m
 
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 SKETCHES IN LAVENDER, BLUE, 
 AND GREEN
 
 BY JEROME K.JEROME. 
 
 AUTHOR'S EDITION. 
 
 SKETCHES IN LAVENDER, BLUE, AND 
 GREEN. 
 
 Tales and "Characterscapes," Mainly 
 Humorous. With 40 Illustrations, izmo, 
 $1.25. 
 
 JOHN INGERFIELD. (6th Ed.) 
 
 Three Serious and Two Humorous Sto- 
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 Curious Habits and Customs of its Inhab- 
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 Publishers, New York.
 
 THERE WAS NO MISTAKING IT FOR ANYTHING ELSE (/. 22^
 
 SKETCHES IN LAVENDER, 
 BLUE, AND GREEN, BY . . 
 JEROME K. JEROME . . . . 
 
 WITH FORTY ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 1897
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1897, 
 
 BY 
 HENRY HOLT & CO. 
 
 THE MERSHON COMPANY PRESS, 
 RAHWAY, N. J.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 TALES 
 
 THE MATERIALIZATION OF CHARLES AND MIVANWAY, 3 
 
 THE CHOICE OF CYRIL HARJOHN, . 24 
 
 BLASE BILLY, 45 
 
 PORTRAIT OF A LADY, . . . . . .67 
 
 AN ITEM OF FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE, . . 88 
 
 DICK DUNKERMAN'S CAT, 121 
 
 REGINALD BLAKE, FINANCIER AND CAD, . . 136 
 
 THE MINOR POET'S STORY, 154 
 
 THE CITY OF THE SEA 173 
 
 CHARACTERSCAPES 
 
 THE MAN WHO WENT WRONG, .... 187 
 
 THE MAN WHO DID NOT BELIEVE IN LUCK, . 204 
 
 WHIBLEY'S SPIRIT, 224 
 
 THE DEGENERATION OF THOMAS HENRY, . . 241 
 THE MAN WHO WOULD MANAGE, . . .251 
 
 THE MAN WHO LIVED FOR OTHERS, . . 267 
 
 THE MAN OF HABIT, 283 
 
 THE ABSENT-MINDED MAN, .... 296 
 
 A CHARMING WOMAN, 312 
 
 THE HOBBY RIDER, 324 
 
 1772325
 
 FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 THERE WAS NO MISTAKING IT FOR ANY- 
 THING ELSE, (Seepage 22.) . . Frontispiece. 
 
 A STARTLED " OH ! " CAME FROM THE 
 
 SLIGHTLY PARTED LIPS, . . Facing page 6 
 I STEPPED IN FRONT OF HER AND STOPPED HER, " " 34 
 I COULD HAVE SWORN I SAW THE ORIGINAL, " " 74 
 " HE KISSED MY HANDS," ..." "82 
 " I AM SORRY I DON'T SEE MY WAY TO OBLIG- 
 ING YOUR LADYSHIP," . . . . " ' 98 
 SHE SCRIBBLED THE NAME DOWN, " " IIO 
 THERE WAS LITTLE NEED FOR EITHER FEAR 
 
 OR CAUTION, " " 140 
 
 SUDDENLY EDITH WAS KNEELING ON THE 
 
 FLOOR BESIDE HER, . . . . " " 146 
 
 THE ABBOT HELD HIS STAFF ALOFT, . " " 176 
 
 vii
 
 SKETCHES IN LAVENDER, BLUE, 
 AND GREEN. 
 
 THE MATERIALIZATION OF 
 
 CHARLES AND MIVANWAY. 
 
 HE fault that most people will 
 find with this story is that it is 
 unconvincing. Its scheme is 
 improbable, its atmosphere 
 artificial. To confess that the 
 thing really happened not as 
 I am about to set it down, for 
 the pen of the professional 
 writer cannot but adorn and 
 embroider, even to the detriment of his 
 material is, I am well aware, only an aggra- 
 vation of my offense; for the facts of life are 
 the impossibilities of fiction. A truer artist 
 would have left this story alone, or at most 
 have kept it for the irritation of his private
 
 4 CHARLES AND M1VANWAY. 
 
 circle. My lower instinct is to make use of 
 it. A very old man told me the tale; he was 
 landlord of the Cromlech Arms, the only inn 
 of a small, rock-sheltered village on the north- 
 east coast of Cornwall, and had been so for 
 nine and forty years. It is called the Cromlech 
 Hotel now, and is under new management, and 
 during the season some four coachloads of tour- 
 ists sit down each day to table d'hote lunch in the 
 low-ceilinged parlor. But I am speaking of 
 years ago, when the place was a mere fishing 
 harbor, undiscovered by the guide books. 
 
 The old landlord talked, and I harkened, the 
 while we both sat drinking thin ale from earth- 
 enware mugs, late one summer's evening, on 
 the bench that runs along the wall just beneath 
 the latticed windows; and during the many 
 pauses, when the old landlord stopped to puff his 
 pipe in silence and lay in a new stock of breath, 
 there came to us the murmuring voices of the 
 Atlantic; and often, mingled with the pompous 
 roar of the big breakers farther out, we would 
 hear the rippling laugh of some small wave that, 
 maybe, had crept in to listen to the tale the land- 
 lord told.
 
 CHARLES AND MIVANWAY. 5 
 
 The mistake of Charles Seabohn, junior part- 
 ner of the firm of Seabohn & Son, civil engineers 
 of London and Newcastle-upon-Tyne, and Mi- 
 vanway Evans, youngest daughter of the Rev. 
 Thomas Evans, pastor of the Presbyterian 
 Church at Bristol, made originally, was marry- 
 ing too young. Charles Seabohn could hardly 
 have been twenty years of age, and Mivanway 
 could have been little more than seventeen, 
 when they first met upon the cliffs, two miles 
 beyond the Cromlech Arms. Young Charles 
 Seabohn, coming across the village in the course 
 of a walking tour, had decided to spend a day 
 or two exploring the picturesque coast; and 
 Mivanway's father had hired that year a neigh- 
 boring farmhouse wherein to spend his summer 
 vacation. 
 
 Early one morning for at twenty one is vir- 
 tuous, and takes exercise before breakfast as 
 young Charles Seabohn lay upon the cliffs, 
 watching the white waters coming and going 
 upon the black rocks below, he became aware of 
 a form rising from the waves. The figure was 
 too far off for him to see it clearly, but, judging 
 from the costume, it was a female figure, and
 
 6 CHARLES AND MIVANWA Y. 
 
 promptly the mind of Charles, poetically in- 
 clined, turned to thoughts of Venus or Aphro- 
 dite, as he, being a gentleman of delicate taste, 
 would have preferred to term her. He saw the 
 figure disappear behind a headland, but still 
 waited. In about ten minutes or a quarter of 
 an hour it reappeared, clothed in the garments 
 of the eighteen-sixties, and came toward him. 
 Hidden from sight himself behind a group of 
 rocks, he could watch it at his leisure ascending 
 the steep path from the beach; and an exceed- 
 ingly sweet and dainty figure it would have 
 appeared even to eyes less susceptible than 
 those of twenty. Sea-water I stand open 
 to correction is not, I believe, considered 
 anything of a substitute for curling tongs, 
 but to the hair of the youngest Miss Evans 
 it had given an additional and most fascina- 
 ting wave. Nature's red and white had been 
 most cunningly laid on, and the large, child- 
 ish eyes seemed to be searching the world 
 for laughter, with which to feed a pair of deli- 
 cious pouting lips. Charles' upturned face, pet- 
 rified into admiration, was just the sort of thing 
 for which they were on the lookout. A startled
 
 A STARTLED "OH!" CAME FROM THE SLIGHTLY PARTED LIPS
 
 CHARLES AND MIVANWA Y. ^ 
 
 " Oh! " came from the slightly parted lips, fol- 
 lowed by the merriest of laughs, which in its 
 turn was suddenly stopped "by a deep blush. 
 Then the youngest Miss Evans looked offended, 
 as though the whole affair had been Charles' 
 fault, which is the way of women. And Charles, 
 feeling himself guilty under that stern gaze of 
 indignation, rose awkwardly and apologized 
 meekly, whether for being on the cliffs at all or 
 for having got up too early, he would have been 
 unable to explain. 
 
 The youngest Miss Evans graciously ac- 
 cepted the apology thus tendered with a bow, 
 and passed on, and Charles stood staring after 
 her till the valley gathered her into its spreading 
 arms and hid her from his view. 
 
 That was the beginning of all things. I am 
 speaking of the Universe as viewed from the 
 standpoint of Charles and Mivanway. 
 
 Six months later they were man and wife, or 
 perhaps it would be more correct to say boy and 
 wifelet. Seabohn senior counseled delay, but 
 was overruled by the impatience of his junior 
 partner. The Rev. Mr. Evans, in common with 
 most theologians, possessed a goodly supply of
 
 8 CHARLES AND MIVANWA Y. 
 
 unmarried daughters, and a limited income. 
 Personally he saw no necessity for postpone- 
 ment of the marriage. 
 
 The month's honeymoon was spent in the 
 New Forest. That was a mistake to begin with. 
 The New Forest in February is depressing; and 
 they had chosen the loneliest spot they could 
 find. A fortnight in Paris or Rome would have 
 been more helpful. As yet they had nothing to 
 talk about except love, and that they had 
 been talking and writing about steadily all 
 through the winter. On the tenth morning 
 Charles yawned, and Mivanway had a quiet 
 half hour's cry about it in her own room. 
 On the sixteenth evening Mivanway, feel- 
 ing irritable, and wondering why (as though 
 fifteen damp, chilly days in the New For- 
 est were not sufficient to make any woman 
 irritable), requested Charles not to disarrange 
 her hair; and Charles, speechless with astonish- 
 ment, went out into the garden and swore be- 
 fore all the stars that he would never caress 
 Mivanway's hair again as long as he lived. 
 
 One supreme folly they had conspired to com- 
 mit, even before the commencement of the
 
 CHARLES AND MIVANWAY. 9 
 
 honeymoon. Charles, after the manner of very 
 young lovers, had earnestly requested Mivan- 
 way to impose upon him some task. He de- 
 sired to do something great and noble to show 
 his devotion. Dragons was the thing he had in 
 his mind, though he may not have been aware 
 of it. Dragons also, no doubt, flitted through 
 Mivanway's brain; but, unfortunately for lovers, 
 the supply of dragons has lapsed. Mivanway, 
 liking the conceit, however, thought over it, 
 and then decided that Charles must give up 
 smoking. She had discussed the matter with 
 her favorite sister, and that was the only thing 
 the girls could think of. Charles' face fell. He 
 suggested some more herculean labor, some 
 sacrifice more worthy to lay at Mivanway's feet. 
 But Mivanway had spoken. She might think 
 of some other task, but the smoking prohibi- 
 tion would in any case remain. She dismissed 
 the subject with a pretty hauteur that would 
 have graced Marie Antoinette. 
 
 Thus tobacco, the good angel of all men, no 
 longer came each day to teach Charles patience 
 and amiability, and he fell into the ways of short 
 temper and selfishness.
 
 10 CHARLES AND MIVANWAY. 
 
 They took up their residence in a suburb of 
 Newcastle, and this was also unfortunate for 
 them, because there the society was scanty and 
 middle-aged; and, in consequence, they had still 
 to depend much upon their own resources. 
 They knew little of life, less of each other, and 
 nothing at all of themselves. Of course, thev 
 quarreled, and each quarrel left the wound a 
 little deeper than before. No kindly, experi- 
 enced friend was at hand to laugh at them. 
 Mivanway would write down all her sorrows in 
 a bulky diary, which made her feel worse; so 
 that before she had written for ten minutes her 
 pretty, unwise head would drop upon her dim- 
 pled arm, and the book the proper place for 
 which was behind the fire would become damp 
 with her tears; and Charles, his day's work 
 done, and the clerks gone, would linger in his 
 dingy office and hatch trifles into troubles. 
 
 The end came one evening after dinner, when, 
 in the heat of a silly squabble, Charles boxed 
 Mivanway's ears. That was very ungentle- 
 manly conduct, and he was heartily ashamed of 
 himself the moment he had done it, which was 
 right and proper for him to be. The only ex-
 
 CHARLES AND MIVANWAY. II 
 
 cuse to be urged on his behalf is that girls suffi- 
 ciently pretty to have been spoiled from child- 
 hood, by everyone about them, can at times be 
 intensely irritating. Mivanway rushed up to 
 her room and locked herself in. Charles flew 
 after her to apologize, but only arrived in time 
 to have the door slammed in his face. 
 
 It had only been the merest touch. A boy's 
 muscles move quicker than his thoughts. But 
 to Mivanway it was a blow. This was what it 
 had come to ! This was the end of a man's love ! 
 
 She spent half the night writing in the pre- 
 cious dairy, with the result that in the morning 
 she came down feeling more bitter than she had 
 gone up. Charles had walked the streets of 
 Newcastle all night, and that had not done him 
 any good. He met her with an apology com- 
 bined with an excuse, which was bad tactics. 
 Mivanway, of course, fastened upon the excuse, 
 and the quarrel recommenced. She mentioned 
 that she hated him, he hinted that she had never 
 loved him, and she retorted that he had never 
 loved her. Had there been anybody by to 
 knock their heads together, and suggest break- 
 fast, the thing might have blown over, but the
 
 12 CHARLES AND MIVANWAY. 
 
 combined effect of a sleepless night and an 
 empty stomach upon each proved disastrous. 
 Their words came poisoned from their brains, 
 and each believed they meant what they said. 
 That afternoon Charles sailed from Hull on a 
 ship bound for the Cape, and that evening Mi- 
 vanway arrived at the paternal home in Bristol 
 with two trunks and the curt information that 
 she and Charles had separated forever. The 
 next morning both thought of a soft speech to 
 say to the other; but the next morning was just 
 twenty-four hours too late. 
 
 Eight days afterward Charles' ship was run 
 down in a fog, near the coast of Portugal, and 
 every soul on board was supposed to have per- 
 ished. Mivanway read his name among the list 
 of lost ; the child died within her, and she knew 
 herself for a woman who had loved deeply and 
 will not love again. 
 
 Good luck, however, intervening, Charles and 
 one other man were rescued by a small trading 
 vessel, and landed in Algiers. There Charles 
 learned of his supposed death, and the idea oc- 
 curred to him to leave the report uncontra- 
 dicted. For one thing, it solved a problem that
 
 CHARLES AND MIVANWAY. 13 
 
 had been troubling him. He could trust his 
 father to see to it that his own small fortune, 
 with possibly something added, was handed 
 over to Mivanway, and she would be free, if she 
 wished, to marry again. He was convinced that 
 she did not care for him, and that she had read 
 of his death with a sense of relief. He would 
 make a new life for himself, and forget her. 
 
 He continued his journey to the Cape, and, 
 once there, he soon gained for himself an excel- 
 lent position. The colony was young, engineers 
 were welcome, and Charles knew his business. 
 He found the life interesting and exciting. The 
 rough, dangerous, up-country work suited him, 
 and the time passed swiftly. 
 
 But in thinking he would forget Mivanway 
 he had not taken into consideration his own 
 character, which at bottom was a very gentle- 
 manly character. Out on the lonely veldt he 
 found himself dreaming of her. The memory of 
 her pretty face and merry laugh came back to 
 him at all hours. Occasionally he would curse 
 her roundly, but that only meant that he was 
 sore because of the thought of her; what he was 
 really cursing was himself and his own folly.
 
 14 CHARLES AND MIVANWAY. 
 
 Softened by the distance, her quick temper, her 
 very petulance, became mere added graces; and 
 if we consider women as human beings, and not 
 as angels, it was certainly a fact that he had lost 
 a very sweet and lovable woman. Ah! if only 
 she were by his side now now that he was a 
 man capable of appreciating her, and not a fool- 
 ish, selfish boy. This thought would come to 
 him as he sat smoking at the door of his tent; 
 and then he would regret that the stars looking 
 down upon him were not the same stars that 
 were watching her; it would have made him feel 
 nearer to her. For, though young people may 
 not credit it, one grows more sentimental as 
 one grows older; at least, some of us do, and 
 they, perhaps, not the least wise. 
 
 One night he had a vivid dream of her. She 
 came to him and held out her hand, and he took 
 it, and they said good-by to one another. They 
 were standing on the cliff where he had first met 
 her, and one of them was going upon a long 
 journey, though he was not sure which. 
 
 In the towns men laugh at dreams, but away 
 from civilization we listen more readily to the 
 strange tales that nature whispers to us.
 
 CHARLES AND Ml VAN WAY. 15 
 
 Charles Seabohn recollected this dream when he 
 awoke in the morning. 
 
 " She is dying," he said, " and she has come 
 to wish me good-by." 
 
 He made up his mind to return to England 
 at once; perhaps, if he made haste, he would be 
 in time to kiss her. But he could not start that 
 day, for work was to be done; and Charles Sea- 
 bohn, lover though he still was, had grown to 
 be a man, and knew that work must not be 
 neglected even though the heart may be calling. 
 So for a day or two he stayed, and on the third 
 night he dreamed of Mivanway again, and this 
 time she lay within the little chapel at Bristol 
 where, on Sunday mornings, he had often sat 
 with her. He heard her father's voice reading 
 the burial service over her, and the sister she 
 had loved best was sitting beside him, crying 
 softly. Then Charles knew that there was no 
 need for him to hasten. So he remained to fin- 
 ish his work. That done, he would return to 
 England. He would like again to stand upon 
 the cliffs above the little Cornish village where 
 they had first met. 
 
 Thus, a few months later, Charles Seabohn,
 
 16 CHARLES AND MIVANWA Y. 
 
 or Charles Denning, as he called himself, aged 
 and bronzed, not easily recognizable by those 
 who had not known him well, walked into the 
 Cromlech Arms, as six years before he had 
 walked in, with his knapsack on his back, and 
 asked for a room, saying he would be stopping 
 in the village for a short while. 
 
 In the evening he strolled out and made his 
 way to the cliffs. It was twilight when he 
 reached the place of rocks to which the fancy- 
 loving Cornish folk had given the name of the 
 Witches' Caldron. It was from this spot that 
 he had first watched Mivanway coming to him 
 from the sea. 
 
 He took the pipe from his mouth, and, lean- 
 ing against a rock whose rugged outline seemed 
 fashioned into the face of an old friend, gazed 
 down the narrow pathway now growing indis- 
 tinct in the dim light. And as he gazed the 
 figure of Mivanway came slowly up the path- 
 way from the sea and paused before him. 
 
 He felt no fear. He had half expected it. 
 Her coming was the complement of his dreams. 
 She looked older and graver than he remem- 
 bered her, but for that the face was the sweeter.
 
 CHARLES AND MIVANWAY. 17 
 
 He wondered if she would speak to him, but 
 she only looked at him with sad eyes; and he 
 stood there in the shadow of the rocks without 
 moving, and she passed on into the twilight. 
 
 Had he on his return cared to discuss the 
 subject with his landlord, had he even shown 
 himself a ready listener for the old man loved 
 to gossip he might have learned that a young 
 widow lady, named Mrs. Charles Seabohn, ac- 
 companied by an unmarried sister, had lately 
 come to reside in the neighborhood, having, 
 upon the death of a former tenant, taken the 
 lease of a small farmhouse sheltered in the valley 
 a mile beyond the village; and that her favorite 
 evening's walk was to the sea and back by the 
 steep footway leading past " The Witches' 
 Caldron." 
 
 Had he followed the figure of Mivanway into 
 the valley he would have known that out of 
 sight of the Witches' Caldron it took to run- 
 ning fast till it reached a welcome door, and 
 fell panting into the arms of another figure that 
 had hastened out to meet it. 
 
 " My dear," said the elder woman, " you are 
 trembling like a leaf. What has happened? "
 
 1 8 CHARLES AND MIVANWAY, 
 
 " I have seen him," answered Mivanway. 
 
 " Seen whom? " 
 
 " Charles." 
 
 "Charles!" repeated the other, looking at 
 Mivanway as though she thought her mad. 
 
 " His spirit, I mean," explained Mivanway, in 
 an awed voice. " It was standing in the shadow 
 of the rocks, in the exact spot where we first 
 met. It looked older and more careworn; but, 
 oh! Margaret, so sad and reproachful." 
 
 " My dear," said her sister, leading her in, 
 " you are overwrought. I wish we had never 
 come back to this house." 
 
 "Oh! I was not frightened," answered Mi- 
 vanway. " I have been expecting it every even- 
 ing. I am so glad it came. Perhaps it will 
 come again, and I can ask it to forgive me." 
 
 So next night Mivanway, though much 
 against her sister's wishes and advice, persisted 
 in her usual walk, and Charles, at the same twi- 
 light hour, started from the inn. 
 
 Again Mivanway saw him standing in the 
 shadow of the rocks. Charles had made up his 
 mind that if the thing happened again he would 
 speak; but when the silent figure of Mivanway,
 
 CHARLES AND MIVANWAY. 19 
 
 clothed in the fading light, stopped and gazed 
 at him, his will failed him. 
 
 That it was the spirit of Mivanway standing 
 before him he had not the faintest doubt. One 
 may dismiss other people's ghosts as the phan- 
 tasies of a weak brain, but one knows one's own 
 to be realities; and Charles, for the last five 
 years, had mingled with a people whose dead 
 dwell about them. Once, drawing his courage 
 around him, he made to speak; but as he did so 
 the figure of Mivanway shrank from him, and 
 only a sigh escaped his lips; and hearing that, 
 the figure of Mivanway turned, and again 
 passed down the path into the valley, leaving 
 Charles gazing after it. 
 
 But the third night both arrived at the try st- 
 ing spot with determination screwed up to the 
 sticking point. 
 
 Charles was the first to speak. As the figure 
 of Mivanway came toward him, with its eyes 
 fixed sadly on him, he moved from the shadow 
 of the rocks, and stood before it. 
 
 " Mivanway! " he said. 
 
 " Charles," replied the figure of Mivanway. 
 Both spoke in an awed whisper suitable to the
 
 20 CHARLES AND MIVANWAY. 
 
 circumstances, and each stood gazing sorrow- 
 fully upon the other. 
 
 " Are you happy? " asked Mivanway. 
 
 The question strikes one as somewhat farci- 
 cal; but it must be remembered that Mivanway 
 was the daughter of a Gospeler of the old 
 school, and had been brought up to beliefs that 
 were not then out of date. 
 
 " As happy as I deserve to be," was the sad 
 reply; and the answer the inference was not 
 complimentary to Charles' deserts struck a 
 chill to Mivanway's heart. " How could I be 
 happy having lost you? " went on the voice of 
 Charles. 
 
 Now, this speech fell very pleasantly upon 
 Mivanway's ears. In the first place, it relieved 
 her of the despair regarding Charles' future. No 
 doubt his present suffering was keen, but there 
 was hope for him. Secondly, it was a decidedly 
 " pretty " speech for a ghost ; and I am not at all 
 sure that Mivanway was the kind of woman to 
 be averse to a little mild flirtation with the spirit 
 of Charles. 
 
 " Can you forgive me? " asked Mivanway. 
 
 " Forgive you! " replied Charles, in a tone of
 
 CHARLES AND MIVANWAY. ?1 
 
 awed astonishment. " Can you forgive me? I 
 was a brute a fool I was not worthy to love 
 you." A most gentlemanly spirit it seemed to 
 be. Mivanway forgot to be afraid of it. 
 
 " We were both to blame," answered Mivan- 
 way. But this time there was less submission 
 in her tones. " But I was the most at fault. I 
 was a petulant child. I did not know how 
 deeply I loved you." 
 
 "You loved me!" repeated the voice of 
 Charles, and the voice lingered over the words, 
 as though it found them sweet. 
 
 " Surely you never doubted it," answered the 
 voice of Mivanway. " I never ceased to love 
 you. I shall love you always and ever." 
 
 The figure of Charles sprang forward as 
 though it would clasp the ghost of Mivanway 
 in its arms, but halted a step or two off. 
 
 " Bless me before you go," he said, and with 
 uncovered head, the figure of Charles knelt to 
 the figure of Mivanway. 
 
 Really, ghosts could be exceedingly nice when 
 they liked. Mivanway bent graciously toward 
 her shadowy suppliant, and, as she did so, her 
 eye caught sight of something on the grass be-
 
 22 CHARLES AND MIVANWA Y. 
 
 side it, and that something was a well-colored 
 meerschaum pipe. There was no mistaking it 
 for anything else, even in that treacherous light ; 
 it lay glistening where Charles, in falling upon 
 his knees, had jerked it from his breast pocket. 
 
 Charles, following Mivanway's eyes, saw it 
 also; and the memory of the prohibition against 
 smoking came back to him. 
 
 Without stopping to consider the futility of 
 the action nay, the direct confession implied 
 thereby he instinctively grabbed at the pipe, 
 and rammed it back into his pocket; and then 
 an avalanche of mingled understanding and be- 
 wilderment, fear and joy, swept Mivanway's 
 brain before it. She felt she must do one of two 
 things, laugh or scream and go on screaming; 
 and she laughed. Peal after peal of laughter 
 she sent echoing among the rocks, and Charles, 
 springing to his feet, was just in time to catch 
 her as she fell forward, a dead weight into his 
 arms. 
 
 Ten minutes later the eldest Miss Evans, 
 hearing heavy footsteps, went to the door. She 
 saw what she took to be the spirit of Charles 
 Seabohn, staggering under the weight of the
 
 CHARLES AND MIVANWAY. 23 
 
 lifeless body of Mivanway; and the sight not 
 unnaturally alarmed her. Charles' suggestion 
 of brandy, however, sounded human; and the 
 urgent need of attending to Mivanway kept her 
 mind from dwelling upon problems tending 
 toward insanity. 
 
 Charles carried Mivanway to her room and 
 laid her upon the bed. 
 
 " I'll leave her with you," he whispered to the 
 eldest Miss Evans. " It will be better for her 
 not to see me until she is quite recovered. She 
 has had a shock." 
 
 Charles waited in the dark parlor for what 
 seemed to him an exceedingly long time. But 
 at last the eldest Miss Evans returned. 
 
 " She's all right now," were the welcome 
 words he heard. 
 
 " I'll go and see her," he said. 
 
 " But she's in bed! " exclaimed the scandal- 
 ized Miss Evans. 
 
 And then, as Charles only laughed; " Oh, ah 
 yes, I suppose of course," she added. 
 
 And the eldest Miss Evans, left alone, sat 
 down and wrestled with the conviction that she 
 was dreaming.
 
 THE CHOICE OF CYRIL HARJOHN. 
 
 ETWEEN a junior resident master 
 of twenty-one and a backward lad of 
 fifteen there yawns an impassable 
 gulf. Between a struggling journal- 
 ist of one-and-thirty and an M. D. of twenty- 
 five, with a brilliant record behind him and a 
 career of exceptional promise before him, a 
 close friendship is, however, permissible. 
 
 My introduction to Cyril Harjohn was 
 through the Rev. Charles Fauerberg. 
 
 " Our young friend," said the Rev. Mr. 
 Fauerberg, standing in the most approved 
 tutorial attitude, with his hand upon his pupil's 
 shoulder; " our young friend has been some- 
 what neglected, but I see in him possibilities 
 warranting hope warranting, I may say, very 
 great hope. For the present he will be under my 
 especial care; and you will not, therefore, con- 
 cern yourself with his studies. He will sleep 
 with Milling and the others in dormitory num- 
 ber two."
 
 THE CHOICE OF CYRIL HARJOHN. 25 
 
 The lad formed a liking for me, and I think, 
 and hope, I rendered his sojourn at " Alpha 
 House " less irksome than otherwise it might 
 have been. The Rev. Charles method with 
 the backward was on all fours with that 
 adopted for the bringing on of geese; he cooped 
 them up and crammed them. The process is 
 profitable to the trainer, but painful to the 
 goose. 
 
 Young Harjohn and myself left " Alpha 
 House " at the end of the same term; he bound 
 for Brasenose, I for Bloomsbury. He made a 
 point of never coming up to London without 
 calling on me, when we would dine together in 
 one of Soho's many dingy, garlic-scented restau- 
 rants; and afterward, over our bottle of cheap 
 Beaune, discuss the coming of our lives; and 
 when he entered Guy's I left John Street and 
 took chambers close to his in Staple Inn. 
 Those were pleasant days; childhood is an over- 
 rated period, fuller of sorrow than of joy. I 
 would not take my childhood back, were it a 
 gift, but I would give the rest of my life to live 
 the twenties over again. 
 
 To Cyril I was a man of the world, and he
 
 26 THE CHOICE OF CYRIL HARJOHN. 
 
 looked to me for wisdom, not seeing always, I 
 fear, that he got it; while from him, I gathered 
 enthusiasm, and learned the profit that comes 
 to a man from the keeping of ideals. 
 
 Often, as we have talked, I have felt as 
 though a visible light came from him, framing 
 his face as with a halo of some pictured saint. 
 Nature had wasted him, putting him into 
 this nineteenth century of ours. Her victories 
 are accomplished. Her army of heroes, the few 
 sung, the many forgotten, is disbanded. The 
 long peace won by their blood and pain is set- 
 tled on the land. She had fashioned Cyril Har- 
 john for one of her soldiers. He would have 
 been a martyr, in the days when thought led to 
 the stake; a fighter for the truth, when to speak 
 one's mind meant death. To lead some forlorn 
 hope for Civilization would have been his true 
 work; Fate had condemned him to sentry duty 
 in a well ordered barrack. 
 
 But there is work to be done in the world, 
 though the labor lies now in the vineyard, not 
 on the battlefield. A small but sufficient for- 
 tune purchased for him freedom. To most 
 men an assured income is the grave of ambition;
 
 THE CHOICE OF CYRIL EAR JOHN. 2^ 
 
 to Cyril it was the foundation of hope. Re- 
 lieved from the necessity of working to live, he 
 could afford the luxury of living to work. His 
 profession was to him a passion; he regarded it, 
 not with the cold curiosity of the scientist, but 
 with the imaginative devotion of the enthusiast. 
 To help to push its frontiers forward, to carry its 
 flag further into the untraveled desert that ever 
 lies beyond the moving boundary of human 
 knowledge, was his dream. 
 
 One summer evening, I remember, we were 
 sitting in his rooms; and, during a silence, there 
 came to us through the open window the moan- 
 ing of the city, as of a tired child. He rose and 
 stretched his arms out toward the darkening 
 streets, as if he would gather to him all the toil- 
 ing men and women and comfort them. 
 
 " Oh, that I could help you! " he cried, " my 
 brothers and my sisters. Take my life, O God, 
 and spend it for me among your people! " 
 
 The speech sounds theatrical, as I read it, 
 written down, but to the young such words are 
 not ridiculous, as to us older men. 
 
 In the natural course of events he fell in love, 
 and with just the woman one would expect him
 
 28 THE CHOICE OF CYRIL HARJOHN. 
 
 to be attracted by. Elspeth Grant was of the 
 type from which the world, by instinct rather 
 than by convention, has drawn its Madonnas 
 and its saints. To describe a woman in words 
 is impossible. Her beauty was not a possession 
 to be catalogued, but herself. One felt it as 
 one feels the beauty of a summer's dawn, break- 
 ing the shadows of a sleeping city; but one 
 cannot set it down. I often met her, and, 
 when talking to her, I knew myself I, hack- 
 journalist, frequenter of Fleet Street bars, re- 
 tailer of smoke-room stories a great gentle- 
 man, incapable of meanness, fit for all noble 
 deeds. 
 
 In her presence life became a thing beautiful 
 and gracious; a school for courtesy and tender- 
 ness and simplicity. 
 
 I have wondered since, coming to see a little 
 more clearly into the ways of men, whether it 
 would not have been better had she been less 
 spiritual, had her nature possessed a greater 
 alloy of earth, making it more fit for the uses 
 of this workaday world. But, at the time, 
 these two friends of mine seemed to me to have 
 been created for one another.
 
 THE CHOICE OF CYRIL HARJOHN. 29 
 
 She appealed to all that was highest in Cyril's 
 character, and he worshiped her with an un- 
 concealed adoration that, from any man less 
 high-minded, would have appeared affectation, 
 and which she accepted with the sweet content 
 that Artemis might have accorded to the hom- 
 age of Endymion. 
 
 There was no formal engagement between 
 them. Cyril seemed to shrink from the ma- 
 terializing of his love by any thought of mar- 
 riage. To him she was an ideal of womanhood 
 rather than a flesh and blood woman. His love 
 for her was a religion ; it had no taint of earthly 
 passion in its composition. 
 
 Had I known the world better I might have 
 anticipated the result; for the red blood ran in 
 my friend's veins; and, alas, we dream our 
 poems, not live them. But at the time, the idea 
 of any other woman coming between them 
 would have appeared to me folly. The sugges- 
 tion that that other woman might be Geraldine 
 Fawley I should have resented as an insult to 
 my intelligence that is the point of the story 
 I do not understand to this day. 
 
 That he should be attracted by her, that he
 
 30 THE CHOICE OF CYRIL HARJOHN. 
 
 should love to linger near her, watching the 
 dark flush come and go across her face, seeking 
 to call the fire into her dark eyes was another 
 matter, and quite comprehensible; for the girl 
 was wonderfully handsome, with a bold, volup- 
 tuous beauty which invited while it dared. But, 
 considered in any other light than that of an 
 animal, she repelled. At times when, for her 
 ends, it seemed worth the exertion, she would 
 assume a certain wayward sweetness; but her 
 acting was always clumsy and exaggerated, 
 capable of deceiving no one except a fool. 
 
 'Cyril, at all events, was not taken in by it. 
 One evening, at a Bohemian gathering, the 
 entree to which was notoriety rather than 
 character, they had been talking together for 
 some considerable time, when, wishing to speak 
 to Cyril, I strolled up to join them. As I came 
 toward them she moved away, her dislike for me 
 being equal to mine for her; a thing which was, 
 perhaps, well for me. 
 
 " Miss Fawley prefers two as company to 
 three," I observed, looking after her retreating 
 figure. 
 
 " I am afraid she finds you what we should
 
 THE CHOICE OF CYRIL HARJOHN. 31 
 
 call an anti-sympathetic element," he replied, 
 laughing. 
 
 " Do you like her? " I asked him, somewhat 
 bluntly. 
 
 His eyes rested upon her as she stood in the 
 doorway, talking to a small, black-bearded man 
 
 " I think her the embodiment of all that is evil in womanhood." 
 
 who had just been introduced to her. After a 
 few moments she went out upon his arm, and 
 then Cyril turned to me. 
 
 " I think her," he replied, speaking, as was
 
 32 THE CHOICE OF CYRIL HARJOHN. 
 
 necessary, very low, " the embodiment of all 
 that is evil in womanhood. In old days she 
 would have been a Cleopatra, a Theodora, a De- 
 lilah. To-day, lacking opportunity, she is the 
 ' smart woman ' grubbing for an opening into 
 society and old Fawley's daughter. I'm tired; 
 let us go home." 
 
 His allusion to her parentage was significant. 
 Few people thought of connecting clever, hand- 
 some Geraldine Fawley with " Rogue Fawley," 
 Jew, renegade, ex-jail-bird, and outside broker; 
 who, having expectations from his daughter, 
 took care not to hamper her by ever being seen 
 in her company. But no one who had once 
 met the father could ever forget the relation- 
 ship while talking to the daughter. The older 
 face, with its cruelty, its cunning, and its greed 
 stood reproduced, feature for feature, line for 
 line. It was as though Nature, for an artistic 
 freak, had set herself the task of fashioning 
 hideousness and beauty from precisely the same 
 materials. Between the leer of the man and 
 the smile of the girl, where lay the difference? 
 It would have puzzled any student of anatomy 
 to point it out. Yet the one sickened, while to
 
 THE CHOICE OF CYRIL HARJOHN. 33 
 
 gain the other most men would have given 
 much. 
 
 Cyril's answer to my question satisfied me for 
 the time. He met the girl often, as was natu- 
 ral. She was a singer of some repute, and our 
 social circle was what is commonly called 
 " literary and artistic." To do her justice, how- 
 ever, she made no attempt to fascinate him, 
 nor even to be particularly agreeable to him. 
 Indeed, she seemed to be at pains to show him 
 her natural in other words, her most objec- 
 tionable side. 
 
 Coming out of the theater one first night we 
 met her in the lobby. I was following Cyril at 
 some little distance, but as he stopped to speak 
 to her the movement of the crowd placed me 
 just behind them. 
 
 " Will you be at the Leightons' to-morrow? " 
 I heard him ask her in a low tone. 
 
 " Yes," she answered, " and I wish you 
 wouldn't come." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " Because you're a fool, and you bore me." 
 
 Under ordinary circumstances I should have 
 taken the speech for badinage it was the kind
 
 34 THE CHOICE OF CYRIL HARJOHN. 
 
 of wit the woman would have indulged in. But 
 Cyril's face clouded with anger and vexation. I 
 said nothing. I did not wish him to know that 
 I had overheard. I tried to believe that he was 
 amusing himself, but my own explanation did 
 not satisfy me. 
 
 Next evening I went to the Leightons' by 
 myself. The Grants were in town, and Cyril 
 was dining with them. I found I did not know 
 many people, and cared little for those I did. I 
 was about to escape when Miss Fawley's name 
 was announced. I was close to the door, and 
 she had to stop and speak to me. We ex- 
 changed a few commonplaces. She either 
 made love to a man or was rude to him. She 
 generally talked to me without looking at me, 
 nodding and smiling meanwhile to people 
 around. I have met many women equally ill- 
 mannered, and without her excuse. For a mo- 
 ment, however, she turned her eyes to mine. 
 
 " Where's .your friend Mr. Harjohn? " she 
 asked. " I thought you were inseparables." 
 
 I looked at her in astonishment. " He's din 
 ing out to-night," I replied. " I do not think 
 he will come."
 
 I STEPPED IN FRONT OF HER AND STOPPED HER
 
 THE CHOICE OF CYRIL HARJOHN. 35 
 
 She laughed; I think it was the worst part 
 about the woman, her laugh; it suggested so 
 much cruelty. 
 
 " I think he will," she said. 
 
 It angered me into an indiscretion. She was 
 moving away. I stepped in front of her and 
 stopped her. 
 
 " What makes you thing so? " I asked, and 
 my voice, I know, betrayed the anxiety I felt as 
 to her reply. She looked me straight in the 
 face; there was one virtue she possessed the 
 virtue that animals hold above mankind truth- 
 fulness. She knew I disliked her hate would 
 be, perhaps, a more exact expression, did not 
 the word sound out of date and she made no 
 pretense of not knowing it, and returned the 
 compliment. 
 
 " Because I am here," she answered. " Why 
 don't you save him? Have you no influence 
 over him? Tell the Saint to keep him; I don't 
 want him. You heard what I said to him last 
 night. I shall only marry him for the sake of 
 his position, and the money he can earn if he 
 likes to work and not play the fool. Tell him 
 what I have said I shan't deny it."
 
 36 THE CHOICE OF CYRIL HARJOHN. 
 
 She passed on to greet a decrepit old lord 
 with a languishing smile, and I stood staring 
 after her with, I fear, a somewhat stupid expres- 
 sion, until some young fool came up grinning, 
 to ask me whether I had seen a ghost or backed 
 a " wrong-un." 
 
 There was no need to wait; I felt no curiosity. 
 Something told me the woman had spoken the 
 truth. It was mere want of motive that made 
 me linger. I saw him come in, and watched 
 him hanging round her, like a dog, waiting for 
 a kind word, or, failing that, a kick. I knew she 
 saw me, and I knew it added to her zest that I 
 was there. Not till we were in the street did I 
 speak to him. He started as I touched him. 
 We were neither of us good actors; he must 
 have read much in my face, and I saw that he 
 had read it; and we walked, side by side, in 
 silence, I thinking what to say, wondering 
 whether I should do good or harm, wishing 
 that we were anywhere but in these silent, life- 
 packed streets, so filled with the unseen. The 
 Leightons' house was in Chelsea, but it was not 
 till we had nearly reached the Albert Hall that 
 we broke the silence. Then it was he who 
 spoke :
 
 THE CHOICE OF CYRIL HARJOHN, 37 
 
 " Do you think I haven't told myself all 
 that? " he said. " Do you think I don't know 
 
 I'm a d d fool, a cad, a liar! What the 
 
 devil's the good of talking about it? " 
 
 " But I can't understand it," I said. 
 
 " No," he replied, " because you're a fool, be- 
 cause you have only seen one side of me. You 
 think me a grand gentleman, because I talk big, 
 and am full of noble sentiment. Why, you 
 idiot, the Devil himself could take you in. He 
 has his fine moods, I suppose, talks like a saint, 
 and says his prayers like the rest of us. Do you 
 remember the first night at Old Fauerberg's? 
 You poked your silly head into the dormitory, 
 and saw me kneeling by the bedside, while the 
 other fellows stood by grinning. You closed the 
 door softly you thought I never saw you. I 
 was not praying, I was trying to pray." 
 
 " It showed that you had pluck, if it showed 
 nothing else," I answered. " Most boys would 
 not have tried, and you kept it up." 
 
 " Ah, yes," he answered, " I promised the 
 mater I would, and I did. Poor old soul, she 
 was as big a fool as you are. She believed in 
 me. But don't you remember finding me one
 
 38 THE CHOICE OF CYRIL HA It JOHN. 
 
 Saturday afternoon all alone, stuffing myself 
 with cake and jam? " 
 
 I laughed at the recollection, though Heaven 
 knows I was feeling in no laughing mood. I 
 had found him with an array of pastry spread 
 out before him sufficient to make him ill for a 
 week, and I had boxed his ears, and had thrown 
 the whole collection into the road. 
 
 " The mater gave me half a crown a week for 
 pocket-money," he continued, " and I told the 
 fellows I had only a shilling, so that I could 
 gorge myself with the other eighteen pence un- 
 disturbed. Pah! I was a little beast even in 
 those days! " 
 
 " It was only a schoolboy trick," I argued, 
 " it was natural enough." 
 
 " Yes," he answered, " and this is only a 
 man's trick, and is natural enough; but it's go- 
 ing to ruin my life, to turn me into a beast 
 instead of a man. Good God! do you think I 
 don't know what that woman will do for me? 
 She will drag me down, down, down, to her own 
 level. All my ideals, all my ambition, all my 
 life's work will be bartered for a smug practice 
 among paying patients. I shall scheme and
 
 THE CHOICE OF CYRIL HARJOHN. 39 
 
 plot to make a big income that we may live 
 like a couple of plump animals, that we may 
 dress ourselves gaudily and parade our wealth. 
 Nothing will satisfy her; such women are 
 leeches; their only cry is ' Give, give, give.' So 
 long as I can supply her with money she will 
 tolerate me, and to get it for her, I shall sell my 
 heart, and my brain, and my soul. She will 
 load herself with jewels, and go about from 
 house to house, half naked, to leer at every man 
 she comes across that is life to such a woman. 
 And I shall trot behind her, the laughing-stock 
 of every fool, the contempt of every man." 
 
 His vehemence made any words I could say 
 sound weak before they were uttered. What 
 argument could I show stronger than that he 
 had already put before himself. I knew his 
 answers to everything I could urge. 
 
 My mistake had been in imagining him differ- 
 ent from other men. I began to see that he was 
 like the rest of us part angel, part devil. But 
 the new point he revealed to me was, that the 
 higher the one, the lower the other. It 
 seems as if nature must balance her work; 
 the nearer the leaves to heaven, the deeper
 
 40 THE CHOICE OF CYRIL HARJOHN. 
 
 the roots striking down into the darkness. 
 I knew that his passion for this woman 
 made no change in his truer love. The one 
 was a spiritual, the other a mere animal pas- 
 sion. The memory of incidents that had 
 puzzled me came back to enlighten me. I re- 
 membered how often on nights when I had sat 
 up late, working, I had heard his steps pass my 
 door, heavy and uncertain; how once in a dingy 
 quarter of London I had met one who had 
 strangely resembled him. I had followed him 
 to speak, but the man's bleared eyes had stared 
 angrily at me, and I turned away, calling myself 
 a fool for my mistake. But as I looked at the 
 face beside me now, I understood. 
 
 And then there rose up before my eyes the 
 face I knew better, the eager, noble face 
 that to merely look upon had been good. 
 We had reached a small, evil-smelling street 
 leading from Leicester Square toward Hoi- 
 born. I caught him by the shoulders and 
 turned him round with his back against 
 some church railings. I forget what I said. 
 We are strange mixtures; I thought of the shy, 
 backward boy I had coached and bullied at
 
 THE CHOICE OF CYRIL HARJOHN. 41 
 
 old Fauerberg's; of the laughing, handsome 
 lad I had watched grow into manhood. The 
 very restaurant we had most frequented 
 in his old Oxford days where we had poured 
 out our souls to one another was in this 
 very street where we were standing. For 
 the moment I felt toward him as perhaps his 
 mother might have felt; I wanted to scold him 
 and to cry with him; to shake him and to put 
 my arms about him. I pleaded with him, and 
 urged him, and called him every name I could 
 put my tongue to. It must have seemed an 
 odd conversation. A passing policeman, mak- 
 ing a not unnatural mistake, turned his bull's- 
 eye upon us, and advised us sternly to go home. 
 We laughed; and with that laugh Cyril came 
 back to his own self, and we walked on to Staple 
 Inn more soberly. He promised me to go away 
 by the very first train the next morning, and to 
 travel for some four or five months, and I under- 
 took to make all the necessary explanations for 
 him. 
 
 We both felt better for our talk, and when I 
 wished him good-night at his door, it was the 
 real Cyril Harjohn whose hand I gripped the
 
 42 THE CHOICE OF CYRIL HARJOHN. 
 
 real Cyril because the best that is in a man is 
 his real self. If there be any future for man 
 beyond this world, it is the good that is in him 
 that will live. The other side of him is of the 
 earth; it is that he will leave behind him. 
 
 He kept his word. In the morning he was 
 gone, and I never saw him again. I had many 
 letters from him, hopeful at first, full of strong 
 resolves. He told me he had written Elspeth, 
 not telling her everything, for that she would 
 not understand, but so much as would explain; 
 and from her he had had sweet womanly letters 
 in reply. I feared she might have been cold and 
 unsympathetic, for often good women, un- 
 touched by temptation themselves, have small 
 tenderness for those who struggle. But her 
 goodness was something more than a mere pas- 
 sive quantity; she loved him the better because 
 he had need of her. I believe she would have 
 saved him from himself, had not fate interfered 
 and taken the matter out of her hands. Women 
 are capable of big sacrifices. I think this wo- 
 man would have been content to lower herself, 
 if by so doing she could have raised him. 
 
 But it was not to be. From India he wrote
 
 THE CHOICE OF CYRIL HARJOHN. 43 
 
 me that he was coming home. I had not met 
 the Fawley woman for some time, and she had 
 gone out of my mind until one day, chancing 
 upon a theatrical paper some weeks old, I read 
 that " Miss Fawley had sailed for Calcutta to 
 fulfill an engagement of long standing." 
 
 I had his last letter in my pocket; I sat down 
 and worked out the question of date. She 
 would arrive in Calcutta the day before he left. 
 Whether it was chance or intention on her part 
 I never knew; as likely as not the former, for 
 there is a fatalism in this world shaping our 
 ends. 
 
 I heard no more from him ; I hardly expected 
 to do so; but three months later a mutual ac- 
 quaintance stopped me on the club steps. 
 
 " Have you heard the news," he said, " about 
 young Harjohn? " 
 
 " No," I replied. " Is he married? " 
 
 " Married! " he answered. " No, poor devil, 
 he's dead!" 
 
 " Thank God ! " was on my lips, but fortun- 
 ately I checked myself. " How did it happen? " 
 I asked. 
 
 " At a shooting party, up at some rajah's
 
 44 THE CHOICE OF CYRIL HARJOHN. 
 
 place. Must have caught his gun in some 
 brambles, I suppose. The bullet went clean 
 through his head." 
 
 "Dear me!" I said; " how very sad !" I 
 could think of nothing else to say at the 
 moment.
 
 BLASE BILLY. 
 
 | T was toward the end of August. He 
 and I appeared to be the only two 
 men left to the club. He was sit- 
 ting by an open window, the Times 
 lying on the floor beside him. I drew my chair 
 a little closer and remarked: 
 " Good-morning! " 
 
 He suppressed a yawn, and replied, " Morn- 
 in' " dropping the " g." The custom was just 
 coming into fashion; he was always correct. 
 
 " Going to be a very hot day, I am afraid," 
 I continued. 
 
 " 'Fraid so," was the response; after which 
 he turned his head away, and gently closed his 
 eyes. 
 
 I opined that conversation was not to his 
 wish, but this only made me the more determined 
 to talk, and to talk to him above all others in 
 London. The desire took hold of me to irritate 
 
 45
 
 46 BLASE BILLY. 
 
 him to break down the imperturbable calm 
 within which he moved and had his being; and 
 I gathered myself together and settled down to 
 the task. 
 
 " Interesting paper, the Times," I observed. 
 
 " Very," he replied, taking it from the floor 
 and handing it to me. " Won't you read it? " 
 
 I had been careful to throw into my voice an 
 aggressive cheerfulness which I had calculated 
 would vex him, but his manner remained that 
 of a man who was simply bored. I argued with 
 him politely concerning the paper; but he in- 
 sisted, still with the same weary air, that he 
 had done with it. I thanked him effusively. I 
 judged that he hated effusiveness. 
 
 " They say that to read a Times leader," I 
 persisted, " is a lesson in English composition." 
 
 " So I've been told," he answered tranquilly. 
 " Personally I don't take them." 
 
 The Times, I could see, was not going to be 
 of much assistance to me. I lit a cigarette, and 
 remarked that he was not shooting. He admit- 
 ted the fact. Under the circumstances it would 
 have taxed him to deny it, but the necessity for 
 confession roused him.
 
 BLASE BILLY. 47 
 
 " To myself," he said, " a tramp through 
 miles of mud, in company with four gloomy 
 men in black velveteen, a couple of depressed 
 looking dogs, and a heavy gun the entire cav- 
 alcade being organized for the purpose of kill- 
 ing some twelve-and-sixpence worth of poul- 
 try suggests the disproportionate." 
 
 I laughed boisterously, and cried, " Good, 
 good very good!" He was the type of man 
 that shudders inwardly at the sound of laughter. 
 I had the will to slap him on the back, but I 
 thought maybe that would send him away 
 altogether. 
 
 I asked him if he hunted. He replied that 
 fourteen hours' talk a day about horses, and 
 only about horses, tired him, and that in conse- 
 quence he had abandoned hunting. 
 
 "You fish?" I said. 
 
 " I was never sufficiently imaginative," he 
 answered. 
 
 " You travel a good deal? " I suggested. 
 
 He had apparently made up his mind to aban- 
 don himself to his fate, for he turned toward 
 me with a resigned air. An ancient nurse of 
 mine had always described me as the most
 
 48 BLASE 
 
 11 wearing " child she had ever come across. I 
 prefer to speak of myself as persevering. 
 
 " I should go about more," he said, " were I 
 able to see any difference between one place 
 and another." 
 
 " Tried Central Africa? " I inquired. 
 
 "Once or twice," he answered; "it always 
 reminds me of Kew Gardens." 
 
 " China? " I hazarded. 
 
 " Cross between a willow-pattern plate and a 
 New York slum," was his comment. 
 
 "The North Pole?" I tried, thinking the 
 third time might be lucky. 
 
 " Never got quite up to it," he returned. 
 " Reached Cape Hakluyt once." 
 
 " How did that impress you?" I asked. 
 
 " It didn't impress me," he replied. 
 
 The talk drifted to women and bogus com- 
 panies, dogs, literature, and such like matters. 
 I found him well informed upon and bored by 
 all. 
 
 " They used to be amusing," he said, speak- 
 ing of the first named, " until they began to 
 take themselves seriously. Now they are 
 merely silly."
 
 BLASE BILLY. 49 
 
 I was forced into closer companionship with 
 " Blase Billy " that autumn, for, by chance, a 
 month later he and I found ourselves the guests 
 of the same delightful hostess, and I came to 
 liking him better. He was a useful man to have 
 about one. In matters of fashion one could 
 always feel safe following his lead. One knew 
 that his necktie, his collar, his socks, if not the 
 very newest departure, were always correct; 
 and upon social paths, as guide, philosopher, 
 and friend, he was invaluable. He knew every- 
 one, together with his or her previous convic- 
 tions. He was acquainted with every woman's 
 past, and shrewdly surmised every man's future. 
 He could point you out the coal shed where the 
 Countess of Glenleman had gamboled in her 
 days of innocence; and would take you to 
 breakfast at the coffee shop off the Mile End 
 Road, where " Sam Smith, Estd. 1820," own 
 brother to the world-famed society novelist, 
 Smith-Stratford, lived an uncriticised, unpara- 
 graphed, unphotographed existence upon the 
 profits of " rashers " at three-ha'pence and 
 " doorsteps " at two a penny. He knew at what 
 houses it was inadvisable to introduce soap,
 
 50 BLASE BILLY. 
 
 and at what tables it would be bad form to de- 
 nounce political jobbery. He could tell you 
 offhand what trade-mark went with what 
 crest, and remembered the price paid for every 
 baronetcy created during the last twenty-five 
 years. 
 
 Regarding himself, he might have laid claim 
 with King Charles never to have said a foolish 
 thing, and never to have done a wise one. He 
 despised, or affected to despise, most of his fel- 
 low-men, and those of his fellow-men whose 
 opinion was most worth having unaffectedly 
 despised him. 
 
 Shortly described, one might have likened 
 him to Gayety Johnny with brains. He was 
 capital company after dinner, but in the early 
 morning one avoided him. 
 
 So I thought of him until one day he fell in 
 love; or, to put it in the words of Teddy Tid- 
 marsh, who brought the news to us, " got 
 mashed on Gerty Lovell." 
 
 " The red-haired one," Teddy explained, to 
 distinguish her from her sister, who had lately 
 adopted the newer golden shade. 
 
 "Gerty Lovell!" exclaimed the captain;
 
 BLASE BILLY. 51 
 
 " why, I've always been told the ' Lovell ' girls 
 hadn't a penny among them." 
 
 " The old man's stone broke, I know for a 
 certainty," volunteered Teddy, who picked up 
 a mysterious, but in other respects satisfactory, 
 income in an office near Hatton Garden, and 
 who was candor itself concerning the private 
 affairs of everybody but himself. 
 
 " Oh, some rich pork-packing or diamond- 
 sweating uncle has cropped up in Australia or 
 America, or one of those places," suggested the 
 captain, " and Billy's got wind of it in good 
 time. Billy knows his way about," 
 
 We agreed that some such explanation was 
 needed, though in all other respects Gerty Lov- 
 ell was just the girl that Reason (not always 
 consulted on these occasions) might herself 
 have chosen for " Blase Billy's " mate. 
 
 The sunlight was not too kind to her, but at 
 evening parties, where the lighting had been 
 well considered, I have seen her look quite girl- 
 ish. At her best she was not beautiful, but at 
 her worst there was about her an air of breed- 
 ing and distinction that always saved her from 
 being passed over; and she dressed to perfec-
 
 52 BLASE BILLY. 
 
 tion. In character she was the typical society 
 woman; always charming, generally insincere. 
 She went to Kensington for her religion, and to 
 Mayfair for her morals; accepted her literature 
 from Mudie's and her art from the Grosvenor 
 Gallery; and could and would gabble philan- 
 thropy, philosophy, and politics with equal 
 fluency at every five o'clock tea-table she vis- 
 ited. Her ideas could always be guaranteed as 
 the very latest, and her opinion as that of the 
 person to whom she was talking. Asked by a 
 famous novelist, one afternoon, at the Pioneer 
 Club, to give him some idea of her, little Mrs. 
 Bund, the painter's wife, had remained for a 
 few moments with her pretty lips pursed, and 
 had then said : 
 
 " She is a woman to whom life could bring 
 nothing more fully satisfying than a dinner in- 
 vitation from a duchess, and whose nature would 
 be incapable of sustaining deeper suffering than 
 that caused by an ill-fitting costume." 
 
 At the time I should have said the epigram 
 was as true as it was cruel, but I suppose we 
 none of us quite know each other. 
 
 I congratulated " Blase Billy " or, to drop
 
 BLASE BILLY. 53 
 
 his club nickname, and give him the full benefit 
 of his social label, " The Honorable William 
 Cecil Wychwood Stanley Drayton " on the 
 occasion of our next meeting, which happened 
 upon the steps of the Savoy restaurant, and I 
 thought runless a quiver of electric light de- 
 ceived me that he blushed. 
 
 " Charming girl," I said. " You're a lucky 
 dog, Billy." 
 
 It was the phrase that custom demands upon 
 such occasions, and it came of its own accord 
 to my tongue, without costing me the trouble 
 of composition, but he seized upon it as though 
 it had been a gem of friendly sincerity. 
 
 : ' You will like her even more when you know 
 her better," he said. " She is so different from 
 the usual woman that one meets. Come and 
 see her to-morrow afternoon; she will be so 
 pleased. Go about four; I will tell her to ex- 
 pect you." 
 
 I rang the bell at ten minutes past five. Billy 
 was there. She greeted me with a little tremor 
 of embarrassment, which sat oddly upon her, 
 but which was not altogether unpleasing. She 
 said it was kind of me to come so early. I
 
 54 BLASE BILLY. 
 
 stayed for about half an hour, but conversation 
 flagged, and some of my cleverest remarks at- 
 tracted no attention whatever. 
 
 When I rose to take my leave, Billy said that 
 he must be off too, and that he would accom- 
 pany me. Had they been ordinary lovers, I 
 should have been careful to give them an oppor- 
 tunity of making their adieus in secret; but in 
 the case of the Honorable William Drayton 
 and the eldest Miss Lovell I concluded that such 
 tactics were needless, so I waited until he had 
 shaken hands, and went downstairs with him. 
 
 But in the hall Billy suddenly ejaculated, " By 
 Jove! Half a minute," and ran back up the 
 stairs three at a time. Apparently he found 
 what he had gone for on the landing, for I did 
 not hear the opening of the drawing-room door. 
 Then the Honorable Billy redescended with a 
 sober, nonchalant air. 
 
 " Left my gloves behind me," he explained, 
 as he took my arm. " I am always leaving my 
 gloves about." 
 
 I did not mention that I had seen him take 
 them from his hat and slip them in his coat-tail 
 pocket.
 
 BLAS& BILLY. 55 
 
 We at the club did not see very much of Billy 
 during the next three months; but the captain, 
 who prided himself upon his playing of the rdle 
 of smoking-room cynic, though he would have 
 been better in the part had he occasionally dis- 
 played a little originality, was of opinion that 
 our loss would be more than made up to us 
 after the marriage. Once in the twilight I 
 caught sight of a figure that reminded me of 
 Billy, accompanied by a figure that might have 
 been that of the eldest Miss Lovell; but as the 
 spot was Battersea Park, which is not a fashion- 
 able evening promenade, and the two figures 
 were holding each other's hands, the whole pic- 
 ture being suggestive of the closing chapter 
 of a London Journal romance, I concluded I had 
 made an error. 
 
 But I did see them in the Adelphi stalls one 
 evening, rapt in, a sentimental melodrama. I 
 joined them between the acts, and poked fun at 
 the play, as one does at the Adelphi, but Miss 
 Lovell begged me quite earnestly not to spoil 
 her interest, and Billy wanted to enter upon a 
 serious argument as to whether a man was jus- 
 tified in behaving as Will Terriss had just be-
 
 56 BLASE BILLY. 
 
 haved toward the woman he loved. I left them 
 and returned to my own party, to the satisfac- 
 tion, I am inclined to think, of all concerned. 
 
 They married in due course. We were mis- 
 taken on one point. She brought Billy noth- 
 ing. But they both seemed quite content on 
 his not too extravagant fortune. They took a 
 tiny house not far from Victoria Station, and 
 hired a brougham for the season. They did not 
 entertain very much, but they contrived to be 
 seen everywhere it was right and fashionable 
 they should be seen. The Honorable Mrs. 
 Drayton was a much younger and brighter per- 
 son than had been the eldest Miss Lovell, and, 
 as she continued to dress charmingly, her social 
 position rose rapidly. Billy went everywhere 
 with her, and evidently took a keen pride in her 
 success. It was even said that he designed her 
 dresses for her, and I have myself seen him 
 earnestly studying the costumes in Russell & 
 Allen's windows. 
 
 The captain's prophecy remained unfulfilled. 
 " Blase Billy " if the name could still be ap- 
 plied to him hardly ever visited the club after 
 his marriage. But I had grown to like him,
 
 J3LAS BILLY. 57 
 
 and, as he had foretold, to like his wife. I found 
 their calm indifference to the burning questions 
 of the day a positive relief from the strenuous 
 atmosphere of literary and artistic circles. In 
 the drawing room of their little house in Eaton 
 Row the comparative merits of George Mere- 
 dith and George R. Sims were not considered 
 worth discussion. Both were regarded as per- 
 sons who afforded a certain amount of amuse- 
 ment in return for a certain amount of cash. 
 And on any Wednesday afternoon Henrick 
 Ibsen and Arthur Roberts would have been 
 equally welcome, as adding piquancy to the 
 small gathering. Had I been compelled to pass 
 my life in such a house, this Philistine attitude 
 might have palled upon me; but under the cir- 
 cumstances it refreshed me, and I made use of 
 my welcome, which I believe was genuine, to 
 its full extent. 
 
 As months went by, they seemed to me to 
 draw closer to one another, though I am given 
 to understand that such is not the rule in fash- 
 ionable circles. One evening I arrived a little 
 before my time, and was shown up into the 
 drawing room by the soft-footed butler. They
 
 5 8 BLASE BILLY. 
 
 were sitting in the dusk, with their arms round 
 one another. It was impossible to withdraw, 
 so I faced the situation and coughed. A pair 
 of middle-class lovers could not have appeared 
 more awkward or surprised. 
 
 But the incident established an understand- 
 ing between us, and I came to be regarded as a 
 friend before whom there was less necessity to 
 act. 
 
 Studying them, I came to the conclusion that 
 the ways and manners of Love are very same- 
 like throughout the world, as though the fool- 
 ish boy, unheedful of human advance, kept but 
 one school for minor poet and East End shop- 
 boy, for Girton girl and little milliner; taught 
 but the one lesson to the end-of-the-nineteenth- 
 century Johnny that he taught to bearded Pict 
 and Hun four thousand years ago. 
 
 Thus the summer and the winter passed 
 pleasantly for the Honorable Billy, and then, 
 as luck would have it, he fell ill just in the very 
 middle of the London season, when invitations 
 to balls and dinner parties, luncheons and " at 
 homes," were pouring in from every quarter, 
 when the lawns at Hurlingham were at their 
 smoothest and the paddocks at their smartest.
 
 BLASE BILLY. 59 
 
 It was unfortunate, too, that the fashions 
 that season suited the Honorable Mrs. Billy as 
 they had not suited her for years. In the early 
 spring she and Billy had been hard at work 
 planning costumes calculated to cause a flutter 
 through Mayfair; and the dresses and the bon- 
 nets each one a work of art were waiting on 
 their stands to do their killing work. But the 
 Honorable Mrs. Billy, for the first time in her 
 life, had lost interest in such things. 
 
 Their friends were genuinely sorry, for so- 
 ciety was Billy's element, and in it he was inter- 
 esting and amusing. But, as Lady Gower said, 
 there was no earthly need for his wife to con- 
 stitute herself a prisoner. Her shutting her- 
 self off from the world could do him no good, 
 and it would look odd. 
 
 Accordingly, the Honorable Mrs. Dray ton, 
 to whom oddness was a crime, and the voice of 
 Lady Gower as the voice of duty, sacrificed her 
 inclinations on the social shrine, laced the new 
 costumes tight across her aching heart, and 
 went down into society. 
 
 But the Honorable Mrs. Drayton achieved 
 not the success of former seasons. Her small 
 talk grew so very small that even Park Lane
 
 60 BLASE BILLY. 
 
 found it unsatisfying. Her famous laugh rang 
 mechanically. She smiled at the wisdom of 
 dukes, and became sad at the funny stories of 
 millionaires. Society voted her a good wife, 
 but bad company, and confined its attention to 
 cards of inquiry. And for this relief the Hon- 
 orable Mrs. Drayton was grateful, for Billy 
 waned weaker and weaker. In the world of 
 shadows in which she moved he was the one 
 thing real. She was of very little practical use, 
 but it comforted her to think that she was help- 
 ing to nurse him. 
 
 But Billy himself it troubled. 
 
 " I do wish you would go out more," he 
 would say. " It makes me feel that I'm such a 
 selfish brute, keeping you tied up here in this 
 dismal little house. Besides," he would add, 
 " people miss you ; they will hate me for keep- 
 ing you away." For, where his wife was con- 
 cerned, Billy's knowledge of the world availed 
 him little. He really thought society craved for 
 the Honorable Mrs. Drayton, and would not be 
 comforted where she was not. 
 
 " I would rather stop with you, dear," would 
 be the answer; " I don't care to go about by
 
 BLASE BILLY. 61 
 
 myself. You must get well quickly and take 
 me." 
 
 And so the argument continued, until one 
 evening, as she sat by herself, the nurse entered 
 softly, closed the door behind her, and came 
 over to her. 
 
 " I wish you would go out to-night, ma'am," 
 said the nurse, " just for an hour or two. I 
 think it would please the master; he is worry- 
 ing himself because he thinks it is his fault that 
 you do not; and just now" the woman hesi- 
 tated for a moment " just now I want to keep 
 him very quiet." 
 
 " Is he weaker, nurse? " 
 
 " Well, he is not stronger, ma'am, and I 
 thing I think we must humor him." 
 
 The Honorable Mrs. Drayton rose, and, 
 crossing to the window, stood for a while look- 
 ing out. 
 
 " But where am I to. go, nurse? " she said at 
 length, turning with a smile. " I've no invita- 
 tions anywhere." 
 
 " Can't you make believe to have one? " said 
 the nurse. " It is only seven o'clock. Say you 
 are. going to a dinner party; you can come
 
 62 BLASE BILLY. 
 
 home early then. Go and dress yourself, and 
 come down and say good-by to him, and then 
 come in again about eleven, as though you had 
 just returned." 
 
 " You think I must, nurse? " 
 
 " I think it would be better, ma'am. I wish 
 you would try it." 
 
 The Honorable Mrs. Drayton went to the 
 door, then paused. 
 
 " He has such sharp ears, nurse; he will listen 
 for the opening of the door and the sound of the 
 carriage." 
 
 " I will see to that," said the nurse. " I will 
 tell them to have the carriage here at ten min- 
 utes to eight. Then you can drive to the end 
 of the street, slip out, and walk back. I will 
 let you in myself." 
 
 " And about coming home? " asked the other 
 woman. 
 
 " You must slip out a few minutes before 
 eleven, and the carriage must be waiting for you 
 at the corner again. Leave all that to me." 
 
 In half an hour the Honorable Mrs. Drayton 
 entered the sickroom, radiant in evening dress 
 and jewels. Fortunately the lights were low,
 
 BLASE BILLY. 63 
 
 or " Blase Billy " might have been doubtful as 
 to the effect his wife was likely to produce. 
 For her face was not the face that one takes to 
 dinner parties. 
 
 " Nurse tells me you are going to the Gre- 
 villes' this evening. I am so glad. I've been 
 worrying myself about you moped up here 
 right through the season." 
 
 He took her hands in his, and held her out at 
 arm's length from him. 
 
 " How handsome you look, dear! " he said. 
 " How they must have all been cursing me for 
 keeping you shut up here, like a princess in an 
 ogre's castle! I shall never dare face them 
 again." 
 
 She laughed, well pleased at his words. " I 
 shall not, be late," she said. " I shall be so anx- 
 ious to get back and see how my boy has be- 
 haved. If you have not been good, I shan't go 
 again." 
 
 They kissed and parted, and at eleven she re- 
 turned to the room. She told him what a 
 delightful evening it had been, and bragged a 
 little of her own success. 
 
 The nurse told her that he had been more
 
 64 BLASE BILLY. 
 
 cheerful that evening than for many nights. So 
 every day the farce was played for him. One 
 day it was to a luncheon that she went, in a 
 costume by Redfern; the next night, to a ball, 
 in a frock direct from Paris; again to an "at 
 home," or concert, or dinner party. Loafers 
 and passers-by would stop to stare at a haggard, 
 red-eyed woman, dressed as for a drawing room, 
 slipping thief-like in and out of her own door. 
 
 I heard them talking of her one afternoon, at 
 a house where I called, and I joined the group 
 to listen. 
 
 " I always thought her heartless, but I gave 
 her credit for sense," a woman was saying. 
 " One doesn't expect a wife to be fond of her 
 husband; but she needn't make a parade of ig- 
 noring him when he is dying." 
 
 I pleaded absence from town to inquire what 
 was meant, and from various lips I heard the 
 same account. One had noticed her carriage 
 at the door two or three evenings in succession. 
 Another had seen her returning home. A third 
 had seen her coming out, and so on. 
 
 I could not fit the fact in with my knowledge 
 of her, so the next evening I called. The door 
 was opened instantly by herself.
 
 BLASE BILLY. 65 
 
 " I saw you from the window," she said. 
 " Come in here; don't speak." 
 
 I followed her, and she closed the door be- 
 hind her. She was dressed in a magnificant 
 costume, her hair sparkling with diamonds; and 
 I looked my questions. 
 
 She laughed bitterly. 
 
 " I am supposed to be at the opera to-night," 
 she explained. " Sit down, if you have a few 
 minutes to spare." 
 
 I said it was for a talk that I had come; and 
 there, in the dark room, lighted only by the 
 street lamp without, she told me all. And at 
 the end she dropped her head on to her bare 
 arms; and I turned away and looked out of the 
 window for a while. 
 
 " I feel so ridiculous," she said, rising and 
 coming toward me. " I sit here all the even- 
 ing dressed like this. I'm afraid I don't act 
 my part very well; but, fortunately, dear Billy 
 never was much of a judge of art, and it is good 
 enough for him. I tell him the most awful 
 lies about what everybody has said to me, and 
 what I've said to everybody, and how my gowns 
 were admired. What do you think of this 
 one? "
 
 66 BLASE BILLY. 
 
 For answer I took the privilege of a friend. 
 
 " I'm glad you think well of me," she said. 
 " Billy has such a high opinion of you. You 
 will hear some funny tales. I'm glad you 
 know." 
 
 I had to leave London again, and Billy died 
 before I returned. I heard that she had to be 
 fetched from a ball, and was only just in time to 
 touch his lips before they were cold. But her 
 friends excused her by saying that the end had 
 come very suddenly. 
 
 I called on her a little later, and before I left 
 I hinted to her what people were saying, and 
 asked her if I had not better tell them the truth. 
 
 " I would rather you didn't," she answered. 
 " It seems like making public the secret side of 
 one's life." 
 
 " But," I urged, " they will think " 
 
 She interrupted me. 
 
 " Does it matter very much what they 
 think? " 
 
 Which struck me as a very remarkable senti- 
 ment, coming from the Honorable Mrs. Dray- 
 ton, nee the elder Miss Lovell,
 
 PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 
 
 Y work pressed upon me, but the 
 louder it challenged me such is the 
 heart of the timid fighter the less 
 stomach I felt for the contest. I 
 wrestled with it in my study, only to be driven 
 to my books. I walked out to meet it in the 
 streets, only to seek shelter from it in music- 
 hall or theater. Thereupon it waxed importu- 
 nate and overbearing, till the shadow of it 
 darkened all my doings. The thought of it sat 
 beside 'me at table, and spoiled my appetite. 
 The memory of it followed me abroad, and stood 
 between me and my friends, so that all talk died 
 upon my lips, and I moved among men as one 
 ghost-ridden. 
 
 Then the throbbing town, with its thousand 
 distracting voices, grew maddening to me. I 
 felt the need of converse with solitude, that 
 master and teacher of all the arts, and I be- 
 thought me of the Yorkshire Wolds, where a 
 
 67
 
 68 PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 
 
 man may walk all day, meeting no human crea- 
 ture, hearing no voice but the curlew's cry; 
 where, lying prone upon the sweet grass, he may 
 feel the pulsation of the earth, traveling its 
 eleven hundred miles a minute through the 
 ether. So, one morning, I bundled many 
 things, some needful, more needless, into a bag, 
 hurrying lest somebody or something should 
 happen to stay me; and that night I lay in a 
 small northern town that stands upon the 
 borders of smokedom, at the gate of .the great 
 moors; and at seven the next morning I took 
 my seat beside a one-eyed carrier, behind an 
 ancient piebald mare. The one-eyed carrier 
 cracked his whip, the piebald horse jogged for- 
 ward; the nineteenth century, with its turmoil, 
 fell away behind us; the distant hills, creeping 
 nearer, swallowed us up, and we became but 
 a moving speck upon the face of the quiet earth. 
 Late in the afternoon we arrived at the vil- 
 lage, the memory of which had been growing in 
 my mind. It lies in the triangle formed by the 
 sloping walls of three great fells; and not even 
 the telegraph wire has reached it yet, to mur- 
 mur to it whispers of the restless world or had
 
 PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 69 
 
 not, at the time of which I write. Nought dis- 
 turbs it save, once a day, the one-eyed carrier 
 if he and his piebald mare have not yet laid their 
 ancient bones to rest who, passing through, 
 leaves a few letters and parcels to be called for 
 by the people of the scattered hill-farms round 
 about. It is the meeting-place of two noisy 
 brooks. Through the sleepy days and the 
 hushed nights, one hears them ever chattering 
 to themselves as children playing alone some 
 game of make-believe. Coming from their far- 
 off homes among the hills, they mingle their 
 waters here, and journey on in company, and 
 then their converse is more serious, as becomes 
 those who have joined hands and are moving 
 onward through life together. Later they reach 
 sad, weary towns, black beneath a never-lifted 
 pall of smoke where, day and night, the clang 
 of iron drowns all human voices; where the chil- 
 dren play with ashes, where the men and women 
 have dull, patient faces; and so on, muddy and 
 stained, to the deep sea that ceaselessly calls to 
 them. Here, however, their waters are fresh 
 and clear, and their passing makes the only stir 
 that the valley has ever known. Surely of all
 
 ?o PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 
 
 peaceful places, this was the one where a tired 
 worker might find strength. 
 
 My one-eyed friend had suggested I should 
 seek lodgings at the house of one Mistress 
 Cholmondley, a widow lady, who resided with 
 her only daughter in the white-washed cottage 
 that is the last house in the village, if you take 
 the road that leads over Coll Fell. 
 
 " Tha' can see th' house from here, by reason 
 o' its standing so high above t'others," said the 
 carrier, pointing with his whip. " It's theer or 
 nowhere, aw'm thinking, for folks don't often 
 coom seeking lodgings in these parts." 
 
 The tiny dwelling, half smothered in June 
 roses, looked idyllic ; and, after a lunch of bread 
 and cheese at the little inn, I made my way to 
 it by the path that passes through the church- 
 yard. I had conjured up the vision of a stout, 
 pleasant, comfort-radiating woman, assisted by 
 some bright, fresh girl, whose rosy cheeks and 
 sunburned hands would help me banish from my 
 mind all clogging recollections of the town; and 
 hopeful, I pushed back the half-opened door and 
 entered. 
 
 The cottage was furnished with a taste that
 
 PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 71 
 
 surprised me, but in themselves, my hosts dis- 
 appointed me. My bustling, comely house- 
 wife turned out a wizened, blear-eyed dame. 
 All day long she dozed in her big chair, or 
 crouched with shriveled hands spread out be- 
 fore the fire. My dream of winsome maiden- 
 hood vanished before the reality of a weary- 
 looking, sharp-featured woman of between forty 
 and fifty. Perhaps there had been a time when 
 the listless eyes had sparkled with roguish 
 merriment, when the shriveled, tight-drawn lips 
 had pouted temptingly; but spinsterhood does 
 not sweeten the juices of a woman, and strong 
 country air, though, like old ale, it is good when 
 taken occasionally, dulls the brain if lived upon. 
 A narrow, uninteresting woman I found her; 
 troubled with a shyness that sat ludicrously 
 upon her age, and that yet failed to save her 
 from the landlady's customary failing of lo- 
 quacity concerning " better days," together 
 with an irritating, if harmless, affectation of 
 youthfulness. 
 
 All other details were, however, most satis- 
 factory; and at the window commanding the 
 road that leads through the valley toward the
 
 72 PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 
 
 distant world, I settled down to face my 
 work. 
 
 But the spirit of industry, once driven forth, 
 returns with coy steps. I wrote for perhaps an 
 hour; and then throwing down my halting pen, 
 I looked about the room, seeking distraction. 
 A Chippendale bookcase stood against the wall, 
 and I strolled over to it. The key was in the 
 lock, and, opening its glass doors, I examined 
 the well-filled shelves. They held a curious 
 collection: Miscellanies with quaint, glazed 
 bindings; novels and poems, whose authors I 
 had never heard of; old magazines long dead, 
 their very names forgotten; " Keepsakes " and 
 Annuals, redolent of an age of vastly pretty 
 sentiments and lavender-colored silks. On the 
 top shelf, however, was a volume of Keats, 
 wedged between a number of the Evangelical 
 Rambler and Young's " Night Thoughts," and 
 standing on tip-toe, I sought to draw it from 
 its place. 
 
 The book was jammed so tightly that my 
 efforts brought two or three others tumbling 
 about me, covering me with a cloud of fine dust ; 
 and to my feet there fell, with a rattle of glass
 
 PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 73 
 
 and metal, a small miniature painting, framed 
 in black wood. 
 
 I picked it up, and, taking it to the window, 
 examined it. It was the picture of a young- 
 girl, dressed in the fashion of thirty years 
 ago I mean thirty years ago then. I 
 fear it must be nearer fifty, speaking as 
 from now when our grandmothers wore 
 corkscrew curls and low-cut bodices that one 
 wonders how they kept from slipping down. 
 The face was beautiful, not merely with the con- 
 ventional beauty of tiresome regularity and im- 
 possible coloring, such as one finds in all minia- 
 tures, but with soul behind the soft deep eyes. 
 As I gazed the sweet lips seemed to laugh at 
 me, and yet there lurked a sadness in the smile, 
 as though the artist, in some rare moment, had 
 seen the coming shadow of life across the sun- 
 shine of the face. Even my small knowledge of 
 art told me that the work was clever, and I 
 wondered why it should have lain so long 
 neglected, when as a mere ornament it was 
 valuable. It must have been placed in the 
 bookcase years ago by someone, and forgotten. 
 
 I replaced it among its dusty companions,
 
 74 PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 
 
 and sat down once more to my work. But be- 
 tween me and the fading light came the face of 
 the miniature, and would not be banished. 
 Wherever I turned it looked out at me from the 
 shadows. I am not naturally fanciful, and the 
 work I was engaged upon, the writing of a farci- 
 cal comedy, was not of the kind to excite the 
 dreamy side of a man's nature. I grew angry 
 with myself, and made a further effort to fix my 
 mind upon the paper in front of me. But my 
 thoughts refused to return from their wander- 
 ings. Once, glancing back over my shoulder, I 
 could have sworn I saw the original of the pic- 
 ture sitting in the big chintz-covered chair in 
 the far corner. It was dressed in a faded lilac 
 frock, trimmed with some old lace, and I could 
 . not help noticing the beauty of the folded hands, 
 though in the portrait only the head and shoul- 
 ders had been drawn. 
 
 Next morning I had forgotten the incident, 
 but with the lighting of the lamp the memory of 
 it awoke within me, and my interest grew so 
 strong that again I took the miniature from its 
 hiding-place and looked at it. 
 
 And then the knowledge suddenly came to
 
 I COULD HAVE SWORN I SAW THE ORIGINAL
 
 PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 75 
 
 me that I knew the face. Where had I seen 
 her, and when? I had met her and spoken to 
 her. The picture smiled at me, as if rallying me 
 on my forgetfulness. I put it back upon its 
 shelf, and sat racking my brains, trying to recol- 
 lect; we had met somewhere in the country 
 a long time ago, and had talked of commonplace 
 things. To the vision of her clung the scent of 
 roses and the murmuring voices of haymakers. 
 Why had I never seen her again? Why had 
 she passed so completely out of my mind? 
 
 My landlady entered to lay my supper, and I 
 questioned her, assuming a careless tone. 
 Reason with or laugh at myself as I would, this 
 shadowy memory was becoming a romance to 
 me, it was as though I were talking of some 
 loved, dead friend, even to speak of whom to 
 commonplace people was a sacrilidge. I did not 
 want the woman to question me in return. 
 
 " Oh, yes," answered my landlady. Ladies 
 had often lodged with her. Sometimes people 
 stayed the whole summer, wandering about the 
 woods and fells; but to her thinking the great 
 hills were lonely. Some of her lodgers had been 
 young ladies, but she could not remember any
 
 76 PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 
 
 of them having impressed her with their beauty. 
 But then it was said women were never a judge 
 of other women. They had come and gone. 
 Few had ever returned; and fresh faces drove 
 out the old. 
 
 " You have been letting lodgings for a long 
 time? " I asked. " I suppose it could be fifteen 
 twenty years ago that strangers to you lived 
 in this room? " 
 
 " Longer than that," she said quietly, drop- 
 ping, for the moment, all affectation. " We 
 came here from the farm when my father died. 
 He had had losses, and there was but little left. 
 That is twenty-seven years ago now." 
 
 I hastened to close the conversation, fearing 
 long-winded recollections of " better days." I 
 have heard such so often from one landlady and 
 another. I had not learned much. Who was 
 the original of the miniature, how it came to be 
 lying forgotten in the dusty bookcase, were still 
 mysteries; and, with a strange perversity I could 
 not have explained to myself, I shrank from put- 
 ting a direct question. 
 
 So two days more passed by. My work took 
 gradually a firmer grip upon my mind, and the
 
 PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 77 
 
 face of the miniature visited me less often. But 
 in the evening of the third day, which was Sun- 
 day, a curious thing happened. 
 
 I was returning from a stroll, and dusk was 
 falling as I reached the cottage. I had been 
 thinking of my farce, and I was laughing to my- 
 self at a situation that seemed to me comical, 
 when, passing the window of my room, I saw 
 looking out, the sweet, fair face that had become 
 so familiar to me. It stood close to the 
 latticed panes, a slim, girlish figure, clad in the 
 old-fashioned lilac-colored frock in which I 
 had imagined it on the first night of my arrival, 
 the beautiful hands clasped across the breast, 
 as then they had been folded on the lap. Her 
 eyes were gazing down the road that passes 
 through the village and goes south; but they 
 seemed to be dreaming, not seeing, and the sad- 
 ness in them struck upon one almost as a cry. 
 I was close to the window, but the hedge 
 screened me, and I remained watching, until, 
 after a minute, I suppose, though it appeared 
 longer, the figure drew back into the darkness 
 of the room and disappeared. 
 
 I entered, but the room was empty. I called,
 
 7 8 PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 
 
 but no one answered. The uncomfortable sug- 
 gestion took hold of me that I must be growing 
 a little crazy. All that had gone before I could 
 explain to myself as a mere train of thought, but 
 this time it had come to me suddenly unin- 
 vited, while my thoughts had been busy else- 
 where. This thing had appeared not to my 
 brain but to my senses. I am not a believer in 
 ghosts, but I am in the hallucinations of a 
 weak mind, and my own explanation was, in 
 consequence, not very satisfactory to myself. 
 
 I tried to dismiss the incident, but it would 
 not leave me; and later that same evening some- 
 thing else occurred that fixed it still clearer in 
 my thoughts. I had taken out two or three 
 books at random with which to amuse myself, 
 and turning over the leaves of one of them, a 
 volume of verses by some obscure poet, I found 
 its sentimental passages much scored and com- 
 mented upon in pencil, as was common fifty 
 years ago as may be common now, for your 
 Fleet Street cynic has not altered the world and 
 its ways to quite the extent that he imagines. 
 
 One poem in particular had evidently ap- 
 pealed greatly to the reader's sympathies. It
 
 PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 79 
 
 was the old, old story of the gallant who woos 
 and rides away, leaving the maiden to weep. 
 The poetry was poor, and at another time its 
 conventionality would have excited only my 
 ridicule. But, reading it in conjunction with 
 the quaint naive notes scattered about its mar- 
 gins, I felt no inclination to jeer. These hack- 
 neyed stories that we laugh at are deep pro- 
 fundities to the many who find in them some 
 shadow of their own sorrows, and she for it 
 was a woman's handwriting to whom this 
 book belonged had loved its trite verses because 
 in them she had read her own heart. This, I 
 told myself, was her story also; a common 
 enough story in life as in literature; but novel 
 to those who live it. 
 
 There was no reason for my connecting her 
 with the original of the miniature, except, per- 
 haps, a subtle relationship between the thin, 
 nervous handwriting and the mobile features; 
 yet I felt instinctively they were one and the 
 same, and that I was tracing, link by link, the 
 history of my forgotten friend. 
 
 I felt urged to probe further, and next morn- 
 ing, while my landlady was clearing away my
 
 8o PORTRAIT OF A LADY, 
 
 breakfast things, I fenced round the subject 
 once again. 
 
 " By the way," I said, " while I think of it, 
 if I leave any books or papers here behind me, 
 send them on at once. I have a knack of doing 
 that sort of thing. I suppose," I added, " your 
 lodgers often do leave some of their belongings 
 behind them." 
 
 It sounded to myself a clumsy ruse. I won- 
 dered if she would suspect what was behind it. 
 
 "Not often," she answered; "never, that I 
 can remember, except in the case of one poor 
 lady who died here." 
 
 I glanced up quickly. " In this room? " I 
 asked. 
 
 My landlady seemed troubled at my tone. 
 " Well, not exactly in this very room. We car- 
 ried her upstairs, but she died immediately. 
 She was dying when she came here. I should 
 not have taken her in had I known. So many 
 people are prejudiced against a house where 
 death has occurred, as if there were anywhere 
 it had not. It was not quite fair to us." 
 
 I did not speak for a while, and the rattle of 
 the plates and knives continued undisturbed.
 
 PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 81 
 
 " What did she leave here? " I asked at 
 length. 
 
 " Oh, just a few books and photographs, and 
 such-like small things that people bring with 
 them to lodgings," was the reply. " Her peo- 
 ple promised to send for them, but they never 
 did, and I suppose I forgot them. They were 
 not of any value." 
 
 The woman turned as she was leaving the 
 room. " It won't drive you away, sir, I hope, 
 what I have told you," she said. " It all hap- 
 pened a long while ago." 
 
 " Of course not," I answered. " It inter- 
 ested me, that was all." And the woman went 
 out, closing the door behind her. 
 
 So here was the explanation, if I chose to ac- 
 cept it. I sat long that morning, wondering to 
 myself whether things I had learned to laugh at 
 could be after all realities. And a day or two 
 afterward I made a discovery that confirmed all 
 my vague surmises. 
 
 Rummaging through this same dusty book- 
 case, I found in one of the ill-fitting drawers, 
 beneath a heap of torn and tumbled books, a 
 diary, belonging to the fifties, stuffed with many
 
 82 PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 
 
 letters and shapeless flowers, pressed between 
 stained pages; and there for the writer of 
 stories, tempted by human documents, is weak 
 in faded ink, brown and withered like the 
 flowers, I read the story I already knew. 
 
 Such a very old story it was, and so con- 
 ventional. He was an artist was ever story of 
 this type written where the hero was not an 
 artist? They had been children together, lov- 
 ing each other without knowing it till, one 
 day, it was revealed to them. Here is the 
 entry: 
 
 " May 1 8. I do not know what to say or how 
 I shall begin. Chris loves me. I have been 
 praying to God to make me worthy of him, and 
 dancing round the room in my bare feet for fear 
 of waking them below. He kissed my hands 
 and clasped them round his neck, saying they 
 were beautiful as the hands of a goddess, and he 
 knelt and kissed them again. I am holding 
 them before me and kissing them myself. I am 
 glad they are so beautiful. O God, why are you 
 so good to me? Help me to be a true wife to 
 him. Help me that I may never give him an 
 instant's pain! Oh, that I had more power of
 
 HE KISSED MY HANDS
 
 PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 83 
 
 loving, that I might love him better " and thus 
 foolish thoughts for many pages, but foolish 
 thoughts of the kind that has kept this worn 
 old world, hanging for so many ages in space, 
 from turning sour. 
 
 Later, in February, there is another entry that 
 carries on the story: 
 
 '' Chris left this morning. He put a little 
 packet into my hands at the last moment, say- 
 ing it was the most precious thing he possessed, 
 and that when I looked at it I was to think of 
 him who loved it. Of course I guessed what it 
 was, but I did not open it till I was alone in my 
 room. It was the picture of myself that he had 
 been so secret about, but oh, so beautiful! I 
 wonder if I am really as beautiful as this. But 
 I wish he had not made me look so sad. I am 
 kissing the little lips. I love them, because he 
 loved to kiss them. Oh, sweetheart! it will be 
 long before you kiss them again. Of course, it 
 was right for him to go, and I am glad he has 
 been able to manage it. He could not study 
 properly in this quiet country place, and now he 
 will be able to go to Paris and Rome, and he will 
 be great. Even the stupid people here see how
 
 84 PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 
 
 clever he is. But, oh, it will be so long before 
 I see him again, my love! my king! " 
 
 With each letter that comes from hjm simi- 
 lar foolish rhapsodies are written down, but 
 these letters, I gather as I turn the pages, grow 
 after a while colder and fewer, and a chill fear 
 that dare not be penned creeps in among the 
 words. 
 
 " March I2th. Six weeks and no letter from 
 Chris, and oh, dear, I am so* hungry for one, for 
 the last I have almost kissed to pieces. I sup- 
 pose he will write more often when he gets to 
 London. He is working hard, I know, and it 
 is selfish of me to expect him to write more 
 often; but I would sit up all night for a week 
 rather than miss writing to him. I suppose 
 men are not like that. Oh, God help me help 
 me, whatever happens! How foolish I am to- 
 night! He was always careless. I will punish 
 him for it when he conies back, but not very 
 much." 
 
 Truly enough a conventional story. 
 
 Letters do come from him after that, but ap- 
 parently they are less and less satisfactory, for 
 the diary grows angry and bitter, and the faded
 
 PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 85 
 
 writing is blotted at times with tears. Then 
 toward the end of another year there comes 
 this entry, written in a kind of strange neatness 
 and precision: 
 
 " It is all over now. I am glad it is finished. 
 I have written to him, giving him up. I have 
 told him I have ceased to care for him, and that 
 it is better we should both be free. It is best 
 that way. He would have had to ask me to re- 
 lease him, and that would have given him pain. 
 He was always gentle. Now he will be able to 
 marry her with an easy conscience, and he need 
 never know what I have suffered. She is more 
 fitted for him than I am. I hope he will be 
 happy. I think I have done the right thing." 
 
 A few lines follow, left blank, and then the 
 writing is resumed, but in a stronger, more 
 vehement hand. 
 
 "Why do I lie to myself? I hate her! I 
 would kill her if I could. I hope she will make 
 him wretched, and that he will come to hate 
 her as I do, and that she will die! Why did I 
 let them persuade me to send that lying letter? 
 He will show it to her, and she will see througTi 
 it and laugh at me. I could have held him to
 
 86 PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 
 
 his promise. He could not have got out of it. 
 What do I care about dignity, and womanliness, 
 and right, and all the rest of the canting words! 
 I want him. I want his kisses and his arms 
 about me. He is mine! He loved me once! I 
 have only given him up because I thought it 
 a fine thing to play the saint. It is only an 
 acted lie. I would rather be evil and he loved 
 me. Why do I deceive myself? I want him. 
 I care for nothing else at the bottom of my 
 heart his love, his kisses! " And, toward the 
 end: " My God, what am I saying! Have I 
 no shame, no strength? Oh, God help me! " 
 
 And there the diary closes. 
 
 I looked among the letters lying between the 
 pages of the book. Most of them were signed 
 simply " Chris " or " Christopher." But one 
 gave his name in full, and it was a name I know 
 well as that of a famous man, whose hand I have 
 often shaken. I thought of his hard-featured, 
 handsome wife, and of his great, chill place, half 
 house, half exhibition, in Kensington, filled con- 
 stantly with its smart, chattering set, among 
 whom he seemed always to be the uninvited 
 guest; of his weary face and bitter tongue, and,
 
 PORl^RAIT OF A LADY. 87 
 
 thinking thus, there rose up before me the 
 sweet, sad face of the woman of the miniature, 
 and, meeting her eyes as she smiled at me from 
 out of the shadows, I looked at her my wonder. 
 
 I took the miniature from its shelf. There 
 would be no harm now in learning her name. 
 So I stood with it in my hand till a little later 
 my landlady entered to lay the cloth. 
 
 " I tumbled this out of your bookcase," I 
 said, " in reaching down some books. It is 
 someone I know someone I have met, but I 
 cannot think where. Do you know who it is? " 
 
 The woman took it from my hand, and a faint 
 flush crossed her withered face. 
 
 " I had lost it," she answered. " I never 
 thought of looking there. It's a portrait of 
 myself, painted years ago by a friend." 
 
 I looked from her to the miniature as she 
 stood among the shadows, with the lamplight 
 falling on her face, and saw her, perhaps, for the 
 first time. 
 
 " How stupid of me," I answered. " Yes, I 
 see the likeness now."
 
 AN ITEM OF FASHIONABLE 
 INTELLIGENCE. 
 
 , PEAKING personally, I do not like 
 
 the Countess of . She is not the 
 
 type of woman I could love. I hesi- 
 tate the less giving expression to 
 this sentiment by reason of the conviction 
 
 that the Countess of would not be 
 
 unduly depressed even though the fact should 
 reach her ears. I cannot conceive the Countess 
 of 's being troubled by the opinion con- 
 cerning her of any being, human or divine, other 
 
 than the Countess of . 
 
 But, to be honest, I must admit that for the 
 
 Earl of she makes an ideal wife. She rules 
 
 him as she rules all others, relations and retain- 
 ers, from the curate to the dowager, but the 
 rod, though firmly held, is wielded with justice 
 and kindly intent. Nor is it possible to im- 
 agine the Earl of 's living as contentedly 
 
 as he does with any partner of a less dominat-
 
 FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. 89 
 
 ing turn of mind. He is one of those weak- 
 headed, strong-limbed, good-natured, childish 
 men, born to be guided in all matters, from the 
 tying of a neck-cloth to the choice of a political 
 party, by their women folk. Such men are in 
 clover when their proprietor happens to be a 
 good and sensible woman, but are to be pitied 
 when they get into the hands of the selfish or 
 the foolish. As very young men they too often 
 fall victims to bad-tempered chorus girls or to 
 middle-aged matrons of the class from which 
 Pope judged all womankind. They make capi- 
 tal husbands when well managed; treated badly, 
 they say little, but set to work, after the manner 
 of a dissatisfied cat, to find a kinder mistress, 
 
 generally succeeding. The Earl of adored 
 
 his wife, and deemed himself the most fortunate 
 of husbands, and a better testimonial than such 
 no wife should hope for. Till the day she 
 snatched him away from all other competitors, 
 and claimed him for her own, he had obeyed his 
 mother with a dutifulness bordering on folly. 
 Were the countess to die to-morrow, he would 
 be unable to tell you his mind on any single 
 subject until his eldest daughter and his still
 
 90 FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. 
 
 unmarried sister, ladies both of strong charac- 
 ter, attracted toward one another by a mutual 
 antagonism, had settled between themselves 
 which was to be mistress of him and of his 
 house. 
 
 However, there is little fear (bar accidents) 
 but that my friend the countess will continue 
 
 to direct the hereditary vote of the Earl of 
 
 toward the goal of common sense and public 
 good, guide his social policy with judgment and 
 kindness, and manage his estates witn prudence 
 and economy for many years to come. She is 
 a hearty, vigorous lady, of generous propor- 
 tions, with the blood of sturdy forbears in her 
 veins, and one who takes the same excellent 
 good care of herself that she bestows on all 
 others dependent upon her guidance. 
 
 " I remember," said the doctor we were 
 dining with the doctor in homely fashion, and 
 our wives had adjourned to the drawing room 
 to discuss servants and husbands and other do- 
 mestic matters with greater freedom, leaving 
 us to the claret and the twilight. " I remem- 
 ber when we had the cholera here it must be 
 twenty years ago now that woman gave up
 
 FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. 91 
 
 the London season to stay down here and take 
 the whole burden of the trouble upon her own 
 shoulders. I do not feel any call to praise her; 
 she liked the work, and she was in her element, 
 but it was good work for all that. She had no 
 fear. She would carry the children in her arms 
 if time pressed and the little ambulance was not 
 at hand. I have known her sit all night in a 
 room not twelve feet square, between a dying 
 man and his wife. But the thing never touched 
 her. Six years ago we had the smallpox, and 
 she went all through that in just the same way. 
 I don't believe she has ever had a day's illness 
 in her life. She will be physicking this parish 
 when my bones are rattling in my coffin, and 
 she will be laying down the laws of literature 
 long after your statue has become a familiar 
 ornament of Westminster Abbey. She's a won- 
 derful woman, but a trifle masterful." 
 
 He laughed, but I detected a touch of irrita- 
 tion in his voice. My host looked a man wish- 
 ful to be masterful himself. I do not think he 
 quite relished the calm way in which the grand 
 dame took possession of all things around her 
 himself and his work included.
 
 92 FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. 
 
 " Did you ever hear the story of the mar- 
 riage? " he asked. 
 
 "No," I replied; "whose marriage? The 
 earl's? " 
 
 " I should call it the countess'/' he answered. 
 " It was the gossip of the county when I first 
 came here; but other curious things have hap- 
 pened among us to push it gradually out of 
 memory. Most people, I really believe, have 
 
 quite forgotten that the Countess of once 
 
 served behind a baker's counter." 
 
 " You don't say so! " I exclaimed. The re- 
 mark, I admit, sounds weak when written down; 
 the most natural remarks always do. 
 
 " It's a fact," said the doctor, " though she 
 does not suggest the shop-girl, does she? But 
 then I have known countesses, descended in a 
 direct line from William the Conqueror, who 
 did, so things balance one another. Mary, 
 
 Countess of , was, thirty years ago, Mary 
 
 Sewell, daughter of a Taunton linen draper. 
 The business, profitable enough as country busi- 
 nesses go, was inadequate for the needs of the 
 Sewell family, consisting, as I believe it did, of 
 seven boys and eight girls. Mary, the young-
 
 FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. 93 
 
 est, as soon as her brief schooling was over, had 
 to shift for herself. She seems to have tried her 
 hand at one or two things, finally taking service 
 with a cousin, a baker and confectioner, who 
 was doing well in Oxford Street. She must 
 have been a remarkably attractive girl; she's a 
 handsome woman now. I can picture that soft 
 creamy skin when it was fresh and smooth, and 
 the West of England girls run naturally to dim- 
 ples, and eyes that glisten as though they had 
 been just washed in morning dew. The shop 
 did a good trade in ladies' lunches it was the 
 glass of sherry and sweet biscuit period. I ex- 
 pect they dressed her in some neat-fitting gray 
 or black dress, with short sleeves, showing her 
 plump arms, such as girls wear who move among 
 pastry, and that she flitted around the marble- 
 topped tables, smiling, and looking cool and 
 
 sweet. There the present Earl of , then 
 
 young Lord C , fresh from Oxford, and new 
 
 to the dangers of London bachelordom, first 
 saw her. He had accompanied some female 
 relativea to the photographers, and, hotels and 
 restaurants being deemed impossible in those 
 days for ladies, had taken them to Sewell's to
 
 94 FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. 
 
 lunch. Mary Sewell waited upon the party; 
 and now, as many of that party as are above 
 ground wait upon Mary Sewell. 
 
 " He showed good sense in marrying her," 
 I said; " I admire him for it." The doctor's 
 sixty-four Lafitte was excellent. I felt chari- 
 tably inclined toward all men and women, even 
 toward earls and countesses. 
 
 " I don't think he had much to do with it," 
 laughed the doctor, " beyond being, like Barkis, 
 ' willing.' It's a queer story; some people pro- 
 fess not to believe it, but those who know her 
 ladyship best think it just the story that must 
 be true, because it is so characteristic of her. 
 And besides, I happen to know that it is true." 
 
 " I should like to hear it," I said. 
 
 " I am going to tell it you," said the doctor, 
 lighting a fresh cigar, and pushing the box to- 
 ward me. 
 
 I will leave you to imagine the lad's suddenly 
 developed appetite for decantered sherry at six - 
 pence a glass, and the familiar currant bun of 
 our youth. He lunched at Sewell's shop, he 
 tea'd at Sewell's, occasionally he*dined at Sew-
 
 FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. 95 
 
 ell's, off cutlets, followed by assorted pastry. 
 Possibly merely from fear lest the affair should 
 reach his mother's ears, for he was neither 
 worldly-wise nor vicious, he made love to Mary 
 under an assumed name; and, to do the girl jus- 
 tice, it must be remembered that she fell in love 
 with and agreed to marry plain Mr. John Rob- 
 inson, son of a colonial merchant, a gentleman, 
 as she must have seen, and a young man of easy 
 means, but of a position not so very much su- 
 perior to her own. The first intimation she 
 received that her lover was none other than 
 Lord C , the future Earl of , was vouch- 
 safed her during a painful interview with his 
 lordship's mother. 
 
 " I never knew it, madam," asserted Mary, 
 standing by the window of the drawing room 
 above the shop, " upon my word of honor, I 
 never knew it." 
 
 " Perhaps not," answered her ladyship coldly. 
 " Would you have refused him if you had? " 
 
 " I cannot tell," was the girl's answer; " it 
 would have been different from the begin- 
 ning. He courted me and asked me to be his 
 wife."
 
 9 6 FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. 
 
 " We won't go into all that," interrupted the 
 other; " I am not here to defend him. I do not 
 say he acted well. The question is, how much 
 will compensate you for your natural disap- 
 pointment? " 
 
 Her ladyship prided herself upon her blunt- 
 ness and practicability. As she spoke she took 
 her check-book out of her reticule, and, opening 
 it, dipped her pen into the ink. I am inclined 
 to think that the flutter of that check-book was 
 her ladyship's mistake. The girl had common 
 sense, and must have seen the difficulties in the 
 way of a marriage between the heir to an earl- 
 dom and a linen-draper's daughter; and had the 
 old lady been a person of discernment, the in- 
 terview might have ended more to her satisfac- 
 tion. She made the error of judging the world 
 by one standard, forgetting there are indi- 
 vidualities. Mary Sewell came from a West of 
 England stock that, in the days of Drake and 
 Frobisher, had given more than one able-bodied 
 pirate to the service of the country, and that in- 
 sult of the check-book put the fight into her. 
 Her lips closed with a little snap, and the fear 
 fell from her.
 
 FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. 97 
 
 " I am sorry I don't see my way to obliging 
 your ladyship," she said. 
 
 " What do you mean, girl? " asked the elder 
 woman. 
 
 " I don't mean to be disappointed," answered 
 the girl; but she spoke quietly and respectfully. 
 " We have pledged our word to one another. 
 If he is a gentleman, as I know he is, he will 
 keep his, and I shall keep mine." 
 
 Then her ladyship began to talk reason, as 
 people do when it is too late. She pointed out 
 to the girl the difference of social position, and 
 explained to her the miseries that come from 
 marrying out of one's station. But the girl by 
 this time had got over her surprise, and per- 
 haps had begun to reflect that, in any case, a 
 countess-ship was worth fighting for. The best 
 of women are influenced by such considerations. 
 
 " I am not a lady, I know," she replied 
 quietly, " but my people have always been hon- 
 est folk, well known, and I shall try to learn. 
 I'm not wishing to speak disrespectfully of my 
 betters, but I was in service before I came here, 
 ma'am, as a lady's maid, in a place where I saw 
 much of what is called society. I think I can
 
 9& FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. 
 
 be as good a lady as some I know, if not 
 better." 
 
 The countess began to grow angry again. 
 " And who do you think will receive you," she 
 cried; " a girl who has served in a pastry-cook 
 shop?" 
 
 " Lady L came from behind the bar," 
 
 Mary answered, " and that's not so much better. 
 
 And the Duchess of C , I have heard, was a 
 
 ballet girl, but nobody seems to remember it. 
 I don't think the people whose opinion is worth 
 having will object to me for very long." The 
 girl was beginning to rather enjoy the contest. 
 
 " You profess to love my son," cried the 
 countess fiercely, " and you are going to ruin his 
 life. You will drag him down to your own level." 
 
 The girl must have looked rather fine at that 
 moment; I should dearly love to have been 
 present. 
 
 " There will be no dragging down, my lady," 
 she replied, " on either side. I do love your son 
 very dearly. He is one of the kindest and best 
 of gentlemen. But I am not blind, and what- 
 ever amount of cleverness there may be between 
 us, belongs chiefly to me. I shall make it my
 
 I AM SORRY I DON'T SEE MY WAY TO OBLIGING YOUR LADYSHT?
 
 FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. 99 
 
 duty to fit myself for the position of his wife, 
 and to help him in his work. You need not 
 fear, my lady; I shall be a good wife to him, and 
 he shall never regret it. You might find him a 
 richer wife, a better educated wife, but you will 
 never find him a wife who will be more devoted 
 to him and to his interests." 
 
 That practically brought the scene to a close. 
 The countess had sense enough to see that she 
 was only losing ground by argument. She rose 
 and replaced her check-book in her bag. 
 
 " I think, my good girl, you must be mad," 
 she said; "if you will not allow me to do any- 
 thing for you, there's an end to the matter. I 
 did not come here to quarrel with you. My son 
 knows his duty to me and to his family. You 
 must take your own course and I must take 
 mine." 
 
 " Very well, my lady," said Mary Sewell, 
 holding the door open for her ladyship to pass 
 out; " we shall see who wins." 
 
 But however brave a front Mary Sewell may 
 have maintained before the enemy, I expect she 
 felt pretty limp when thinking matters calmly 
 over after her ladyship's departure. She knew
 
 100 FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. 
 
 her lover well enough to guess that he would be 
 as wax in the firm hands of his mother; while 
 she herself would not have a chance of opposing 
 her influence against those seeking to draw him 
 away from her. Once again she read through 
 the few schoolboy letters he had written her, 
 and then looked up at the framed photograph 
 that hung above the mantelpiece of her little 
 bedroom. The face was that of a frank, pleas- 
 ant-looking young fellow, lightened by eyes 
 somewhat large for a man, but spoiled by a pain- 
 fully weak mouth. The more Mary Sewell 
 thought, the more sure she felt in her own mind 
 that he loved her, and had meant honestly by 
 her. Did the matter rest with him, she might 
 
 reckon on being the future Countess of ; 
 
 but, unfortunately for her, the person to be con- 
 sidered was not Lord C , but the present 
 
 Countess of . From childhood, through 
 
 boyhood into manhood, it had never once oc- 
 curred to Lord C to dispute a single com- 
 mand of his mother's, and his was not the type 
 of brain to readily receive new ideas. If she 
 was to win in the unequal contest it would have 
 to be by art, not by strength. She sat down
 
 FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. IOI 
 
 and wrote a letter which, under all the circum- 
 stances, was a model of diplomacy. She knew 
 that it would be read by the countess, and, writ- 
 ing it, she kept both mother and son in mind. 
 She made no reproaches, and indulged in but 
 little sentiment. It was the letter of a woman 
 who could claim rights, but who only asked 
 for courtesy. It stated her wish to see him 
 alone and obtain from his own lips the assur- 
 ance that he wished their engagement to cease. 
 " Do not fear," Mary Sewell wrote, " that I 
 shall be any annoyance to you. My own pride 
 would not let me urge you to* marry me against 
 your desire, and I care for you too much to 
 cause you any pain. Assure me with your own 
 lips that you wish our engagement to be at an 
 end, and I shall release you without another 
 word." 
 
 The family were in town, and Mary sent her 
 letter by a trusty hand. The countess read it 
 with huge satisfaction, and, resealing it, gave it 
 herself into her son's hands. It promised a 
 happy solution of the problem. In imagina- 
 tion she had all the night been listening to a 
 vulgar breach of promise case. She herself had
 
 102 FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. 
 
 been submitted to a most annoying cross-ex- 
 amination by a pert barrister. Her son's 
 assumption of the name of Robinson had been 
 misunderstood and severely commented upon 
 by the judge. A sympathetic jury had awarded 
 thumping damages; and for the next six 
 months the family title would be a peg on 
 which music-hall singers and comic journalists 
 
 would hang their ribald jokes. Lord C 
 
 read the letter, flushed, and dutifully handed it 
 back to his mother. She made pretense to 
 read it as for the first time, and counseled him 
 to accord the interview. 
 
 " I am so glad," she said, " that the girl is 
 taking the matter sensibly. We must really do 
 something for her in the future, when every- 
 thing is settled. Let her ask for me, and then 
 the servants will fancy she's a lady's maid or 
 something of that sort come after a place, and 
 won't talk." 
 
 So that evening Mary Sewell, addressed 
 by the butler as " young woman," was ushered 
 into the small drawing room that connects the 
 library of No. Grosvenor Square with the 
 other reception rooms. The countess, now all 
 amiability, rose to greet her.
 
 FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. 103 
 
 " My son will be here in a moment," she ex- 
 plained; " he has informed me of the 'purport of 
 your letter. Believe me, my dear Miss Seweil, 
 no one can regret his thoughtless conduct more 
 than 1 do. But young men will be young men, 
 and they do not stop to reflect that what may 
 be a joke to them may be taken quite seriously 
 by others." 
 
 l< I don't regard the matter as a joke, my 
 lady," replied Mary somewhat curtly. 
 
 " Of course not, my dear," added the count- 
 ess, " that's what I'm saying. It was very 
 wrong of him altogether. But with your 
 pretty face, you will not, I am sure, have long to 
 wait for a husband; we must see what we can do 
 for you." 
 
 The countess certainly lacked tact; it must 
 have handicapped her exceedingly. 
 
 " Thank you," answered the girl, " but I pre- 
 fer to choose my own." 
 
 Fortunately or the interview might have 
 ended in another quarrel the cause of all the 
 trouble at this moment entered the room, and 
 the countess, whispering a few final words of in- 
 struction to him as she passed out, left them 
 together.
 
 104 FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. 
 
 Mary took a chair in the center of the room, 
 at equal distance from both doors. Lord 
 C , finding any sort of a seat uncomfort- 
 able under the circumstances, preferred to 
 stand with his back to the mantelpiece. Dead 
 silence was maintained for a few seconds, and 
 then Mary, drawing the daintiest of handker- 
 chiefs from her pocket, began to cry. The 
 countess must have been a poor diplomatist, 
 or she might have thought of this; or she 
 may have remembered her own appearance 
 on the rare occasions when she herself, a 
 big, raw-boned girl, had attempted the soft- 
 ening influence of tears, and have attached 
 little importance to the possibility. But when 
 these soft, dimpled women cry, and cry quietly, 
 it is another matter. Their eyes grow brighter, 
 and the tears, few and far between, lie like dew- 
 drops on a rose leaf. 
 
 Lord C was as tender-hearted a lout as 
 
 ever lived. In a moment he was on his knees 
 with his arm round the girl's waist, pouring out 
 such halting words of love and devotion as came 
 to his unready brain, cursing his fate, his earl- 
 dom, and his mother, and assuring Mary that
 
 FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. 105 
 
 his only chance of happiness lay in his making 
 her his countess. 
 
 Had Mary liked to say the word at that mo- 
 ment, he would have caught her to his arms, 
 and defied the whole world for the time being. 
 But Mary was a very practical young woman, 
 and there are difficulties in the way of handling 
 a lover, who, however ready he may be to do 
 your bidding so long as your eyes are upon him, 
 is liable to be turned from his purpose so soon 
 as another influence is substituted for your own. 
 His lordship suggested an immediate secret 
 marriage; but you cannot run out into the 
 street, knock up a clergyman, and get mar- 
 ried on the spot, and Mary knew that the mo- 
 ment she was gone his lordship's will would 
 revert to his mother's keeping. Then his lord- 
 ship suggested flight, but flight required money, 
 and the countess knew enough to keep his lord- 
 ship's purse in her own hands. Despair seized 
 upon his lordship. 
 
 "It's no good," he cried, " it will end in my 
 marrying her! " 
 
 " Who's she? " exclaimed Mary, somewhat 
 quickly.
 
 106 FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. 
 
 His lordship explained the position. The 
 family estates were heavily encumbered. It 
 was deemed advisable that his lordship should 
 marry money, and money, in the person of the 
 only daughter of rich and ambitious parvenus, 
 had offered itself or, to speak more correctly, 
 had been offered. 
 
 " What's she like? " asked Mary. 
 
 " Oh, she's nice enough," was the reply, 
 " only I don't care for her and she doesn't care 
 for me. It won't be much fun for either of us," 
 and his lordship laughed dismally. 
 
 " How do you know she doesn't care for 
 you? " asked Mary. A woman may be critical 
 of her lover's shortcomings, but at the very 
 least, he is good enough for every other woman. 
 
 " Well, she happens to care for somebody 
 else," answered his lordship; "she told me so 
 herself." 
 
 That would account for it. " And is she will- 
 ing to marry you? " inquired Mary. 
 
 His lordship shrugged his shoulders. " Oh, 
 well, you know, her people want it," he replied. 
 
 In spite of her trouble the girl could not help 
 a laugh. These young swells seemed to have
 
 FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. 107 
 
 but small wills of their own. Her ladyship, on 
 the other side of the door, grew nervous. It 
 was the only sound she had been able to hear. 
 
 " It's deuced awkward," explained his lord- 
 ship, " when you're well, when you are any- 
 body, you know. You can't do as you like. 
 Things are expected of you, and there's such a 
 lot to be considered." 
 
 Mary rose and clasped her pretty dimpled 
 hands, from which she had drawn her gloves, 
 behind his neck. 
 
 " You do love me, Jack? " she said, looking 
 up into his face. 
 
 For answer, the lad hugged her to him very 
 tightly, and there were tears in his eyes. 
 
 " Look here, Mary," he cried; " if I could only 
 get rid of my position, and settle down with 
 you as a country gentleman, I'd do it to-mor- 
 row. D the title, it's going to be the curse 
 
 of my life!" 
 
 Perhaps, in that moment, Mary also wished 
 that the title were at the bottom of the sea, and 
 that her lover were only the plain Mr. John 
 Robinson she had thought him. These big, 
 stupid men are often very lovable in spite of, or
 
 Io8 FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. 
 
 because of, their weakness. They appeal to the 
 mother side of a woman's heart, and that is the 
 biggest side, in all good women. 
 
 Suddenly, however, the door opened. The 
 countess appeared, and sentiment flew ou'i. 
 Lord C , releasing Mary, sprang back, look- 
 ing like a guilty schoolboy. 
 
 " I thought I heard Miss Sewell go out," said 
 her ladyship in the icy tones that had never lost 
 their power of making her son's heart freeze 
 within him. " I want to see you when you are 
 free." 
 
 " I shan't be long," stammered his lordship. 
 " Mary Miss Sewell is just going." 
 Mary waited without moving until the count- 
 ess had left and closed the door behind her. 
 Then she turned to her lover, and spoke in 
 quick, low tones. 
 
 " Give me her address the girl they want 
 you to marry! " 
 
 " What are you going to do," asked his 
 lordship. 
 
 " I don't know," answered the girl, " but I'm 
 going to see her."
 
 FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. 109 
 
 She scribbled the name down, and then said, 
 looking the boy squarely in the face: 
 
 ' Tell me frankly, Jack, do you want to marry 
 me, or do you not? " 
 
 " You know I do, Mary," he answered, and 
 his eyes spoke stronger than his words. " If I 
 weren't a silly ass, there would be none of this 
 trouble. But I don't know how it is I say to 
 myself I'll do a thing, but the mater talks and 
 talks and " 
 
 " I know," interrupted Mary, with a smile. 
 " Don't argue with her, fall in with all her VJCWF, 
 and pretend to agree with her." 
 
 " If you could only think of some plan " 
 
 said his lordship, catching at the hope of her 
 words; " you are so clever." 
 
 " I am going to try," answered Mary, " and 
 if I fail, you must run off with me, even if you 
 have to do it right before your mother's eyes." 
 
 What she meant was, " I shall have to run 
 off with you," but she thought it better to put 
 it the other way about. 
 
 Mary found her involuntary rival a meek, 
 gentle little lady, as much under the influence
 
 HO FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. 
 
 of her blustering father as was Lord C un- 
 der that of his mother. What took place at 
 the interview one can only surmise; but certain 
 it is that the two girls, each for her own ends, 
 undertook to aid and abet one another. 
 
 Much to the surprised delight of their re- 
 spective parents, there came about a change in 
 the attitude hitherto assumed toward one 
 another by Miss Clementina Hodskiss and 
 
 Lord C . All objections to his lordship's 
 
 unwilling attentions were suddenly withdrawn 
 by the lady. Indeed, so swift to come and go 
 are the whims of woman, his calls were actually 
 encouraged, especially \vhen, as generally hap- 
 pened, they coincided with the absence from 
 home of Mr. and Mrs. Hodskiss. Quite as re- 
 markable was the newborn desire of Lord 
 
 C toward Miss Clementina Hodskiss. 
 
 Mary's name was never mentioned, and the sug- 
 gestion of immediate marriage was listened to 
 without remonstrance. Wiser folk would have 
 puzzled their brains, but both her ladyship and 
 ex-contractor Hodskiss were accustomed to 
 find all things yield to their wishes. The count- 
 ess saw visions of a rehabilitated estate, and
 
 SHE SCRIBBLED THE NAME DOWN
 
 FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. m 
 
 Clementina's father dreamed of a peerage, 
 secured by the influence of aristocratic connec- 
 tions. All that the young folks stipulated for 
 (and on that point their firmness was super- 
 natural) was that the marriage should be quiet, 
 almost to the verge of secrecy. 
 
 " No beastly fuss," his lordship demanded; 
 " let it be somewhere in the country, and no 
 mob! " and his mother, thinking she understood 
 his reason, patted his cheek affectionately. 
 
 " I should like to go down to Aunt Jane's and 
 be married quietly from there," explained Miss 
 Hodskiss to her father. 
 
 Aunt Jane resided on the outskirts of a small 
 Hampshire village, and " sat under " a clergy- 
 man famous throughout the neighborhood for 
 having lost the roof to his mouth. 
 
 " You can't be married by that old fool," 
 thundered her father. Mr. Hodskiss always 
 thundered; he thundered even his prayers. 
 
 " He christened me," urged Miss Clementina. 
 
 " And Lord knows what he called you. 
 Nobody can understand a word he says." 
 
 " I'd like him to marry me," reiterated Miss 
 Clementina.
 
 112 FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. 
 
 Neither her ladyship nor the contractor liked 
 the idea. The latter in particular had looked 
 forward to a big function, chronicled at length 
 in all the newspapers. But after all, the mar- 
 riage was the essential thing, and perhaps, hav- 
 ing regard to some foolish love passages that 
 had happened between Clementina and a cer- 
 tain penniless naval lieutenant, ostentation 
 might be out of place. 
 
 So in due course Clementina departed for 
 Aunt Jane's, accompanied only by her maid. 
 
 Quite a treasure was Miss Hodskiss' new 
 maid. " A clean, wholesome girl," said of her 
 Contractor Hodskiss, who cultivated affability 
 toward the lower orders; "knows her place, 
 and talks sense. You keep that girl, Clemmy." 
 
 "Do you think she knows enough?" haz- 
 arded the maternal Hodskiss. 
 
 " Quite sufficient for any decent woman," re- 
 torted the contractor. " When Clemmy wants 
 painting and stuffing it will be time enough for 
 her to think about getting one of your ' Ach 
 Himmels ' or ' Man Dieus.' ' 
 
 " I like the girl myself immensely," agreed 
 Clementina's mother; " you can trust her, and 
 she doesn't give herself airs."
 
 FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. 113 
 
 Her praises reached even the countess, suffer- 
 ing severely at the moment from the tyranny of 
 an elderly Fraulein. 
 
 " I must see this treasure," thought the 
 countess to herself. " I am tired of these for- 
 eign minxes." 
 
 But no matter at what cunning hour her 
 ladyship might call, the " treasure " always hap- 
 pened for some reason or other to be abroad. 
 
 " Your girl is always out when I come," 
 laughed the countess. " One would fancy there 
 was some reason for it." 
 
 " It does seem odd," agreed Clementina, with 
 a slight flush. 
 
 Miss Hodskiss herself showed rather than 
 spoke her appreciation of the girl. She seemed 
 unable to move or think without her. Not 
 
 even from the interviews with Lord C was 
 
 the maid always absent. 
 
 The marriage it was settled should be by 
 license. Mrs. Hodskiss made up her mind at 
 first to run down and see to the preliminaries, 
 but really when the time arrived it hardly 
 seemed necessary to take that trouble. The 
 ordering of the whole affair was so very simple, 
 and the " treasure " appeared to understand the
 
 H4 FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. 
 
 business most thoroughly, and to be willing to 
 take the whole burden upon her own shoulders. 
 It was- not, therefore, until the evening before 
 the wedding that the Hodskiss family arrived 
 in force, filling Aunt Jane's small dwelling to its 
 utmost capacity. The swelling figure of the 
 contractor, standing beside the tiny porch, com- 
 pelled the passer-by to think of the doll's house 
 in which the dwarf resides during fair-time, 
 ringing his own bell out of his own first-floor 
 
 window. The countess and Lord C were 
 
 staying with her ladyship's sister, the Hon. 
 Mrs. J , at G Hall, some ten miles dis- 
 tant, and were to drive over in the morning. 
 The then Earl of was in Norway, salmon- 
 fishing. Domestic events did not interest him. 
 
 Clementina complained of a headache after 
 dinner, and went to bed early. The " treasure " 
 also was indisposed. She seemed worried and 
 excited. 
 
 " That girl is as eager about the thing," re- 
 marked Mrs. Hodskiss, " as though it was her 
 own marriage." 
 
 In the morning Clementina was still suffer- 
 ing from her headache, but asserted her ability
 
 FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. H5 
 
 to go through the ceremony, provided every- 
 body would keep away, and not worry her. 
 The " treasure " was the only person she felt she 
 could bear to have about her. Half an hour be- 
 fore it was time to start for church her mother 
 looked her up again. She had grown still paler, 
 if possible, during the interval, and also more 
 nervous and irritable. She threatened to go 
 to bed and stop there if she was not left quite 
 alone; she almost turned her mother out of the 
 room, locking the door behind her. Mrs. 
 Hodskiss had never known her daughter to be 
 like this before. 
 
 The others went on, leaving her to follow in 
 the last carriage with her father. The con- 
 tractor, forwarned, spoke little to her. Only 
 once he had occasion to ask her a question, and 
 then she answered in a strained, unnatural voice. 
 She appeared, so far as could be seen under her 
 heavy veil, to be crying. 
 
 " Well, this is going to be a cheerful wed- 
 ding," said Mr. Hodskiss, and lapsed into sulki- 
 ness. 
 
 The wedding was not so quiet as had been 
 anticipated. The village had got scent of it
 
 Il6 FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. 
 
 and had spread itself upon the event, while half 
 
 the house party from G Hall had insisted 
 
 on driving over to take part in the proceedings. 
 The little church was better filled than it had 
 been for many a long year past. 
 
 The presence of the stylish crowd unnerved 
 the ancient clergyman, long unaccustomed to 
 the sight of a strange face; and the first sound 
 of the ancient clergyman's voice unnerved the 
 stylish crowd. What little articulation he pos- 
 sessed entirely disappeared; no one could under- 
 stand a word he said. He appeared to be 
 uttering sounds of distress. The ancient gen- 
 tleman's infliction had to be explained in low 
 asides, and it also had to be explained why such 
 a one had been chosen to perform the ceremony. 
 
 " It was a whim of Clementina's," whispered 
 her mother. " Her father and myself were 
 married from here, and he christened her. The 
 dear child's full of sentiment. I think it so 
 nice of her." 
 
 Everybody agreed it was charming, but 
 wished it were over. The general effect was 
 weird in the extreme. 
 
 Lord C spoke up fairly well, but the
 
 FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. 117 
 
 bride's responses were singularly indistinct, the 
 usual order of things being thus reversed. The 
 story of a naval lieutenant was remembered, and 
 added to; and some of the more sentimental of 
 the women began to cry in sympathy. 
 
 In the vestry things assumed a brighter tone. 
 There was no lack of witnesses to sign the 
 register. The verger pointed out to them the 
 place, and they wrote their names, as people in 
 such cases do, without stopping to read. Then 
 it occurred to someone that the bride had not 
 yet signed. She stood apart, with her veil still 
 down, and appeared to have been forgotten. 
 Encouraged, she came forward meekly, and 
 took the pen from the hand of the verger. The 
 countess came and stood behind her. 
 
 " Mary," wrote the bride, in a hand that 
 looked as though it ought to have been firm, 
 but which was not. 
 
 " Dear me," said the countess, " I never knew 
 there was a Mary in your name. How differ- 
 ently you write when you write slowly." 
 
 The bride did not answer, but followed with 
 " Susannah." 
 
 " Why, what a lot of names you must have,
 
 n8 FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. 
 
 my dear! " exclaimed the countess. " When 
 are you going to get to the ones we all know? " 
 
 " Ruth," continued the bride without answer- 
 ing. 
 
 Breeding is not always proof against strong 
 emotion. The countess snatched the bride's 
 veil from her face, and Mary Susannah Ruth 
 Sewell stood before her, flushed and trembling, 
 but looking none the less pretty because of that. 
 At this point the crowd came in useful. 
 
 " I am sure your ladyship does not wish a 
 scene," said Mary, speaking low. " The thing 
 is done." 
 
 " The thing can be undone, and will be," re- 
 torted the countess, in the same tone. " You, 
 you " 
 
 " My wife, don't forget that, mother," said 
 Lord C , coming between them, and slip- 
 ping Mary's hand on to his arm. " We are 
 both sorry to have had to go about the thing in 
 this roundabout way; but we wanted to avoid a 
 fuss. I think we had better be getting away. 
 I'm afraid Mr. Hodskiss is going to be noisy." 
 
 The doctor poured himself out a glass of
 
 FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. 1 19 
 
 claret, and drank it off. His throat must have 
 been dry. 
 
 " And what became of Clementina? " I 
 asked. " Did the naval lieutenant, while the 
 others were at church, dash up in a post-chaise 
 and carry her off? " 
 
 " That's what ought to have happened, for 
 the whole thing to be in keeping," agreed the 
 doctor. " I believe, as a matter of fact, she did 
 marry him eventually, but not till some years 
 later, after the contractor had died." 
 
 " And did Mr. Hodskiss make a noise in the 
 vestry?" I persisted. The doctor never will 
 finish a story. 
 
 " I can't say for certain," answered my host; 
 " I only saw the gentleman once. That was at 
 a shareholder's meeting. I should incline to the 
 opinion that he did." 
 
 " I suppose the bride and bridegroom slipped 
 out as quietly as possible and drove straight 
 off," I suggested. 
 
 " That would have been the sensible thing 
 for them to do," agreed the doctor. 
 
 " But how did she manage about her travel- 
 ing frock? " I continued. " She could hardly
 
 120 FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. 
 
 have gone back to her Aunt Jane's and changed 
 her things." The doctor has no mind for 
 minutiae. 
 
 " I cannot tell you about all that," he 
 replied. " I think I mentioned that Mary was 
 a practical girl. Possibly she had thought of 
 these details." 
 
 " And did the countess take the matter 
 quietly? " I asked. I like a tidy story, where 
 everybody is put into his or her proper place at 
 the end. Your modern romancer leaves half his 
 characters lying about just anyhow. 
 
 " That also I cannot tell you for certain," 
 answered the doctor; " but I give her credit for 
 
 so much sense. Lord C was of age, and 
 
 with Mary at his elbow quite knew his own 
 mind. I believe they traveled for two or three 
 years. The first time I myself set eyes on the 
 countess (nee Mary Sewell) was just after the 
 late Earl's death. I thought she looked a 
 countess, every inch of her, but then I had not 
 heard the story. I mistook the dowager for the 
 housekeeper."
 
 DICK DUNKERMAN'S CAT. 
 
 IICHARD DUNKERMAN and I 
 had been old schoolfellows if a gen- 
 tleman belonging to the Upper 
 Sixth, arriving each morning in a 
 " topper " and a pair of gloves, and " a discredit 
 to the Lower Fourth," in a Scotch cap, can by 
 any manner of means be classed together; and 
 though in those early days a certain amount of 
 coldness existed between us, originating in a 
 poem composed, and sung on occasions, by my- 
 self in commemoration of an alleged painful inci- 
 dent connected with a certain breaking-up day, 
 and which, if I remember rightly, ran: 
 
 Dicky, Dicky Dunk, 
 Always in a funk, 
 Drank a glass of sherry wine, 
 And went home roaring drunk, 
 
 and kept alive by his brutal criticism of the 
 same, expressed with the bony part of the knee, 
 yet in after life we came to know and like each
 
 122 DICK DUNKERMAN'S CAT. 
 
 other better. I drifted into journalism, while 
 he for years had been an unsuccessful barrister 
 and dramatist; but one spring, to the astonish- 
 ment of us all, he brought out the play of the 
 season, a somewhat impossible little comedy, 
 but full of homely sentiment and belief in human 
 nature. It was about a couple of months after 
 its production that he first introduced me to 
 " Pyramids, Esquire." 
 
 I was in love at the time. Her name was, I 
 think, Naomi, and I wanted to talk to somebody 
 about her. Dick had a reputation for taking an 
 intelligent interest in other men's love affairs. 
 He would let a lover rave by the hour to him, 
 taking brief notes the while in a bulky red- 
 covered volume labeled " Commonplace Book." 
 Of course everybody knew that he was using 
 them merely as raw material for his dramas, but 
 we did not mind that so long as he would only 
 listen. I put on my hat and went round to his 
 chambers. 
 
 We talked about indifferent matters for a 
 quarter of an hour or so, and then I launched 
 forth upon my theme. I had exhausted her 
 beauty and goodness, and was well into my own
 
 DICK DUNKERMAN'S CAT. 123 
 
 feelings the madness of my ever imagining I 
 had loved before, the utter impossibility of my 
 ever caring for any other woman, and my desire 
 to die breathing her name before he made a 
 move. I thought he had risen to reach down, 
 as usual, the " Commonplace Book," and so 
 waited; but, instead, he went to the door and 
 opened it, and in glided one of the largest and 
 most beautiful black tom-cats I have ever seen. 
 It sprang on Dick's knee with a soft " cur-roo," 
 and sat there, upright, watching me; and I 
 went on with my tale. 
 
 After a few minutes Dick interrupted me 
 with : 
 
 " I thought you said her name was Naomi? " 
 
 " So it is," I replied. " Why? " 
 
 " Oh, nothing," he answered; " only just now 
 you referred to her as Enid." 
 
 This was remarkable, as I had not seen Enid 
 for years, and had quite forgotten her. Some- 
 how it took the glitter out of the conversation. 
 A dozen sentences later Dick stopped me again 
 with: 
 
 " Who's Julia? " 
 
 I began to get irritated. Julia, I remem-
 
 J24 DICK DUXKERMAN'S CAT, 
 
 bered, had been cashier in a city restaurant, and 
 had, when I was little more than a boy, almost 
 inveigled me into an engagement. I found my- 
 self getting hot with the recollection of the 
 spooney rhapsodies I had hoarsely poured into 
 her powder-streaked ear while holding her 
 flabby hand across the counter. 
 
 " Did I really say ' Julia '?" I answered, some- 
 what sharply, " or are you joking? " 
 
 " You certainly alluded to her as Julia," he re- 
 plied mildly. " But never mind; you go on as 
 you like; I shall know who you mean." 
 
 But the flame was dead within me. I tried to 
 rekindle it, but every time I glanced up and met 
 the green eyes of the black Tom it flickered out 
 again. I recalled the thrill that had penetrated 
 my whole being when Naomi's hand had acci- 
 dentally touched mine in the conservatory, and 
 wondered whether she had done it on purpose. 
 I thought how good and sweet she was to that 
 irritatingly silly old frump, her mother, and won- 
 dered if it really were her mother, or only hired. 
 I pictured her crown of gold-brown hair as I had 
 last seen it with the sunlight kissing its wanton 
 waves, and felt I would like to be quite sure that 
 it were all her own.
 
 DICK DUNKERMAN'S CAT. 125 
 
 Once I clutched the flying skirts of my enthu- 
 siasm with sufficient firmness to remark that in 
 my own private opinion a good woman was 
 more precious than rubies; adding immediately 
 afterward, the words escaping me unconsciously 
 before I was aware even of the thought, " pity 
 it's so difficult to tell 'em." 
 
 Then I gave it up, and sat trying to remember 
 what I had said to her the evening before, and 
 hoping I had not committed myself. 
 
 Dick's voice roused me from my unpleasant 
 reverie. 
 
 ' No," he said, " I thought you would not be 
 able to. None of them can." 
 
 " None of them can what? " I asked. Some- 
 how I was feeling angry with Dick, and with 
 Dick's cat, and with myself and most other 
 things. 
 
 " Why, talk love or any other kind of senti- 
 ment before old Pyramids here? " he replied, 
 stroking the cat's soft head as it rose and 
 arched its back. 
 
 " What's the confounded cat got to do with 
 it? " I snapped. 
 
 " That's just what I can't tell you," he an-
 
 126 DICK DUNKERMAN'S CAT. 
 
 swered; " but it's very remarkable. Old Leman 
 dropped in here the other evening, and began in 
 his usual style about Ibsen and the destiny of 
 the human race and the Socialistic ideal and all 
 the rest of it you know his way. Pyramids 
 sat on the edge of the table there and looked at 
 him, just as he sat looking at you a few minutes 
 ago, and in less than a quarter of an hour Leman 
 had come to the conclusion that society would 
 do better without ideals and that the destiny of 
 the human race was in all probability the dust 
 heap. He pushed his long hair back from his 
 eyes and looked, for the first time in his life, 
 quite sane. ' We talk about ourselves,' he said, 
 ' as though we were the end of creation. I get 
 tired listening to myself sometimes. Pah!' he 
 continued, ' for all we know the human race may 
 die out utterly and another insect take our 
 place; as possibly we pushed out and took the 
 place of a former race of beings. I wonder if 
 the ant tribe may not be the future inheritors of 
 the earth. They understand combination, and 
 already have an extra sense that we lack. If in 
 the courses of evolution they grow bigger in 
 brain and body, they might become powerful
 
 DICK DUNKERMAN'S CAT. 127 
 
 rivals. Who knows? ' Curious to hear old 
 Leman talking like that, wasn't it? " 
 
 " What made you call him ' Pyramids '? " I 
 asked of Dick. 
 
 " I don't know," he answered. " I suppose 
 because he looked so old. The name came to 
 me." 
 
 I leaned across, and looked into the great 
 green eyes; and the creature, never winking, 
 never blinking, looked back into mine, until the 
 feeling came to me that I was being drawn down 
 into the very wells of Time. It seemed as 
 though the panorama of the ages must have 
 passed in review before those expressionless 
 orbs all the loves and hopes and desires of 
 mankind; all the everlasting truths that had 
 been found false; all the eternal faiths dis- 
 covered to save, until it was discovered they 
 damned. The strange black creature grew and 
 grew till it seemed to fill the room, and Dick 
 and I to be but shadows floating in the air. 
 
 I forced from myself a laugh, that only in 
 part, however, broke the spell; and inquired of 
 Dick how he had acquired possession of it. 
 " It came to me," he answered, " one right,
 
 128 DICK DUNKERMAN'S CAT. 
 
 six months ago. I was down on my luck at 
 the time. Two of my plays, on which I had 
 built great hopes, had failed, one on top of the 
 other you remember them and it appeared 
 absurd to think that any manager would ever 
 look at anything of mine again. Old Walcott 
 had just told me that he did not consider it right 
 of me under all the circumstances to hold Liz- 
 zie any longer to her engagement, and that I 
 ought to go away and give her a chance of for- 
 getting me, and I had agreed with him. I was 
 alone in the world, and heavily in debt. Alto- 
 gether, things seemed about as hopeless as they 
 could be; and I don't mind confessing to you 
 now that I had made up my mind to blow out 
 my brains that very evening. I had loaded my 
 revolver, and it lay before me on the desk. My 
 hand was toying with it when I heard a faint 
 scratching at the door. I paid no attention at 
 first, but it grew more persistent, and at length, 
 to stop the faint noise, which excited me more 
 than I could account for, I rose and opened the 
 door, and it walked in. 
 
 " He perched himself upon the corner of my 
 desk beside the loaded pistol, and sat there bolt
 
 DICK DUNKERMAN'S CAT. 129 
 
 upright looking at me; and I. pushing back my 
 chair, sat looking at him; and there came a let- 
 ter telling me that a man of whose name I had 
 heard had been killed by a cow in Melbourne, 
 and that under his will a legacy of three thou- 
 sand pounds fell into the estate of a distant rela- 
 tive of my own, who had died peacefully and 
 utterly insolvent eighteen months previously, 
 leaving me his soul heir and representative ; and 
 I put the revolver back into the drawer." 
 
 " Do you think Pyramids would come and 
 stop with me for a week? " I asked, reaching 
 over to stroke the cat as it lay softly purring on 
 Dick's knee. 
 
 " Maybe he will, some day," replied Dick, in a 
 low voice; but before the answer came I 
 know not why I had regretted the jesting 
 words. 
 
 " I came to talk to him as though he were a 
 human creature," continued Dick, " and to dis- 
 cuss things with him. My last play I regarded 
 as a collaboration; indeed it is far more his than 
 mine." 
 
 I should have thought Dick mad had not the 
 cat been sitting there before me with its eyes
 
 13 DICK DUNKERMAN'S CAT. 
 
 looking into mine. As it was I only grew more 
 interested in his tale. 
 
 " It was rather a cynical play as I first wrote 
 it/' he went on, " a truthful picture of a certain 
 corner of society as I saw and knew it. From 
 an artistic point of view I felt it was good; from 
 the box-office standard it was doubtful. I drew 
 it from my desk on the third evening after 
 Pyramid's advent, and read it through. He sat 
 on the arm of the chair and looked over the 
 pages as I turned them. 
 
 " It was the best thing I had ever written. 
 Insight into life ran through every line. I 
 found myself reading it again with delight. 
 Suddenly a voice beside me said: 
 
 "'Very clever, my boy; very clever, indeed. 
 If you would just turn it topsey-turvy, change all 
 those bitter, truthful speeches into noble senti- 
 ments; make your Under-Secretary for Foreign 
 Affairs (who never has been a popular charac- 
 ter) die in the last act instead of the Yorkshire- 
 man, and let your bad woman be reformed by 
 her love for the hero and go off somewhere by 
 herself and be good to the poor in a black frock, 
 the piece might be worth putting on the stage/
 
 DICK DUNKERMAN'S CAT. 131 
 
 " I turned indignantly to see who was speak- 
 ing. The opinions sounded like those of a the- 
 atrical manager. No one was in the room but 1 
 and the cat. No doubt I had been talking to 
 myself; but the voice was strange to me. 
 
 " ' Be reformed by her love for the hero! ' I 
 retorted contemptuously, for I was unable to 
 grasp the idea that I was arguing only with my- 
 self, ' why it's his mad passion for her that ruins 
 his life.' 
 
 " 'And will ruin the play with the great B. P.,' 
 returned the other voice. ' The British dram- 
 atic hero has no passion, but a pure and respect- 
 ful admiration for an honest, hearty English 
 girl pronounced " gey-url." You don't know 
 the canons of your art.' 
 
 ' And besides,' I persisted, unheeding the 
 interruption, ' women born and bred and soaked 
 for thirty years in an atmosphere of sin don't 
 reform.' 
 
 " ' Well, this one's got to, that's all/ was the 
 sneering reply, ' let her hear an organ.' 
 
 " ' But as an artist ' I protested. 
 
 " ' You will be always unsuccessful/ was the 
 rejoinder; ' my dear fellow, you and your plays,
 
 13 2 DICK DUNKERMAN'S CAT. 
 
 artistic or inartistic, will be forgotten in a very 
 few years hence. You give the world what it 
 wants and the world will give you what you 
 want. Please, if you wish to live.' 
 
 " So, with Pyramids beside me day by day, I 
 re-wrote the play; and whenever I felt a thing 
 to be utterly impossible and false I put it down 
 with a grin. And every character I made to 
 talk clap-trap sentiment while Pyramids purred ; 
 and I took care that every one of my puppets 
 did that which was right in the eyes of the lady 
 with the lorgnettes in the second row of the 
 dress circle; and old Hewson says the play will 
 run five hundred nights. 
 
 " But what is worst," concluded Dick, " is 
 that I am not ashamed of myself, and that I 
 seem content." 
 
 " What do you think the animal is? " I asked 
 with a laugh; "an evil spirit?" For it had 
 passed into the next room and so out through 
 the open window, and its strangely still green 
 eyes no longer drawing mine toward them, I felt 
 my common sense returning to me. 
 
 " You have not lived with it for six months." 
 answered Dick quietly, " and felt its eyes for-
 
 DICK DUNKERMAN'S CAT. 133 
 
 ever on you, as I have. And I am not the only 
 one. You know Canon Whycherly, the great 
 preacher? " 
 
 " My knowledge of modern church history is 
 not extensive," I replied. " I know him by 
 name, of course. What about him? " 
 
 " He was curate in the East End," continued 
 Dick, " and for ten years he labored, poor and 
 unknown, leading one of those noble, heroic 
 lives that here and there men do yet live, even in 
 this age. Now he is the prophet of the fashion- 
 able up-to-date Christianity of South Kensing- 
 ton, drives to his pulpit behind a pair of thor- 
 ough-bred Arabs, and his waistcoat is taking to 
 itself the curved line of prosperity. He was in 
 here the other morning on behalf of Prin- 
 cess . They are giving a performance of 
 
 one of my plays in aid of the Destitute Vicars' 
 Fund." 
 
 "And did Pyramids discourage him?" I 
 asked, with perhaps the suggestion of a sneer. 
 
 "No," answered Dick; "so far as I could 
 judge it approved the scheme. The point of 
 the matter is that the moment Whycherly came 
 into the room the cat walked over to him and
 
 134 DICK DUNKERMAN'S CAT. 
 
 rubbed itself affectionately against his legs. He 
 stooped and stroked it. 
 
 " ' Oh, so it's come to you, has it? ' he said, 
 with a curious smile. 
 
 " There was no need for any further explana- 
 tion between us. I understood what lay behind 
 those few words." 
 
 I lost sight of Dick for some time, though I 
 heard a good deal of him, for he was rapidly 
 climbing into the position of the most success- 
 ful dramatist of the day, and Pyramids I had for- 
 gotten all about, until one afternoon, calling 
 on an artist friend who had lately emerged from 
 the shadows of starving struggle into the sun- 
 shine of popularity, I saw a pair of green eyes 
 that seemed familiar gleaming at me from 
 a dark corner of the studio. 
 
 " Why, surely," I exclaimed, crossing over to 
 examine the animal more closely; " why, yes, 
 you've got Dick Dunkerman's cat ! " 
 
 He raised his face from the easel and glanced 
 across at me. 
 
 "Yes," he said; "we can't live on ideals;"
 
 DICK DUNKERMAN'S CAT. 135 
 
 and I, remembering, hastened to change the 
 conversation. 
 
 Since then I have met Pyramids in the rooms 
 of many friends of mine. They give him differ- 
 ent names, but I am sure it is the same cat; I 
 know those green eyes. He always brings them 
 luck, but they are never quite the same men 
 again afterward. 
 
 Sometimes I sit wondering if I hear his 
 scratching at the door.
 
 REGINALD BLAKE, FINANCIER 
 AND CAD. 
 
 HE advantage of literature over life 
 is that its characters are clearly de- 
 fined and act consistently. Nature, 
 always inartistic, takes pleasure in 
 creating the impossible. Reginald Blake was 
 as typical a specimen of the well-bred cad as one 
 could hope to find between Piccadilly Circus and 
 Hyde Park Corner. Vicious without passion, 
 and possessing brain without mind, existence 
 presented to him no difficulties, while his pleas- 
 ures bro ight him no pains. His morality was 
 bounded by the doctor on the one side and the 
 magistrate on the other. Careful never to out- 
 rage the decrees of either, he was at forty-five 
 still healthy, though stout; and had achieved the 
 not too easy task of amassing a fortune while 
 avoiding all risk of Holloway. He and his wife 
 Edith (nee Eppington) were as ill-matched a 
 couple as could be conceived by any dram- 
 
 136
 
 REGINALD BLAKE, FINANCIER AND CAD. 1 37 
 
 atist seeking material for a problem play. As 
 they stood before the altar on their wedding- 
 morn, they might have been taken as symboliz- 
 ing satyr and saint. More than twenty years 
 his junior, beautiful with the beauty of a Raph- 
 ael's Madonna, his every touch of her seemed a 
 sacrilege. Yet once in his life Mr. Blake played 
 the part of a great gentleman; Mrs. Blake, on 
 the same occasion, contenting herself with a 
 singularly mean role mean even for a woman 
 in love. 
 
 The affair, of course, had been a marriage of 
 convenience. Blake, to do him justice, had 
 made no pretense to anything beyond admira- 
 tion and regard. Few things grow monotonous 
 sooner than irregularity. He would tickle his 
 jaded palate with respectability, and try for a 
 change the companionship of a good woman. 
 The girl's face drew him, as the moonlight holds 
 a man who, bored by the noise, turns from a 
 heated room to press his forehead to the win- 
 dow-pane. Accustomed to bid for what he 
 wanted, he offered his price. The Eppington 
 family was poor and numerous. The girl, bred 
 up to the false notions of duty inculcated by a
 
 I 38 REGINALD BLAKE, FINANCIER AND CAD. 
 
 narrow conventionality, and, feminine-like, half 
 in love with martyrdom for its own sake, let her 
 father bargain for a higher price, and then sold 
 herself. 
 
 To a drama of this description a lover is nec- 
 essary, if the complications are to be of interest 
 to the outside world. Harry Sennett, a pleas- 
 ant looking enough young fellow, in spite of his 
 receding chin, was possessed, perhaps, of more 
 good intention than sense. Under the influence 
 of Edith's stronger character, he was soon per- 
 suaded to meekly acquiesce in the proposed 
 arrangement. Both succeeded in convincing 
 themselves that they were acting nobly. The 
 tone of the farewell interview, arranged for the 
 eve of the wedding, would have been fit and 
 proper to the occasion had Edith been a mod- 
 ern Joan of Arc about to sacrifice her own hap- 
 piness on the altar of a great cause; as the girl 
 was merely selling herself into ease and luxury, 
 for no higher motive than the desire to enable 
 a certain number of more or less worthy rela- 
 tives to continue living beyond their legitimate 
 means, the sentiment was perhaps exaggerated. 
 Many tears were shed, and many everlasting
 
 REGINALD BLAKE, FINANCIER AND CAD. 139 
 
 good-bys spoken, though, seeing that Edith's 
 new home would be only a few streets off, and 
 that of necessity their social set would continue 
 to be the same, more experienced persons might 
 have counseled hope. Three months after the 
 marriage they found themselves side by side at 
 the same dinner table; and after a little melo- 
 dramatic fencing with what they were pleased 
 to regard as fate, they accommodated them- 
 selves to the customary positions. 
 
 Blake was quite aware that Sennett had been 
 Edith's lover. So had half a dozen other men, 
 some younger, some older, than himself. He 
 felt no more embarrassment at meeting them 
 than, standing on- the pavement outside the 
 Stock Exchange, he would have experienced 
 greeting his brother jobbers after a settling day 
 that had transferred a fortune from their hands 
 into his. Sennett> in particular, he liked and en- 
 couraged. Our whole social system, always a 
 mystery to the philosopher, owes its existence 
 to the fact that few men and women possess suf- 
 ficient intelligence to be interesting in them- 
 selves. Blake liked company, but not much 
 company liked Blake. Young Sennett, how-
 
 140 REGINALD BLAKE, FINANCIER AND CAD. 
 
 ever, could always be relied upon to break the 
 tediousness of the domestic duologue. A com- 
 mon love of sport drew the two men together. 
 Most of us improve upon closer knowledge, and 
 so they came to find good in one another. 
 
 " That is the man you ought to have mar- 
 ried," said Blake one night to his wife, half 
 laughingly, half seriously, as they sat alone, 
 listening to Sennett's departing footsteps echo- 
 ing upon the deserted pavement. " He's a 
 good fellow not a mere money-grubbing ma- 
 chine like me." 
 
 And a week later Sennett, sitting alone with 
 Edith, suddenly broke out with: 
 
 " He's a better man than I am, with all my 
 highfalutin' talk; and, upon my soul, he loves 
 you. Shall I go abroad? " 
 
 " If you like," was the answer. 
 
 " What would you do? " 
 
 " Kill myself," replied the other, with a laugh, 
 '' or run away with the first man that asked 
 me." 
 
 So Sennett stayed on. 
 
 Blake himself had made the path easy to 
 them. There was little need for either fear or
 
 THERE WAS LITTLE NEED FOR EITHER FEAR OR CAUTION
 
 REGINALD BLAKE, FINANCIER AND CAD. 141 
 
 c.atition. Indeed, their safest course lay in reck- 
 lessness, and they took it. To Sennett the 
 house was always open. It was Blake himself 
 who, when unable to accompany his wife, would 
 suggest Sennett as a substitute. Club friends 
 shrugged their shoulders. Was the man com- 
 pletely under his wife's thumb, or tired of her; 
 was he playing some devil's game of his own? 
 To most of his acquaintances the latter explana- 
 tion seemed the more plausible. 
 
 The gossip, in due course, reached the pa- 
 rental home. Mrs. Eppington shook the vials 
 of her wrath over the head of her son-in-law. 
 The father, always a cautious man, felt inclined 
 to blame his child for her want of prudence. 
 
 " She'll ruin everything," he said. " Why 
 the devil can't she be careful? " 
 
 " I believe the man is deliberately plotting to 
 get rid of her," said Mrs. Eppington. " I shall 
 tell him plainly what I think." 
 
 " You're a fool, Hannah," replied her hus- 
 band, allowing himself the license of the domes- 
 tic hearth. " If you are right, you will only pre- 
 cipitate matters; if you are wrong, you will tell 
 him what there is no need for him to know.
 
 I4 2 REGINALD BLAKE, FINANCIER AND CAD. 
 
 Leave the matter to me. I can sound him with- 
 out giving anything away, and meanwhile you 
 talk to Edith." 
 
 So matters were arranged, but the interview 
 between mother and daughter hardly improved 
 the position. Mrs. Eppington was convention- 
 ally moral; Edith had been thinking for her- 
 self, and thinking in a bad atmosphere. Mrs. 
 Eppington grew angry at the girl's callousness. 
 
 " Have you no sense of shame? " she cried. 
 
 " I had once," was Edith's reply, " before I 
 came to live here. Do you know what this 
 house is for me, with its gilded mirrors, its 
 couches, its soft carpets? Do you know what I 
 am, and have been for two years? " 
 
 The elder woman rose with a frightened, 
 pleading look upon her face, and the other 
 stopped and turned away toward the window 
 
 " We all thought it for the best," continued 
 Mrs. Eppington meekly. 
 
 The girl spoke wearily, without looking 
 round. 
 
 " Oh! every silly thing that was ever done 
 was done for the best. / thought it would be 
 for the best myself. Everything would be so
 
 REGINALD BLAKE, FINANCIER AND CAD. 143 
 
 simple if only we were not alive. Don't let's 
 talk any more. All you can say is quite right." 
 
 The silence continued for a while, the Dres- 
 den china clock on the mantelpiece ticking 
 louder and louder, as if to say, " I, Time, am 
 here. Do not make your plans forgetting me, 
 little mortals; I change your thoughts and 
 wills. You are but my puppets." 
 
 " Then what do you intend to do? " de- 
 manded Mrs. Eppington at length. 
 
 " Intend! Oh, the right thing of course! 
 We all intend that. I shall send Harry away, 
 with a few well-chosen words of farewell, learn 
 to love my husband, and settle down to a life 
 of quiet domestic bliss. Oh, it's easy enough 
 to intend!" 
 
 The girl's face wrinkled with a laugh that 
 ageid her. In that moment it was a hard, evil 
 face, and with a pang the elder woman thought 
 of that other face, so like, yet so unlike the 
 sweet, pure face of a girl that had given to a 
 sordid home its one touch of nobility. As under 
 the lightning's flash we see the whole arc of the 
 horizon, so Mrs. Eppington looked and saw her 
 child's life. The gilded, over-furnished room
 
 144 REGINALD BLAKE, FINANCIER AND CAD. 
 
 vanished. She and a big-eyed, fair-haired child, 
 the only one of her children she had ever under- 
 stood, were playing wonderful games in the twi- 
 light, among the shadows of a tiny attic. Now 
 she was the wolf, devouring Edith, who was 
 Red Riding Hood, with kisses. Now Cinder- 
 ella's prince, now both her wicked sisters. But 
 in the favorite game of all Mrs. Eppington was 
 a beautiful princess, bewitched by a wicked 
 dragon, so that she seemed to be an old, worn 
 woman. But curly headed Edith fought the 
 dragon, represented by the three-legged rock- 
 ing-horse, and slew him with much shouting 
 and the toasting fork. Then Mrs. Eppington 
 became again a beautiful princess, and went 
 away with Edith back to her own people. 
 
 In this twilight hour the misbehavior of the 
 " General," the importunity of the family 
 butcher, and the airs assumed by Cousin Jane, 
 who kept two servants, were forgotten. 
 
 The games ended. The little curly head 
 would be laid against her breast " for five min- 
 utes, love," while the restless little brain framed 
 the endless question that children are forever 
 asking in all its thousand forms, " What is life,
 
 REGINALD BLAKE, FINANCIER AND CAD. 145 
 
 mother? I am very little, and I think and think, 
 until I grow frightened. Oh, mother, tell me 
 what is life." 
 
 Had she dealt with these questions wisely? 
 Might it not have been better to have treated 
 them more seriously? Could life, after all, be 
 ruled by maxims learned from copybooks? She 
 had answered as she had been answered in her 
 own far back days of questioning. Might 
 it not have been better had she thought for 
 herself? 
 
 Suddenly Edith was kneeling on the floor be- 
 side her. 
 
 " I will try to be good, mother." 
 
 It was the old baby cry, the cry of us all, chil- 
 dren that we are, till Mother Nature kisses us 
 and bids us go to sleep. 
 
 Their arms were round each other now, and 
 so they sat, mother and child once more. And 
 the twilight of the old attic, creeping westward 
 from the east, found them again. 
 
 The masculine duet had more result, but was 
 not conducted with the finesse that Mr. Epping- 
 ton, who prided himself on his diplomacy, had 
 intended. Indeed, so evidently ill at ease was
 
 146 REGINALD BLAKE, FINANCIER AND CAD. 
 
 that gentleman, when the moment came for 
 talk, and so palpably were his pointless remarks 
 mere efforts to delay an unpleasant subject, 
 that Blake, always direct, bluntly, though not 
 ill-naturedly, asked him, " How much? " 
 
 Mr. Eppington was disconcerted. 
 
 " It's not that at least that's not what I 
 have come about," he answered confusedly. 
 
 "What have you come about?" 
 
 Inwardly Mr. Eppington cursed himself for 
 a fool, for the which he was, perhaps, not alto- 
 gether without excuse. He had meant to act 
 the part of a clever counsel, acquiring informa- 
 tion while giving none; by a blunder he found 
 himself in the witness box. 
 
 " Oh, nothing, nothing! " was the feeble re- 
 sponse; " I merely looked in to see how Edith 
 was." 
 
 " Much the same as at dinner last night, when 
 you were here," answered Blake. " Come, out 
 with it." 
 
 It seemed the best course now, and Mr. Ep- 
 pington took the plunge. 
 
 " Don't you think," he said, unconsciously 
 glancing about the room to be sure that they
 
 SUDDENLY EDITH WAS KNEELING ON THE FLOOR BESIDE HER
 
 REGINALD BLAKE, FINANCIER AND CAD. 147' 
 
 were alone, " that young Sennett is a little too 
 much about the house? " 
 
 Blake stared at him. 
 
 " Of course we know it is all right as nice 
 a young fellow as ever lived and Edith and 
 all that. Of course, it's absurd, but " 
 
 "But what?" 
 
 " Well, people will talk." 
 
 " What do they say? " 
 
 The other shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 Blake rose. He had an ugly look when 
 angry, and his language was apt to be coarse. 
 
 " Tell them to mind their own business, and 
 leave me and my wife alone." That was the 
 sense of what he said; he expressed himself at 
 greater length, and in stronger language. 
 
 " But, my dear Blake," urged Mr. Epping- 
 ton, " for your own sake, is it wise? There was 
 a sort of boy and girl attachment between them 
 nothing of any moment, but all that gives 
 color to gossip. Forgive me, but I am her 
 father; I do not like to hear my child talked 
 about." 
 
 " Then don't open your ears to the chatter of 
 a pack of fools," replied his son-in-law roughly.
 
 I4 8 REGINALD BLAKE, FINANCIER AND CAD. 
 
 But the next instant a softer expression passed 
 over his face, and he laid his hanid on the older 
 man's arm. 
 
 " Perhaps there are many more, but there's 
 one good woman in the world," he said, " and 
 that's your daughter. Come and tell me that 
 the Bank of England is getting shaky on its 
 legs, and I'll listen to you." 
 
 But the stronger the faith the deeper strike 
 the roots of suspicion. Blake said no further 
 word om the subject, and Sennett was as wel- 
 come as before. But Edith, looking up sud- 
 denly, would sometimes find his eyes fixed on 
 her with a troubled look, as of some dumb crea- 
 ture trying to understand; and often he would 
 slip out of the house of an evening by himself, 
 returning home hours afterward, tired and mud- 
 stained. 
 
 He made attempts to show his affection. 
 This was the most fatal thing he could have 
 done. Ill-temper, ill-treatment even, she might 
 have borne. His clumsy caresses, his foolish, 
 halting words of tenderness, became a horror 
 to her. She wondered whether to laugh or to 
 strike at his upturned face. His tactless devo-
 
 REGINALD BLAKE, FINANCIER AND CAD. 149 
 
 tion filled her life as with some sickly perfume, 
 stifling her. If only she could be by herself for 
 a little while to think! But he was with her 
 night and day. There were times when, as he 
 would cross the room toward her, he grew mon- 
 strous until he towered above her a formless 
 thing such as children dream of. And she 
 would sit with her lips tight pressed, clutching 
 the chair lest she should start up screaming. 
 
 Her only thought was to escape from him. 
 One day she hastily packed a few necessaries 
 in a small handbag, and crept unperceived 
 from the house. She drove to Charing Cross, 
 but the Continental Express did not leave for 
 an hour, and she had time to think. 
 
 Of what use was it? Her slender stock of 
 money would soon be gone; how could she 
 live? He would find her and follow her. It 
 was all so hopeless! 
 
 Suddenly a fierce desire of life seized hold of 
 her, the angry answer of her young blood to 
 despair. Why should she die, never having 
 known what it was to live? Why should she 
 prostrate herself before this Juggernaut of 
 other people's respectability? Joy called to her;
 
 15 REGINALD BLAKE, FINANCIER AND CAD. 
 
 only her own cowardice stayed her from stretch- 
 ing forth her hand and gathering it. She re- 
 turned home a different woman, for hope had 
 come to her. 
 
 A week later the butler entered the dining 
 room and handed Blake a letter addressed to 
 him in his wife's handwriting. He took it with- 
 out a word, as though he had been expecting 
 it. It simply told him that she had left him 
 forever. 
 
 The world is small, and money commands 
 many services. Sennett had gone out for a 
 stroll; Edith was left in the tiny salon of their 
 appartement at Fecamp. It was the third day 
 of their arrival in the town. The door was 
 opened and closed, and Blake stood before her. 
 
 She rose frightened, but by a motion he re- 
 assured her. There was a quiet dignity about 
 the man that was strange to her. 
 
 " Why have you followed me? " she asked. 
 
 " I want you to return home." 
 
 " Home! " she cried. " You must be mad. 
 Do you not know " 
 
 He interrupted her vehemently. " I know
 
 REGINALD BLAKE, FINANCIER AND CAD. 151 
 
 nothing. I. wish to know nothing. Go back to 
 London at once. I have made everything 
 right; no one suspects. I shall not be there; 
 you will never see meiagain; and you will have 
 an opportunity of undoing your mistake our 
 mistake." 
 
 She listened. Hers was not a great nature, 
 and the desire to obtain happiness without pay- 
 ing the price was strong upon her. As for his 
 good name, what could that matter, he argued. 
 People would only say that he had gone back to 
 the evil from which he had emerged, and few 
 would be surprised. His life would go on 
 much as it had done, and. she would only be 
 pitied. 
 
 She quite understood his plan; it seemed 
 mean of her to accept his proposal, and she 
 argued feebly against it. But he overcame all 
 her objections. For his own sake, he told her, 
 he would prefer the scandal to be connected 
 with his name rather than with that of his wife. 
 As he unfolded his plan, she began to feel that 
 in acquiescing she was conferring a favor. It 
 was not the first deception he had arranged for 
 the public, and he appeared to be half in love
 
 I5 2 REGINALD BLAKE, FINANCIER AND CAD. 
 
 with his own cleverness. She even found herself 
 laughing at his mimicry of what this acquaint- 
 ance and that would say. Her spirits rose; the 
 play that might have been a painful drama 
 seemed turning out an amusing farce. 
 
 The thing settled, he rose to go, and held out 
 his hand. As she looked up into his face, some- 
 thing about the line of his lips smote upon her. 
 
 " You will be well rid of me," she said. " I 
 have brought you nothing but trouble." 
 
 " Oh, trouble! " he answered; " if that were 
 all! A man can bear trouble." 
 
 "What else?" she asked. 
 
 His eyes traveled aimlessly about the room. 
 " They taught me a lot of things when I was a 
 boy," he said, " my mother and others they 
 meant well which, as I grew older, I discov- 
 ered to be lies; and so I came to think that 
 nothing good was true, and that everything 
 and everybody was evil. And then " 
 
 His wandering eyes came round to her, and 
 he broke off abruptly. " Good-by," he said, 
 and the next moment he was gone. 
 
 She sat wondering for a while what he had
 
 REGINALD BLAKE, FINANCIER AND CAD. 153 
 
 meant. Then Sennett returned, and the words 
 went out of her head. 
 
 A good deal of sympathy was felt for Mrs. 
 Blake. The man had a charming wife; he 
 might have kept straight; but, as his friends 
 added, " Blake was always a cad."
 
 THE MINOR POET'S STORY. 
 
 T doesn't suit you at all," I answered. 
 " You're very disagreeable," said 
 she; " I shan't ever ask your advice 
 again." 
 
 " Nobody," I hastened to add, " would look 
 well in it. You, of course, look less awful in it 
 than any other woman would; but it's not your 
 style." 
 
 " He means," explained the Minor Poet, 
 " that the thing itself, not being pre-eminently 
 beautiful, it does not suit is not in agreement 
 with you. The contrast between you and any- 
 thing approaching the ugly or the commonplace 
 is too glaring to be aught else than displeasing." 
 " He didn't say it," replied the Woman of the 
 World; " and besides it isn't ugly, it's the very 
 latest fashion." 
 
 " Why is it," asked the Philosopher, " that 
 women are such slaves to fashion? They think 
 clothes, they talk clothes, they read clothes; yet 
 154
 
 THE MINOR POET'S STORY. 155 
 
 they have never understood clothes. The pur- 
 pose of dress, after the primary object of warmth 
 has been secured, is to adorn, to beautify the 
 particular wearer. Yet not one woman in a 
 
 thousand stops to consider what colors will go 
 best with her complexion, what cut will best 
 hide the defects or display the advantages of 
 her figure. If it be the fashion, she must wear 
 it; and so we have pale-faced girls looking 
 ghastly in shades suitable to dairymaids, and 
 dots waddling about in costumes fit and proper 
 to six-footers. It is as if crows insisted on wear- 
 ing cockatoos' feathers on their heads, and rab- 
 bits ran about with peacocks' tails fastened 
 behind them."
 
 156 THE MINOR POET'S STORY. 
 
 li And are not you men every bit as foolish? " 
 retorted the Girton Girl; " sack coats come into 
 fashion, and dumpy little men trot up and down 
 in them, looking like butter tubs on legs. You 
 go about in July melting under frock coats and 
 chimney-pot hats, and, because it is the stylish 
 thing to do, you all play tennis in stiff shirts and 
 stand-up collars, which is idiotic. If fashion de- 
 creed that you should play cricket in a pair of 
 top-boots and a diver's helmet, you would play 
 cricket in a pair of top-boots and a diver's hel- 
 met, and dub every sensible fellow who didn't 
 a cad. It's worse in you than in us; men are 
 supposed to think for themselves, and to be 
 capable of it, the womanly woman isn't." 
 
 " Big women and little men look well in noth- 
 ing," said the Woman of the World. " Poor 
 Emily was five foot ten and a half, and never 
 looked an inch under seven foot whatever she 
 wore. Empires came into fashion, and the poor 
 child looked like the giant's baby in a panto- 
 mime. We thought the Greek might help her, 
 but it only suggested a Crystal Palace statue 
 tied up in a sheet, and tied up badly; and when 
 puff-sleeves and shoulder-capes were in and
 
 THE MINOR POET'S STORY. 
 
 '57 
 
 Teddy stood up behind her at a water party and 
 sang ' Under the Spreading Chestnut-tree/ she 
 took it as a personal insult and boxed his ears. 
 Few men liked to be seen with her; and I'm sure 
 George proposed to her partly with the idea of 
 
 saving himself the expense of a step-ladder she 
 reaches down his books for him from the top 
 shelf." 
 
 " I," said the Minor Poet, " take up the po- 
 sition of not wanting to waste my brain upon 
 the subject. Tell me what to wear, and I will 
 wear it, and there is an end of the matter. If
 
 158 THE MINOR POET'S STORY. 
 
 Society says, ' Wear blue shirts and white col- 
 lars,' I wear blue shirts and white collars. If 
 she says, ' The time has now come when hats 
 should be broad-brimmed/ I take unto myself a 
 broad-brimmed hat. The question does not 
 
 interest me sufficiently for me to argue it. It 
 is your fop who refuses to follow fashion. He 
 wishes to attract attention to himself by being 
 peculiar. A novelist whose books pass un- 
 noticed gains distinction by designing his own 
 necktie; and many an artist, following the line 
 of least resistance, learns to let his hair grow 
 instead of learning to paint."
 
 THE MINOR POET'S STORY. 159 
 
 " The fact is," remarked the Philosopher, 
 " we are the mere creatures of fashion. Fashion 
 dictates to us our religion, our morality, our 
 affections, our thoughts. In one age success- 
 ful cattle-lifting is a virtue; a few hundred years 
 later company-promoting takes its place as a 
 respectable and legitimate business. In Eng- 
 land and America Christianity is fashionable, in 
 Turkey, Mohammedanism; and ' the crimes of 
 Clapham are chaste in Martaban.' In Japan a 
 woman dresses down to the knees, but would be 
 considered immodest if she displayed bare arms. 
 In Europe it is legs that no pure-minded 
 woman is supposed to possess. In China we 
 worship our mother-in-law and despise our wife; 
 in England we treat our wife with respect, and 
 regard our mother-in-law as the bulwark of 
 comic journalism. The stone age, the iron age, 
 the age of faith, the age of infidelism, the phil- 
 osophic age, what are they but the passing 
 fashions of the world? It is fashion, fashion, 
 fashion wherever we turn. Fashion waits be- 
 side our cradle to lead us by the hand through 
 life. Now literature is sentimental, now hope- 
 fully humorous, now psychological, now new-
 
 160 THE MINOR POET'S STORY. 
 
 womanly. Yesterday's pictures are the laugh- 
 ing stock of the up-to-date artist of to-day, and 
 to-day's art will be sneered at to-morrow. Now 
 it is fashionable to be democratic, to pretend 
 that no virtue or wisdom can exist outside cor- 
 duroy, and to abuse the middle classes. One 
 season we go slumming, and the next we are all 
 socialists. We think we are thinking; we are 
 simply dressing ourselves up in words we do 
 not understand for the gods to laugh at us." 
 
 " Don't be pessimistic," retorted the Minor 
 Poet; " pessimism is going out. You call such 
 changes fashions; I call them the footprints of 
 progress. Each phase of thought is an advance 
 upon the former, bringing the footsteps of the 
 many nearer to the landmarks left by the mighty 
 climbers of the past upon the mountain paths of 
 truth. The crowd that was satisfied with ' The 
 Derby Day ' now appreciates Millet. The pub- 
 lic that were content to wag their heads to 
 ' The Bohemian Girl ' have made Wagner 
 popular." 
 
 " And the play lovers, who stood for hours 
 to listen to Shakspere," interrupted the Phi- 
 losopher, " now crowd to the music halls."
 
 THE MINOR POET'S STOXY. 
 
 161 
 
 " The track sometimes descends for a little 
 way, but it will wind upward again," returned 
 the Poet. " The music hall itself is improving; 
 I consider it the duty of every intellectual man 
 to visit such places. The mere influence of his 
 
 presence helps to elevate the tone of the per- 
 formance. I often go myself! " 
 
 " I was looking," said the Woman of the 
 World, " at some old illustrated papers of thirty 
 years ago, showing the men dressed in those 
 very absurd trousers, so extremely roomy about 
 the waist and so extremely tight about the 
 ankles. I recollect poor papa in them ; I always 
 used to long to fill them out by pouring in saw- 
 dust at the top."
 
 1 62 THE MINOR POET'S STORY. 
 
 " You mean the peg-top period," I said. " I 
 remember them distinctly myself, but it cannot 
 be more than three-and-twenty years ago at the 
 outside." 
 
 " That is very nice of you," replied the Wo- 
 man of the World, " and shows more tact than 
 I should have given you credit for. It could, 
 as you say, have been only twenty-three years 
 ago. I know I was a very little girl at the time. 
 I think there must be some subtle connection 
 between clothes and thought. I cannot im- 
 agine men in those trousers and Dundreary 
 whiskers talking as you fellows are talking now, 
 any more than I could conceive of a woman in 
 a crinoline and a poke bonnet smoking a cigar- 
 ette. I think it must be so, because dear 
 mother used to be the most easy-going woman 
 in the world in her ordinary clothes, and would 
 let papa smoke all over the house. But about 
 once every three weeks she would put on a 
 hideous, old-fashioned black silk dress, that 
 looked as if Queen Elizabeth must have slept 
 in it during one of those seasons when she used 
 to go about sleeping anywhere; and then we all 
 had to sit up. ' Look out, ma's got her black 
 silk dress on ! ' came to be a regular formula.
 
 THE MINOR POET'S STORY. 163 
 
 We could always make papa take us out for a 
 walk or drive by whispering it to him." 
 
 " I can never bear to look at those pictures 
 of bygone fashions," said the Old Maid; " I see 
 the bygone people in them, and it makes me feel 
 as though the faces that we love were only pass- 
 ing fashions with the rest. We wear them for 
 a little while upon our hearts, and think so 
 much of them, and then there comes a time 
 when we lay them by, and forget them, and 
 newer faces take their place, and we are satis- 
 fied. It seems so sad." 
 
 " I wrote a story some years ago," remarked 
 the Minor Poet, " about a young Swiss guide, 
 who was betrothed to a laughing little French 
 peasant girl." 
 
 " Named Suzette," interrupted the Girton 
 Girl. " I know her. Go on." 
 
 " Named Jeanne," corrected the Poet; " the 
 majority of laughing French girls, in fiction, are 
 named Suzette, I am well aware. But this girl's 
 mother's family was English. She was christ- 
 ened Jeanne, after an aunt Jane, who lived in 
 Birmingham, and from whom she had ex- 
 pectations." 
 
 " I beg your pardon," apologized the Girton
 
 164 
 
 THE MINOR POET'S STORY. 
 
 Girl; " I was not aware of that fact. What hap- 
 pened to her? " 
 
 " One morning, a few days before the date 
 fixed for the wedding," said the Minor Poet, 
 
 " she started off to pay a visit to a relative liv- 
 ing in the village the other side of the moun- 
 tain. It was a dangerous track, climbing half- 
 way up the mountain before it descended again, 
 and skirting more than one treacherous slope;
 
 THE MIKOR POET'S STORY. 165 
 
 but the girl was mountain born and bred, sure- 
 footed as a goat, and no one dreamed of harm." 
 
 " She went over, of course," said the Phi- 
 losopher; " those sure-footed girls always do." 
 
 " What happened," replied the Minor Poet, 
 " was never known. The girl was never seen 
 again." 
 
 " And what became of her lover? " asked the 
 Girton Girl. " Was he, when next year's snow 
 melted, and the young men of the village went 
 forth to gather edelweiss wherewith to deck 
 their sweethearts, found by them dead beside 
 her at the bottom of the crevasse? " 
 
 " No," said the Poet; " you do not know this 
 story, you had better let me tell it. Her lover 
 returned the morning before the wedding day, 
 to be met with the news. He gave way to no 
 sign of grief, he repelled all consolation. Tak- 
 ing his rope and ax he went up into the moun- 
 tain by himself. All through the winter he 
 haunted the track by which she must have trav- 
 eled, indifferent to the danger that he ran, im- 
 pervious apparently to cold, or hunger, or 
 fatigued, undeterred by storm, or mist, or ava- 
 lanche. At the beginning of the spring he
 
 166 THE MINOR POET'S STORY. 
 
 returned to the village, purchased building 
 utensils, and day after day carried them back 
 with him up into the mountain. He hired no 
 labor, he rejected the proffered assistance of his 
 brother guides. Choosing an almost inacces- 
 sible spot, at the edge of the great glacier, far 
 from all paths, he built himself a hut with his 
 own hands; and there for eighteen years he 
 lived alone. 
 
 " In the ' season ' he earned good fees, being 
 known far and wide as one of the bravest and 
 hardiest of all the guides; but few of his clients 
 liked him, for he was a silent, gloomy man, 
 speaking little, and with never a laugh or jest 
 on the journey. Each fall, having provisioned 
 himself, he would retire to his solitary hut and 
 bar the door, and no human soul would set eyes 
 on him again until the snows melted. 
 
 " One year, however, as the spring days wore 
 on, and he did not appear among the guides, 
 as was his wont, the elder men, who remem- 
 bered his story and pitied him, grew uneasy; 
 and, after much deliberation, it was determined 
 that a party of them should force their way up 
 to his eyrie. They cut their path across the ice
 
 THE MINOR POET'S STORY. 
 
 167 
 
 where no foot among them had trodden before, 
 and finding at length the lonely, snow-encom- 
 passed hut, knocked loudly with their ax-staves 
 on the door; but only the whirling echoes from 
 the glacier's thousand walls replied, so the fore- 
 
 most put his strong shoulder to the worn tim- 
 ber, and the door flew open with a crash. 
 
 " They found him dead, as they had more 
 than half expected, lying stiff and frozen on the 
 rough couch at the farther end of the hut; and 
 beside him, looking down upon him with a 
 placid face, as a mother might watch beside her 
 sleeping child, stood Jeanne. She wore the
 
 1 68 THE MINOR POET'S STORY. 
 
 flowers pinned to her dress that she had gath- 
 ered that morning when their eyes had last 
 seen her. The face was the girl's face that had 
 laughed back to their good-by in the village 
 nineteen years ago. 
 
 " A strange, steely light clung round her, 
 half illuminating, half obscuring her; and the 
 men drew back in fear, thinking they saw a 
 vision, till one, bolder than the rest, stretched 
 out his hand and touched the ice that formed 
 her coffin. 
 
 " For eighteen years the man had lived there 
 with this face that he had loved. A faint flush 
 still lingered on the fair cheeks, the laughing 
 lips were still red. Only in one spot, above her 
 temple, the wavy hair lay matted underneath a 
 clot of blood." 
 
 The Minor Poet ceased. 
 
 " What a very unpleasant way of preserving 
 one's love! " said the Girton Girl. 
 
 " When did the story appear? " I asked. " I 
 don't remember reading it." 
 
 " I never published it," explained the Minor 
 Poet. " Within the same week two friends of 
 mine, one of whom had just returned from Nor-
 
 THE MINOR POET'S STORY. 
 
 169 
 
 way, and the other from Switzerland, confided 
 to me their intention of writing stories about 
 girls who had fallen into glaciers and been found 
 by their friends long afterward, looking as 
 good as new; and a few days later I chanced 
 l\ 
 
 upon a book, the heroine of which had been 
 dug out of a glacier alive three hundred years 
 after she had fallen in. There seemed to be a 
 run on ice maidens, and I decided not to add to 
 their number." 
 
 " It is curious," said the Philosopher, " how 
 there seems to be a fashion even in thought. 
 An idea has often occurred to* me that has 
 seemed to me quite new; and, taking up a news- 
 paper I have found that some men in Russia 
 or San Francisco has just been saying the very
 
 1 7 THE MINOR POET'S STORY. 
 
 same thing in almost the very same words. We 
 say a thing is ' in the air '; it is more true than 
 we are aware of. Thought does not grow in 
 us. It is a thing apart; we simply gather it. 
 All truths, all discoveries, all inventions, they 
 have not come to us from any one man. The 
 time grows ripe for them, and from this cor- 
 ner of the earth and that, hands guided by some 
 instinct grope for and grasp them. Buddha 
 and Christ seize hold of the morality needful to 
 civilization, and promulgate it, unknown to one 
 another, the one on the shores of the Ganges, 
 the other by the Jordan. A dozen forgotten 
 explorers, feeling America, prepare the way for 
 Columbus to discover it. A deluge of blood is 
 required to sweep away old follies, and Rous- 
 seau and Voltaire, and a myraid others, are set 
 to work to fashion the storm clouds. The 
 steam engine, the spinning loom, is ' in the air.' 
 A thousand brains are busy with them; a few 
 go farther than the rest. It is idle to talk of 
 human thought; there is no such thing. Our 
 minds are fed as our bodies with the food God 
 has prepared for us. Thought hangs by the 
 wayside, and we pick it and cook it and eat it,
 
 THE MINOR POET'S STORY. 1 7* 
 
 and then cry out what clever ' thinkers ' we 
 are!" 
 
 " I cannot agree with you," replied the Minor 
 Poet; "if we were simply automata, as your 
 argument would suggest, what was the purpose 
 of creating us? " 
 
 " The intelligent portion of mankind has 
 been asking itself that question for many ages," 
 returned the Philosopher. 
 
 " I hate people who always think as I do," 
 said the Girton Girl; " there was a girl in our 
 corridor who never would disagree with me. 
 Every opinion I expressed turned out to be her 
 opinion also. It always irritated me." 
 
 " That might have been weakmindedness," 
 said the Old Maid, which sounded ambiguous. 
 
 " It is not so unpleasant as having a person 
 always disagreeing with you," said the Woman 
 of the World. " My cousin Susan would never 
 agree with anyone. If I came down in red she 
 would say, ' Why don't you try green, dear? 
 Everyone says you look so well in green '; and 
 when I wore green she would say, ' Why have 
 you given up red, dear? I thought you rather 
 fancied yourself in red.' When I told her of
 
 172 THE MINOR POET'S STORY. 
 
 my engagement to Tom, she burst into tears, 
 and said she couldn't help it. She had always 
 felt that George and I were intended for one 
 another; and when Tom never wrote for two 
 whole months, and behaved disgracefully in 
 in other ways, and I told her I was engaged to 
 George, she reminded me of every word I had 
 ever said about my affection for Tom, and of 
 how I had ridiculed poor George. Papa used 
 to say, ' If any man ever tells Susan that he 
 loves her, she will argue him out of it, and will 
 never accept him until he has jilted her, and will 
 refuse to marry him every time he asks her to 
 fix the day.' " 
 
 " Is she married? " asked the Philosopher. 
 
 " Oh, yes," answered the Woman of the 
 World; "and is devoted to her children. She 
 lets them do everything they don't want to."
 
 THE CITY OF THE SEA. 
 
 HEY say, the chroniclers who have 
 written the history of that low-lying, 
 wind-swept coast, that years ago the 
 foam fringe of the ocean lay further 
 to the east; so that where now the North Sea 
 creeps among the treacherous sand-reefs, it was 
 once dry land. In those days, between the 
 Abbey and the sea there stood a town of seven 
 towers and four rich churches, surrounded by a 
 wall of twelve stones' thickness, making it, as 
 men reckoned then, a place of strength and 
 much import; and the monks, glancing their 
 eyes downward from the Abbey garden on the 
 hill, saw beneath their feet its narrow streets, 
 gay with the ever-passing of rich merchandise; 
 saw its many wharves and waterways, ever noisy 
 with the babel of strange tongues; saw its many 
 painted masts, wagging their grave heads above 
 the dormer roofs and quaintly-carved oak 
 gables.
 
 174 THE CITY OF THE SEA. 
 
 Thus the town prospered till there came a 
 night when it did evil in the sight of God and 
 man. Those were troublous times to Saxon 
 dwellers by the sea, for the Danish water-rats 
 swarmed round each river mouth, scenting 
 treasure from afar; and by none was the white 
 flash of their sharp, strong teeth more often 
 seen than by the men of Eastern Anglia, and 
 by none in Eastern Anglia more often than by 
 the watchers on the walls of the town of seven 
 towers that once stood upon the dry land, but 
 which now lies twenty fathoms deep below the 
 waters. Many a bloody fight raged now with- 
 out and now within its wall of twelve stones' 
 thickness. Many a groan of dying man, many 
 a shriek of murdered woman, many a wail of 
 mangled child, knocked at the Abbey door upon 
 its way to heaven, calling the trembling monks 
 from their beds to pray for the souls that were 
 passing by. 
 
 But at length peace came to the long- 
 troubled land; Dane and Saxon agreeing to 
 dwell in friendship side by side, East Anglia be- 
 ing wide, and there being room for both. And 
 all men rejoiced greatly, for all were weary of a
 
 THE CITY OF THE SEA. 175 
 
 strife in which little had been gained on either 
 side beyond hard blows; and their thoughts 
 were of the ingle-nook. So the long-bearded 
 Danes, their thirsty axes harmless on their 
 backs, passed to and fro in straggling bands, 
 seeking where, undisturbed and undisturbing, 
 they might build their homes; and thus it came 
 about that Haarfager and his company, as the 
 sun was going down, drew near to the town of 
 seven towers, that in those days stood on dry 
 land between the Abbey and the sea. 
 
 And the men of the town, seeing the Danes, 
 opened wide their gates, saying: 
 
 " We have fought, but now there is peace. 
 Enter, and make merry with us, and to-morrow 
 go your way." 
 
 But Haarfager made answer: 
 
 " I am an old man, I pray you do not take 
 my word amiss. There is peace between us, as 
 you say; and we thank you for your courtesy, 
 but the stains are still fresh upon our swords. 
 Let us camp here without your walls; and a lit- 
 tle later, when the grass has grown upon the 
 fields where we have striven, and our young men 
 have had time to forget, we will make merry to-
 
 l?6 THE CITY OF THE SEA. 
 
 gather, as men should who dwell side by side in 
 the same land." 
 
 But the men of the town still urged Haar- 
 fager, calling his people neighbors; and the 
 Abbot, who had hastened down, fearing there 
 might be strife, added his words to theirs, 
 saying: 
 
 " Pass in, my children. Let there, indeed, be 
 peace between you, that the blessing of God 
 may be upon the land, and upon both Dane and 
 Saxon "; for the Abbot saw that the townsmen 
 were well disposed toward the Danes, and knew 
 that men, when they have feasted and drunk to- 
 gether, think kinder of one another. 
 
 Then answered Haarfager, who knew the 
 Abbot for a holy man: 
 
 " Hold up your staff, my father, that the 
 shadow of the cross your people worship may 
 fall upon our path, so we will pass into the town 
 and there shall be peace between us; for though 
 your gods are not our gods, faith between man 
 and man is of all altars." 
 
 And the Abbot held his staff aloft between 
 Haarfager's people and the sun, it being fash- 
 ioned in the form of a cross, and under its
 
 THE ABBOT HELD HIS STAFF ALOFT
 
 THE CITY OF THE SEA. 177 
 
 shadow the Danes passed by into the town of 
 seven towers, there being with them, with the 
 women and the children, nearly two thousand 
 souls, and the gates were made fast behind 
 them. 
 
 So they who had fought face to face feasted 
 side by side, pledging one another in the wine 
 cup, as was the custom; and Haarfager's men, 
 knowing themselves among friends, had cast 
 aside their arms; and when the feast was done, 
 being weary, they lay down to sleep. 
 
 Then an evil voice arose in the town, and said: 
 " Who are these that have come among us to 
 share our land? Are not the stones of our 
 streets red with the blood of wife and child that 
 they have slain? Do men let the wolf go free 
 when they have trapped him with meat? Let 
 us fall upon them now that they are heavy with 
 food and wine, so that not one among them shall 
 escape. Thus no further harm shall come to us 
 from them nor from their children." 
 
 And the voice of evil prevailed; and the men 
 of the town of seven towers fell upon the Danes 
 with whom they had broken meat, even to the 
 women and the little children; and the blood of
 
 178 THE CITY OF THE SEA. 
 
 the people of Haarfager cried with a loud voice 
 at the Abbey door; through the long night it 
 cried, saying: 
 
 " I trusted in your spoken word. I broke 
 meat with you. I put my faith in you and in 
 your God. I passed beneath the shadow of 
 your cross to enter your doors. Let your God 
 make answer! " 
 
 Nor was there silence till the dawn. 
 
 Then the Abbot rose from where he knelt and 
 called to God, saying: 
 
 " Thou hast heard, O God. Make answer." 
 
 And there came a great sound from the sea 
 as though a tongue had been given to the deep, 
 so that the monks fell upon their knees in fear; 
 but the Abbot answered: 
 
 " It is the voice of God, speaking through the 
 waters. He hath made answer." 
 
 And that winter a mighty storm rose, the like 
 of which no man had known before; for the sea 
 was piled upon the dry land until the highest 
 tower of the town of seven towers was not more 
 high; and the waters moved forward over the 
 dry land. And the men of the town of seven 
 towers fled from the oncoming of the waters,
 
 THE CITY OF THE SEA. 179 
 
 but the waters overtook them so that not one of 
 them escaped. And the town of the seven 
 towers, and of the four churches, and of the 
 many streets and quays, was buried underneath 
 the waters; and the feet of the waters still 
 moved till they came to the hill whereon the 
 Abbey stood. Then the Abbot prayed to God 
 that the waters might be stayed, and God 
 heard, and the sea came no farther. 
 
 And that this tale is true, and not a fable 
 made by the weavers of words, he who doubts 
 may know from the fisher-folk, who to-day ply 
 their calling among the reefs and sandbanks of 
 that lonely coast. For there are those among 
 them who, peering from the bows of their 
 small craft, have seen far down beneath their 
 keels a city of strange streets and many quays. 
 But as to this, I, who repeat these things to 
 you, cannot speak of my own knowledge, for 
 this city of the sea is only visible when a rare 
 wind, blowing from the north, sweeps the 
 shadows from the waves; and though on many 
 a sunny day I have drifted where its seven 
 towers should once have stood, yet for me .that 
 wind has never blown, pushing back the cur-
 
 180 THE CITY OF THE SEA. 
 
 tains of the sea, and, therefore, I have strained 
 my eyes in vain. 
 
 But this I do know, that the crumbling stones 
 of that ancient Abbey, between which and the 
 foam fringe of the ocean the town of seven 
 towers once lay, now stand upon a wave-washed 
 cliff, and that he who looks forth from its 
 shattered mullions to-day sees only the marsh- 
 land and the wrinkled waters, hears only the 
 plaint of the circling gulls and the weary crying 
 of the sea. 
 
 And that God's anger is not everlasting, and 
 that the evil that there is in men shall be blotted 
 out, he who doubts may also learn from the wis- 
 dom of the simple fisher-folk who dwell about 
 the borders of the marshland; for they will tell 
 him that on stormy nights there speaks a deep 
 voice from the sea, calling the dead monks to 
 rise from their forgotten graves and chant a 
 mass for the souls of the men of the town of 
 seven towers. Clothed in long glittering 
 white they move with slowly pacing feet around 
 the Abbey's grass-grown aisles, and the music of 
 their prayers is heard above the screaming of 
 the storm. And to this I also can bear witness,
 
 THE CITY OF THE SEA. 181 
 
 for I have seen the passing of their shrouded 
 forms behind the blackness of the shattered 
 shafts; I have heard their sweet, sad singing 
 above the wailing of the wind. 
 
 Thus for many ages have the dead monks 
 prayed that the men of the town of seven 
 towers may be forgiven. Thus, for many ages 
 yet shall they so pray till the day come when 
 of their once fair Abbey not a single stone shall 
 stand upon its fellow; and in that day it shall be 
 known that the anger of God against the men of 
 the town of seven towers has passed away; and 
 in that day the feet of the waters shall move 
 back, and the town of seven towers shall stand 
 again upon the dry land. 
 
 There be some, I know, who say that this is 
 but a legend; who will tell you that the shadowy 
 shapes that you may see with your own eyes on 
 stormy nights, waving their gleaming arms be- 
 hind the ruined buttresses, are but of phos- 
 phorescent foam, tossed by the raging waves 
 above the cliffs; and that the sweet, sad har- 
 mony, cleaving the trouble of the night, is but 
 the aeolian music of the wind. 
 
 But such are of the blind, who see only with
 
 182 
 
 THE CITY OF THE SEA. 
 
 their eyes. For my- 
 self I see the white- 
 robed monks, and 
 hear the chanting 
 of their mass for 
 the souls of the sin- 
 ful men of the town 
 of seven towers. 
 For it has been said 
 that when an evil 
 deed is done a 
 prayer is born to 
 follow it through 
 time into eternity, and plead for it. Thus is 
 the whole world clasped around with folded
 
 THE CITY OF THE SEA. 183 
 
 hands both of the dead and of the living, 
 as with a shield, lest the shafts of God's anger 
 should consume it. 
 
 Therefore, I know that the good monks of 
 this nameless Abbey still are praying that the 
 sin of those they loved may be forgiven. 
 
 God grant good men may say a mass for us.
 
 CHARACTERSCAPES.
 
 THE MAN WHO WENT WRONG. 
 
 [FIRST met Jack Burridge nearly ten 
 years ago on a certain North-country 
 racecourse. The saddling bell had 
 just rung for the chief event of the 
 day. I was sauntering along with my hands in 
 my pockets, more interested in the crowd than 
 in the race, when a sporting friend, crossing on 
 his way to the paddock, seized me by the arm 
 and whispered hoarsely in my ear: 
 " Put your shirt on Mrs. Waller." 
 
 " Put my ? " I began. 
 
 " Put your shirt on Mrs. Waller," he repeated 
 still more impressively, and disappeared in the 
 throng. 
 
 I stared after him in blank amazement. Why 
 
 should I put my shirt on Mrs. Waller? Even 
 
 if it would fit a lady. And how about myself? 
 
 I was passing the grand stand, and, glancing 
 
 up, I saw: " Mrs. Waller, twelve to one,"
 
 1 88 THE MAN WHO WENT WRONG. 
 
 chalked on a bookmaker's board. Then it 
 dawned upon me that " Mrs. Waller " was a 
 horse, and, thinking further upon the matter, 1 
 evolved the idea that my friend's advice, ex- 
 pressed in more becomirig language, was, "Back 
 Mrs. Waller for as much as you can possibly 
 afford." 
 
 " Thank you," I said to myself, " I have 
 backed cast-iron certainties before. Next time 
 I bet upon a horse I shall make the selection by 
 shutting my eyes and putting a pin through the 
 card." 
 
 But the seed had taken root. My friend's 
 words surged in my brain. The birds passing 
 overhead twittered, " Put your shirt on Mrs. 
 Waller." 
 
 I reasoned with myself, I reminded myself of 
 my few former ventures. But the craving to 
 put, if not my shirt, at all events half a sovereign 
 on Mrs. Waller, only grew the stronger the more 
 strongly I battled against it. I felt that if Mrs. 
 Waller won and I had nothing on her I should 
 reproach myself to my dying day. 
 
 I was the other side of the course. There 
 was no time to get back to the inclosure. The
 
 THE MAN WHO WENT WRONG. 189 
 
 horses were already forming for the start. A 
 few yards off, under a white umbrella, an 
 outside bookmaker was shouting his final 
 prices in stentorian tones. He was a big, 
 genial-looking man, with an honest red face. 
 
 " What price Mrs. Waller? " I asked him. 
 
 " Fourteen to one," he asked, " and good luck 
 to you." 
 
 I handed him half a sovereign, and he wrote 
 me out a ticket. I crammed it into my waist- 
 coat pocket, and hurried off to see the race. 
 To my intense astonishment Mrs. Waller won. 
 The novel sensation of having backed the win- 
 ner so excited me that I forgot all about my 
 money, and it was not until a good hour after- 
 ward that I recollected my bet. 
 
 Then I started off to search for the man under 
 the white umbrella. I went to where I thought 
 I had left him, but no white umbrella could I 
 find. 
 
 Consoling myself with the reflection that my 
 loss served me right for having been fool enough 
 to trust an outside " bookie," I turned on my 
 heel, and began to make my way back to my 
 seat. Suddenly a voice hailed me:
 
 19 THE MAN WHO WENT WRONG. 
 
 11 Here you are, sir. It's Jack Burridge you 
 want. Over here, sir." 
 
 I looked round, and there was Jack Burridge 
 at my elbow. 
 
 " I saw you looking about, sir," he said; " but 
 I could not make you hear. You was looking 
 the wrong side of the tent." 
 
 It was pleasant to find that his honest face 
 had not belied him. 
 
 " It is very good of you," I said; " I had given 
 up all hopes of seeing you. Or," I added with 
 a smile, " my seven pounds." 
 
 " Seven pun' ten," he corrected me; " you're 
 forgetting your own thin 'un." 
 
 He handed me the money and went back to 
 his stand. 
 
 On my way into the town I came across him 
 again. A small crowd was collected, thought- 
 fully watching a tramp knocking about a miser- 
 able-looking woman. 
 
 Jack, pushing to the front, took in the scene 
 and took off his coat in the same instant. 
 
 " Now, then, my fine old English gentleman," 
 he sang out, " come and have a try at a man for 
 a change."
 
 THE MAN WHO WENT WRONG. 191 
 
 The tramp was a burly ruffian, and I have seen 
 better boxers than Jack. He got himself a 
 black eye, and a nasty cut over the lip, before 
 he hardly knew where he was. But in spite of 
 that and a good deal more he stuck to his 
 man and finished him. 
 
 At the end, as he helped his adversary up, I 
 heard him say to the fellow in a kindly whisper: 
 
 " You're too good a sort, you know, to wallop 
 a wench. Why, you very near give me a lick- 
 ing. You must have forgot yourself, matey." 
 
 The fellow interested me. I waited and 
 walked on with him. He told me about his 
 home in London, at Mile End about his old 
 father and mother, his little brothers and sisters 
 and what he was saving up to do for them. 
 Kindliness oozed from every pore in his skin. 
 
 Many that we met knew him, and all, when 
 they saw his round, red face, smiled uncon- 
 sciously. At the corner of the High Street a 
 pale-faced little drudge of a girl passed us, say- 
 ing as she slipped by: 
 
 " Good-evening, Mr. Burridge." 
 
 He made a dart and caught her by the 
 shoulder.
 
 192 THE MAN WHO WENT WRONG. 
 
 " And how is father? " he asked. 
 
 " Oh, if you please, Mr. Burridge, he is out 
 again. All the mills is closed," answered the 
 child. 
 
 He closed the child's hand upon them. 
 
 " And mother? " 
 " She don't get no better, sir." 
 " And who's keeping you all? " 
 " Oh, if you please, sir, Jimmy's earning some- 
 thing now," replied the mite.
 
 THE MAN WHO WENT WRONG. 193 
 
 He took a couple of sovereigns from his 
 waistcoat pocket, and closed the child's hand 
 upon them. 
 
 " That's all right, my lass, that's all right," he 
 said, stopping her stammering thanks. " You 
 write to me if things don't get better. You 
 know where to find Jack Burridge." 
 
 Strolling about the streets in the evening, I 
 happened to pass the inn where he was staying. 
 The parlor window was open, and out into the 
 misty night his deep, cheery voice, trolling forth 
 an old-fashioned drinking song, came rolling 
 like a wind, cleansing the corners of one's heart 
 with its breezy humanness. He was sitting at 
 the head of the table surrounded by a crowd of 
 jovial cronies. I lingered for a while watching 
 the scene. It made the world appear a less 
 somber dwelling place than I had sometimes 
 pictured it. 
 
 I determined, on my return to London, to 
 look him up, and accordingly one evening 
 started to find the little by-street off the Mile 
 End Road in which he lived. As I turned the 
 corner he drove up in his dog-cart; it was a 
 smart turnout. On the seat beside him sat a
 
 194 THE MAN WHO WENT WRONG. 
 
 neat, withered little old woman, whom he intro- 
 duced to me as his mother. 
 
 " I tell 'im it's a fine gell as 'e oughter 'ave up 
 'ere aside 'im," said the old lady, preparing to 
 dismount; " an old woman like me takes all the 
 paint off the show." 
 
 " Get along with yer," he replied laughingly, 
 jumping down and handing the reins to the lad 
 who had been waiting, " you could give some of 
 the young uns points yet, mother." 
 
 " I allus promised the old lady as she should 
 ride behind her own 'oss one day," he continued, 
 turning to me, " didn't I, mother? " 
 
 " Ay, ay," replied the old soul, as she hobbled 
 nimbly up the steps, " ye're a good son, Jack, 
 ye're a good son." 
 
 He led the way into the parlor. As he 
 entered every face lightened up with pleasure, a 
 harmony of joyous welcome greeted him. The 
 old hard world had been shut out with the slam 
 of the front door. I seemed to have wandered 
 into Dickensland. The red-faced man with the 
 small twinkling eyes and the lungs of leather 
 loomed before me, a large, fat household fairy. 
 From his capacious pockets came forth tobacco
 
 THE MAN WHO WENT WRONG. 195 
 
 for the old father; a huge bunch of hot-house 
 grapes for a neighbor's sickly child, who was 
 stopping with them; a book of Henty's be- 
 loved of boys for a noisy youngster who 
 called him " uncle "; a bottle of port wine for a 
 wan, elderly woman with a swollen face his 
 widowed sister-in-law, as I subsequently learned; 
 sweets enough for the baby (whose baby I don't 
 know) to make it sick for a week; and a roll of 
 music for his youngest sister. 
 
 " We're a-going to make a lady of her," he 
 said, drawing the child's shy face against his 
 gaudy waistcoat, and running his coarse hand 
 through her pretty curls; " and she shall marry 
 a jockey when she grows up." 
 
 After supper he brewed some excellent 
 whisky punch, and insisted upon the old lady 
 joining us, which she eventually did with much 
 coughing and protestation; but I noticed that 
 she finished the tumblerful. For the children 
 he concocted a marvelous mixture, which he 
 called an " eye-composer," the chief ingredients 
 being hot lemonade, ginger wine, sugar, 
 oranges, and raspberry vinegar. It had the de- 
 sired effect.
 
 196 THE MAN WHO WENT WRONG. 
 
 I stayed till late, listening to his inexhaustible 
 fund of stories. Over most of them he laughed 
 with us himself a great gusty laugh that made 
 the cheap glass ornaments upon the mantel- 
 piece to tremble; but now and then a recollec- 
 tion came to him that spread a sudden gravity 
 across his jovial face and brought a curious 
 quaver into his deep voice. 
 
 Their tongues a little loosened by the punch, 
 the old folks would have sung his praises to the 
 verge of tediousness had he not almost sternly 
 interrupted them. 
 
 " Shut up, mother," he cried at last, quite 
 gruffly; "what I does I does to please myself. 
 I likes to see people comfortable about me. If 
 they wasn't it's me as would be more upset than 
 them." 
 
 I did not see him again for nearly two years. 
 Then one October evening, strolling about the 
 East End, I met him coming out of a little 
 chapel in the Burdett Road. He was so 
 changed that I should not have known him had 
 not I overheard a woman as she passed him say, 
 " Good-evening, Mr. Burridge! "
 
 THE MAN WHO WENT WRONG. 197 
 
 A pair of bushy side whiskers had given to 
 his red face an aggressively respectable appear- 
 ance. He was dressed in an ill-fitting suit of 
 black, and carried an umbrella in one hand and a 
 book in the other. In some mysterious way he 
 managed to look both thinner and shorter than 
 my recollection of him. Altogether, he sug- 
 gested to me the idea that he himself the real 
 man had by some means or another been ex- 
 tracted, leaving only this shrunken husk behind. 
 The genial juices of humanity had been squeezed 
 out of him. 
 
 "Not Jack Burridge!" I exclaimed, con- 
 fronting him in astonishment. 
 
 His little eyes wandered shiftily up and down 
 the street. " No, sir," he replied (his tones had 
 lost their windy boisterousness a hard, metallic 
 voice spoke to me), " not the one as you used to 
 know, praise be the Lord." 
 
 " And you have given up the old business? " 
 I asked. 
 
 " Yes, sir," he replied " that's all over; I've 
 been a vile sinner in my time, God forgive me for 
 it. But, thank Heaven, I have repented in 
 time."
 
 I9 8 THE MAN WHO WENT WRONG. 
 
 " Come and have a drink," I said, slipping my 
 arm through his, " and tell me all about it." 
 
 He disengaged himself from me firmly, but 
 gently. " You mean well, sir," he said, " but 
 I have given up the drink." 
 
 He would evidently have been rid of me, but 
 a literary man, scenting material for his stock- 
 pot, is not easily shaken off. I asked after the 
 old folks, and if they were still stopping with 
 him. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " for the present. Of course, 
 a man can't be expected to keep people forever; 
 so many mouths to fill is hard work these times, 
 and everybody sponges on a man just because 
 he's good-natured." 
 
 " And how are you getting on? " I asked. 
 
 " Tolerably well, thank you, sir. The Lord 
 provides for his servants," he replied, with a 
 smug smile. " I have got a little shop now in 
 the Commercial Road." 
 
 " Whereabouts? " I persisted. " I would like 
 to call and see you." 
 
 He gave me the address reluctantly, and said 
 he would esteem it a great pleasure if I would 
 honor him by a visit, which was a palpable lie.
 
 THE MAN WHO WENT WRONG. 199 
 
 The following afternoon I went. I found the 
 place to be a pawnbroker's shop, and from ap- 
 pearances he must have been doing a very brisk 
 business. He was out himself attending a tem- 
 perence committee, but his old father was 
 behind the counter, and asked me inside. 
 Though it was a chilly day there was no fire in 
 the parlor, and the two old folks sat one on each 
 side of the empty hearth, silent and sad. They 
 seemed little more pleased to see me than had 
 been their son, but after a while Mrs. Burridge's 
 natural garrulity asserted itself, and we fell into 
 chat. 
 
 I asked what had become of his sister-in-law, 
 the lady with the swollen face. 
 
 " I couldn't rightly tell you, sir," answered 
 the old lady; " she ain't livin' with us now." 
 
 " You see, sir," she continued, " John's got 
 different notions to what 'e used to 'ave. 'E 
 don't co<tten much to them as aint found 
 grace, and poor Jane never did 'ave much re- 
 ligion." 
 
 " And the little one? " I inquired. " The one 
 with the curls? " 
 
 " What, Bessie, sir? " said the old lady. " Oh,
 
 200 THE MAN WHO WENT WRONG. 
 
 she's out at service, sir; John don't think it 
 good for young folks to be idle." 
 
 " Your son seems to have changed a good 
 deal, Mrs. Burridge," I remarked. 
 
 " Ay, sir," she assented, " you may well say 
 that. It nearly broke my 'art at fust; every- 
 thin' so different to what it 'ad been. Not as I'd 
 stand in the boy's light. If our being a bit un- 
 comfortable-like in this world is a-going to do 
 'im any good in the next, me and father aint the 
 ones to begrudge it, are we, old man? " 
 
 The " old man " concurred grumpily. 
 
 " Was it a sudden conversion? " I asked. 
 " How did it come about? " 
 
 " It was a young woman as started 'im off," 
 explained the old lady. " She come round to 
 our place one day a-collectin' for somethin' or 
 other, and Jack, in 'is free-'anded way, 'e give 
 'er a five-pun' note. Next week she come 
 agen for somethin' else, and stopped and talked 
 to 'im about 'is soul in the passage. She told 
 'im as 'e was a-goin' straight to 'ell, and that 'e 
 oughter give up the bookmakin' and settle 
 down to a respec'able, God-fearin' business. At 
 fust 'e only laughed, but she 'lammed in tracts
 
 THE MAN WHO WENT WRONG. 2OI 
 
 at 'im full of the most awful language; and one 
 day she fetched 'im round to one of them re- 
 vivalist chaps, as fair settled 'im. 
 
 " 'E aint never been 'is old self since then. 'E 
 give up the bettin' and bought this 'ere, though 
 what's the difference, blessed if I can see. It 
 makes my 'art ache, it do, to 'ear my Jack 
 a-beatin' down the poor people and it aint like 
 'im. It went agen 'is grain at fust, I could see; 
 but they told 'im as 'ow it was folks's own fault 
 that they was poor, and as 'ow it was the will 
 of God, because they was a drinkin', improvi- 
 dent lot. 
 
 " Then they made 'im sign the pledge. 'E'd 
 allus been used to 'is glass, Jack 'ad, and I think 
 as knockin' it off 'ave soured 'im a bit seems 
 as if all the sperit 'ad gone out of 'im and of 
 course me and father 'ave 'ad to give up our lit- 
 tle drop, too. Then they told 'im as 'e must 
 give up smokin' that was another way of goin' 
 straight to 'ell and that aint made 'im any the 
 more cheerful-like, and father misses 'is little 
 bit don't ye, father? " 
 
 " Ay," answered the old fellow savagely. 
 " Can't say I thinks much of these 'ere folks as
 
 202 THE MAN WHO WENT WRONG. 
 
 is going to heaven; blowed if I don't think 
 they'll be a chirpier lot in t'other place." 
 
 An angry discussion in the shop interrupted 
 us. Jack had returned, and was threatening an 
 excited woman with the police. It seemed she 
 had miscalculated the date, and had come a day 
 too late with her interest. 
 
 Having got rid of her, he came into the par- 
 lor with a watch in his hand. 
 
 " It's providential she was late," he said, look- 
 ing at it; " it's worth ten times what I lent on 
 it." 
 
 He packed his father back into the shop, and 
 his mother down into the kitchen to get his tea, 
 and for a while we sat together talking. 
 
 I found his conversation a strange mixture 
 of self-laudation, showing through a flimsy veil 
 of self-disparagement, and of satisfaction at the 
 conviction that he was " saved " combined with 
 equally evident satisfaction that most other peo- 
 ple weren't somewhat trying, however; and re- 
 membering an appointment, rose to go. 
 
 He made no effort to stay me, but I could see 
 that he was bursting to tell me something. At
 
 THE MAN WHO WENT WRONG. 203 
 
 last, taking a religious paper from his pocket, 
 and pointing to a column, he blurted out: 
 
 " You don't take any interest in the Lord's 
 vineyard, I suppose, sir? " 
 
 I glanced at the part of the paper indicated. 
 It announced a new mission to the Chinese, and 
 heading the subscription list stood the name, 
 " Mr. John Burridge, one hundred guineas." 
 
 "You subscribe largely, Mr. Burridge," I said, 
 handing him back the paper. 
 
 He rubbed his big hands together. " The 
 Lord will repay a hundredfold," he answered. 
 
 " In which case it's just as well to have a note 
 of the advance down in black and white, eh? " 
 I added. 
 
 His little eyes looked sharply at me; but he 
 made no reply, and, shaking hands, I left him.
 
 THE MAN WHO DID NOT 
 BELIEVE IN LUCK. 
 
 |E got in at Ipswich, with seven differ- 
 ent weekly papers under his arm. I 
 noticed that each one insured its 
 reader against death or injury by 
 railway accident. He arranged his luggage 
 upon the rack above him, took off his hat and 
 laid it on the seat beside him, mopped his bald 
 head with a red silk handkerchief, and then set 
 to work steadily to write his name and address 
 upon each of the seven papers. I sat opposite 
 to him and read Punch. I always take the old 
 humor when traveling; I find it soothing to 
 the nerves. 
 
 Passing over the points at Manningtree the 
 train gave a lurch, and a horseshoe he had care- 
 fully placed in the rack above him slipped 
 through the netting and fell with a musical ring 
 upon his head. 
 
 He appeared neither surprised nor angry.
 
 DID NOT BELIEVE IN LUCK. 205 
 
 Having stanched the wound with his hand- 
 kerchief he stooped and picked the horseshoe 
 up, glanced at it with, as I thought, an expres- 
 sion of reproach, and dropped it gently out of 
 the window. 
 
 " Did it hurt you? " I asked. 
 
 It was a foolish question. I told myself so 
 the moment I had uttered it. The thing must 
 have weighed three pounds at the least; it was 
 an exceptionally large and heavy shoe. The 
 bump on his head was swelling visibly before 
 my eyes. Anyone but an idiot must have seen 
 that he was hurt. I expected an irritable reply. 
 I should have given one myself had I been in 
 his place. Instead, however, he seemed to re- 
 gard the inquiry as a natural and kindly expres- 
 sion of sympathy. 
 
 " It did, a little," he replied. 
 
 "What were you doing with it?" I asked. 
 It was an odd sort of thing for a man to be 
 traveling with. 
 
 "It was lying in the roadway just outside 
 the station," he explained; " I picked it up for 
 luck." 
 
 He refolded his handkerchief so as to bring
 
 206 DID NOT BELIEVE IN LUCK. 
 
 a cooler surface in contact with the swelling, 
 while I murmured something genial about the 
 inscrutability of Providence. 
 
 " Yes," he said; " I've had a deal of luck in 
 my time, but it's never turned out well." 
 
 " I was born on a Wednesday," he continued, 
 " which, as I dare say you know, is the luckiest 
 day a man can be born on. My mother was a 
 widow, and none of my relatives would do any- 
 thing for me. They said it would be like taking 
 coals to Newcastle, helping a boy born on a 
 Wednesday; and my uncle, when he died, left 
 every penny of his money to my brother Sam, 
 as a slight compensation to him for having been 
 born on a Friday. All I ever got was advice 
 upon the duties and responsibilities of wealth, 
 when it arrived, and entreaties that I would not 
 neglect those with claims upon me when I came 
 to be a rich man." 
 
 He paused while folding up his various in- 
 surance papers and placing them in the inside 
 breast pocket of his coat. 
 
 "Then there are black cats," he went on; 
 " they're said to be lucky. Why, there never 
 was a blacker cat than the one that followed me
 
 DID NOT BELIEVE IN LUCK. 207 
 
 into my rooms in Bolsover Street, the very first 
 night I took them." 
 
 " Didn't it bring you luck? " I inquired, find- 
 ing that he had stopped. 
 
 A far-away look came into his eyes. 
 
 " Well, of course, it all depends," he answered 
 dreamily. " Maybe we'd never have suited one 
 another; you can always look at it that way. 
 Still, I'd like to have tried." 
 
 He sat staring out of the window, and for 
 a while I did not care to intrude upon his evi- 
 dently painful memories. 
 
 " What happened then? " I asked, howeve r , 
 at last. 
 
 He roused himself from his reverie. 
 
 " Oh," he said, " nothing extraordinary. She 
 had to leave London for a time, and gave me 
 her pet canary to take charge of while she was 
 away." 
 
 " But it wasn't your fault," I urged. 
 
 " No, perhaps not," he agreed; " but it cre- 
 ated a coldness which others were not slow to 
 take advantage of." 
 
 " I offered her the cat, too," he added, but 
 more to himself than to me.
 
 208 
 
 DID NOT BELIEVE IN LUCK. 
 
 We sat and smoked in silence. I felt that the 
 consolations of a stranger would sound weak. 
 
 'It created a coldness." 
 
 " Piebald horses are lucky, too," he observed, 
 knocking the ashes from his pipe against the 
 window sash. " I had one of them once."
 
 DID NOT BELIEVE IN LUCK. 209 
 
 " What did it do to you? " I inquired. 
 
 " Lost me the best crib I ever had in my 
 life," was the simple rejoinder. " The governor 
 stood it a good deal longer than I had any right 
 to expect; but you can't keep a man who is 
 always drunk. It gives a firm a bad name." 
 
 " It would," I agreed. 
 
 " You see," he went on, " I never had the 
 head for it. To some men it would not have 
 so much mattered; but the very first glass 
 was enough to upset me; I'd never been used 
 to it." 
 
 " But why did you take it? " I persisted. 
 " The horse didn't make you drink it, did he? " 
 
 " Well, it was this way," he explained, con- 
 tinuing to rub gently the lump, which was now 
 about the size of an egg; " the animal had be- 
 longed to a gentleman who traveled in the wine 
 and spirit line, and who had been accustomed 
 to visit in the way of business almost every pub- 
 lic house he came to. The result was you 
 couldn't get that little horse past a public house 
 at least, / couldn't. He sighted them a quar- 
 ter of a mile off, and made straight for the door. 
 I struggled with him at first, but it was five to
 
 210 DID NOT BELIEVE IN LUCK. 
 
 ten minutes' work getting him away, and folks 
 used to gather round and bet on us. I think 
 maybe I'd have stuck to it, however, if it hadn't 
 been for a temperance chap who stopped one 
 day and lectured the crowd about it from the 
 opposite side of the street. He called me Pil- 
 grim, and said the little horse was ' Pollion,' or 
 some such name, and kept on shouting out that 
 I was to fight him for a heavenly crown. After 
 that they called us ' Polly and the Pilgrim fight- 
 ing for the crown.' It riled me, that did, and 
 at the very next house at which he pulled up 
 I got down and said I'd come for two of Scotch. 
 That was the beginning. It took me years to 
 break myself of the habit." 
 
 " But, there," he continued, " it has always 
 been the same. I hadn't been a fortnight in my 
 first situation before my employer gave me a 
 goose weighing eighteen pounds as a Christmas 
 present." 
 
 " Well, that couldn't have done you any 
 harm," I remarked. " That was lucky enough." 
 
 " So the other clerks said at the time," he 
 replied; "the old gentleman had never been 
 known to give anything away before in his life.
 
 DID NOT BELIEVE IN LUCK. 211 
 
 ' He's taken a fancy to you,' they said; ' you are 
 a lucky beggar! ' 
 
 He sighed heavily. I felt there was a story 
 attached. 
 
 " What did you do with it? " I asked. 
 
 " That was the trouble," he returned; " I did 
 not know what to do with it. It was ten 
 o'clock on Christmas Eve, just as I was leaving, 
 that he gave it to me. ' Tiddling Brothers 
 have sent me a goose, Biggies,' he said to me as 
 I helped him on with his great coat. ' Very 
 kind of 'em, but I don't want it myself; you can 
 have it! " 
 
 " Of course I thanked him, and was very 
 grateful. He wished me a merry Christmas and 
 went out. I tied the thing up in brown paper, 
 and took it under my arm. It was a fine bird, 
 but heavy. 
 
 " Under all the circumstances, and it being 
 Christmas time, I thought I would treat myself 
 to a glass of beer. I went into a quiet little 
 house at the corner of the Lane and laid the 
 goose on the counter. 
 
 " ' That's a big 'un,' said the landlord; ' you'll 
 get a good cut off him to-morrow.'
 
 212 DID NOT BELIEVE IN LUCK. 
 
 " His words set me thinking, and for the first 
 time it struck me that I didn't want the bird 
 that it was of no use to me at all. I was going 
 down to spend the holidays with my young 
 lady's people in Kent." 
 
 " Was this the canary young lady? " 1 
 interrupted. 
 
 " No," he replied; " this was before that one. 
 It was this goose I'm telling you of that upset 
 this one. Well, her folks were big farmers; it 
 would have been absurd taking a goose down to 
 them, and I knew no one in London to give it 
 to, so when the landlord came round again I 
 asked him if he would care to buy it. I told 
 him he could have it cheap. 
 
 " ' I don't want it myself,' he answered; ' I've 
 got three in the house already. Perhaps one 
 of these gentlemen would like to make an offer.' 
 
 " He turned to a couple of chaps who were 
 sitting drinking gin. They didn't look to me 
 worth the price of a chicken between them. 
 The seediest said he'd like to look at it, how- 
 ever; and I undid the parcel. He mauled the 
 thing pretty considerably, and cross-examined 
 me as to how I came by it, ending by upsetting
 
 DID NOT BELIEVE IN LUCK. 213 
 
 half a tumbler of gin and water over it. Then 
 lie offered me half a crown for it. It made me 
 so angry that I took the brown paper and the 
 string in one hand and the goose in the other, 
 and walked straight out without saying a word. 
 
 " I carried it this way for some distance, be- 
 cause I was excited, and didn't care how I car- 
 ried it; but as I cooled I began to reflect how 
 ridiculous I must look. One or two small boys 
 evidently noticed the same thing. I stopped 
 under a lamp post and tried to tie it up again. 
 I had a bag and an umbrella with me at the 
 same time, and the first thing I did was to drop 
 the goose into the gutter, which is just what I 
 might have expected to do, attempting to 
 handle four separate articles and three yards of 
 string with one pair of hands. I picked up 
 about a quart of mud with that goose, and got 
 the greater part of it over my hands and clothes 
 and a fair quantity over the brown paper; and 
 then it began to rain. 
 
 " I bundled everything up into my arm and 
 made for the nearest pub, where I thought I 
 would ask for a piece more string, and make a 
 neat job of it.
 
 214 
 
 DID NOT BELIEVE IN LUCK. 
 
 " The bar was crowded. I pushed my way to 
 the counter and flung the goose down in front 
 of me. The men nearest stopped talking to 
 
 "I tried to tie it up again." 
 
 look at it; and a young fellow standing next 
 me said: 
 
 " ' Well, you've killed it.' I dare say I did 
 seem a bit excited. 
 
 " I had intended making another effort to
 
 DID NOT BELIEVE IN LUCK. 215 
 
 sell it here, but they were clearly not the right 
 sort. I had a pint of ale for I was feeling 
 somewhat tired and hot scraped as much of 
 the mud off the bird as I could, made a fresh 
 parcel of it, and came out. 
 
 " Crossing the road a happy idea occurred to 
 me. I thought I would raffle it. At once I set 
 to work to find a house where there might seem 
 to be a likely lot. It cost me three or four whis- 
 kies for I felt I didn't want any more beer, 
 which is a thing which easily upsets me but 
 at length I found just the crowd I wanted a 
 quiet, domestic-looking set, in a homely little 
 place off the Goswell Road. 
 
 " I explained my views to the landlord. He 
 said he had no objection; he supposed I would 
 stand drinks round afterward. I said I should 
 be delighted to do so, and showed him the bird. 
 
 " ' It looks a bit poorly,' he said. He was a 
 Devonshire man. 
 
 " ' Oh, that's nothing,' I explained. ' I hap- 
 pened to drop it. That will all wash off.' 
 
 " ' It smells a bit queer, too,' he said. 
 
 " ' That's mud/ I answered; ' you know what 
 London mud is. And a gentleman spilled some
 
 216 DID NOT BELIEVE IN LUCK. 
 
 gin over it. Nobody will notice that when it's 
 cooked.' 
 
 " ' Well/ he replied, ' I don't think I'll take a 
 hand myself; but if any other gent likes to, 
 that's his affair.' 
 
 " Nobody seemed enthusiastic. I started it 
 at sixpence, and took a ticket myself. The pot- 
 man had a free chance for superintending the 
 arrangements, and he succeeded in inducing 
 five other men, much against their will, to join 
 us. I won it myself, and paid out three and 
 twopence for drinks. A solemn-looking indi- 
 vidual who had been snoring in a corner sud- 
 denly woke up as I was going out, and offered 
 me sevenpence ha'penny for it why sevenpence 
 ha'penny I have never been quite able to under- 
 stand. He would have taken it away, I should 
 have never seen it again, and my whole life 
 might have been different. But Fate has always 
 been against me. I replied, with perhaps un- 
 necessary hauteur, that I wasn't a Christ- 
 mas dinner fund for the destitute, and walked 
 out. 
 
 " It was getting late, and I had a long walk 
 home to my lodgings. I was beginning to wish
 
 DID NOT BELIEVE IN LUCK. 217 
 
 I had never seen the bird. I estimated its 
 weight by this time to be thirty-six pounds. 
 
 " The idea occurred to me to sell it to a 
 poulterer. I looked for a shop; I found one in 
 Myddleton Street. There wasn't a customer 
 near it; but by the way the man was shouting 
 you might have thought that he was doing all 
 the trade of Clerkenwell. I took the goose out 
 of the parcel and laid it on the shelf before him. 
 
 " ' What's this? ' he asked. 
 
 "'It's a goose,' I said; 'you can have it 
 cheap.' 
 
 " He just seized the thing by the neck and 
 flung it at me. I dodged, and it caught the side 
 of my head. You can have no idea, if you've 
 never been hit on the head with a goose, how it 
 hurts. I picked it up, and hit him back with 
 it; and a policeman came up with the usual, 
 ' Now, then, what's all this about? ' 
 
 " I explained the facts. The poulterer 
 stepped to the edge of the curb and apostro- 
 phized the universe generally. 
 
 " ' Look at that shop,' he said; ' it's twenty 
 minutes to twelve, and there's seven dozen 
 geese hanging there that I'm willing to give
 
 2l8 
 
 DID NOT BELIEVE IN LUCK, 
 
 away, and this fool asks me if I want to buy 
 another! ' 
 
 " I perceived then that my notion had been 
 
 "It caught the side of my head." 
 
 a foolish one, and I followed the policeman's 
 advice, and went away quietly, taking the bird 
 with me. 
 
 " Then I said to myself, ' I will give it away.
 
 DID NOT BELIEVE IN LUCK. 219 
 
 I will select some poor, deserving person, and 
 
 make him a present of the d d thing.' I 
 
 passed a good many people, but no one who 
 looked deserving enough. It may have been the 
 time, or it may have been the neighborhood, 
 but those I met seemed to me to be unworthy 
 of the bird. I offered it to a man in Judd Street, 
 who I thought appeared hungry. He turned 
 out to be a drunken ruffian. I could not make 
 him understand what I meant, and he followed 
 me down the road abusing me at the top of his 
 voice, until, turning a corner without knowing 
 it, he plunged down Tavistock Place, shouting 
 after the wrong man. In the Euston Road I 
 stopped a half-starved child and pressed it upon 
 her. She answered ' Not me!' and ran away. 
 I heard her calling shrilly after me, ' Who stole 
 the goose? ' 
 
 " I dropped it in a dark part of Seymour 
 Street. A man picked it up and brought it 
 after me. I was unequal to any more explana- 
 tions or arguments. I gave him twopence, and 
 plodded on with it once more. The pubs were 
 just closing, and I went into one for a final 
 drink. As a matter of fact, I had had enough
 
 220 DID NOT BELIEVE IN LUCK. 
 
 already, being, as I am, unaccustomed to any- 
 thing more than an occasional glass of beer. 
 But I felt depressed, and I thought it might 
 cheer me. I think I had gin, which is a thing 
 I loathe. 
 
 " I meant to fling it over into Oakley Square, 
 but a policeman had his eye on me, and followed 
 me twice round the railings. In Golding Road 
 I sought to throw it down an area, but was 
 frustrated in like manner. The whole night 
 police of London seemed to have nothing else 
 to do but prevent my getting rid of that goose. 
 
 " They appeared so anxious about it that I 
 fancied they might like to have it. I went up to 
 one in Camden Street. I called him ' Bobby,' 
 and asked him if he wanted a goose. 
 
 " ' I'll tell you what I don't want/ he replied 
 severely, ' and that is none of your sauce.' 
 
 " He was very insulting, and I naturally an- 
 swered him back. What actually passed I for- 
 get, but it ended in his announcing his intention 
 of taking me in charge. 
 
 " I slipped out of his hand, and bolted down 
 King Street. He blew his whistle and started 
 after me. A man sprang out from a doorway in
 
 DID NOT BELIEVE IN LUCK. 221 
 
 College Street and tried to stop me. I tied him 
 up with a butt in the stomach, and cut through 
 the Crescent, doubling back into the Camden 
 Road by Batt Street. 
 
 " At the canal bridge I looked behind me, and 
 could see no one. I dropped the goose over the 
 parapet, and it fell with a splash into the water. 
 
 " Heaving a sigh of relief, I turned and 
 crossed into Randolph Street, and there a con- 
 stable collared me. I was arguing with him 
 when the first fool came up breathless. They 
 told me I had better explain the matter to the 
 Inspector, and I thought so too. 
 
 " The Inspector asked me why I had run 
 away when the constable wanted to take me in 
 charge. I replied that it was because I did not 
 desire to spend my Christmas holidays in the 
 lock-up, which he evidently regarded as a singu- 
 larly weak argument. He asked me what I had 
 thrown into the canal. I told him a goose. He 
 asked me why I had thrown a goose into the 
 canal. I told him because I was sick and tired 
 of the animal. 
 
 " At this stage a sergeant came in to say that 
 they had succeeded in recovering the parcel.
 
 222 
 
 DID NOT BELIEVE IN LUCK. 
 
 They opened it on the Inspector's table. It 
 contained a dead baby. 
 
 " I pointed out to them that it wasn't my 
 
 "They told me I had better explain the matter to the Inspector." 
 
 parcel, and that it wasn't my baby; but they 
 hardly took the trouble to disguise the fact that 
 they did not believe me.
 
 DID NOT BELIEVE IN LUCK. 223 
 
 " The Inspector said it was too grave a case 
 for bail, which, seeing that I did not know a 
 soul in London, was somewhat immaterial. I 
 got them to send a telegram to my young lady 
 to say that I was unavoidably detained in town, 
 and passed as quiet and uneventful a Christmas 
 Day and Boxing Day as I ever wish to spend. 
 
 " In the end the evidence against me was held 
 to be insufficient to justify a conviction, and .1 
 got off on the minor charge of drunk and dis- 
 orderly. But I lost my situation, and I lost my 
 young lady, and I don't care if I never see a 
 goose again." 
 
 We were nearing Liverpool Street. He col- 
 lected his luggage, and, taking up his hat, made 
 an attempt to put it on his head. But in conse- 
 quence of the swelling caused by the horseshoe 
 it would not go anywhere near him; and he laid 
 it sadly back upon the seat. 
 
 " No," he said quietly; " I can't say that I 
 believe very much in luck."
 
 WHIBLEY'S SPIRIT. 
 
 NEVER met it myself, but I knew 
 Whibley very well indeed, so that I 
 came to hear a goodish deal about it. 
 It appeared to be devoted to 
 Whibley, and Whibley was extremely fond 
 of it. Personally, I am not interested in 
 spirits, and no spirit has ever interested 
 itself in me. But I have friends whom 
 they patronize, and my mind is quite open 
 on the subject. Of Whibley's Spirit, therefore, 
 I wish to speak with every possible respect. It 
 was, I am willing to admit, as hard-working and 
 conscientious a spirit as anyone could wish to 
 live with. The only thing I have to say against 
 it is that it had no sense. 
 
 It came with a carved cabinet that Whibley 
 had purchased in Wardour Street for old-oak 
 but which, as a matter of fact, was chestnut 
 wood, manufactured in Germany and at first 
 was harmless enough, saying nothing but
 
 WHIBLEY'S SPIRIT. 22$ 
 
 " Yes! " or " No! " and that only when spoken 
 to. 
 
 Whibley would amuse himself of an evening, 
 asking it questions, being 'careful to choose tol- 
 erably simple themes, such as, " Are you 
 there? " (to which the Spirit would some- 
 times answer " Yes! " and sometimes " No! ") 
 " Can you hear me? " " Are you happy? " 
 and so on. The Spirit made the cabinet 
 crack three times for " Yes," and twice 
 for " No." Now and then it would reply 
 both " Yes! " and " No! " to the same question, 
 which Whibley attributed to over-scrupulous- 
 ness. When nobody asked it anything, it would 
 talk to itself, repeating "Yes! No!" "No! 
 Yes! " over and over again in an aimless, lone- 
 some sort of way that made you feel sorry for it. 
 
 After a while Whibley bought it a table, and en- 
 couraged it to launch out into more active con- 
 versation. To please Whibley, I assisted at some 
 of the earlier seances, but during my presence 
 it invariably maintained a reticence bordering 
 on positive dullness. I gathered from Whibley 
 that it disliked me, saying that I was unsym- 
 pathetic. The complaint was unjust ; I was not
 
 226 WHIB LEY'S SPIRIT. 
 
 unsympathetic at least not at the commence- 
 ment. I came to hear it talk, and I wanted to 
 hear it talk; I would have listened to it by the 
 hour. What tired me was its slowness in start- 
 ing, and its foolishness, when it had started, in 
 using long words that it did not know how 
 to spell. I remember on one occasion, Whibley, 
 Jobstock (Whibley's partner), and myself, sit- 
 ting for two hours, trying to understand what 
 the thing meant by " H-e-s-t-u-r-n-e-m-y-s- 
 f-e-a-r." It used no stops whatever. It never 
 so much as hinted where one sentence ended and 
 another began. It never even told us when it 
 came to a proper name. Its idea of an evening's 
 conversation was to plump down a hundred or 
 so vowels and consonants in front of you, and 
 leave you to make whatever sense out of them 
 you could. 
 
 We fancied at first it was talking about some- 
 body named Hester (it had spelled Hester with 
 a " u " before: we allowed a margin for spelling), 
 and we tried to work the sentence out on that 
 basis; " Hester enemys fear," we thought it 
 might be. Whibley had a niece named Hester, 
 and we decided the warning had reference to
 
 WHIBLEY' S SPIRIT. 227 
 
 her. But whether she was our enemy, and we 
 were to fear her; or whether we were to fear her 
 enemies (and, if so, who were they?); or whether 
 it was our enemies who were to be frightened 
 by Hester, or her enemies; or enemies generally, 
 still remained doubtful. We asked the table if 
 it meant the first suggestion, and it said " No." 
 We asked it what it did mean, and it said 
 " Yes." 
 
 This answer annoyed me, but Whibley ex- 
 plained that the Spirit was angry with us for our 
 stupidity (which seemed quaint). He informed 
 us that it always said first " No," and then 
 " Yes," when it was angry, and as it was his 
 Spirit, and we were in his house, we kept our 
 feelings to ourselves and started afresh. 
 
 This time we abandoned the " Hestur " 
 theory altogether. Jobstock suggested 
 " Haste " for the first word, and thought the 
 Spirit might have gone on phonetically. 
 
 " Haste! you are here, Miss Sfear! " was what 
 he made of it. 
 
 Whibley asked him sarcastically if he'd kindly 
 explain what that meant. 
 
 I think Jobstock was getting irritable. We
 
 228 WHIB LEY'S SPIRIT. 
 
 had been sitting cramped up around a 
 wretched little one-legged table all the even- 
 ing, and this was almost the first bit of gossip 
 we had got out of it. To further excuse him, 
 it should also be explained that the gas had 
 been put out by Whibley, and that the fire had 
 gone out of its own accord. He replied that it 
 was hard labor enough to find out what the 
 thing said without having to make sense of it. 
 
 " It can't spell," he added, " and it's got a 
 nasty, sulky temper. If it was my spirit I'd 
 hire another spirit to kick it." 
 
 Whibley was one of the mildest little men I 
 ever knew, but chaff or abuse of his Spirit 
 roused the devil in him, and I feared we were 
 going to have a scene. Fortunately, I was able 
 to get his mind back to the consideration of 
 " Hesturnemysfear " before anything worse 
 happened than a few muttered remarks about 
 the laughter of fools, and want of reverence for 
 sacred subjects being the sign of a shallow mind. 
 
 We tried " He's stern," and " His turn," and 
 the " fear of Hesturnemy "; and tried to think 
 who " Hesturnemy " might be. Three times 
 we went over the whole thing again from the
 
 WHIBLEY >S SPIRIT. 22$ 
 
 beginning, which meant six hundred and six 
 tiltings of the table; and then suddenly the ex- 
 planation struck me " Eastern Hemisphere." 
 
 Whibley had asked it for any information it 
 might possess concerning his wife's uncle, from 
 whom he had not heard for months; and that, 
 apparently, was its idea of an address. 
 
 The fame of Whibley's Spirit became noised 
 abroad, with the result that Whibley was able 
 to command the willing service of more con- 
 genial assistants, and Jobstock and myself were 
 dismissed. But we bore no malice. 
 
 Under these more favorable conditions the 
 Spirit plucked up wonderfully, and talked every- 
 body's head off. It could never have been a 
 cheerful companion, however, for its conversa- 
 tion was chiefly confined to warnings and prog- 
 nostications of evil. About once a fortnight 
 Whibley would drop round on me, in a friendly 
 way, to tell me that I was to beware of a man 
 who lived in a street beginning with a " C," or 
 to inform me that if I would go to a town on 
 the coast where there were three churches I 
 should meet someone who would do me an irrep- 
 arable injury; and that I did not rush off then
 
 230 WHIB 'LEY'S SPIRIT". 
 
 and there in search of that town he regarded as 
 flying in the face of Providence. 
 
 In its passion for poking its ghostly nose into 
 other people's affairs, it reminded me of my 
 earthly friend Poppleton. Nothing pleased it 
 better than being appealed to for aid and advice, 
 and Whibley, who was a perfect slave to it. 
 would hunt half over the parish for people in 
 trouble and bring them to it. 
 
 It would direct ladies, eager for divorce-court 
 evidence, to go to the third house from the cor- 
 ner of the fifth street, past such and such a 
 church or public house (it never could give a 
 plain, straightfonvard address), and ring the 
 bottom bell but one twice. They would thank 
 it effusively, and next morning would start to 
 find the fifth street past the church, and would 
 ring the bottom bell but one of the third house 
 from the corner twice, and a man in his shirt- 
 sleeves would come to the door and ask them 
 what they wanted. 
 
 They could not tell what they wanted; they 
 did not know themselves, and the man would 
 use bad language, and slam the door in their 
 faces.
 
 W HI B LEY'S SPIRIT. 
 
 Then they would think that perhaps the 
 Spirit meant the fifth street the other way, or 
 the third house from the opposite corner, and 
 
 Mooning along Princes Street. 
 
 would try again, with still more unpleasant 
 results. 
 
 One July I met Whibley mooning disconso- 
 lately along Princes Street, Edinburgh. 
 
 " Hullo! " I exclaimed, " what are you doing 
 here? I thought you were busy over that 
 School Board case? " 
 
 " Yes," he answered; " I ought really to be in
 
 23 2 WHIBLEY'S SPIRIT. 
 
 London, but the truth is I'm rather expecting 
 something to happen down here." 
 
 M Oh! " I said, " and what's that? " 
 
 " Well," he replied hesitatingly, as though 
 he would rather not talk about it, " I don't ex- 
 actly know yet." 
 
 " You've come from London to Edinburgh, 
 and don't know what you've come for! " 1 cried. 
 
 " Well, you see," he said, still more reluc- 
 tantly, as it seemed to me, " it was Maria's idea. 
 She wished " 
 
 "Maria!" I interrupted, looking perhaps a 
 little sternly at him, " who's Maria? " (His 
 wife's name I knew was Emily Georgina 
 Anne.) 
 
 "Oh! I forgot," he explained; "she never 
 would tell her name before you, would she? 
 It's the Spirit, you know." 
 
 "Oh! that," I said; "it's she that has sent 
 you here. Didn't she tell you what for? " 
 
 "No," he answered; "that's what worries 
 me. All she would say was: ' Go to Edinburgh 
 something will happen.' ' 
 
 " And how long are you going to remain 
 here? " I inquired.
 
 WH IB LEY'S SPIRIT. 233 
 
 " I don't know," he replied. " I've been 
 here a week already, and Jobstock writes quite 
 angrily. I wouldn't have come if Maria hadn't 
 been so urgent. She repeated it three evenings 
 running." 
 
 I hardly knew what to do. The man was so 
 dreadfully in earnest about the business that one 
 could not argue much with him. 
 
 ' You are sure," I said, after thinking a while, 
 " that this Maria is a good spirit? There are all 
 sorts going about, I'm told. You're sure this 
 isn't the spirit of some deceased lunatic playing 
 the fool with you? " 
 
 " I've thought of that," he admitted. " Of 
 course that might be so. If nothing happens 
 soon I shall almost begin to suspect it." 
 
 " Well, I should certainly make some in- 
 quiries into its character before I trusted it any 
 further," I answered, and left him. 
 
 About a month later I ran against him out- 
 side the Law Courts. 
 
 " It was all right about Maria," he said; 
 " something did happen in Edinburgh while I 
 was there. That very morning I met you one 
 of my oldest clients died quite suddenly at his
 
 234 WHIBLEY'S SPIRIT. 
 
 house at Queensferry, only a few miles outside 
 the city." 
 
 " I'm glad of that," I answered; " I mean, of 
 course, for Maria's sake. It was lucky you 
 went, then." 
 
 " Well, not altogether," he replied; " at least, 
 not in a worldly sense. He left his affairs in a 
 very complicated state, and his eldest son went 
 straight up to London to consult me about 
 them, and, not rinding me there, and time being 
 important, went to Kebble. I was rather dis- 
 appointed when I got back and heard about it." 
 
 " Umph! " I said, " she's not a smart spirit, 
 anyway." 
 
 " No," he answered; "perhaps not. But, you 
 see, something really did happen." 
 
 After that his affection for " Maria " in- 
 creased tenfold, while her attachment to himself 
 became a burden to his friends. She grew too 
 big for her table, and, dispensing with all 
 mechanical intermediaries, talked to him direct. 
 She followed him everywhere. Mary's lamb 
 couldn't have been a bigger nuisance. She 
 would even go with him into the bedroom and 
 carry on long conversations with him in the
 
 WHIB LEY'S SPIRIT. 23$ 
 
 middle of the night. His wife objected; she 
 said it seemed hardly decent, but there was no 
 keeping her out. 
 
 She turned up with him at picnics and Christ- 
 mas parties. Nobody heard her speak to him, 
 but it seemed necessary for him to reply to her 
 aloud; and to see him suddenly get up from his 
 chair and slip away to talk earnestly to nothing 
 in a corner disturbed the festivities. 
 
 " I should really be glad," he once confessed 
 to me, " to get a little time to myself. She 
 means kindly, but it is a strain. And then the 
 others don't like it. It makes them nervous. 
 I can see it does." 
 
 One evening she caused quite a scene at the 
 club. Whibley had been playing whist, with 
 the Major for a partner. At the end of a game 
 the Major, leaning across the table toward him, 
 asked, in a tone of deadly calm, " May I inquire, 
 sir, whether there was any earthly reason " (he 
 emphasized " earthly ") " for your following my 
 lead of spades with your only trump? " 
 
 " I I am very sorry, Major," replied Whib- 
 ley apologetically. " I I somehow felt I I 
 ought to lead that queen."
 
 236 
 
 WH IB LEY'S SPIRIT. 
 
 " Entirely your own inspiration, or sug- 
 gested?" persisted the Major, who had, of 
 course, heard of " Maria." 
 
 " I decline to continue this game." 
 
 Whibley admitted the play had been sug- 
 gested to him. The Major rose from the table. 
 
 " Then, sir," said he, with concentrated in- 
 dignation, " I decline to continue this game.
 
 WHIBLEY'S SPIRIT. 237 
 
 A human fool I can tolerate for a partner, but if 
 I am to be hampered by a d d spirit " 
 
 " You've no right to say that," cried Whib- 
 ley hotly. 
 
 " I apologize," returned the Major coldly; 
 " we will say a blessed spirit. I decline to play 
 whist with spirits of any kind; and I would 
 advise you, sir, if you intend giving many ex- 
 hibitions with the lady, first to teach her the 
 rudiments of the game." 
 
 Saying which the Major put on his hat and 
 left the club, and I made Whibley drink a stiff 
 glass of brandy and water, and sent him and 
 Maria home in a cab. 
 
 Whibley got rid of " Maria " at last. It cost 
 him, in round figures, about eight thousand 
 pounds, but his family said it was worth it. 
 
 A Spanish count hired a furnished house a 
 few doors from Whibley's, and one evening he 
 was introduced to Whibley, and came home and 
 had a chat with him. Whibley told him about 
 " Maria," and the Count quite fell in love with 
 her. He said that if only he had had such a 
 spirit to help and advise him, it might have 
 altered his whole life.
 
 2 3 8 
 
 WHIBLEY'S SPIRIT. 
 
 He was the first man who had ever said a 
 kind word about the spirit, and Whibley loved 
 him for it. The Count seemed as though he 
 could never see enough of Whibley after that 
 
 Hired a furnished house. 
 
 evening, and the three of them Whibley, the 
 Count, and " Maria " would sit up half the 
 night talking together. 
 
 The precise particulars I never heard. Whib- 
 ley was always very reticent on the matter. 
 Whether " Maria " really did exist, and the
 
 WHIB LEY'S SPIRIT. 239 
 
 " Count " deliberately set to work to bamboozle 
 her (she was fool enough for anything), or 
 whether she was a mere hallucination of Whib- 
 ley's, and the man tricked Whibley by " hyp- 
 notic suggestion " (as I believe it is called), I 
 am not prepared to say. The only thing cer- 
 tain is that " Maria " convinced Whibley that 
 the Count had discovered a secret gold mine in 
 Peru. She said she knew all about it, and coun- 
 seled Whibley to beg the Count to let him put 
 a few thousands into the working of it. 
 " Maria," it appeared, had known the Count 
 from his boyhood, and could answer for it that 
 he was the most honorable man in all South 
 America. Possibly enough he was. 
 
 The Count was astonished to find that Whib- 
 ley knew all about his mine. Eight thousand 
 pounds was needed to start the workings, but 
 he had not mentioned it to anyone, as he wanted 
 to keep the whole thing to himself, and thought 
 he could save the money on his estates in Portu- 
 gal. However, to oblige " Maria," he would let 
 Whibley supply the money. Whibley supplied 
 it in cash, and no one has ever seen the Count 
 since.
 
 240 WHIBLEY'S SPIRIT. 
 
 That broke up Whibley's faith in " Maria," 
 and a sensible doctor, getting hold of him, 
 threatened to prescribe a lunatic asylum for 
 him if ever he found him carrying on with any 
 spirits again. That completed the cure.
 
 THE DEGENERATION OF 
 THOMAS HENRY. 
 
 HE most respectable cat I have ever 
 known was Thomas Henry. His 
 original name was Thomas, but it 
 seemed absurd to call him that. The 
 family at Hawarden would as soon think of ad- 
 dressing Mr. Gladstone as " Bill." He came 
 to us from the Reform Club, via the butcher, 
 and the moment I saw him I felt that, of all 
 the clubs in London, that was the club he must 
 have come from. Its atmosphere of solid dig- 
 nity and petrified conservatism seemed to cling 
 to him. Why he left the club I am unable, at 
 this distance of time, to remember positively, 
 but I am inclined to think that it came about 
 owing to a difference with the new chef, an 
 overbearing personage, who wanted all the fire 
 to himself. The butcher, hearing of the quar- 
 rel, and knowing us as a catless family, sug- 
 241
 
 242 DEGENERA TION OF THOMAS HENRY. 
 
 gested a way out of the impasse that was wel- 
 comed by both cat and cook. The parting be- 
 tween them, I believe, was purely formal; and 
 Thomas arrived prejudiced in our favor. 
 
 My wife, the moment she saw him, suggested 
 Henry as a more suitable name. It struck me 
 that the combination of the two would be still 
 more appropriate, and accordingly, in the priv- 
 acy of the domestic circle, Thomas Henry he 
 was called. When speaking of him to friends, 
 we generally alluded to him as Thomas Henry, 
 Esquire. 
 
 He approved of us in his quiet, undemonstra- 
 tive way. He chose my own particular easy- 
 chair for himself, and stuck to it. An ordinary 
 cat I should have shot out, but Thomas Henry 
 was not the cat one chivvies. Had I made it 
 clear to him that I objected to his presence in 
 my chair, I feel convinced he would have re- 
 garded me much as I should expect to be re- 
 garded by Queen Victoria were that gracious 
 lady to call upon me in a friendly way, and were 
 I to inform her that I was busy, and request her 
 to look in again some other afternoon. He 
 would have risen and have walked away, but
 
 DEGENERATION OF THOMAS HENRY. 243 
 
 he never would have spoken to me again so long 
 as we lived under the same roof. 
 
 We had a lady staying with us at the time 
 she still resides with us, but she is now older, 
 and possessed of more judgment who was no 
 respecter of cats. Her argument was that, see- 
 ing the tail stuck up, and came conveniently to 
 one's hand, that was the natural appendage by 
 which to raise a cat. She also labored under the 
 error that the way to feed a cat was to ram 
 things into its head, and that its pleasure was 
 to be taken out for a ride in a doll's perambu- 
 lator. I dreaded the first meeting of Thomas 
 Henry with this lady. I feared lest she should 
 give him a false impression of us as a family, and 
 that we should suffer in his eyes. 
 
 But I might have saved myself all anxiety. 
 There was a something about Thomas Henry 
 that checked forwardness and damped familiar- 
 ity. His attitude toward her was friendly, but 
 firm. Hesitatingly, and with a newborn re- 
 spect for cats, she put out her hand timidly 
 toward his tail. He gently put it on the other 
 side, and looked at her. It was not an angry 
 look nor an offended look. It was the expres-
 
 244 DEGENERATION OF THOMAS HENRY. 
 
 sion with which Solomon might have received 
 the advances of the Queen of Sheba. It 
 expressed condescension, combined with dis- 
 tance. 
 
 He was really a most gentlemanly cat, A 
 friend of mine, who believes in the doctrine of 
 the transmigration of souls, was convinced that 
 he was Lord Chesterfield. He never clamored 
 for food, as other cats do. He would sit beside 
 me at meals, and wait till he was served. He 
 would eat only the knuckle end of leg of mut- 
 ton, and would never look at overdone beef. 
 A visitor of ours once offered him a piece of 
 gristle; he said nothing, but quietly left the 
 room, and we did not see him again until our 
 friend had departed. 
 
 But everyone has his price, and Thomas 
 Henry's price was roast duck. Thomas Henry's 
 attitude in the presence of roast duck came to 
 me as a psychological revelation. It showed 
 me at once the lower and more animal side of 
 his nature. In the presence of roast duck 
 Thomas Henry became simply and merely a cat, 
 swayed by all the savage instincts of his race. 
 His dignity fell from him as a cloak. He clawed
 
 DEC EN ERA TION OF THOMAS HENR 1". 245 
 
 for roast duck, he groveled for it. I believe he 
 would have sold himself to the devil for roast 
 duck. 
 
 We accordingly avoided that particular dish; 
 it was painful to see a cat's character so com- 
 pletely demoralized. Besides, his manners, 
 when roast duck was on the table, afforded a 
 bad example to the children. 
 
 He was a shining light among all the cats of 
 our neighborhood. One might have set one's 
 watch by his movements. After dinner he in- 
 variably took half an hour's constitutional in 
 the square; at ten o'clock each night, precisely, 
 he returned to the area door, and at eleven 
 o'clock he was asleep in my easy-chair. He 
 made no friends among the other cats. He 
 took no pleasure in fighting, and I doubt his 
 ever having loved, even in youth; his was too 
 cold and self-contained a nature; female society 
 he regarded with utter indifference. 
 
 So he lived with us a blameless existence dur- 
 ing the whole winter. In the summer we took 
 him down with us into the country. We 
 thought the change of air would do him good; 
 he was getting decidedly stout. Alas, poor
 
 246 DEGENERATION OF THOMAS HENRY. 
 
 Thomas Henry! The country was his ruin. 
 What brought about the change I cannot say. 
 Maybe the air was too bracing. He slid down 
 the moral incline with frightful rapidity. The 
 first night he stopped out till eleven, the second 
 night he never came home at all, the third night 
 he came home at six o'clock in the morning, 
 minus half the fur on the top of his head. Of 
 course, there was a lady in the case; indeed, 
 judging by the riot that went on all night, I 
 am inclined to think there must have been a 
 dozen. He was certainly a fine cat, and they 
 took to calling for him in the daytime. Then 
 gentlemen cats who had been wronged took to 
 calling also, and demanding explanations, which 
 Thomas Henry, to do him justice, was always 
 ready to accord. 
 
 The village boys used to loiter round all day 
 to watch the fights; and angry housewives 
 would be constantly charging into our kitchen 
 to fling dead cats upon the table, and appeal to 
 heaven and myself for justice. Our kitchen be- 
 came a veritable cat's morgue, and I had to pur- 
 chase a new kitchen table. The cook said it 
 would make her work simpler if she could keep
 
 DEGENERA TION OF THOMAS HENRY. 247 
 
 a table entirely to herself. She said it quite con- 
 fused her, having so many dead cats lying round 
 among the joints and vegetables. She was 
 afraid of making a mistake. Accordingly, the 
 old table was placed under the window, and de- 
 voted to the cats; and after that she would 
 never allow anyone to bring a cat, however 
 dead, to her table. 
 
 " What do you want me to do with it? " I 
 heard her asking an excited lady on one occa- 
 sion; " cook it? " 
 
 " It's my cat," said the lady, " that's what 
 that is." 
 
 " Well, I'm not making cat-pie to-day," an- 
 swered our cook. " You take it to its proper 
 table. This is my table." 
 
 At first " justice " was generally satisfied 
 with half a crown, but as time went on cats rose. 
 I had hitherto regarded cats as a cheap com- 
 modity, and I became surprised at the value at- 
 tached to them. I began to think seriously of 
 breeding cats as an industry. At the prices cur- 
 rent in that village I could have made an income 
 of thousands. 
 
 " Look what your beast has done," said one
 
 248 DEGENERA TION OF THOMAS HENR Y. 
 
 irate female, to whom I had been called out in 
 the middle of dinner. 
 
 I looked. Thomas Henry appeared to have 
 " done " a mangy, emaciated animal that must 
 have been far happier dead than alive. Had the 
 poor creature been mine, I should have thanked 
 him; but some people never know when they 
 are well off. 
 
 " I wouldn't ha' taken a five-pun note for that 
 cat," said the lady. 
 
 " It's a matter of opinion," I replied; " but, 
 personally, I think you have been unwise to re- 
 fuse it. Taking the animal as it stands, I don't 
 feel inclined to give you more than a shilling for 
 it. If you think you can do better by taking it 
 elsewhere, you can do so." 
 
 " He was more like a Christian than a cat," 
 said the lady. 
 
 " I'm not taking dead Christians," I answered 
 firmly; "and even if I were, I wouldn't give 
 more than a shilling for a specimen like that. 
 You can consider him as a Christian, or you can 
 consider him as a cat ; but he's not worth more 
 than a shilling in either case." 
 
 We settled eventually for eighteenpence.
 
 DEGENERATION OF THOMAS HENRY. 249 
 
 The number of cats that Thomas Henry con- 
 trived to dispose of also surprised me. Quite a 
 massacre of cats seemed to be in progress. 
 
 One evening, going into the kitchen, for I 
 made it a practice now to visit the kitchen each 
 evening to inspect the daily consignment of 
 dead cats, I found, among others, a curiously 
 marked tortoiseshell cat lying on the table. 
 
 " That cat's worth half a sovereign," said the 
 owner, who was standing by, drinking beer. 
 
 I took up the animal and examined it. 
 
 " Your cat killed him yesterday," continued 
 the man; "it's a burning shame." 
 
 " My cat has killed him three times," I re- 
 plied. " He was killed on Saturday as Mrs. 
 Hedger's cat; on Monday he was killed for Mrs. 
 Myers. I was not quite positive on Monday; 
 but I had my suspicions, and I made notes. 
 Now I recognize him. You take my advice and 
 bury him before he breeds a fever. I don't care 
 how many lives a cat has got, I only pay for 
 one." 
 
 We gave Thomas Henry every chance to re- 
 form; but he only went from bad to worse, and 
 added poaching and chicken stalking to his
 
 250 DEGENERATION OF THOMAS HENRY. 
 
 other crimes; and I grew tired of paying for his 
 vices. 
 
 I consulted the gardener, and the gardener 
 said he had known cats taken that way before. 
 
 " Do you know of any cure for it? " I asked. 
 
 " Well, sir," replied the gardener, " I have 
 heard as how a dose of brickbat and pond is a 
 good thing in a general way." 
 
 " We'll try him with a dose just before bed- 
 time," I answered. The gardener administered 
 it, and we had no further trouble with him. 
 
 Poor Thomas Henry! It shows to one how 
 a reputation for respectability may lie in the 
 mere absence of temptation. Born and bred in 
 the atmosphere of the Reform Club, what gen- 
 tleman could go wrong? I was sorry for 
 Thomas Henry, and I have never believed in 
 the moral influence of the country since.
 
 THE MAN WHO WOULD 
 MANAGE. 
 
 T has been told me by those in a posi- 
 tion to know and I can believe it 
 that at nineteen months of age he 
 wept because his grandmother would 
 not allow him to feed her with a spoon; 
 and that at three and a half he was fished, in 
 an exhausted condition, out of the water butt, 
 whither he had climbed for the purpose of 
 teaching a frog to swim. 
 
 Two years later he permanently injured his 
 left eye showing the cat how to carry kittens 
 without hurting them; and about the same 
 period was dangerously stung by a bee while 
 conveying it from a flower where, as it seeemd 
 to him, it was only wasting its time, to one 
 more rich in honey-making properties. 
 
 His desire was always to help others. He 
 would spend whole mornings explaining to 
 elderly hens how to hatch eggs; and would give 
 251
 
 252 THE MAN WHO WOULD MANAGE. 
 
 up an afternoon's blackberrying to sit at home 
 and crack nuts for his pet squirrel. Before he 
 was seven he would argue with his mother upon 
 the management of children, and reprove his 
 father for the way he was bringing him up. 
 
 As a child nothing afforded him greater de- 
 light than " minding " other children or them, 
 less. He would take upon himself this haras- 
 sing duty entirely of his own accord, without 
 hope of reward or gratitude. It was immaterial 
 to him whether the other children were older 
 than himself or younger, stronger or weaker; 
 whenever and wherever he found them, he set 
 to work to " mind " them. Once, during a 
 school treat, piteous cries were heard coming 
 from a distant part of the wood, and, upon 
 search being made, he was discovered prone 
 upon the ground, with a cousin of his, a boy 
 twice his own weight, sitting upon him and 
 steadily whacking him. Having rescued him, 
 the teacher said: "Why don't you keep with 
 the little boys? What are you doing along with 
 him? " 
 
 " Please, sir," he answered, " I was minding 
 him."
 
 THE MAN WHO WOULD MANAGE. 253 
 
 He would have " minded " Noah if he had 
 got hold of him. 
 
 He was a good-natured lad, and at school he 
 was always willing for the whole class to copy 
 from his slate indeed he would urge them to 
 do so. He meant it kindly; but, inasmuch as 
 his answers were invariably quite wrong with 
 a distinctive and inimitable wrongness peculiar 
 to himself the result to his followers was emi- 
 nently unsatisfactory; and, with the shallow- 
 ness of youth, that, ignoring motives, judges 
 solely from results, they would wait for him out- 
 side and punch him. 
 
 All his energies went to the instruction of 
 others, leaving none for his own purposes. He 
 would take callow youths to his chambers and 
 teach them to box. 
 
 " Now, try and hit me on the nose," he would 
 say, standing before them in an attitude of de- 
 fense. " Don't be afraid. Hit as hard as ever 
 you can." 
 
 And they would do it ; and so soon as he had 
 recovered from his surprise, and a little lessened 
 the bleeding, he would explain to them how 
 they had done it all wrong, and how easily he
 
 254 
 
 THE MAN WHO WOULD MANAGE. 
 
 could have stopped the blow if they had only hit 
 him properly. 
 
 Twice, at golf, he lamed himself for over a 
 week, showing a novice how to " drive "; and, 
 at cricket, on one occasion, I remember seeing 
 
 Lamed himself for over a week. 
 
 his middle stump go down like a ninepin just 
 as he was explaining to the bowler how to get 
 the balls in straight. After which he had a long 
 argument with the umpire as to whether he was 
 in or out.
 
 THE MAN WHO WOULD MANAGE. 255 
 
 He has been known, during a stormy Channel 
 passage, to rush excitedly upon the bridge in 
 order to inform the captain that he had " just 
 seen a light about two miles away to the left " ; 
 and if he is on the top of an omnibus he gener- 
 ally sits beside the driver and points out to him 
 the various obstacles likely to impede their 
 progress. 
 
 It was upon an omnibus that my own personal 
 acquaintanceship with him began. I was sitting 
 behind two ladies when the conductor came up 
 to collect fares. One of them handed him a 
 sixpence, telling him to take to Piccadilly Circus 
 which was twopence. 
 
 " No," said the other lady to her friend, hand- 
 ing the man a shilling; " I owe you sixpence; 
 you give me fourpence, and I'll pay for the 
 two." 
 
 The conductor took the shilling, punched 
 two twopenny tickets, and then stood trying to 
 think it out. 
 
 " That's right," said the lady who had spoken 
 last ; " give my friend fourpence " the con- 
 ductor did so " now you give that fourpence 
 to me " the friend handed it to her " and
 
 256 THE MAN WHO WOULD MANAGE. 
 
 you," she concluded to the conductor, " give 
 me eightpence. Then we shall all be right." 
 
 The conductor doled out to her the eight- 
 pence the sixpence he had taken from the first 
 lady, with a penny and two halfpennies out of 
 his own bag, distrustfully, and retired, mutter- 
 ing something about his duties not including 
 those of a lightning calculator. 
 
 " Now," said the elder lady to the younger, 
 " I owe you a shilling." 
 
 I deemed the incident closed, when suddenly 
 a florid gentleman on the opposite seat called 
 out in stentorian tones: 
 
 " Hi ! conductor, you've cheated these ladies 
 out of fourpence." 
 
 " 'Go's cheated 'oo out o' fourpence? " replied 
 the indignant conductor from the top of the 
 steps. " It was a twopenny fare." 
 
 " Two twopences don't make eightpence," 
 retorted the florid gentleman hotly. " How 
 much did you give the fellow, my dear? " 
 he asked, addressing the first of the young 
 ladies. 
 
 " I gave him sixpence," replied the lady, ex- 
 amining her purse. " And then I gave you four-
 
 THE MAN WHO WOULD MANAGE. 257 
 
 pence, you know," she added, addressing her 
 companion. 
 
 " That's a dear twopen'oth," chimed in the 
 common-looking man on the seat behind. 
 
 " Oh, that's impossible, dear! " returned the 
 other, " because I owed you sixpence to begin 
 with." 
 
 " But I did," persisted the first lady. 
 
 " You gave me a shilling," said the conductor, 
 who had returned, pointing an accusing fore- 
 finger at the elder of the ladies. 
 
 The elder lady nodded. 
 
 " And I gave you sixpence and two pennies, 
 didn't I?" 
 
 The lady admitted it. 
 
 " An' I give 'er " he pointed toward the 
 younger lady " fourpence, didn't I? " 
 
 " Which I gave you, you know, dear," re- 
 marked the younger lady. 
 
 " Blow me if it ain't me as 'as been cheated 
 out of the fourpence," cried the conductor. 
 
 " But," said the florid gentleman, " the other 
 lady gave you sixpence." 
 
 " Which I give to 'er," replied the conductor, 
 again pointing the finger of accusation at the
 
 2 5 8 
 
 THE MAN WHO WOULD MANAGE. 
 
 elder lady. " You can search my bag if yer like. 
 I ain't got a bloomin' sixpence on me." 
 
 By this time everybody had forgotten what 
 they had done, and contradicted themselves 
 and one another. The florid man took it upon 
 
 " I ain't got a bloomin' sixpence on me." 
 
 himself to put everybody right, with the result 
 that before Piccadilly Circus was reached three 
 passengers had threatened to report the con- 
 ductor for unbecoming language; the con- 
 ductor had called a policeman, and had taken 
 the names and addresses of the two ladies, in-
 
 THE MAN WHO WOULD MANAGE. 259 
 
 tending to sue them for the fourpence (which 
 they wanted to pay, but which the florid man 
 would not allow them to do), the younger lady 
 had become convinced that the elder lady had 
 meant to cheat her, and the elder lady was in 
 tears. 
 
 The florid gentleman and myself continued to 
 Charing Cross Station. At the booking office 
 window it transpired that we were bound for 
 the same suburb, and we journeyed down to- 
 gether. He talked about the fourpence all the 
 way. 
 
 At my gate we shook hands, and he was good 
 enough to express delight at the discovery that 
 we were near neighbors. What attracted him 
 to myself I failed to understand, for he had 
 bored me considerably, and I had, to the best 
 of my ability, snubbed him. Subsequently I 
 learned that it was a peculiarity of his to be 
 charmed with anyone who did not openly insult 
 him. 
 
 Three days afterward he burst into my study 
 unannounced he appeared to regard himself as 
 my bosom friend and asked me to forgive him 
 for not having called sooner: which I did.
 
 260 THE MAN WHO WOULD MANAGE. 
 
 " Lmet the postman as I was coming along," 
 he said, handing me a blue envelope, " and he 
 gave me this for you." 
 
 I saw it was an application for the water 
 rate. 
 
 We must make a stand against this," he con- 
 tinued. " That's for water to the 29th of Sep- 
 tember. You've no right to pay it in June." 
 
 I replied to the effect that water rates had to 
 be paid, and that it seemed to me immaterial 
 whether they were paid in June or September. 
 
 " That's not it," he answered; " it's the prin- 
 ciple of the thing. Why should you pay for 
 water you have never had? What right have 
 they to bully you into paying what you don't 
 owe? " 
 
 He was a fluent talker, and I was ass enough 
 to listen to him. By the end of half an hour he 
 had persuaded me that the question was bound 
 up with the inalienable rights of man, and that 
 if I paid that fourteen and tenpence in June, 
 instead of in September, I should be unworthy 
 of the privileges my forefathers had fought and 
 died to bestow upon me. 
 
 He told me the company had not a leg to
 
 THE MAN WHO WOULD MANAGE. 261 
 
 stand upon, and, at his instigation, I sat down 
 and wrote an insulting letter to the chairman. 
 
 The secretary replied that, having regard to 
 the attitude I had taken up, it would be incum- 
 bent upon themselves to treat it as a test case, 
 and presumed that my solicitors would accept 
 service on my behalf. 
 
 When I showed him this letter he was 
 delighted. 
 
 " You leave it to me," he said, pocketing the 
 correspondence, " and we'll teach them a 
 lesson." 
 
 I left it to him. My only excuse was that at 
 the time I was immersed in the writing of a 
 farcical comedy. What little sense I possessed 
 must, I suppose, have been absorbed by the 
 play. 
 
 The magistrate's decision somewhat damp- 
 ened my ardor, but only inflamed his zeal. 
 Magistrates, he said, were muddle-headed old 
 fogies. This was a matter for a judge. 
 
 The judge was a kindly old gentleman, and 
 said that, bearing in mind the unsatisfactory 
 wording of the sub-clause, he did not think he 
 could allow the company their costs; so that,
 
 262 THE MAN WHO WOULD MANAGE. 
 
 all told, I got off for something under fifty 
 pounds, inclusive of the original fourteen and 
 tenpence. 
 
 Afterward our friendship waned; but, living 
 as we did in the same outlying suburb, I was 
 bound to see a good deal of him and to hear 
 more. 
 
 At parties of all kinds he was particularly 
 prominent; and on such occasions, being in 
 his most good-natured mood, was most to be 
 dreaded. No human being worked harder for 
 the enjoyment of others, or produced more uni- 
 versal wretchedness. 
 
 One Christmas afternoon, calling upon a 
 friend, I found some fourteen or fifteen elderly 
 ladies and gentlemen trotting solemnly round 
 a row of chairs in the center of the drawing 
 room, while Poppleton played the piano. Every 
 now and then Poppleton would suddenly cease, 
 and everyone would drop wearily into the near- 
 est chair, evidently glad of a rest all but one, 
 who would thereupon creep quietly away, fol- 
 lowed by the envying looks of those left behind. 
 I stood by the door watching the weird scene. 
 Presently an escaped player came toward me,
 
 THE MAN WHO WOULD MANAGE. 263 
 
 and I inquired of him what the ceremony was 
 supposed to signify. 
 
 " Don't ask me," he answered grumpily. 
 " Some of Poppleton's d d tomfoolery." 
 
 Trotting solemnly round a row of chairs. 
 
 Then he added savagely: " We've got to play 
 forfeits after this." 
 
 The servant was still waiting a favorable op- 
 portunity to announce me. I gave her a shil- 
 ling not to, and got away unperceived. 
 
 After a satisfactory dinner he would suggest 
 an impromptu dance, and want you to roll up
 
 264 THE MAN WHO WOULD MANAGE. 
 
 mats or help him move the piano to the other 
 end of the room. 
 
 He knew enough round games to have start- 
 ed a small purgatory of his own. Just as you 
 were in the middle of an interesting discussion, 
 or a delightful tete-a-tete with a pretty woman, 
 he would swoop down upon you with: " Come 
 along; we're going to play literary conse- 
 quences;" and, dragging you to the table, and 
 putting a piece of paper and a pencil before you, 
 would tell you to write a description of your 
 favorite heroine in fiction; and would see that 
 you did it. 
 
 He never spared himself. It was always he 
 who would volunteer to escort the old ladies to 
 the station, and who would never leave them 
 until he had seen them safely into the wrong 
 train. He it was who would play " wild beasts " 
 with the children, and frighten them into fits 
 that would last all night. 
 
 So far as intention went, he was the kindliest 
 man alive. He never visited poor sick persons 
 without taking with him in his pocket some 
 little delicacy calculated to disagree with them 
 and make them worse. He arranged yachting
 
 THE MAN WHO WOULD MANAGE. 
 
 265 
 
 excursions for bad sailors, entirely at his own 
 expense, and seemed to regard their subsequent 
 agonies as ingratitude. 
 
 He loved to manage a wedding. Once he 
 
 Escorted old ladies to the station. 
 
 planned matters so that the bride arrived at the 
 altar three-quarters of an hour before the 
 groom, which led to unpleasantness upon a day 
 that should have been filled only with joy; 
 and once he forgot the clergyman. But he
 
 266 THE MAN WHO WOULD MANAGE. 
 
 was always ready to admit when he made a 
 mistake. 
 
 At funerals, also, he was to the fore, pointing 
 out to the grief-stricken relatives how much 
 better it was for all concerned that the corpse 
 was dead, and expressing a pious hope that they 
 would soon join it. 
 
 The chiefest delight of his life, however, was 
 to be mixed up in other people's domestic quar- 
 rels. No domestic quarrel for miles round was 
 complete without him. He generally came in 
 as mediator, and finished as leading witness for 
 the appellant. 
 
 As a journalist or politician his wonderful 
 grasp of other people's business would have 
 won for him esteem. The error he made was 
 working it out in practice.
 
 THE MAN WHO LIVED FOR 
 OTHERS. 
 
 HE first time we met to speak he 
 was sitting with his back against a 
 pollard willow, smoking a clay pipe. 
 He smoked it very slowly, but very 
 conscientiously. After each whiff he removed 
 the pipe from his mouth and fanned away the 
 smoke with his cap. 
 
 " Feeling bad? " I asked from behind a tree, 
 at the same time making ready for a run, big 
 boys' answers to small boys' impertinences be- 
 ing usually of the nature of things best avoided. 
 To my surprise and relief, for at second 
 glance I perceived I had underestimated the 
 length of his leg he appeared to regard the 
 question as a natural and proper one, replying 
 with unaffected candor: 
 " Not yet." 
 
 My desire became to comfort him a senti- 
 267
 
 268 THE MAN WHO LIVED FOR OTHERS. 
 
 ment I think he understood and was grateful 
 for. Advancing into the open, I sat down over 
 against him, and watched him for a while in 
 
 /sA- 
 
 'Wl 
 
 He sucked it very slowly but very conscientiously. 
 
 silence. Presently he said: " Have you ever 
 tried drinking beer? " 
 
 I admitted I had not. 
 
 " Oh, it is beastly stuff! " he rejoined, with an 
 involuntary shudder. 
 
 Rendered forgetful of present trouble by bit- 
 ter recollection of the past, he puffed away at 
 his pipe carelessly and without judgment. 
 
 " Do you often drink it? " I inquired. 
 
 "Yes," he replied gloomily; "all we fellows 
 in the fifth form drink beer and smoke pipes."
 
 THE MAN WHO LIVED FOR OTHERS. 269 
 
 A deeper tinge of green spread itself over his 
 face. He rose suddenly and made toward the 
 hedge. Before he reached it, however, he 
 stopped and addressed me, but without turning 
 round. 
 
 " If you follow me, young 'un, or look, I'll 
 punch your head," he said swiftly, and disap- 
 peared with a gurgle. 
 
 He left at the end of the term, and I did not 
 see him again until we were both young men. 
 Then one day I ran against him in Oxford 
 Street, and he asked me to come and spend a 
 few days with his people in Surrey. 
 
 I found him wan-looking and depressed, and 
 every now and then he sighed. During a walk 
 across the common he cheered up considerably, 
 but the moment we got back to the house door 
 he seemed to recollect himself, and began to 
 sigh again. He ate no dinner whatever, merely 
 sipping a glass of wine and crumbling a piece 
 of bread. I was troubled at noticing this, but 
 his relatives a maiden aunt, who kept house, 
 two elder sisters, and a weak-eyed female cousin 
 who had left her husband behind her in India 
 were evidently charmed. They glanced at each
 
 270 THE MAN WHO LIVED FOR OTHERS. 
 
 other, and nodded and smiled. Once, in a fit 
 of abstraction, he swallowed a bit of crust, and 
 immediately they all looked pained and sur- 
 prised. 
 
 In the drawing room, under cover of a senti- 
 mental song, sung by the female cousin, I ques- 
 tioned his aunt on the subject. 
 
 "What's the matter with him?" I said. 
 "Is he ill?" 
 
 The old lady chuckled. 
 
 ' You'll be like that one day," she whispered 
 gleefully. 
 
 "When?" I asked, not unnaturally alarmed. 
 
 " When you're in love," she answered. 
 
 " Is fie in love? " I inquired, after a pause. 
 
 " Can't you see he is? " she replied somewhat 
 scornfully. 
 
 I was a young man, and interested in the 
 question. 
 
 " Won't he ever eat any dinner till he's got 
 over it? " I asked. 
 
 She looked round sharply at me, but appa- 
 rently decided that I was only foolish. 
 
 ' You wait until your time comes," she an- 
 swered, shaking her curls at me; " you won't
 
 THE MAN WHO LIVED FOR OTHERS. 271 
 
 care much about your dinner not if you are 
 really in love." 
 
 In the night, about half-past eleven, I heard, 
 as I thought, footsteps in the passage, and, 
 creeping to the door and opening it, I saw the 
 figure of my friend in dressing gown and slip- 
 pers, vanishing down the stairs. My idea was 
 that, his brain weakened by trouble, he had de- 
 veloped sleep-walking tendencies. Partly out 
 of curiosity, partly tO' watch over him, I slipped 
 on a pair of trousers and followed him. 
 
 He placed his candle on the kitchen table, 
 and made a bee-line for the pantry door, from 
 where he subsequently emerged with two 
 pounds of cold beef on a plate, and about a 
 quart of beer in a jug; and I came away, leaving 
 him fumbling for pickles. 
 
 I assisted at his wedding, where, it seemed to 
 me, he endeavored to display more ecstasy than 
 it was possible for any human being to feel; and, 
 fifteen months later, happening to catch sight 
 of an advertisement in the birth column of the 
 Times, I called on my way home from the city 
 to congratulate him. He was pacing up and 
 down the passage with his hat on, pausing at
 
 272 THE MAN WHO LIVED FOR OTHERS. 
 
 intervals to partake of an uninviting looking 
 meal, consisting of a cold mutton chop and a 
 glass of lemonade, spread out upon a chair. 
 Seeing that the cook and housemaid were wan- 
 dering about the house evidently bored for want 
 of something to do, and that the dining room 
 where he would have been much more out of the 
 way was empty and quite in order, I failed at 
 first to understand the reason for his deliberate 
 choice of discomfort. I, however, kept my re- 
 flections to myself, and inquired after the 
 mother and child. 
 
 " Couldn't be better," he replied, with a 
 groan. " The doctor said he'd never had a more 
 satisfactory case in all his experience." 
 
 " Oh, I'm glad to hear that," I answered; 
 " I was afraid you'd been worrying yourself." 
 
 "Worried!" he exclaimed; "my dear boy, 
 I don't know whether I'm standing on my head 
 or my heels " (he gave one that idea). " This 
 is the first morsel of food that's passed my lips 
 for twenty-four hours." 
 
 At this moment the nurse appeared at the 
 top of the stairs. He flew toward her, upsetting 
 the lemonade in his excitement.
 
 THE MAN WHO LIVED FOR OTHERS. 273 
 
 " What is it? " he asked hoarsely. " Is it all 
 right?" 
 
 The old lady glanced from him to his cold 
 chop, and smiled approvingly. 
 
 " They're doing splendidly," she answered, 
 patting him on the shoulder in a motherly fash- 
 ion. " Don't you worry." 
 
 " I can't help it, Mrs. Jobson," he replied, sit- 
 ting down upon the bottom stair, and leaning 
 his head against the banisters. 
 
 " Of course you can't," said Mrs. Jobson ad- 
 miringly; "and you wouldn't be much of a 
 man if you could." 
 
 Then it was borne in upon me why he wore 
 his hat, and dined off cold chops in the passage. 
 
 The following summer they rented a pictur- 
 esque old house in Berkshire, and invited me 
 down from a Saturday to Monday. Their place 
 was near the river, so I slipped a suit of flannels 
 in my bag, and on the Sunday morning I came 
 down in them. He met me in the garden. He 
 was dressed in a frock coat and a white waist- 
 coat; and I noticed that he kept looking at me 
 out of the corner of his eye, and that he seemed 
 to have a trouble on his mind. The first break-
 
 274 THE MAN WHO LIVED FOR OTHERS. 
 
 fast bell rang, and then he said: " You haven't 
 got any proper clothes with you, have you? " 
 
 "Proper clothes!" I exclaimed, stopping in 
 some alarm. " Why, has anything given way? " 
 
 " No not that," he explained. " I mean 
 clothes to go to church in." 
 
 " Church ! " I said. " You're surely not go- 
 ing to church a fine day like this? I made sure 
 you'd be playing tennis or going on the river. 
 You always used to." 
 
 " Yes," he replied, nervously flicking a rose 
 bush with a twig he had picked up. " You see, 
 it isn't ourselves exactly. Maud and I would 
 rather like to; but our cook she's Scotch, and 
 a little strict in her notions." 
 
 " And does she insist on your going to church 
 every Sunday morning? " I inquired. 
 
 " Well," he answered, " she thinks it strange 
 if we don't, and so we generally do, just in the 
 morning and evening. And then in the after- 
 noon a few of the village girls drop in, and we 
 have a little singing and and that sort of 
 thing. I never like hurting anyone's feelings, 
 if I can help it." 
 
 I did not say what I thought. Instead, I
 
 THE MAN WHO LIVED FOR OTHERS. 275 
 
 said: " I've got the tweed suit I wore yester- 
 day. I can put that on, if you like." 
 
 He ceased flicking the rose bush, and knitted 
 
 I'm afraid it would shock her.' 
 
 his brows. He seemed to be recalling it to his 
 imagination. 
 
 " No," he said, shaking his head. " I'm afraid 
 it would shock her. It's my fault, I know," he 
 added remorsefully. " I ought to have told 
 you."
 
 276 THE MAN WHO LIVED FOR OTHERS. 
 
 Then an idea came to him. 
 
 " I suppose," he said, " you wouldn't care to 
 pretend you're ill, and stop in bed, just for the 
 day." 
 
 I explained that my conscience would not 
 permit my being a party to such deception. 
 
 " No, I thought you wouldn't," he replied. 
 " I must explain it to her. I think I'll say 
 you've lost your bag. I shouldn't like her to 
 think bad of us." 
 
 Later on a fourteenth cousin died, leaving 
 him a large fortune. He purchased an estate 
 in Yorkshire, and became a " county family," 
 and then his real troubles began. 
 
 From May to the middle of August save for 
 a little fly fishing, which generally resulted in 
 his getting his feet wet and catching a cold 
 life was fairly peaceful; but from early autumn 
 to late spring he found the work decidedly try- 
 ing. He was a stout man, constitutionally ner- 
 vous of firearms, and a six hours' tramp with a 
 heavy gun across plowed fields, in company 
 with a crowd of careless persons who kept blaz-- 
 ing away within an inch of other people's noses, 
 harassed and exhausted him. He had to get
 
 THE MAN WHO LIVED FOR OTHERS. 277 
 
 out of bed at four on chilly October mornings 
 to go cub-hunting; and twice a week through- 
 out the winter except when a blessed frost 
 brought him a brief respite he had to ride to 
 hounds. That he usually got off with nothing 
 more serious than mere bruises and slight con- 
 cussions of the spine, he probably owed to the 
 fortunate circumstance of his being little and 
 fat. At stiff timber he shut his eyes and rode 
 hard; and ten yards from a river he would be- 
 gin to think about bridges. 
 
 Yet he never complained. 
 
 " If you are a country gentleman," he would 
 say, " you must behave as a country gentleman, 
 and take the rough with the smooth." 
 
 As ill-fate would have it, a chance specula- 
 tion doubled his fortune; and it became neces- 
 sary that he should go into Parliament and start 
 a yacht. Parliament made his head ache, and 
 the yacht made him sick. Notwithstanding, 
 every summer he would fill it with a lot of ex- 
 pensive people, who bored him, and sail away 
 for a month's misery in the Mediterranean. 
 
 During one cruise his guests built up a highly 
 interesting gambling scandal. He himself was
 
 278 THE MAN WHO LIVED FOR OTHERS. 
 
 confined to his cabin at the time, and knew 
 nothing about it; but the Opposition papers, 
 getting hold of the story, referred usually to 
 the yacht as a " floating hell "; and The Police 
 News awarded his portrait the place of honor 
 as the chief criminal of the week. 
 
 Later on he got into a cultured set, ruled 
 over by a thick-lipped undergraduate. His 
 favorite literature had hitherto been of the 
 Corelli and Tit-Bits order, but now he read 
 Meredith and Punch, and tried to understand 
 them; and, instead of the Gaiety, he subscribed 
 to the Independent Theater, and " fed his soul " 
 on Dutch Shaksperes. 
 
 What he liked in art was a pretty girl by a 
 cottage door, with a neligible young man in the 
 background, or a child and a dog doing some- 
 thing funny. They told him these things were 
 wrong, and made him buy " Impressions " that 
 stirred his liver to its deepest depths every time 
 he looked at them green cows on red hills by 
 blue moonlight, or scarlet-haired corpses with 
 three feet of neck. 
 
 He said, meekly, that such seemed to him un- 
 natural, but they answered that nature had
 
 THE MAN WHO LIVED FOR OTHERS. 279 
 
 nothing to do with the question; that the artist 
 saw things like that, and whatever an artist saw 
 no matter in what condition he may have 
 been when he saw it that was art. 
 
 They took him to Wagner festivals and 
 Burne- Jones' private views. They read him all 
 the minor poets. They booked seats for him at 
 all Ibsen's plays. They introduced him into all 
 the most soulful circles of artistic society. His 
 days were one long feast of other people's 
 enjoyments. 
 
 One morning I met him coming down the 
 steps of the Arts Club. He looked weary. He 
 was just off to a private view at the New Gal- 
 lery. In the afternoon he had to attend an 
 amateur performance of " The Cenci," given by 
 the Shelley Society. Then followed three liter- 
 ary and artistic At Homes, a dinner with an 
 Indian nabob who couldn't speak a word of 
 English, " Tristan and Isolde " at Covent Gar- 
 den Theater, and a ball at Lord Salisbury's to 
 wind up the day. 
 
 I laid my hand upon his shoulder. 
 
 " Come with me to Epping Forest," I said. 
 " There's a four-horse break starts from Char-
 
 280 THE MAN WHO LIVED FOR OTHERS. 
 
 ing Cross at eleven. It's Saturday, and there's 
 bound to be a crowd down there. I'll play you 
 a game of skittles, and we will have a shy at the 
 cocoanuts. You used to be rather smart at 
 cocoanuts. We can have lunch there and be 
 back at seven, dine at the Holborn, spend the 
 evening at the Empire, and sup at the Savoy. 
 What do you say? " 
 
 He stood hesitating on the steps, a wistful 
 look in his eyes. 
 
 His brougham drew up against the curb, and 
 he started as if from a dream. 
 
 " My dear fellow," he replied, " what would 
 people say? " and, shaking me by the hand, he 
 took his seat, and the footman slammed the 
 door upon him.
 
 THE MAN OF HABIT. 
 
 [HERE were three of us in the smoke 
 room of the Alexandra; a very good 
 friend of mine, myself, and, in the 
 opposite corner, a shy-looking, unob- 
 trusive man, the editor, as we subsequently 
 learned, of a New York Sunday paper. 
 
 My friend and I were discussing habits, good 
 and bad. 
 
 " After the first few months," said my friend. 
 " it is no more effort for a man to be a saint than 
 to be a sinner; it becomes a mere matter of 
 habit." 
 
 " I know," I interrupted; " it is every whit as 
 easy to spring out of bed the instant you are 
 called as to say ' All right,' and turn over for 
 just another five minutes' snooze when you 
 have got in the way of it. It is no more 
 trouble not to swear than to swear if you make 
 a custom of it. Toast and water is as delicious 
 
 as champagne when you have acquired the 
 
 281
 
 282 THE MAN OF HABIT. 
 
 taste for it. Things are also just as easy the 
 other way about. It is a mere question of 
 making your choice, and sticking to it." 
 
 He agreed with me. 
 
 " Now take these cigars of mine," he said, 
 pushing his open case toward me. 
 
 " Thank you," I replied hurriedly; " I'm not 
 smoking this passage." 
 
 " Don't be alarmed," he answered. '' I meant 
 merely as an argument. Now one of these 
 would make you wretched for a week." 
 
 I admitted his premise. 
 
 " Very well," he continued. " Now /, as you 
 know, smoke them all day long, and enjoy them. 
 Why? Because I have got into the habit. 
 Years ago, when I was a young man, I smoked 
 expensive Havanas. I found that I was ruining 
 myself. It was absolutely necessary that I 
 should take to a cheaper weed. I was living in 
 Belgium at the time, and a friend showed me 
 these. I don't know what they are probably 
 cabbage leaves soaked in guano; they tasted to 
 me like that at first but they were cheap. 
 Buying them by the five hundred, they cost me 
 three a penny. I determined to like them, and
 
 THE MAN OF HABIT. 283 
 
 started with one a day. It was terrible work, 
 I admit, but, as I said to myself, nothing could 
 be worse than had been the Havanas them- 
 selves in the beginning. Smoking is an ac- 
 quired taste, and it must be as easy to learn to 
 like one flavor as another. I persevered and I 
 conquered. Before the year was over I could 
 think of them without loathing, at the end of 
 two I could smoke them without positive dis- 
 comfort. Now I prefer them to any other 
 brand on the market. Indeed, a good cigar dis- 
 agrees with me." 
 
 I suggested it might have been less painful to 
 have given up smoking altogether. 
 
 " I did think of it," he replied. " But a 
 man who doesn't smoke always seems to me 
 bad company. There is something very soci- 
 able about smoke." 
 
 He leaned back and puffed great clouds into 
 the air, filling the small den with an odor sug- 
 gestive of bilge water and cemeteries. 
 
 " Then again," he resumed, after a pause, 
 " take my claret. No, you don't like it." (I 
 had not spoken, but my face had evidently be- 
 trayed me.) " Nobody does at least, no one I
 
 284 THE MAN OF HABIT. 
 
 have ever met. Three years ago, when I was 
 living in Hammersmith, we caught two bur- 
 glars with it. They broke open the sideboard, 
 and swallowed five bottles full between them. 
 A policeman found them afterward, sitting on a 
 doorstep a hundred yards off, the ' swag ' beside 
 them in a carpet bag. They were too ill to 
 offer any resistance, and went to the station like 
 lambs, he promising to send the doctor to them 
 the moment they were safe in the cells. Ever 
 since then I have left out a decanter full upon 
 the table every night. 
 
 " Well, I like that claret, and it does me good. 
 I come in sometimes dead beat. I drink a 
 couple of glasses, and I'm a new man. I took 
 to it, in the first instance, for the same reason 
 that I took to the cigars it was cheap. I have 
 it sent over direct from Geneva, and it cost me 
 six shillings a dozen. How they do it I don't 
 know. I don't want to know. As you may 
 remember, it's fairly heady, and there's body 
 in it. 
 
 " I knew one man," he continued, " who had 
 a regular Mrs. Caudle of a wife. All day long 
 she talked to him, or at him, or of him, and at
 
 THE MAN OF HABIT. 285 
 
 night he fell asleep to the rising and falling 
 rhythm of what she thought about him. At 
 last she died, and his friends congratulated him, 
 telling him that now he would enjoy peace. 
 But it was the peace of the desert, and the man 
 did not enjoy it. For two-and-twenty years 
 her voice had filled the house, penetrated 
 through the conservatory, and floated in faint, 
 shrilly waves of sound round the garden, and out 
 into the road beyond. The silence now pervad- 
 ing everywhere frightened and disturbed him. 
 The place was no longer home to him. He 
 missed the breezy morning insult, the long 
 winter evening's reproaches beside the flickering 
 fire. At night he could not sleep. For hours 
 he would lie tossing restlessly, his ears aching 
 for the accustomed soothing flow of invective. 
 
 " ' Ah! ' he would cry bitterly to himself, ' it 
 is the old story, we never know the value of a 
 thing until we have lost it.' 
 
 " He grew ill. The doctors dosed him with 
 sleeping draughts in vain. At last they told 
 him bluntly that his life depended upon his find- 
 ing another wife, able and willing to nag him to 
 sleep.
 
 286 THE MAN OF HABIT. 
 
 " There were plenty of wives of the type he 
 wanted in the neighborhood, but the unmarried 
 women were, of necessity, inexperienced, and 
 his health was such that he could not afford 
 the time to train them. 
 
 " Fortunately, just as despair was about to 
 take possession of him, a man died in the next 
 parish, literally talked to death, the gossips said, 
 by his wife. He obtained an introduction, and 
 called upon her the day after the funeral. She 
 was a cantankerous old woman, and the wooing 
 was a harassing affair, but his heart was in his 
 work, and before six months were gone he had 
 won her for his own. 
 
 " She proved, however, but a poor substitute. 
 The spirit was willing but the flesh was- weak. 
 She had neither that command of language nor 
 of wind that had distinguished her rival. From 
 his favorite seat at the bottom of the garden he 
 could not hear all, so he had his chair brought 
 up into the conservatory. It was all right for 
 him there so long as she continued to abuse 
 him; but every now and again, just as he was 
 getting comfortably settled down with his pipe 
 and his newspaper, she would suddenly stop.
 
 THE MAN OF HABIT. 287 
 
 He would drop his paper, and sit listening 
 with a troubled, anxious expression. 
 
 ' Are you there, dear? ' he would call out, 
 after a while. 
 
 " ' Yes, I'm here. Where do you think I am, 
 you old fool? ' she would gasp back in an ex- 
 hausted voice. 
 
 " His face would brighten at the sound of her 
 words. ' Go on, dear,' he would answer. ' I'm 
 listening. I like to hear you talk.' 
 
 " But the poor woman was utterly pumped 
 out, and had not so much as a snort left. 
 
 " Then he would shake his head sadly. ' No; 
 she hasn't poor dear Susan's flow,' he would 
 say. ' Ah ! what a woman that was ! ' 
 
 " At night she would do her best, but it was a 
 lame and halting performance by comparison. 
 After rating him for little over three-quarters 
 of an hour she would sink back upon the pillow 
 and want to go to sleep. But he would shake 
 her gently by the shoulder. 
 
 " ' Yes, dear,' he would say; ' you were speak- 
 ing about Jane, and the way I kept looking at 
 her during lunch.' 
 
 " It's extraordinary," concluded my friend,
 
 288 THE MAN OF HABIT. 
 
 lighting a fresh cigar, " what creatures of habit 
 we are." 
 
 " Very," I replied; " I knew a man who told 
 tall stories till when he told a true one nobody 
 believed it." 
 
 " Ah, that was a very sad case," said my 
 friend. 
 
 " Speaking of habit," said the unobtrusive 
 man in the corner, " I can tell you a true story 
 that I'll bet my bottom dollar you won't 
 believe." 
 
 " Haven't got a bottom dollar, but I'll bet 
 you half a sovereign I do," replied my friend, 
 who was of a sporting turn. " Who shall be 
 judge? " 
 
 " I'll take your word for it," said the unobtru- 
 sive man, and started straight away. 
 
 " He was a Jefferson man, this man I'm going 
 to tell you of," he began. " He was born in the 
 town, and for forty-seven years he never slept a 
 night outside of it. He was a most respectable 
 man a drysalter from nine to four, and a 
 Presbyterian in his leisure moments. He said 
 that a good life merely meant good habits. He
 
 THE MAN OF HABIT. 289 
 
 rose at seven, had family prayers at seven-thirty, 
 breakfasted at eight, got to his business at nine, 
 had his horse brought round to the office at 
 four, and rode for an hour, reached home at five, 
 had a bath and a cup of tea, played with and 
 read to the children (he was a domesticated 
 man) till half-past six, dressed and dined at 
 seven, went round to the club and played whist 
 till quarter after ten, home again to evening 
 prayer at ten-thirty, and bed at eleven. For 
 fi ve-and-twenty years he had lived that life with 
 never a variation. It worked into his system 
 and became mechanical. The church clocks 
 were set by him. He was used by the local 
 astronomers to check the sun. 
 
 " One day a distant connection of his in Lon- 
 don, an East Indian merchant, and an ex-Lord 
 Mayor, died, leaving him sole legatee and 
 executor. The business was a complicated one 
 and needed management. He determined to 
 leave his son by his first wife, now a young man 
 of twenty-four, in charge at Jefferson, and to 
 establish himself with his second family in 
 England and look after the East Indian 
 business.
 
 290 THE MAN OF HABIT. 
 
 " He set out from Jefferson city on October 
 the fourth, and arrived in London on the seven- 
 teenth. He had been ill during the whole of the 
 voyage; and he reached the furnished house he 
 had hired in Bayswater somewhat of a wreck. 
 A couple of days in bed, however, pulled him 
 round, and on the Wednesday evening he an- 
 nounced his intention of going into the city the 
 next day to see to his affairs. 
 
 " On the Thursday morning he awoke at one 
 o'clock. His wife told him she had not dis- 
 turbed him, thinking the sleep would do him 
 good. He admitted that perhaps it had. Any- 
 how, he felt very well; and he got up and 
 dressed himself. He said he did not like the 
 idea of beginning his first day by neglecting a 
 religious duty, and, his wife agreeing with him, 
 they assembled the servants and the children in 
 the dining room, and had family prayers at half- 
 past one; after which he breakfasted and set off, 
 reaching the city about three. 
 
 " His reputation for punctuality had preceded 
 him, and surprise was everywhere expressed at 
 his late arrival. He explained the circum- 
 stances, however, and made his appointments
 
 THE MAN OF HABIT. 291 
 
 for the following day to commence from nine- 
 thirty. 
 
 " He remained at the office until late, and 
 then went home. For dinner usually his chief 
 meal of the day he could manage to eat only a 
 biscuit and some fruit. He attributed his loss 
 of appetite to want of his customary ride. He 
 was strangely unsettled all the evening. He 
 said he supposed he missed his game of 
 whist, and determined to look about him, 
 without loss of time, for some quiet, respect- 
 able club. At eleven he retired with his 
 wife to bed, but could not sleep. He tossed 
 and turned, and turned and tossed, but grew 
 only more and more wakeful and energetic. 
 A little after midnight an overpowering desire 
 seized him to go and wish the children good- 
 night. He slipped on a dressing-gown, and 
 stole into the nursery. He did not intend it, 
 but the opening of the door awoke them, and he 
 was glad. He wrapped them up in the quilt, 
 and, sitting on the edge of the bed, told them 
 moral stories till one o'clock. 
 
 " Then he kissed them, bidding them be good 
 and go to sleep; and, finding himself painfully
 
 2 92 THE MAN OF HABIT. 
 
 hungry, crept downstairs, where, in the back 
 kitchen, he made a hearty meal off cold game 
 pie and cucumber. 
 
 " He returned to bed, feeling more peaceful, 
 yet still could not sleep, so lay thinking about 
 his business affairs till five, when he dropped off. 
 
 " At one o'clock to the minute he awoke. 
 His wife told him she had made every endeavor 
 to rouse him, but in vain. The man was vexed 
 and irritated. If he had not been a very good 
 man indeed, I believe he would have sworn. 
 The same programme was repeated as on the 
 Thursday, and again he reached the city at 
 three. 
 
 " This state of things went on for a month. 
 The man fought against himself, but was unable 
 to alter himself. Every morning or rather 
 every afternoon at one he awoke. Every night 
 at one he crept down into the kitchen and 
 foraged for food. Every morning Lt five he fell 
 asleep. 
 
 " He could not understand it, nobody could 
 understand it. The doctor treated him for 
 water on the brain, hypnotic irresponsibility, and 
 hereditary lunacy. Meanwhile his business suf-
 
 r 
 
 THE MAN OF HABIT. 293 
 
 fered, and his health grew worse. He seemed 
 to be living upside down. His days seemed to 
 have neither beginning nor end, but to be all 
 middle. There was no time for exercise or rec- 
 reation. When he began to feel cheerful and 
 sociable everybody else was asleep. 
 
 " One day, by chance, the explanation came. 
 His eldest daughter was preparing her home 
 studies after dinner. 
 
 " ' What time is it now in New York? ' she 
 asked, looking up from her geography book. 
 
 " ' New York,' said her father, glancing at his 
 watch; Met me see. It's just ten now, and 
 there's a little over four and a half hour's differ- 
 ence. Oh, about half-past five in the after- 
 noon.' 
 
 ' Then in Jefferson,' said the mother, ' it 
 would be still earlier, wouldn't it? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied the girl, examining the map, 
 * Jefferson is nearly two degrees further west/ 
 
 ' Two degrees,' mused the father; ' and 
 there's forty minutes to a degree. That would 
 make it now, at the present moment in 
 Jefferson 
 
 " He leaped to his feet with a cry:
 
 294 THE MAN OF HABIT. 
 
 " ' I've got it ' he shouted; ' I see it! ' 
 
 " ' See what? ' asked his wife, alarmed. 
 
 " ' Why, it's four o'clock in Jefferson, and 
 just time for my ride. That's what I'm 
 wanting.' 
 
 "There could be no doubt about it. For five- 
 and-twenty years he had lived by clockwork. 
 But it was by Jefferson clockwork, not London 
 clockwork. He had changed his longitude ; 
 but not himself. The habits of a quarter of a 
 century were not to be shifted at the bidding of 
 the sun. 
 
 " He examined the problem in all its bear- 
 ings, and decided that the only solution was for 
 him to return to the order of his old life. He 
 saw the difficulties in his way, but they were less 
 than those he was at present encountering. 
 He was too formed by habit to adapt himself 
 to circumstances. Circumstances must adapt 
 themselves to him. 
 
 " He fixed his office hours from three to ten, 
 leaving himself at half-past nine. At ten he 
 mounted his horse, and went for a canter in the 
 Row, and on very dark nights he carried a Ian-
 
 THE MAN OF HABIT. 295 
 
 tern. News of it got abroad, and crowds would 
 assemble to see him ride past. 
 
 " He dined at one o'clock in the morning, 
 and afterward strolled down to his club. He 
 had tried to discover a quiet, respectable club 
 where the members were willing to play whist 
 till four in the morning, but, failing, had been 
 compelled to join a small Soho gambling-hell, 
 where they taught him poker. The place was 
 occasionally raided by the police, but, thanks to 
 his respectable appearance, he generally man- 
 aged to escape. 
 
 " At half-past four he returned home, and 
 woke the family for evening prayers. At five 
 he went to bed and slept like a top. 
 
 " The city chaffed him, and Bayswater shook 
 its head over him, but that he did not mind. 
 The only thing that really troubled him was loss 
 of spiritual communion. At five o'clock on 
 Sunday afternoons he felt he wanted chapel, but 
 had to do without it. At seven he ate his 
 simple midday meal. At eleven he had tea and 
 muffins, and at midnight began to cravevgain 
 for hymns and sermons. At three he had a
 
 296 THE MAN OF HABIT. 
 
 bread-and-cheese supper, and retired early at 
 4 a. m., feeling sad and unsatisfied. 
 " He was essentially a man of habit." 
 
 The unobtrusive stranger ceased, and we sat 
 gazing in silence at the ceiling. 
 
 At length my friend rose, and, taking half a, 
 sovereign from his pocket, laid it upon the table, 
 and linking his arm in mine went out with me 
 upon the deck.
 
 THE ABSENT-MINDED MAN. 
 
 OU ask him to dine with you on 
 Thursday to meet a few people who 
 are anxious to know him. 
 
 " Now don't make a muddle of it," 
 you say, recollectful of former mishaps, " and 
 come on the Wednesday." 
 
 He laughs good-naturedly as he hunts 
 through the room for his diary. 
 
 "Shan't be able to come Wednesday," he says; 
 " shall be at the Mansion House sketching 
 dresses, and on Friday I start for Scotland, so as 
 to be at the opening of the Exhibition on 
 Saturday; it's bound to be all right this time. 
 Where the deuce is that diary! Never mind; 
 I'll make a note of it on this you can see me 
 do it." 
 
 You stand over him while he writes the ap- 
 pointment down on a sheet of foolscap, and 
 watch him pin it up over his desk. Then you 
 come away contented.
 
 298 THE ABSENT-MINDED MAN. 
 
 " I do hope he'll turn up," you say to your 
 wife on the Thursday evening, while dressing. 
 
 "Are you sure you made it clear to him? " 
 she replies suspiciously; and you instinctively 
 feel that whatever happens she is going to blame 
 you for it. 
 
 Eight o'clock arrives, and, with it, the other 
 guests. At half-past eight your wife is beck- 
 oned mysteriously out of the room, where the 
 parlor maid informs her that the cook has ex- 
 pressed a determination, in case of further delay, 
 to wash her hands, figuratively speaking, of the 
 whole affair. 
 
 Your wife returning, suggests that if the 
 dinner is to be eaten at all, it had better be 
 begun. She evidently considers that in pre- 
 tending to expect him you have been merely 
 playing a part, and that it would have been 
 manlier and more straightforward for you to 
 have admitted at the beginning that you had 
 forgotten to invite him. 
 
 During the soup and the fish you recount 
 anecdotes of his unpunctuality. By the time 
 the entree arrives, the empty chair has begun to 
 cast a gloom over the dinner, and, with the joint,
 
 THE ABSENT-MINDED MAN. 299 
 
 the conversation drifts into talk about dead 
 relatives. 
 
 On Friday, at a quarter past eight, he 
 dashes to the door and rings violently. 
 Hearing his voice in the hall, you go to meet 
 him. 
 
 " Sorry I'm late," he sings out cheerily; " fool 
 of a cabman took me to Alfred Place instead 
 of " 
 
 " Well, what do you want now you are 
 come? " you interrupt, feeling anything but 
 genially inclined toward him. He is an old 
 friend, so you can be rude to him. 
 
 He laughs, and slaps you on the shoulder. 
 
 "Why, my dinner, my dear boy; I'm 
 starving." 
 
 " Oh," you grunt in reply. " Well, you go 
 and get it somewhere else, then. You're not 
 going to have it here." 
 
 "What the devil do you mean?" he says; 
 " you asked me here to dinner." 
 
 " I did nothing of the kind," you tell him. 
 " I asked you to dinner on Thursday not on 
 Friday." 
 
 He stares at you incredulously.
 
 300 THE ABSENT-MINDED MAN. 
 
 " How did I get Friday fixed in my mind? " 
 he asks inquiringly. 
 
 " Because yours is the sort of mind that would 
 get Friday firmly fixed into it when Thursday 
 was the day," you explain. " I thought you 
 had to be off to Edinburgh to-night," you 
 add. 
 
 " Great Scott! " he cries, " so I have." And 
 without another word he dashes out, and you 
 hear him rushing down the road shouting for 
 the cab he has just dismissed. 
 
 As you return to your study you reflect that 
 he will have to travel all the way to Scotland in 
 evening dress, and will have to send out the 
 hotel porter in the morning to buy him a suit of 
 ready-made clothes, and are glad. 
 
 Matters work out still more awkwardly when 
 it is he who is the host. I remember being with 
 him on his houseboat one day. It was a little 
 after twelve, and we were sitting on the edge of 
 the boat dangling our feet in the river; the spot 
 was a lonely one, halfway between Wallingford 
 and Day's Lock. Suddenly round the bend ap- 
 peared two skiffs, each one containing six elab- 
 orately dressed persons. As soon as they
 
 THE ABSENT-MINDED MAN. 
 
 301 
 
 caught sight of us they began waving handker- 
 chiefs and parasols. 
 
 " Hullo! " I said, " here's some people hailing 
 you." 
 
 JK 
 
 "Here's some people hailing you." 
 
 "Oh! they all do that about here," he an- 
 swered, without looking up; " some beanfeast 
 from Abingdon, I expect." 
 
 The boats draw nearer. When about two 
 hundred yards off, an elderly gentleman raised
 
 302 THE ABSENT-MINDED MAN. 
 
 himself up in the prow of the leading one and 
 shouted to us. 
 
 McQuae heard his voice, and gave a start that 
 all but pitched him into the water. 
 
 " Good God! " he cried; " I'd forgotten all 
 about it." 
 
 "About what?" I asked. 
 
 " Why, it's the Palmers, ^and the Grahams, 
 and the Hendersons. I've asked them all over 
 to lunch, and there's not a blessed thing on 
 board but two mutton chops and a pound of 
 potatoes, and I've given the boy a holiday." 
 
 Another day I was lunching with him at the 
 Junior Hogarth, when a man named Hallyard, 
 a mutual friend, strolled across to us. 
 
 " What are you fellows going to do this after- 
 noon?" he asked, seating himself the opposite 
 side of the table. 
 
 " I'm going to stop here and write letters," I 
 answered. 
 
 " Come with me if you want something to 
 do," said McQuae. " I'm going to drive Leena 
 down to Richmond." (" Leena " was the young 
 lady he recollected being engaged to. It trans- 
 pired afterward that he was engaged to three
 
 THE ABSENT-MINDED MAN. 33 
 
 girls at the time. The other two he had forgot- 
 ten all about.) " It's a roomy seat at the back." 
 
 " Oh, all right ! " said Hallyard, and they went 
 away together in a hansom. 
 
 An hour and a half later Hallyard walked into 
 the smoking room, looking depressed and worn, 
 and flung himself into a chair. 
 
 " I thought you were going to Richmond 
 with McQuae," I said. 
 
 " So did I," he answered. 
 
 " Had an accident? " I asked. 
 
 " Yes." He was decidedly curt in his replies. 
 
 " Cart upset? " I continued. 
 
 " No only me." 
 
 His grammar and his nerves seemed thor- 
 oughly shaken. 
 
 I waited for an explanation, and after a while 
 he gave it. 
 
 " We got to Putney," he said, " with just an 
 occasional run into a tram-car, and were going 
 up the hill when suddenly he turned a corner. 
 You know his style at a corner over the curb, 
 across the road, and into the opposite lamp- 
 post. Of course, as a rule, one is prepared for 
 it, but I never reckoned on his turning up there,
 
 34 
 
 THE ABSENT-MINDED MAN. 
 
 and the first thing I recollect is finding myself 
 sitting in the middle of the street, with a dozen 
 fools grinning at me. 
 
 " It takes a man a few minutes in such a 
 case to think where he is and what has hap- 
 
 " You know his style at a corner." 
 
 pened, and when I got up they were some dis- 
 tance away. I ran after them for a quarter of a 
 mile, shouting at the top of my voice, and ac- 
 companied by a mob of boys, all yelling like hell 
 on a bank holiday. But one might as well have 
 tried to hail the dead, so I took the 'bus back. 
 
 " They might have guessed what had hap- 
 pened," he added, " by the shifting of the cart, 
 if they'd had any sense. I'm not a lightweight." 
 
 He complained of soreness, and said he would
 
 THE ABSENT-MINDED MAN. 305 
 
 go home. I suggested a cab, but he replied that 
 he would rather walk. 
 
 I met McQuae in the evening at the St. James 
 Theater. It was a first night, and he was taking 
 sketches for the Graphic. The moment he saw 
 me he made his way across to me. 
 
 "The very man I wanted to see," he said; 
 " did I take Hallyard with me in the cart to 
 Richmond this afternoon? " 
 
 " You did," I replied. 
 
 " So Leena says," he answered, greatly be- 
 wildered; " but I'll swear he wasn't there when 
 we got to the Queen's Hotel." 
 
 " It's all right," I said; " you dropped him at 
 Putney." 
 
 "Dropped him at Putney!" he repeated; 
 " I've no recollection of doing so." 
 
 " He has," I answered. " You ask him about 
 it. He's full of it." 
 
 Everybody said he never would get married; 
 that it was absurd to suppose he would ever re- 
 member the day, the church, and the girl all in 
 one morning; that if he did get as far as the 
 altar he would forget what he had come for, 
 and would give the bride away to his own best
 
 306 THE ABSENT-MINDED MAN. 
 
 man. Hallyard had an idea that he was already 
 married, but that the fact had slipped his 
 memory. I myself felt sure that if he did marry 
 he would forget all about it the next day. 
 
 But everybody was wrong. By some miracu- 
 lous means the ceremony got itself accom- 
 plished; so that, if Kailyard's idea be correct 
 (as to which there is every possibility), there will 
 be trouble. As for my own fears, I dismissed 
 them the moment I saw the lady. She was a 
 charming, cheerful little woman, but did not 
 look the type that would let him forget all 
 about it. 
 
 I had not seen him since his marriage, which 
 had happened in the spring. Working my way 
 back from Scotland by easy stages, I stopped 
 for a few days at Scarboro'. After table d'hote 
 I put on my mackintosh and went out for a 
 walk. It was raining hard, but after a month 
 in Scotland one does not notice English 
 weather, and I wanted some air. Struggling 
 along the dark beach, with my head against the 
 wind, I stumbled over a crouching figure that 
 was seeking to shelter itself a little from the 
 storm under the lee of the Spa wall.
 
 THE ABSENT-MINDED MAN. 37 
 
 I expected it to swear at me, but it seemed 
 too broken spirited to mind anything. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," I said. " I did not see 
 you." 
 
 At the sound of my voice it started to its feet. 
 " Is that you, old man? " it cried. 
 
 " McQuae! " I exclaimed. 
 
 " By Jove! " he said; " I was never so glad to 
 see a man in all my life before." And he nearly 
 shook my hand off. 
 
 " But, what in thunder," I said, " are you 
 doing here? Why, you're drenched to the skin." 
 
 He was dressed in flannels and a tennis coat. 
 
 " Yes," he answered. " I never thought it 
 would rain. It was a lovely morning." 
 
 I began to fear he had overworked himself 
 into a brain fever. 
 
 " Why don't you go home? " I asked. 
 
 " I can't," he replied. " I don't know where 
 I live. I've forgotten the address. For 
 Heaven's sake," he said, " take me somewhere, 
 and give me something to eat. I'm literally 
 starving." 
 
 " Haven't you any money? " I asked him, as 
 we turned toward the hotel.
 
 308 
 
 THE ABSENT-MI\'DED MAN. 
 
 " Not a sou," he answered. " We got in here 
 from York, the wife and I, about eleven. We 
 left our things at the station, and started to 
 
 " Why don't you go home ? " 
 
 hunt for apartments. As soon as we were fixed 
 I changed my clothes and came out for a walk, 
 telling Maud I should be back at one to lunch. 
 Like a fool, I never took the address, and never 
 noticed the way I was going.
 
 THE ABSENT-MINDED MAN. 309 
 
 " It's an awful business," he continued. " I 
 don't see how I'm ever going to find her. I 
 hoped she might stroll down to the Spa in the 
 evening, and I've been hanging about the gates 
 ever since six. I hadn't the threepence to 
 go in." 
 
 " But have you no notion of the sort of street 
 or the kind of house it was? " I inquired. 
 
 " Not a ghost," he replied. " I left it all to 
 Maud, and didn't trouble." 
 
 " Have you tried any of the lodging-houses? " 
 I asked. 
 
 " Tried! " he exclaimed bitterly. " I've been 
 knocking at doors, and asking if Mrs. McQuae 
 lives there, steadily all the afternoon, and they 
 slam the door in my face mostly, without an- 
 swering. I told a policeman I thought per- 
 haps he might suggest something; but the idiot 
 only burst out laughing, and that made me so 
 mad that I gave him a black eye, and had to cut. 
 I expect they're on the lookout for me now. 
 
 " I went into a restaurant," he continued 
 gloomily, " and tried to get them to trust me 
 for a steak. But the proprietress said she'd 
 heard that tale before, and ordered me out be-
 
 310 THE ABSENT-MINDED MAN. 
 
 fore all the other customers. I think I'd have 
 drowned myself if you hadn't turned up." 
 
 After a change of clothes and some supper 
 he discussed the case more calmly, but it was 
 really a serious affair. They had shut up their 
 flat, and his wife's relatives were traveling 
 abroad. There was no one to whom he could 
 send a letter to be forwarded; there was no one 
 with whom she would be likely to communicate. 
 Their chances of meeting again in this world 
 appeared remote. 
 
 Nor did it seem to me fond as he was of his 
 wife, and anxious as he undoubtedly was to re- 
 cover her that he looked forward to the actual 
 meeting, should it ever arrive, with any too 
 pleasurable anticipation. 
 
 " She will think it strange," he murmured re- 
 flectively, sitting on the edge of the bed and 
 thoughtfully pulling off his socks. " She is sure 
 to think it strange." 
 
 The following day, which was Wednesday, 
 we went to a solicitor and laid the case before 
 him; and he instituted inquiries among all the 
 lodging-house keepers in Scarborough, with 
 the result that on Thursdav afternoon McOuae
 
 THE ABSENT-MINDED MAN. 311 
 
 was restored (after the manner of an Adelphi 
 hero in the last act) to his home and wife. 
 
 I asked him next time I met him what she 
 had said. 
 
 "Oh, much what I expected!" he replied. 
 But he never told me what he had expected.
 
 A CHARMING WOMAN. 
 
 OT the Mr. , really? " 
 
 In her deep brown eyes there 
 lurked pleased surprise, struggling 
 with wonder. She looked from my- 
 self to the friend who had introduced us with a 
 bewitching smile of incredulity, tempered by 
 hope. 
 
 He assured her, adding laughingly: "The 
 only genuine and original," and left us. 
 
 " I've always thought of you as a staid, mid- 
 dle-aged man," she said, with a delicious little 
 laugh; then added, in low, soft tones: " I'm so 
 very pleased to meet you, really." 
 
 The words were conventional, but her voice 
 crept round one like a warm caress. 
 
 " Come and talk to me," she said, seating her- 
 self upon a small settee, and making room for 
 me. 
 
 I sat down awkwardly beside her, my head 
 buzzing just a little, as with one glass too many 
 312
 
 A CHARMING WOMAN. 313 
 
 of champagne. I was in my literary childhood. 
 One small book, and a few essays and criticisms 
 scattered through various obscure periodicals, 
 had been as yet my only contribution to cur- 
 rent literature. The sudden discovery that I 
 was the Mr. Anybody, and that charming women 
 thought of me, and were delighted to meet me, 
 was a brain-disturbing draught. 
 
 " And it was really you who wrote that clever 
 book? " she continued, " and all those brilliant 
 things in the magazines and journals. Oh, it 
 must be delightful to be clever! " 
 
 She gave breath to a little sigh of vain regret 
 that went to my heart. To console her I com- 
 menced a labored compliment, but she stopped 
 me with her fan. On after reflection I was glad 
 she had; it would have been one of those things 
 better expressed otherwise. 
 
 " I know what you are going to say," she 
 laughed; " but don't. Besides, from you I 
 should not know quite how to take it. You can 
 be so satirical! " 
 
 I tried to look as though I could be, but in 
 her case would not. 
 
 She let her ungloved hand rest for an instant
 
 314 A CHARMING WOMAN. 
 
 upon mine. Had she left it there for two, I 
 should have gone down on my knees before her, 
 or have stood on my head at her feet have 
 made a fool of myself in some way or another 
 before the whole room full. She timed it to a 
 nicety. 
 
 " I don't want you to pay me compliments," 
 she said; " I want us to be friends. Of course, 
 in years I am old enough to be your mother." 
 (By the register, I should say, she might have 
 been thirty-two, but looked twenty-six. I was 
 twenty-three, and, I fear, foolish for my age.) 
 " But you know the world, and you're so differ- 
 ent to the other people one meets. Society is 
 so hollow and artificial; don't you find it so? 
 You don't know how I long sometimes to get 
 away from it to know someone to whom I 
 could show my real self, who would understand 
 me. You'll come and see me sometimes I'm 
 always at home on Wednesdays and let me 
 talk to you, won't you? and you must tell me 
 all your clever thoughts." 
 
 It occurred to me that maybe she'd like to 
 hear a few of them there and then, but before I 
 had got well started a hollow society man came 
 up and suggested supper, and she was compelled
 
 A CHARMING WOMAN. 
 
 315 
 
 to leave me. As she disappeared, however, in 
 the throng, she looked back over her shoulder 
 with a glance half-pathetic, half-comic, that I 
 understood. It said: " Pity me. I've got to 
 
 At home. 
 
 be bored by this vapid, shallow creature;" and 
 I did. 
 
 I sought her through all the rooms before I 
 went. I wished to assure her of my sympathy 
 and support. I learned, however, from the but- 
 ler that she had left early, in company with the 
 hollow society man. 
 
 A fortnight later I ran against a young liter-
 
 3l6 A CHAKMING WOMAN. 
 
 ary friend in Regent Street, and we lunched to- 
 gether at the Monico. 
 
 " I met such a charming woman last night," 
 he said, " a Mrs. Clifton Courtenay a delight- 
 ful woman." 
 
 "Oh! do you know her?" I exclaimed. 
 " Oh, we're very old friends! She's always want- 
 ing me to go and see her. I really must." 
 
 " Oh! I didn't know you knew her," he an- 
 swered. Somehow the fact of my knowing her 
 seemed to lessen her importance in his eyes. 
 But soon he recovered his enthusiasm for her. 
 
 " A wonderfully clever woman," he continued. 
 " I'm afraid I disappointed her a little, though." 
 He said this, however, with a laugh that contra- 
 dicted his words. " She would not believe 
 I was the Mr. Smith. She imagined from my 
 book that I was quite an old man." 
 
 I could see nothing in my friend's book my- 
 self to suggest that the author was, of necessity, 
 anything over eighteen. The mistake appeared 
 to me to display want of acumen, but it had evi- 
 dently pleased him greatly. 
 
 " I felt quite sorry for her," he went on, 
 " chained to that bloodless, artificial society in
 
 A CHARMING WOMAN. 3 r 7 
 
 which she lives. ' You can't tell,' she said to 
 me, ' how I long to meet someone to whom I 
 could show my real self who would understand 
 me.' I'm going to see her on Wednesday." 
 
 I went with him. My conversation with her 
 was not as confidential as I had anticipated, 
 owing to there being some eighty other people 
 present in a room intended for the accommoda- 
 tion of eight; but, after surging round for an 
 hour in hot and aimless misery as very young 
 men at such gatherings do, knowing, as a rule, 
 only the man who has brought them, and being 
 unable to find him I contrived to get a few 
 words with her. 
 
 She greeted me with a smile, in the light of 
 which I at once forgot my past discomfort, and 
 let her fingers rest, with delicious pressure, for 
 a moment upon mine. 
 
 " How good of you to keep your promise," 
 she said; "these people have been tiring me 
 so. Sit here and tell me all you have been 
 doing." 
 
 She listened for about ten seconds, and then 
 .interrupted me with: "And that clever friend 
 of yours that you came with, I met him at
 
 318 A CHARMING WOMAN. 
 
 dear Lady Lennon's last week has he written 
 anything? " 
 
 I explained to her that he had. 
 
 " Tell me about it," she said; " I get so little 
 time for reading, and then I only care to read 
 the books that help me;" and she gave me a 
 grateful look more eloquent than words. 
 
 I described the work to her, and, wishing to 
 do my friend justice, I even recited a few of the 
 passages upon which, as I knew, he especially 
 prided himself. 
 
 One sentence in particular seemed to lay hold 
 of her. " A good woman's arms round a man's 
 neck is a life-belt thrown out to him from 
 heaven." 
 
 "How beautiful!" she murmured; "say it 
 again." 
 
 I said it again, and she repeated it after me. 
 
 Then a noisy old lady swooped down upon 
 her, and I drifted away into a corner, where I 
 tried to look as if I were enjoying myself, and 
 failed. 
 
 Later on, feeling it time to go, I sought my 
 friend, and found him talking to her in a corner. 
 I approached and waited. They were discussing
 
 A CHARMING WOMAN. 319 
 
 the latest East End murder. A drunken woman 
 had been killed by her husband, a hard-working 
 artisan, who had been maddened by the ruin of 
 his home. 
 
 " Ah," she was saying, " what power a woman 
 has to drag a man down or to lift him up! I 
 never read a case in which a woman is con- 
 cerned without thinking of those beautiful lines 
 of yours: ' A good woman's arms round a 
 man's neck is a life-belt thrown out to him from 
 heaven.' ' 
 
 Opinions differed concerning her religion and 
 politics. Said the Low Church parson: "An 
 earnest Christian woman, sir, of that unostenta- 
 tious type that has always been the bulwark of 
 our church. I am proud to know that woman, 
 and I am proud to think that poor words of 
 mine have been the humble instrument to wean 
 that true woman's heart from the frivolities of 
 fashion, and to fix her thoughts upon higher 
 things a good churchwoman, sir, a good 
 churchwoman in the best sense of the word." 
 
 Said the pale, aristocratic-looking young abbe 
 to the comtesse, the light of old-world enthusi-
 
 320 
 
 A CHARMING WOMAN. 
 
 asm shining from his deep-set eyes: " I have 
 great hopes of our dear friend. She finds it hard 
 to sever the ties of time and love; we are all 
 weak. But her heart turns toward our mother 
 
 The Low Church parson. 
 
 Church as a child, though suckled among 
 strangers, yearns, after many years, for the 
 bosom that has borne it. We have spoken, and 
 I even I may be the voice in the wilderness, 
 leading the lost sheep back to the fold."
 
 A CHARMING WOMAN. 321 
 
 Said Sir Harry Bennett, the great Theoso- 
 phist lecturer, writing to a friend: "A singu- 
 larly gifted woman, and a woman evidently 
 searching for the truth. A woman capable of 
 willing her own life. A woman not afraid of 
 thought and reason a lover of wisdom. I have 
 talked much with her at one time or another, 
 and I have found her grasp my meaning with a 
 quickness of perception quite unusual in my ex- 
 perience; and the arguments I have let fall I 
 am convinced have borne excellent fruit. I 
 look forward to her becoming, at no very dis- 
 tant date, a valued member of our little band. 
 Indeed, without betraying confidence, I may 
 almost say I regard her conversion as an accom- 
 plished fact." 
 
 Colonel Maxim always spoke of her as " a 
 fair pillar of the State." 
 
 "With the enemy in our midst," said the 
 florid old soldier, " it behooves every true man 
 aye, and every true woman to rally to the 
 defense of the country; and all honor, say I, to 
 noble ladies such as Mrs. Clifton Courtenay, 
 who, laying aside their natural shrinking from 
 publicity, come forward in such a crisis as the
 
 322 
 
 A CHARMING WOMAN. 
 
 present to combat the forces of disorder and 
 disloyalty now rampant in the land." 
 
 "But," some listener would suggest, "I gath- 
 ered from young Jocelyn that Mrs. Clifton 
 Courtenay held some- 
 what advanced views on 
 social and political ques- 
 tions." 
 
 " Jocelyn," the colonel 
 would reply with scorn; 
 " pah ! There may have 
 been a short space of 
 time during which the 
 fellow's long hair and 
 windy rhetoric impressed 
 her. But I flatter my- 
 self I've put my spoke 
 in Mr. Jocelyn's wheel. 
 Why, damme, sir, she's consented to stand for 
 Grand Dame of the Bermondsey branch of the 
 Primrose League next year. What's Jocelyn 
 say to that, the scoundrel! " 
 What Jocelyn said was: 
 " I know the woman is weak. But I do not 
 blame her; I pity her. When the time comes 
 
 Young Jocelyn.
 
 A CHARMING WOMAN. 323 
 
 as soon it will when woman is no longer a pup- 
 pet, dancing to the threads held by some brain- 
 less man, when a woman is not threatened with 
 social ostracism for daring to follow her own 
 conscience instead of that of her nearest male 
 relative, then will be the time to judge her. It 
 is not for me to betray the confidence reposed in 
 me by a suffering woman, but you can tell that 
 interesting old fossil, Colonel Maxim, that he 
 and the other old women of the Bermond- 
 sey branch of the Primrose League may elect 
 Mrs. Clifton Courtenay for their president, and 
 make the most of it ; they have only got the out- 
 side of the woman. Her heart is beating time 
 to the tramp of an onward-marching people; her 
 soul's eyes are straining for the glory of a com- 
 ing dawn." 
 
 But they all agreed that she was a charming 
 woman.
 
 THE HOBBY RIDER. 
 
 UMP. Bump. Bump-bump. Bump. 
 I sat up in bed and listened in- 
 tently. It seemed to me as if some- 
 one, with a muffled hammer, were 
 trying to knock bricks out of ttie wall. 
 
 " Burglars," I said to myself (one assumes, 
 as a matter of course, that everything happen- 
 ing in this world after I a. m., is due to bur- 
 glars), and I reflected what a curiously literal, 
 but at the same time slow and cumbersome, 
 method of housebreaking they had adopted. 
 
 The bumping continued irregularly, yet un- 
 interruptedly. 
 
 My bed was by the window. I reached out 
 my hand and drew aside a corner of the curtain. 
 The sunlight streamed into the room. I looked 
 at my watch: it was ten minutes past five. 
 
 A most unbusinesslike hour for burglars, I 
 thought. Why, it will be breakfast time before 
 they get in. 
 
 334
 
 THE HOBBY RIDER. 3 2 5 
 
 Suddenly there came a crash, and some sub- 
 stance, striking against the blind, fell upon the 
 floor. I sprang out of bed and threw open the 
 window. 
 
 A red-haired young gentleman, scantily clad 
 in a sweater and a pair of flannel trousers, stood 
 on the lawn below me. 
 
 " Good-morning," he said cheerily; " do you 
 mind throwing me back my ball? " 
 
 "What ball?" I said. 
 
 " My tennis ball," he answered; " it must be 
 somewhere in the room. It went clean through 
 the window." 
 
 I found the ball and threw it back to 
 him. 
 
 " What are you doing? " I asked. " Playing 
 tennis? " 
 
 " No," he said, " I am practicing against 
 the side of the house. It improves your game 
 wonderfully." 
 
 " It don't improve my night's rest," I an- 
 swered, somewhat surlily, I fear. " I came 
 down here for peace and quiet. Can't you do 
 it in the daytime? " 
 
 " Daytime! " he laughed. " Why, it has been
 
 326 THE HOBBY RIDER. 
 
 daylight for the last two hours. Never mind; 
 I'll go round the other side." 
 
 He disappeared round the corner and set to 
 work at the back, where he woke up the dog. 
 I heard another window smash, followed by a 
 sound as of somebody getting up violently in 
 a distant part of the house; and shortly after- 
 ward I must have fallen asleep again. 
 
 I had come to spend a few weeks at a board- 
 ing establishment in Deal. He was the only 
 other young man in the house, and I was natu- 
 rally thrown a good deal upon his society. He 
 was a pleasant, genial young fellow; but he 
 would have been better company had he been 
 a little less enthusiastic as regards tennis. 
 
 He played tennis ten hours a day on the 
 average. He got up romantic parties to play 
 it by moonlight (when half his time was gener- 
 ally taken up in separating his opponents); and 
 godless parties to play it on Sundays. On wet 
 days I have seen him practicing services by him- 
 self in a mackintosh and galoshes. 
 
 He had been spending the winter with his 
 people at Tangiers, and I asked him how he 
 liked the place.
 
 THE HOBBY RIDER. 327 
 
 " Oh, a beast of a hole! " he replied. " There 
 is not a court anywhere in the town. We tried 
 playing on the roof, but the mater thought it 
 dangerous." 
 
 Switzerland he had been delighted with. He 
 counseled me next time I went to> stay at Zer- 
 matt. " There is a capital court at Zermatt," 
 he said; "you might almost fancy yourself at 
 Wimbledon." 
 
 A mutual acquaintance whom I subsequently 
 met told me that at the top of the Jungfrau he 
 had said to him, his eyes fixed the while upon 
 a small snow plateau, inclosed by precipices, a 
 few hundred feet below them: " By Jove! that 
 wouldn't make a half bad little tennis court 
 that flat bit down there; have to be careful you 
 didn't run back too far." 
 
 When he was not playing tennis, or practic- 
 ing tennis, or reading about tennis, he was talk- 
 ing about tennis. Renshaw was the prominent 
 figure in the tennis world at that time, and he 
 mentioned Renshaw until there grew up within 
 my soul a dark desire to kill Renshaw in a quiet, 
 unostentatious way, and bury him. 
 
 One drenching afternoon he talked tennis to
 
 328 THE HOBBY RIDER. 
 
 me for three hours on end, referring to Ren- 
 shaw, so far as I kept count, four thousand nine 
 hundred and thirteen times. After tea he drew 
 his chair to the window beside me, and com- 
 menced: 
 
 " Have you ever noticed how Renshaw " 
 
 I said: "Suppose someone took a gun 
 someone who could aim very straight and 
 went out and shot Renshaw till he was quite 
 dead, would you tennis players drop him and 
 talk about somebody else? " 
 
 " Oh, but who would shoot Renshaw? " he 
 asked indignantly. 
 
 " Never mind," I said; " suppose someone 
 did?" 
 
 " Well, then, there would be his brother," he 
 replied. 
 
 I had forgotten that. " Well, we won't argue 
 about how many of them there are," I said; 
 " suppose someone killed the lot, should we 
 hear less of Renshaw? " 
 
 " Never! " he replied emphatically. " Ren- 
 shaw will always be a name wherever tennis is 
 spoken of." 
 
 I dread to think what the result might have 
 been had his answer been other than it was.
 
 THE HOBBY RIDER. 3 2 9 
 
 The next year he dropped tennis completely, 
 and became an ardent amateur photographer, 
 and all his friends implored him to return to 
 tennis, and sought to interest him in talk about 
 services and returns and volleys, and in anec- 
 dotes concerning Renshaw. But he would not 
 heed them. 
 
 Whatever he saw, wherever he went, he took. 
 He took his friends, and made them his enemies. 
 He took babies, and brought despair to fond 
 mothers' hearts. He took young wives, and 
 cast a shadow on the home. Once there was 
 a young man who loved not wisely, so his friends 
 thought, but the more they talked against her 
 the more he clung to her. Then a happy 
 idea occurred to the father: he got Beg- 
 glely to photograph her in seven different po- 
 sitions. 
 
 When her lover saw the first he said: 
 
 "What an awful-looking thing! Who did 
 it?" 
 
 When Begglely showed him the second, he 
 said: 
 
 " But, my dear fellow, it's not a bit like her. 
 You've made her look an ugly old woman." 
 
 At the third he said:
 
 33 THE HOBBY RIDER. 
 
 " Whatever have you done to- her feet? They 
 can't be that size, you know. It isn't in nature." 
 
 At the fourth he exclaimed: 
 
 " But, Heavens, man! Look at the shape 
 you've made her. Where on earth did you get 
 the idea from? " 
 
 At the first glimpse of the fifth he staggered. 
 
 "Great Scott!" he cried, with a shudder; 
 " what a ghastly expression you've got into it ! 
 It isn't human! " 
 
 Begglely was growing jffended; but the 
 father, who was standing by, came to his 
 defense. 
 
 "It's nothing to do with Begglely!" ex- 
 claimed the old gentleman suavely. " It can't 
 be his fault. What is a photographer? Simply 
 an instrument in the hands of science. He ar- 
 ranges his apparatus, and whatever is in front 
 of it comes into it. 
 
 " No," continued the old gentleman, laying 
 a constraining hand upon Begglely, who was 
 about to resume the exhibition, " don't don't 
 show him the other two." 
 
 I was sorry for the poor girl, for I bdieve she 
 really cared for the youngster; and as for her
 
 THE HOBBY RIDER. 331 
 
 looks, they were quite up to the average. But 
 some evil sprite seemed to have got into Beg- 
 glely's camera. It seized upon defects with the 
 unerring instinct of a born critic, and dilated 
 upon them to the obscuration of all virtues. A 
 man with a pimple became a pimple with a man 
 as background. People with strongly marked 
 features became mere adjuncts to their own 
 noses. One man in the neighborhood had, un- 
 detected, worn a wig for fourteen years. Beg- 
 glely's camera discovered the fault in an instant, 
 and so completely exposed it that the man's 
 friends wandered afterward how the fact ever 
 could have escaped them. The thing seemed to 
 take a pleasure in showing humanity at its very 
 worst. Babies usually came out with an ex- 
 pression of low cunning. Most young girls had 
 to take their choice of appearing either as sim- 
 pering idiots or embryo vixens. To mild old 
 ladies it generally gave a look of aggressive 
 cynicism. Our vicar, as excellent an old gen- 
 tleman as ever breathed, Begglely presented to 
 us as a beetle-browed savage of a peculiarly low 
 type of intellect ; while upon the leading solici- 
 tor of the town he bestowed an expression of
 
 33 2 THE HOBBY RIDER. 
 
 such thinly veiled hypocrisy that few who saw 
 the photograph cared ever again to trust him 
 with their affairs. 
 
 As regards myself, I should, perhaps, make 
 no comment; I am possibly a prejudiced party. 
 All I will say, therefore, is that if I in any way 
 resemble Begglely's photograph of me, then the 
 critics are fully justified in everything they have 
 at any time, anywhere, said of me and more. 
 Nor, I maintain though I make no pretense 
 of possessing the figure of Apollo is one of my 
 legs twice the length of the other, and neither 
 does it curve upward. This I can prove. Beg- 
 glely allowed that an accident had occurred to 
 the negative during the process of development, 
 but his explanation does not appear on the pic- 
 ture, and I cannot help feeling that an injustice 
 has been done me. 
 
 His perspective seemed to be governed by no 
 law, either human or divine. I have seen a pho- 
 tograph of his uncle and a windmill, judging 
 from which I defy any unprejudiced person to 
 say which was the bigger, the uncle or the mill. 
 
 On one occasion he created quite a scandal
 
 THE HOBBY RIDER. 333 
 
 in the parish by exhibiting a well-known and 
 eminently respectable maiden lady nursing a 
 young man on her knee. The gentleman's face 
 was indistinct, and he was dressed in a costume 
 which, upon a man of his size one would have 
 estimated him as rising six feet four inches 
 apparently absurdly juvenile. He had one arm 
 round her neck, and she was holding his other 
 hand and smirking. 
 
 I, knowing something of Begglely's machine, 
 willingly accepted the lady's explanation, which 
 was to the effect that the male in question was 
 her nephew, aged eleven, but the uncharitable 
 ridiculed this statement; and appearances were 
 certainly against her. 
 
 It was in the early days of the photographic 
 craze, and an inexperienced world was rather 
 pleased with the idea of being taken on the 
 cheap. The consequence was that nearly every- 
 one for three miles round sat or stood or leaned 
 or laid to Begglely at one time or another, with 
 the result that a less conceited parish than ours 
 it would have been difficult to discover. No 
 one who had once looked upon a photograph of
 
 334 THE HOBBY RIDER. 
 
 himself taken by Begglely ever again felt any 
 pride in his personal appearance. The picture 
 was invariably a revelation to him. 
 
 Later some evil disposed person invented 
 Kodaks, and Begglely went everywhere slung 
 on to a thing that looked like an overgrown 
 missionary box, and that bore a legend to the 
 effect that if Begglely would pull the button, 
 a shameless company would do the rest. Life 
 became a misery to Begglely's friends. Nobody 
 dared do anything for fear of being taken in the 
 act. He took an instantaneous photograph of 
 his own father swearing at the gardener, and 
 snapped his youngest sister and her lover at the 
 exact moment of farewell at the garden gate. 
 Nothing was sacred to him. He Kodaked his 
 aunt's funeral from behind, and showed the chief 
 mourner but one whispering a funny story into 
 the ear of the third cousin as they stood behind 
 their hats, beside the grave. 
 
 Public indignation was at its highest when 
 a newcomer to the neighborhood, a young fel- 
 low named Haynoth, suggested the getting to- 
 gether of a party for a summer's tour in 
 Turkey. Everybody took up the idea with en-
 
 THE HOBBY RIDER 335 
 
 thusiasm, and recommended Begglely as the 
 " party." We had great hopes from that tour. 
 Our idea was that Begglely would pull his but- 
 ton outside a harem or behind a sultana, and 
 that a Bashi Bazouk or a Janissary would do 
 the rest for us. 
 
 We were, however, partly doomed to disap- 
 pointment I say " partly " because, although 
 Begglely returned alive, he came back entirely 
 cured of his photographic craze. He said that 
 every English-speaking man, woman, or child 
 whom he met abroad had its camera with it, 
 and that after a time the sight of a black cloth 
 or the click of a button began to madden him. 
 
 He told us that on the summit of Mount 
 Tutra, in the Carpathians, the English and 
 American amateur photographers, waiting to 
 take " the grand panorama," were formed by 
 the Hungarian police in queue, two abreast, 
 each with his or her camera under his or her 
 arm; and that a man had to stand sometimes as 
 long as three and a half hours before his turn 
 came round. He also told us that the beggars 
 in Constantinople went about with placards 
 hung round their necks, stating their charges
 
 33 6 THE HOBBY RIDER. 
 
 for being photographed. One of these price 
 lists he brought back with him as a sample. It 
 ran: 
 
 One snap shot, back or front 2 francs 
 
 One snap shot, with expression ... 3 francs 
 One snap shot, surprised in quaint 
 
 attitude 4 francs 
 
 One snap shot, while saying pray- 
 ers 5 francs 
 
 One snap shot, while fighting . . . . 10 francs 
 
 He said that in some instances, where a man 
 had an exceptionally villainous cast of counte- 
 nance or was exceptionally deformed, as much 
 as twenty francs was demanded and readily ob- 
 tained. 
 
 He abandoned photography and took to golf. 
 He showed people how, by digging a hole here 
 and putting a brickbat or two there, they could 
 convert a tennis lawn into a miniature golf links, 
 and did it for them. He persuaded elderly 
 ladies and gentlemen that it was the mildest ex- 
 ercise going, and would drag them for miles 
 over wet gorse and heather, and bring them
 
 THE HOBBY RIDER. 337 
 
 home dead beat, coughing, and full of evil 
 thoughts. 
 
 The last time I saw him was in Switzerland, 
 a few months ago. He appeared indifferent to 
 the subject of golf, but talked much about 
 whist. We met by chance at Grindelwald, and 
 agreed to climb the Faulhcrn together next 
 morning. Half way up we rested, and I strolled 
 on a little way by myself to gain a view. Re- 
 turning, I found him with a " Cavendish " in 
 his hand, and a pack of cards spread out before 
 him on the grass, solving a problem. 
 
 THE END.
 
 May, 1897. 
 
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 1bon, peter Stirling 
 
 Bno wbat people tbougbt of bim. 
 
 By PAUL LEICESTER FORD. i2mo. Cloth, 
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 ... In the use of dramatic possibilities. Mr. Ford is dis- 
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 Stirling's private and domestic story is well knit with that 
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 from which it was borrowed.