Bosworth. 
 'Providence has dealt strangely with us both, Rosalie. 
 Fate has parted us for twenty years, only to bring us 
 together again, both free, both lonely. Why should I not 
 win the prize now which I lost then? I could make your 
 fate, and the fate of your children, happier than it is. I 
 could indeed, Rosalie. Houses and lands are gross and 
 sordid things perhaps, but some part of man's happiness 
 depends upon them. Bosworth Manor is still waiting for 
 its mistress. It shall wait until you go there. Do you 
 remember that picture of the old house which I brought 
 you one day, and which your mother admired so much V 
 
 ' My poor mother, yes, she was so fond of you. No, Colonel 
 Bosworth, no, it cannot be. I should be the weakest of 
 women if I were to accei^t your generous offer. I honour 
 you for having made such an offer ; I feel myself honoured 
 by it. But I am an old woman. It is all very well for me 
 to play fairy queen, and to pretend to be a girl again, in 
 order to earn four guineas a week. That means bread for 
 my children : and if there is anything ridiculous in the 
 business I can afford to ignore it for their sakes. But I 
 cannot forget that I am twenty years older than when you 
 first knew me.' 
 
 ' And am I not twenty years older, Eosalie 1 ' asked her 
 lover eagerly. ' Do you suppose that time has been kinder 
 to me than it has to you ? ' 
 
 ' Age does not count with a man. You may find a girl of 
 nineteen who will worship you, just as I worshipped George 
 Disney, loving him for his heroic acts, for the charm of his 
 conversation, for so many qualities which had nothing to do 
 with his age. Why should you choose an old and faded 
 woman, a widow, the mother of grown-up children 1 ' 
 
 ' Only because she is the one woman upon earth whom I 
 love,' answered Bosworth. 'Come, Eosalie, I will not be too 
 importunate. I will not ask you to accept me to-night. I 
 come back to you after twenty years, almost as a stranger. 
 Let me be your friend, let me come and see you now and 
 then, as I used in Blenheim Place ; and by the time the 
 pantomime season is over you will have discovered whether 
 I am worthy to be loved, whether I am an impostor when I 
 pretend that I can make your life happier than it is.' 
 
 ' With all my heart,' said Eosalie, with a sigh of relief ; 
 * Heaven knows we have need of a friend, my children and I, 
 We are quite aloije in the world,'
 
 Ai-ross the Footlifihts 311 
 
 ' Auxiou;^ tlioui^'h he was to please her, Colonel Buswortli 
 could not bring himself to speak of her children yet awhile, 
 Strufff'le as he micrht ajjainst a feelinr; which he deemed un- 
 worthy, the idea jarred upon him ; there was an instinctive 
 repugnance to the thought of Rosalie's love for George 
 Disney's children. 
 
 They had arrived at the street in which Mrs. Disney lived. 
 It was the narrowest street on the E;ist Cliff, an old, old street 
 built in those remote ages when Ilelmstone began to develop 
 from a fishing village to a fashionable watering-place. The 
 old bow-fronted houses were very small, and rather shabby ; 
 but that in which Mrs. Disney had taken up her abode was 
 neat and clean-looking, and there were some tamarisk 
 plants in front of the parlour window by way of decoration. 
 
 Colonel Bosworth and tlie widow sliook hands on the door- 
 step. The door was opened before Mrs. Disney had time to 
 knock or ring, and a bright, frank-faced lad welcomed the 
 mother's return. The Colonel walked slowly taway as the 
 door closed upon mother and son. 
 
 'A nice gentleman-like boy,' he thought, beginning to 
 reconcile himself to his future position as this bright-eyed 
 lad's step-father ; and then, after five minutes' musing, he 
 said to himself, ' No doubt I could get him an Indian ap- 
 pointment through General So-and-so. I wonder if he has 
 any taste for forestry ? ' 
 
 Colonel Bosworth spent a sleepless night in his cosy bed- 
 chamber at the Old Yacht, He lay broad awake, listening 
 to the sad sea waves, which had nothing better to do all that 
 night than to talk about Rosalie. Yes, it was a strange 
 fatality which had brought him back to that place to find 
 his old love there. How beautiful she had looked in the 
 moonlight ! Her countenance was more pensive ; but it was 
 even lovelier than of yore — spiritualised ; the expression more 
 thoughtful, more intense. 
 
 He countetl the hours next day until it would be decent to 
 call, and at three o'clock he turned the corner of the narrow 
 street, and knocked at ]\Irs. Disney's door. He had employed 
 part of his morning in choosing new books and hothouse 
 llowers to send to his divinity. AYhen the door was opened, 
 the house smelt of hyacinths and jonquils. A neat little 
 slavey admitted him and ushoreil hiju into the front parlour 
 immediately, feebly murmuring her own particular i-eading of 
 ]lis n:une — Colonel Gosswith.
 
 312 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 'Rosalie!' he exclaimed, bending over tlie girlish figure 
 that rose hastily from a seat in front of the window ; ' No, 
 the moonlight did not deceive me. You are lovelier, younger- 
 looking than when we first met.' 
 
 A sweet face — Eosalie's face, and yet not quite Rosalie's — 
 looked at him with a bewildered air ; fair girlish cheeks 
 crimsoned beneath his ardent gaze. 
 
 ' I think you mistake me for my mother, Colonel Bos- 
 worth,' faltered those lovely lips. 
 
 * You are 
 
 ' I am Rosa ; mother is Rosalie. She looks so wonderfully 
 young that we are often mistaken for sisters.' 
 
 ' And was it you whom I saw at the theatre last night ? ' 
 exclaimed the Colonel, beginning to lose his balance alto- 
 gether, feeling that he must be going mad. 
 
 'No; that was mother,' answered the girl simply. 'She 
 will be here directly. She has been helping my brother with 
 his French. He is capital for Greek and Latin, you know,' 
 which the Colonel did not, ' but he is not so good at French, 
 and mother helps him. How kind of you to send us those 
 exquisite flowers !' 
 
 ' It was a great pleasure to me to send them. I knew your 
 mother twenty years ago, Miss Disney.' 
 
 ' Oh yes ; we feel as if you were quite an old friend. 
 Mother has so often talked about you.' 
 
 ' If she had cared a jot for me, she would never have 
 breathed my name,' thought the Colonel. 
 
 He felt humiliated by the idea that he had been trotted 
 out for the amusement of these children, in the character of 
 a rejected swain. And then he looked at Rosa Disney, and 
 tried to reconcile himself with the idea of her as his step- 
 daughter. Surely there could be nothing nicer in the way of 
 step-daughters. 
 
 Yes, it was a lovely face, lovelier even than Rosalie's in 
 her bloom of youth, if there could be lovelier than the 
 loveliest. Colonel Bosworth wanted a new form of super- 
 lative to express this younger beauty. 
 
 Theie was a higher intellectuality in the face, he thought 
 — a touch, too, of patrician loftiness, which came from the 
 larger mind, the older lineage of the father. A most in- 
 teresting girl, and so sweetly unconscious of her own charms. 
 
 One of the new books was lying open on the table. Brown- 
 ing's last ]Doem : Rosa had been devouring it, and she and 
 the Colonel were discussing it in a very animated way, un-
 
 Across the Footlights 313 
 
 conscious that they had been talking nearly half an hour, 
 when Mrs. Disney came into the room. 
 
 'Tiiat silly servant has only just told me you were here,' 
 said the widow. ' I see you have made friends with liusa 
 already.' 
 
 ' I had need make friends with her if she is to be my step- 
 daughter,' thought Colonel Bosworth ruefully. 
 
 He looked at his old love gently, tenderly, in the cold 
 prosaic light of a December afternoon. Yes, time had been 
 lenient, vei-y lenient, to that fair and classic beauty. The 
 delicate Grecian nose, the perfect modelling of mouth and 
 chin, these were as lovely as of old. But, ah ! how wide was 
 the gulf between Rosa in the bloom of her girlish freshness, 
 and Eosalie after her twenty years of changes and chances, 
 joys and sorrows. 
 
 'She was right,' thought Randolph : 'time and sorrow 
 must always tell their tale.' 
 
 His visit was a long one, for he stayed to take tea with the 
 little household. He made friends with his future step-son — 
 talked about India and forestry, and he escorted Mrs. Disney 
 to the stage-door, before he went to his dinner. He asked 
 permission to see her home after the performance ; but this 
 was refused. 
 
 He did not go to the theatre that night. He told himself 
 that he did not want to vulgarise his impressions of the 
 Fairy Diaphanosia. He wished to cherish her image as it had 
 flashed upon him last night, a sweet surprise. 
 
 He sat by the cosy lireat the Old Yacht, reading Browning 
 and thinking of Rosa. He wanted to accustom himself to the 
 idea of a step-daughter. 
 
 Next day was bright and sonny, and Colonel Bosworth 
 went for a walk on the new pier, where he met George and 
 Rosa, his future step-children. They did the pier thoroughly 
 together, and at George's instigation, went to see a Pink 
 Tortoiseshell Cat, the Industrious Fleas, and a cockle-shell 
 boat which had brought some adventurous souls across the 
 Atlantic, each of these wonders being severally on view at 
 threepence a head. The Colonel vowed that it was the 
 ])leasantest morning he bad spent for yeai-s. He was 
 cliarmed with the pink cat, though its pinkness was only 
 in the ])roportion of about tive jier cent of its normal hue. 
 
 Although Colonel Bosworth only parted ft-oiu his future 
 step-children at the corner of the narrow street on the East 
 ClitT at half-past one, he was at Mrs. Disney's door soon after
 
 314 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 three, and again he spent the afternoon in the little bow- 
 windowed parlour, talking with Rosa and her brother, while 
 the widow sat by the fire working a grand design in crewels 
 on a sage green curtain. 
 
 ' Is that to be hung up at Bosworth Manor by-and-by \ ' 
 asked Randolph. 
 
 ' If you like,' she answered sweetly ; and it seemed to 
 liiui that in those simple words there was an acceptance of 
 his offer. The threads of their two lives were to be inter- 
 woven, like the woof and warp of that curtain. 
 
 He was not so elated at his victory as he would have felt 
 the night before last, when he pleaded his cause on the Cliff 
 in the glamour of the moonlight. He was sober, as became 
 a man with new responsibilities, a man who was so soon to 
 be a step-father. He stayed to tea as before, and escorted 
 the fairy to the theatre. Their talk on the way there was 
 hardly lovers' talk. It was serious and friendly rather. 
 Mrs. Disney told him of her married life, and how she had 
 brought up her children. He seemed to have a greedy ear 
 for all early traits of character in his future step-daughter. 
 ' And had she really shown such an ear for music at two and 
 a half ? And did she really rescue a puppy from drowning, 
 at the risk of spoiling her pinafore ? Heroic child ! ' 
 
 The next day he laought a splendid half-hoop of diamonds 
 in Prince's Square, and offered it to his affianced wife by 
 way of engagement ring ; but to his surprise she declined it. 
 
 ' I have an idea that engagement rings are unlucky,' she 
 said. ' You shall give me nothing but flowers and books 
 till after your marriage.' 
 
 ' I — I — wish you would let me buy a sealskin jacket for 
 Rosa,' he said. ' She is to be my step-daughter so soon that 
 it can't matter. I thought she looked cold yesterday 
 morning on the pier.' 
 
 Mrs. Disney thanked him for his thoughtfulness, and 
 consented to this fatherly gift. So the next day they all 
 went to Bannington's, and Colonel Bosworth bought the 
 handsomest sealskin coat which that establishment could 
 produce. He would be satisfied with nothing less than the 
 very finest. It clothed Rosa fx'om her chin to her ankles, 
 and she looked lovely in it. 
 
 *I shall feel so wicked every time I pass a poor little 
 beggar girl shivering in her ragged frock,' said Rosa. 
 
 ' Never mind how you feel,' said her brother George j 
 ' you look like an Esquimaux princess.'
 
 Across the Footlijltts 315 
 
 Colonel Busworth suggested that his betrothed should 
 close her engageiueiit at the Theatre Royal before the 
 pantomime was withdrawn from the bills. 
 
 ' What, b'-'eak faith with Mrs. de Courtenay, who was so 
 kind to me ! ' cried Rosalie. ' Not for worlds ! ' 
 
 The Colonel had urged her to name the day for their 
 wedding. The sooner it should take place the happier he 
 would be. He was getting restless and out of spirits. He 
 had left off walking on the pier of a morning, and had lost 
 all interest in })ink cats. 
 
 Mrs. Disney hung back a little about the wedding. Ifc 
 could not be until after Lent, she said. It was to be a very 
 quiet wedding. They could decide upon the date at any 
 time. 
 
 ' Don't you think it would be an advantage to Rosa to 
 spend a year or two at a first-rate liiiishing school in Paris, 
 or even with a private family?' said the Colonel, rather 
 a1)ru])tly, one evening, as he was escorting his betrothed to 
 the theatre. 
 
 ' But why ? ' asked Mrs. Disney. 
 
 'Why — oh, only for improvement. She told me she 
 wanted to improve herself in French.' 
 
 'And you would exiie my child at the very outset,' 
 exclaimed Rosalie, with deepest reproach. ' What a cruel 
 stepfather you are going to make ! ' 
 
 A week after this the pintomime came to an end, and Lent 
 bagan. The widow and her old lover were walking on the 
 East Cliff together after the last performance. The moon 
 was at the full again, just as it had been on that first night 
 they two had walked together. The tall white houses, the 
 wide <lark sea were shining in that silvery light. 
 
 ' And now, Rosalie,' said Randolph gently, with a gravity 
 of manner that had been growing upon him of late, ' it is 
 tijue that you and I should come to some definite arrange- 
 ment about our wedding. When is it to be ? ' 
 
 ' Nevui-,' she answere<l, sweetly, sadly, proudly ; looking 
 at him with a steadfast gaze, the lovely eyes dim with tears. 
 'You have been good and true, Ramlolph — true to the 
 shadow of an old dream. You have offered me a fair and 
 happy future — yes, I feel that the life you offer would be 
 full of brightness and delight, for me who have t;isted very 
 few of the joys of life. But I am not base enough to take 
 advantage of the generous impulse which prompted you to 
 otfei" to a widow of ninc-and-thirty the love you once gave to
 
 316 V?ider the Bed Flag 
 
 a girl of nineteen. It cannot be, dear friend. In years we 
 may be fairly equal, but in heart and mind I am ages older 
 than you ; my cares and sorrows should all count for years. 
 You have asked me for bread, and I must not give you a 
 stone. You are still a young man. Your heart is as fresh 
 as when you asked me to be your wife twenty years ago : 
 and only a young fresh heart can give you such love as you 
 deserve. Randolph, I know of one young heart, pure, inno- 
 cent, and childlike in its simple trust, and I think that heart 
 has gone out to you unawares. Can you reciprocate that 
 innocent half unconscious love ? Will you accept the daugliter 
 instead of the mother ? ' 
 
 Would he % His heart was beating so violently that he 
 could not answer. He clutched the iron railing with his 
 broad, strong hand ; he heard the roaring of the sea vaguely, 
 as if it had been a tumultuous noise in his own overcharged 
 brain. 
 
 ' You have guessed my secret,' he said hoarsely, after a 
 pause. 
 
 ' Nearly a month ago. I saw how it would be from the 
 beginning. Don't apologise, Randolph. I am so jiroud, so 
 happy, for my darling's sake. I have nothing to regret. 
 Good night. No, no, pray do not come any further.' 
 
 She snatched her hand from his, and walked swiftly to the 
 little street, Avhich was not far off. Randolph Bosworth went 
 back to the Old Yacht like a man walking upon air. Oh, 
 what an earthly paradise the world seemed ! The mother 
 had not been deceived. Yes, Rosa loved him — this soldier 
 of forty years old — loved him just as fondly as Rosalie had 
 loved her hero in the days gone by. The Colonel met his 
 darling on the pier in the br'eezy winter morning, and they 
 had a happy talk together amidst the fresh wind and the briny 
 spray. And in Easter week there was a quiet wedding in 
 one of the smaller churches of Helmstone, and Randolph 
 Bosworth carried his fair young bride to Rome to see the 
 eternal city in its Easter glory, while Mrs. Disney repaired 
 to the Manor, provided with full authority to set the house 
 in order for her daughter's home coming.
 
 MY WIFE'S PROMISE 
 
 It was luy fate at an early period of my life to abandon my- 
 self to the perilous deliglxts of a career which of all othei's 
 exercises the most potent fascination over the mind of him 
 who pursues it. As a youth I joined a band of brave adven- 
 turers in an Arctic expedition, and from the hour in whicli I 
 first saw the deep cold blue of the northern sea, and felt the 
 subtle influence of the rarefied polar air, I was for all common 
 purposes and objects of life a lost man. The expedition was 
 unfortunate, though its leader was a wise and scientific navi- 
 gator — his subordinates picked men. The result was bitter 
 disappointment and more bitter loss — loss of valuable lives 
 as well as of considerable funds. I came back from my 
 cruise in the ' Weatherwise,' to the western workl, rejoiced 
 beyond measure at the iilea of Ijeing once more nt home, and 
 determineil never again to face the horrors of that perilous 
 region which had lost me so many dear companions. 
 
 I, Richaril Dunrayne, was the elder son of a wealthy house, 
 ray father, a man of some intluence in the political world, and 
 there were few positions which need have been impossible 
 for me had I aspired to the ordinary career affected by 
 British youth. I had been indulged in my early passion for 
 the sea, in my later rage for Arctic exi)loration ; and it was 
 hoped that, having satistied these boyish fancie.^, I should 
 now settle down to a pursuit more consonant with the views 
 and wishes of my ])eople. My mother wept over her restored 
 trecasure, and confessed how terrible had been her feai's 
 during my absence ; my father congratulated me upon 
 having ridden my hobby, and alighted therefrom without 
 a broken neck ; and my family anxiously awaited my choice 
 of a profession. 
 
 Such a choice I found impossible. If I had bartered myself 
 body and soul, by the most explicit formula, to some demon 
 of the icebergs, or incarnate spirit of the frozen sea, I could 
 not have beeu more completely bound than I was. From the
 
 318 Under liw Bed PUifJ 
 
 Christmas health round which dear friends were gathered, 
 from my low seat at my mother's knee, from worldly wealth 
 and worldly pleasure, the genius of the polar ocean beckoned 
 me away, and all the blessings of my life, all the natural 
 affections of my heart, were too weak to hold me. In my 
 dreams, again and again, with maddening repetition, I trod 
 the old paths, and saw, ghastly white against the intense 
 purple of that northern sky, the walls of ice that had blocked 
 our passage. It seemed to me that if I could but find my- 
 self again in that dread solitude, success would be a certainty. 
 It seemed to me as if we had held the magic clue to that 
 awful labyrinth between our fingers, and liaJ, in very folly, 
 suffered it to escape us. ' A new expedition, aided by the 
 knowledge of the past, micst succeed,' I said to myself ; and 
 when I could no longer fight against the iirepossession that 
 held me, I consulted the survivors of our unfortunate voyage, 
 and found in their opinions the actual echo of my own con- 
 victions. 
 
 We met many times, and our meetings resulted in the 
 organization of a new expedition. Money was poured into our 
 little treasury like water, so poor a dress did it seem to us 
 compared with the jewel we went to seek. Our preparations 
 had begun before I dared tell those v/ho loved me that I had 
 pledged myself to a second expedition. But at last, one 
 bright spring evening, I went home and announced my deci- 
 sion. I look back now and wonder at my own heartlessness, 
 and yet I was 7iot indifferent to their grief. The cry that 
 my mother gave when she knew the truth rings in my ears 
 as I write this. No ; I was not indifferent. I was possessed. 
 My second voyage resulted in little actual success, but was 
 to me one prolonged scene of enjoyment. I was a skilled 
 seaman and navigator, no indifferent sportsman, and having 
 acquired some slight reputation during the previous voyage, 
 now ranked high among the junior officers on board the 
 ' Ptarmigan.' We wintered at Eepulse Bay, with a short stock 
 of fuel, and a shorter supply of provisions ; but we managed 
 with a minimum of the former luxury, and supjilied all 
 deficiency of the latter by the aid of our guns. Never was a 
 merrier banquet eaten than our Christmas dinner of reindeer 
 steaks and currant dumplings, though the thermometer ha 1 
 sunk 79° below freezing-jooint, and our jerseys and trousers 
 sparkled with hoar-frost. 
 
 The brief summer of that northern latitude brought na 
 some small triumphs. We spent a second winter in snow
 
 Mij Wife's Promise 310 
 
 houses, whioli resembled gigantic bee-hives, and were the 
 snuggest possible habitations, and in the second summer 
 turned our course homeward, in excellent health and spirits, 
 but my gladness was to be sorely dashed on landing in England. 
 
 I returned to find my mother's grave bright with familiar 
 autumnal llowcrs in a suburban cemetery, and to know 
 that the tender arms which had clung about me in the 
 hour of parting would never encircle me again. The blow 
 was a severe one, and for some time to cotne I thought 
 with aversion of that stranye northern world which had cost 
 me, and which was yet to cost me, so much. 
 
 Time pas-sed, and I remained in England, at twenty-live 
 ycai's of age a broken man. With the men I met I had no 
 point of sympathy. Their pursuits bored me, their paltry 
 ambitions disgusted me. The pleasures of civilized life had not 
 the faintest charm for me. A polar bear would have been 
 as much at home as I was in a West-end ball-room, and woidd 
 have been as interested in the conversation of a genteel dinner- 
 table. Away from my old comrades of the ' Weatherwise' and 
 the 'Ptarmigan,' I had not a friend for whom I really cared ; 
 and as the civilized world grew day by day more distasteful 
 to me, the old longing revivetl — the old dreams haunted my 
 sleep. In my father's handsome drawing-rooms I yearned 
 for the rough stone cabin of Repulse Bay, or the snow-hives 
 of Cape Crozier. Another expedition was afloat, and letters 
 from my old messmates announced anticipated triumjjhs, and 
 warned me of the remorse which I should sutler when the 
 hardy victors returned to reproach the idler who preferred 
 to live at home at ease, while old friends were drifting among 
 the ice-floes, and bearding the grisly tyrant of the north. 
 
 I let them go without me, at what sacrifice was only known 
 to myself. My father's health had been declining from the 
 hour of my mother's death, and I was determined not to leave 
 him. T/iis duty at least I would not abnegate. This last sad 
 ])rivilege of attending a father's death-bed I would not barter 
 to the all-exacting demon of the frozen se;is. For three 
 empty, patient years I remained at home. My hands 
 reverently closed the eyes that had never looked u])on me 
 but with affection, and I alone watched the last quiet sleep. 
 This being done, I was free once more, and the old infatua- 
 tion held me close as ever. My father's death left nie 
 wealthy, and to my mind wealth had but one use. All the 
 old yearnings were intensitied by tenfold, for the sadilest 
 reason. The ' Ptarmif'an ' had never been heard of since
 
 320 Under the Bed Flag 
 
 the hour she left Baffin's Bay, and the fate of those 
 familiar comrades with whom I had lived in the closest 
 communion for two happy years was a dark enigma, only to 
 be solved by patient labour. The expedition had not been of 
 sufficient importance to attract much attention from the 
 scientific world ; there had been too much of a volunteer 
 and amateur character in the business ; but when the fact 
 of the ' Ptarmigan's ' disappearance became known, a meeting 
 of the Eoyal Society gave all due consideration to the case, 
 and promised help to a party of investigation. 
 
 My ample fortune enabled me to contribute largely to the 
 exjjenses of the new voyage, while volunteers and voluntary 
 contributions poured in from every quarter. I had difficulty 
 in selecting officers and crew from so large a number of hardy 
 adventurers ; but I was prudent enough to engage the crew 
 of a battered old whaler for the staple of my men. "We were 
 away in all six years, wintering sometimes in South America 
 — once in New York, and getting our supplies as best we 
 might. We made some discoveries, which the Royal Society 
 received with civil approval ; but of those we went to seek 
 we found no trace ; and I began to think that the fate of my 
 old friends was a mystery never to be solved below the 
 stars. 
 
 I came back to England at thirty-four years of age, a 
 hardy wanderer, with a long brown beard that seemed 
 lightly powdered with the northern snow, and with the 
 strength of a sea-lion. For the best years of my life I had 
 lived in snow-hives and stone-cabins, or slept at night amidst 
 the wilderness of ice, in a boat which my stalwart shouldera 
 had helped to carry during the day. Heavens ! what a rough, 
 unlicked cub, what a grim sea-monster I must have been ; 
 and yet [sabel Lawson loved me ! Yes, I came back to 
 England to find a fairer enchantress than the spirit of the 
 frozen deep, and to barter my liberty to a new mistress. One 
 of my sisters had married during my absence, and it was at 
 her country house I took up my abode. The young 
 sister of her husband, Captain Lawson, was here on a visit, 
 and thus I met my fate. 
 
 I will not attempt to describe her ; the innocent face, so 
 lovely to my eyes, was perhaps less perfect than I thought it ; 
 but if perfection wears another shape, it is one that has no 
 charm for me. Isabel was my junior by sixteen years, and 
 for a considerable period of our acquaintance regarded me as 
 a newly-acquix'ed elder brother, whose age gave something
 
 Mij Wife's Promue 321 
 
 t)i a jiaternul character to the rchitionship. For a long time 
 I lookfd upon lier aa a beautiful picture, an incarnate pre- 
 sentment of all that is tender and divine in womanhood, and 
 as far away from me as the stars which I pointed out to her 
 in our summer evening rambles by the seashore near our 
 country home. 
 
 How I grew to love her I will not ask myself. She was a 
 creature whom to know was to love. How she grew to love 
 me in a mystery I have often tried to solve ; and when I have 
 asked her, with fear and wondering, why I was so blessed, 
 she told me it was because I was brave and frank and true, 
 and worthy of a woman's love. God help my darling, the 
 glamour of the frozen north was upon me, and the mere story 
 of the wondrous world T knew had magic enough to win me 
 the heart of this angel. She was never tired of hearing me 
 describe that wild region I loved so v/ell. Again and atfaiu 
 I told her tlie histories of my several voyages, and the record 
 seemed always to have a new charm for her. 
 
 ' I think I know every channel in Davis's Strait and Baffin's 
 Bay,' she said to me a day or two before our wedding ; ' and 
 the icebound coast, from Repube Bay to Cape Crozier, and 
 the ice-packs over which you carried your boats, and the 
 shoals of seals and clouds of ducks, and the colony of white 
 whales, and the dear little snow-houses in which you lived so 
 snugly. Don't you think we ought to spend our honeymoon 
 at C.'aj)e Crozier, Richard 1 ' 
 
 'My precious one, God forbid that I should ever see you 
 ill that wild place.' 
 
 *Be sure, Richard, if you went there, I should follow you. 
 
 And she kept her word. 
 
 Dreamlike, and oh, how mournful, seems the bright scene 
 of my bridal day, as 1 recall it to-night beside a lonely hearth 
 in tlu' house of a stianger. IVIy Isabel looked like a spirit in 
 her white gown and veil ; and I, to wliom the memories of the 
 North were ever present, could well-nigh have fancieil she 
 was clad in a snow- cloud. I asked her if she were content 
 to have given her young beauty to a battered veteran like 
 me ; and she told me yes, a thousand times more than content 
 — inexpressibly happy. 
 
 'But you will never leave me, Richard ?' she said, looking 
 up at me with divine love in her deep-blue eyes; and I iiro- 
 luised again, as I had ju-omised many times before, that the 
 North should never diaw me away from my beloved. 
 
 y
 
 322 Under the Red Flag 
 
 ' You shall be my pole-star, dearest, and I will forget that 
 earth lias any wilder region than the woods and hills around 
 our happy home.' 
 
 My darling loved the country, and I loved all that was 
 dear to her : so I bought a small estate in North Devon — 
 a grange and paik in the heart of such a landscape as can 
 only be found in that western shire. I was rich, and it was 
 my pride and delight to make our home as beautiful as money 
 and care could make it. The restoration of the house, which 
 was as old as the Tudors, and the improvement of the park, 
 employed me for more than a year, — a hajopy year of home 
 joys with as sweet a wife as Heaven ever gave to man since 
 Adam saw Eve smiling on him among the flowers of Para- 
 dise, — and during the whole of that time I had scarcely 
 thought of the North. With the beginning of our second 
 year of happy union, I had even less inclination to think of 
 my old life ; for God had blessed us with a son, pure and 
 blooming and beautiful as the region in which he was boin. 
 Upon this period of my life I dare not linger. For nearly 
 two years we held our treasure ; and if anything could have 
 drawn us nearer to each other than our love had made us 
 long ago, it would have been our aflection for this child. He 
 was ti ken from us. ' The Lord gave, and the Lord taketh 
 away ; blessed be the name of the Lord.' We repeated the 
 holy sentences of resignation ; but it was not resignation, it 
 was despair that subdued the violence of our grief. I laid 
 my darling in his grave under the midsummer sky, while a 
 sky-lark was singing high uj) in the heaven, where I tried to 
 picture him, among the band of such child-angels ; and I knew 
 that life could never again be to me what it had been. People 
 told me I should perhaps have other children as dear as this. 
 ' If God would give this one back to me, He could not blot 
 from my memory his suffering and his death,' I answered 
 impiously. 
 
 Por some time my sorrow was a kind of stupor — a dull 
 dead heaviness of the soul, from which nothing could raise 
 me. Isabel's grief was no less intense, no less bitter ; but it 
 was more natural and more unselfish. She grew alarmed by 
 my state of mind, and entreated me to try change of scene. 
 
 ' Let us go to London, Richard,' she said ; ' I shall be glad 
 to leave this place, beautiful and dear as it is.' 
 
 Her pale face warned me that she had sad need of change ; 
 and for her sake, rather than my own, I took her to London, 
 where we hired a furnished house in a western square,
 
 M>i Wifiis Promise 323 
 
 Being in town, and an idle man, with no T>ondon tastes 
 and no friends, it is scarcely strange that I should attend the 
 meetings of the Royal Society. The fate of Franklin was yet 
 unknown, and tlie debates upon this subject were at fever- 
 heat. A new expedition was just being iitted out by the 
 Government, and there could be no better opportunity for a 
 volunteer band, which might follow in the track of the 
 Government vessel. 
 
 In the rooms of the Society I encountered an old comrade 
 who had served with me in my first voyage on l)oard the 
 ' Weatherwise,' and he exerted his utmost powers of persuasion 
 to induce me to join himself and others in a northward 
 cruise, to search for Franklin and for our lost companions of 
 the ' Ptarmigan.' I was known to be an old hand, well pro- 
 vided with ihe sinews of war, adventurous and patient, 
 liardened by many a polar winter ; and my friend and his 
 party wanted me for their leader. The proposal flattered me 
 more than I can describe, and caused me the first thrill of 
 pleasure I had known since my son's death. But I remem- 
 bered my promise. 
 
 ' No, Martyn,' I answered ; ' the thing is impossible. I 
 am a married man, and have given my word to the dearest 
 wife in Christendom that I will never go out yonder again.' 
 
 Frank Martyn took no pains to conceal his disajipointment 
 at my decision, nor liis contemi)t for my motives. 
 
 It was my habit to tell my wife everything ; and I told 
 her of the debates of the Royal Society, and of this meeting 
 with an old comrade. 
 
 ' But you -will keep your jjromise, Richard ? ' she asked, 
 Avith a sudden look of fear. 
 
 ' Until the end of life, my darling, unless you should 
 release me from it' 
 
 * Oh, Richard, that is not likely ; I am not callable of such 
 a sacrifice.' 
 
 I went again and again to the Royal Society : and I dined 
 at a club, with my friend Martyn, who made me known to 
 his friends, those eager volunteers who panted for the icy 
 winds of the Arctic zone, and languished to tread the frozen 
 labyrinth of polar seas. I listened to them, I talked with 
 them, and the demon of the North resumed his hold ujion 
 me. My wife saw that some new influence was at work, 
 that my home life was no longer all in all to me. 
 
 One day, after much anxious questioning, she beguiled me 
 of my secret. The old yearning was upon me. I told her
 
 32 i Under the Pwd Fhv/ 
 
 how every impulse of my mind — every longing of my heart- 
 urged me to join the new enterprise ; and how, for her dear 
 sake, I was determined to forego the certainty of pleasi;re, 
 and the chances of distinction. She thanked me with a sigh. 
 
 ' I stand between you and the pui-pose of your life, 
 Richard,' she said ; ' how selfish I must seem to you ! ' 
 
 ' No, darling, only tender and womanly.' 
 
 Upon my persistent refusal to command the expedition, 
 my friend Martyn was unanimously elected captain. A 
 wealthy brewer of an adventurous turn ]irovided the larger 
 part of the funds, to which I gladly contributed my quota. 
 
 ' I know Dunrayne will go with us,' said Frank Martyn. 
 ' He'll turn up at the last moment, and beg leave to join. But 
 remember, Dick,' he added, turning to me, 'if it is the last 
 moment you'll be welcome, and I shall be proud to resign the 
 command to a fellow who knows the Arctic zone as well as a 
 Cockney knows the Strand. 
 
 The prejiarations for the voyage lasted longer than had been 
 anticipated. Months went by, and I still lingered in town, 
 thougli I knew that Isabel would have preferred to return 
 to Devonshire. I could not tear myself away while the ' For- 
 lorn Hope,' the vessel chartered by the brewer, was still in 
 dock. I saw the adventurers almost daily, assisted in their 
 preparations, pored over the chart with them, and travelled 
 over every inch of the old ground with a pencil for their 
 edification. 
 
 It was within a week of the departure, and the fever and 
 excitement of prepai'ation was stronger upon me than on any 
 one of the intending voyagers, when my wife came to me 
 suddenly one morning, and threw herself, sobbing, into my 
 arms. 
 
 ' My dear Isabel, what is this 1 ' I asked in alarm. 
 
 ' O Richard, you must go,' she sobbed ; 'I cannot hold you 
 from your destiny. My selfish fears are killing you. I can 
 see it in your face. You mtcst go to that wild, awful world, 
 where Heaven has guided you in safety before, and will 
 fuard and guide you again. Yes, darling, I release you 
 from your promise. Is God less powerful to protect you 
 yonder than here ] He made that world of eternal ice and 
 snow ; and where He is there is safety. No, Richard ; I will 
 not despair. I will not stand between you and fame. I 
 heard you talking in your sleep last night, as you have 
 talked many nights, of that distant solitude : and I know 
 that vour heart is there. Shall I keep my husband prisoner
 
 Mil Wifps P/v;H/isv. 325 
 
 wlieu his heart has fled from me ? No, llichard, you 
 shall go.' 
 
 She kissed me, and fell fainting at my feet. I was blinded 
 Ly my own seltish folly, and did not perceive how much of 
 her fortitude was the courage of des])air. I thought only of 
 her generosity, and my release. It was not too late for me 
 to accejjt the command of the ' Forlorn Hope.' I thanked my 
 wife with a hundred kisses as her sweet eyes opened upon 
 me once more. 
 
 ' My darling, I shall never forget this,' I cried ; ' and it 
 shall be the last journey, the very last. I swear it, by all 
 that is most sacred to me. There is no danger, believe me, 
 none, for a man who has learned prudence as I have done — 
 in the school of hardship.' 
 
 There was only a week for leave-taking. 
 
 ' I can bear it better so,' said my wife : ' such a blow 
 cannot be too sudden.' 
 
 ' But, my darling, it is no more than any other absence ; 
 and, remember, it is to be the last time.' 
 
 'No, Richard, do not tell me that. I think I know you 
 better than you know yourself. A man cannot serve t.vo 
 masters. Your master is there. He beckons you away from me.' 
 
 ' But for the last time, Isabel.' 
 
 ' Well, yes,' she answered, with a profound sigh, ' I think 
 that when you and I say good-bye next week, we shall part 
 for the last time.' 
 
 The sadness of her tone seemed natural to the occasion ; 
 nor did I remark the melancholy significance of her words, 
 though they often recurred to my mind in the time to come. 
 
 ' I will make you a flag, Richard,' she said to me next day. 
 ' If you should discover ajiy new spot of land out yonder, 
 you will like to raise the British standard there, and I should 
 like to think that my hands are to be associated with your 
 triumph.' 
 
 She set to work upon the fabrication of a Union Jack. I 
 remembered a nielanclioly incident in the life of Sir John 
 Franklin, and I hardly cared to see her thus employed ; but 
 I could not sadden her with the story, and she worked on, 
 with a happier air than I could have believed ])0ssible to her. 
 Alas ! I little knew that this gaiety was but an heroic 
 assum))tion sustained to save me pain. 
 
 My darling insisted upon examining my charts, and made 
 me show her every step of our projected journey — the point 
 whej-e Tve hoped to winter — the land which >Ye intetide4 to
 
 326 Under the Bed Flan 
 
 explore on sledges — the spots where we should erect cairns 
 to mark our progress. She dwelt on every detail of the 
 journey with an interest intense as my own. 
 
 ' I think I know that distant world as well as you, Richard,' 
 she said to me on the last day of all. ' In my dreams I shall 
 follow you — yes, I know that I shall dream of you every 
 night, and that my dreams will be true. There must be some 
 magnetic chain between two beings so closely united as we 
 are, and I am sure that sleep will show you to me as you are 
 — safe or in danger, triumphant or despondent. And in my 
 waking dreams, too, dear, I shall be on your track. My life 
 will be a double one — the dull, commonplace existence at 
 home, where my body must needs be, and the mystic life 
 yonder, where my s^iirit will follow you. And, dear husband,* 
 she continued, clinging to me and looking up with a new 
 light in her eyes, ' if I should die before you return ' 
 
 ' Isabel ! ' 
 
 ' Of course that is not likely, you know ; but if I should 
 be taken from you, dearest, you will know it directly. Yes, 
 dear, at the death-hour my si^irit will tly to you for the last 
 fond parting look upon earth, as surely as I hope it will await 
 you in heaven ! ' 
 
 I tried to chide her for her old-world Scottish superstition ; 
 but this speech of hers, and the looks that accompanied it, 
 shook me more than I cared to confess to myself ; and if it 
 had been possible to recede with honour, I think I should 
 have resigned the command of die Forlorn Hojie and stayed 
 with my wife. O God, that I had done so, at any cost of 
 honour, at any sacrifice of friendship ! 
 
 But my fate drew me northward, and I went. We started 
 in July, and reached the point that we had chosen for our 
 winter harbour at the end of August. Here we walled our 
 vessel round with snow, and roofed her over ; and in this 
 grim solitude prepared to await the opening seas of summer. 
 To me the winter seemed unutterably long and dreary. I 
 was no longer the careless bachelor who found amusement 
 in the rough sports of the sailors, and delight in an occasional 
 raid upon the reindeer of the ice-bound coast. I had indeed 
 tried to serve two masters ; and the memory of her I had left 
 behind was ever with me, a reproachful shadow. If, now, I 
 could have recalled the past, and found myself once luore by 
 that hearth beside which I had languished for the old life of 
 adventure, how gladly would I have made the exchange ! 
 
 The long, inactive winter that was so dreary to me seemed
 
 Mij JFifr's Promise 327 
 
 pleasant emmgh to my compaiiiuus. We hivl plenty of 
 stores, and all were hopeful as to tbe exploits of the coining 
 sununer. We shoulil find the crew of the ' PtarniiLjan,' 
 perhaps, hardy dwellers in some inaccessible rej^ion, i)atiently 
 awaiting succour and rele;ise. With such hopeful dreams my 
 comrades beguiled the wasted days ; but I had lost my old 
 power of dreaming, and a sense of duty alone sustaineil my 
 spirits. My friend Frank told me that I was a changed man 
 — cold and stern as the veriest martinet. 
 
 ' But all the better man for your ])ost,' he added; ' the sailoi'S 
 love you as much as they fear you, for they know that they 
 would lind you as steadfast as a rock in the hour of peril.' 
 
 The summer came, the massive ice-packs were loosened 
 with sounds as of thunder, and drifted away before a southern 
 breeze. But our freedom brought us nothing save disap- 
 jiointment. No traces of our fi'iends of the 'Ptarmigan' 
 gladtlened our eyes : no discovery rewarded our i)atience. 
 Scurvy had cost us four of our best men, and the crew was 
 short-handed. Before the summer was ended we had more 
 deaths, and when the next winter began, Martyn and I faced 
 it drearily, with the jirospect of scant stores and scanterfuel, 
 and with a sickly and disheartened crew. We had reason to 
 thank God that the poor fellows were faithful to us under 
 conditions so hopeless. 
 
 Before the coldest season set in, we left our vessel in 
 tolerably safe harbour, and started on a land expedition, still 
 bent on our search for traces of the missing Ptarmigan. We 
 had a couj)le of sledges and a ])ack of t)squimaux dogs, faith- 
 ful, hardy creatures, who thrived on the roughest fare, and 
 were invaluable to us in this toilsome journey. No words 
 can paint the desolation of this wild region — no mind can 
 imagine that horror of perpetual snow, illimitable as eternal. 
 
 Martyn and I worked hard to keep up the flagging spirits 
 of our men. One poor fellow had lost his foot from a frost- 
 bite, and but for our surgeon's clever amputation of the 
 disabled member, must have surely perished. He was of 
 coarse no small drag upui us in this time of trial, but his 
 own patient endurance taught us fortitude. We had Imped 
 to fall iu with a tribe of Esquimaux, but saw none after those 
 from whom we bought our dogs. 
 
 So we toiled on, appalle<l by the grim change in each 
 other's forms and faces, as short rations and fatigue tlid their 
 work. The dead winter found us again reduced in nun^bev.
 
 328 Under thn lied Flwj 
 
 We built ourselves a roomy snow-house, with a cabin for the 
 dogs ; and here my friend Frank Martyn lay sick with three 
 other invalids throughout our hopeless Christmas. My own 
 health held out wonderfullJ^ My spirits rose with the 
 extremity of trial, and I faced the darkening future boldly, 
 beguiling myself with dream-pictures of my return home, 
 and my wife's glad face when she looked uj) from her lonely 
 hearth and saw me standing on the threshold of the door. 
 
 It was Christmas- day. We had dined on pemmican — a 
 peculiar kind of preserved meat — biscuit, and rice. Spirit 
 we had none, save a little carefully stored in case of urgent 
 need. After our scant repast the able men went out in a 
 body in search of sport for their guns, but with little hope of 
 finding anything. The invalids slept, and I sat by the fire 
 of dried moss which served to light our hut, with the aid of 
 a glimmer of cold, dull daylight that came to us through a 
 window of transpai'ent ice in the roof. 
 
 I was thinking of England and my wife — what else did I ever 
 think of now 1 — when one of the men rushed suddenly into 
 the hut, and fell on the snow-bank that served for a bench. 
 He was white to the lips, and shivering as no man shivers 
 from cold alone. 
 
 ' Good God, Hanley, what is the matter ? " I cried, alarmed 
 by the man's terror. 
 
 ' I went away from the others. Captain,' he began, in rapid, 
 gasping accents, 'thinking I saw the traces of a bear upon 
 the snow ; and I had parted from them about half-an-hour 
 when I saw ' 
 
 His voice died away suddenly, and he sat before me, with 
 lips that moved but made no sound. 
 
 ' What ? For pity's sake speak out, man.' 
 
 ' A woman ! ' 
 
 ' Yes ; and of an Esquimaux tribe, no doubt. Why 
 didn't you hail her, and bring her back to us 1 Why, you must 
 be mad, Hanley. You know how we have been wishing t) 
 fall in with some of those people, and you see one, and let 
 her slip through your fingers, and come back scared, as if 
 you'd seen a ghost.' 
 
 ' That's it, your honour,' the man answered hoarsely. 
 ' What I saw was a ghost.' 
 
 * Nonsense, man ! ' 
 
 'But I say yes, Captain, and will stand by my word. She 
 was before me, moving slowly over the snow ; you could 
 scarce call it walking, 'twas such a smooth gliding motiorj.
 
 Mil Tl7/V'.s Prumh<' 320 
 
 She was dressed in white — no common dress— but one ihat 
 turns the heart cohl only to think of. While I stood, too 
 scared to move hand or foot, she turned and beckoned to me, 
 and I saw lier face as plain as I see yours at this moment, a 
 sweet face, with blue eyes, and long fair hair falling loosely 
 round it.' 
 
 I was on my'foet in a moment, and rushing towards the door. 
 
 ' Great God of Heaven ! ' I cried, ' my wife ! ' 
 
 The convi'^tion tliat jjossessed me was supreme. From the 
 moment in which the sailor described the hgure he had seen, 
 there was no sliadow wf doubt in my mind. It was Isabel, and 
 fehe only. The wife who had ])romised that her spirit should 
 follow me step by step upon my desolate journey was near 
 me now. For one moment only I considered the possibility 
 or impossibility of her presence, and pondered whether some 
 northern-bound vessel might have brought her to an Esqui- 
 miux station near at hand that we knew not of ; for one 
 instant only, and then I was hurrying across the snow in the 
 direction to which the sailor pointed as he stood at the door 
 of our hut. 
 
 The brief winter day was closing in, and there was only a 
 long line of faint yellow light in the west. Eastwards the 
 moon was rising, pale and cold like that region of eternal 
 snow. I had left our hut some two hundred yards behind 
 me, when I saw a white-robed figure moving towards the 
 low western light ; a figure at once so dear, so familiar, and 
 yet in that place so awful, that an icy shiver shook me from 
 head to heel as I looked upon it. 
 
 The iigure turned and beckoned. The sweet face looked 
 at me, awfully distinct in that clear cold light. I followed, 
 and it drew me on, far across a patch of snowy waste that I 
 had left unexplored, or had no memory of traversing until 
 now. I tried to overtake the familiar form, but though its 
 strange gliding movement seemetl sli»w, it eluded my pursuit, 
 follow swiftly as I might. In this manner we crossed the wide 
 bleak w;iste, and as the last glimmer of the western light 
 died out, and the moon shone brighter on the frozen ))lain, 
 we came to a spot where the snow lay in mounds — seven 
 separate mounds ranged in the form of a cross beneath that 
 wild northern sky. 
 
 A glance told me that civilized hands had done this work. 
 The Christian emblem told me more. But though I saw the 
 snow-mounds at my feet, my eyes seemed never to leave the 
 face of my wife — God, how pale in the niQonlight I
 
 330 Unchr thr Bed Flag 
 
 She pointed with extended finger to one of the mounds, 
 and I saw that it was headed by a rough wooden board, 
 almost buried in snow. To snatcli a knife from my belt, 
 and throw myself on my knees, and begin to scrape the coat- 
 ing of mingled ice and snow from this board, was the work 
 of a few moments. Though it was of her T thought only, 
 yet it was as if an irresistible force compelled me to stop, and 
 to obey the command of that pointing hand. When I looked 
 up I was alone beneath the wintry sky. My wife was gone. 
 I knew then what I had felt from the first— that it was her 
 shadow I had followed over that wintry waste, and that on 
 earth she and I would never look upon each other again. 
 
 She had kept her promise as truly as I had broken mine. 
 The gentle spirit had followed me to that desolate world in 
 the very moment it was liberated from its earthly prison. 
 
 It was late that night when Hanley and his messmates 
 found me lying senseless on the snow-mound, with the open 
 knife beside my stiffening hand. 
 
 They brought me back to life somehow, and by the light 
 of the lanterns they carried, we examined the board at the 
 head of the mound. An inscription roughly cut upon it told 
 us we had found the lost crew of the Ptarmigan. 
 
 ' Here lies the body of Morris Haynes, commander of the 
 Ptarmigan, who died in this unknown region, Jan. 30th, 
 1829, aged 35.' 
 
 The other mounds also had headboards bearing inscrip- 
 tions, which we dug out from the snow on the following day, 
 and carefully transcribed. After this we found a cairn con- 
 taining empty provision-tins, in one of which was a book 
 that had evidently been used for a journal ; but rust and 
 snow had done their work, and of this journal nothing was 
 decipherable but the name of the writer, Morris Haynes. 
 
 These investigations were not made by me. The new year 
 found me laid low with rheumatic fever, and Frank Martyn 
 had to take his turn as sick-nurse beside the snow-bank 
 where I lay. Our provisions held out better than we had 
 expected, thanks to the game our men shot, and the patience 
 with which they endured privation. The spring came, and 
 with it release. We contrived to make our way to Batfin's 
 Bay, — a consummation I scarcely thought possible in my 
 dreary reveries of mid-winter, — and a Greenland whaler 
 brought us safely home,
 
 M>i in/'r'.'i Pnimise 331 
 
 I went si laii^ht to my brotlier-iii-];i\v's house at the West eml 
 of London, lie was at liome, and eanie without delay to 
 the library where I had been ushered, an<l where I sat 
 awaitinf^ him with a gloomy face. 
 
 Yes ; as I expected : he was in mourning : and behind 
 him came my sister, with a pale face, on which there was no 
 smile of greeting. 
 
 Lawson held out both his hands to me. 
 
 'liichard,' he began in a faltering voice, ' God knows I 
 never thought it ijossible I could be otherwise than glad of 
 your coming home — but ' 
 
 'That will do,' I said; 'you need tell me no more. My 
 wire is dead.' 
 
 He bent his head solemnly. 
 
 ' She died on the twenty-fifth of last December, at four 
 o'clock in the afternoon.' 
 
 ' You have been told, then,' cried my sister ; ' you have 
 Been someone?' 
 
 ' Yes,' I answered, 'I have seen her! 
 
 -^ .w
 
 MARJORIE DAW 
 
 IN TWO ACTS. 
 [Suggested by a Story ivrittcn by T. B, Aldkich.] 
 
 DEAMATIS PERSON.E. 
 
 Frank TB-EATUCOT-E^'a painter ; James Luttrell, a surgeon; 
 Matilda Gresley (otherwise Mattie), Frank's cousin, Mary, 
 a servant. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 ScE^E.—'ITeaf/iCote's lodgings. A room furnished as painting- 
 room and sitting-room. Easel, and all the belongings of 
 an artist ; books; a low easy-chair near the tire-place j a 
 vnndow on the opposite side of stage. 
 
 Enter Luttrell /ro??! adjoining bedroom. 
 
 Luttrell. He's horribly fretful and discontented this 
 morning. Why is it, I wonder, that our superior sex is so 
 very inferior to the weaker sex in its capacity for endurin g 
 hodily affliction ? My experience as a medical practitioner 
 has convinced me that women beat us hollow in their poAver 
 to suffer and be strong. If Job had been a woman I don't 
 suppose we should have heard anything about him. Ah, 
 here comes Mattie — dear little soul — a living instance of 
 womanly patience and long-suffering. I'm sure her care of 
 my old friend Frank is above all praise. 
 
 Enter yLATTiE, plainly but p)rettihi dressed. She carries a neat 
 little basket, a bunch of spring flowers, and a hook. 
 
 Luttrell. Well, little woman, how are jon this morning ? 
 
 Mattie. How is he this morning? That's the question. 
 Did you ever hear of me being ill ? I've no time for any 
 such expensive luxuries. I nev^er remember being ill in my 
 life since mother used to give me brimstone and treacle on 
 spring mornings. That nearly did it. And that's my only 
 experience of the healing art, j3^scu — what's his name ? 
 
 JjUTTrell. You can call him ^sculapius if you like,
 
 Marjorie Dd'O 333 
 
 Kobust little party ! What would become of tlie medical 
 profession if all wonien'were like you ? 
 
 Mattik. I rather fancy the medical profession would die 
 a natural death, and people in general would <(et better. 
 But ]>lease tell nie about him. How is he this morning \ 
 
 LuTTRELL. About as irritable and low-spirited as a human 
 bein/5 can be, short of lunacy or suicide. If I were not his 
 old friend and schoolfellow I think I .should resign my post 
 of medical attendant. 
 
 Mattie. No you wouldn't, you dear thing. You are much 
 too kind-hearted. 
 
 Iattreli.. Well, if yov, can bear with his airs and his 
 tempers 
 
 Mattie. Neither airs nor tempers, poor dear — only low 
 spirits. 
 
 LuTTRELL. That's a kinder way of putting it. If you can 
 endure his low spirits for four or five hours at a stretch every 
 day, I ought to put up with him placidly for twenty minutes. 
 
 Mattie. Bear with him I put up with him ! Am I not 
 his own flesh and blood — his only surviving relation 1 
 
 LuTTRELL. Something in the way of second cousins, aren't 
 you? 
 
 Mattie. Well, I know it's not a near relationship ; and it's 
 rather diflicult to explain. My mother's first cousin married 
 his father's sister, so I supjjose Frank and I must be second 
 cousins. But we were brought up together, don't you know? 
 We are almost brother and sister. 
 
 LuTTRELL. Precisely — almost. But in that kind of con- 
 nection there's a good deal of ditierence between " almost " 
 and " quite." 
 
 Mattie. He used to spend all his holidays at my mother's 
 cottage, near Dorking, don't you know / Such a sweet little 
 jtlace, all over roses and honeysuckle— such a dear old garden, 
 fruit and flowers all mixed up anyhow, where Frank aiul I 
 used to make our.^elves dreadfully ill with unripe gooseberries. 
 Such a delicious little farm — two cows and a calf, and four 
 pigs, and any numlier of Dorkings and Spaniards. 
 
 Luttrell. Dorkings and Spaniards ? 
 
 Mattie. Fowls, don't you know ] While Frank was at 
 IJugby he delighted in coming to us— drank gallons of new 
 milk — revelled in fresh eggs— enjoyed haymaking — taiight 
 me to ride — learnt to milk the cows — declareil there was 
 nothing so delicious as a rustic iife. But when he settled in 
 London as a student at the Ivoyal Academy, and boarded
 
 334 U?idrr fhr llrcl Flag 
 
 with a very fashionable family iii Gower Street, he seemed 
 somehow to outgrow mother's cottage. He was ever so much 
 too tall for our spare bedroom — sloping roof and window in 
 the gable, don't you know ] — the last time he came to us. 
 And then— mother died — and I came to London to study 
 music at the Eoyal Academy, and to give lessons as soon as 
 I was able to teach ; and I boarded with a— not at all 
 fashionable family, who didn't mind taking me chea}^ — and 
 I saw no more of Frank, till one day he and I ran against 
 each another in the Bayswater Eoad, and I found he was 
 living only two streets off my street, and that he had just begun 
 to be successful as a painter, and to be praised in the news- 
 papers, when his sight began to fail him. 
 
 LuTTRELL. Very sad case. Cataract. But if next week's 
 operation results successfully, and we can keep him quiet 
 after it is over, he will be able to see as well as you or I. 
 The greatest difficulty we have to contend with is his mental 
 condition. If his present state of depression continue, I can't 
 answer for his health or his senses. Now, you're a bright, 
 clever little woman, Mattie. You really must try to amuse 
 him. 
 
 Mattie. But, good gracious, I have been trying my very 
 hardest for the last ten days. I read to him the newest 
 books I can get hold of. Here's the last fashionable novel — 
 " She only said my life is dreary ! " I skimmed it over as I 
 came from the librar}' — heroine sixteen and a half — madly 
 in love with an ugly hero, aged forty-seven. Heroine has 
 run wild from infancy, never brushes her hair nor buttons her 
 boots. Hero hunts, shoots, swears a good deal, plays polo, 
 and makes love to heroine. Intensely interesting ; but I 
 don't suppose Frank will care about it. I'm afraid I must 
 read rather badly, for he generally begins to yawn before I 
 get through a chapter. 
 
 LuTTRELL. How Can you expect a man to enjoy boshy 
 novels all about girls who don't bi'ush their hair? 
 
 Mattie. Ought I to read him a story about men — Rob 
 Eoy, Jack Sheppard, Pavd Clifford 1 
 
 LuTTRELL. My dear child, novels are no good in his case, 
 You must try and interest him in actualities — you must 
 divert his mind — take him out of himself — prevent his 
 brooding on his affliction. 
 
 Mattie {half crying). Yes, but how am I to do it % I'm 
 sure I tell him every scrap of news I can think of. All about 
 the family I board with, the mother and daughters, and
 
 Miiijiirii' DaiO 335 
 
 aunts, and cousins. Tlicy are not a very interesting family, 
 but they do quarrel now and then, and that makes them 
 almost amusing. But they don't seem to interest Frank. 
 
 Luttup;li,. Of course not. How could he be interested in 
 a shabby-genteel family, who eke out their income by taking 
 boarders ] 
 
 Mattie. It's for the sake of the society. That was ex- 
 pressly stated in the advertisement. " A widow and her 
 daughters, being desirous of cheerful and musical society, 
 are willing " 
 
 LuTTUELL. Of course, that's the style. But how long do 
 you think they'd keep you for the sake of your cheerfulness 
 and your music if you didn't jjay for your board ? 
 
 Mattie. I'm afraid it wouldn't be very long. 
 
 LuTTRELL. Now, what you have to do is to amuse your 
 cousin. Tell him about some one or something that will 
 rouse his curiosity — awaken his interest. 
 
 Mattie. I unclurstaud. But then you see I don't know 
 any one of that kind. 
 
 Luttuell. What does that matter ? You must draw on 
 your imagination. 
 
 Mattie. What, tell fibs? 
 
 LuTTRELL. Anything is better than to let Frank fret 
 himself to death with gloomy anticipations about the opera- 
 tion and its result. I assure you I never saw any fellow in a 
 worse state of mind. 
 
 Mattie. I'll do it. I'd do anything for his good. And if 
 I am led into doing anything A'ery dreadful while he's ill, I 
 can be a model of i)enitence when he gets better, 
 
 Luttrell. Of course you can. Here he comes. Good-bye, 
 
 {Exit Luttrell. 
 
 Enter 'Keatucote, feeling his way with a stick. Mattie mns 
 to meet him and guides him to easy-chair. 
 
 Mattie, Poor darling ! I do hope you feel just a little 
 better this morning. 
 
 Heathcotr. You oughtn't to hope anything so foolish. 
 How can I be better till this wretched business is over? 
 How can I take life easily when I don't know how this opera- 
 tion may result ? Perhaps in total failure — life-long 
 blindness ! And just as I was beginning to make some way 
 in my ])rofession — just as I was beginning to make a name ! 
 
 Mattie. (standing behind his chair, and looking over him.)
 
 338 Vuiler the Bed Flarj 
 
 It is very hard, dear, very hard. But other people have had 
 to go thi'ough the same trial. 
 
 Heathcote. Do you think that makes it a jot easier for 
 me? Other people ! What do I care about other people? 
 What a plaintive little sigh ! {Taking her hand.) I do care 
 about you, Mattie, and I do appreciate all your goodness to 
 me, my little sister of charity. What should I do without 
 you ] 
 
 Mattie. It might be just a little worse, mightn't it, if I 
 were not living close by, and able to run in and sit with you 
 for an hcur or two. I've brought you a few spring flowers ; 
 primroses, violets. Don't they smell delicious ] {Offering 
 them.) 
 
 Heathcote. Rather sickly {putting them aside). If I 
 could only see them ! Ah, Mattie, if you could understand 
 what it is to a painter to lose the one sense which is the 
 source of all the happiness of his life— to hunger for light 
 and colour — to feel his occupation gone — his ambition 
 baulked — his existence reduced to a dismal, purposeless, 
 horseless life in death, you would pity me, and forgive me 
 for my fretf ulness. 
 
 Mattie. I do pity you, dear, without understanding any- 
 thing. And yet, though I am a poor ignorant little thing, 
 and never painted so much as a primrose, I think I can un- 
 derstand your feelings, in some small measure. I know how 
 hard it must be to have all this beautiful world of ours 
 darkened — not to see the sun, or the spring flowers — the 
 florist's in Westbourne Grove was a picture as I came by this 
 morning — or the clouds, or Whiteley's, or the Bayswater 
 Road. I feel quite sorry, too, that you can't see the big 
 house over the way. 
 
 IIkatiicote. What, that great barrack of a house that has 
 been to let so long 1 I can endure that deprivation. 
 
 Mattie. The house that was to let, you mean. 
 
 Heathcote. You don't mean to say that it's let ] 
 
 Mattie. Yes, it was let a week ago. 
 
 Heathcote. Why didn't you tell me 1 
 
 Mattie. I forgot— at least, if I didn't exactly forget, I 
 didn't think the news would be interesting to you. 
 
 Hkathcote. You're not generally so reticent. You tell 
 me all sorts of twaddle about those old maids you live with, 
 and their harridan of a mother, and when an actual event 
 takes place on the other side of the street you haven't a word 
 to say about it. When are the family coming in?
 
 Marjoi'ic Daw 337 
 
 Mattie. They are in. 
 
 Heathcote. Impossible. Why the house was in an 
 abominable .state of dilapidation. It would want renovating 
 from cellar to garret. 
 
 Mattie. It has been done. Painted, and papered, and 
 whitewashed, and dadoed, and everything. 
 
 Heathcote. Dadoed ? 
 
 Mattie. Yes, don't you know ? Beautiful dadoes of un- 
 polished oak, and walnut, and cedar, in all the rooms. No- 
 body with any pretence to good taste can live in a room 
 without a dado. So the house has been dadoed since the day 
 before yesterday. 
 
 Heathcote. Why, Aladdin's palace is nothing to this. 
 Have these people the genius of the lamp at their command ? 
 
 Mattie. No, but they have a silver mine in Mexico, and 
 an account at Coutts's. And now it's time for your lunch. 
 You must have your natives. (Rings bell.) 
 
 Heathcote. I say, little woman, are not oysters I'ather an 
 expensive luxury for a man in my circumstances ? There 
 w;isn't a very large amount in the exchequer when I made 
 yon chancellor. I'm afraid it must be running dry by this 
 time. 
 
 Mattie. Oh, no, there's plenty left. We shall get on very 
 comfortably till your dividends come in ; or till you sell that 
 lovely picture that is going to be in the Academy. 
 
 Ilaid brings in tray with luncheon. 
 
 Heathcote. If the lovely picture is lucky enough to get 
 hung. Oh, here are the oysters. Do have a few. 
 
 [Mattie arranges tray, males him comfortable, and 
 then retires to e.rtreme corner of stage, where she 
 seats herself on a low hassock, takes out sock; 
 and begins to hiit.^ 
 
 Mattie. No, thanks, I detest oystei-s. {Aside). I adore 
 them, but I always foel as if I were swallowing tiiree]iL'nny 
 pieces when I eat them. Poor fellow, if he only knew 
 that I spent his last sixpence a week ago, and that we 
 have nothing but my poor little purse to depend upon ! 
 {He takes an oyster.) There goes threepence. 
 
 Heathcote. Please tell me about the family over the 
 way. I feel faintly interested. {Eats an oyster, and 
 another.) 
 
 Z
 
 338 Undcf the Bed Flag 
 
 Mattie. Sixpence — niuepeiice. You would be more than 
 faintly interested if you could see them. Fifteenpence. 
 
 Heathcote. Are they so very interesting ? 
 
 Mattie. Eighteenpence. She is. 
 
 Heathcote. She \ Who 1 
 
 Mattie. The daughter — -au only daughter. The father is 
 rather a commonplace jierson, don't you know % the sort 
 of man who begins life with half-a-crown, and dies the 
 owner of millions. Bought a silver mine for a barrel of 
 whisky, a pug dog and a waterproof coat. Silver mine 
 supposed to be worthless till he took it in hand, when he 
 found the silver lying in slabs, like slices of bread and 
 butter. 
 
 Heathcote. And you say the girl is pretty 1 
 
 Mattie. Pretty is no word for her. She is absolutely 
 lovely. 
 
 Heathcote. I never think much of a woman's taste in 
 beauty. Please describe her. Fair or dark 1 
 
 Mattie. Complexion fair — exquisitely fair, something 
 between alabaster and ivory, with a faint rose tint. Eyes 
 liquid blue, dark, like dewy violets, or sapphires — in short, 
 che loveliest shade of blue you can imagine. 
 
 Heathcote. Why not say ultramarine at once 1 Well, 
 go on. 
 
 Mattie. Features strictly classic, forehead low, nose 
 delicately Greek, hair gently waving— dark chestnut in 
 shadow, pure gold where the sun touches it. 
 
 Heathcote. Very sweet, but those Greek beauties are apt 
 to be namby-pamby. 
 
 Mattie. Not with her exjjression — such a speaking coun- 
 tenance — such variety — even emotion reflected in her face. 
 [;, Heathcote. I see — face perfect, but figure quisby. 
 
 Mattie. Figure as perfect as her face — about the middle 
 height, slender, yet plump — dignified, yet full of graceful 
 movement — waist willowy — shoulders a poem — arms a 
 sculptor's dream. 
 
 Heathcote. If you are not exaggerating 
 
 Mattie (^wlth a virtuous air). Exaggerate ! Did you ever 
 know me exaggerate ? 
 
 Heathcote. No, little woman. You are the very essence 
 of truth. And if your enthusiasm has not run away with 
 yoii in this particular instance, Miss Whatshername must be 
 a very sweet creature. By-the-way, what is her name ? 
 
 Matiie {puzsl'id}. N'ame 1 Her name ?
 
 3Ia>jurie Daw 339 
 
 Heathcote. Yes. She has a name, I suppose. 
 
 Mattie, sxoayhig backwards and forwards on the hassock, 
 and softly singing to herself, '''■ See-saw, Marjorie Dav;^ 
 
 Hkathcote. Do you mean to say your womanly curiosity 
 has not found out the name of these silver mine people ? 
 
 Mattii:. Why, yes, of course. My mind was wandering a 
 little. {Jerhihj) Her name is — Daw. 
 
 Heathcotk. Daw ? 
 
 Mattie. Daw. D A W, Daw. 
 
 Heathcote. Daw, spelt with a D A W ! Miss Daw. 
 What a queer name ! 
 
 iSlATTiE. Very uncommon, isn't it ? 
 
 Heathcote. I should have preferred something more 
 patrician — Vavasour, or Ponsonby, or something of that 
 kind. 
 
 Mattie. But, don't you see, Frank, her father rose from 
 the ranks. Bought the silver mine for a pair of waterproof 
 boots, a pony, and a barrel of oysters. 
 
 Heathcote. Yow said coat, pug dog, and whisky. 
 
 IMattie {innocently). Did I ? Then I've no doubt it was 
 whisky. {Aside) I'm afraid his interest is flagging. 
 
 HiiiVTiicoTE. What is Miss Daw's Christian name ? 
 
 M.vttie:. Christian name? 
 
 Heathcote. Yes. I suppose they christen girls, even in 
 San Francisco. 
 
 Mattie. Of course. Her name is Marjorie. Poetical, 
 isn't it? 
 
 Heathcote. Rather Arcadian; but I should have jjreferred 
 Isabel, or Gwendoline, Mildred, Violet. Marjorie ! Yes, it 
 is pretty I But Daw — I cannot admire Daw. Marjorie 
 Daw. I have a vague idea that I have heard that name 
 before. 
 
 JNIattie. Perhaps you have met with it in poetry. 
 
 Heathcote. ]'ossibly. It sounds familiar. {With languid 
 interest.) And now tell me all you know about this Cali- 
 fornian goddess. You women have a marvellous knack of 
 picking up waifs and strays of information from butchers, 
 and bakers, and candlestick makers. Is she what girls call 
 nice \ 
 
 Mattie. She is simply perfect. And {with dignity) I am 
 happy to say my knowledge of her character has not been 
 derived from butchers, makers, or candlestick bakers, but 
 from personal experience. ^lissDaw and I are acquainted.
 
 340 Unchr the Bed Flag 
 
 Heathcote. What, she has only been in the neighbour- 
 hood two days, and you and she are acquainted 'I l3id you 
 call upon her % I should never have thought you so pushing. 
 
 Mattie. I am not pushing, and I did not what you call 
 call on her, though I had the right to do so, as the older 
 inhabitant {softh/). Accident made us friends. You remem- 
 ber that violent shower yesterday afternoon. 
 
 Heathcote. Yes, I heard the rain rattling against the 
 windows, and I could not help thinking bow exquisite the 
 s])ring foliage in the lanes beyond Croydon would look 
 after such a shower. 
 
 Mattie. I was out in that very shower. 
 
 Heathcote. Poor little woman ! 
 
 Mattie. And, what's more, I had on my best bonnet. I 
 had been giving a lesson in Pembridge Square — veiy stylish 
 pupil — nothing less than a best bonnet would do for her ; and 
 just as I was turning the corner to come to you, I was caught 
 in that dreadful shower. It came upon me like an avalanche. I 
 looked round wildly, with a vague hope of an omnibus in a 
 street where omnibuses never come, as you know. .1 had no 
 umbrella. I su}:)pose my distress was visible in my attitude 
 and countenance, for the door of the big house suddenly 
 opened, and a powdered footman ran across the road carrying 
 an immense umbrella — almost as big as a marquee — and most 
 politely requested me to step indoors. 
 
 Heathcote. But, good gracious, child, why didn't you 
 come here ? You must have been as near this house as that 
 one. Why stand in the street and make a spectacle of your- 
 self for powdered footmen ] 
 
 Mattie {laughing faintly). Do you know that never 
 occurred to me. It was rather absent-minded of me, was it 
 not ? but you know I am absent-minded. It was the shock 
 of the avalanche — the shower — I suppose. Well, the foot- 
 man was so crushiugly polite that I could not say a word. I 
 went across the street like a lamb, and allowed myself to be 
 ushered up into Miss Daw's morning- room, on the tirst floor, 
 exactly opposite this. Such a I'oom, I feel myself powerless 
 to describe it. 
 
 Heathcote. Skip the description of the room — I don't 
 care much for still-life, except in one of my own pictures— and 
 come to the lady. 
 
 Mattik. Oh, but the lady and the room madeone har- 
 monious whole. I could not possibly divide them. Picture 
 to yourself a lovely da.i'k-haired girl against a> background of 
 creamy satiii.
 
 Marjorie Daii) 341 
 
 Heathcote, Dark-haired. AVliy, you said she was fair. 
 
 Mattie. Did 1 I Yes, of course, she is fair, complexion 
 alabiister, but hair chestnut — I think I said dark chestnut. 
 
 HkathcotI':. Well, perhaps you did. Women have so little 
 feolin'f for colour. Dut 1 kn«\v there was sonifthinir about 
 sunshine, and golden lights, and I have pictured niy Miss 
 Daw with golden hair. 
 
 Mattie. Imagine a girl with a profusion of golden hair, 
 against a background of sage-green velvet. 
 
 Heatucote. You said creamy satin. 
 
 Mattie. Certainly. The room is upholstered in panels — 
 alternate panels of sage-green velvet and cream-coloured satin 
 
 Heathcote. Wasn't that rather a spotty etlect \ 
 
 Mattie. Not in the least. I tell you the room is an ideal 
 room. I don't believe there is such another in London. And 
 she so sweet, so caressing ! She received me like a sister. 
 
 Heathcote. Very bad form. I detest gush. 
 
 Mattie. Oh, but you would like it in her. She is so 
 natural, so confiding ! 
 
 Heathcote. And she lives in the room jnst opposite this 
 — like a beautiful bird in a golden cage. I am positively 
 beginning to be interested in her. I have made a picture of 
 her in my mind. I love that creamy complexion — those 
 liquid grey eyes — I think you said liquid grey. 
 
 Mattie {aside). Haven't the least idea. {Aloud, eagerlij) 
 Yes, that's her colour. {Aside) And now I must stick to it. 
 
 Heathcote. Pretty bird ! AVhat does it do with itself all 
 day long in its cage ? 
 
 I^Iattie. Sings — and plays. 
 
 Heathcote. Sings ? 
 
 Mattie. Divinely. A rich mezzo-soprano — olil English 
 ballads — Shakespeare, Bishop. 
 
 Heathcote. Cruel ! Why doesn't she leave her window- 
 open? 
 
 Mattie. Too east-windy. But she will leave it ci>en, r.o 
 doul)t, when the weather gets a little warmer. 
 
 Heathcote. And then I shall hear her. " Where the Bee 
 Sucks," "A Little Western Flower," and that kind of thing, 
 eh? 
 
 Mattie. Precisely. {Aside) How delightful to arouse his 
 interest ! 
 
 Heathcote. And what other amusements has Miss 
 Daw ? 
 
 Mattie. Why don't you call her ]Marjorie ? it's .so much
 
 3i2 Vnder the Bed Flag 
 
 Heathcote. So it is. {Fatuously) Marjorie ! My Marjorie 
 — what a pretty alliteration. 
 
 Mattie. As for her amusements — well — she paints. 
 
 Heathcote, Not her complexion, I hope. 
 
 Mattie. Her complexion — the untrodden snow — alabaster 
 ■ — ivory. No ; she paints flowers, almost equal to Mrs. 
 Angel's. She paints plums, and birds' nests, and primroses, 
 and blue china. 
 
 Heathcote. That is to say, she is strikingly original in her 
 choice of subjects. What else ? 
 
 Mattie. She reads — she works. 
 
 Heathcote. What kind of work ? 
 
 Mattie. Crewel. 
 
 Heathcote. Cruel ! Surely not vivisection ? 
 
 Mattie. Good gracious, no. Crewel— C R E W E L. 
 Higli art,wool work, don't you know ? Storks and sunflowers. 
 
 Heathcote. What else 1 
 
 Mattie. Sunflowers and storks. 
 
 Hf:AiHcoTE. Jsu't that rather monotonous ? 
 
 Mattie. Perhaps, but it's the highest style of art. I think 
 she occasionally makes a new departure, and goes in for a 
 flamingo. 
 
 Heathcote. AVell, and after being received like a sister, 
 and given tea (of course you had tea) 
 
 Mattie. Yes, the most delicious tea, in the most adorable 
 tea-pot, and the loveliest egg-shell cups and saucers. 
 
 Heathcote. After having sworn eternal friendship (of 
 course you swore eternal friendship) 
 
 Mattie. We kissed each other-, and I promised to take her 
 to Whiteley's. 
 
 Heathcote. That means eternal friendship — till you 
 quarrel. After having plunged into this delightful intimacy, 
 pray, what did you talk about 1 
 
 Mattie. I'm almost afraid to tell you. It might make 
 you angry. 
 
 Heathcote. Angry 1 No. I am so intensely interested in 
 your Daw, that — ■ — 
 
 JMattie. Please don't call her my Daw. 
 
 Heathcote. Well, then, in my Marjorie. I have made 
 such a vivid j)icture of the little puss, that I shall enjoy 
 hearing what you talked about, if it were ever such twaddle. 
 
 Mattie {with dignity). It was not twaddle. We talked 
 about you. 
 
 Heathcote. About me ! Come, that's too much of a good 
 thing.
 
 Marjoria Daw 343 
 
 Mattie. I was ;ifraid youM be aiic'iy. Diit you know, 
 Frank, when one is continually tliiukini,' of a person it's 
 almost impossible to avoid talking about that person {leanincj 
 over the hack of Im chair, coaxingly) ; and since you have been 
 a sufferer, dear, I have never had you out of my thoughts. 
 
 JIkathcote. Dear tender-hearted little Mattie ! {Kissing 
 the hand which hangs over his chair.) How shall I ever be 
 grateful enough to you for all your goodness to me ? And 
 so you spoke of me to Marjorie \ 
 
 Mattip:. Yes, dear. I told her how clever you are, and 
 how splendidly you were getting on in your profession before 
 this unfortunate business about your eyes, and she was so 
 intensely interested — so sympathetic. " Poor — dear— fellow 1" 
 she said ; and the tears stood in her eyes— those lovely dark- 
 grey eyes — as she said it. She is so tender-hearted. 
 
 TIkatitcote. "Poor, dear fellow." How nice it .sounds. 
 Mattie. I told her about your lovely picture — Launcelot 
 and (luinevei'e riding through the wood — and she is going to 
 the Academy on the opening day to see it. I told her there 
 would be a dreadful cru.sh, but she said she would risk any- 
 thing to see your Luincelot and (Juinevere. 
 
 Heatiicote. How do you know the picture will not be 
 rejected ? 
 
 ^Iattie. I have an instinct which tells me it will be hung, 
 and on the line. I should not wonder if they were obliged 
 to have a railing round it, and a couple of policemen to keep 
 od" the crowd, before the season is over. 
 
 Heatiicotb. Mattie, you are a silly little thing ; but your 
 foolislmess is much more comforting than other people's 
 wisdom in the hour of trouble. And so Marjorie was really 
 interested in — my picture ] 
 
 Mattie. Your picture and you — especially you. She 
 likes your eyes, and she rather admires your forehead. If 
 she has a fault to tind, it is with your chin. 
 Heathcote. What are you talking about % 
 Mattie. Oh, I forgot to mention that I showed her your 
 ])hotogi-aph. 
 
 Heatucotr (pleased). How absurd ! Which attitude I 
 
 Mattie. The dreamy one. (Thro us herself into an e.vag- 
 
 gcrated attitude across the back of a chair.) The (Hie in which 
 
 you are gazing into space, with that lovely far-away look I 
 
 am so fond of. 
 
 nEATiuoTE, Mattie, you are too ridicnlous ! And slie 
 liked the photo ?
 
 344 Under the lied Flan 
 
 Mattie. She thought it simply lovely. 
 
 Heathcote. Except the chin. She did not approve of 
 my chill 1 
 
 Mattie, She fancied there was a faint indication of weak- 
 ness — that you might falter in the pursuit of a purpose. 
 
 Heathcote. Not if it were worth pursuing — not if it were 
 the winning of a lovely, innocent, fresh young creature like 
 Marjorie. 
 
 Mattie. And with a million of money. Don't forget the 
 money. 
 
 Heathcote. I wish to forget it. Why do you remind me 
 of it 1 Don't you know that it must create an impassable 
 barrier between us ? 
 
 Mattie. Not a bit of it. You don't know what a liberal- 
 minded man her father is — a man who began life with half- 
 a-crown . He is passionately devoted to Art. I believe he 
 would be very proud if his daughter were to marry a famous 
 painter. 
 
 Heathcote. Then I must make myself famous — if — the 
 light of day ever dawn again in my miserable life. I must 
 work as man never worked — strive as man never strove — 
 to win so sweet a reward. Mattie, you are sure she really 
 was interested in me. It was not sham ? You are not fool- 
 ing me ? 
 
 Mattie. {guiltily). Fooling you ! Oh, Frank how can 
 you suspect me of such a thing ? 
 
 Heathcote. There is a quaver in your voice. If I 
 could only see your face I should know. That frank, bright 
 little face could never look a falsehood. Forgive me, dar- 
 ling. I know how true you are — true as steel. And she does 
 really sympathise with me in my trouble — she did really 
 rather admire my photo 1 
 
 Mattie. Really — really — really. {Aside) Oh, I hope I 
 am not going too far. 
 
 Heathcote. Mattie, you are my good angel. You have 
 filled me with hope. I will give way to despondency no 
 more. I feel that my sight will be restored — that I shall 
 once more be able to work at the art I love — that I shall win 
 wealth and rej)utation- — and that Marjorie will be mine. 
 And to think that she is there — so near me — in all her beauty 
 and sweetness, and that I cannot see her. ( Walking about 
 the room.) 
 
 Mattie. Oh, pray be careful. You'll hurt yourself 
 against the furniture.
 
 jUaijorie DaiO 345 
 
 IIkatiicote. {Tliroviitg open the vinclov'.) Oh, for the 
 blc's-sed sense of sight — if it were but for a moiuent — just for 
 oueglini]jse of tlie fair young face. Is she at the window now 1 
 
 Mattie. No. She has gone for a drive. 
 
 Enter LlT'IUELL. 
 
 LiTTHELL. Well, Frank. (Beatucote tahes no notice of 
 him.) Well, little woman, how is he ? Why, what have you 
 been doing to him '. He looks a new man — radiant — positively 
 transfigured. 
 
 Mattie. Yes, it's all my doing. He has fallen viulently 
 in love with Miss Daw. 
 
 Luttrell. Miss Daw ? What Daw 1 I never heard of 
 a Daw. 
 
 Mattie. The young lady over the way. 
 
 Luttrell. Which young lady ? 
 
 Mattie. Hush ! It's all right. I've been drawing on my 
 imagination. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene as in Act I., hut the windov) is open, and there are 
 brighter Jiowers, as with advancing spring. 
 
 Mattie {discovered dvsting the furiiiture). I never met 
 with a housemaid who knew how to dust a room properly. 
 Their only notion is to drive the dust into corners and leave 
 it there. And I want all the furniture to look its brightest 
 and its best to-day, when my poor Frank is to see it all again, 
 after living so long in sorrow and darkness, uncertainty, and 
 fear. I want the very chairs and tables to smile a welcome 
 at him, when he comes out of his prison-house into the glad 
 b'ght of day. I'm very glad it's a fine day. I should have 
 felt angry with the weather if it had been rainy, and dull,_ 
 and unsympathetic. (Folds vp her duster, and seats herself 
 1)1/ the little xcicker table.) Oh, dear, dear ! I don't think I 
 ever felt so uidi.appy in the whole course of my life — just 
 when 1 ought to feel so intensely happy. 
 
 Enter Luttrell. 
 
 Luttrell. Well, little woman, I congratulate you. 
 
 Mattie. About the result of the operation / {Dolefidly.) 
 Yes, it's a great blessing that it turned out m successfully. 
 
 Luttrell. Of course it is ; but you don't seem altogether 
 cheerful about it.
 
 346 Under ilie Bed Flag 
 
 Mattie. Cheerful ! I am j)ositively miserable ! I feel the 
 guiltiest creatures in the universe. It's all your fault, Mr. 
 Luttrell. You told me to draw upon my imagination, and I 
 drew. I never knew that I had any imagination : but when 
 once I began to draw it came with such a flow that it quite 
 took my breath away. And now what am I to do ? For the 
 last six days poor Frank has been living upon thoughts of 
 Marjorie Daw. She has been his all-absorbing idea by day, 
 his dream by night ; and to-day he is to come out of his 
 darkened room into the sunshine, and he is to see h(r. That 
 is bis only thought. Ilis friends — his ])rofession are as nothing 
 to him. He is full of gratitude to Providence for his restored 
 sight ; but it is because he is to see Majorie Daw, And 
 when he discovers 
 
 Luttrell. That you have been romancing 
 
 Mattie. Romancing 1 That I have been wading up to my 
 neck in falsehood — that I have hardly ever opened my lips 
 within the last week except to tell him some stupendoiis hb, 
 Avhat will he think of me ? But it is all your fault. You set 
 me going, and I have been obliged to go on. The conversa- 
 tions that I have invented between Miss Daw and myself, all 
 about Frank — the afternoon teas that I have described, to 
 the very flavour of the bread and butter — the messages that 
 I have given him — the flow^ers she has sent him — the books 
 she has lent me to read to him — the favourite passages in her 
 favourite poets that she has marked for him — the delicate 
 attentions of every kind that she has paid him — through me. 
 All these wicked falsehoods have been the occupation of his 
 mind — the delight of his life. The blow will be absolutely 
 crashing. 
 
 Luttrell. Pooh ! pooh ? He can't be so much the slave of 
 a fancy. 
 
 Mattie. Perhaps you have no idea how poetical I am when 
 I give full play to my imagination. No young man of ardent 
 temperament could help falling in love witli my Marjorie Daw. 
 
 Luttrell. If I were Frank I would much rattier fall in 
 love with you. Yes, Mattie, I would rather have one honest- 
 hearted, self-sacriticing little woman like you than a whole 
 ship-load of Marjorie Daws. And I think if Frank had a 
 spark of gratitude 
 
 Mattie. Oh, don't, please don't ! I hate the word. I would 
 not have his gratitude for all the world. 
 
 Luttrell. Because you would so much rather have lii^ love. 
 
 Mattie. (drawing kcrMlf up iadigncuUlij.) Mr, Luttrell, 
 you are extremely impertinent.
 
 Marjorie Daio 347 
 
 LrTTKELL. 1 tliiiik I am very pertinent. What more 
 natural than that you two shoukl love each other \ Are there 
 not all the teiulcr associations of childhood and youth to 
 unite you — all those sweet, half-mournful memories of the 
 past which make the strongest bond between two souls ? Do 
 you think a young lady over the way — were she the l(»veliest 
 girl in creation — could ever be so dear to Frank as the little 
 girl he played with in the woods and meadows in life's cloud- 
 less morning ? Ills fancy might be caught by the beautiful 
 stranger, but his heart would be faithful to the little sweet- 
 heart of his boyhood. I'll wager you were sweethearts once 
 upon a time, and that yoTi swore you would marry no one else. 
 
 ]\[attie. There might have been something of that kind — 
 but we were such babies. It is all forgotten now. I am 
 much too homely a person for Frank to think about, except 
 as a humble friend. He wants something beautiful — stately — 
 "a daughter of the gods, divinely fair, and as divinely tall." 
 Tie wants just sucli a perfect creature as my fancy ha^ depicted 
 for him in Marjorie Daw. And when twelve o'clock 
 strikes he is to come out of that dark room, and he has made 
 me promise that Marjorie shall be at her window— and, oh, 
 Mr. Luttreli, what am I to do ] {Looking at her tcatch.) 
 Ten minutes to twelve ! In ten minutes he will know 
 what a vile impostor I am, and he will detest me. 
 
 LuTTRELL. Nonsense ! He may be just a little vexed, but 
 it will soon blow over. 
 
 Mattie. Ten minutes ! I wish some good fairy would 
 stop all the church clocks in Bayswater — or that there woulil 
 be an earthquake — or that the very worst of Mother 
 Shij)ton's proi)hecios about the ending of the world were 
 going to be realised this very minute. He will hear the 
 clock strike, and there will be no possibility of getting a 
 moment's delay. You won't go away, will you I 
 
 Luttreli.. No, no. I'll back you uji. 
 
 ^Iattie. How I wish somethinf/ would hajipen ! (Loud 
 kiioch and rinri at street door.) Good gracious, what's that '? 
 
 LuTTRELL. Miss Daw, perhaps. {Mattie runs out.) Poor 
 little thing, how fond she is of him, and how innocently 
 unconscious of her feelings ! His heart nuist be as hard ;is 
 the nether millstone if he can remain unresponsive to such 
 attection. But if he should, perhaps someone else might 
 protit by his folly. 
 
 Mattie {rushing back). Such good news ! Such delightful
 
 £48 Under the Red Flan 
 
 news ! Young Green, the water-colour painter, has just 
 called to say that Prank's picture has been accepted and will 
 be hung on the line. He heard it from a benevolent old 
 E.A., who is on the Hanging Committee, and who has so 
 long forgotten how to paint, that he has left off being 
 spiteful to rising talent. Isn't that lovely ? 
 
 LuTiRELL. Very much so. This will put Miss Daw out of 
 Frank's head. {Clock- strikes twelve.) 
 
 Heathcote icallimj). Luttrell. Mattie. 
 
 [LuTTRELL goes into adjoining room and j'ettirns 
 immediaieli,, leading Heathcote, with a silk 
 handkerchief tied across his eyes. 
 
 Heathcote. But I tell you the bandage is quite 
 unnecessary. Critchett said I might leave vaj dark room 
 to-day — he didn't say anything about a bandage. 
 
 Luttrell. Ah, but I'm sure he meant it. To bring you 
 into the glare of day all at once would never do. We must 
 let you doM n gently. 
 
 Mattie {leading him on the other side). Yes, we must let 
 you down gently. There you are, in your favourite arm-chair 
 {forcing him to sit doum), and there at your elbow is a too- 
 lovely Marshal Niel, in a s]5ecimen glass. 
 
 Heathcote. A hothouse flower. Did s/<e send it ? 
 
 Mattie. Ye — es. >S'/ie sent it. {Aside) /S/«e gave her very 
 last shilling for it, half an hour ago. 
 
 Heathcote. God bless her ! {Trying to remove bandage. 
 Mattie lays her hands gently upon it, restraining him.) 
 
 Luttrell. I say, old fellow, we have such glorious news 
 for you ! 
 
 Mattie. Such glorious news ! 
 
 Heathcote {starting up). She is coming ! She is on the 
 stall's ! Let me go to meet her. 
 
 Luttrell. No, no, ever so much better than that. 
 
 Mattie. He and she — Launcelot and Guinevere — are to 
 be on the line. In less than six weeks all London Avill be 
 raving about your picture. Mi-. Green called just now to 
 say that the Hanging Committee accepted it with rapture, 
 and that you are looked upon as the painter of the future. 
 
 Heathcote. And she will see my picture ! Does she 
 know ? Have you told her ? 
 
 Luttrell. Told whom ? 
 
 Heathcote. Marjorie.
 
 Marjiinc Daw 3-19 
 
 Mattie. No, there hasn't been time enough. Mr. Green 
 only called a few minutes ago. 
 
 IIeatiicote. But she ii-ill know, Mattie, you did not 
 forget your promise \ You asked her to be at the window 
 when twelve o'clock struck ? She is there now — waiting — 
 and I sit here like a log. Let me go, Luttrell. {The;/ both 
 restrain him.) 
 
 Mattie (falteringly). The fact is — we have a kind of a 
 surprise for you. 
 
 Heathcote. I hope it is a pleasant one. 
 
 Mattie. Well, I am sorry to say it is rather in the nature 
 of a disappointment . . . Miss Daw 
 
 IIeatiicote. Mattie, you are trembling — your voice falters 
 — some calamity — is she dead i 
 
 Mattie {'juirlli/). Oh, dear no ! Not the least little bit. 
 
 Heathcotp:. She is ill ? 
 
 ]\rATTiE. She never was better. 
 
 Heathcote {breaking loose from them, and throiving off the 
 bandage). Then why do you try to humbug me ? 1 tell you 
 I will see her — and at once. If she ir, not at her window — if 
 you have broken faith with me — I will go across to her house 
 and call upon her. She has given me the right, by her 
 sympathy, by her interest in me and my altliction. (Mattie 
 interposes herself between him and the u-iiidow.) Why do you 
 try to stop me ? 
 
 Mattie. Because you haven't heard my little surprise. 
 Oh, please, please don't be quite too awfully angry with me 
 — but. — you know the big house over the way ? 
 
 Heathcote. Yes. 
 
 Mattie. Which was to let so long ? 
 
 Heathcote {impatientl>j). Of course. 
 
 Mattie. It is still empty. 
 
 Heathcote. And the C'aliforniau millionaire — the dadoes 
 — the sage-green satin — the peacocks' feather — the blue 
 china ? 
 
 Mattie. All my imagination — invented to keep you 
 amused, when you were so tlreadfully lo\v-.spirited, and when 
 Mr. Luttrell said you must have your mind occupied 
 somehow. 
 
 Heathcote. And Marjorie — my Marjorie — the girl with 
 the licpiid grey eyes 
 
 Mattie. Never had any existence, except in the old 
 nursery rhyme.
 
 350 Under tJw Bed Flag 
 
 {iSings.) See Saw, Marjorie Daw, 
 
 Sold her bed to lie upon straw. 
 
 Wasn't she a dirty slut 
 
 To sell her bed, and lie upon dirt ? 
 
 Heathcote {terrihhj overcome). And I have fallen in love 
 with a shadow 
 
 LuTTRELL. While you neglected the substance. 
 
 Heathcote. Mattie, you have broken my heart. {Goes to 
 windoiv and lools across street.) A blank. Windows darkened 
 by the dirt of years— stucco dilapidated— all emptiness and 
 ruin where 1 had filled my mind with images of light and 
 colour — a fairy palace with a fairy queen to reign over it- 
 flowers, brightness, sweetness, and love — love unutterable — 
 born of divine compassion — nourished by a fond belief in my 
 genius. Nothing in this life was ever more real or more 
 vivid for me than this girl's image— and it is a mockery— a 
 lie. Mattie, I can never forgive you. 
 
 '^lA'iTiY. {making faces at Luttrell). See what you have 
 done. 
 
 Luttrell. My dear Heathcote, I am the chief offender. 
 I urged upon Mattie the necessity of interesting and 
 amusing you somehow — at any sacrifice of truth. 
 
 Mattie {despondently). He told me to draw upon my 
 imagination, and I drew. Very strict people might call it 
 story -telling, but it wasn't meant in that way. 
 
 Heathcote. But when you saw that my heart was 
 becoming engaged why did you not then tell me the truth 1 
 Why lead me from folly to folly— playing upon my vanity- 
 fostering my self-love— giving me sweetest messages- 
 describing her lovely looks — her smiles— her tears— smik.s 
 and tears for me — giving me flowers which her lips had 
 kissed — flowers that I have worn next my heart, and kissed 
 and cried over in the dead of the night. And my tears— my 
 dreams— my passionate longing, have been wasted on a 
 shadow — a creature who never existed. 
 
 Mattie. I'm dreadfully sorry, Frank ; but I hope I 
 haven't done you any serious wrong. This fancy of youis 
 for an imaginary being can't be any worse than falling in 
 love with the hero of a novel. I'm sure when I was twelve 
 and a-half I was in love with Guy Livingstone to such a 
 degree that I left off" taking any interest in dinner. 
 
 Heathcote {leaning on tJie back of a chair and looking 
 across the street). She never lived ! The fair young face—
 
 Ma/jurie Date 3ol 
 
 the heart tliat was almost mine. All lies — lies — lies ! Mattie, 
 I uever will — I never can forgive you. 
 
 Mattie {/talf crying v:ith gentle so-iousness). I am sorry 
 for that, Frank, because I don't think I have quite deserved 
 your anger. In all the long dreary time while the liglit of 
 day was turned to darkness for you — when your thoughts, 
 having no pleasant objects to dwell ujjon, turned inwards 
 on yourself and your own troubles, I did my best to comfort 
 and amuse you. And when Mr. Luttrell tujd me that your 
 mind was getting into a bad way — that your thoughts must 
 be diverted at any price— I invented Marjorie Daw. I did 
 not think your feelings were so easily engaged : you and I 
 have known each other a long time, and you have never 
 fallen in love with me — and I thought when your sight came 
 back you and I would have a hearty laugh over Miss Daw 
 and her perfections. But I see now how wrong I have been, 
 and I am very — very sorry. Good-bye, Frank (Going.) 
 
 Luttrell. Nonsense, little w^oman ; you are not goin^ 
 away. 
 
 Mattie. Yes, I am ; and, what is more, I am never coming 
 back again. He says he can never forgive me, and no doubt 
 the very sight of me is disagreeable to liim, as I must remind 
 him of ]\Iarjorie Daw. He has regained his sight— he can 
 resume his profession — and he doesn't want me an^"- more. 
 There are plenty of real Marjorie Daws in this world. He 
 has only to go and look for one of them. Good-bye, Frank. 
 Luttrell (seizing her by the hand as she is leaving the room) 
 Stop, Mattie, you must, you shall stay till he has asked you 
 to forgive hi oi, on his knees. Heathcote, are you a fool as 
 well as an ingrate ? Are you so young in the experience of 
 life that you don't know the difference between reality and 
 romance — that you are a slave to the vision of a beautiful 
 face, and have no eyes for the real worth at your elbow — no 
 heart for the truthful, imseltish girl who has watched over 
 your hours of trouble and lightened all your cares by her 
 devoted attention, her unfailing good] temper, her inex- 
 haustible i)atience ? No, Mattie {as she tries to break from 
 him), you shall not go till you have heard me testify to the 
 worth of the noblest heart I ever met with in woman. You 
 have been blind for the last mouth, Heathcote, but I have 
 been able to see, and I have seen this little woman's devo- 
 tion ; and if you do not reward it by the tribute of a faithful 
 heart, I at least have given her mine. Yes, Mattie, it is 
 yours — my lieai"t and. hand are both at your disposal if you
 
 352 Under f he Bed Hag 
 
 will have them. You will make me the proudest and 
 happiest man in Bayswater if you say yes. Oh, Mattie, 
 why do you turn from me so coldly ? Don't look at Frank 
 in that appealing way. He does not want you. He only 
 wants Marjorie Daw. 
 
 Heatiicote. But I do want her— I should be utterly miser- 
 able without her. Luttrell, I am beholden to you for showing 
 me what an ass I have been — a most egregious ass. But you 
 are not going to steal Mattie away fi'om me. You can have 
 Marjorie Daw. She was your invention — or at any rate 
 your suggestion, you know. 
 
 Mattie. Oh, yes, she really was your suggestion. 
 
 Heathcote. Mattie, can you ever bring yourself to forgive 
 me? 
 
 Mattie. You said you would never — could never — 
 forgive me. 
 
 Heathcote. That was in the first paroxysm of disappoint- 
 ment. But — I am resigned to the loss of Marjorie. 
 
 Mattie. And the Californian silver mine ] 
 
 HEATncoTE. Come, Mattie, do me the justice to own that I 
 never oared for the silver mine. My passion was disinterested. ' 
 I am resigned to the loss of that fair vision — if — if the dear 
 reality will be kind and forgiving. 
 
 Luttrell. And I suppose I am to be left out in the cold. 
 
 Mattie. Oh, I am very sorry, for you are so good and so 
 nice, but you know Frank and I were engaged when we were 
 babies. 
 
 Heathcote. Never mind, old fellow. So long as you are 
 a solitary bachelor you shall always have a chair by our 
 fireside, and shall always be made much of by us both, in 
 remembrance of your goodness during the time of trouble. 
 Mattie, dear, do you really and truly love me, or are you 
 only pretending 1 You know you are very good at make- 
 believe. 
 
 Mattie. I have loved you all my life ! 
 
 Heathcote. And one such constant and faithful love is 
 woithallthe visions of loveliness that were ever invented. 
 Mattie, if Providence ever blesses us with a daughter she 
 shall be christened Marjorie Daw. 
 
 London: J. & R. Maxwell, 35, St. Bride Street, E. 
 
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