.ND 
 
STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 BY 
 
 BARRY PAIN 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE 
 1892 
 
Copyright, 1892, by HARPER & BROTHERS. 
 All rights reserved. 
 
TO 
 
 A. K L. 
 
My thanks are due to the Editors of " The English Illustrated 
 Magazine," " The Illustrated London News," " Black and White," 
 " The Speaker," " 77ie National Observer," " 77 Granta," and 
 " 77ie Gentlewoman " 'for permission to reprint several things in 
 this volume. 
 
\ 
 
 CO^TESTTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. THE GLASS OF SUPREME MOMENTS, . . 1 
 II. EXCHANGE: 
 
 1. Doris, 20 
 
 2. Major Gunnical, 28 
 
 3. Doris in the Hereafter, . . 34 
 Interlude : A Man and a God, ... 40 
 
 III. RURAL SIMPLICITY, .... 42 
 
 IV. CONCEALED ART, .... .62 
 
 Interlude : TJie Devil's Auction, ... 83 
 
 V. WHEN THAT SWEET CHILD LAY DEAD, . 85 
 
 VI. THE MAGIC MORNING, 98 
 
 Interlude : My Lady's Lilies, . . .114 
 
 VII. "JADIS," 115 
 
 Interlude : Tlie Bird Cage, .... 123 
 
 VIII. THE DOG THAT GOT FOUND, . . .126 
 
 Interlude : TJie Bat and the Devil, . .135 
 
 IX. Two POETS, 137 
 
 Interlude : Ainigmata, .... 144 
 
PAGE 
 
 VI CONTENTS 
 
 X. WHITE NIGHTS : 
 
 1. The Story of Una and Altera, , . 146 
 
 2. The Story of the Ferryman, . . . 159 
 
 3. The Story of Sybil, 169 
 
 4. The Story of the Captive, . . .176 
 
 5. The Story of an Experiment, . . 184 
 
 6. The Story of a Picture, . . . .193 
 
STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
THE GLASS OF SUPREME MOMENTS 
 
 LUCAS MORNE sat in his college rooms, when 
 the winter afternoon met the evening, depressed 
 and dull. There were various reasons for his 
 depression. He was beginning to be a little 
 nervous about his health. A week before he 
 had run second in a mile race, the finish of which 
 had been a terrible struggle ; ever since then 
 any violent exertion or excitement had brought 
 on symptoms which were painful, and to one 
 who had always been strong, astonishing. He 
 had ^felt them early that afternoon, on coming 
 from the river. Besides, he was discontented 
 with himself. He had had several men in his 
 rooms that afternoon, who were better than he 
 was, men who had enthusiasms and had found 
 them satisfying. Lucas had a moderate de- 
 votion to athletics, but no great enthusiasm. 
 Neither had he the finer perceptions. Neither 
 was he a scholar. He was just an ordinary 
 man, and reputed to be a good fellow. 
 
 His visitors had drunk his tea, talked of their 
 1 
 
INTERLUDES 
 
 own enthusiasms, and were now gone. Noth- 
 ing is so unclean as a used tea-cup ; nothing is 
 so cold as toast which has once been hot, and 
 the concrete expression of dejection is crumbs. 
 Even Lucas Morne, who had not the finer per- 
 ceptions, was dimly conscious that his room 
 had become horrible, and now flung open the 
 window. One of the men a large, clumsy 
 man had been smoking mitigated Latakia; 
 and Latakia has a way of rolling itself all round 
 the atmosphere and kicking. Lucas seated 
 himself in his easiest chair. 
 
 His rooms were near the chapel, and he could 
 hear the organ. The music and the soft fall of 
 the darkness were soothing ; he could hardly see 
 the used tea-cups now ; the light from the gas- 
 lamp outside came just a little way into the 
 room, shyly and obliquely. 
 
 Well, he had not noticed it before, but the 
 fireplace had become a staircase. He felt too 
 lazy to wonder much at this. He would, he 
 thought, have the things all altered back again 
 on the morrow. It would be worth while to 
 sell the staircase, seeing that its steps were 
 fashioned of silver and crystal. Unfortunately 
 he could not see how much there was of it, or 
 whither it led. The first five steps were clear 
 enough; he felt convinced that the workman- 
 
THE GLASS OF SUPREME MOMENTS 3 
 
 ship of them was Japanese. But the rest of the 
 staircase was hidden from his sight by a gray 
 veil of mist. He found himself a little angry, 
 in a severe and strictly logical way, that in 
 these days of boasted science we could not pre- 
 vent a piece of fog, measuring ten feet by seven, 
 from coming in at an open window and sitting 
 down on a staircase which had only just begun 
 to exist, and blotting out all but five steps of it 
 in its very earliest moments. He allowed that 
 it was a beautiful mist; its color changed 
 slowly from gray to rose, and then back again 
 from rose to gray ; fire-flies of silver and gold 
 shot through it at intervals ; but it was a nui- 
 sance, because he wanted to see the rest of the 
 staircase, and it prevented him. Every moment 
 the desire to see more grew stronger. At last 
 he determined to shake off his laziness, and go 
 up the staircase and through the mist into the 
 something beyond. He felt sure that the some- 
 thing beyond would be beautiful sure with 
 the certainty which has nothing to do with log- 
 ical conviction. 
 
 It seemed to him that it was with an effort 
 that he brought himself to rise from the chair 
 and walk to the foot of that lovely staircase. 
 He hesitated there for a moment or two, and as 
 he did so he heard the sound of footsteps, high 
 up, far away, yet coming nearer and nearer, 
 with light music in the sound of them. Some 
 
4 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 one was coming down the staircase. He listened 
 eagerly and excitedly. Then through the gray 
 mist came a figure robed in gray. 
 
 It was the figure of a woman young, with 
 wonderful grace in her movements. Her face 
 was veiled, and all that could be seen of her as 
 she paused on the fifth step was the soft, dark 
 hair that reached to her waist, and her arms 
 white wonders of beauty. The rest was hidden 
 by the gray veil, and the long gray robe, that 
 left, however, their suggestion of classical grace 
 and slenderness. Lucas Morne stood looking 
 at her tremulously. He felt sure, too, that she 
 was looking at him, and that she could see 
 through the folds of the thin gray veil that hid 
 her face. She was the first to speak. Her 
 voice in its gentleness and delicacy was like 
 the voice of a child ; it was only afterward that 
 he heard in it the under-thrill which told of 
 more than childhood. 
 
 "Why have you not come? I have been 
 waiting for you, you know, up there. And 
 this is the only time," she added. 
 
 "I am very sorry," he stammered. "You 
 see I never knew the staircase was there until 
 to-day. In fact it seerns very stupid of me 
 but I always thought it was a fireplace. I 
 must have been dreaming, of course. And 
 then this afternoon I thought, or dreamed, that 
 a lot of men came in to see me. Perhaps 
 
THE GLASS OF SUPREME MOMENTS 5 
 
 they really did come; and we got talking, you 
 
 know " 
 
 "Yes," she said, with the gentlest possible 
 interruption. "I do know. There was one 
 man, Fynsale, large, ugly, clumsy, a year your 
 senior. He sat in that chair over there, and 
 sulked, and smoked Latakia. I rather like the 
 smell of Latakia. He especially loves to write 
 or to say some good thing ; and at times he can 
 do it. Therefore, you envy him. Then there 
 was Blake. Blake is an athlete, like yourself, 
 but is just a little more successful. Yes, I know 
 you are good, but Blake is very good. You 
 were tried for the 'Varsity Blake was selected. 
 He and Fynsale both have delight in ability, 
 and you envy both. There was that dissenting 
 little Paul Reece. He is not exactly in your 
 set, but you were at school with him, and so 
 you tolerate him. How good he is, for all his 
 insignificance and social defects ! Blake knows 
 that, and kept a guard on his talk this after- 
 noon. He would not offend Paul Reece for 
 worlds. Paul's belief gives him earnestness, 
 his earnestness leads him to self-sacrifice, and 
 self-sacrifice is deep delight to him. You have 
 more ability than Paul Reece, but you cannot 
 reach that kind of enthusiastic happiness, and 
 therefore you envy him. I could -say similar 
 things of the other men. It was because they 
 made you vaguely dissatisfied with yourself that 
 
6 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 they bored you. You take pleasure a certain 
 pleasure in athletics, and that pleasure would 
 become an enthusiastic delight if you were a 
 little better at them. Some men could get the 
 enthusiastic delight out of as much as you can 
 do, but your temperament is different. I know 
 you well. You are not easily satisfied. You 
 
 are not clever, but you are " She paused, 
 
 but without any sign of embarrassment. 
 
 "What am I?" he asked eagerly. He felt 
 sure that it would be something good, and he 
 was not less vain than other men. 
 
 " I do not think I will say not now." 
 
 "But who are you?" His diffidence and 
 stammering had vanished beneath her calm, 
 quiet talk. " You must let me at least ask that. 
 Who are you ? And how do you know all this ? " 
 
 " I am a woman, but not an earth- woman. 
 And the chief difference between us is that I 
 know nearly all the things you do not know, 
 and you do not know nearly all the things that 
 I know. Sometimes I forget your ignorance 
 do not be angry for a word ; there is no other 
 for it, and it is not your fault. I forgot it just 
 now when I asked you why you had not come 
 to me up the staircase of silver and crystal, 
 through the gray veil where the fire-flies live, 
 and into that quiet room beyond. This* is the 
 only time ; to-morrow it will not be possible. 
 And I have " Once more she paused. 
 
THE GLASS OF SUPREME MOMENTS 7 
 
 There was a charm for Lucas Morne in the 
 things which she did not say. " Your room is 
 dark," she continued, "and I can hardly see 
 you." 
 
 " I will light the lamp," said Lucas hurriedly , 
 " and and won't you let me get you some tea? " 
 He saw, as soon as he had said it, how unspeak- 
 ably ludicrous this proffer of hospitality was. 
 He almost fancied a smile, a moment's shim- 
 mer of little white teeth, beneath the long gray 
 veil. " Or shall I come now at once? " he 
 added. 
 
 " Come now ; I will show you the mirror." 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 " You will understand when you see it. It 
 is the glass of supreme moments. I shall tell 
 you about it. But come." 
 
 She looked graceful, and she suggested the 
 most perfect beauty as she stood there, a slight 
 figure against the background of gray mist, 
 which had grown luminous as the room below 
 grew darker. Lucas Morne went carefully up 
 the five steps, and together they passed through 
 the gray, misty curtain. He was wondering 
 what the face was like which was hidden be- 
 neath that veil ; would it be possible to induce 
 her to remove the veil? He might, perhaps, 
 lead the conversation thither delicately and 
 subtly. 
 
 "A cousin of mine," he began, "who has 
 
8 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 travelled a good deal, once told me that the 
 women of the East " 
 
 "Yes," she said, and her voice and way were 
 so gentle that it hardly seemed like an inter- 
 ruption; "and so do I." 
 
 He felt very much anticipated ; for a moment 
 he was driven back into the shy and stammer- 
 ing state. There were only a few more steps 
 now, and then they entered through a rosy cur- 
 tain into a room, which he supposed to be "that 
 quiet room beyond," of which she had spoken. 
 
 It was a large room, square in shape. The 
 floor was covered with black and white tiles, 
 with the exception of a small square space in 
 the centre, which looked like silver, and over 
 which a ripple seemed occasionally to pass. 
 She pointed it out to him. " That, " she said, 
 "is the glass of supreme moments." There 
 were no windows, and the soft light that filled 
 the room seemed to come from that liquid silver 
 mirror in the centre of the floor. The walls, 
 which were lofty, were hung with curtains of 
 different colors, all subdued, dreamy, reposeful. 
 These colors were repeated in the painting of 
 the ceiling. In a recess at the further end of 
 the room there were seats, low seats on which 
 one could sleep. There was a faint smell of 
 syringa in the air, making it heavy and drowsy. 
 Now and then one heard faintly, as if afar off, 
 the great music of an organ. Could it, he 
 
THE GLASS OF SUPREME MOMENTS 9 
 
 found himself wondering, be the organ of the 
 college chapel? It was restful and pleasant to 
 hear. She drew him to one of the seats in the 
 recess, and once more pointed to the mirror. 
 
 " All the ecstasy in the world lies reflected 
 there. The supreme moments of each man's 
 life the scene, the spoken words all lie there. 
 Past and present, and future all are there." 
 
 " Shall I be able to see them? " 
 
 "If you will." 
 
 "And how?" 
 
 " Bend over the mirror, and say the name of 
 the man or woman into whose life you wish to 
 see. You only have to want it, and it will 
 appear before your eyes. But there are some 
 lives which have no supreme moments. " 
 
 " Commonplace lives? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Lucas Morne walked to the edge of the mirror 
 and knelt down, looking into it. The ripple 
 passed to and fro over the surface. For a mo- 
 ment he hesitated, doubting for whom he should 
 ask ; and then he said in a low voice : " Are 
 there supreme moments in the life of Blake 
 Vincent Blake, the athlete?" The surf ace of 
 the mirror suddenly grew still, and in it rose 
 what seemed a living picture. 
 
 He could see once more the mile race in which 
 he had been defeated by Blake. It was the 
 third and last lap ; and he himself was leading 
 
10 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 by some twenty yards, for Blake was waiting. 
 There was a vast crowd of spectators, and he 
 could hear every now and then the dull sound of 
 their voices. He saw Vincent Blake slightly 
 quicken his pace, and marked his own plucky 
 attempt to answer it; he saw, too, that he had 
 very little left in him. Gradually Blake drew 
 up, until at a hundred yards from the finish 
 there were not more than five yards between 
 the two runners. Then he noticed his own 
 fresh attempt. There were some fifty yards of 
 desperate fighting, in which neither seemed to 
 gain or lose an inch on the other. The voices 
 of the excited crowd rose to a roar. .And then 
 then Blake had it his own way. He saw 
 himself passed a yard from the tape. 
 
 "Blake has always just beaten me," he said 
 savagely as he turned from the mirror. 
 
 He went back to his seat. "Tell me," he 
 said; "does that picture really represent the 
 supreme moments of Blake's life? " 
 
 "Yes," answered the veiled woman, "he will 
 have nothing quite like the ecstasy which he felt 
 at winning that race. He will marry, and 
 have children, and his married life will be 
 happy, but the happiness will not be so intense. 
 There is an emotion-meter outside this room, 
 you know, which measures such things." 
 
 "Now if one wanted to bet on a race," he 
 beg-an. Then he stopped short. He had none 
 
THE GLASS OF SUPREME MOMENTS 11 
 
 of the finer perceptions, but it did not take these 
 to show him that he was becoming a little in- 
 appropriate. " I will look again at the mirror," 
 ' he added after a pause. " I am afraid, though, 
 that all this will make me more discontented 
 with myself." 
 
 Once more he looked into the glass of supreme 
 moments. He murmured the name of Paul 
 Reece, the good little dissenter, his old school- 
 fellow. It was not in the power of accomplish- 
 ment that Paul Reece excelled Lucas Morne, 
 but only in the goodness and spirituality of his 
 nature. As he looked, once more a picture 
 formed on the surface of the mirror. It was of 
 the future this time. 
 
 It was a sombre picture of the interior of a 
 church. Through the open door one saw the 
 snow falling slowly into the dusk of a winter 
 afternoon. Within, before the richly decorated 
 altar, flickered the little ruby flames of hanging 
 lamps. On the walls, dim in the dying light, 
 were painted the stations of the Cross. The 
 fragrance of the incense smoke still lingered in 
 the air. He could see but one figure, bowed, 
 black-robed, before the altar. " And is this Paul 
 Reece who was a dissenter? " he asked himself, 
 knowing that it was he. Some one was seated 
 at the organ, and the cry of the music was full 
 of appeal, and yet full of peace : " Agnus Dei, 
 qui tollis peccata mundi ! " 
 
12 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 Then the picture died away, and once more 
 the little ripple moved to and fro over the sur- 
 face of the liquid silver mirror. Lucas went 
 back again to his place. The veiled woman was 
 leaning backward, her small white hands linked 
 together. She did not speak, but he was sure 
 that she was looking at him looking at him 
 intently. Slowly it came to him that there was 
 in this woman a subtle, mastering attraction 
 which he had never known before. And side 
 by side with this thought there still remained 
 the feeling which had filled him as he witnessed 
 the supreme moments of Paul Reece, a paradox- 
 ical feeling which was half restlessness and half 
 peace. 
 
 " I do not know if I envy Paul," he said, " but 
 if so, it is not the envy which hurts. I shall 
 never belike him. I can't feel as he does. It's 
 not in me. But this picture did not make me 
 angry as the other did." He looked steadfastly 
 at the graceful, veiled figure, and added in a 
 lower tone : " When I spoke of the travels of 
 my cousin a little while ago over Palestine 
 and Turkey, and thereabouts, you know I had 
 meant to lead up to a question, as you saw. 1 
 had meant to ask you if you would put away 
 your veil and let me see your face. And there 
 are many things which I want to know about 
 you. May I not stay here by your side and 
 talk?" 
 
THE GLASS OF SUPREME MOMENTS 13 
 
 " Soon, very soon, I will talk with you, and 
 after that you shall see me. What do think, 
 then, of the glass of supreme moments? " 
 
 " It is wonderful. I only feared the sight of 
 exquisite happiness in others would make me 
 more discontented. At first you seemed to 
 think that I was too dissatisfied." 
 
 "Do not be deceived. Do not think that 
 these supreme moments are everything ; for that 
 life is easiest which is gentle, level, placid, and 
 has no supreme moments. There is a picture 
 in the lifo of your friend Fynsale which I wish 
 you to see. Look at it in the mirror, and then 
 I shall have something to tell you." 
 
 Lucas did as he was bidden. The mirror 
 showed him a wretched, dingy room sitting- 
 room and bedroom combined in a lodging- 
 house. At a little rickety table, pushed in front 
 of a very small fire, Fynsale sat writing by lamp- 
 light. The lamp was out of order apparently. 
 The combined smell of lamp and Latakia was 
 poignant. There was a pile of manuscript be- 
 fore him, and on the top of it he was placing 
 the sheet he had just written. Then he rose 
 from his chair, folded his arms on the mantel- 
 piece, and bent down, with his head on his 
 hands, looking into the fire. It was an un- 
 couth attitude of which, Lucas remembered, 
 Fynsale had been particularly fond when he 
 was at college. 
 
14 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 When the picture had passed, Lucas looked 
 round, and saw that the veiled woman had left 
 the recess, and was now standing by his side. 
 "I do not understand this," he said. "How 
 can those be the supreme moments in Fynsale's 
 life? He looked poor and shabby, and the room 
 was positively wretched. Where does the ec- 
 stasy come in? " 
 
 "He has just finished his novel; and he is 
 quite madly in love with it. Some of it is very 
 good, and some of it from merely physical 
 reasons is very bad ; he was half-starved when 
 he was writing it, and it is not possible to write 
 very well when one is half -starved. But he 
 loves it. I am speaking of all this as if, like 
 the picture of it, it was present; although, of 
 course, it has not happened yet. But I will tell 
 you more. I will show you, in this case at 
 least, what these moments of ecstasy are worth. 
 Some of Fynsale's book, I have said, is very 
 good, and some of it is very bad ; but none of 
 it is what people want. He will take it to pub- 
 lisher after publisher, and they will refuse it. 
 After three years it will at last be published, 
 and it will not succeed in the least. And all 
 through these years of failure he will recall 
 from time to time the splendid joy he felt at 
 finishing that book, and how glad he was that 
 he had made it. The thought of that past 
 ecstasy will make the torture all the worse." 
 
THE GLASS OF SUPREME MOMENTS 15 
 
 "Perhaps, then, after all I should be glad 
 that I am commonplace? " said Lucas. 
 
 " It does not always follow, though, that the 
 commonplace people have commonplace lives. 
 There have been men who have been so ordinary 
 that it hurt one to have anything to do with 
 them, and yet the gods have made them come 
 into poetry." 
 
 Once more Lucas fancied that a smile with 
 magic in it might be fluttering under that gray 
 veil. Every moment the fascination of this 
 woman, whose face he had not seen, and with 
 whom he had spoken for so short a time, grew 
 stronger on him . He did not know from whence 
 it came, whether it lay in the grace of her figure 
 and her movements, or in the beauty of her 
 long, dark hair, or in the music of her voice, or 
 in that subtle, indefinable way in which she 
 seemed to show him that she cared for him 
 deeply. The room itself, quiet, mystical, rest- 
 ful, dedicated to the ecstasy of the world, had 
 its effect upon his senses. More than ever be- 
 fore he felt himself impressed, tremulous with 
 emotion. He knew that she saw how, in spite 
 of himself, the look of adoration would come 
 into his eyes. 
 
 And suddenly she, whom but a moment be- 
 fore he had imagined to be smiling at her own 
 light thoughts, seemed swayed by a more serious 
 impulse, 
 
16 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 "You must be comforted, though, and be 
 angry with yourself no longer. For you are 
 not commonplace, because you know that you 
 are commonplace. It is something to have 
 wanted the right things, although the gods 
 have given you no power to attain them, nor 
 even the wit and words to make your want 
 eloquent." Her voice was deeper, touched with 
 the under- thrill. 
 
 "This," he said, "is the second time you 
 have spoken of the gods and yet we are in the 
 nineteenth century." 
 
 "Are we? I am very old and very young. 
 Time is nothing to me ; it does not change me. 
 Yesterday in Italy each grave and stream spoke 
 of divinity. l Non omnis mortar,' sang one in 
 confidence, 'Non omnis moriar ! ' I heard his 
 voice, and now he is passed and gone from the 
 world." 
 
 " "We read him still," said Lucas Morne, with 
 a little pride. He was not intending to take 
 the classical tripos, but he had with the help of 
 a translation read that ode from which she was 
 quoting. She did not heed his interruption in 
 the least. She went on speaking : 
 
 "And to-day in England there is but little 
 which is sacred ; yet here, too, my work is seen ; 
 and here, too, as they die, they cry, 'I shall not 
 die, but live!' " 
 
 "You will think me stupid," said Lucas 
 
THE GLASS OF SUPREME MOMENTS 17 
 
 Morne, a little bewildered, " but I really do not 
 understand you. I do not follow you. I can- 
 not see to what you refer." 
 
 " That is because you do not know who I am. 
 Before the end of to-day I think we shall under- 
 stand each other well." 
 
 There was a moment's pause, and then Lucas 
 Morne spoke again : 
 
 " You have told me that even in the lives of 
 commonplace people there are sometimes su- 
 preme moments. I had scarcely hoped for 
 them and you have bidden me not to desire 
 them. Shall I even I know what ecstasy 
 means? " 
 
 "Yes, yes; I think so." 
 
 " Then let me see it, as I saw the rest pictured 
 in the mirror." He spoke with some hesita- 
 tion, his eyes fixed on the tiled floor of the 
 room. 
 
 "That need not be," she answered, and she 
 hardly seemed to have perfect control over the 
 tones of her voice now. "That need not be, 
 Lucas Morne, for the supreme moments of your 
 life are here, here and now." 
 
 He looked up, suddenly and excitedly. She 
 had flung back the gray veil over her long, dark 
 hair, and stood revealed before him, looking 
 ardently into his eyes. Her face was paler than 
 that of average beauty; the lips, shapely and 
 scarlet, were just parted ; but the eyes gave the 
 
18 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 most wonderful charm. They were like flames 
 at midnight not the soft, gray eyes that make 
 men better, but the passionate eyes that make 
 men forget honor, and reason, and everything. 
 She stretched out both hands toward him, im- 
 pulsively, appealingly. He grasped them in 
 his own. His own hands were hot, burning; 
 every nerve in them tingled with excitement. 
 For a moment he held her at arm's-length, look- 
 ing at her, and said nothing. At last he found 
 words : 
 
 "I knew that you would be like this. I 
 think that I have loved you all my life. I wish 
 that I might be with you forever." 
 
 There was a strange expression on her face. 
 She did not speak, but she drew him nearer 
 to her. 
 
 " Tell me your name," he said. 
 
 " Yesterday, where that poet lived that con- 
 fident poet they called me Libitina ; and here 
 to-day, they call me Death. My name matters 
 not, if you love me. For to you alone have I 
 come thus. For the rest, I have done my work 
 unseen. Only in this hour only in this hour 
 was it possible." 
 
 He had hardly heeded what she said. He 
 bent down over her face. 
 
 "Stay!" she said in a hurried whisper; "if 
 you kiss me you will die." 
 
 He smiled triumphantly. "But I shall die 
 
THE GLASS OF SUPREME MOMENTS 19 
 
 kissing you," he said. And so their lips met. 
 Her lips were scarlet, but they were icy cold. 
 
 The captain of the football team had just 
 come out of evening chapel, his gown slung 
 over his arm, his cap pulled over his eyes, look- 
 ing good-tempered, and strong, and jolly, but 
 hardly devotional. He saw the window of 
 Morne's rooms open they were on the ground- 
 floor and looked in. By the glow of the fail- 
 ing fire he saw what he thought was Lucas 
 Morne seated in a lounge-chair. He called to 
 him, but there was no answer. " The old idiot's 
 asleep," he said to himself, as he climbed in at 
 the window. "Wake up, old man," he cried, 
 as he put his hand on the shoulder of Lucas 
 Morne's body, and swung it forward; "wake 
 up, old man." 
 
 The body rolled forward and fell sideways to 
 the ground heavily and clumsily. It lay there 
 motionless. 
 
II 
 
 EXCHANGE 
 
 1 DORIS 
 
 THERE was once a girl-child named Doris 
 who went out skating with her bigger brothers 
 one afternoon over flooded fields in the Fen 
 country. But her brothers played hockey with 
 school-fellows, and Doris skated contentedly 
 enough by herself. She was wearing Bob's 
 skates, which she liked better than her own, 
 and the man had put them on very well indeed. 
 She went from one field through a gap in the 
 hedge into the next, and then on into a third 
 field. There were very few people here, and 
 most of the ice was not swept ; all of this was 
 very pleasant to Doris, and made her feel ad- 
 venturous. It was beautiful, too; and even 
 children unconsciously understand a sunset 
 with those old thin trees trembling black 
 against the crimson disc, and everywhere bits 
 of white brightness on a gray sea of fog. She 
 skated as fast as she could, the wind helping 
 her, feeling strangely and splendidly animated, 
 when quite suddenly . . . 
 
EXCHANGE 21 
 
 But this was not the Fen country. This was 
 the north of Yorkshire. She had been here 
 before on a visit to her cousins. Yonder was 
 the top of Winder ; she had climbed it on clear 
 days and seen Morecambe Bay flashing in the 
 distance. But it was night now almost a black 
 night, and it was very cold for Doris to be wan- 
 dering over those hills alone. She had an irri- 
 tating sensation that she had to go somewhere 
 before the dawn came, and that she did not 
 know where or why. It was lonely and awe- 
 some. " If I only had somebody to speak to, I 
 shouldn't mind it so much," she said to herself. 
 At once she heard a low voice saying, " Doris ! 
 Doris ! " and she looked round. 
 
 In a recess of the ravine which a ghyll had 
 made for itself as it leaped from the cold purity 
 of a hill-top to the warm humanity of a village 
 in the valley a village no better than it should 
 have been a small fire of sticks was smoul- 
 dering. Doris could just see that the person 
 crouched in front of the fire the person who 
 had called her by her name was an old, hag- 
 gard woman, with her chin resting on her 
 knees. 
 
 "Tell me, old woman," Doris said almost 
 angrily, "what does this all mean? I was at 
 Lingay Fen skating, and now I am wandering 
 over the Yorkshire hills. It has changed from 
 afternoon to night " 
 
22 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 " It generally does, " said the old woman in a 
 chilly, unemphatic way. Doris stamped her 
 foot impatiently. " I mean that it has changed 
 quite suddenly. Just a moment ago, too, I felt 
 quite certain that I had to go somewhere, and 
 I had forgotten where. Now I don't think I 
 have to go anywhere. " 
 
 " No you have arrived," said the old woman 
 softly. 
 
 At that moment a dry twig burst into flame, 
 and lit up the old woman's face and figure for 
 a second. She was hideous enough; her face 
 was thin and yellow ; her cavernous eyes spar- 
 kled to the momentary flicker. Her dress and 
 cloak were torn and faded, but they had been 
 bright scarlet. 
 
 "You naturally ask why," she continued, 
 "because you are young and have not yet 
 learned the uselessness of it. What has just 
 happened to you seems very meaningless and 
 foolish, but it is not more meaningless and fool- 
 ish than the rest of things. It is all a poor sort 
 of game, you know. Explain? No, I shall 
 not explain ; but it was I who brought you here. 
 Sit down by me under the night sky, and 
 watch." 
 
 "No, I will not," said Doris, and walked 
 away. She took about ten paces away, and 
 then came back again and did the very thing 
 which she said she would not do. She sat down 
 
EXCHANGE 23 
 
 by the old woman, and was a little angry be- 
 cause she could not help doing it. Then she 
 began to grumble at the fire. " That's not half 
 a fire," she said; "it just smoulders and makes 
 smoke. I will show you what you ought to do. 
 You put on some fresh sticks so. Then you 
 put your mouth quite close to the embers, and 
 blow and keep on blowing. There ! " She 
 had fitted her actions to her words, and now a 
 bright flame leaped out. It shone all over, on 
 her dark hair and dark bright eyes, and on the 
 gray furs of her dress. It shone, too, on the old 
 woman, who was smiling an ugly, half-sup- 
 pressed smile. 
 
 " Doris, " said the old woman, " leave the fire 
 alone. I do not want flame. I only want it to 
 stream forth smoke." 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 "See now there." The old woman made a 
 downward gesture with both hands, and the 
 flame sank obediently down again, giving place 
 to a quick yield of black smoke. " Look at the 
 smoke, Doris. That is what you have to watch. " 
 There was a little more energy in the old, qua- 
 vering voice now. 
 
 DoriS did as she was told ; but suddenly she 
 stopped and cried, half-frightened, " There are 
 faces in it ! " 
 
 "Yes, yes," said the old woman, almost 
 eagerly ; " and there are pictures of the future 
 
24 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 in it of the future as it will be unless I alter 
 it this night. I alone can alter it, you know. 
 Are you not glad now that you came? " 
 
 " It is something like fortune- telling ; did you 
 ever have your fortune told?" 
 
 "No, I never did," replied the old woman. 
 Her smile was very ugly indeed. 
 
 " But how shall I know that it's true? " 
 
 "Why, you do know." 
 
 That was the strangest part of it. Doris felt 
 certain without having a reason that she could 
 give for it. "Show me my future," she said 
 breathlessly. 
 
 "Watch the smoke, then." 
 
 So she watched, and picture followed picture. 
 At the first of them she made some little exclama- 
 tion. " Ah ! " she cried, " that is a splendid 
 dress; and I do like those shoes. I wish I 
 might have long dresses now I'm sure I'm old 
 enough ; and I want to have my hair done up 
 the proper way, but " She stopped sud- 
 denly, because the picture had changed. "I 
 look much prettier in this one," she said. "I 
 have been dancing, I think, from the dress, and 
 because I seem a little out of breath. There is 
 a man with me, and now he no, no.! I would 
 not. I should hate it. That picture cannot 
 be right ! " The third picture represented her 
 marriage with great splendor. "Well," she 
 said, " I do not mind that so much just stand- 
 
EXCHANGE 25 
 
 ing up and wearing a beautiful veil. But I 
 don't want to be married at all. I like skating 
 ever so much better." 
 
 There was a faint sound of laughter, muffled 
 and bitter, from the old woman. "You like 
 skating? " she said. "Where are your skates, 
 then, Doris? " Doris looked for them, but could 
 not find them, and this distressed her. "Oh, 
 what shall I do? They were not my skates; 
 they were Bob's." 
 
 "Who is Bob?" 
 
 " Bob is my smallest brother ever so much 
 younger than I am; he's my favorite brother, 
 too. He's got red hair, but he's a pretty 
 boy." 
 
 " He must be a milksop if he can't skate." 
 
 " He can skate. He can do the outside edge 
 backward; he skates better than any of my 
 three big brothers." 
 
 "Well, well it's a pity that he's stupid, 
 though." 
 
 " Stupid? Do you know why he lent me his 
 skates? Because he was going to write a story 
 this afternoon, and he's going to put me in it. 
 Bob can do almost anything. He's wonderful. 
 When he grows up he'll very likely write a 
 whole book, he says." 
 
 "Look at his future Bob's future in the 
 smoke, " said the old woman grimly, heaping on 
 more sticks. 
 
26 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 Doris looked reluctantly. The pictures came 
 flashing past one after the other. Some she 
 could not altogether understand, for she knew 
 nothing of the vices of young men; but they 
 were vaguely terrible. But even a child could 
 understand the last picture of all. It was 
 awful and vivid. She almost fancied that 
 she could hear the report of the pistol, and the 
 dim thud as the body fell awkwardly on the 
 floor. 
 
 "You needn't cry," said the old woman, as 
 Doris burst into tears. 
 
 "Oh! Bob is so splendid," sobbed Doris. 
 " Don't let it be like that. Do alter it. You 
 don't know him or you would change it. 
 You said you could. I'll give you everything 
 I've got if you'll stop it somehow." 
 
 " Will you give me your beauty your youth 
 your life? " 
 
 " Oh, willingly everything ! " 
 
 "I want none of them none of them," said 
 the old woman fiercely and quickly. " But I 
 want something else. Give it me, and I will 
 alter it as you wish." She stretched out a lean 
 finger and tapped Doris' forehead, and whis- 
 pered a few words in her ear. 
 
 Doris turned white enough, but she nodded 
 assent. "Then it will alter my future, too," 
 she said with a little gasp. 
 
 " It will alter the future of everybody in the 
 
EXCHANGE 27 
 
 world indirectly and in some cases very 
 slightly. But you will give it me? " 
 
 " Yes, yes. " She paused a moment, and then 
 added a torrent of questions: "Old woman, 
 who are you? Why are you dressed in scarlet? 
 Why did you have me brought here? I should 
 like it to turn out to be a dream. Oh ! why do 
 you want it? Why are you so horribly horri- 
 bly cruel?" 
 
 But the old woman, and the fire, and the 
 great dark hills grew dim and indistinct ; and 
 there was no answer. 
 
 The two old men one with a medical, the 
 other with a military air came slowly down 
 the broad staircase from the bedrooms without 
 speaking. The little red-headed boy was wait- 
 ing for them as usual. " Is Doris any better, 
 papa? " he asked eagerly. " Will she live? " 
 
 It was no good to keep it from him ; he would 
 have to know sooner or later. 
 
 "Yes, Bob," said the colonel, "she will live. 
 
 But the the injury to her head has " He 
 
 stopped with a gulping sound in his voice. 
 The boy looked up at him wistfully with a scared 
 face. 
 
 "Don't, colonel," said the doctor; "you'd 
 better leave it to me. I will tell the boy." 
 
*8 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 2 MAJOR GUNNICAL 
 
 NOBODY ever denied in my presence that 
 Major Gunnical was a capital shot and a good 
 fellow. He went straight, and it was always 
 imputed to him for righteousness. But the 
 other day the only man of the world with whom 
 I am acquainted accused the major of want of 
 taste, and based his accusation on the fact that 
 he took the liberty of dying in the country-house 
 of a friend, not having been invited for that 
 purpose. I might have pointed out that Major 
 Gunnical knew Sir Charles quite well enough 
 to take a liberty which would have been unpar- 
 donable in a casual guest ; I might have added 
 that it was one of those accidents which may 
 happen to any man, and that it was uninten- 
 tional and unforeseen on the major's part. But 
 I prefer to give the facts of the case, which 
 seem to me to explain everything. 
 
 On the evening which opened the night of 
 his death, Major Gunnical had gone upstairs to 
 dress sooner than the rest of them. He stood 
 in his bedroom with his back to the fire, well 
 knowing that if the back be warm the whole 
 body is warm also. He was half-afraid that 
 he had caught a chill, and chills affected him. 
 There was nothing in his appearance to tell you 
 that his heart was wrong. His body was large 
 and muscular, and he looked a strong man. 
 
EXCHANGE 29 
 
 His hair had only just begun to get a little gray. 
 His complexion was pale, but it had been tanned 
 by hot suns and seemed clear and healthy. His 
 eyes were thoughtful gray eyes quite out of 
 keeping with the active look of the man. His 
 best point was his simple directness ; he could 
 do right things, even when they were not easy, 
 without thinking of them at the time or after- 
 ward. His worst point was his temper, which 
 broke loose occasionally. At the present mo- 
 ment he was thinking about himself, which 
 was not a usual occurrence with Major Gunni- 
 cal, and his thoughts were depressing; so he 
 tried to dismiss them. " It's all nervousness and 
 too much tobacco, " he thought to himself ; " but 
 I will go up to town to-morrow and let old 
 Peterson prescribe for me. I shall be all right 
 in a day probably only liver no exercise, 
 thanks to this cursed frost. Oh, yes, it's just 
 liver nothing else." 
 
 He paused once when he was fastening his 
 collar, and said slowly and distinctly, "Damn 
 presentiments." But he was not able to shake 
 off a feeling of quietness : a desire to be at peace 
 with men and a tendency to look at the sad 
 side of things. When he got downstairs he 
 found only one man already in the drawing- 
 room a man called Kenneth, who wrote. 
 Now there was a certain disagreement between 
 Kenneth and the major. In the smoking-room 
 
30 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 the night before, the major had expressed his 
 sincere admiration for a certain story of soldier 
 life by a new writer, and Kenneth had ex- 
 plained to him that this admiration was 
 wrong, because the story was not at all well 
 constructed. 
 
 "I own," he had said, "that it takes a critic 
 to see the faults of the technique." This was a 
 little vain of Kenneth. "Yes," said the major 
 hotly, " and it takes a man to feel the merits of 
 the story." This was a little rude of the major, 
 for Kenneth was obviously an effeminate person. 
 Kenneth put up his eye-glasses and looked at 
 the major curiously. " Don't be so damnably 
 affected," said the major. Then Sir Charles 
 had interposed lazily. 
 
 Consequently, when the major entered the 
 drawing-room Kenneth at once began to assume 
 more dignity than Providence had made him 
 able to carry easily. The major walked up to 
 him and held out one hand. " Look here, Ken- 
 neth," he said, "I'm an old fool, and always 
 thinking I know another man's business as well 
 as my own. I'd no right to question your 
 opinion last night and make an angry ass of 
 myself. I'm sorry." Kenneth's dignity came 
 down heavily, and he took the major's hand at 
 once. For a fortnight he loved him, and then 
 he told publicly the story of how he had gone 
 to the major and forced him to apologize. For 
 
EXCHANGE 31 
 
 there is a combination of imagination and van- 
 ity which nothing not even kindness can 
 kill. 
 
 The major was very dull at dinner, but when 
 his host's two children came in afterward, they 
 seemed to find him very satisfactory. The 
 major loved children. He did not stop very 
 long in the smoking-room that night. He 
 wanted badly to be alone. 
 
 For some time after he had gone to bed he 
 lay awake thinking. Maude, his host's elder 
 daughter, reminded him in appearance of his 
 own niece Doris. It seemed hard that Maude 
 should be so bright and happy, and that Doris 
 owing to a skating accident should be con- 
 demned to lose all her brightness, and her flow 
 of talk, and her power to understand. Yet 
 Doris never seemed actually unhappy ; her eyes 
 were vacant, as if the light behind them had 
 gone out, but she did not seem to be suffering. 
 During the first part of her illness she had bab- 
 bled about some woman, an old woman dressed 
 in scarlet, who frightened her. 
 
 Thus thinking, the major fell asleep. It was 
 long past midnight when he opened his eyes 
 and saw a figure of a woman standing on the 
 hearth-rug, and stretching yellow hands like 
 claws toward the remnant of the fire. It startled 
 him, but he did not want to wake up the rest of 
 the house. 
 
32 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 "What are you doing in my room? " he said 
 in a rapid whisper. 
 
 The old woman turned round. He could 
 hardly see her face, but the flicker of the fire 
 showed him that she was dressed in rags of 
 faded scarlet. Her voice was very gentle and 
 low. 
 
 "Awake? Are you awake? I made a little 
 noise to wake you on purpose. But generally 
 they go on sleeping when I come. I am the 
 scarlet woman of whom Doris spoke. She has 
 been taken." 
 
 "Dead? A merciful deliverance." 
 
 " No, she is not delivered yet. She has to go 
 through life again in a lower form before she is 
 delivered. I hate her. I will see that she is 
 unhappy again before she is delivered." 
 
 "Why does this all seem real instead of 
 seeming fantastic and absurd as it ought 
 to?" 
 
 " Because it is real ; but they always ask me 
 that, all those who see me. Doris shall become 
 a caged bird, I think one of those who are 
 driven nearly mad by captivity and yet are so 
 strong that they die slowly." 
 
 "You can't do that," said the major quickly. 
 
 "You know I can, and you know I shall," 
 replied the old woman in the same soft whisper. 
 " I need not argue, or prove, or do anything of 
 that kind. When I speak men know that all is 
 
EXCHANGE 33 
 
 as I say; but they do not often hear me, be- 
 cause they are nearly always asleep when I 
 come." 
 
 " Where is Doris now? " 
 
 " She waits in dreamland, where nothing is 
 real, until I get my opportunity, and she is 
 born once more, and caught, and caged, and 
 tortured." 
 
 As she said this she seemed to grow a little 
 more excited ; and, as if in sympathy with her, 
 the fire suddenly burned up more brightly, and 
 showed her horrible, lean face, and deep, leer- 
 ing eyes. 
 
 "That's cruel," said the major. "And what 
 shall I be when I die? " 
 
 "You will not have a bad time," she said, 
 grinning. "You shall be a dear little white 
 lamb that lives an hour and then is delivered. 
 You will die to-night, by the way. But Doris 
 shall beat her heart out against bars, because I 
 hate her. You will see one another in dream- 
 land, while you are waiting until I get the two 
 right opportunities." 
 
 An idea occurred to the major. " Change us, 
 Doris and myself." 
 
 The old woman trembled with agitation, and 
 her voice rose shrilly. " I will not ! I will not ! " 
 she cried. 
 
 But something bright and sure, like a steady 
 light, seemed to fill the man's mind. " But you 
 3 
 
34 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 will you cannot help it," he answered very 
 quietly. 
 
 The old woman strode quickly across the 
 room, her face aflame with rage, and touched 
 him on the heart. He fell backward, and did 
 not speak any more. 
 
 " I must always come when they are asleep 
 in future," said the old woman, as she went 
 back to the fire. " It is too much to risk I 
 have lost by Doris and this man." There was a 
 long pause. " But I will torture him even more 
 than I would have tortured Doris," she whis- 
 pered gently to the fire. 
 
 Two months afterward a white lamb was 
 born, in a sheltered place, on a grassy fell. And 
 in an hour it died. 
 
 And on the same day a certain bird-catcher, 
 resident in Whitechapel, went out early and 
 had luck. 
 
 3 DORIS IN THE HEREAFTER 
 
 THE release had come at last. To Doris it 
 was an exquisite release; the years spent in 
 darkness were over ; the short, mystical period 
 which followed her death was over; her spirit 
 went out into the moonlit night white, naked, 
 beautiful. She could remember but little con- 
 sciously of her earth-life. She had suffered 
 
EXCHANGE 35 
 
 she could recollect that, and she had spoken 
 with a grim woman an old woman dressed in 
 rags of faded scarlet. She did not recollect 
 what had been said, but she knew that it had 
 been the beginning of the darkness which had 
 fallen on her mind. Of her death she knew 
 nothing ; of a short strange time after her death 
 she knew a little, dimly and vaguely. 
 
 She was free, and it was enough for her. It 
 seemed to her that she still kept the body which 
 had been called Doris during its earth-life, but 
 that now it was light as the air, stronger than 
 before, and far more beautiful. She stood, a 
 childish figure, graceful and erect, on a shred 
 of dark cloud which a steady night wind blew 
 past the hill-tops and over the valley. Below 
 her she could see the flooded river, angry with 
 its old stone bridges, crying itself to sleep in 
 long, still reaches, with the mists rising white 
 all about it. She saw, too, much that the living 
 do not see. In a lonely cottage, low and roughly 
 built, some young spring flowers had just died; 
 she saw their souls their fragrance, as she had 
 been used to call it pass upward ; and as they 
 passed they changed and became a handful of 
 ghost-lilies in the garden-land of dreams. And 
 all night long she went on her way, seeing 
 beautiful things. She could never be tired any 
 more ; and the rain and the dew did not hurt 
 her ; and the cold wind did not seem cold to her. 
 
36 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 And when the morning came, a little baby 
 breeze came up to her with a message. It was 
 so young and forgetful that it had not got the 
 exact words of the message. But it remem- 
 bered the drift of it. " He said you were to go 
 and look for sorrows," it whispered in her ear. 
 It lingered for a moment, playing with her 
 hair, and then it went down below and tried to 
 blow a dandelion clock. And not being strong 
 enough, it sat down and sulked ; for it had not 
 yet learned that the only things worth doing are 
 the things one cannot do. 
 
 Then Doris went on about her work, very 
 happy, singing little songs that she remembered. 
 And first of all she went to a great house where 
 a proud and beautiful lady lived. But the 
 proud lady sat huddled up and quite undignified 
 in her own room, crying till her nose was red 
 and she was not pleasant to see. And all be- 
 cause some one or other I think it was her 
 husband was dead, and was going to be for- 
 ever happy! Doris laughed contemptuously, 
 and passed on. 
 
 She next went to a nursery where there was 
 a little freckled girl with sandy hair. And the 
 little girl was unhappy because of a bad acci- 
 dent to a ninepenny doll, which was her most 
 intimate friend. There was a small hole in the 
 doll's neck and a possible escape of sawdust. It 
 was only by holding the doll wrong way up and 
 
EXCHANGE 37 
 
 shaking it that you could make the sawdust 
 come out ; and the little girl did not want the 
 sawdust to come out at all, for it caused her 
 agony when it came out ; and yet she held the 
 doll upside down and shook it. For this was 
 the kind of girl that, when she grows up, be- 
 comes a woman. Doris was sorry for her, 
 and whispered in her ear, " You had better get 
 a little piece of stamp-paper and stick it over 
 the hole in the doll's neck but it won't last 
 long. " The child thought Doris was a beauti- 
 ful idea, and went radiantly to the study and 
 opened the despatch-box. There was no stamp- 
 paper. There was one penny stamp, and she 
 knew that it was wicked to take it. So she 
 compromised which was feminine of her 
 and tore the stamp in two and only took half of it. 
 Then she went back to the nursery, and fixed 
 the half-stamp as Doris had suggested. Doris, 
 who had watched her, was horrified. "You 
 ought not to have taken that stamp," she said 
 to her. " You had better confess what you have 
 done, and say that you do not wish to tell a lie. " 
 Then the little girl supposed Doris was con- 
 science for, of course, Doris was invisible 
 and did not think quite so much of her. Neither 
 did she confess. Doris was not very unhappy 
 about it, knowing that children are always for- 
 given and occasionally forgotten. 
 
 She saw many other sorrows and she thought 
 
38 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 very little of them. People, she perceived, 
 always exaggerated the importance of death, 
 and money, and love. Yet she saw a wind a 
 venomous wind snap the stalk of the very 
 loveliest daffodil, and nobody wore black clothes 
 for it, or had sherry-and-biscuits, or showed any 
 of the signs of sorrow. She had only been for 
 a few hours in the Hereafter, and yet she 
 already felt herself to be out of touch with 
 humanity. 
 
 And it happened that she came to a great 
 dirty city, and she stopped where a cage of 
 wicker-work was hung outside a grimy shop 
 in a grimy street. There were several things 
 in the cage : a yellow glass for water with no 
 water in it ; a blue glass for seed with no seed 
 in it; something which had once been a turf 
 and now looked like a badly cooked brick ; and 
 something which panted on the floor of the cage 
 in the corner it was all that was left of a bird, 
 a soaring bird that loved the upper air and the 
 sunlight, but was now reduced to plain dying 
 and high thinking. Now none of the other sor- 
 rowful persons had seen Doris; but the bird 
 saw her and called to her, but she did not un- 
 derstand the language. She went into the 
 shop and whispered to the man in charge, 
 "Your bird outside wants attention; it's ill." 
 
 " Bless my soul ! and I gave a shilling for it ! " 
 So he took the bird some water and something 
 
EXCHANGE 39 
 
 to eat which was not good for it. The bird 
 chirped. " It knows me and loves me already," 
 said the man. It was really saying, " Would 
 you kindly wring my neck, and end this? " 
 
 "I am sorry for it," said Doris, as she passed 
 on. "I am glad I was never a pet." She 
 would have been more sorry if she had known 
 all the history of that bird. 
 
A MAN AND A GOD 
 
 I HUNGER and am not satisfied : . 
 
 Because I am small, and the world is wide ; 
 
 And the world is one, and the stars are sand, 
 
 Flung right out by a careless hand 
 
 Into the darkness to slide and slide ; 
 
 And all the darkness is one small blot 
 
 That He who made it regardeth not. 
 
 He hath nor sorrow, nor joy, nor pride, 
 
 And His face is set as it were of stone ; 
 
 He worked, and he letteth the work alone ; 
 
 And none are above Him and none beside. 
 
 The dead leaf blown from the dying tree, 
 
 The great ship wrecked in a cruel sea, 
 
 The creeping things that the cart-wheels crush, 
 
 The ruined star in its downward rush 
 
 Alike to Him all these things be, 
 
 And the darkness is as the day's full light, 
 
 Ever and ever, by day and night, 
 
 He sits alone, and His great eyes see 
 
 A million worlds in their courses turn ; 
 
 Yet like a flame the deep looks burn 
 
 Even in this small heart of me. 
 
A MAN AND A GOD 41 
 
 He thought me, and He let me go ; 
 
 He thought a man and it was so. 
 
 For He thinketh all and there liveth naught 
 
 That came not first from out God's thought; 
 
 Then we are left to die or grow, 
 
 He has forgotten us all by now, 
 
 And stony swoon on His stony brow 
 
 Lies, and His breath is strong and slow. 
 
 He sees, and recks not what He sees, 
 
 And never it moveth His frozen ease 
 
 That we cry, and die, and rot below. 
 
 Yet the far hills, that snow makes white, 
 Stretch Godward, longing for His light; 
 And all last night the winds outpoured 
 Their rhythmic Glory to the Lord 
 I listened longingly last night. 
 We hunger and are not satisfied ; 
 All the worlds and the darkness wide, 
 Every depth and every height, 
 Longing to be in God again. 
 And hunger is hunger, and longing vain, 
 And man is nothing, and God is right. 
 
Ill 
 
 RURAL SIMPLICITY 
 
 1 A LETTER FROM Miss MILLJCENT MARSHE, OF 
 CARLESTON RECTORY, TO Miss CLARA ORMRY, OF THE 
 LAWN, LOWANSTANTON, SEPTEMBER 2D 
 
 MY DEAREST CLARA : I am going to write 
 you a long letter. There is just a little news to 
 tell you, and I want to talk about something I 
 could not possibly discuss with any one else. 
 You are only a few years older than I am, and 
 yet you know so much more about things. I 
 feel sure that if you advise me at all, you will 
 advise me well. You have read so many more 
 novels and stories than I have, that you under- 
 stand human nature much better. And you are 
 so sympathetic too. I have often thought it 
 very sad that at the age of twenty-five you 
 should have decided that you can never love 
 again ; but I know that you do take the warm- 
 est and deepest interest in the love-stories of 
 others, and there is no one to whom I could 
 more readily tell all the secrets of my heart. 
 You must not imagine that I have any love- 
 story or any secrets of that kind to tell you now. 
 
RURAL, SIMPLICITY 43 
 
 On the contrary, I have just realized that you 
 are quite right about my cousin Tom, and that 
 I can never, never love him at all. Every 
 word that you said about him was true : mere 
 good looks, good nature, and a partiality for 
 athletics are not enough ; I can see now how 
 right you were when you told me that " one 
 wants the wonderful insight and sympathy that 
 can understand the delicacies and simplicities 
 of a young girl's soul" I think that is the 
 most beautiful sentence in your last dear letter. 
 And it is so true ! It is just a little difficult for 
 me, because Tom is living at the rectory until 
 he goes up to Cambridge in October, and al- 
 though he spends a good deal of his time in 
 the study with papa, working for his examina- 
 tion, he does get a good many opportunities of 
 seeing me. He really behaves just as if I had 
 encouraged him ; and he seems almost to expect 
 me to fall in love with him. I like him well 
 enough, but it would be absurd to think about 
 loving him. I did that only before I had the 
 benefit of your wise advice, my dear Clara. 
 
 And now I must tell you a little news. Do 
 you remember how you used to rave about " The 
 Long Dream"? Of course you do, because in 
 your last letter you speak of the book again, and 
 say what a consolation it has been to you in 
 your great trouble. You give me, too, a sketch 
 of what you imagine the author, Mr. Merle, 
 
44 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 must be like. What will you say when I tell 
 you that for the last fortnight Mr. Merle has 
 been living at Carleston, and that I have seen 
 him constantly? It's true. Oh ! 
 
 You were not quite right in your imaginary 
 description of him. You said that you thought 
 the author of " The Long Dream" would be " tall 
 and dark, with flashing eyes and a complexion 
 like cream with the faintest suspicion of coffee 
 in it." He really has rather a roundish face, 
 a fresh color, and fair hair which is generally 
 rather untidy. I think his eyes are gray ; but 
 I have not been near enough to see properly. 
 You were quite right in thinking that he would 
 be tall, however. What made you guess that? 
 In dress he is just like any other man. 
 
 Mr. Merle's father and mine were at college 
 together, it turns out ; so naturally we have seen 
 a good deal of him. He has dined here twice 
 and been to tennis several times. He plays 
 better than Tom. He has got rooms at an old 
 farm-house, and will perhaps stay for another 
 month, he says. Papa is delighted with him, 
 and so is Aunt Mary ; Tom does not like him 
 so much, and says that he is conceited. This 
 is utterly untrue ; he is really quite unaffected, 
 and very good-tempered. He does not mind 
 talking about his books ; I told him last night 
 that I loved " The Long Dream," and it seemed 
 to please him. Was I wrong? Tom behaves 
 
RURAL SIMPLICITY 45 
 
 very badly, I am sorry to say, and cannot even 
 keep his temper when Mr. Merle beats him at 
 tennis. I think a boy of eighteen ought to know 
 better, and I told him so. Then he got angry, 
 and said a perfectly outrageous thing a thing 
 for which there is not the slightest foundation, 
 which no amount of intimacy could have justi- 
 fied him in saying. I would not speak to him 
 all the rest of that day ; and I have now told 
 him that if he dares even to hint at such a thing 
 again, I will never speak to him any more at all. 
 I cannot think what has come over poor Tom 
 lately ; he used to be all right, but now he is 
 horrible. He seems to have completely changed 
 during the last fortnight. He said the other 
 day that Mr. Merle was an atheist. I told him 
 that, even if it were true, such a charge would 
 come very badly from him, because, as you 
 know, on fine mornings Tom is rather given to 
 shirking church ; and I pointed out to him that 
 Mr. Merle had been to church twice on each of 
 the Sundays that he has been here he sits just 
 opposite to our pew and that he must have 
 listened to papa's sermons, because he talked 
 to papa about them afterward. Tom had no 
 reason whatever to offer for saying so ; except 
 that he had been told that most authors were 
 atheists. I asked him how about St. Paul? 
 which of course he couldn't answer. 
 
 I do wish that Tom could manage to behave 
 
46 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 a little more as Charles Leader, Mrs. Leader's 
 eldest son, did. I saw a good deal of him some 
 time ago, and he asked me to marry him, you 
 know, shortly after Tom's arrival here. He 
 had simply misunderstood my manner to him ; 
 but when I told him his mistake, he never re- 
 proached me at all ; he has left the village and 
 never troubled me since. I wish Tom would 
 go away too. It is so indelicate of him to keep 
 on caring for me when I have stopped caring 
 for him. 
 
 You must not think that, when I said Mr. 
 Merle's face was roundish, that I meant it in a 
 disparaging way at all. He is very good-look- 
 ing; he has that appearance of nobility and 
 strength which I so much admire in a man. 
 He makes every one like him, except Tom. I 
 wish I could give you a better idea of his per- 
 sonal appearance, but there really is no one we 
 know who could be compared with him for a 
 moment. He likes music ; I sang two or three 
 songs for him in the drawing-room the last 
 time he dined here. He has a strange way of 
 looking at one sometimes, as if he were thirsty. 
 It is very interesting to talk to him; he has 
 just come from London, you see, and has heaps 
 of things to tell us. One hears so little in this 
 benighted village. We are going to have tea 
 at his rooms in the farm-house this afternoon, 
 which will be splendid. Tom says he shall not 
 
RURAL SIMPLICITY 47 
 
 go. I shall meet him again in the evening at 
 Mrs. Leader's. Please write soon to me, dearest 
 Clara, and tell me what to do. 
 
 Ever your most loving friend, 
 
 MILLICENT MARSHE. 
 
 P. S. His other names are Cecil Vanstoun. 
 He only puts the initials, you know, on the 
 title-page of his book. I forgot to say that I 
 think Hike him very much very much indeed. 
 I have begun to keep a diary ; you suggested it 
 some time ago. 
 
 2 A LETTER FROM CECIL VANSTOUN MERLE TO JOHN 
 DUNHAM, FELLOW OF SIDNEY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE, 
 SEPTEMBER 3D 
 
 DEAR JACK: No, I am not going to give 
 you a humorous and epigrammatic account of 
 the aborigines of Carleston, and the way they 
 treat the unusual apparition of a live Londoner. 
 That kind of thing has been done too often 
 and too badly. Besides, I may possibly be an 
 author, but I am certainly a man of business. 
 I couldn't send you, free, in a letter that which 
 might be printed and purchased. It would 
 offend your natural delicacy; at any rate it 
 ought to ; I might as well send you a couple of 
 guineas at once as amusement to that amount. 
 And lastly, what is the use of a friend if we may 
 not be very dull with him ? We keep our brill- 
 iant side for the comparative stranger, or sell 
 
48 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 it to the positive editor ; we use it to make an 
 impression or a livelihood; we don't waste it on 
 friends. 
 
 Well, as you know, I came down here from 
 London about a fortnight ago, sick of the sea- 
 son, overworked, eagerly desiring to be alone, 
 and dumb, and idle, and to drink new milk. 
 I am already somewhat refreshed. I have 
 drunk the new milk; I have stretched myself 
 on the grass in the sun, and smoked many pipes, 
 and become an object of derision to my landlady 
 by reason of my laziness ; I do not think she ever 
 had a lodger who did less and enjoyed it more ; 
 and if I have not been absolutely dumb, I can 
 at least guarantee that I have said nothing 
 which would be worth repetition. I like this 
 village; there's an indefinable air of goodness 
 and rural simplicity about it. My rooms are 
 not exactly artistic, of course, but everything 
 is spotlessly clean. Why is bad Berlin wool- 
 work on the sofa always accompanied by mina- 
 tory texts on the walls? It is a pity that you 
 restrict yourself to answering academical ques- 
 tions and I restrict myself to asking the other 
 kind. The rooms do very well ; I have imported 
 a good piano, which is rather luxurious of me, 
 I suppose. 
 
 But I have not been alone. When I decided , 
 rather in a hurry, to take these rooms and come 
 to Carleston for a couple of months or so, I 
 
RURAL SIMPLICITY 49 
 
 neglected to inquire who was the village par- 
 son. He is the Rev. Hubert Marshe, and was 
 at Trinity with my father. They were friends, 
 and consequently I have been up to the rectory 
 a good deal. He is a man of some culture, has 
 a touch of bibliomania, is gentle in everything 
 but his orthodoxy, and is really loved by every 
 one in the village. His wife died six years 
 ago, and an unmarried sister, Mary Marshe, 
 keeps house for him. She is rather a prim old 
 lady, and insists on all the small points, but she 
 has as sweet a disposition as her brother. A 
 nephew of his is stopping in the house, and is 
 supposed to be reading for the little-go with the 
 rector. He seems to occupy most of his time 
 with adoring the rector's only child Millicent, 
 a girl of seventeen. He himself is not a bad 
 fellow altogether, but rather a cub. Cambridge 
 will improve him. 
 
 I went to dine last night with a Mrs. Leader, 
 a widow who has a big house here, but who 
 formerly lived in Cornwall. I had met her at 
 the rectory. By the way, whenever the rector's 
 nephew, Tom, gets very angry with the rector's 
 daughter, Millicent which happens sometimes, 
 because he is as unreasonable as most adorers 
 he always talks to her about this Mrs. Leader's 
 elder son, who is now away from home. He 
 does this simply to annoy her a fact which I 
 had in my mind when I said he was rather a 
 4 
 
50 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 cub. However, that's none of my business. It 
 was rather a pleasant dinner. Mrs. Leader has 
 that shade of gentle Puritanism in her which 
 one still finds occasionally in the inhabitants of 
 English villages. It is the old Puritanism with 
 charity added. She is hard on herself and in- 
 dulgent to the rest of the world. There are 
 some good people still alive, my dear Jack, but 
 one does not as a rule meet them in London. 
 For real goodness and simplicity one must come 
 to the country. I had a long talk with Mrs. 
 Leader about her elder son Charles, whom she 
 worships, and, curiously enough, I had another 
 talk with Miss Marshe on the same subject later 
 in the evening. She implied, in that vague and 
 delicate way which comes to girls by instinct, 
 that Charles Leader had asked her to marry 
 him, and that she had refused him. She did 
 not say either of these things directly, but she 
 talked as if I knew them, until I actually did 
 know them, and altogether well, I am going 
 to stop these uninteresting details and come to 
 the main point. I had not meant to tell you, 
 but I find that I must. You may have guessed 
 it already you are rather clever at such things. 
 I take back all that I have ever said about 
 women. I had never met the perfect woman 
 before, but I have met her now. I love Milli- 
 cent Marshe, and I am going to ask her to 
 marry me. 
 
RURAL SIMPLICITY 51 
 
 At least, I am not sure whether I shall ask 
 her to marry me or not. I am not yet sure 
 whether she cares for her cousin Tom. I rather 
 gathered from a hint that her aunt let fall that 
 a marriage between these two was not unlikely. 
 If she really cares for Tom, of course I shall not 
 annoy her by my interference. You must not 
 misunderstand me when I say that she is per- 
 fect. I do not mean that her attainments her 
 intellectual attainments are better than those 
 of all other women. I have not entirely lost 
 my critical faculty. I can see, for instance, 
 that her playing is slipshod, and her singing 
 only shows the average drawing-room quality. 
 Very likely she was not well taught. What I 
 meant rather was that she was quite unspoiled. 
 I feel sure that she has never given one senti- 
 mental thought to a man in her life. There are 
 girls in town who have a hideous practice of 
 writing morbid confidences to each other about 
 men they have met. She would never do that. 
 She is quite incapable, too, of fickleness. She 
 will love once and love always. But at present 
 she has never thought of love and marriage. 
 She is the perfect, virginal type fresh and un- 
 tainted as a fragrant wild- flower in one of the 
 hedge-rows here ; and yet a strange, unconscious, 
 delicate instinct keeps her from all mistakes 
 she would never let a man believe that she 
 cared for him if she did not. This Charles 
 
52 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 Leader, who, I have told you, asked her to 
 marry him, must have been an idiot to have 
 thought that he had a chance. She would never 
 lead a man on unless she meant to marry him. 
 She has lived all her days in this country vil- 
 lage, far away from the vulgar flirtations and 
 sickly sentimentalities of London. She is a 
 white soul, framed in a lovely body. I could 
 write pages about her beauty, Jack, but I fear 
 you would only laugh at me. She has dark 
 hair, and brown, faithful eyes, and a young 
 rosebud of a mouth that what am I doing? I 
 who have hated sentimentality all my days ! 
 Yes, you may laugh at me as much as you like. 
 I don't mind. I suppose it will all be over 
 soon, for I am afraid that it is for Tom, not for 
 me, that she cares. I have studied character 
 all my life, and I do not think I can be mis- 
 taken. 
 
 Briefly, my plan is this. I shall observe as 
 closely as* possible during the next few days. 
 If she seems to favor Tom, I shall go away and 
 trouble her no more. If she seems to favor me, 
 I shall propose to her. I feel absolutely sure 
 that she would never mislead either Tom or 
 myself. You will tell me that I am wanting 
 in pluck, but I do not think so. It would be 
 foolhardiness to propose to her if she obviously 
 cared for Tom ; and it would also be, probably, 
 very offensive to her. I do not allow myself to 
 
RURAL SIMPLICITY 53 
 
 hope much, and yet at times hopes will force 
 their way in, and I picture happiness. 
 
 That is my plan of campaign. Cambridge 
 is quite desolate just now, I suppose. Why do 
 you stop? I had a good deal to tell you about 
 a book that I am planning, but I've taken up 
 all my space with my account of Millicent 
 Marshe. You may be as amused as you please, 
 but it's terribly serious with me, and I have no 
 notion how it will all end. 
 Ever yours, 
 
 CECIL VANSTOUN MERLE. 
 
 3 EXTRACTS FROM THE DIARY OF MILLICENT 
 MARSHE 
 
 September 3d. Oh! oh! oh! I wish I could 
 understand myself. I wish I knew what I was 
 doing. I wrote a long letter to Clara about Mr. 
 Merle this morning. I went to his rooms with 
 the others this afternoon. I met him at dinner 
 this evening at Mrs. Leader's. I am immensely 
 interested in him, but I am not quite sure that 
 I love him ; what is much worse is that I am 
 by no means sure that he loves me. Tom 
 walked back with me from the Leaders' to the 
 vicarage, and I thought that he did not seem to 
 care for me as much as he once did. Of course, 
 that was just what I wanted, for I can never 
 marry Tom ; but it pained me to see that he 
 could be so fickle and forget so easily. So I 
 
54 STORTES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 made a sort of appeal to his better nature, to see 
 if he really had forgotten ; and now I am afraid 
 that he will think I was encouraging him. I 
 do not believe Charles Leader has ever forgotten 
 me. I only wish that he would, except that it 
 would rather lessen my high opinion of him. 
 I do so hate fickleness. I like simplicity and 
 constancy. 
 
 Mr. Merle is very brilliant. He has had a 
 piano sent down here from London, and I sang 
 " Love's Rapturous Sorrow " to him this after- 
 noon at his rooms; I thought that he might 
 have thanked me rather more warmly. When 
 I had finished, Aunt Mary asked him if he 
 played, and he said that he did, a little. I was 
 rather surprised at this, because it had never 
 occurred to me that any men, except profes- 
 sionals, played the piano at all. He consented 
 to play at once and asked me what I should like. 
 I suggested the "Pathetique Sonata," because I 
 can never make the rondo go right, and I wanted 
 to see if he could. "You're right," he said, as 
 he sat down at the piano. "The school-girls 
 have got at that terribly, but they will never 
 make me stop liking it. Didn't you find that 
 in the days when you were at school? " He did 
 not wait for me to reply, but began at once. He 
 played it all through without notes magnifi- 
 cently. He would not play any more, and he 
 would not sing, although he confessed that he 
 
RURAL SIMPLICITY 55 
 
 sang "a little." I wish that I had known all 
 this before I sang those drawing-room songs to 
 him. He must have hated them, and probably 
 he hates me in consequence. I think that if he 
 had possessed perfect taste he would not have 
 played quite so well he would have seen that 
 it was a sort of reproach to me. Besides, I 
 thought that he had got the piano simply for 
 my pleasure, and now it appears that he got it 
 entirely for his own. Still I do not think that 
 he meant to be selfish. Men as a rule have 
 very little tact. Yet, I don't know I fancy 
 that I should not have liked him so well if he 
 had been less brilliant. I cannot help thinking 
 about the power he holds. His book is read 
 everywhere and quoted everywhere. It is ad- 
 mired by the very best critics, and yet I am 
 almost sure that he was pleased when I told him 
 that I loved it. I like to feel that he can do 
 things which are beyond other men, but I do 
 wish he would be a little how shall I write it? 
 a little more decided. He leaves me uncer- 
 tain. 
 
 Charles Leader never did that. Whenever I 
 go to Mrs. Leader's I always find a certain train 
 of thoughts tender and sorrowful start up in 
 my brain about Charlie, as I called him then. 
 Charlie was always quite decided. But so 
 mistaken ! Tom never left me in doubt, either. 
 He's mistaken, too. 
 
56 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 September 4th. I have just had a long let- 
 ter from my dear Clara, answering the letter 
 which I sent the day before yesterday. I have 
 no notion how she arrived at the conclusion, but 
 this is it : 
 
 " Unconsciously perhaps, you are very much 
 in love with Cecil Vanstoun Merle." 
 
 What magic there is in those words! I 
 think I have read them over a hundred times, 
 and it makes me tremble to write them down. 
 I cannot imagine how she guessed it. She 
 must have great insight in these things, or she 
 would never have discovered my feelings from 
 my letter. I had hardly guessed them myself. 
 Well, this is my own diary, and no one but my- 
 self will ever read it ; so I will write down my 
 confession. I love Cecil Vanstoun Merle. I 
 love him more than any one or anything in the 
 whole world. I could never, never, never love 
 any one else. And he has not yet shown me 
 plainly that he loves me. Consequently, I have 
 no right to love him. 
 
 I won't love him. 
 
 I can't help loving him. 
 
 I should like just to sit down and cry forever 
 and ever. I am very unhappy. And yet I am 
 not sure that I shall not in the end be very 
 happy indeed, if I only follow the plan which 
 dear Clara has made out for me the plan of 
 campaign, she calls it. She is so wise, and 
 
RURAL SIMPLICITY 57 
 
 she has had experience. This is what she 
 says: 
 
 " You know, my dear Millicent, that I myself 
 have loved and lost. I was then in the first 
 bloom of my girlhood, young, guileless, tender- 
 hearted, beautiful, some said. I never attempt- 
 ed to conceal my passion, and that ivas why I 
 lost him. Men only care to win what is difficult 
 to win. Especially is this the case with men of 
 the bold and intensely masculine physique that 
 you describe in Cecil Merle. An obstacle is an 
 allurement to such men. I am convinced that 
 if you show Cecil Merle that you care for him, 
 he will at once lose any love that he may have 
 for you. If, on the other hand, you show a 
 marked preference for your cousin, and if Cecil 
 cares in the least degree for you now, he will 
 care a thousandfold more then, and you may 
 count on a proposal from him before he leaves 
 Carleston. Besides, this is the only truly 
 maidenly course to pursue; my own conduct 
 was unwise. I was blinded by love, and I have 
 paid the debt in a life-long sorrow." 
 
 I almost think that she is right. There may, 
 perhaps, be a little difficulty with Tom. A very 
 little encouragement always encourages Tom so 
 very much. He may not see the true motives 
 for my conduct ; and even if he saw them he 
 might be selfish. Of course, if he really loved 
 me, it would be a pleasure to him to add to my 
 
58 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 happiness ; and he would be adding to my hap- 
 piness if he helped me to win Mr. Merle I mean 
 if he helped to give Mr. Merle an opportunity 
 of winning me. Perhaps that is the way that 
 I ought to look at it. Besides, as Clara points 
 out, if Tom presumes too far, I can always tell 
 him that he is insulting me. Yes, I must for a 
 few days try Clara's plan, and pretend to be 
 fond of Tom. I can always alter the plan if I 
 find that it does not succeed. I must see what 
 effect it has on Mr. Merle. 
 
 Only, because I love him so much, I shall 
 always call him Cecil in future in these secret 
 pages of my diary. I know that if I let him 
 see that I loved him he would hate me. And 
 if he hated me, I should die. Clara is quite 
 right about his boldness, and I feel sure that 
 with him an obstacle would prove an allure- 
 ment. If it makes him declare his ah, I can't 
 write it! He is coming to dinner to-morrow 
 night, and I will write again then. 
 
 September 5th. I have just come up from 
 the drawing-room. I talked to Tom most of 
 dinner-time, and I played the accompaniments 
 to Tom's songs. I told him that I should have 
 " The Devout Lover " ringing in my head all 
 night. Afterward I talked to Cecil chiefly 
 about Tom's prospects at Cambridge. I watched 
 most anxiously to see what effect this had on 
 Cecil. I could not discover that it had any 
 
RURAL SIMPLICITY 59 
 
 effect at all ; he does not let one see very easily 
 what his feelings are. He ought to, I think. 
 Tom, however, was very much elated ; I thought 
 he would never let go of my hand when he said 
 good-night. This is unfortunate, but I must go 
 on with the plan a little longer, until I see 
 things more clearly. 
 
 When one sees the two men together, one 
 cannot help noticing Cecil's distinct superiority. 
 He is really god-like, far beyond all other men. 
 Charles Leader appealed to me to some extent ; 
 my friendship for him was invested with a cer- 
 tain sentiment. I was a simple country girl, 
 and I was misled at the time by my feelings. 
 When Tom came, he appealed to me far more, 
 but although I have always tried to be kind to 
 him, I can see now that I never loved him. 
 Cecil, on the other hand, does not exactly appeal 
 to me ; he masters me, absorbs me. To see him 
 is joy unspeakable ; to think of him is the rapt- 
 ure that almost tortures. How utterly I love 
 him! 
 
 Something within me seems to tell me that 
 Clara was right. Cecil is so brilliant, so bold, 
 so intensely masculine, that the thought of a 
 rival would add to the ardor of his love ; I feel 
 that I know his nature perfectly ; he is made to 
 conquer, and he would care nothing for a victory 
 which involved no fighting. Yes, for one day 
 more I will carry on the plan, and then I will 
 
60 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 let him say what he will be dying to say. I 
 hope it will be in the conservatory. It seems so 
 nice to think of it happening in a dim light, 
 among the flowers, and ferns, and things. 
 
 September 7th. It does cut me to the heart to 
 be so cruel to Cecil, and it hurts me ever so much 
 more to be so kind to Tom. But this at any rate 
 will be the last day of it. I have given the plan 
 every chance now, and I do not mean to conceal 
 my real feelings so completely for the future. 
 
 Mr. Merle came for tennis this afternoon. I 
 made papa take him off to see our collection of 
 early prayer-books. When he came back I had 
 managed to get rid of Aunt Mary, and was 
 seated in the summer-house alone with Tom. I 
 was distinctly cold in my manner to Cecil, and 
 tried to make him feel de trop. I thought he 
 would be very furious ; but he was not. He was 
 very polite, and seemed to be very careful what 
 he was saying. He left early. I must get 
 ready for dinner, and have no time to write any 
 more now, but I shall add a word or two perhaps 
 when I come up to bed. 
 
 10.80. It is all over! Let me set down as 
 calmly as my despair will allow me how every- 
 thing happened. 
 
 After dinner Tom suggested that I should go 
 out with him into the garden, as it was cool 
 and pleasant there. I thought this would be 
 a good opportunity to begin to let him down 
 
RURAL SIMPLICITY 61 
 
 easily; so I went with him. But I could not 
 let him down, because he hardly spoke; he 
 seemed strange in his manner, I thought. We 
 wandered into the conservatory, where it was 
 almost dark ; and then quite suddenly he put 
 his arm round my waist, and kissed me. I 
 die with shame ! How can men be such brutes 
 such gross, coarse, unmannerly brutes! I 
 told him that I hated him ; he wanted to excuse 
 himself, but I would not listen, and hurried 
 back into the drawing-room. 
 
 Papa was standing on the hearth-rug with an 
 open letter in his hand, which he had been read- 
 ing to Aunt Mary. She looked at me rather 
 curiously. The letter was from Cecil no, Mr. 
 Merle; for I must call him Cecil no longer 
 and apologized for not coming to sav good-by. 
 He has been suddenly called away, and is going 
 abroad, probably for two years. 
 
 Oh, my heart is broken, and I would that my 
 life might end to-night ! 
 
 4 FROM THE " DAILY TELEGRAPH " OF SEPT. 7ra 
 (A YEAR LATER) 
 
 LEADER MARSHE. On the 4th inst., at St. 
 Margaret's, Carleston, by the Rev. Patrick 
 Downs, Charles, eldest son of the late Charles 
 Leader, of Tredennick, Cornwall, to Millicent, 
 only daughter of the late Rev. Hubert Marshe, 
 formerly rector of Carleston. 
 
IV 
 
 CONGEALED ART 
 (EXTRACT FROM THE DIARY OF EDWARD TINNERSLEY) 
 
 March 21st. Dined to-night with the Mer- 
 ricks. There were a lot of people there. The 
 Birnleys looked as profuse as ever. Old Dr. 
 Farnham told the story of the blind zebra once 
 more. Eric Thorn bored me. And I forgave 
 them all, because I was too pleased with myself 
 to bear enmity to anybody in a word, I do be- 
 lieve that I am at last making some progress 
 with Maud. I blundered before, because I did 
 not quite understand her. And now I believe 
 that I know her better than she knows herself ; 
 and consequently I can play my cards I can 
 create the right impression. 
 
 Maud Merrick, my tall, noble beauty, you 
 would be very angry if you could read this. 
 You are affectionate, but you use always a 
 decent reserve. You would not care to know 
 that anybody had seen through the veil, and 
 knew all your little likes and dislikes, all your 
 personal qualities, and even the one or two in- 
 
CONCEALED ART 63 
 
 firmities of your character. I know them all, 
 my dear Maud, and I do not mind telling you 
 in the pages of my diary that you want too 
 much. Your ideal man, the man you are look- 
 ing for, the man you mean to marry, does not 
 exist, and never did exist except in books. You 
 want, in the man of your choice, intellect, cour- 
 age, strength, physique, chivalry, and purity. 
 You do not care for either birth or wealth. We 
 none of us care for birth really, and we all pre- 
 tend to ; we all care very much for wealth, and 
 all pretend not to. (Mem. Work this into 
 epigrammatic form, and use it.) But you are 
 quite genuine about it ; you really do not care 
 for either. And yet, on the whole, you ask too 
 much. Take myself, for instance. I can give 
 you intellect, but I must draw my pen through 
 the remainder of your list of requirements. 
 What does it matter? Having intellect, I can 
 make you believe that I have all, or nearly all, 
 the rest. Maud Merrick, you are clever in your 
 way, but I am cleverer, and I gain some advan- 
 tage from having absolutely no scruples. You 
 may throw down your cards. The game is 
 won, and I have won it. 
 
 Physique? Well, I must let that pass. I 
 have not the beefy good looks of Eric Thorn. 
 No amount of intellect can make a five-foot-six 
 man, bent with the sedentary profession of au- 
 thorship, into a straight young giant like Thorn. 
 
64 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 There he has the advantage of me, and he may 
 make the most of it. I am not fool enough to 
 sneer at his good points to her. I gaze admir- 
 ingly at him, playing tennis at a little distance, 
 and say to her, " What a splendid fellow Eric 
 is! It is a positive pleasure to look at him. 
 
 Ah ! I'd give all I have in the world to " 
 
 and then I stop short. I do not sigh, because 
 that would be unmanly, and would seem to 
 make too much of it. I look rather sad, and 
 then cheer up suddenly, as if with a slight 
 effort, and talk brightly to her about something 
 impersonal. A girl I knew once told me that 
 she rather liked me when I looked sad, but that 
 when I laughed, or when I was angry, my face 
 was positively hideous. I think she was right. 
 My dear Maud, I did all this, and I was 
 charmed to find that the little trick made every 
 point that I intended. You noted my generos- 
 ity to a rival, and associated it in your mind 
 with chivalry; you noted my humility; you 
 noted that I lingered on so personal a subject 
 as my own appearance only for the second when 
 my enthusiastic admiration of Eric reminded 
 me of it, and that I turned back at once to the 
 decent reserve which is a sign of strength, and 
 which you yourself maintain so well ; you noted 
 my sadness and sympathized. That was why 
 you said a pretty thing to me about my book, 
 "AFroward Woman," soon afterward. You 
 
CONCEALED AKT C5 
 
 wish to console me ; if you console me now, you 
 will love me soon. 
 
 Courage? I have not got a particle of it. 
 Men of delicate taste, of the subtle, critical 
 faculty, of poetical imagination, are often 
 cowards. I am a coward, and I make you be- 
 lieve, Maud, that I am brave. How? Chiefly 
 by telling you that I am a coward. It is just a 
 little amusing that it should be so, but it is. 
 
 " I hate going over Putney Bridge at night. 
 I am always afraid that some poor wretch will 
 jump into the water, and that I shall not dare 
 to jump off the bridge after him." 
 
 You replied just as I knew I should make 
 you reply. " You would do it, though, because 
 you think you wouldn't. No coward ever dares 
 to confess cowardice." 
 
 You were a little pleased at your own insight 
 into human nature, and you believed what you 
 said. You are one of those women who like to 
 go a little deep ; but I always know precisely 
 how deep you will go, and I go a little deeper. 
 
 Chivalry and purity? Ah, Maud, I need say 
 nothing ; you will believe the best, because you 
 have no reason to think otherwise. You do not 
 know the story of that girl I knew once, who 
 said she rather liked me when I looked sad. I 
 will take care you never know it. Though I 
 am writing in cipher and in a diary which is 
 always kept under lock and key, I do not care 
 5 
 
66 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 to put down that story. I have no scruples ; I 
 do things ; but I sometimes hate myself for a 
 little while when I think about them afterward. 
 
 I got on very well with Maud to-night. Her 
 father and Lady Merrick both like me, I think. 
 The dinner itself was capital, and I was in a 
 good talking mood. But I am getting into the 
 habit of bringing out my impromptus a little 
 too quickly. A slight pause makes them look 
 more natural; if the pause is too long they seem 
 labored and not really impromptu. It is not an 
 easy thing to get quite right; I must practise 
 it. When one dines with the Merricks, I find 
 that one has to be kind to the Birnleys. That 
 is a little hard on me, because I hate the nou- 
 veau riche, and also because I have some par- 
 ticularly smart things ready to say about the 
 Birnleys. However, Maud will have it so. 
 She says that they are awfully good-hearted 
 people, and not really vulgar, but only a little 
 ignorant, and that they are sensitive and quick 
 to see when a jest is aimed at them. (Mem. 
 Work off the smart things in a sketch of the 
 nouveau riche. Found it on the Birnleys and 
 describe their country-house. Tell the story of 
 how Birnley shot the keeper.) Maud sang one 
 song to-night some Italian thing, I don't know 
 the name. She has a fine contralto. 
 
 I walked back with Thorn, and we talked 
 about old college days together. That man is 
 
CONCEALED ART 67 
 
 a damnable nuisance. In speaking of college 
 days to Maud, I must either tell the plain truth 
 or run the risk that she will find me out from 
 Thorn. And I can't use any of my old good 
 things in talking to her, because she might 
 quote them to Thorn, and he has heard them all 
 before. How the brute would jeer at me for 
 the repetition ! 
 
 My diary, I think I should go mad without 
 you. It rests me to write in your pages with- 
 out effort. I need not mind being dull here. 
 In my talk and my books I have to maintain a 
 reputation. Here I can be dull and I can tell 
 the truth. I feel to-night like a tired actor, 
 glad to get into his dressing-room and be rid of 
 his wig and make-up. (Mem. Might elaborate 
 that sentence a little, and then use it.) I will 
 not write any more now. I am going to bed. 
 I ought to do some work first, but I cannot. 
 My brain is full of madness and Maud. If I 
 am to get any sleep, I must go back to the old 
 remedy. But I will never use it again after 
 to-night. 
 
 March 30th. I have just finished my sketch 
 of the Birnleys, and I really do not think I ever 
 did anything better in my life. I stopped at 
 their place for a month last year, and I flatter 
 myself that I have got the people, the house, 
 and the furniture, with the accuracy of a photo- 
 graph. I've just touched it up a little in places, 
 
68 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 but that is all. I've made Mrs. Birnley a shade 
 more vulgar, perhaps, than she really is. I 
 shall call it " The Barnsley Menagerie." I shall 
 not put my initials to it, because that would 
 ruin me with Maud, and would also stop the 
 Birnleys from inviting me this year. I shall 
 send it to The Drop Scene because none of them 
 know that I write for that paper. Eric Thorn 
 had a story in it last week sporting and stupid, 
 like its author. That man would make a very 
 good navvy. What ails him that he should be 
 called to the bar and dabble in literature? 
 
 April 3d. Eric Thorn has just been here. 
 He has proposed to Maud Merrick, and has been 
 refused. I am glad. 
 
 "We're old friends," he said to me, "and I 
 thought I would tell you all about it. No one 
 can read your book, ' A Froward Woman, ' and 
 doubt your sympathy, old man." 
 
 I assured him that I was sorry for him, deeply 
 sorry. 
 
 " Yes, Ted , " he replied, " I know it. I thought 
 once that I had a chance. She seemed to like 
 me once, and then she found out that I knew 
 the author of 'A Froward Woman, ' and asked 
 me or made Lady Merrick ask me to bring 
 you there. Well, the natural consequences 
 have followed . I can't talk as you can. You're 
 always sparkling and amusing. And you're a 
 better fellow." 
 
CONCEALED ART 09 
 
 I said something deprecatory here, but ho 
 went on. 
 
 " No, Ted, I am quite right. Do you know 
 what she said to me before she ever met you? 
 She said that she thought the author of ' A Fro- 
 ward Woman' must have a noble nature. I 
 reminded her of that the other day, and asked 
 her if she thought she was right. 'I know I 
 was right,' she replied. It was the nearest 
 thing to a confidence I ever had from her. You 
 always depreciate yourself when you are talk- 
 ing, but you sometimes let a little thing drop by 
 accident, or do not quite succeed in hiding it. 
 I've noticed those little things, and they are 
 all evidence that Maud was right. You may 
 sneer at yourself as much as you please, but you 
 don't deceive me. You have a noble nature, 
 nobler than mine. Besides, you are my intel- 
 lectual superior. Look at your fame in the 
 world. I have written a lot of things, and I've 
 only got one story printed. It was in The Drop 
 Scene. Did you see the note about it in The 
 London Eevieiv this week cutting it all to 
 bits? " 
 
 I said that I had not seen the note. I wrote 
 it, by the way. I also asked him what his 
 point was in accusing me of being noble and 
 intellectual. 
 
 "Because your absurd humility has made 
 you blind. Let me ask you one question 
 
70 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 we are old friends. Do you like Maud Mer- 
 rick? " 
 
 " I love her with all my soul," I said solemnly, 
 seeing what was coming. ' 
 
 " And you never told her, because you knew 
 that I loved her too, and because you wanted to 
 give me the first chance." 
 
 I assumed an unnatural manner, and inten- 
 tionally spoke a little more quickly than usual. 
 " No, no not at all you're quite mistaken. I 
 only waited to be quite sure that she loved me, 
 and I never thought you would speak so soon. 
 On my word, I would have done you a bad turn 
 with her, if I could." What a curious thing 
 human nature is ! Every word of this was true, 
 and yet he didn't believe it. I had an impres- 
 sion that he wouldn't believe it. 
 
 "My dear fellow," said Thorn, "why try to 
 hide your generosity by talking such absolute 
 nonsense? She herself told me that you were 
 always singing my praises to her." 
 
 My dear simpleton, didn't you know that it 
 is quite possible to ruin a man's chances with 
 a woman by praising him very carefully? I 
 praised you, my dear Thorn, with the utmost 
 discretion. He continued : 
 
 " In this point I am going to try not to be less 
 generous than you. I feel sure that Maud Mer- 
 rick loves you. I suspected it even before I 
 spoke to her, and I only spoke because I could 
 
CONCEALED ART 71 
 
 not bear the suspense any longer. It may 
 seem strange that I a rejected lover should 
 come to tell you this, but I felt that I owed it 
 to you ; besides, I want her to be happy. You 
 are the only man in the world who can make 
 her happy." 
 
 I thanked him. " And you? " I asked. 
 
 " I'm going away, Ted, going to travel and 
 forget it. I start on the 8th. I will see you 
 again before I go." 
 
 He went soon after this. He looks terribly 
 knocked over. All this is going splendidly. 
 Now I have three things before me a letter to 
 write to Sir Charles Merrick, two-thirds of a 
 bottle of very excellent brandy, and the proofs 
 of "The Barnsley Menagerie" to correct. I 
 will take them in that order. 
 
 April 5th. Maud, my beautiful Maud, has 
 promised to be my wife. 
 
 April 6th. A most terrible thing has hap- 
 pened. The Drop Scene has been sent me here 
 with my article " The Barnsley Menagerie " in 
 it, signed with my initials. 
 
 How on earth did they get there? I must 
 have added them from force of habit when I 
 corrected the proof. I remember that it was 
 late on the night of the 3d that I corrected it. 
 It was the night I wrote to her father, and then 
 I ah, yes, I remember now. 
 
 As far as I can see, there is nothing to do but 
 
72 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 to calculate what will happen, and then see how 
 it can be stopped. In the first place, the Birn- 
 leys will read the article ; they will certainly see 
 that it is meant for them, and that it must have 
 been written by some one who stayed at their 
 place in the country ; they know that I write 
 for the press and they will see my initials. I 
 fancy that they will all go mad. They will 
 call me hard names and will cut me dead for- 
 ever and ever. Well, I care nothing about the 
 Birnleys. They may go to the devil. 
 
 But Maud my beautiful, noble Maud what 
 will she think? Now I come to think of it, she 
 will have a little piece of evidence that the 
 Birnleys will not have, and which will make 
 her doubly sure that I am the author of that 
 article. It commences with a little epigram of 
 mine on birth and wealth. Now, on the day 
 after I wrote the article, I called at their house 
 with Eric Thorn. In the course of conversa- 
 tion I dropped that very epigram. She heard 
 it and noticed it. I had meant to strike it out 
 when I got my article in proof, but I suppose I 
 forgot it. I cannot have been quite m} T self that 
 night. She will simply hate me and despise me. 
 I can imagine her eyes flashing, and the tender 
 sympathy she will show with her good-hearted 
 Birnleys. It would be pretty to watch, if one 
 could be a little more outside it. However, I do 
 not fancy it is quite checkmate. I will have a 
 
CONCEALED ART 73 
 
 quiet pipe, think out a probable story to account 
 for everything, and go to bed. I am sure my 
 doctor would recommend me a little chloral 
 to-night, considering the excited state of my 
 nerves. What a letter I shall get to-morrow 
 morning ! 
 
 April 7th (morning). Here is the letter. I 
 see by the date that it was written yesterday : 
 
 "Sm: I read this morning your article in 
 The Drop Scene, entitled 'The Barnsley Men- 
 agerie.' Kindly consider my engagement to 
 you at an end. If you wish for a more definite 
 reason, I may say that the article must have 
 been written by an insufferable, vulgar, cruel 
 cad. I know it is yours by the initials, by your 
 acquaintance with the Birnleys, and by the fact 
 that you have used in it an epigram which I 
 heard from your own lips. On the whole, I am 
 thankful that you have been so stupid as to 
 allow your real character to be seen. 
 
 " I saw Mr. and Mrs. Birnley this afternoon. 
 She sat fierce and dry-eyed, reading your spite- 
 ful article again and again. She hardly spoke 
 to me. He tried to take it more easily. 'It's 
 partly my own fault,' he said, 'but it is rather 
 hard -that we should be treated like this, Maud, 
 by a man who was our guest. We did our best 
 to entertain him when he was here. But still 
 it's partly true that article. I'm a very good 
 
74 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 manufacturer, but I only made a fool of myself 
 when I tried to play the country gentleman. 
 And I'm clumsy with a gun that's true.' He 
 paused a second, and then looked at his wife. 
 'My God! Maud,' he flashed out suddenly, 'if 
 only I could have the thrashing of the hound 
 who wrote that ! ' I wish he had. He is an old 
 man, but vigorous. I think he could thrash you 
 well. How could you be so cruel to people who 
 had tried to be kind to you? 
 
 " I have no patience to write more. You will 
 oblige me by not answering this letter, cr call- 
 ing at our house, or making any attempt what- 
 ever to see me. 
 
 "MAUD MERRICK. 
 
 "P. S.O Ted, how could you do it? I did 
 really love you once, and now I hate you." 
 
 Now, that is not altogether a nice letter to re- 
 ceive. " An insufferable, vulgar, cruel cad " I 
 suppose that is very much what I am, judged 
 by ordinary standards, but I have always had 
 wits enough to hide it so far. It's not my fault. 
 I was born so, and no one could expect me to 
 do anything else but hide the real self. I do 
 not really care, as long as I can keep Maud. I 
 must have Maud. I thought of an explanation 
 ]ast night, but it is not absolutely satisfactory. 
 I will go and get something particularly pleas- 
 ant and inspiring in the shape of lunch. I shall 
 
CONCEALED ART 75 
 
 bo able to think better after a half-bottle of 
 champagne. 
 
 (Evening.) Eric Thorn has just been here. 
 Really, he is a most useful person. When he 
 came in, he was as white as death, and there 
 was a queer sort of huskiness in his voice. 
 
 " Ted, old man," he said, " I've just been tell- 
 ing lies, any amount of lies." 
 
 "All this I steadfastly believe," I replied. 
 He went on talking : 
 
 " I called at the Merricks' to-night to say good- 
 by. Sir Charles came into the room with that 
 number of The Drop Scene in his hand, open 
 at your article: ' Thorn, old fellow, I want you 
 just to read that. ' There was no one else in the 
 room. I sat down and read it. Of course, I 
 saw that it was yours, and that the Merricks 
 would in all probability have nothing more to 
 do with you. Ted, how could you write such a 
 thing about people who were so kind to you? " 
 
 This made me a little angry. "Possibly," I 
 said, " I could give a sufficient explanation to 
 any one who had a right to ask for it." 
 
 " Well, I didn't see how it could be quite ex- 
 plained away. Yet all the time I was reading 
 it, I thought I could see how it happened. You 
 caricatured the Birnleys, but half unconsciously. 
 Your tremendous power of satire carried you 
 away, and made you say things that you didn't 
 really mean. I know that a man who behaved 
 
76 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 with the generosity that you showed to me about 
 Maud could not possibly do a shabby thing in- 
 tentionally. I know how hard it is to criticise 
 one's own work, and I felt sure that you had 
 failed to see how certain it was that the Birnleys 
 would be offended. If you had meant it as an 
 intentional insult, you would not have been fool 
 enough to put your initials to it, and to com- 
 mence it with an epigram which both Maud and 
 myself had heard from your lips. It was the 
 only slip I ever knew you make, and I felt 
 sure that you would never do that kind of thing 
 again, as soon as you saw the distress that it 
 caused. Well, I knew Maud would give you 
 up, and break your heart over it and her own 
 as well. So I made up my mind on the spur of 
 the moment, and took the liberty of claiming 
 the authorship of the work as my own. Our 
 initials are the same, you know, Ted." 
 
 " You did that ? " I said. I own that he had 
 surprised me. "How did you make the old 
 man believe it? " 
 
 " I pointed out that the initials were mine, 
 that you never wrote for Ilie Drop Scene, and 
 that I had a story in it a short time before. I 
 told him that I borrowed the epigram at the 
 commencement of the article from you, that I 
 had stopped with the Birnleys, and that I didn't 
 care for them. I said that I couldn't see much 
 harm in the article, and that The Drop Scene 
 
CONCEALED ART 77 
 
 liked a thing to have a few personalities in 
 it." 
 
 "How did he take it?" 
 
 " He was very sad about it. They've known 
 me for a long time, you see. 'I can't think 
 how you came to write it, Thorn,' he said. 
 'You ought not to have done it. You have 
 caused my daughter and all of us to do a friend 
 of yours a great injustice ; and you have given 
 great pain to people whose hospitality you en- 
 joyed. I hate saying it, but I must you can- 
 not come here any more. It is well that you 
 are leaving the country. Take a word of ad- 
 vice before you go, from an old man who was 
 once glad to have you for his friend if you 
 can't be smart without being shabby, let it alone 
 let it alone, my boy ! ' Then he touched the 
 bell, a,nd I retired ignominiously. " 
 
 He rose to go, paused a moment, and said : 
 " That's the story I told, and you must back it 
 up. Good-by, old man. I will find a new 
 character for myself abroad somewhere." 
 
 He tried to hide it, but I could see that he 
 thought he had acted generously, and naturally 
 that maddened me. I could not allow him to 
 think that he had put me under any obligation. 
 I like to take the conceit out of young men of the 
 type of Eric Thorn. The self-sacrificing saint 
 is too provoking for anything. 
 
 "I am very sorry, Thorn," I said, "that you 
 
78 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 have destroyed your own character, stolen my 
 property, and told some most abominable lies, 
 because it was all unnecessary. I know you did 
 it for my sake, but you would have served me 
 better if you had trusted me more. How could 
 you think I should be such a blackguard as to 
 caricature a host of mine in the public press? " 
 
 "You didn't write it, then ?" he stammered 
 out. 
 
 " Yes, I wrote it wrote it for practice to im- 
 prove me in delineation of character but not 
 for publication. It was published without my 
 consent and without my knowledge. Do you 
 know the editor of The Drop Scene ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 I was delighted to learn this. " I am very 
 sorry to hear it," I said, "because, if you had 
 known him, you would have understood my 
 explanation better. He is the most unscrupulous 
 man engaged on the press, and the finest critic. 
 I took him my sketch of the Birnleys to look at 
 and criticise as a literary performance. He 
 liked it and wanted to print it. I told him 
 that I would not have it printed. He offered 
 me a very high price ; I replied that the sketch 
 was from real life, and that there was not 
 enough money in London to buy it; that I 
 would sooner have my right hand cut off than 
 make fun at the expense of a friend and host of 
 mine. I took the manuscript away with me 
 
CONCEALED ART 79 
 
 there and then. He must have expected this, 
 for he had had a copy made of it. It was pub- 
 lished without my consent. I should certainly 
 have prosecuted." 
 
 "And now?" 
 
 "Well, now I must leave it." 
 
 " It would be possible to explain to the Mer- 
 ricks my innocent deception, and for you to 
 clear yourself by telling them what you have 
 told me. Would not that be best? " 
 
 This was a little difficult; for if there had 
 been a single word of truth in my story of the 
 unscrupulous editor, it would have been much 
 the best. 
 
 "I think not," I said; "I think not. You 
 have gone too far. Of course, I know that your 
 motive for the story you told Sir Charles Mer- 
 rick was innocent enough. But I might find it 
 difficult to persuade him of this. As a literary 
 performance, my article has attracted consider- 
 able attention ! From that point of view it is 
 undoubtedly good. I am afraid that Sir Charles 
 will think that you wanted the literary credit 
 of it, and then backed out to avoid the moral 
 infamy. I do not think your position would in 
 any way be improved." 
 
 He looked at me curiously for a second or two. 
 "Good-by, then," he said. "I'm sorry I was 
 so stupid and mistaken." He went out in a 
 dejected, hopeless way. I fancy he has a lurk- 
 
80 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 ing suspicion. Let it lurk! He's going away 
 and I shall not be bothered with him any more. 
 So the Merricks believe now that Eric Thorn 
 wrote that article, do they? I think then that 
 I will answer Maud's letter in spite of her in- 
 junctions. I should imagine that my beautiful 
 Maud wishes now that she had never written it. 
 Never mind I can be magnanimous, Maud, 
 and very high-souled. This is what I shall 
 write to you, Maud : 
 
 " DEAR Miss MERRICK : I am sorry that you 
 could ever have imagined that I wrote 'The 
 Barnsley Menagerie.' Had I done so, you 
 would have been quite just in your criticism 
 of me. 
 
 " I can only prove to you that I did not write 
 it by telling you who the real author is, and this 
 I cannot do. He confessed the authorship to 
 me in confidence. Perhaps he may afterward 
 decide to let his name be known. But, if he 
 does not, I cannot tell you I cannot break my 
 word to him. 
 
 " ' I co.uld not love thee half so much, 
 Loved I not honor more. ' 
 
 " Forgive me for having disobeyed your com- 
 mand by writing this letter. I could not rest 
 until I had made an appeal to you to believe my 
 word for the present, and to trust to time to 
 
CONCEALED ART 81 
 
 prove the truth of it. Believe me, yours in all 
 sincerity, EDWARD TINNERSLEY." 
 
 And this is what I shall write to the editor of 
 The Drop Scene : 
 
 "DEAR TOM: No end of a row about 'The 
 Menagerie.' Keep my name dark, for God's 
 sake, and I'll do you something ripping for next 
 week. It's rare sport at present; but the coun- 
 try wouldn't hold me if it were known that I 
 wrote it. Say a man called Eric Thorn wrote 
 it, if asked. It's safe. Yours ever, 
 
 "TED TINNERSLEY." 
 
 And now I think I may go to bed with a 
 clear conscience. I shall be able to sleep all 
 right to-night. Good-night, my darling Maud. 
 I am afraid that you will lie awake, thinking 
 of those hard names you called me. 
 
 April 8th. A very pretty, penitent letter 
 from Maud. She seems really distressed at 
 having written to me so fiercely. She has not 
 an atom of pride or reserve left in her now. 
 " Eric Thorn has confessed that he wrote the 
 hateful thing. It was noble of you to keep his 
 name secret because of your promise to him. 
 Are men always so loyal to their friends? " 
 
 That is really very nice. " Forgive me ! for- 
 give me ! " she says at the close of the letter. 
 
82 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 Yes, Maud, I forgive you, and I will call on 
 you to-day to say so. I am feeling particularly 
 magnanimous just now. With what sorrow I 
 shall speak of the shocking behavior of my for- 
 mer friend, Eric Thorn ! And how really high- 
 toned I shall be! I really must stop to laugh. 
 
 To-night, Maud, you will know the joys of 
 sin forgiven ; they are not quite so great as the 
 joys of sins concealed. I have tried both. 
 (Mem. Might put that into the mouth of some 
 cynical blackguard in a story it's not bad.) 
 
 In a few months' time, Maud, you will be 
 mine indeed ; and then will come the disillusion. 
 You will know that I really am what you once 
 called me, "a vulgar, cruel cad." I was born 
 so. I tried to be better once, but it was of no 
 use. There is a certain horror about that which 
 comes over me suddenly sometimes. It is an 
 awful thing to be hateful and to know that it 
 is of no use to try to be anything else. In the 
 midst of success, and high spirits, and jeers at 
 everything, that thought suddenly comes over 
 me, and I writhe. I seem to see the devil him- 
 self sitting in the room with me, looking at me 
 and smiling horribly. And with him is that 
 other girl of whom I have spoken she drowned 
 herself. She does not smile. She just sits and 
 scares no, I won't write any more. (Mem. 
 Some of the above paragraphs might be useful 
 for a sketch of character, called "Remorse.") 
 
THE DEVIL'S AUCTION 
 
 Now, gentlemen, your offers. This maiden 
 
 sings and dances, 
 She's beautiful, and innocent, and lively as 
 
 the day. 
 You bid a fortune? Thank you, sir. I'm 
 
 waiting for advances ; 
 And you a life's devotion? Here, take that 
 
 boy away. 
 A title? Come, that's better. Now it's going, 
 
 going, going- 
 She is but seventeen, sirs, and lovely as you 
 
 see 
 Gone! Madam, you're the property, you will 
 
 be pleased at knowing, 
 Of a genial old roue of the age of sixty -three. 
 
 Now here's a nice cold chicken and a bottle 
 
 from the ice, sirs 
 Ah, you dramatic critics, aren't you hungry? 
 
 Won't you bid? 
 
 Won't some one offer me his soul a very mod- 
 erate price, sirs? 
 
 You sold your soul last week, sir? Yes 
 dear me of course you did ! 
 83 
 
84 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 Here's a ticket for n, prize-fight. The magis- 
 trate's the winner, 
 After some sharp contention the bidding's 
 
 getting bold. 
 Here's a poet. What, no offers? Won't some 
 
 one bid a dinner? 
 
 Take the brute away and drown him; he 
 never will be sold. 
 
 And lastly I would offer here an over-dose of 
 
 chloral. 
 That boy again? Bids twopence? Why 
 
 don't you turn him out? 
 I may mention that the notion that suicide's 
 
 immoral 
 Is an antiquated fallacy it's utterly played 
 
 out. 
 
 We cannot think of twopence ; now, I'm wait- 
 ing for advances 
 There's not a death more painless, and I'll 
 
 guarantee it true 
 Oh ! Here's a better offer from the maid who 
 
 sings and dances. 
 
 Thank you, maiden I'd a fancy I should sell 
 this lot to you. 
 
WHEN THAT SWEET CHILD LAY DEAD 
 A VIGIL 
 
 IT was quite a little room. The window 
 looked out on a garden, on an orchard beyond 
 it, and on the old quiet hills that had made the 
 child understand what " far away " meant. She 
 had heard, months ago, the bees monotonously, 
 musically busy among the garden flowers ; she 
 had watched in the orchard the blossoms delicate 
 with the fragile grace of immaturity, and when 
 the autumn came, she had seen the boughs 
 twisted and bent with their effort to do good, 
 with their burden of fruit; she had strayed 
 through the park-land ; she had seen the sun 
 set over the hills, when far up the sky went the 
 touch of pale gold on clouds that were like 
 angels' wings. Her eyes had grown brighter, 
 always, and her thoughts stranger as she 
 watched; it had made her, the child of a musi- 
 cian, want to hear the music that in her serious 
 moments had seemed to understand her best. 
 She was not to see such things, nor hear them, 
 nor understand any more. On this eve of the 
 85 
 
86 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 New Year she lay motionless, arranged with 
 white hands crossed, on the bed in one corner 
 of the room ; the trees in the orchard were gaunt 
 and black, mocked by cruel winds; the snow 
 drove and drove ; the year's last day died out in 
 darkness. 
 
 Everything in the little room a little room 
 in a great house was very neat and orderly. 
 Some one had taken away from the low table 
 by the bedside the row of medicine bottles 
 grim reminders of futile effort and had placed 
 there an old blue-and- white bowl, full of Christ- 
 mas roses. In the fireplace the logs burned 
 brightly. She did not need the grace of the 
 flowers nor the warmth of the fire any more. 
 But some one had seen to these things had 
 done them from a sentiment ; nearly all the best 
 things that one does are done from a sentiment. 
 Flowers and fire were useless ; but when that 
 sweet child lay dead, to those in the great house 
 all things had seemed useless. She had been 
 very dear to all of them; they thought her 
 lovelier, brighter, gentler than other children. 
 Yet her chief charm was, perhaps, that she had 
 returned their affection; she had loved people 
 very easily even unlikely people. Downstairs 
 the servants who had waited on her were ludi- 
 crously pathetic; it was a chance whether one 
 who had seen them would have laughed or felt 
 like weeping. Two maids, who had known 
 
WHEN THAT SWEET CHILD LAY DEAD 87 
 
 enmity from some jealousy about that child, 
 now snuffled together in common sorrow, gro- 
 tesquely genuine. " And Mr. Richards feels it 
 too," said one of them, ''though it's little as Mr. 
 Richards ever shows." Richards was the old 
 butler, a stern man, made cynical possibly by 
 too intimate a knowledge of the wine trade. 
 He was in his pantry, polishing silver very 
 briskly, almost jauntily ; ho caught sight of her 
 cup, a christening gift; he recalled how she 
 had once wrung from his sternness some slight 
 concession about a new footman, really by no 
 means up to his work; ho began at once to 
 whistle the gayest of tunes in a desperate whis- 
 pered whistle, then stopped suddenly, made an 
 involuntary curious sound in his throat, and 
 went on polishing furiously. Later on his 
 manner grew icy. 
 
 From her room one could now have heard 
 very faintly the sound of the organ being played 
 in the wide gallery which ran from wing to 
 wing of the house. It was her father, the great 
 composer, who was playing. She had been his 
 only child, and her mother had died in her baby- 
 hood. So he was alone now. He had been 
 saying that to himself during the day : " I am 
 quite alone now . " There were other people in 
 the house, relations more or less near ; but, as 
 far as his sorrow was concerned, they were a 
 hundred miles away. He had been happy, as 
 
88 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 some count happiness; he had loved his art and 
 had been great in it ; he had wealth, and could 
 follow art for art's sake. Only he was human 
 and had not escaped human joys, nor the sor- 
 rows that follow them so closely ; he had loved 
 a wife and child, and he had lost them. That 
 afternoon he had sat quite alone in his studio, 
 thinking. A salver, laden with letters, was 
 brought into the room. He opened a few of 
 the letters. They were all well-meaning, and 
 yet so futile. He felt that he could read no 
 more of them, and that he could not keep quiet 
 and inactive any longer. He went up into the 
 long gallery and paced up and down. Then he 
 arranged the mechanism which blew the organ, 
 and opened the instrument, and lit the candles 
 on either side of it. The rest of the gallery lay 
 in darkness. And then he s-at down to play. 
 The music was sorrow without consolation; 
 religion without hope. 
 
 In the little room the flicker of fire-light fell 
 on the golden hair and delicate upturned face of 
 that sweet child. Did it matter to the rest of 
 the world to things that are inarticulate, or 
 even voiceless, and, as some think, inanimate? 
 Were the flowers that she had loved sorry, or 
 the winds that had played in her hair? Per- 
 haps on that bleak eve of the New Year there 
 was something said that one would not have 
 heard as one hears a voice, which might through 
 
WHEN THAT SWEET CHILD LAY DEAD 80 
 
 a dream have won its way to words. What did 
 the Christmas roses think about it in that old 
 blue-and- white bowl on the table by her side? 
 Was it all nothing to them when that sweet 
 child lay dead? ' 
 
 It was sheer carelessness, of course, and had 
 not been done with any evil intention at all. 
 But that did not alter the facts of the case his 
 stem was not in the water, and he had felt a 
 little wilted at the very outset. 
 
 Flowers choose their own names, and this one 
 had called himself Wilkinson. He had seen 
 the name on a scrap of newspaper that had been 
 blown down the garden walk, and never ought 
 to have been there, and was the under-gardener's 
 fault. Wilkinson knew that owing to sheer 
 carelessness his death would be hastened by 
 some few hours; he did not mind the death 
 (flowers, possibly from vanity, love to be cut 
 and put in vases ; and it is heaven to them to 
 be worn in a girl's hair), but he did object to 
 anything like carelessness. He liked people to 
 do their whole duty. Even while selecting the 
 name of Wilkinson he had deprecated the un- 
 tidiness of the under-gardener. 
 
 " Cut me and put me in a bowl, if you like, " 
 he remarked snappishly. "If you think mo 
 beautiful, you couldn't do any better. Only 
 do it. Don't half do it. Don't leave me with 
 
90 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 my stem out of the water in this sickening way. 
 If you do, you commit sin; and I can't bear to 
 S3e it done." He was not addressing any of the 
 other flowers in particular, he was merely solilo- 
 quizing on the subject of strict duty, which 
 was an unpleasing habit that he had. No 
 flowers care in the least about death, except tho 
 sweet violets, who have some mysterious love 
 secrets of their own, never properly understood, 
 which they do not like to be interrupted. Few 
 flowers are quite so strict or quite so sharp- 
 tempered as Wilkinson was. 
 
 "It wasn't her fault," pleaded a little bud, 
 called Candor, who had been looking at the sweet 
 child- motionless on her bed. 
 
 "My dear child," said Wilkinson, rather 
 patronizingly, " how very young you are ! Any 
 one could tell you were a bud. Don't you know 
 that sweet child's dead? She's no use can't 
 put flowers in water any more so they'll throw 
 her away. They ought to have thrown her 
 away before, I should have thought ; but human 
 beings are always so careless and untidy." 
 
 "She's very pretty," said Candor; "very 
 pretty indeed. I wish they had put me in her 
 hair. Who was it placed us in this bowl? " 
 
 " Ah ! yes. You were too young to remember 
 it. It was Richards who put us here and left 
 my stem out of the water. How mad such 
 thoughtlessness does make me! You're too 
 
WHEN THAT SWEET CHILD LAY DEAD 91 
 
 young to be worn in a girl's hair. But Richards 
 might perhaps have selected something some- 
 thing a little more full blown. I don't refer to 
 myself in particular, of course, although for the 
 matter of that, as far as mature beauty is con- 
 cerned well, well, it's not for me to say." 
 
 " Death is very beautiful. Do human beings 
 like to die?" 
 
 Wilkinson shrugged his petals impatiently. 
 " What a perfectly bud-like remark ! Death is 
 not beautiful. Death is nothing. You simply 
 stop, that's all. As you are generally feeling 
 rather faded, you're not sorry to stop. But 
 you're not particularly glad. It's pleasanter, of 
 course, to die in a girl's hair than to live in a 
 garden, especially where the under-gardener's 
 so grossly untidy. I believe you have been 
 talking to those violets," he added, rather 
 sharply. 
 
 " No, really, I haven't. Why did you ask 
 that? " 
 
 "They've got some sentimental ideas about 
 death. No, I don't suppose human beings mind 
 it. I don't see how they can mind a thing 
 which is of absolutely no importance." 
 
 " They live longer than we do. " 
 
 " They live an unconscionable time, most of 
 them, especially under-gardeners. That is prob- 
 ably because they have not our advantages, 
 and do not understand. That child has stopped 
 
92 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 rather early yes, she is a sweet child. I can 
 remember when I was quite a bud, she went 
 past laughing. You should have seen the sun- 
 light on her hair ! " 
 
 There was a long pause. Candor spoke at 
 last : 
 
 "Wilkinson, do you think anything really 
 stops, or is it just seeming? She is so pretty, 
 and you remember her laughter, and any 
 flower would have been glad to die in that beau- 
 tiful hair. It can't have all been to no purpose. " 
 
 Wilkinson was distressed deeply distressed. 
 " You pain and grieve me more than I can say. 
 The old faiths are all going. Have you not 
 been taught to believe in the nothingness of 
 everything? "Why do you listen to the hideous 
 voice of emotion? " 
 
 Candor grew almost passionate. "I must. 
 If I did not listen I should not know what to do 
 for sorrow! She is lovely. She is an angel's 
 dream not dead, but corne true at last. Sweet 
 child, speak to me and tell me that I am right. 
 Speak only once and tell me this trifling this 
 life and death is not everything. Tell me that 
 there is more beyond beyond." 
 
 "You are sickly and heterodox," said Wil- 
 kinson sternly. " There is nothing beyond. I 
 believe nay, I know that death is entire ces- 
 sation. And I am going to drop." 
 
 He dropped f ragmen tarily. It is ordained 
 
WHEN THAT SWEET CHILD LAY DEAD 93 
 
 that in its last moments even the tidiest flower 
 shall be untidy. And Candor still waited; but 
 all was silent in that little room. 
 
 Now, the winds are spirits, lost spirits ; they 
 never rest, and they ever long for rest. 
 
 That night a great wind swept past the house, 
 ice-cold and howling with misery. It beat on 
 the windows of that little room until they 
 shook ; and then it went flying onward through 
 the driving snow. After it came another, softly 
 pattering, like the pattering of a child's feet as it 
 shuffles through the crisp, fallen leaves. These 
 two winds were spirits, without shape to human 
 eyes ; and yet a dreamer a musician, perhaps, 
 seated at the organ, alone with sorrow might 
 have imagined something. He might have 
 seen them the first like a gaunt woman, with 
 flying robes and hair; the second like a girl- 
 child, with an old man's malice and a devil's 
 cruelty in her look, and to the dreamer their 
 voices might have grown articulate. 
 
 "Perdita," said the young wind, as side by 
 side they sped onward into the night, " did you 
 not see as we went past the house? In one of 
 the rooms a child is lying ; a beautiful child, 
 and she is dead ; I shook the window to frighten 
 her, but she never moved. Can I not do any- 
 thing to hurt her? I hate all beautiful things." 
 
 "No, we can do nothing, Ira. I, too, used 
 
94 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 to hate as you hate, but with me it has worn 
 itself out. I am tired, and cold, and miserable. 
 But there is no rest no rest anywhere. We 
 can do nothing to hurt that child and nothing 
 to help her. She is dead." 
 
 " I would help no one, but I would hurt her. 
 Can we not reach her, even though she be dead ? 
 What is death?" 
 
 Perdita seemed now to be speaking to herself 
 rather than Ira. " It was a thousand years ago 
 that they sent me here they to whom a thousand 
 years are but as a day. Beyond this world, be- 
 yond the tangle of which this world is a thread, 
 I lived in broader space, in brighter light, in 
 warmer, clearer air. I do not remember what 
 it was that I did, but for my punishment they 
 sent me here to roam forever up and down. For 
 a thousand years I have never rested ; I have 
 seen the children of men grow up, and fall, and 
 die ; and I have found out many secrets ; but I 
 do not yet know what death is." 
 
 "I too," said Ira, "came from that place of 
 which you speak. With me it was but a day 
 ago ; yet I, too, cannot remember what it was 
 that I did. But I have been punished punished 
 Until there is nothing left in me but hatred. I 
 long to wreck the ships and tear down the 
 trees. Nothing will make me happy any more, 
 and I am most miserable when I destroy. Yet 
 I cannot help longing to destroy." 
 
WHEN THAT SWEET CHILD 1 LAY DEAD 95 
 
 "It does not matter," Perdita answered. 
 " The longing will wear itself out. You may 
 grow gentle and play with the flowers. That 
 will not matter either. You will always be 
 unhappy and you will never rest. Oh, if one 
 could rest! If one could be still for a little 
 while, only a little while ! " 
 
 " In that great house the child that was dead 
 was still motionless. What is death? " 
 
 There was a pause a long pause before the 
 voice of Perdita spoke in reply : 
 
 "Can it be? Can it be that we are already 
 dead? Can it be that the punishment of which 
 we spoke was nothing else but death, and that 
 death means the torture of endless unrest? Per- 
 haps the spirit of that child is out in this lonely 
 night, suffering as we suffer." 
 
 "I feared that you would say it," whispered 
 Ira. " It is quite true. This night that child 
 is with us. Did I want to hurt her? That was 
 foolish of me." And Ira laughed savagely. 
 
 The two winds sped on together, past an iron 
 coast, over a dark, desolate sea, and on and on. 
 In the long gallery of the house the music was 
 changed ; into its sorrow had entered that tragic 
 anger which knows its own impotence. 
 
 The night had grown very quiet. The furi- 
 ous winds had passed; the sky had cleared. 
 Over the wide lands lay the fallen snow. The 
 
9(3 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 child's father had risen from the organ and 
 opened one of the windows. He stood there 
 looking out. Perhaps it was because he thought 
 of the gentleness of falling snow, or because its 
 wonderful whiteness seemed almost like a con- 
 scious kindness: but as he looked out into the 
 tranquil night his anger ceased. Far off he 
 heard the flooded river sweep the base of the 
 bridge, and the monotonous sound seemed to 
 him like a consolation, like a consoling voice : 
 
 " I am glad because I draw near to the sea. I 
 shall die, but I shall not be really lost. It is 
 only change. I give myself to the sea, and in 
 return I enter into its strength. The life of a 
 man is but the bandage that blinds his eyes ; 
 and he shall never see the great secret until he 
 himself is part of it. All the rivers run into 
 the sea, and all the lives run into the life eternal. 
 No gain is greater than that loss of self." 
 
 His own thoughts followed the voice of the 
 river. Could it be that our identity, which we 
 valued so much, was better lost? He had no 
 patience to think the thing out, but he liked 
 that idea of all the lives flowing into the life 
 eternal. He found himself believing in the 
 river's guess-work ; or else he had grown tran- 
 quil under the tranquillity of the night ; or else, 
 perhaps, this quietness was but reaction follow- 
 ing upon action, and the bitterness of sorrow 
 had exhausted itself. He cared very little what 
 
WHEN THAT SWEET CHILD LAY DEAD 97 
 
 the reason might be. He only knew that he 
 was in some wonderful way consoled. Death 
 was not annihilation. Death was not punish- 
 ment. Death was just the loss of individuality 
 and the gain of something far greater; some- 
 thing which possibly the saints thought when 
 they spoke of perfect communion and of peace 
 that cannot be understood. 
 
 He turned instinctively to symbolism and 
 analogy. That thing for which lovers long 
 that total surrender of self to the beloved, which 
 love ever desires and ever misses, is the gift that 
 death has for us. By death we merge into that 
 fulfilment which is past words. 
 
 And past music? 
 
 He turned once more to the organ to that 
 mysterious language that can be translated into 
 no known tongue. 
 
 "And," said Richards, next morning, "as I 
 stood at the fur end, he began to play. You 
 won't believe me, Mrs. Smith, and I can't hardly 
 believe myself, but it was one of the 'appiest 
 toons I ever heard him play regular light. 
 Well, thinks I to myself, this is queer; and 
 there, all of a sudden-like, 'e drops 'is 'ands 
 and bends 'is 'ead low this way and begins 
 sobbing great, gaspin' sobs. I couldn't bear 
 it. I come away. It was too awful ! " 
 7 
 
VI 
 THE MAGIC MORNING 
 
 THE sunlight fell with steady brightness 
 through the haze of a hot morning. A breath 
 of wind came across the heath, over the dusty 
 road, and down the strip of scented garden that 
 lay in front of the white cottage. It lingered 
 for a moment over some very dark wall-flowers, 
 and then passed through the open window into 
 the lower room on the left of the porch, to see 
 what Mervyn Vallend and his young wife Joyce 
 were going to have for breakfast. The pale 
 yellow curtains moved into soft folds as the 
 wind passed ; there was no one in the room. It 
 was Sunday, and breakfast was not till nine 
 o'clock. The little silver clock it had been a 
 wedding present, and looked it showed that it 
 still wanted a few minutes to nine. The break- 
 fast-table seemed appealing and rather solitary ; 
 it was quite ready. Everything on it was fresh 
 and spotless. There were a handful of loosely- 
 made white roses in a low glass bowl in the 
 centre ; the shaft of mote-speckled light touched 
 the bright silver and a crimson fragrant heap of 
 
THE MAGIC MORNING 99 
 
 strawberries. They lay on their green leaves, 
 and hoped that Joyce would like them when 
 she came downstairs. It was a pretty room, 
 and everything in it seemed very much as it 
 should be. 
 
 Joyce loved the extra hour of rest on Sunday 
 mornings. On week-days breakfast was in- 
 clined to be rather a hurried affair, because 
 Mervyn had to catch the train which took him 
 up to the city, and Joyce never felt properly 
 awake at eight o'clock. The extra hour made 
 all the difference. Just at present she was gaz- 
 ing meditatively into the looking-glass. She 
 had a sweet, delicate face, gray eyes, and soft 
 fair hair. She was trying to remember the 
 dream she had had during the night ; and only 
 had an indistinct idea that it had been a very 
 happy dream. She had been still asleep when 
 Mervyn got up to go down to the river for a 
 swim before breakfast. As she turned from 
 the looking-glass she saw through the window 
 across the heath ; Mervyn was coming back 
 along the narrow track that wound through the 
 golden broom and brambles with wet glistening 
 leaves. Joyce turned again to the looking-glass 
 for a second, made some imperceptible feminine 
 alteration, and then ran lightly downstairs, and 
 stood in the porch waiting for him. She had a 
 slight tremble at her heart; and a reason for it. 
 She had only been married two years, and yet 
 
100 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 last night she had nearly hated Mervyn. She 
 did not hate him now. 
 
 He came slowly and easily over the heath. 
 He was wearing flannels. His towel was flung 
 over his shoulder. His cap was pushed at the 
 back of his untidy brown hair. His face was 
 thin and sunburnt. He was tall and straight, 
 and looked younger than he really was. He, 
 too, was wondering at the change this magic 
 morning had made in him. For last night he 
 had thought, almost with despair, that he 
 should never love Joyce any more. 
 
 Yet nothing unusual had happened to bring 
 about the sad state of things which had existed 
 on the Saturday. Had anything unusual hap- 
 pened, all might have been well; for they had 
 the sensitive temperament which is irritated by 
 the persistently ordinary and is attracted by 
 the unusual. They had both of them, from the 
 very first, been rather too much inclined to 
 think that things would be different with them 
 than with other people. They had expected 
 love's ecstasy to last ; to be always together, and 
 apart from the rest of the world ; to live in a 
 continuous exaltation of spirit ; to have a per- 
 petual summer gentle, cultured, and idyllic 
 in the white cottage, away from the dirt and 
 din of the city. In a word, they had quite for- 
 gotten about action and reaction ; they had been 
 a little too self-conscious. They were not prigs ; 
 
THE MAGIC 
 
 Mervyn was too masculine and Joyce was too 
 feminine for that ; besides, an absence of con- 
 ceit and the presence of a sense of humor saved 
 both of them from being prigs. But in the 
 ecstasy of their love for each other a little of 
 their common sense had evaporated. Even the 
 arrangement of the furniture in the white cot- 
 tage was rather sentimental. 
 
 And the ecstasy had not lasted. It never 
 lasts. So surely as you go upward from one 
 side of the hill, you must, when you have 
 reached the summit, go downward on the other. 
 There are those who have grown bitter about 
 this necessity. And yet it is sometimes very 
 pleasant and quiet in the valley. Mervyn and 
 Joyce had not quite got down into the valley 
 yet, and were feeling rather lost. For a few 
 months after their marriage, Mervyn had gone 
 on making fresh and exquisite discoveries in 
 Joyce's nature; chance words of hers, little 
 gestures, her choice of flowers and music, seemed 
 to illuminate the reason why she was so lovable. 
 Then he reached the point when there seemed 
 to be no more discoveries to make. She was 
 like a beautiful prayer or poem that has been 
 learned by heart and has been said so often that 
 it has lost its meaning. And there were besides 
 a few disillusions. She was too human to be 
 quite perfect. Just that turn of her tempera- 
 ment which made her love the fanciful stories 
 
AND INTERLUDES 
 
 and verses that Mervyn wrote from time to 
 time also made her a little unpractical. Some- 
 times she forgot how much the most spiritual 
 happiness depends on the most material things. 
 At first, Mervyn had thought nothing of occa- 
 sional discomfort ; but there came a time when 
 he noticed it. Joyce was delicate; it was for 
 this reason that Mervyn had taken the white 
 cottage; and sometimes, when he got back from 
 the city, Joyce was too tired to take much notice 
 of him to sing to him or talk to him. Then 
 he would reproach himself for not being able to 
 take more care of her, for not being able to give 
 her a more easeful and luxurious life, for not 
 having waited until he had secured a better 
 position before he married her. For Mervyn 
 was not mad enough to think that he could live 
 by writing fanciful verses ; they only were one 
 of his pleasures; as far as business was con- 
 cerned, he was the least possible partner in his 
 father's uurom antic firm. He would be a fairly 
 rich man one day; but at present he was poor 
 enough to find himself frequently irritated by 
 limitations. Sometimes the thought had passed 
 through him swiftly, and the night before it 
 had not passed, but had lingered on and on 
 perhaps it would have been better if he had 
 not married Joyce ; Joyce was not fitted to be 
 the wife of a poor man. Last night he had 
 feared that his love for her was slowly wearing 
 
THE MAGIC MORNING 103 
 
 itself out. She, too, had been through similar 
 experiences; she had begun to think that she 
 was losing his sympathy ; she did little things on 
 purpose to please him, and he never noticed 
 them. Besides, it was rather lonely in the 
 white cottage when Mervyn was away in the 
 city ; and she hated the work of housekeeping, 
 though she did it as faithfully as she could. 
 And there were small worries which tried her 
 and made her fear that she was losing her sweet 
 temper. She had cried herself to sleep on Sat- 
 urday night, being filled with the idea that 
 Mervyn would have been much happier if he 
 had married a capital housemaid. 
 
 They had not openly quarrelled. On the 
 Saturday afternoon Mervyn got back from the 
 city rather earlier than he had expected ; he was 
 hot and irritated by some petty business wor- 
 ries. He found the white cottage rather dish- 
 evelled. An unclean charwoman was defiling 
 the staircase with her presence. Joyce had 
 been doing accounts ; and the accounts were all 
 wrong ; and her fingers were all inky. She had 
 a headache, and was depressed, and not in- 
 clined to make very much of Mervyn. He 
 walked to the looking-glass and found that he 
 had a smut on his nose. It had probably been 
 there all the hateful morning. He swore gently 
 under his breath ; Joyce heard him and looked 
 hurt. He repented, and asked her to come out. 
 
104 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 She reminded him that she had the accounts to 
 do. He told her, rather self -righteously, that 
 she should have got the accounts done before. 
 She, looking as if she were being burned at the 
 stake, but was determined not to mind it, re- 
 plied that she had a headache. One knows 
 how such conversations end. Saturday evening 
 was passed almost in silence. It was all child- 
 ish enough, but troubles do not have to be 
 rational to be troublesome. And these childish 
 troubles had started in both of them a most per- 
 nicious train of thought, ending in the entirely 
 unfounded belief that they were not suited for 
 each other, and did not love each other. But 
 now all these troubles were yesterday's delu- 
 sions; they could not stand before this magic 
 morning. 
 
 Mervyn had paused a second just before leav- 
 ing the bedroom to go down to the river, and 
 had turned back to look at his sleeping wife. 
 There was a look on her face that he had never 
 seen there before ; it was a look to win love and 
 reverence ; it was the dignity of a sleeping Ma- 
 donna. He took off his cap and, bending over 
 her, kissed her on the forehead gently so as 
 not to wake her. Then he went downstairs, and 
 out through the porch, and up the narrow strip 
 of garden. Yes, the weather was glorious ; but 
 mere weather was not enough to account for 
 
THE MAGIC MORNING 105 
 
 the splendid exhilaration that filled him. He 
 felt that he liked everything immensely. He 
 watched the bees busy at the work that had 
 been given them; he caught the fragrance of 
 the dark wall-flowers; he heard the repeated 
 calls of the birds the clear tremble, rise 
 and fall of their music. It was all old; it 
 had all been so before ; yet now there was a new 
 wonder in it. There was a new delight in the 
 refreshing plunge into the cold river, and the 
 long, steady swim up against the stream. He 
 was still thinking of this as he came back across 
 the heath. He seemed to have an excess of 
 strength and spirit, a fresh power of enjoyment. 
 As he entered the garden he looked up and saw 
 Joyce a sweet, graceful figure in gray and 
 white standing in the porch. There was a 
 light in her eyes which showed him that she 
 too had felt the magic of the morning. Both 
 knew that there was sympathy again between 
 them. She gave him both hands, and he kissed 
 her ; it was the kiss of a glad lover not the per- 
 functory, matrimonial kiss. 
 
 As .they sat down to breakfast, both of them 
 could hardly help laughing ; they were so pleased 
 at nothing. They refrained, however, owing 
 to the notion for which something might have 
 been said that such conduct would be slightly 
 idiotic. Mervyn removed a cover : 
 
106 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 "That," he said, "is routine sheer routine." 
 
 " No, no," said Joyce, " it's only poached eggs 
 nothing worse, I assure you." 
 
 " I meant the number, Joyce. Don't you see 
 the mystic number three? Anna Martha has 
 absolutely no variableness, and she won't allow 
 for it in other people. She knows that I gen- 
 erally eat two and you generally eat one. So 
 she expects us always to do that, and always 
 sends os just exactly three. She's cast a sort 
 of spell over me, and I find myself eating two 
 eggs when I only want one, simply to satisfy 
 the passion for regularity in Anna Martha. I'm 
 not going to stand it any longer. To-day I will 
 only eat one and you shall eat two ; and that 
 will break Anna Martha's clockwork heart." 
 
 "But I don't see how she's to know, unless 
 you tell her, which of us had two." 
 
 " That's true, Joyce, horribly true, and I cer- 
 tainly daren't tell her. Well, I must get out of 
 the groove, somehow. I might do it by not 
 eating any at all, only I happen to be distinctly 
 hungry," he added, as he helped himself. 
 
 They did not always talk such utter nonsense 
 as this ; for both Joyce and Mervyn had as much 
 intellect as the average man and perhaps 
 keener appreciation. But this morning they 
 were talking nonsense with a set purpose ; and 
 yet neither of them had any notion that they 
 were talking with a set purpose at all. This 
 
THE MAGIC MORNING 107 
 
 happens rather more frequently than is generally 
 supposed. Underneath the words of both of 
 them lay quite unconsciously this thought: 
 " We must not let our minds dwell for a moment 
 on yesterday ; what took place then was all a 
 mistake, and too horrible to think about; we 
 must forget it, and show that we have forgotten 
 it by being cheerful. " 
 
 " I've got a new dress on to-day," said Joyce, 
 presently. " Do you like it? " 
 
 "Yes; I had been adoring in silence. It 
 really is a lovable sort of a clothing." He 
 paused for a second. " Talking of new things, " 
 he added, "when I was going down to the 
 river this morning, I stopped for a second to 
 look at you, and, really, there was something 
 something indescribable in your face that I 
 had never seen there before. " 
 
 Joyce's gray eyes opened a little wider. 
 "How? What do you mean? How did I 
 look? " 
 
 "Different." 
 
 " Improved better? " 
 
 "Happier a saintly sort of happiness." 
 
 " And it's not so easy to look happy either, 
 with your eyes shut. I I had the loveliest 
 dream. Of course I have forgotten what it 
 was all about; I always forget dreams. But 
 perhaps I was just dreaming it when you looked 
 at me." 
 
108 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 " Perhaps. I'm afraid it's one of the things 
 we aren't going to know for certain." 
 
 "Did you " Joyce paused irresolutely. 
 
 " No, nothing," she added. " Have some more 
 strawberries? " 
 
 Mervyn laughed a little. "Yes, I did," he 
 said. " I hope it didn't wake you. I tried not 
 to wake you." 
 
 "No, it didn't wake me. I'm glad. How 
 on earth did you know what I was going to ask 
 you? I only said two words of it." 
 
 "Your eyes said the rest." 
 
 " Joyce, " he added presently, rising from the 
 table, "do you think we are going to church 
 this morning? " 
 
 Joyce also rose. She walked to the window 
 and looked out. " I feel quite sure that we are 
 going to church this evening ; but this morning 
 is too fine, and it would be too hot in church. 
 I think we will go out into the open air and sit 
 down somewhere. You shall take a book with 
 you, and the cooler of the two whichever it 
 may be shall read to the hotter." 
 
 " Which way shall we go? " asked Mervyn, as 
 shortly afterward they passed through the gar- 
 den gate out on to the high-road. 
 
 " Up on to the hills. It will suit a queer kind 
 of exaltation that I'm feeling this morning. 
 I suppose it is because it is such glorious 
 weather." 
 
THE MAGIC MORNING 109 
 
 " Yes ; it's a magic morning. " 
 
 "Magic! That's just the word for it. It 
 changes everything; quite common things do 
 not seem common any longer. Look at that 
 golden broom there with the light on it, just on 
 the edge of the heath. It's the ordinariest 
 golden broom, but it's simply beautiful, and I 
 love it I could kiss it." 
 
 "Do," said Mervyn. "I'm not going to be 
 jealous of a wretched vegetable ; and there's no 
 one coming. Do, by all means." 
 
 " It wouldn't be a very sane sort of thing to 
 do, I own; but then that's where the magic 
 comes in. It's all the weather; now yester- 
 day " 
 
 She stopped short. She had only been intend- 
 ing to speak of yesterday's weather, but yester- 
 day did not stand speaking about, or even 
 thinking about, just yet. 
 
 They went up the hill-side. The bracken 
 was waist-high a sea of pale green rippling to 
 the slightest wind. Below its graceful stems 
 lay the old bracken, brown and faded. On the 
 fine sand of the pathway a thousand tiny insects 
 hurried to and fro. Joyce had gathered two or 
 three wild white roses from a hedge that they 
 had passed, and was fastening them affection- 
 ately in her dress. In the distance they could 
 hear the church bells just beginning; they 
 sounded more sweetly and more musically than 
 
110 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 when one heard them in the village street; in- 
 deed, they suggested distance, far-awayness, 
 remoteness ; they awoke in Joyce a feeling of 
 sad longing, the "desiderium" of the Latins, 
 the " 7ro0o9 " of the Greeks a feeling for which a 
 more prosaic nation has no one exact word. For 
 a time the two walked on in silence ; then they 
 sat down in the shadow ; a fallen tree seemed to 
 have fallen on purpose for their convenience. 
 And because Joyce was a little tired with her 
 walk, it was Mervyn who read ; his voice was 
 low and monotonous. Perhaps he was almost 
 too careful not to be declamatory ; but his read- 
 ing was intelligent. It was rather a sad story 
 that he was reading ; these were the last words 
 of it: 
 
 " Not only was his character entirely cleared. 
 It was thought that he had undergone very 
 much, and had done so for a very noble motive. 
 He was admired indeed, almost worshipped; 
 and his book brought him fresh honor ; it was 
 praised everywhere and bought everywhere; 
 almost every post brought him letters from peo- 
 ple of whom he had never heard before, telling 
 him of the pleasure or the consolation that they 
 had found in his work. He had won reputation 
 and the love of many. He had wealth now, 
 and the life of ease and luxury was possible to 
 him. That was why in all the city there was 
 not one as unhappy as he," 
 
THE MAGIC MORNING 111 
 
 There was, perhaps, some truth in this. The 
 man in the story had missed the one thing that 
 he wanted most; and the gain of the other 
 things that he had always wanted so much less 
 was only another bitterness to him. There was 
 some truth in it, because after all we are the 
 merest children, and if we cannot have just what 
 we want, we are very much inclined to say that 
 we will not play, and to sulk in a corner. 
 
 Joyce had heard the story before, and she 
 liked it at times. In more critical moments 
 she could see that it was wanting in brightness 
 and strenuity. The author of it was very 
 young, and had not learned that you must have 
 a light to see the darkness by. But the story 
 fitted her present mood ; it seemed to suit their 
 height above the village and their sense of dis- 
 tance. It is hard to sympathize with the sor- 
 rows to which one is nearest. Yet it was not a 
 morning on which Joyce could stay long in the 
 air of sorrowful sentimentality; her thoughts 
 strayed from the sad story to other and happier 
 things. Mervyn had put the book down and 
 was stretched at her feet ; he was rolling a 
 cigarette and taking a lazy man's trouble about 
 it ; he lit it and smoked for some time in silence. 
 All manner of quaint little summer sounds were 
 going on around them chirp and twitter, nutter 
 of wings, buzzing of insects, rustle of branches. 
 
 Presently he happened to look up into his 
 
112 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 wife's face. "Joyce," he said, "can you tell 
 me what you were thinking about then?" 
 
 She hesitated a second, and then looked away 
 from him. " No, dear, I don't think I can tell 
 you. Why?" 
 
 " Because you had that look again the new 
 look that you had when I kissed you in your 
 sleep this morning." 
 
 "This morning this magic morning," she 
 echoed softly. " No, it's not only the weather; 
 I don't know what it is." 
 
 They walked home, back to the white cottage, 
 in silence. On Sunday they dined in the mid- 
 dle of the day because it suited Anna Martha 
 better ; in merely material matters they generally 
 arranged themselves as might suit Anna Mar- 
 tha best. The afternoon passed drowsily away ; 
 Joyce read books in a hammock that was 
 stretched between two trees in the garden at 
 the back of the house ; Mervyn smoked many 
 cigarettes and went for a short walk. And in 
 the evening they went to church ; it was not an 
 evening on which either of them was in a mood 
 to criticise very severely. The curate meant to 
 be quite right ; so did the choir of village boys ; 
 so did the organ, a very poor instrument. They 
 all meant to be quite right, and the rest did not 
 seem to matter very much. 
 
 Later in the evening Joyce played the piano 
 for Mervyn, and he sat and watched her. 
 
THE MAGIC MORNING 113 
 
 She looked very sweet and delicate in the can- 
 dle-light. She was playing from memory, and 
 her thoughtful eyes were half closed. Her 
 hands, moving over the keys, were small and 
 white and beautiful. Outside, beyond the 
 trees, one could see the crescent moon in a sky 
 that was still thinking about the daylight that 
 had gone but an hour ago. The music that she 
 had been playing had suited well the fall of 
 night, and the recollection of worship, and all 
 gentle thoughts. She paused a moment, and 
 then began to play the second movement of 
 Beethoven's E-minor Sonata, the converse of the 
 lovers. He waited until she had finished, and 
 then he spoke : 
 
 "Joyce, dearest, I don't know how it hap- 
 pened, but yesterday I did not love you. It 
 won't ever happen again. I love you now." 
 
 Joyce looked down at her hands, resting on 
 the keys. There were tears in her eyes. "I 
 knew," she said, almost in a whisper, "and I 
 did not love you then." 
 
 "And now?" 
 
 "Very very much." She put out the can- 
 dles at the piano, and in a moment she was 
 close to him in the dusk, with her head upon 
 his shoulder. "Mervyn, my dear husband," 
 she said, "I I've got something to tell you." 
 8 
 
MY LADY'S LILIES 
 
 "THEY'RE full of graciousness," you said 
 Of lilies in your garden growing. 
 
 " And you, " I answered, " you are like 
 The fairest lily blowing." 
 
 To you the simile was naught; 
 
 It was too trite it did not strike you. 
 But weren't the lilies mad with joy 
 
 At hearing they were like you ! 
 
VII 
 "JADIS" 
 
 OVER the flat fen country there were white 
 mists rising. It was already growing dusk, but 
 it was not going to be very dark this summer 
 night. The weeds had been cut, and drifted 
 down stream in thick masses. A thin middle- 
 aged man stood by the lock-gates, watching an 
 approaching boat. He was dressed in country 
 clothes, but he had not the air of a country- 
 man ; he was pale and had a look of experience. 
 Save for the regular sound of the sculls, every- 
 thing was quite still. Save for the man at the 
 lock-gates and the solitary occupant of the boat, 
 there was no one in sight. It was a wide, flat, 
 desolate scene. 
 
 The boat was rather a heavy tub, and the 
 man who was sculling was tired and out of 
 temper. As a rule he was thought to be a dis- 
 tinctly brilliant and genial young man ; but he 
 wanted to get on to Nunnisham, which was 
 five miles beyond the lock, that night, and he 
 had been considerably delayed by the weeds. 
 The gods had given him extraordinarily good 
 
116 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 looks and many other good things, enough to 
 keep him genial unless, as on the present occa- 
 sion, circumstances tried him severely. At the 
 lock he drew into the bank and hailed the mid- 
 dle-aged man who still stood watching him. 
 
 " Hi ! what are the weeds like above the lock? " 
 
 " Very bad, sir. " The answer was given in 
 a serious, respectful voice. 
 
 The young man swore gently to himself. " Is 
 there any place near here where I could put up 
 for the night? " 
 
 " There is only a public-house, sir. I am the 
 landlord of it my name is Hill. I could give 
 you a bedroom ; a little rough, perhaps, but " 
 
 "Good a bed and some supper capital! 
 That is the only bit of luck I've had to-day." 
 As he was speaking the young man picked up 
 a small knapsack which was lying in the stern 
 of the boat and jumped out. He made the boat 
 fast, and joined the landlord on the towing-path. 
 
 " It is this way. You will allow me to carry 
 that for you, sir." 
 
 As they walked along, the brilliant 'young 
 man his name was Philip Vince chatted 
 freely. He was taking a holiday up the river, 
 and was to have joined a friend at Nunnisham 
 that night and then gone on with him the day 
 after. He told the landlord all this, and also 
 surmised that Hill was not a native of the fen 
 country. 
 
117 
 
 "No, sir," was the answer. "I was valet to 
 Sir Charles Sulmont. You have perhaps heard 
 of him." 
 
 Philip had never heard of him, but said that 
 he had. 
 
 " When Sir Charles died he left me a little 
 money, and I married a maid who was then in 
 Lady Sulmont's service. I bought this house 
 with a little assistance from her ladyship, and 
 settled here. I was very young then, and I have 
 been here eighteen years." 
 
 Philip gathered from further talk as they 
 went along that Mrs. Hill was dead, and that 
 she had left one child, Jeanne, a girl of seven- 
 teen, who lived with her father. When they 
 reached the inn, Hill showed Philip a bedroom 
 a large, comfortable room, and began to make 
 some apology about supper. They very rarely 
 had any one staying in the house, and there 
 was nothing but Here Philip interrupted : 
 
 " You would be doing me a kindness if you 
 would let me have supper with you and your 
 daughter. I hate solitude. I mean, if your 
 if Miss Hill wouldn't object." 
 
 " If you really wish it, sir, I should be very 
 pleased; so also, I am sure, would Jeanne." 
 Hill was a born valet ; he had the manner ; if 
 he had lived out of service for a hundred years, 
 he would have been a valet still. When Hill 
 left him, Philip looked round the room and 
 
118 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 congratulated himself. Everything was very 
 neat and clean. The landlord was a capital 
 fellow a little solemn, perhaps, but still a capi- 
 tal fellow. This was far above the accommoda- 
 tion which he had expected. 
 
 Just then a light footfall came up the stairs, 
 and Philip caught a snatch of a French song. 
 The song stopped short just before the footfall 
 passed his door. Philip conjectured that this 
 must be the daughter, and that it had been a 
 French maid that Hill had married ; hence the 
 name Jeanne and that snatch of song. Also 
 that the daughter had been warned of his ar- 
 rival, and had gone to put on her prettiest 
 dress. All of these conjectures were quite cor- 
 rect. And yet when Jeanne entered the sitting- 
 room a few minutes afterward and saw Philip 
 for the first time, she was so startled that she 
 showed it slightly. Philip was also a little sur- 
 prised, for a different reason, and did not show 
 it at all. He had thought of the possibility 
 that Jeanne might be pretty; and she was a 
 beauty a brunette, childlike in many ways, 
 but with a woman's eyes. Her voice was 
 good, and her first few words showed that she 
 had had some education. 
 
 It took her about ten minutes to get from de- 
 cided shyness to complete confidence. Philip 
 was feeling far too good-tempered to let any one 
 be shy with him ; he made Hill and his daugh- 
 
119 
 
 ter talk, and he talked freely himself. He liked 
 the simplicity of everything about him ; he had 
 grown tired of formalities in London. He liked 
 cold beef and salad, for he was very hungry, and 
 yes, above all, he liked Jeanne. What on 
 earth were that face and that manner doing in 
 a riverside inn ? She was perfect ; she did not 
 apologize too much, did not get flurried, did 
 not have red hands, spoke correctly, laughed 
 charmingly in a word, was bewitching. 
 Really, he was glad that he had been prevented 
 from going on to Nunnisham. Toward the end 
 of supper, he discovered that she was wearing 
 a white dress with forget-me-nots in it. 
 
 The table was cleared by a native servant, who 
 seemed all red cheeks and new boots. Hill 
 went off to superintend the business of the inn. 
 Philip was left alone with Jeanne. She told 
 him to smoke, and he was obedient; he also 
 made her tell him other things. 
 
 Yes, she had been to school at Nunnisham 
 rather too good a school for her, she was afraid ; 
 but her mother had wished it. Her mother 
 had taught her French and a little music. 
 Music and drawing were the best things, she 
 thought; but she liked some books. She owned 
 that it was lonely, sometimes, at the inn. " I 
 am glad you came," she confessed frankly. 
 
 "Jeanne," said Philip, "I heard you hum- 
 ming a line or two of * Jadis' before supper, 
 
120 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 didn't I? I wish you would sing it to me." 
 She agreed at once, crossing the room to a little 
 cottage piano rather a worn-out instrument, 
 but still a piano. The melody plaintive, 
 gentle, childish of Jeanne's sweet voice, and 
 the sadness of the words, with their quaint, pen- 
 sive refrain, did not miss their effect. 
 
 " Je n'attends plus rien ici-bas ; 
 Bonheur perdu ne revient pas, 
 Et mon coeur ne demande au ciel 
 Qu'un repos eternel. " 
 
 He thanked her; he had liked that very 
 much. "Why," he added, "were you startled 
 when you saw me? " 
 
 " Because you are a dream come true. I saw 
 your face in a dream last night as clearly as I 
 see you now. All this time I have been feeling 
 as if I had known you before." 
 
 " Really ? " he said. He had not quite believed 
 it. " How many things come true ! One says 
 things about the shortness of time or the cer- 
 tainty of death so often that they lose all mean- 
 ing ; then when one grows old or lies dying, the 
 platitudes get to have terrible force they come 
 true." 
 
 She was struck by that; she kept her eyes 
 fixed on his, and he went on talking to her. He 
 did not, as the time wore on, always mean 
 quite so much as he said ; and she meant much 
 
121 
 
 more than she said. That is a common differ- 
 ence between a man and a woman on such occa- 
 sions. It seemed to her that now for the first 
 time she really lived. 
 
 After Jeanne had said good-night, Philip 
 had some chat with her father about her. 
 
 " I expect that she will be engaged very soon, 
 sir," he said; "a young man called Banks 
 William Banks is anxious, and has spoken to 
 me ; and she likes him. " 
 
 "Now, I wonder," thought Philip to himself 
 as he went upstairs, " why she never even hinted 
 that to me. 'M yes, I see." 
 
 Next morning after breakfast he went away, 
 taking with him a few forget-me-nots, a pleasant 
 memory, and just the faintest possible feeling 
 of remorse. They all faded. 
 
 Jeanne had seemed so quiet and depressed of 
 late that her father, in order to cheer her up, 
 had invited Mr. William Banks to spend the 
 evening. 
 
 Mr. Banks was a small shopkeeper in Nun- 
 nisham, and considered to be no mean wag by 
 those who knew him. Yet he felt unable to 
 cheer her up. " Supposing we had a bit of a 
 toon, Jenny," he suggested at last. She was 
 quite docile. She played one thing after an- 
 other. Suddenly she began " Jadis." 
 
 "I don't understand French myself," Mr. 
 
122 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 Banks remarked, "but the words of a song 
 don't matter." She had never thought much 
 about the words herself before. But now? 
 
 "Depuis qu'il a trahi sa foi 
 Rien n'a plus de charme pour moi." 
 
 Her voica faltered a little, but she sang on to 
 the end of the verse : 
 
 " Et mon coeur ne demande au ciel 
 Qu'un repos eternel." 
 
 Yes, the song had " come true." Just there she 
 gave way and began to cry a little. 
 
 A week afterward Mr. Banks announced that 
 his attentions to Miss Hill were at an end. 
 
THE BIRD CAGE 
 
 THERE is a cage of many a bird 
 
 Hung up in space by Natural Law ; 
 Doves coo, the peacock is absurd, 
 
 Swans .sing and die, and black rooks caw ; 
 The fighting cock is killed or wins, 
 
 Peewits peewit, and pouters pout ; 
 The ostrich feeds on sardine tins, 
 
 And they can none of them get out. 
 That's what the noise is all about ; 
 
 They want to, but they can't get out. 
 
 The cage has many thousand bars ; 
 
 Each bar's a scientific fact ; 
 Through these they watch the shooting stars, 
 
 And get emotion from the act. 
 But one owl says the stars aren't there, 
 
 But in the eyes that watch them fall ; 
 " And eyes, however fine a pair, 
 
 Don't as a fact exist at all. 
 These bars that make our prison wall 
 
 Are but phenomena that's all." 
 
124 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 That doesn't stop them, not a bit; 
 
 The skylark sings, and beats his breast 
 Against a bar, and stunned by it, 
 
 Drops down to die and to protest. 
 As panting in the cage he lies, 
 
 The glory of a shooting star 
 Drops splendor down the dazzled skies, 
 
 Where dreams and their cloud-chambers are. 
 " And oh," he cries, "to fly so far 
 
 Where dreams and bright star-glories are ! " 
 
 "Tu-whit! the little brute is dead; 
 
 That will be one star-gazer less. " 
 These are the words the great owl said ; 
 
 The others cry, "Oh, yes! oh, yes!" 
 But one sweet- voiced and golden brown 
 
 Croons o'er the lark a plaintive song : 
 " Though the claws are crossed and the wings 
 droop down, 
 
 And the breast is still, it is not for long. 
 His voice was sweet and his wings were strong, 
 
 Surely he will awake ere long." 
 
 "Quite right," the duck quacks, "there are 
 germs 
 
 Of life when life seems wholly gone. 
 The lark will do to feed the worms, 
 
 And worms are good to feed upon." 
 " That's splendid ! " all the owls reply, 
 
 "Our life from death its substance draws; 
 A skylark should be glad to die, 
 
THE BIRD CAGE 125 
 
 And make us fat by Natural Laws. 
 You and the rooks with their First Caws, 
 Are getting on in Natural Laws." 
 
 Ages are past, the cage is there, 
 
 But now to suffocation packed, 
 The dying cry for light and air, 
 
 With quavering notes that thirst has cracked. 
 The living beat against the bars, 
 
 Bedewed with tears, begrimed with jest, 
 In mad desire to join the stars, 
 
 To fly away and be at rest. 
 The down falls from their wounded breast; 
 
 They die and no one knows the rest. 
 
VIII 
 THE DOG THAT GOT FOUND 
 
 THERE was a dog once that got to be utterly 
 sick of conventionality. It lived in a great 
 house, had proper exercise, proper food, a prop- 
 er control over its temper, and everything quite 
 proper. And after a time things got so bad that 
 it made its complaint to the butler, who had 
 condescended to take it out with him a short 
 way. And this is what the dog said to the 
 butler : 
 
 " O beautiful butler, I am a-weary, a- weary ! 
 Why should I bark whenever I hear the front- 
 door beh 1 ring, and have it imputed unto me for 
 intelligence? For I know in my heart that the 
 visitors at this house are respectable visitors. 
 I know that they will not steal the spoons, or 
 murder my master and mistress, or growl at 
 you, O beautiful butler. Why then should I 
 bark at them and frighten them? It is such a 
 paltry farce. Why should I pretend to be de- 
 voted to my master and mistress? I like them 
 well enough ; but they are quite ordinary peo- 
 ple, and I am most emphatically not devoted to 
 
THE DOG THAT GOT FOUND 127 
 
 them. Yet I let them believe it. My master 
 thinks that when he dies I shall fetch a Sir-Ed- 
 win-Landseerish artist, to show my instinct, 
 and then die oleographically on his tombstone to 
 show my fidelity. Bah! Why should I lie 
 down when I am told, and get up when I am 
 told, and always be sent off to bed at the same 
 time? Why should I pretend to be surprised 
 and piggishly pleased, whenever I have any 
 food given me? I tell you that I'm the slave 
 of conventionality, and I hate it. Let us be 
 natural ! For the love of bones let us be natural ! 
 Liberty, beautiful butler, and Fraternity, and 
 Equality!" 
 
 The dog stopped, gasping. To the butler it 
 was only a noise that the dog was making, an 
 unintelligible noise. For the butler could not 
 understand doggish; moreover, on that morn- 
 ing he had been rendered unhappy by circum- 
 stances, and he was in no mood to tolerate the 
 yelping of a fox-terrier. 
 
 " Look here, master Fido," he said severely. 
 
 "Sickly, sentimental name it is, too," inter- 
 rupted the dog. 
 
 "Look here, master Fido," the butler re- 
 sumed, more severely. "If you can't close 
 your head, I shall just take you back again. 
 That's what I shall do with you. Here am I. 
 I gets my eyes cursed by master Frederick for 
 what's not my fault nor anybody else's fault 
 
128 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 except his own. I expect that and I put up 
 with it. And very likely I'm a worm, a trodden 
 worm, being treated as such. But I am not 
 going to be yelped at by no fox-terriers. Human 
 nature draws the line somewhere." 
 
 "A stupid man, although beautiful," the dog 
 thought to himself, as he silently took his place 
 at the butler's heels. And when he got home 
 he went straight to his bed, and dreamed of a 
 free artistic life, full of love-stories. 
 
 On the following day a large tom-cat was 
 brought to the house. It had come from a 
 beautiful home for lost culture in South Ken- 
 sington. Fido discovered that it was expected 
 that he would fight with the cat ; so he at once 
 made friends with it to show his originality, 
 and he explained to it how this kind of life hurt 
 him, and how hungry his soul was. Now the 
 cat was very high-toned and as full of other 
 people's phrases as it could stick. 
 
 " Ah, yes ! " it murmured with a tired mew. 
 "You revolt. It is so very fin de siecle to re- 
 volt. And you would live? I do not see the 
 necessity; that goes without saying, since I 
 am a quietist. It is almost more fin de siecle 
 to be a quietist, you know. You don't know? 
 Ah, how right of you! Never know. Only 
 imagine dream. There are rose-leaves in the 
 world, and old silver and beautiful women, and 
 wind-songs and sea- songs. Go and look for 
 
THE DOG THAT GOT FOUND 129 
 
 them. Go out into the cool night, when it 
 is dark, and you can see nothing, and look 
 for them. You're drinking my milk, you 
 
 pig." 
 
 The last remark, which as compared with 
 the rest was plain, was unfortunately also 
 true. Fido had done it from absence of mind, 
 and he was sore ashamed. But he liked the 
 way the cat talked ; it did seem so very high. 
 So that night he made unto himself an oppor- 
 tunity, and got away from the great house. 
 And first of all he careered into Piccadilly. 
 There he sat down in the middle of the road, 
 scratched his head with his hind-foot, and said, 
 " my adventurous soul ! " 
 
 At that moment a passing cah nearly ran 
 over Fido, and the driver flicked him with his 
 whip. It was painful. 
 
 "This is life," said Fido to himself, "poig- 
 nant and intense, it is true, but still quite free 
 from conventionality. I shall come to the 
 sweetness and brightness of it presently. But 
 lovely Helen ! how that whip did hurt ! " 
 
 He was a moderately intelligent dog, and he 
 saw that these crowded thoroughfares were irk- 
 some to a dog that wanted to be soulful and not 
 to take the trouble to see where it was going. 
 The desert the sandy, lonely, wind-swept 
 desert would do him far better. So he stopped 
 a large St. Bernard, which was taking its mas- 
 9 
 
130 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 ter out, and inquired which was the way to the 
 nearest desert. 
 
 "Go home, you flighty-headed young idiot," 
 said the St. Bernard sternly. 
 
 Fido walked on, determined to take no notice 
 of this insult ; but his angry soul bubbled and 
 boiled within him, and called for vengeance 
 until he could stand it no longer. "I must 
 punish that dog," he said to himself; "I '11 go 
 back and bark at his tail, and then run away. 
 He's chained to a man, so he won't be able to 
 run after me." 
 
 So he went back and barked most nobly; 
 unfortunately he barked at the wrong dog, who 
 was not chained, and when he ran away the 
 wrong dog ran after him, being wishful to eat 
 a portion of him. And for a long time Fido 
 ran on, going westward, and then southwest- 
 ward, skirting passionate Brompton, and paus- 
 ing at last in the North End Koad. But his 
 pursuer had run into a lamp-post that stood in 
 the parts about Knightsbridge, and so had gone 
 no further, being sorry for himself. 
 
 In the North End Road Saturday night is 
 market-night, and there is such cheapness in 
 that road as can only be found in one other part 
 of great London. It was Saturday night when 
 Fido got there, and the street was crowded. 
 The flare of the lights on the barrows, the 
 hoarse cries of the salesmen, the hurry of every- 
 
THE DOG THAT GOT FOUND 131 
 
 body, and the excessive intoxication of the 
 three people nearest him, flurried Fido. He 
 found, however, something which was very like 
 a small desert under a barrow where peppermint 
 rock was being sold at a price which, the pro- 
 prietor explained, barely paid for the paper in 
 which it was wrapped. At the next stall was 
 a very scientific-looking old gentleman in a 
 dressing-gown, a gray beard, and a college cap. 
 Fido sat in his miniature desert and listened 
 to the old gentleman, who was addressing the 
 crowd : 
 
 " It was my aim, therefore, bein' a philosopher 
 as well as a scientist, to go a little further than 
 this Edising what discovered electricity. The 
 question which I arst myself, and which I arsks 
 you to-night, was simply this why should I 
 die? Why should I not use some modification 
 of this electricity, combinin' it with other 
 things, to restore my wasted vitality and pro- 
 long my life? For this purpose I studied for 
 several years in three forrun capitals, and the 
 results is the little machine you see before you. 
 You grasps the two 'andles in your two 'ands, 
 and say when the shock's as strong as you care 
 to 'ave it. ' Appiness and 'ealth for one penny ! 
 ' Appiness and 'ealth by the newly invented life- 
 improver for one penny a shock. After to-night 
 the price will be one guinea a shock, so now's 
 your chance," 
 
132 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 "This is better," Fido thought to himself. 
 " We never had any brilliant theories and new 
 discoveries in that horrible abode of conven- 
 tionality where they made me do trust-and- 
 paid-for." 
 
 At this moment the dog noticed a butcher's 
 shop on the other side of the pavement. The 
 butcher himself stood at one side of it, with the 
 agony of a great soul written on his fat face, 
 speaking to the crowd with the earnestness and 
 conviction of a dying man to dying men : 
 
 " (Prestissimo) Buy, buy, buy ! (Adagio con 
 molto expressione) Lyedy, gentle lyedy, 'ere's 
 a Sunday dinner for yer. Make your own 
 price, lyedy, and we cuts to suit yer. (Batten- 
 tando) Gentle lyedy, to-morrer's Sunday." 
 
 " This is Fraternity and Equality," thought 
 Fido. And then another of those curious fits of 
 absence of mind came over him, and he came 
 out from under the barrow, and went over to the 
 butcher's shop; he made a small selection, and 
 walked away with the selection in his mouth. 
 But the butcher saw him, and his voice rose 
 like the wail of a lost spirit: "Blanks and 
 initialled hyphens! kick that dorg, some of 
 yer!" 
 
 And then it seemed to Fido that earthquakes, 
 explosions, volcanoes, and empty meat tins were 
 all happening at once, and that in the middle of 
 them he himself was running in three different 
 
THE DOG THAT GOT POUND 133 
 
 directions simultaneously. When he collected 
 his thoughts again he was limping along in 
 great pain on the darker side of the Fulham 
 Road, having dropped the selection into the 
 mud, and feeling like to die. He paused on 
 Putney Bridge to make a moral reflection, ad- 
 dressed to no one in particular: "When you 
 forsake the paths of conventionality keep your 
 eye upon your fleshy appetites. Never forget 
 that you were not made wholly spiritual. " 
 
 He crawled with infinite difficulty up Putney 
 Hill. It had grown very late now, and there 
 was no one about. He was cut, and bruised, 
 and broken, plastered with mud and blood. 
 When a dog means to do a pathetic thing, it 
 likes to do it in private. So Fido crept away 
 to the right on to Putney Common, and there 
 he hid himself under a bush, panting, with his 
 tongue out. He prayed in faltering doggish 
 that it might occur to a stream of clear, cool 
 water to come past him, because he was too tired 
 to go in search of it. In the early hours he 
 heard a kind of singing in his ears ; and at first 
 his wandering mind thought that this must be 
 his mistress practising her scales in the room 
 overhead; and then he remembered that there 
 was no room overhead, nothing but darkness, 
 and then again it might possibly be the sound 
 of the cool stream coming toward him. He 
 waited a little longer, but the stream did not 
 
134 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 come ; there was only one thing left to do, and 
 he did it in a simple and unaffected manner. 
 
 The laboring man noticed the body, as he 
 took his short cut across the common. " Bill," 
 he said to his mate, " 'ere's a dead dorg, with 
 a silver collar to 'im; 'e must 'ave got lorst." 
 
 As a matter of fact he had just got found, 
 and his soul was chasing ghost-rats in the happy 
 hunting-grounds. " Fair doos with the collar," 
 remarked Bill. 
 
THE BAT AND THE DEVIL 
 
 I 
 
 THE bat he hung on the yew-tree bough, 
 As the devil came over the high hill brow. 
 He opened the gate of the grim churchyard, 
 And cursed at the hinges that went so hard. 
 He sat him down 'neath the same yew-tree 
 And long at the poor little bat glared he: 
 " It is but a leaf that is hanging there, 
 Dead, but moved by the strong sweet air. 
 Plants and trees are nothing to me, 
 And nothing to Him who made them be. 
 They have one life and no more than that " 
 
 Poor old Bat! 
 
 II 
 
 The bat dropped down from the yew-tree spray, 
 And crawled on the devil in a grewsome way. 
 A woman's skin would have leaped with fear 
 At the cold claws touching there and here ; 
 But the devil did naught but chuckle and sing : 
 " It's a creeping thing ! It's a creeping thing ! 
 By the Serpent of Eden, first of the line, 
 All that creeps on the earth is mine. 
 
136 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 This is no leaf, but a soul to crawl 
 In my inner chamber along the wall, 
 With the poison-snake and the snail of slime 
 In hell's dark place that knows not time, 
 For my sisters to mock and be merry at ' ' 
 
 Poor old Bat ! 
 
 Ill 
 
 But the grim churchyard grew dusk and dark, 
 And stars 'gan twinkling, spark by spark ; 
 And out and away on the air of night 
 Sailed the bat with a noiseless flight, 
 With scarce a whirr of its nervous wing, 
 As it wheeled around in a widening ring ; 
 But a curse came into the devil's eyes, 
 And his mouth was red with blasphemies : 
 " By the angels that float in the heavenly air, 
 By the holy sheen of the wings they wear 
 And damned be they f orevermore ! 
 All that flies in the air will soar 
 Upward to Him, and away from me ! " 
 
 And the lightning blasted the grim yew-tree, 
 And the thunder roared, and the rain made foam 
 On the path, as the devil got him home 
 Home by the broad road and the level 
 
 Poor old Devil ! 
 
IX 
 
 TWO POETS 
 
 "Now, look here, Hubert, do just let me 
 read you the finest part." 
 
 There was something splendid in the vanity 
 of this large, venerable man. He was only 
 middle-aged, but he looked venerable. He sat 
 well back in his easy-chair, full of complacency 
 and dinner. His fat, white, ringed fingers 
 toyed delicately with his liqueur-glass. His 
 eyes, as he spoke, glanced lovingly toward an 
 awful portfolio a portfolio as bulgy as its 
 owner which rested on a writing-table in a 
 far corner. He was so childish and eager that 
 Hubert felt that it was impossible to be angry 
 with this fatuous poet, although it would be 
 still more impossible to listen to his verses. 
 Hubert was five years younger than the vener- 
 able Archibald, and looked ten years younger. 
 He had the broad, low brow and the luminous 
 eyes that see the humor of things. They had 
 been friends at college, and college friendships 
 stick. 
 
 They only resembled one another in the fact 
 
138 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 that they both wrote verses. Archibald was a 
 fairly rich man, and was about to publish his 
 own works at his own expense in dainty vellum 
 binding. Hubert, although not poor, was 
 much poorer, and quite unpublished. Archi- 
 bald had never suffered a strong passion, had 
 no strange experiences, and no close ties of af- 
 fection; for he had many acquaintances and 
 no near relations. In Archibald's affections, 
 Hubert had told him more than once, Archi- 
 bald himself and his own verses came first, 
 sweet champagne and oily liquors second, 
 chocolate bon-bons third, and the rest nowhere. 
 At which Archibald would smile a fat smile, 
 and say that he was quite prepared to own his 
 devotion to his art. He was so perfectly well 
 satisfied with himself that the laughter or jeers 
 of his friend never affected him, and would not 
 have affected him even if they had not been 
 as they were always uttered good-humoredly. 
 Hubert had been less fortunate than Archibald. 
 He was more sensitive and less sensible. He 
 was susceptible, and had been the fool of more 
 than one woman. At this time he was mar- 
 ried, but separated from his wife. He was re- 
 served on such points, and Archibald never 
 knew that his friend was, or ever had been, 
 married. Hubert was always suffering the re- 
 morse that he was always causing himself ; and 
 yet his frailties were lovable, and he had never 
 
TWO POETS 139 
 
 lost his sweet temper and his geniality. His 
 experiences and sorrows had gone straight 
 through his heart out into his verse. In verse 
 he had found much consolation, but no money. 
 It was not poverty that caused either of the 
 two to write. Vanity compelled Archibald; 
 the desire for comfort moved Hubert. 
 
 Yet with all their differences they remained 
 very good friends. They often dined together, 
 as they had been dining now, in Archibald's 
 chambers. On rare occasions Hubert would 
 allow Archibald to have recourse to the awful 
 portfolio; then Archibald was happy. Hubert 
 never read his own poetry aloud, and his friend 
 only knew that he had written some verses for 
 which he had not been able to find a pub- 
 lisher. 
 
 "Now, my dear fellow," said Archibald, re- 
 peating his request, "I value your opinion. 
 The part I want to read you is the first twenty 
 lines of * The Darkness of Eros.' After that, 
 if you don't want to hear any more, I promise 
 to stop. I read those twenty lines to Smith - 
 son, and he asked me to go on ; and you know 
 Smithson's not the man to be easily pleased." 
 Archibald rose and waddled toward the port- 
 folio like a frightened hen getting home. 
 
 "All nonsense, old man," said Hubert; 
 "you'd had Smithson to dinner." 
 
 "But that's nothing to do with it," replied 
 
140 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 Archibald, fumbling with a bundle of proofs 
 which he had selected from the portfolio. 
 
 "Well, you know, Smithson's mostly used 
 to dining at restaurants, and he can't quite un- 
 derstand a free feed. I can. I like it. But 
 Smithson always has an idea that he's got to 
 pay for his dinner somehow. When he dines 
 with one, he alwaj's admires the pictures and 
 furniture. Of course, he can't admire your 
 Landseers; because, although Smithson's vul- 
 gar, he's not so hopeless as all that. But he 
 praises your poetry instead." 
 
 Archibald smoothed out one long slip on his 
 plump knee. " Now it's just precisely because 
 by a remark like that you show a certain 
 amount" of insight that Smithson doesn't pos- 
 sess that I want you to er now then." 
 
 And before Hubert could stop him he had 
 read the first line : 
 
 "'Shall we sing of the sea-foam that bore thee, the 
 Mother of Love?'" 
 
 " Next line ends in 'dove/ " remarked Hubert 
 waywardly. 
 
 "It does not," said Archibald emphatically. 
 "It ends in 'above.' And you might have 
 had 'grove' or 'shove,' or heaps of things. 
 You spoil it, you know, by talking like that." 
 
 "No, my dear fellow," said Hubert; "it's 
 Smithson who really spoils you. Look here. 
 
TWO POETS 141 
 
 When you read your verses I want to laugh, 
 and that's not right. I'll tell you what I'll do. 
 I'll do something I never did for you before. 
 I'll take that proof home and read it, and give 
 you my detailed opinion of it." 
 
 "You will?" said Archibald, and his eyes 
 brightened as he handed him the proof. " I'm 
 not sure that it would not be better for me to 
 read it ; but, on my word, it's something that you 
 want to read it yourself when you've only heard 
 one line." For it was Archibald's conviction 
 that Hubert must have been attracted by that 
 line to make the proposal. "And you'll give 
 me your opinion of it," he continued, "your 
 candid opinion just what you think, you 
 know?" 
 
 "I will," said Hubert; "but you will publish 
 it just the same, whatever my opinion is." 
 
 "I own that," replied Archibald blandly: 
 "because I have a confidence in that work 
 which I am persuaded is just. " 
 
 "And talking of candid opinions," Hubert 
 went on, with the plain speaking of a very old 
 friend, "this particular mixture of citron and 
 treacle is rather more nasty than I care for. 
 I know it's your taste, but " 
 
 Archibald smiled and touched the bell. 
 Then they fell to talking of the wickedness of 
 wine merchants and publishers and of the 
 beauty of old college-days, until the small 
 
142 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 hours. Hubert was thinking as his cab took 
 him back to his own chambers. He was think- 
 ing of a certain ship of his which had recently 
 come in and which he had long before given 
 up. It would enable him, if he liked, to do 
 precisely what Archibald was doing to publish 
 his own verses at his own expense. 
 
 On the table in his chambers he found a let- 
 ter waiting for him, addressed to him in a fa- 
 miliar feminine hand. It was written on thick, 
 rough-edged paper, and bore a great gilt mon- 
 ogram. She was always adopting fashions, he 
 knew, but they took time in reaching her. 
 There were three sheets, all crossed; and one 
 of them was smeared with cigarette ashes. 
 He glanced through them impatiently and 
 flung them on the fire. Then he took out his 
 check-book, wrote a check, and put it in an en- 
 velope, which he stamped and addressed. 
 
 Then he went to bed with the pleasant con- 
 sciousness that the ship which had come in had 
 now gone out again ; and that the poems would 
 have to wait. 
 
 Yet they ultimately found a publisher. 
 
 Archibald Somers and Hubert Ray both died 
 in the same year. Sixty years afterward a 
 critical work appeared on Archibald Somers. 
 As this critical work expressed what were cer- 
 tainly the general sentiments of the time, some 
 
TWO POETS 143 
 
 of it may be quoted. Besides, it is a little curi- 
 ous: 
 
 "It is to be regretted that Hubert Ray had not the 
 humility to undertake the work of Boswell for John- 
 son ; although he was undoubtedly less than Boswell, 
 even as Somers was undoubtedly greater than Johnson. 
 Had he done so, we might have had a clearer picture 
 of the personality of the finest English poet since Mil- 
 ton. As it is, Archibald Somers is an indistinct fig- 
 ure ; a figure which we love and reverence, but of 
 which we would fain know more. Hubert Ray was 
 too much taken up with his own filthy intrigues, his 
 own morbid rhymes and spiteful lampoons ; he was too 
 much blinded by conceit to see the greatness of his 
 intimate friend. It is a satire on their times that Hu- 
 bert Ray should have found a publisher foolish enough 
 to produce his works for nothing, while Archibald 
 Somers positively had to pay to give the world a work 
 which it now knows to be priceless. It is true that 
 subsequently, even in their life-time, the pre-emi- 
 nence of Somers was acknowledged ; but if we may 
 judge the man from the delicacy of his writing, his 
 modesty would be astounded if he knew alas, he can 
 never know ! the position which he justly holds now 
 among the poets of this land. " 
 
AINIGMATA 
 
 I WANTED the sweep of the wild wet weather, 
 
 The wind's long lash and the rain's free fall, 
 The toss of the trees as they swayed together, 
 
 The measureless gray that was over them all ; 
 Whose roar speaks more than a language spoken ; 
 
 Wordless and wonderful, cry on cry 
 The sob of an earth that is vexed and broken, 
 
 The answering sob of a broken sky. 
 
 What could they tell us? We see them ever 
 
 The trees, and the sky, and the stretch of the 
 
 land; 
 But they give us a word of their secret never ; 
 
 They tell no story we understand. 
 Yet haply the ghost-like birch out yonder 
 
 Knows much in a placid and silent way ; 
 The rain might tell what the gray clouds ponder, 
 
 The winds repeat what the violets say. 
 
 Why weeps the rain? Do you know its sorrow? 
 Do you know why the wind is so sad so 
 sad? 
 
AINIGMATA 145 
 
 Have you stood in the rift 'twixt a day and a 
 
 morrow, 
 Seen their hands meet and their eyes grow 
 
 glad? 
 
 Is the tree's pride stung at its top's abasement? 
 
 Is the white rose more of a saint than the red? 
 
 What thinks the star as it sees through the 
 
 casement 
 
 A young girl lying, beautiful, dead? 
 10 
 
WHITE NIGHTS 
 
 1 THE STORY OF UNA AND ALTERA 
 
 LILIAS, the princess whom all loved, was ill 
 and not able to sleep. We did not know just 
 at first what was the matter with her, and in- 
 deed the court physicians owned that they did 
 not understand her illness. The king, her 
 father, was away at a conference in a distant 
 island, and her two sisters, the Princesses 
 Rosalys and Yseult, grew very anxious. Lilias 
 had always been slight and delicate ; and now 
 every day she seemed to grow more pale and 
 fragile and worn. A very little thing would 
 be a burden to her and make her tired. Yet 
 she kept her beauty; it seemed even to be in- 
 creased, and there was a more pathetic mean- 
 ing in her gray eyes. Her loveliness lay in her 
 rare and wonderful spirituality. It was not 
 the common beauty of a woman; it was the 
 beauty that one would imagine in a saint the 
 reflection in her look of the beautiful soul with- 
 in her. 
 
 To all around her she was as kind and gentle 
 
WHITE NIGHTS 147 
 
 as ever, but one could see that she had lost her 
 interest in things. She would sit, looking out 
 on the sunset or listening to the far-off sound 
 of the sea, saying nothing. We knew that 
 she had some sorrow, and we would have done 
 much anything to have helped her; for she 
 had many lovers, and she always seemed to win, 
 even from quite ordinary men, the best love 
 the love that desires only to give and not to 
 receive. But there was none who would have 
 dared to ask for her confidence. It was very 
 rarely that she spoke of herself. Most women 
 will chatter about their hearts to other women, 
 but the Princess Lilias was not like that. Her 
 share of the more intimate sorrows and joys 
 of humanity was so sacred that even sympathy 
 was in peril of becoming profanation. 
 
 All this should have been nothing to me, the 
 king's fool, the son of a scullion in the royal 
 household, but it happened one night that Lilias 
 said she would like some one to come and tell 
 her stories from time to time, especially on 
 those nights when she could not sleep. It was 
 then that the chief minister told me to hold my- 
 self in readiness; he explained to me that he 
 had no reason to believe I could make up stories 
 myself, but he knew that I was well acquainted 
 with the jests of all lands, and that I might, 
 by drawing from the stores of my memory, be 
 able to be amusing. I was not to tell sad sto- 
 
148 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 ries. My audience was to consist of the three 
 princesses, as a rule. 
 
 I mistrusted my own powers. The Princess 
 Rosalys was quiet, kind, womanly, and I knew 
 that she would not judge my attempts too 
 hardly. Yseult was petulant, wayward, provo- 
 cante, and sometimes bitter of spirit, although 
 she was not able to hurt me. And it seemed 
 impossible to make anything good enough for 
 Lilias to hear; and yet I wanted to try. I was 
 not going to obey the minister's orders and 
 make my stories consist entirely of remembered 
 jests ; for it did not seem to me to be the best 
 kind of sympathy to laugh with those that weep. 
 Yes, I was glad that I was going to be with 
 Lilias; I liked to look at her; indeed, I liked 
 all beautiful and sorrowful things, being des- 
 tined to ugliness and merriment all my days. 
 
 Those days will soon very soon be at an 
 end now. For I who write these words am un- 
 der sentence of death, and together with this 
 account of the white nights of the Princess Lil- 
 ias, I shall be writing the last chapter of my 
 own story, showing how it was that I was con- 
 demned to die. Now, when I was first sum- 
 moned, it was to the great hall, and the prin- 
 cesses were seated near the fire, for it was early 
 in the summer and the nights were still chilly. 
 Lilias was half reclining, looking tired and 
 white, but with her gray eyes wide open. Ho- 
 
WHITE NIGHTS 149 
 
 salys was seated on the ground at her feet, her 
 head resting on her sister's knees. But Yseult 
 sat a little way apart, with laughing eyes, her 
 fingers trembling on the strings of the harp 
 which she had been playing. 
 
 "We await your story, fool," said the dark- 
 haired Yseult. 
 
 " Will you tell us a story, Otho? " asked Ro- 
 salys more gently. 
 
 "A story of children," added Lilias; her 
 voice was more musical and softer. 
 
 " Yes, " I said, " but you must play for me a 
 little while, Yseult, while I think." It was the 
 privilege of the king's fool to be allowed abso- 
 lution from all etiquette. It was generally felt 
 that he did not matter, and I said what I would. 
 " Will you play for me? " 
 
 She showed her little white teeth. "Why 
 should I play for you, fool? Yes, I will," she 
 added petulantly. " What shall it be? " 
 
 " Searching music music that goes away to 
 look baffled music." 
 
 "But you are reasonable, fool. You ask a 
 light thing an easy thing." 
 
 And, being wayward, she would not play as 
 I had asked her. She made music that laughed 
 and laughed; and suddenly it found out that 
 all was too sad to laugh about, and went sob- 
 bing away and hid itself. She looked at me 
 proudly when she had finished, knowing that 
 
150 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 she had played well and thinking that I would 
 praise her. But I stood leaning against the 
 high mantelpiece, with my eyes on the gray 
 eyes of Lilias. 
 
 The silence was pleasant; pleasant too was 
 the dim light and the fragrance of the logs 
 that smouldered on the open hearth. For a 
 moment I said nothing, and then standing 
 there I began the story of Una and Altera. 
 
 Some people thought that Mark, the king of 
 Mirage, was eccentric; others considered him 
 to be wise ; but to most he seemed brutal. He 
 had a queer temper, soured, but with a streak 
 of tenderness in it. 
 
 He would frequently make theories on the 
 spur of the moment, which were not good ; he 
 also clung to them, as a rule, and acted upon 
 them, which was still worse. 
 
 One day, when he was a young man and 
 had not been long on the throne, he was talking 
 to his chief counsellor. And the chief coun- 
 sellor happened to say something on the subject 
 of education. It was enough; it started Mark. 
 
 " No looking-glasses ! " Mark said suddenly, 
 "and- no portraits! They are the ruin of all 
 education, and 'Know thyself is the worst ad- 
 vice that ever was given. Why am I self-con- 
 scious? Looking-glasses and portraits are the 
 reason. Why are you you will excuse me 
 
WHITE NIGHTS 151 
 
 so outrageously affected? Once more look- 
 ing-glasses and portraits. " For Mark was not 
 good-looking, but the chief counsellor had a 
 very fine open countenance. 
 
 The chief counsellor moved his shoulders 
 just a very little and made his eyebrows ex- 
 pressive. 
 
 "One must brush one's hair sometimes," .he 
 said deprecatingly, "and without a looking- 
 glass " 
 
 "I don't see the necessity," interrupted the 
 king. " Besides, with a little practice you can 
 do even that without a looking-glass. I always 
 brush my hair without a looking-glass." This 
 had been moderately obvious, but the chief 
 counsellor did not like to allude to it. " When 
 I am married and have a son," the king went 
 on, "I will not allow him even to know of the 
 existence of such things as looking-glasses or 
 portraits. He shall never see his own face un- 
 til his character is formed." 
 
 "Were you thinking of getting married? " 
 asked the chief counsellor, by way of chang- 
 ing the subject. 
 
 "I was." 
 
 " Might I" the chief counsellor hesitated 
 "might I ask if you have already honored 
 any woman with your love? " 
 
 " You might, but it has nothing to do with 
 it. Immortals! You don't think I would 
 
152 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 marry any woman that I really loved. Would 
 you drink Lafite out of a stable-bucket? " 
 
 " No, but I should like to own enough of it to 
 last me my life- time." 
 
 "And marriage does not last a life-time," 
 the king broke in impetuously. " Love does, 
 if you don't marry. Marriage, sooner or later, 
 at the best changes love into that nauseous 
 wholesome affection you have for your dog or 
 your father. Oh, you're an ordinary person! 
 You simply darent be new." 
 
 The chief counsellor might have retorted 
 that the king "simply daren't" be anything 
 else. But he did not. He sighed and with- 
 drew. 
 
 Shortly afterward the king acted on one of 
 his theories. He married a woman he did not 
 love in the least. He told her so. " I like you 
 because you're fairly pretty and good-tempered," 
 he said. " I don't love you, and I never shall, 
 because our souls don't touch at any point. 
 You couldn't possibly love me, because I hap- 
 pen to be horrible in most ways. But business 
 is business. You probably would like to be a 
 queen, and I have the vacancy to offer. To- 
 day week would suit me very well. If you've 
 any engagement for that day don't mind say- 
 ing so, and I'll find somebody else." 
 
 Curiously enough, this particular woman did 
 love Mark loved him very badly. It is still 
 
WHITE NIGHTS 153 
 
 more curious, seeing that she loved him, that 
 she should have married him after such a pro- 
 posal as this. " But, " she thought, " I will never 
 let him see that I love him until I have made 
 him love me." She never did let him find 
 out her love for him, and, as a natural conse- 
 quence, he never loved her ; a little less nobility 
 would have made her happier. After a year 
 she bore him a daughter and died, and King 
 Mark walked up and down the long gallery out- 
 side the room where she was lying dead, curs- 
 ing his dead wife and all women, for he had 
 greatly desired to have a son. 
 
 He bade the women of the palace to take 
 charge of the child and call her Una. He gave 
 minute instructions about her education; she 
 was never to see the reflection of herself in a 
 mirror, or polished metal, or water ; there were 
 to be no pictures whatever in the rooms where 
 she lived. She was not to know that there 
 were any such things. His orders were carried 
 out with exactitude. People mostly had a 
 habit of obeying King Mark. For seven years 
 the king never saw his daughter: he went 
 away to the wars, and absolutely refused to sit 
 in a tent of cloth-of-gold three miles away from 
 the scene of action, drinking sack and being 
 styled Most Puissant. That kind of thing did 
 not amuse him ; he wanted fighting. He was 
 not a good swordsman, but he came out safely 
 
154 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 from all his battles. " You have brought back 
 your life and your honor," said the chief coun- 
 sellor. "And I do not want either," answered 
 King Mark. "I only want one thing, and I 
 shall never have it." 
 
 One day he suddenly entered that wing of 
 the house where his daughter Una lived. He 
 was shown the room where she was ; he opened 
 the door and entered. She had no dolls, be- 
 cause they were considered to be contrary to the 
 spirit of the king's regulations. She was read- 
 ing in a big illuminated missal, for she had no 
 companions and no games, and had been all 
 her time learning things. The illuminations 
 had been very carefully selected. There was 
 no butterfly, nor bird, nor flower depicted there- 
 in. The king sat down with his elbows on 
 his knees and his chin in his hands, looking 
 at her. She was very beautiful; there was 
 sunlight in her hair ; there was sunlight in her 
 eyes ; her smile was sunlight. As soon as she 
 saw the king she put the missal aside, and 
 without the least shyness or embarrassment 
 came toward him. She took both his hands in 
 her own and kissed him. " You are my dear- 
 est Mark," she said, "and I have never seen 
 you before. They have told me of you. You 
 have been away fighting. That is grand. The 
 more you fight the more I will love you." 
 
 King Mark was enraptured. He was espe- 
 
WHITE NIGHTS 155 
 
 cially pleased that Una called him by his name 
 and not by the commonplace style of the com- 
 monplace relationship. He stayed a long time 
 with her, and found her most bright and affec- 
 tionate and free from self-consciousness. He 
 told her stories and she told him stories in re- 
 turn, using free dramatic gestures. "Now I 
 must go, Una, " he said at last. " Is there any- 
 thing I can do for you anything you want? " 
 
 "You, you and your stories," she answered. 
 "You tell them as if you hated people and 
 wanted to fight them, and it's grand." 
 
 So the king went away madly exalted. In 
 the corridor he met the grave chief counsellor. 
 
 " Counsellor, " he cried joyously, " is there 
 anything in the world that you want? " 
 
 "The Order of the Innermost has not yet 
 been conferred upon me." This had always 
 been a sore point with the chief counsellor. 
 
 "You shall have it," shouted the king, and 
 passed on. He next met Una's governess. 
 " Una's governess, tell me is there anything 
 in the world that you want? " he asked. 
 
 "Nothing, O king nothing for myself. 
 But, oh, that poor Una ! That poor child ! " and 
 she burst into tears. 
 
 " Come with me and explain yourself, " said 
 the king. And he took her to the room where 
 he never did any work, and which was conse- 
 quently called his study. There the governess 
 
156 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 explained. Una was so beautiful and had no 
 chance of knowing her own beauty the great- 
 est joy that child or woman can have. " And 
 I mayn't speak to her of it. Can't she have 
 just one looking-glass? " The king thought for 
 a moment and replied : " She shall have a large 
 looking-glass, and I will take her to see her 
 reflection in it. But you must go on as before 
 and never speak to her of such things." 
 "Thank you," said the governess. "Women 
 do need a looking-glass." She herself was as 
 ugly as an unromantic virtue. 
 
 On the following day the king had one end 
 of a little room entirely covered with looking- 
 glass. Four yards in front of the looking-glass 
 a silk cord was stretched across the room. He 
 had a fresh lock put on the door with a little 
 silver key to it. Then he bound over the work- 
 men to secrecy and went to find Una. " Una," 
 he said, " I have a secret to tell you. It is not 
 generally known, but you are one of twins. 
 Your sister is rather like you, and I always 
 have her dressed exactly like you. Her name 
 is Altera." 
 
 " I have always wanted a sister a sweet sis- 
 ter. May I not see her? " 
 
 "Yes, under certain conditions. There are 
 state reasons. I will take you to a room where 
 she is. You must not speak to her, nor she to 
 you as yet ; you may make signs, and if she 
 
WHITE NIGHTS 157 
 
 loves you she will copy them exactly; if you 
 smile at her she will smile at you. You must 
 not go beyond the silken cord which is stretched 
 across your part of the room, and she will not 
 go beyond the cord which is stretched across 
 her part. And you must not say a word about 
 it to any one. " 
 
 The child excitedly promised obedience. 
 The king had arranged the light in the looking- 
 glass room it was generally called the red 
 room so that it should be soft and dim. " I 
 shall wait outside," said the king. " You must 
 only stay for a few seconds." 
 
 So Una went in, and the king waited out- 
 side with mad humor shooting out of his eyes. 
 Presently Una came out again. 
 
 "Oh!" she cried eagerly, "how I love her! 
 How I love her. My sweetest, dearest Altera ! 
 She is far far more beautiful than I am. And 
 she must love me, too, because she made all the 
 signs and so quickly. When may I speak to 
 her and kiss her? I am really happy now that 
 I have Altera. Oh, she is sweet! " 
 
 Then the humor all went out of the king's 
 eyes, and great wonder came into them. " Go 
 away, Una, for a little while," he said. "I 
 want to think." 
 
 He went out and stretched himself in the 
 long grass and felt half -frightened at the thing 
 that he had done. And a little brown snake 
 
158 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 came through the grass and bit him, and he 
 died. 
 
 There was great lamentation in the palace. 
 The chief counsellor, at the close of the next 
 day, went to find Una in her own room and 
 comfort her. She had been crying all day and 
 her face was tear-stained. As soon as he en- 
 tered, before he could say anything, she spoke : 
 
 " Have you told Altera? " * 
 
 "Who is Altera?" asked the counsellor 
 blankly. 
 
 "No, you don't understand. I thought you 
 would not. You have the king's keys there. 
 Give me the little silver key and follow me to 
 the red room." The child already spoke im- 
 periously, like a queen. "Take that taper, 
 please. I may be able to tell you about Altera 
 directly." 
 
 At the door of the red room Una took the 
 taper and entered, bidding the counsellor wait 
 outside. He left the door ajar and listened. 
 This is what he heard : 
 
 "They told you then, sweetest Altera, and 
 you were coming to comfort me. I love you 
 for that. You must not cry any more, because 
 you are so beautiful, and it spoils you. I want 
 to kiss you and have you in my arms. Speak ! 
 Speak ! It can't matter now that he is dead. 
 See, I undo the cord and you do so too. I 
 put down my taper and you put down yours. 
 
WHITE NIGHTS 159 
 
 Speak to me ! Come, I can wait no longer. I 
 must go to you. Ah! you come to me. 
 Quickly! Quickly!" 
 
 Then there was a cry a crash of glass a 
 fall a low moan and silence. 
 
 " When talk sends you to sleep silence wakes 
 you," said Yseult, with a little yawn. 
 
 "Thank you, Otho," said Rosalys. 
 
 " What made you think of that story? " asked 
 Lilias. 
 
 " You did, " I answered, and withdrew from 
 their presence. 
 
 2 THE STORY OF THE FERRYMAN 
 
 A FEW days after I had told my first story, 
 there began to be some little talk about the Prin- 
 cess Lilias. There were hints and murmurs, 
 and the burden of them was that all would be 
 well with her again when the prince came back. 
 I knew that they spoke of the Prince Hilaro. 
 He had come from over seas, from the Isle of 
 Storm, to our court and had stayed with us for 
 a while. I saw him often then, and yet it is 
 hard to describe him. He was young and 
 tall ; body and soul he was made of beauty, and 
 brightness, and strength. All his days he 
 had lived the life of a knight and of a saint, 
 and all the great deeds that he had done, and 
 all his long endurances and hardships, and all 
 
100 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 high and spiritual thoughts, seemed to have 
 given something to the beauty of his face. 
 He was made perfect. There was no fear in 
 him, and no vanity, and nothing that was not 
 noble. He had no idea that he was great, and 
 to all except himself he was kind. When he 
 was with us, there were some who thought 
 that he loved Lilias. I, the king's fool, had 
 thought it. But he had gone back again to his 
 home in the Isle of Storm, and had said noth- 
 ing. None of us had supposed that Lilias loved 
 him ; she seemed above all love. 
 
 Yet now we heard that the king had left the 
 conference and had gone on to the court in the 
 Isle of Storm. Despatches were received, and 
 the old ministers whispered together. Folks 
 said that Prince Hilaro was coming again, and 
 that all would be well when the prince came 
 back. 
 
 One night I was bidden to come to the sum- 
 mer-house that the king had built for the prin- 
 cesses in the part of the palace gardens which 
 was called the wilderness. The three prin- 
 cesses were waiting for me there. Lilias stood 
 by the window ; she was in shadow ; yet once 
 I saw her eyes, looking prayers, as it seemed, 
 at the strewn stars, for it was a glorious, fair 
 night. Perhaps her thoughts were for a time 
 far away with Prince Hilaro. Yseult, with 
 flashing eyes and lips pressed close together, 
 
WHITE NIGHTS 161 
 
 touched very softly the strings of her harp. 
 She made it whisper curses. Then came a scrap 
 of a wild song. Rosalys, who was seated by 
 her side, started a little and said : 
 
 "That is horrible, Yseult do not sing it. 
 But but yes, I must hear the rest of it. Go 
 on. Sing ! " 
 
 Yseult turned to me, instead of answering 
 Rosalys. "Listen, fool," she said, "listen. 
 This is called the 'Song of Hate/ and I love it. 
 See, the symphony begins a beautiful witch' 
 woman, red-lipped, starving-eyed, passionate, 
 looking out into the storm." Suddenly she 
 began to sing. The music was the wickedest 
 music I ever heard in my life. Here are the 
 words : 
 
 " My eyes look out on the storm and night, 
 And my heart is mad with fierce delight ; 
 By my spells have I worked their fate aright 
 I have worked the deaths of my brothers three. 
 
 " They took my lover from my side ; 
 There were flashing swords, and a voice that cried ; 
 At the hands of the cowards my lover died 
 Dead, dead ere the dawn they'll bel 
 
 "One's gone to sea with his merchandise ; 
 One's gone to war where the red flag flies ; 
 One sits reading, to make him wise 
 Such men are my brothers three. 
 11 
 
162 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 " One for his merchandise wins gold ; 
 One in the battle would fain be bold ; 
 One learns secrets manifold 
 Dead, dead ere the dawn they'll be! 
 
 "There's storm and wreck on the sea to-night; 
 There's a blade that circles swift and bright ; 
 There's lightning to strike with a falchion white 
 These things wait for my brothers three. 
 
 " The trader will die in storm and wrack ; 
 And the soldier will fall and no more come back ; 
 And the third will be horrible, burned and black 
 Dead, dead ere the dawn they'll be! " 
 
 Over the harp-strings, breathless and swift, 
 upward, upward, louder and louder leaped the 
 storm-music; and suddenly stopped, as though 
 stabbed by a quick thrust, trembled, and was 
 still ; and out of the awful hush, slowly, like a 
 thing that has been crushed and hurt, crept the 
 melody once more whispering, sobbing : 
 
 " Oh, my dead lover, come ! I fall ! 
 I die, and do not hear thee call ; 
 I see thy face no more at all 
 Come in this darkness come to me ! 
 
 " It was for thee I wrought the spell 
 That even now is working well 
 For their three lives my soul in hell 
 Dead, dead ere the dawn I'll be !" 
 
 The music had us all by the throat. No one 
 spoke. I had never heard Yseult sing so effec- 
 
WHITE NIGHTS 163 
 
 lively, so dramatically before. ""At the last note 
 she rose quickly, and stood for a second sway- 
 ing, with fluttering breath. Rosalys was 
 watching her anxiously. Then like a blind 
 woman, as if she were finding her way by in- 
 stinct, with hands outstretched, Yseult made 
 her way across the room to Lilias, and flung 
 her arms about her waist, letting her head 
 droop. They stood there in the shadow to- 
 gether against the window, and Lilias said 
 something to her, gently, as one soothes a child. 
 I did not hear nor try to hear what it was. 
 Rosalys looked nervous questions at me. Yes, 
 I had nearly been present at a little scene, and 
 that was not as it should be. 
 
 Presently they left the window and sat down 
 by Rosalys. " Otho," said Lilias, " will you tell 
 us a story a quiet story? " 
 
 " Yes, do, Otho, " said Yseult. She had sung 
 the spirit out of her, and there were tears in 
 her eyes I do not know why I cannot under- 
 stand women. She had forgotten to be scorn- 
 ful. 
 
 This was my story : 
 
 On the western side of Philistia lie the Great 
 Marshes. Stretches of wet sand flash to a sun- 
 setting ; and there are broad sheets of water and 
 little pools; and all is flat, and desolate, and 
 
164 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 still. And on the outskirts of the Great Marsh- 
 es runs a very wide river, tired, and sliding 
 slowly. There is an island in it with two tall 
 trees on the island where the herons build, and 
 further down the river is a ferry and the ferry- 
 man's cottage. 
 
 It was lonely for the ferryman, because he 
 had none other living with him in the cottage. 
 The scenery did its best to be diversified, but it 
 was a poor, flat thing ; and he could not talk to 
 it, of course. Sometimes for days he would 
 hear no human voice, because there would be no 
 one going to Philistia or coming from it by way 
 of the Great Marshes. On those days it seemed 
 hard to him that the birds on their island should 
 be happy, or that the sun should be bright, or 
 that the long tremble of the moon by night 
 should turn the marshes to a golden dream. 
 Sometimes he would speak to himself : 
 
 "Why do you go on doing it? The light 
 will come and the darkness will follow with its 
 sleep, whether you live or die. And all will be 
 the same, whether you live or die. For if you 
 died another would come to row the folk across 
 the wide river, one who would perhaps have 
 wife and child to make a sweetness of this soli- 
 tude. Why do you go on? " 
 
 Or he would speak to the river : 
 
 " River, why do you go on ? Do you not know 
 what will be the end of it the awful, limitless 
 
WHITE NIGHTS 165 
 
 sea where you will be lost, lost? Why did you 
 come this way? Why did you not pass through 
 the city four miles yonder where there are 
 children, and love, and laughter? Poor river, 
 you could not help yourself, just as no man can 
 help himself. The tilt of the land for you and 
 the set of circumstances for me ; and we both 
 go on." 
 
 On the other side of the river, nearer to Phil- 
 istia, there stood a tall tower, and in the tower 
 there hung a great bell ; so that those who came 
 from Philistia and would cross the wide river 
 might make the bell speak. Far away on his 
 side the ferryman could hear the bell, and would 
 bring his boat to take the folk across. 
 
 Now one night he lay awake, obeying that 
 wise ordinance by which the more a man wishes 
 to sleep and forget, the more it is absolutely 
 certain that he will lie awake and think. And 
 suddenly he heard in the distance on the other 
 side of the river the bell clanging irregularly. 
 
 "It is a woman," he thought to himself. 
 Hurriedly he dressed, and pulled his heavy old 
 boat across over the still river to the landing- 
 stage. There was a lantern burning there all 
 night, and by its light he saw on the lowest 
 step a woman standing a strange figure. 
 
 She had an imperious face, but the pride of 
 her gray eyes and firm mouth was touched and 
 softened by weariness and sorrow. Over her 
 
166 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 hair and shoulders she had flung something of 
 silver and gray ; her dress was white and gold, 
 and the train of it was flung over one arm ; he 
 could see tiny silken shoes and the flash of gems 
 on the buckles. She was splendid in the lan- 
 tern light, with the screen of dark trees behind 
 her that hid the roadway. But what did she 
 alone by night in such attire? 
 
 She stepped into the boat, saying nothing, 
 and seated herself in the stern of it. The ferry- 
 man, half-dazed with wonder, began to pull 
 slowly back again with his precious cargo of 
 gems and beauty, when he heard the sound of 
 wheels dying away in the distance on the road 
 that the dark trees hid. " It is the carriage that 
 brought her," he thought. When they had 
 reached the middle of the river, she spoke at 
 last. Her voice was a voice to move men. 
 
 "Kow no farther," she said. "Let the boat 
 drift; and in an hour's time take me back once 
 more to the landing-stage. My carriage will 
 have returned, and will be waiting in the 
 road." 
 
 He bowed his head and did as she bade 
 him, and said nothing. With every tone of 
 her voice and with every glance of her gray 
 eyes the world was changing for him. And it 
 would all be for an hour for an hour only. 
 She began to speak once more : 
 
 "Did I wake you? No? I was so weary of 
 
WHITE NIGHTS 167 
 
 it all. Every night in the city yonder it is the 
 same for me dance, and mask, and pageantry ; 
 crowds, and brilliancy, and glare, and empti- 
 ness." She laughed softly to herself; and it 
 was to herself that she seemed to be speaking 
 when she continued : " To-night I slipped away 
 unnoticed. It was intolerable, it was stifling. 
 And I thought of this wide, silent river four 
 miles away ; I thought that the quiet, the cool- 
 ness, the drifting, would be sweet for an hour. 
 Perhaps even now they are wondering won- 
 dering." The night was sultry, and she flung 
 off the shawl of silver and gray; the white 
 moonlight covered her ; the diamonds sparkled 
 in her hair and on her white neck. 
 
 There was a long spell of silence, and then 
 she made the ferryman speak of the ways of 
 birds, of the sandy ridge a mile away, high 
 above the sea, where the yellow poppies grew ; 
 of the legend about the ghost-moth ; of his cot- 
 tage ; of himself. " Alone? " she said ; " always 
 alone? Almost I would that I were you. You 
 cannot think how in the end the monotonous 
 brightness of life wearies and hurts one." She 
 did not know what she was doing with her 
 words and her perfect presence. And the talk 
 went on, broken by easy silences. 
 
 A dark thought came to the ferryman. He 
 could not live with her, with this woman for 
 whom he seemed to have been waiting all his 
 
168 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 life, for one more hour. But it would not be 
 hard to die with her, going down under the 
 sliding waters. No, he would not mar what he 
 could not make. 
 
 And at last, as they neared the landing-stage 
 again, something seemed to tell her that it would 
 be kinder not to pay this man in the usual 
 way. "I want to give you something," she 
 said. " Let me give you a new boat ; this is so 
 old." 
 
 He shook his head. His eyes were fixed on 
 the purple flowers dying in the gemmed clasp 
 at her breast. " May I have those flowers? " he 
 asked. 
 
 Amusement touched the corners of her mouth. 
 He was the third man who had asked her for 
 them that night. "You may not," she said 
 shortly. Two servants were waiting at the 
 landing-stage, and helped her from the boat. 
 She had grown a little angry, and she whispered 
 a word to one of the servants. In obedience the 
 man flung a couple of gold pieces half-contempt- 
 uously into the ferryman's boat. The ferry- 
 man murmured a word of mechanical thanks 
 and pulled back to the cottage. He made the 
 boat fast. As it lay there, the moonlight fell 
 on the gold pieces still lying at the bottom of 
 the boat. 
 
 And the ferryman went into his cottage and 
 threw himself once more upon his bed. "If 
 
WHITE NIGHTS 169 
 
 there is any mercy any mercy," he cried, "I 
 shall die this night." 
 
 He did not die ; and the nights, and days, and 
 loneliness went on as before ; and nothing was 
 changed. 
 
 As I went back alone from the summer-house 
 to the palace, Lilias came up with me and 
 walked a few steps by my side, in silence, down 
 the great avenue. And then she put one hand 
 lightly on my shoulder : 
 
 "You are not very happy, Otho, are you? " 
 she said gently. 
 
 I tried to speak, but my voice choked me. I 
 shook my head. 
 
 "Nor I, "she said, "nor I." 
 
 3 THE STORY OF SYBIL 
 
 I WANDERED aimlessly out into that part of 
 the gardens which was called the Wilderness. 
 I had not been bidden to come to the princesses 
 that night; and it seemed that by this time 
 all within the palace were sleeping, for all the 
 lights were out. The day had been stifling and 
 noisy ; but now beyond the palace, in the ter- 
 raced gardens and right away to the stretch of 
 sleeping hills, there were cool, quiet hours. A 
 shy wind red-lipped, as I fancied, from secret 
 kisses of flowers came stealing out, as though 
 
170 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 it had been afraid to come by day, lest it should 
 meet people who would not understand it. I 
 could hear the fall of the fountain, as it whis- 
 pered love-stories to the ghost-stars reflected in 
 its dark basin. Suddenly in the plantation, a 
 little farther off, an owl hooted. It was like 
 the cry of a mad woman. Then once more 
 there were only murmurs whisper of wind, 
 and trees, and water. 
 
 Over the patient crouching hills came the 
 moon, like a golden spirit flying slowly in its 
 sleep. The light fell brightly on the gardens of 
 the palace. 
 
 And now I stood at one side of a broad lawn, 
 and on the farther side was the plantation. 
 All day Lilias had been in my thoughts, and I 
 knew by sympathy that she was in the night ; I 
 was not startled when I saw her come out from 
 the darkness of yonder trees on to the lawn. 
 She was all in white a peaceful figure. She 
 had seen me, and came toward me, stretch- 
 ing out both hands. " Otho," she said, " Otho, 
 you too? I am glad, because I want a story. 
 Rosalys and Yseult are sleeping, and I thought 
 that I could not send for you because it was so 
 late. Tell me a story to take me from my 
 thoughts." 
 
 We walked together to an old stone seat under 
 the trees. She sat down there, and I stretched 
 myself on the grass at her feet, waiting to see 
 
WHITE NIGHTS 171 
 
 my story that I was to tell her. I looked out 
 into the night and then upward to her. The 
 scent of the white flowers that she wore came 
 down to me ; almost I heard her thoughts. And 
 all the world seemed a mist of dreams and pict- 
 ures, and she alone was real. Life was like a 
 tense string of a 'cello, touched steadily by the 
 bow, vibrating, pleading. Suddenly I became 
 conscious that she was speaking to me. I fancy 
 she was asking me if I were tired, if I would 
 rather not tell her a story that night. 
 "No, no," I said, "I see the story now." 
 
 There was once a girl-child who had very 
 little luck indeed. She had six sisters all of a 
 larger size and of a more comely appearance 
 than herself, who loved her and were rather 
 amused at her. For she was always demurely 
 sad; and yet obviously wanted to be happy, 
 and thought a good deal about different ways to 
 be happy. 
 
 "I'm afraid she's not a very pretty child," 
 said the eldest sister, who was a beauty. " Poor 
 little Sybil! she will feel that when she 
 grows up." 
 
 This was true. The Fates had given Sybil 
 short red hair, and freckles, and a curious, sal- 
 low little face that had lots of thoughts in it but 
 no dimples. 
 
172 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 When she was quite a small child her sisters 
 gave her a large doll which was all that mech- 
 anism and wax could be. "That's to make 
 you happy," said the eldest sister. 
 
 u Is it? " said Sybil ; " thank you." She took 
 the large doll and squeezed its waist according 
 to instructions, and thereout came something 
 like a very bad quack. 
 
 "It's saying 'papa,' " exclaimed the second 
 sister. 
 
 " Is it? " said Sybil ; " thank you." Then she 
 kissed the large doll on a portion of its face. 
 Now the large doll was very cold and tasted 
 very much of paint, and did not kiss her back 
 again. 
 
 "Thank you all very much," said Sybil. 
 " And I like you for being so kind to me. But 
 the doll's not not IT." 
 
 "What's IT? " asked the third sister. 
 
 "I don't know the thing I want most 
 badly." 
 
 "We can all of us kiss you," explained the 
 eldest sister, " and we like kissing you, if that's 
 IT." 
 
 Sybil shook her head. " If you couldn't kiss 
 me couldn't anyhow and yet somehow did, I 
 believe that would be something like IT." 
 
 And at this Sybil's six sisters smiled amusedly 
 and said she was a queer child, and let her be. 
 And years passed ; and Sybil went on being de- 
 
WHITE NIGHTS 173 
 
 murely sad she never grumbled ; and she grew 
 taller, and older, but not prettier. On her four- 
 teenth birthday she had not yet found what she 
 wanted, and did not yet know what it was. 
 She went out into the garden and walked to 
 an archway where the sun was blazing. Round 
 the archway clematis grew, and one grand pur- 
 ple flower touched her cheek as she went under 
 the archway. She stopped short and picked it, 
 and held it out a little way from her in the 
 bright sunlight. 
 
 "You do know me well," she said. She was 
 sometimes rather shy in speaking her thoughts 
 to her sisters; but to inarticulate beauty she 
 would often speak freely. " And if I knew you 
 as well, that would be almost almost IT." 
 
 Then she put the flower in her dress. Her 
 eldest sister saw it there. " I wouldn't wear 
 purple flowers, if I were you, Sybil; you see 
 your hair's " 
 
 "Yes, yes don't," said Sybil piteously. "I 
 know you're right I won't wear them any 
 more." And she gave the purple flower to her 
 sister, whom it suited admirably. And the 
 sister being pleased offered to kiss Sybil. 
 
 " No not now, " pleaded Sybil. 
 
 " What a quaint child you are ! Why not? " 
 
 "Because because it wouldn't make any 
 difference," said Sybil, laughing as she went 
 away; and she went straight upstairs to her 
 
174 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 own room and lay down on her bed and cried 
 bitterly without knowing why. 
 
 Two more years passed, and many things 
 happened. Four of her sisters got married 
 and one of them died. And the one that died 
 was the happiest, though that has nothing to 
 do with the story. So Sybil was left now with 
 only one sister, whose name was Helen. At 
 sixteen years old Sybil wanted IT more than 
 ever, and yet she did not know what it was. 
 And one day she was reading some queer verses 
 called "Values," by a man who had failed at 
 verse and quite a variety of other things. And 
 these verses, not good enough to quote, made 
 some impression upon her. They told that 
 when work was all done and all ridiculed, when 
 you were left out, passed by, or even execrated, 
 when you saw that you had done your best and 
 that nobody thought it was worth having done 
 you need not care if there was one that one 
 to tell you not to mind, because she knew and 
 understood. Sybil read these verses several 
 times, and it seemed to her that the man who 
 wrote them must have known IT. 
 
 She was not seventeen when she first knew. 
 She saw a man falling in love with her sister 
 Helen, and she saw her sister fall very much in 
 love with the man. And for Sybil this man 
 was the one that one. The whole thing 
 dawned on her one evening an evening that 
 
WHITE NIGHTS 175 
 
 she had got through somehow, she hardly knew 
 how. Only she was glad when the man had 
 gone from the house, and she had said good- 
 night to Helen and found refuge in her own 
 room. For a time she stood before her window, 
 lonely, trembling, hardly daring to think. Then 
 she turned to a bowl of flowers on her table and 
 took out one. It was the ugliest flower there, a 
 rose of an unpleasant pink color, very hard and 
 knob-like, with hardly any fragrance. She 
 chose it because it was such an ugly, forsaken 
 little monstrosity. And she whispered to it all 
 her story her ordinary, commonplace story 
 that yet hurt her just as much as if it had been 
 a novelty and worth putting in a book. " Now 
 go to sleep," she said, as she put the rose back 
 in the bowl, "and don't tell the other flowers." 
 She was wondering if it were possible that ugly, 
 deformed rose had the same kind of trouble. 
 
 In spite of trouble she slept for an hour, and 
 woke up to find with a kind of surprise that the 
 world was going on just the same. "Yes," 
 she sighed, " that will be the worst to go on as 
 if nothing had happened, when it's just every- 
 thing for me that has happened ; and not to let 
 Helen see; not to let any one even guess." 
 
 And blessed are the ugly failures who have 
 feelings, for their days are generally long in 
 the land. Sybil lived to be an old maid and 
 grew a shade uglier, and was thought by some 
 
176 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 to be rather cantankerous. She was only rather 
 heart-broken. 
 
 Far away in the East a new day was begin- 
 ning. 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Lilias, " it is hard for women 
 who are not beautiful and yet have hearts. It's 
 harder always for women than for men. " 
 
 We walked back together toward the palace. 
 I wonder whether what she said was true if 
 such things really are harder for women. 
 
 4 THE STORY OF THE CAPTIVE 
 
 OUR good, erratic king had come back again 
 from the Isle of Storm. He looked as if he 
 knew things and as if they pleased him. But 
 he was taken with an unusual fit of discretion 
 and said nothing. Sometimes I noticed Lilias 
 looking wistfully at him, as if she had expected 
 a message. Yet there were the old rumors 
 rumors that the Prince Hilaro was coming back 
 to us once more, for the love he had of Lilias ; 
 and that all would be well when the prince 
 came back. 
 
 The rich summer days went by in a beautiful 
 adagio. By day the sun was hot and the air 
 was still ; there was a patience in everything, 
 a waiting for something to come. The green 
 stalks, growing all together, were happy, yet 
 
WHITE NIGHTS 177 
 
 longing; for they knew they would be golden 
 and happier soon. The leaves of the lime-trees 
 were passionate with innumerable bright trem- 
 blings. '* Yes, we will wait," they said. "We 
 will wait quite calmly. But, oh ! to fall gently 
 down on to the dark, fragrant earth, and to lie 
 there in cool brown quiet until the feet of the 
 little children pass through and make us a rus- 
 tling music for their pleasure ! " But in the 
 evening the clouds were sorrowful because the 
 sun had loved them kissed them until they 
 were crimson and now he was going away. 
 And at night in the plantation the nightingale 
 sang, " To be beloved is the only joy ; and to 
 love is the only sorrow ; but the miracle that 
 passes music comes when that joy and sorrow 
 meet. The silence of it is silence on fire." The 
 frogs heard it and croaked, " Utterly morbid ! 
 utterly morbid ! " They had the trained critical 
 taste, those frogs. Yet the nightingale, who 
 did not sing exclusively for publication, went 
 on : " Come to me, fiery silence ! Come to me 
 now ! For of sorrow, sorrow only, I am a- weary. 
 Come to rne ! " 
 
 On one of these warm summer nights the 
 princesses and I were together in the south 
 room. The windows were open ; and the moon- 
 light came just into the room, blending curi- 
 ously with the faint yellow glow from the 
 hanging lamp. The great mastiff, that belonged 
 12 
 
178 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 to Kosalys, was stretched at the feet of its mis- 
 tress, asleep. Yseult lay back upon deep cush- 
 ions, her hands clasped behind her head ; there 
 was generally a pretty kind of insolence in her 
 look, but to-night her eyes seem softer. Since 
 that night when she sang I had liked her better 
 for all her petulance and waywardness. And 
 of Lilias it is not easy to speak. For although 
 she was always beautiful, at certain times her 
 beauty was more eloquent than at others. The 
 gray eyes go to Paradise; her eyes to-night 
 seemed as though already they saw within the 
 gates. 
 
 I have often wondered that I dared to tell 
 Lilias any stories at all. 
 
 This was the story that I told her: 
 
 "And so," said the king not unkindly, "they 
 took you away, did they? " 
 
 He was a young king and quite new to the 
 conquering business. His father, whom he 
 had succeeded, had done well at it. His minis- 
 ters had told him that it was among the dearest 
 traditions of his country. So he had done a 
 little just a very little conquering ; and now 
 he was trying to look at it from the point of 
 view of the conquered. He was talking it over 
 with one of the captives. The captive whom 
 he had chosen for this purpose was a woman, 
 
WHITE NIGHTS 179 
 
 young and most wickedly beautiful. He was a 
 king, but he was also a man. 
 
 The king and the captive were alone together. 
 It was a quaint room, hung with dim tapestries, 
 lit by tapers placed in little groups. There 
 were spots of light in the room, and corners 
 where the shadows were deep and dark. There 
 were rugs lying loosely on the black polished 
 floor. The king himself was lounging care- 
 lessly in the deep window-seat; he had the 
 curious, half -reckless look that comes from too 
 much happiness and success. Behind him were 
 the leaded, diamond-shaped panes of greenish 
 glass. Old trees growing just outside stretched 
 thin arms and tapped lightly on the glass when 
 the wind blew ; behind the trees one saw a flat 
 country meeting a deep gray sky with a young 
 moon in it and as many stars as it wanted. 
 The captive had stretched herself at full length 
 on a low couch in a recess of the room, facing 
 the king. There was the grace of an untrained 
 flower about her. Her hair was midnight, her 
 eyes were all sleep and fire with long dark 
 lashes; her lips were red. She was pale, almost 
 dusky no pink-and-white beauty. Her dress 
 was scarlet and gold, a barbaric dress ; but it 
 loved her and went the way that made her most 
 impressive. It was clasped at her breast by a 
 strange serpent, wrought in gold, with diamond 
 eyes that laughed to the taper-light as she 
 
180 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 breathed. One hand held a long spray of 
 heavily scented white flowers. The other was 
 thrust into the loose girdle of her dress ; yes, it 
 was there a slight, curved blade, but it would 
 suffice. 
 
 " And so they took you away? " the king 
 said. 
 
 She turned her eyes from him and answered : 
 "Yes, they took me away. My sister was 
 murdered by them. All whom I loved were 
 murdered by them. They burnt down our 
 house and laid waste our lands. And they 
 treated me most courteously sweetly, kindly 
 and that was the cruellest thing of all." Her 
 voice had been soft and musical; there had 
 been no anger in it; yet there was a moment's 
 glimpse of set white teeth between her red lips 
 at the close of the sentence. Suddenly she re- 
 membered that her words were ill-advised; it 
 was her plan to charm the young king to her, 
 to win him as most women can win most men, 
 and then at the right moment to strike with the 
 poisoned dagger that she had hidden in her dress. 
 "It was the king's pleasure," she added. 
 "Shall not a king do as he will?" Her little 
 fingers clasped firmly the graven gold that made 
 the handle of her blade. She was surprised 
 that the king did not speak ; she had been half 
 afraid that he would be angry with her and 
 send her away. 
 
WHITE NIGHTS 181 
 
 " It was not my pleasure, " the king said at 
 last. " I do not make war on women. I was 
 not there I never knew such things were hap- 
 pening. But why why should I excuse myself 
 to you ? You can never forgive me for I should 
 have seen that such things did not happen. I 
 will conquer no more. " 
 
 "That is true," the woman thought to her- 
 self, "I shall not forgive you, and you will 
 certainly conquer no more. " She looked straight 
 into his eyes ; the expression of his face had 
 changed ; it was troubled ; he was looking fixedly 
 at her. She began to tell him of her country ; 
 her voice was soft and alluring; with every 
 word she drew the spell closer round him. Yes, 
 she had made her plan well when she had 
 based it on the fact that the king was a man. 
 
 " For the harm that I have done I will pay 
 to the uttermost, as far as man can," said the 
 king. 
 
 The woman smiled. "That also," she 
 thought, "was quite true." 
 
 " But I am glad that they were kind to you," 
 the king added. "Why was that? Yes, I 
 remember, you can sing. They thought that I 
 should like to hear you sing. Your name is 
 Enid, is it not? " 
 
 " That is my name. I will sing for you, I 
 
 will " she checked herself, and made her eyes 
 
 look passionate, unspeakable things. Swift as 
 
182 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 light the passion flashed back from the eyes of 
 the king. Why did she quiver under it thrill 
 under it? She explained it to herself that it 
 was just from the joy of vengeance. 
 
 " It was war for the sake of war," the king 
 said sadly. " My ministers advised me into it. 
 Surely there must be something which I can do 
 to make amends." 
 
 And then for a long time they talked about 
 the war. And all the time Enid felt that it 
 would have been easier for her if the king had 
 been somehow different. Why was he so 
 gentle? Why did he seem to want her sympa- 
 thy and pity? Worse yet why did he almost 
 get them? She found herself saying that the 
 cruelty of the war was not his fault and be- 
 lieving it. A chance word of the king's he 
 happened to speak of " victory " brought her 
 back again to her plot. " I will do it. I can 
 do it," she said to herself. Just then the king 
 happened to ask if there were anything that he 
 could do to make her happier. 
 
 "Nothing, I think I don't know. It is 
 lonely, very lonely ; and I am not one of those 
 that suffer it easily. The palace is beautiful ; 
 the whole of your kingdom is beautiful ; and I 
 am no longer angry that you are kind to me. 
 But that is not enough for the happiness of a 
 woman. I want more. I want sympathy. I 
 want oh, I say too much ! " 
 
WHITE NIGHTS 183 
 
 She had risen from the low couch, and stood 
 with swimming eyes and outstretched hands. 
 It was brilliant art or perfect nature. 
 
 " Enid ! Enid ! " said the king in a low voice. 
 
 " I will sing to you," she said. She took her 
 mandolin from a table near her and ran her 
 fingers over it to see if it was in tune. Then 
 she began to put out the taper-lights one by 
 one. "It is a song that is best sung in the 
 darkness." She knew that if she saw his face 
 she would not be able to kill him. Then she 
 seated herself on the couch again. 
 
 She sang the first verse. It was a love-song. 
 The music to it was the music that takes tight 
 hold of one. The appeal of it was irresistible. 
 There was just enough light came through the 
 windows to show her that the young king had 
 sprung from his place. He came rapidly across 
 the room to her. She flung the mandolin on 
 one side and began to feel hurriedly for the 
 dagger. 
 
 But already he held her hands. She was 
 standing up now, swaying. Lights seemed to 
 be dancing through the darkness before her 
 eyes. 
 
 " Enid ! " he was saying. " Forgive me ! I 
 love you. It is you that have conquered ; I am 
 the captive." 
 
 "No, no," she answered. "You have con- 
 quered once more. For I meant to kill you, 
 
184 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 and now now I love you more than my life 
 more than all the world." And the rest of 
 their words were whispers in the darkness 
 broken with long kisses and the happiest tears. 
 For she had remembered that the king was a 
 man; but she had forgotten that she herself 
 was a woman. 
 
 "But that is quite wrong," said Yseult. 
 "She would have killed him first and found 
 out that she loved him afterward." 
 
 5 THE STORY OF AN EXPERIMENT 
 
 IT was soon after this that the betrothal of 
 Princess Lilias and the Prince Hilaro was an- 
 nounced. I know nothing of the way in which 
 the betrothal took place, except that Prince 
 Hilaro sent a messenger to our court, bearing 
 letters for the king and Princess Lilias. The 
 announcement had been constantly expected, 
 and yet it surprised us when it came. A change 
 took place in Lilias ; her eyes grew wonderfully 
 bright and eager. There was a faint, beautiful 
 color in her cheeks. She walked erect, her head 
 a little thrown back. Great passion is only 
 possible to those of great spirituality. Now, 
 as ever before, Lilias was beyond us and above 
 us. Her sisters, Rosalys and Yseult, now that 
 she was so soon to leave them, petted her more 
 
WHITE NIGHTS 185 
 
 than ever and made much of her. Yet even 
 at this time I knew that something was wrong 
 with Yseult. Sometimes she seemed to me to 
 be acting a part; sometimes she would spend 
 whole days in solitude; sometimes she would 
 seem almost to shrink from Lilias. But no 
 one thought this of any importance. " Yseult 
 is always wayward." Rosalys said to me. 
 
 Joy as well as sorrow has its insomnia, but 
 many of these sweet summer nights Princess 
 Lilias could not sleep, and sent for me to tell 
 her stories. I have already said that I am con- 
 demned to die; my time is very short and I 
 cannot write down all those stories. I knew 
 that if any man in the world was worthy of 
 Lilias, Hilaro was that man. He was brave 
 and good and beautiful; rich and of high birth. 
 And to the man that had much, much was 
 given. And I, who had nothing, was allowed 
 to sit at the feet of Princess Lilias and tell her 
 stories. I would not think about it. It was 
 too humorous ; and one does not care to think 
 about his own tragedy, when even he himself 
 can see that that tragedy is farcical. 
 
 I am going to write now the story of the last 
 night but one. It was expected that on the 
 following day Prince Hilaro would sail from 
 his own island, and would arrive by the next 
 dawn at the court. 
 
 The king and several of the courtiers hap- 
 
186 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 pened to have joined the princesses to listen to 
 the story. They were all grouped together at 
 one end of the great hall, where the lights were 
 placed; the farther end of the hall was quite 
 dark. Yseult had been playing to us and sing- 
 ing ; her eyes were fixed on me, with guesses 
 in them. I sat crouched in the shadow. I al- 
 most thought that Yseult had guessed my 
 secret. It did not matter. Lilias did not know. 
 When the news of her betrothal had first been 
 announced I had put the whole thing from me 
 and had refused to think about it ; but all this 
 day I had had to think about it. It came be- 
 tween me and everything. I could not get past 
 it. I had a consciousness that I was mastered. 
 
 All day the air had been still, heavy, sultry ; 
 at evening the clouds drew themselves together 
 and waited in blackness and anger. As the 
 last notes of the music ceased, a flash of light- 
 ning, strangely bright, shone over us. The 
 darkness at the farther end of the hall ran away 
 from it, and for a moment let us see the dark 
 panelling and the dim portraits in the deep 
 frames above. The king involuntarily put his 
 hand over his eyes and shrank back a little. 
 
 " But that was fierce ! " he said. 
 
 Almost immediately the high windows began 
 to rattle ; low and quivering, then sonorous and 
 prolonged, came the rattle of the thunder. Then 
 followed the swift kiss of the rain. Yseult 
 
WHITE NIGHTS 187 
 
 laughed and touched the harp-strings. It was 
 the melody of " The Song of Hate " whispered. 
 Then another flash tore at the darkness with its 
 white fingers. 
 
 "Thank Heaven!" said the king, "that it is 
 to-morrow night, and not to-night, that the 
 Prince Hilaro will be on the sea." 
 
 As he said these words it happened that I 
 and I alone was closely watching the Princess 
 Yseult. She half-started from her place, one 
 hand moved to her throat, her color changed, 
 and her eyes well, there was more in them 
 than I cared to think about. 
 
 But this much I knew, and had not known 
 before, that Yseult loved Prince Hilaro. Under 
 those light, wayward moods those flashes of 
 temper and tenderness there had been a deep 
 current that we had never been allowed to see. 
 I was to learn something of its tragic intensity 
 later on this night. I guessed even then that in 
 some way or other Yseult knew that Prince 
 Hilaro would be crossing the sea that night, 
 and not as the rest of us thought on the mor- 
 row's night. I know now, by the light of the 
 events which followed, that while she was play- 
 ing, singing, laughing this evening, she must 
 have been maddened with love and jealousy. 
 
 It was quite a short story that I told this 
 night. 
 
188 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 There were once two brothers of a royal house. 
 One of them, Bertillon, was born in the spring- 
 time; his younger brother Bruno was born 
 eighteen months afterward in the autumn. As 
 soon as they were old enough to do anything 
 they both began to hate. They hated one an- 
 other. 
 
 In all things they were too well matched. In 
 appearance they were alike; in the field their 
 prowess was equal; none could say that one 
 was more quick-witted than the other. As they 
 grew up their hatred increased. 
 
 "Bertillon," said Bruno one day, "if you 
 were only a little better than I am, I could bear 
 with you. But you are not. Your sole superi- 
 ority lies in age ; you have the virtue of an 
 antique. " 
 
 "Bruno," answered the elder brother, "be a 
 little worse than I am, and I will forgive you 
 for existing; you are only inferior in years; 
 you inspire the same disgust as an excellent 
 replica." 
 
 When the king, their father, died, Bertillon 
 by reason of his superior age ascended the 
 throne ; and Bruno, supported by a small section 
 of the province and with a hopelessly inferior 
 army, made war upon him. In this war Bruno 
 was defeated; and, being taken prisoner, was 
 sentenced to death for his treason by his brother 
 Bertillon. 
 
WHITE NIGHTS 189 
 
 "But," said Bertillon, "I will not tell you on 
 what day you will die. You will be allowed a 
 moderate liberty, within the prison walls ; you 
 may amuse yourself as you will ; one day when 
 you are not expecting it, when you are in the 
 middle of some story that interests you, when 
 you have begun to think that I must have for- 
 given you the man to whom this is appointed 
 will bring you the poisoned cup. Perhaps you 
 will be made to drink it ; and perhaps the man 
 will only frighten you, laugh at you, and take 
 the cup away again for a time. I shall have 
 you watched, so that you will not be able to 
 take your own life. I shall play with you. It 
 will amuse me." 
 
 " There must be two to every game, " said Bru- 
 no. " Nothing that you can do will make the 
 least difference to me. You are an antique, you 
 know, and sooner than you think 3'our passion 
 for being the only extant specimen will get the 
 better of you, and you will kill me. You have 
 not even the strength to carry out your own 
 paltry plans." 
 
 As soon as Bruno had been removed, Bertillon 
 turned to his councillors : 
 
 " This is a little experiment of mine. I am 
 not really going to kill my brother Bruno at all. 
 He will really be in just the same position as 
 any one of us, except that he will think about it. 
 Any one of us may die on any day, at any 
 
190 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 hour or moment ; but we never think about it, 
 and consequently it does not hurt us. Now 
 Bruno will be asking himself every moment if 
 he has another moment to live if it is worth 
 while to begin anything, since he may not be 
 able to finish it. He will think about it, and 
 consequently he will go mad!" 
 
 In three weeks' time Bruno gave in and sent 
 a humble petition that he might be killed at 
 once. "For," he said, "I would sooner lose 
 my life than my reason." 
 
 "You are amusing me," was the message 
 that Bertillon sent back. 
 
 "I shall not amuse you any more," was 
 Bruno's reply. Nor did he. It had suddenly 
 occurred to him that he was in no worse position 
 than any one else ; all must die, and none knows 
 when. He resolutely put the whole thing from 
 his mind, and lived a very cheerful, pleasant 
 life. 
 
 But, as it happened, Bertillon, in devising 
 this punishment, had pictured to himself rather 
 too vividly this awful uncertainty. The thought 
 of it had fixed its claws in his consciousness 
 and could not be torn away. By day and night 
 it haunted him. He constantly heard a voice 
 warning him, " There may be but one hour be- 
 tween you and the hereafter." 
 
 So it happened curiously enough that it was 
 
WHITE NIGHTS 191 
 
 Bertillon, not Bruno, who went mad. Bruno 
 succeeded him. 
 
 The only real things in this life are the things 
 which exist solely in the imagination. 
 
 The storm had ceased. As I passed out of 
 the great hall into the palace gardens, Lilias 
 followed me. 
 
 " Otho," she said, " to-morrow night you must 
 tell me another story, for Prince Hilaro will 
 not arrive until dawn. And then then there 
 will be no more need for stories. I am not un- 
 happy any longer now, Otho. You have been 
 good to me is there nothing that I could do for 
 you? " 
 
 She really did not know ; I wonder why. 
 
 I walked away in the direction of the coast 
 that night. It was five miles from the palace. 
 I felt sure that Prince Hilaro would arrive 
 this night, and that Yseult not only knew it, 
 but was the cause of it. I thought it better to 
 be there, for I had seen for one second into 
 Yseult 's real nature, and I hardly knew what 
 she would do. On reaching the cliff I could 
 see nothing, and being very tired, I flung myself 
 down in the wet, long grasses that met over my 
 head, and slept. It was gray dawn when I 
 was wakened by hearing voices. 
 
192 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 They were the voices of Prince Hilaro and 
 Yseult. Raising myself slightly, I saw that 
 they were standing on the cliff edge a few yards 
 from me. 
 
 "I did as your letter asked," he was saying. 
 " I came a day sooner, and met you here alone, 
 secretly, at this hour as you wished, because you 
 said it was necessary for the happiness of Lilias. 
 And now you have nothing to say but to ask 
 me if I love her? " 
 
 Yseult laughed lightly. " I love Lilias better 
 than any in the world save one. I would 
 give her my life, my soul, everything except 
 one." 
 
 I crept a little closer, for I knew now what 
 she would do. But it came sooner than I had 
 thought. 
 
 "What is that one?" 
 
 " You, Hilaro ! " she cried, suddenly letting 
 her voice go as it would "you, whom I love 
 and hate!" 
 
 With these words she thrust suddenly at him 
 with a short, curved knife that she had held 
 concealed. The blade went into his throat, and 
 he staggered backward over the cliff. I was 
 just in time to drag her back from flinging her- 
 self after him. 
 
 " Otho ! Otho ! " she said, panting for breath, 
 " I have killed him. Let me go." 
 
 I took her backward a few paces from the cliff 
 
WHITE NIGHTS 193 
 
 edge and looked into her eyes. "Now you 
 may go, " I said ; " kill yourself also. " 
 
 She swayed and fell face downward in the 
 2^rass, moaning : " I dare not die ! Otho, I dare 
 not die ! " I had seen that in her eyes. 
 
 And there, after a little while, in the gray 
 dawn I showed her what she must do. 
 
 6 THE STORY OF A PICTURE 
 
 I HAD but a short time in which to persuade 
 Yseult to agree to the plan which I had formed ; 
 for it was necessary that we should both return 
 to the palace and enter it unobserved while all 
 were still sleeping. She was shaken with ex- 
 citement, terror, fever ; but she had no remorse. 
 
 At last I made her believe all that was neces- 
 sary that the murder of Hilaro had been com- 
 mitted in an hour of madness, and was not 
 really murder; that Lilias must never know 
 that the sister she loved had killed the man she 
 loved ; and that if I took the guilt and paid the 
 penalty it would be best. 
 
 "But," said Yseult, "if I take your life to 
 save mine, that will be murder indeed." 
 
 I forget what lie I told her in answer to this. 
 But I persuaded her. She clung desperately to 
 life. As we returned she grew quite calm, and 
 was far more ready and skilful than I in arrang- 
 ing the details of the plan. I could not think 
 13 
 
194 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 very well. I was tired out soul and body 
 and wanted to sleep. After a time, I just heard 
 her speaking without understanding what she 
 said. 
 
 When I got to my own room I slept easily 
 and dreamlessly. It was late in the day when 
 I woke again, and the setting sun was shining 
 in at my windows. Underneath them I heard 
 the voices of the three princesses as they passed 
 down the steps of the terrace. Rosalys was 
 laughing. So the body, shattered and spoiled 
 by the knife and the jagged rocks, had not yet 
 been found. The prince's companions were to 
 come ashore to-night, and had been ordered to 
 meet him on the cliff. Yseult had told me this. 
 They would find the body and bring it with 
 them to the palace. 
 
 That night I told a story to the three princesses 
 under the open sky, on a broad lawn in the palace 
 gardens. I knew that Lilias had chosen this 
 spot because from it she could see the road to the 
 palace, bending with a broad, white curve in the 
 moonlight. She thought that her lover would 
 come by that way before the dawn, with music 
 and gladness, strong and beautiful, with the 
 retinue from his court attending him. She 
 wished to be among the first to welcome him 
 and do him honor. Her eyes were bright with 
 ecstasy. 
 
 Both Rosalys and Lilias were very affection- 
 
WHITE NIGHTS 195 
 
 ate with Yseult that night. " Poor Yseult has 
 hardly spoken a word all day," said Rosalys. 
 "You are not ill, Yseult, are you? " 
 
 She shook her head sadly. She was acting 
 her part to perfection. 
 
 "And now tell your story," said Rosalys, 
 turning to me. " There will be little sleep to- 
 night for any of us. All within the palace are 
 busy preparing to receive the prince. There is 
 a watchman on the towers who will see the 
 lights that the prince's company will carry as 
 they come down yonder road, and will give the 
 signal of his approach. Then all the palace will 
 be lit up, and there will be music and revelry." 
 
 So I began my story. 
 
 As generally happens, these two people, who 
 had not long been married, were coming down 
 from the heights. He, the poet, felt almost 
 with regret the vanishing of that fierce sense of 
 exaltation which had been his when he first 
 knew that this woman loved him, and trembled 
 in knowing it. He could recall old days, before 
 he had spoken, when he had weighed each 
 chance word that he heard from her and drawn 
 from it ecstasy or despair, when every moment 
 that he did not see her had seemed to him blank 
 and wasted. He had not ceased to love her 
 now; only there were no more discoveries to 
 
196 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 make and nothing more to say, and vain repeti- 
 tion had drawn all the sweetness from sweet 
 love- words. It was quiet, placid love. He was 
 so sure of it that he could put it from his mind 
 for a little. There had been days, he remem- 
 bered, when he had been unable to write or read 
 for thinking of one thing ; there had been nights 
 when he had been unable to sleep for continued 
 thinking of one thing. They never came now. 
 She felt the change too. She had fallen in love 
 with the poet almost with the reputation ; she 
 had married the man. The days of fears, of 
 hopes, of secrets, of idealizing were over. She 
 loved him still, but without any illusions, with- 
 out honestly thinking herself honored by his 
 love. He had just that little kink in the brain, 
 just that tiny turn of the temperament, which 
 makes the difference^ between the poet and the 
 ordinary man ; but in most things he was only 
 ordinary. And their love was becoming ordi- 
 nary too. They no longer felt that all the rest of 
 the world lay fathomless depths below them ; they 
 no longer felt angry with all other people for their 
 gross impertinence in existing ; on the contrary, 
 they were rather pleased when some of the rest 
 of the world came to see them. It made a 
 change. 
 
 And yet they loved one another in the or- 
 dinary, quiet way until that fateful time 
 when he had her portrait painted by Raoul. A 
 
WHITE NIGHTS 197 
 
 portrait by Raoul was generally a revelation of 
 the person painted. "That is like my son," a 
 woman said, looking at his portrait by Raoul; 
 " but there is a look in the face which my son 
 never has it is the look of a murderer." Three 
 years afterward, at her son's execution, she 
 remembered that she had said that. " It's quite 
 true," a girl said to herself, looking at her own 
 portrait by Raoul, " but I had never told any 
 one how did he know? " It was acknowledged 
 that he was the greatest portrait painter of his 
 time and country if he would only give up 
 playing little tricks to amuse himself. He was 
 also accused of laziness ; and it is certain that 
 he did not devote himself now, as he had done 
 in his younger days, wholly to art. He had 
 taken up with sundry curious studies, and his 
 success had made him melancholy, taciturn, sar- 
 donical. He was middle-aged, unmarried, and 
 rather displeasing in manner. When he had 
 finished the portrait of the poet's wife, he 
 smiled. Raoul seldom smiled, but the poet's 
 wife had interested him, and he had just made 
 a little experiment. 
 
 For a few weeks he heard nothing, and then 
 the woman came to his studio, attended only by 
 one servant, who carried the portrait. At her 
 orders the man put the portrait down and left 
 her alone with Raoul. 
 
 "Raoul," she said, "my husband is away, 
 
198 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 and I want you to alter your portrait of me 
 before he returns." 
 
 Raoul did not seem surprised. He hummed 
 a fragment of a tune and glanced at her from 
 head to foot. 
 
 " Why have you been crying? " he asked 
 bluntly. 
 
 " I have not been crying." 
 
 The artist shrugged his shoulders and went 
 on humming his tune. Suddenly he stopped. 
 " If you tell me lies " he began. Then he 
 stopped again, for there was no doubt that the 
 woman was crying now. He sat down and 
 waited patiently ; she told a strange story in 
 between her sobs. 
 
 In brief, she said that her husband had, ever 
 since the arrival of the portrait, ceased to love 
 her. He had been absolutely cold to her, 
 shunned her society, had never even spoken to 
 her if he could avoid it. "But," she said, "he 
 has fallen wildly in love with my portrait. All 
 day he keeps it before him. He cares for noth- 
 ing but to look at it. It is an absurdity a 
 madness ; but it makes me wretched, for I never 
 loved him so much in my life before. Oh, it is 
 brutal of you to make me tell you this ! What 
 is it? What have you put into the portrait that 
 I have not got? " 
 
 "Nothing," replied Raoul, "absolutely noth- 
 
WHITE NIGHTS 199 
 
 ing. I have simply left something out. I have 
 painted you as though you had never loved and 
 would not love. He is a poet and is chiefly 
 attracted by the unattainable. " 
 
 " They told me that in the portrait I looked 
 too cold." 
 
 " Too cold? Yes, that is one sign one very 
 little sign, but it is not all, or nearly all. What 
 I have done is not merely a trick of expression. 
 They do not understand these people. But 
 your husband is a poet understands more than 
 he can explain." 
 
 "Will you alter it?" 
 
 " No, I should spoil it. Not that I care for 
 art except as a means to mastery. Mastery 
 is what I want to make people do things, feel 
 things, see things, just as I want to get a grip 
 of people without their knowing how." 
 
 He looked at her again, very curiously. Then 
 he took the portrait to the light and carefully 
 examined it. " Ah ! " he exclaimed under his 
 breath. Then he turned to the woman. 
 
 " Go away. You shall have the portrait this 
 evening, and your husband will soon give up 
 loving it. You may take my word for it. I 
 have changed my mind." 
 
 As soon as she had gone he went from his 
 studio to a room which was fitted as a labora- 
 tory, and returned with a little bottle containing 
 
200 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 some colorless oily stuff. He began to work, 
 using great precautions. Then he sent the por- 
 trait back. 
 
 The poet's wife hung the picture once more 
 in her husband's study in its usual place, and 
 lit the candles that stood below it. She could 
 see that the lips in the portrait had been just 
 touched, but she could not see that any difference 
 had been made. Then she went to bed. 
 
 Later at night she heard her husband return 
 to the house. The door of his study slammed, 
 and then all the house was quiet. She waited 
 for hours, and he did not come upstairs. At 
 last, in the dawn, she could bear the suspense 
 no longer, but arose and went down to the 
 study. She knocked, but there was no answer. 
 She thought that he might be asleep, and opened 
 the door softly. The candles were flaring, yel- 
 low and ghastly in the gray dawn, lighting up 
 the little picture of her own loveless face. 
 
 The poet lay in an ugly attitude, as though 
 he had fallen, on the floor beneath the picture. 
 His lips were white, save in just one place 
 where there was a curious scarlet stain; and 
 his eyes 
 
 " Otho, stop ! stop ! " cried Yseult. We were 
 all startled a little at the suddenness of it. For 
 
WHITE NIGHTS 201 
 
 a moment I was doubtful, and then I saw that 
 all was right, that she was just carrying out 
 the plan. "I can bear it no longer," she went 
 on, turning to Lilias ; " Lilias, dearest Lilias, I 
 must tell you. Hilaro will not come to you to- 
 night. He will never come to you any more. 
 He is dead." 
 
 "What are you saying? What do you 
 mean?" said Rosalys excitedly. Lilias said 
 nothing. She was staring blankly at the white 
 curve of the road. 
 
 "This morning at dawn I was on the cliff 
 edge. Otho and Prince Hilaro stood there to- 
 gether. And as I watched, hidden, Otho drew 
 a knife and stabbed the prince in the throat, 
 and flung him over the cliff." 
 
 She spoke boldly, defiantly, dramatically. As 
 she was speaking, I saw lights appear in the dis- 
 tance on the road, and knew that they were bring- 
 ing the body of the dead prince. Lilias saw 
 them, and with a low cry fell forward on the 
 grass fainting. The watchman on the tower saw 
 them too, and gave his signal. Immediately 
 the whole palace was lit up, and the doors were 
 flung open, and the musicians stationed there 
 began a joyful triumphant march. 
 
 " I will go and stop the music and " Yseult 
 
 paused, then hastened into the palace. 
 
 And Rosalys said to me, " Why do you stand 
 
202 STORIES AND INTERLUDES 
 
 there, Otho, with staring eyes, doing nothing? 
 Deny it! I command you to deny it." 
 " It is true !" I answered. 
 
 And so all ends happily for me, at least. 
 There was a trial a matter of form, since both 
 accuser and accused were agreed . To have lived 
 on would have been sad enough ; but to die is 
 easy. I have often wondered why those who 
 would write or tell a pathetic story will make 
 it end with death. To have endured the great- 
 est sorrow and still to live is sad indeed. Death 
 can be very happy. Only I would that by my 
 death I could bring back Hilaro to life ! Oh, 
 my Princess Lilias, I have at least saved you 
 one thing you can still love your sister Yseult ! 
 Sooner or later I think that you will make her 
 good like yourself. Indeed, she was good but 
 for that night of madness ; and there are things 
 which we cannot control at all we cannot say 
 that we will love this and not that. It is as it 
 comes. No man thinking of his own love-story 
 can well believe in his own free-will. I know 
 that Princess Lilias will not lose her reason nor 
 take her life; after some months she will try 
 to speak and smile once more ; she will, most 
 pathetically, interest herself in the lives of 
 others. But she will never forget, and memory 
 
WHITE NIGHTS 203 
 
 will soon wear out her strength. I have heard 
 no more of the princesses. I have written all 
 this in the week between my sentence and my 
 death. I am told nothing, and I can only 
 wonder. 
 
 But it is late late at night and to-morrow 
 there will be no more wonder of any kind, and 
 no more trouble, and no more vain longing. 
 
 THE END. 
 
TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES. 
 
 A Pure Woman, Faithfully Presented. By THOMAS 
 HARDY, author of "The Woodlanders," "A Laodi- 
 cean," etc. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Orna- 
 mental, $1 50. Neiv Edition, revised and consider- 
 ably expanded by the author, according to the latest 
 English edition. 
 
 A remarkably fine and moving story. It is marked by all 
 those qualities of genius which we are accustomed to associate 
 with the work of Mr. Hardy. It is full of poetry of incident and 
 phrase. ... A great story. Nobody should miss it. N. Y. Sun. 
 
 In "Tess of the D'Urbervilles " Thomas Hardy exhibits the 
 strongest, and in some respects the best, piece of literary work 
 that has ever left his pen. Philadelphia Ledger. 
 
 One of the few great novels of the century. N. Y. Mail 
 and Express. 
 
 Not only by far the best work Mr. Hardy has done ; it is one 
 of the strongest novels that have appeared for a long time. . . . 
 A more tragic or powerfully moving story than that of Tess lives 
 not in fiction ; and the pity of it is heightened by the exquisite 
 pastoral scenes in which it is mainly set. . . . The book is full 
 of suggestion on questions which have never agitated men's 
 minds more than at the present time. ... It is certainly a mas- 
 terpiece, and one upon which the reputation of the author may 
 safely rest. N. Y. Tribune. 
 
 Mr. Hardy has written a novel that is not only good, but 
 great. . . . "Tess of the D'Urbervilles" is well in front of Mr. 
 Hardy's previous work, and is destined, there can be no doubt, 
 to rank high among the achievements of Victorian novelists. 
 Athencenm, London. 
 
 The best English novel that has appeared for many a day. 
 . . .The book is the most ingeniously constructed and artisti- 
 cally developed that has been produced by an English novelist 
 since George Eliot's time. Philadelphia Bulletin. 
 
 Powerful and strange in design, splendid and terrible in exe- 
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 of incandescent iron. Academy, London. 
 
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 A LITTLE JOURNEY IN THE WORLD. A Novel. Post 
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BY CONSTANCE F. WOOLSOK 
 
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 There is a certain bright cheerfulness in Miss Woolson's writing 
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 cate, N. Y. 
 
 Miss Woolson is among our few successful writers of interesting 
 magazine stories, and her skill and power are perceptible in the de- 
 lineation of her heroines no less than in the suggestive pictures of 
 local life. Jewish Messenger, N. Y. 
 
 Constance Fenimore Woolson may easily become the novelist lau- 
 reate Boston Globe. 
 
 Miss Woolson has a graceful fancy, a ready wit, a polished style, and 
 conspicuous dramatic power; while her skill in the development of a 
 story is very remarkable. London Life. 
 
 Miss Woolson never once follows the beaten track of the orthodox 
 novelist, but strikes a new and richly-loaded vein, which so far is all 
 her own ; and thus we feel, on reading one of her works, a fresh sen- 
 sation, and we put down the book with a sigh to think our pleasant 
 task of reading it is finished. The author's lines must have fallen to 
 her in very pleasant places ; or she has, perhaps, within herself the 
 wealth of womanly love and tenderness she pours so freely into all 
 she writes. Such books as hers do much to elevate the moral tone of 
 the day a quality sadly wanting in novels of the time. Whitehall 
 Review, London. 
 
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 O3F The above icorks sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the 
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BY MARY E. WILKINS. 
 
 A NEW ENGLAND NUN, and Other Stories. 16mo, 
 Cloth, Ornamental, $1 25. 
 
 A HUMBLE ROMANCE, and Other Stories. 16mo, 
 Cloth, Extra, $1 25. 
 
 Only an artistic hand could have written these stories, and they will 
 make delightful reading. Evangelist, N. Y. 
 
 The simplicity, purity, and quaintness of these stories set them apart 
 in a niche of distinction where they have no rivals. Literary World, 
 Boston. 
 
 The reader who buys this book and reads it will find treble his money's 
 worth in every one of the delightful stories. Chicago Journal. 
 
 Miss Wilkins is a writer who has a gift for the rare art of creating the 
 short story which shall be a character study and a bit of graphic picturing 
 in one ; and all who enjoy the bright and fascinating short story will wel- 
 come this volume. Boston Traveller. 
 
 The author has the unusual gift of writing a short story which is com- 
 plete in itself, having a real beginning, a middle, and an end. The volume 
 is an excellent one. Observer, N. Y. 
 
 A gallery of striking studies in the humblest quarters of American 
 country life. No one has dealt with this kind of life better than Miss 
 Wilkins. Nowhere are there to be found such faithful, delicately drawn, 
 sympathetic, tenderly humorous pictures. N. Y. Tribune. 
 
 The charm of Miss Wilkins's stories is in her intimate acquaintance 
 and comprehension of humble life, and the sweet human interest she 
 feels and makes her readers partake of, in the simple, common, homely 
 people she draws. Springfield Republican. 
 
 There is no attempt at fine writing or structural effect, but the tender 
 treatment of the sympathies, emotions, and passions of no very extraor- 
 dinary people gives to these little stories a pathos and human feeling quite 
 their own. N. Y. Commercial Advertiser. 
 
 The author has given us studies from real life which must be the result 
 of a lifetime of patient, sympathetic observation. ... No one has done 
 the same kind of work so lovingly and so well. Christian Register, 
 Boston. 
 
 PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. 
 
 XSkirThe above works sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the 
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SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 A Collection of Seven Stories. By ANNIE TRUMBULL 
 SLOSSON. pp. 286. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, 
 $1 25. 
 
 A charming collection of character sketches and stories 
 humorous, pathetic, and romantic of New England 
 country life. The volume includes "How Faith Came 
 and Went," "Botany Bay," "Aunt Randy," "Fishin' 
 Jimmy," " Butterneggs," "Deacon Pheby's Selfish Nat- 
 ur'," and " A Speakin' Ghost." 
 
 They are of the best sort of " dialect" stories, full of humor 
 and quaint conceits. Gathered in a volume, with a frontispiece 
 which is a wonderful character sketch, they make one of the 
 best contributions to the light literature of* this season. Ob- 
 server, N. Y. 
 
 Stories told with much skill, tenderness, and kindliness, so 
 much so that the reader is drawn powerfully towards the poor 
 subjects of them, and soon learns to join the author in looking 
 behind their peculiarities and recognizing special spiritual gifts 
 in them. N. Y. Tribune. 
 
 These stories are of such originality, abounding in deep pa- 
 thos and tenderness, that one finds himself in perfect accord 
 with the writer as he reads of the hallucinations of these he- 
 roes. Watchman, Boston. 
 
 Dreamers of a singular kind, they affect us like the inhabit- 
 ants of allegories a walk of literary art in which we have had 
 no master since the pen dropped from the faint and feeble fin- 
 gers of Hawthorne, and which seems native to Mrs. Slosson. 
 N. Y. Mail and Express. 
 
 The sweetness, the spiciness, the aromatic taste of the forest 
 has crept into these tales. Philadelphia Ledger. 
 
 PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. 
 
 he above work will be sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part 
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BEN-HUE : 
 
 A TALE OF THE CHRIST. By LEW. WALLACE. 16mo, 
 Cloth, $150; Half Leather, $2 00; Three-quarter Leath- 
 er, $2 50 ; Half Calf, $3 00 ; Full Leather, $3 50 ; Three- 
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 and Gold, Uncut Edges and Gilt Tops, $7 00. (In a 
 Gladstone box.) 
 
 Anything so startling, new, and distinctive as the leading feature of 
 this romance does not often appear in works of fiction. . . . Some of 
 Mr. Wallace's writing is remarkable for its pathetic eloquence. The 
 scenes described in the New Testament are rewritten with the power 
 and skill of an accomplished master of style. N. Y. Times. 
 
 Its real basis is a description of the life of the Jews and Romans at 
 the beginning of the Christian era, and this is both forcible and brill- 
 iant. . . .We are carried through a surprising variety of scenes; we 
 witness a sea-fight, a chariot-race, the internal economy of a Roman 
 galley, domestic interiors at Antioch, at Jerusalem, and among the 
 tribes of the desert; palaces, prisons, the hauiits of dissipated Roman 
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 citing incident; everything is auimated,^vivid, and glowing. A r . Y. 
 Tribune. 
 
 It is full of poetic beauty, as though born of an Eastern sage, and 
 there is sufficient of Oriental customs, geography, nomenclature, etc., 
 to greatly strengthen the semblance. Boston Commonwealth. 
 
 " Ben-Uur " is interesting, and its characterization is fine and strong. 
 Meanwhile it evinces careful study of the period iu which the scene is 
 laid, and will help those who read it with reasonable attention to real- 
 ize the nature and conditions of Hebrew life in Jerusalem and Ro- 
 man life at Autioch at the time of our Saviour's advent Examiner, 
 N.Y. 
 
 The book is one of unquestionable power, and will be read with un- 
 wonted interest by many readers who are weary of the conventional 
 novel and romance. Boston Journal. 
 
 PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. 
 
 JUST" The above icork sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part yf the 
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BY MRS. BURTON HARRISON. 
 
 BAR HARBOR DAYS. A Tale of Mount Desert. Il- 
 lustrated by Fenn and Hyde. 16mo, Cloth, $1 25. 
 
 A bright story of life at Mount Desert. ... It is exceedingly well 
 done, and the scenery, the ways of the people, and the social methods 
 of the rnsticators lend interest to the book. Christian Advocate, N. Y. 
 
 The book is bright and readable. Courier, Boston. 
 
 A delightful book about Mount Desert, its summer inhabitants, 
 their sayings and doings. A'. Y. Sun. 
 
 One of the most attractive books of the season, and will be in great 
 demand by readers who wish an original, captivating summer idyl. 
 Hartford Post. 
 
 HELEN TROY 16mo, Cloth, $1 00. 
 
 It is a breezy little society novel, with a pretty plot and a number 
 of capitally drawn characters. ... It is always bright, fresh, and en- 
 tertaining, and has an element of naturalness that is particularly 
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 full of point and often genuinely witty, and the tone of the whole is 
 both refined and delicate. Saturday Evening Gazette, Boston. 
 
 The book is written with exceeding cleverness, and abounds in de- 
 lightful little pictures. The Critic, N. Y. 
 
 Mrs. Harrison's style is crisp, epigrammatic, piquant ; she shades 
 her characters artistically, paints from real life, and, without hurrying 
 the reader along, never lets her story drag. . . . The merit of the work 
 lies in the fidelity of its portraiture and the felicity of its utterance. 
 N. Y. Herald. 
 
 GOLDEN ROD . AN IDYL OF MOUNT DESERT, 
 32mo, Paper, 25 cents ; Cloth, 40 cents. 
 
 A very sweet little story of a successful courtship, wrought into a 
 charming description of scenery and life ou Mount Desert. Spring- 
 field (111.) State Journal. 
 
 This is a most charming summer story "An Idyl of Mount Des- 
 ert" the mere reading of which makes you long to be there, and to 
 feel sure you will find the delightful people, and just in the particular 
 nooks, you have been reading about. Galexburg (111.) Republican 
 Register. 
 
 PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. 
 
 fy The above works sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the 
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BY AMELIE KIVES. 
 
 A BROTHER TO DRAGONS, AND OTHER OLD-TIME 
 
 TALES. Post 8vo, Cloth, Extra, $1 00. 
 
 VIRGINIA OF VIRGINIA. A Story. Illustrated. 
 Post 8vo, Cloth, Extra, $1 00. 
 
 Oue is permitted to discover qualities of mind and n proficiency and 
 capacity in art from which something new aud distinctively the work 
 of genius may be anticipated in American literature. Boston Globe. 
 
 Miss Rives has imagination, breadth, and a daring and courage 
 oftenest spoken of as masculine. Moreover, she is exquisitely poet- 
 ical, and her ideals, with all the mishaps of her delineations, are of an 
 exalted order. K Y. Star. 
 
 It was little more than two years ago that Miss Rives made her first 
 literary conquest, a conquest BO complete and astonishing as at once 
 to give her fame. How well she has sustained and added to the repu- 
 tation she so suddenly won, we all know, and the permanency of that 
 reputation demonstrates conclusively that her success did not depend 
 upon the lucky striking of a popular fancy, but that it rests upon en- 
 during qualities that are developing more and more richly year by 
 year. Richmond State. 
 
 It is evident that the author has imagination in an unusual degree, 
 much strength of expression, aud skill in delineating character. Bos- 
 ton Journal. 
 
 There are few young writers who begin a promising career with so 
 much spontaneity and charm of expression as is displayed by Misa 
 Rives. Literary World, Boston. 
 
 The trait which the author seems to take the most pleasure in de- 
 picting is the passionate loyalty of a girl to her lover or of a young 
 wife to her husband, and her portrayal of this trait has feeling, and is 
 set off by an unconventional style and brisk movement. The Book 
 Buyer, N. Y. 
 
 There is such a wealth of imagination, snch an exuberance of strik- 
 ing language in the productions of this author, as to attract and hold 
 the reader. Toledo Blade. 
 
 Miss Rives is essentially a teller of love stories, and relates them 
 with such simple, straightforward grace that she at. once captures the 
 sympathy and interest of the reader. . . . There is a freshness of feeling 
 and a mingling of pathos and hninor which are simply delicious. iVew 
 London Telegraph. 
 
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 ' HARPER & BBOTHKKS will send either of the above works by 'mail, 
 
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THE CAPTAIN OF THE JANIZARIES. 
 
 A Talc of the Times of Scanderbcg and the Fall of 
 Constantinople. By JAMES M. LUDLOW, D.D., 
 Litt.D. 16mo, Cloth, $1 50. 
 
 The author writes clearly and easily ; his descriptions are 
 often of much brilliancy, while the whole setting of the story is 
 of that rich Oriental character which fires the fancy. Boston 
 Courier. 
 
 Strong in its central historical character, abounding in inci- 
 dent, rapid and stirring in action, animated and often brilliant 
 in style. Christian Union, N. Y. 
 
 Something new and striking interests us in almost every chap- 
 ter. The peasantry of the Balkans, the training and govern- 
 ment of the Janizaries, the interior of Christian and Moslem 
 camps, the horrors of raids and battles, the violence of the Sul- 
 tan, the tricks of spies, the exploits of heroes, engage Mr. Lud- 
 low's fluent pen. N. Y. Tribune. 
 
 Dr. Ludlow's style is a constant reminder of Walter Scott, 
 and the book is to retain a permanent place in literature. Ob- 
 server, N. Y. 
 
 An altogether admirable piece of work picturesque, truthful, 
 and dramatic. Newark Advertiser. 
 
 A most romantic, enjoyable tale. ... As affording views of 
 inner life in the East as long ago as the middle of the fifteenth 
 century, this tale ought to have a charm for many ; but it is 
 full enough of incident, wherever the theatre of its action might 
 be found, to do this. Troy Press. 
 
 The author has used his material with skill, weaving the facts 
 of history into a story crowded with stirring incidents and un- 
 expected situations, and a golden thread of love-making, under 
 extreme difficulties, runs through the narrative to a happy issue. 
 Examiner, N. Y. 
 
 One of the strongest and most fascinating historical novels of 
 the last quarter of a century. Boston Pilot. 
 
 PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. 
 
 W The above work sent b>j mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the 
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A KING OF TYEE. 
 
 A Tale of the Times of Ezra and Nehemiah. 
 By JAMES M. LUDLOW, D. D. 16mo, Cloth, 
 
 Ornamental, $1 00. 
 
 The picture of the life and manners of that far-away period 
 is carefully and artistically drawn, the plot is full of interest, 
 and the whole treatment of the subject is strikingly original, 
 and there is a dramatic intensity in the story which will at once 
 remind the reader of " Ben-Hur." Boston Traveller. 
 
 It is altogether a fresh and enjoyable tale, strong in its sit- 
 uations and stirring in its actions. Cincinnati Commercial- 
 Gazette. 
 
 Another distinct success in the field of historical fiction. ... 
 Must be unhesitatingly set down as a highly satisfactory per- 
 formance. Boston Beacon. 
 
 In "A King of Tyre " we live and move amid old ideas, old 
 superstitions, and an extinct civilization. But this vanished order 
 of things the author has pierced to the core, aud laid bare the 
 human heart that animates it all. When we say that his tale 
 is interesting, that it is satisfying, that it is dramatically con- 
 clusive, we give it high praise, yet we give it deliberately, and 
 are convinced that the opinion of all intelligent readers will 
 confirm the verdict. Churchman, N. Y. 
 
 Vivid with the richness of Oriental habits and customs, and 
 the weird accompaniments of pagan worship, this tale of the 
 times after the return of the Hebrews to their own land, will 
 hold the attention of the reader with unflagging interest. Its 
 development shows marked ability and skill. There is an his- 
 torical basis to the story which gives it additional attraction. 
 Living Church, Chicago. 
 
 Will enhance the reputation of the author, and can be wel- 
 comed as not only a novel of absorbing interest, but a faithful 
 study and portraiture of an eventful historical period. Chris- 
 tian Intelligencer, N. Y. 
 
 PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. 
 
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 of the price. 
 
TWO USEFUL HANDBOOKS. 
 
 EVERYBODY'S WRITING-DESK BOOK. By 
 CHARLES NISBET and DON LEMON. Revised and 
 Edited by JAMES BALDWIN, Ph.D. Square 16mo, 
 Cloth, Ornamental, $1 00. 
 
 This little book is at once a guide and a friend. . . . The 
 claim that the work will be found to comprise in one handy 
 volume all needful instruction and guidance on all questions 
 connected with writing can readily be admitted. Philadelphia 
 Record. 
 
 An excellent little manual of grammar, composition, etc., 
 intended "for the service of all who write." . . . This is a 
 thoroughly helpful and convenient book of reference. Chi- 
 cago Tribune. 
 
 A capital book for the student. Its rules for composition, 
 grammar, and punctuation are simple and clear, and well cal- 
 culated to start the student to thinking. ... It is an excellent 
 book for the pocket or the satchel. Chicago Inter- Ocean. 
 
 EVERYBODY'S POCKET CYCLOPAEDIA of 
 Things Worth Knowing, Things Difficult to 
 Remember, and Tables of Reference. Square 
 16mo, Cloth, 75 cents. 
 
 The little book is really a fascinating storehouse of " things 
 worth knowing " and easily discovered by reference to its 
 twenty-five-page index. Critic, N. Y. 
 
 An admirable little mentor in the thousand and one things 
 that are forever eluding memory things that we ought to 
 know in every pursuit of life. Pi'etbytcrian, Philadelphia. 
 
 It is remarkable how many "things worth knowing and 
 things difficult to remember" are here crowded into small 
 space. He is an exceptionally curious person who cannot 
 here gratify his curiosity. JV. Y. Sun. 
 
 PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. 
 
 JS@T The above work* are for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent by 
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