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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.
211
5/86
G
78
N\Ali53
DATE DUE
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