PUNCHINELLO 
 
 FLORENCE STUART 
 
GIFT OF 
 
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"PUNCHINELLO 
 
 9> 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 BY 
 
 FLORENCE STUART 
 
 BOSTON 
 L. C. PAGE esf COMPANY 
 
 MDCCCC 
 
Copyright^ igoo 
 By L. C. Page and Company 
 
 (incorporathd) 
 All rights reserved 
 
 ffiolonfal ^rejsa 
 
 Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Oo. 
 
 Boston, Mass., U. S. A. 
 
To 
 ISABEL 
 
 438848 
 
"Die Engel nennen es Himmelsfrieden, 
 Die Teufel nennen es Hollenqual, 
 Die Menschen nennen es Liebe." 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 DESPITE, or perhaps by reason of acci- 
 dents of stature and fortune, my luckless 
 ancestor, Anthony Dallas, stands out in pictur- 
 esque relief among the stolid figures that fur- 
 nish our family annals. When as a child I first 
 noted the old oil painting that represents a man 
 with the figure of a dwarf and the head of a 
 Titan, I was drawn to the face that stared out 
 of the canvas with tired, miserable eyes, in 
 which was written experience of a more gener- 
 ous lot of suffering than falls to the majority. 
 When I learned that he had made a great name 
 in music, and was also the hero of a romance 
 of which none knew the rights, but which had 
 undoubtedly more gained than lost by an 
 imaginative transmission, my older years with- 
 drew nothing from the first warm interest of 
 my childhood. 
 
 For years my curiosity was somewhat starved, 
 for the biography that circulates with other 
 
8 INTRODUCTION 
 
 dreary volumes of the kind — the same bio- 
 graphy to which Dallas refers with such bitter- 
 ness — holds nothing but the record of a genius 
 who marched triumphant to success, and appar- 
 ently breathed on inaccessible heights an air 
 denied to meaner mortals. " Indififerent," runs 
 the quaint old phrase, " to luxury, women, 
 and social life. Master Dallas spent his long 
 life in arduous musical composition, finding 
 sufficient reward in the rich appreciation of the 
 artistic world." In the opening chapters there 
 is a hint of an early romance that ended badly, 
 and for the time threw a shadow over Master 
 Dallas's life ; " but," it runs, " he entirely sur- 
 mounted the unhappy outcome of this youthful 
 attachment, and found ample compensation for 
 domestic joys in the full exercise of his art." 
 
 As I write this the picture is before me, and 
 almost I could fancy that the delicate mouth 
 twitches and the sombre eyes smile. Poor 
 Anthony ! His face haunts me with its piteous 
 gaze of non-comprehension — so does a child 
 look suffering an undeserved punishment. I 
 would have sacrificed much leisure and patience 
 to have unravelled the truth of the romance, 
 which his own chronicler dismissed so curtly, 
 and that has gradually drifted and dwindled 
 
INTRODUCTION ^ 
 
 in careless mouths, till it has lost all claim to 
 veracity, and is surmised by some to have been 
 a low intrigue, by others a hopeless attachment 
 to a lady of high degree ; it has been bestial, it 
 has been platonic, that romance, but always en- 
 tirely subjective and dependent on the tempera- 
 ment of the raconteur for the form it took. 
 Poor Anthony ; he would have mocked with 
 the best. 
 
 I discovered the truth by a most trivial acci- 
 dent. In one of the morning-rooms at Dane's 
 End, where Dallas was born and lived the first 
 part of his life, and where I have so far followed 
 his lines, there is an old square table, riddled, 
 I may say, with drawers, pigeon-holes, and 
 manifold receptacles for papers. Here, goes 
 the legend, Anthony was found dead with his 
 head lying on his arms, and a manuscript 
 scarcely dried before him. For the truth of 
 this I cannot vouch — the statement has a pic- 
 turesque completeness that wakes unkind criti- 
 cism, but here in this table, hunting for a letter 
 of my own, I pulled out a drawer and dis- 
 covered that behind it was a false back, seem- 
 ingly the end, in reality the beginning of an- 
 other receptacle, and here, pushed far back, 
 thick with dust and cobwebs, the yellowed 
 
to INTRODUCTION 
 
 pages almost falling apart from stress of years, 
 I found the truth of that romance. 
 
 " Punchinello " was scrawled across it in large 
 defiant letters, but there were marks on it 
 from the making of which both spiders and 
 years could claim exemption. The pages were 
 blistered with old scars of bitter tears. Poor 
 Anthony — they made a quaint framing to the 
 defiant " Punchinello " that filled the middle of 
 the sheet. I opened the manuscript, and once 
 under its influence, read and read, gathering 
 every moment clues to the complex face on the 
 canvas. It was not altogether a pleasant peru- 
 sal, not touching by many lengths the exqui- 
 site tales furnished by the fervid imaginations 
 of those who, strong in the knowledge of an- 
 cient lore, and pitying my curiosity, made me 
 free of their most finished solutions of my 
 difficulty. " A romance, of course ! Anthony 
 Dallas, your ancestor — somebody wrote his life — 
 
 somebody said " And then would flow forth, 
 
 in irresponsible gay tones, travestied gorgeous 
 readings of what by light of surer knowledge 
 I can but term a pitiful tale. Unfinished, care- 
 lessly written, " eternally vapouring," as the 
 author has it, the old MS. possesses for me an 
 indefinable charm, with its sad telling of a life 
 
INTRODUCTION 11 
 
 that, apparently cursed by Fate, yet met ship- 
 wreck by the means that should have proved 
 its salvation. Perhaps he frightened her over- 
 much for all his love. Poor little Nan I « If 
 Anthony come to know." The pity of it that 
 he did not. I should have preferred a more 
 comfortable ending to this most unfortunate 
 tale ; but as poor Anthony himself would scoff, 
 — the painted lips almost quiver with life and 
 speech as I stare at him — There is always the 
 biographer. 
 
 DOROTHY DALLAS. 
 Dane's End, 
 Chilwaithe. 
 
I 
 
 LOOKING back to the early years of my 
 life, it seems to me that my first con- 
 sciousness was touched with the two great 
 emotions — if I may so call them — which have 
 so swayed my destiny. I cannot remember a 
 time in which I was ignorant that a malign 
 fate had laid evil fingers on me, and that I 
 stood ostracized among happier children, or a 
 time in which I was not determined to some- 
 how cheat my ill fortune. This knowledge of 
 something foreign in me made me vaguely 
 unhappy in the period of white frocks and 
 coloured ribbons long before definite words 
 had given it expression : a smothered sigh, a 
 stranger's stare, an expression of sympathy, 
 which, child as I was, I noticed fell ever to 
 my lot, and never to those children with whom 
 I played — little trifles for which I ever endea- 
 voured to account, though the reason of which 
 I never, curiously enough, inquired. Along 
 
 13 
 
14 "PUNCHINELLO'* 
 
 with this nebulous sense of something wrong, 
 there raged within me a ridiculous ambition. 
 Even now, though I have lost the trick of 
 laughter, I smile at the vastness of the castles 
 that I built in those brave days — there was 
 never pinnacle too vast for me to raise — and 
 when I stood triumphant, having conquered 
 worlds, I generously forgave those who had 
 cast slights on me by their patronizing pity. 
 
 I must have been a singularly unobservant 
 child, or possibly mirrors were purposely with- 
 held from me, but I was seven years old 
 before I knew the why and wherefore of this 
 eternal compassion which I so resented. 
 
 It happened that one of our neighbours gave 
 a children's masque. To add a fresh zest it 
 had been decided that the tiny guests should 
 each go in a fancy dress, illustrating as they 
 would any period or character. Now this 
 fancy, though I believe common enough in 
 Town, had not penetrated to the country, and 
 its freshness threw the neighbouring mothers 
 into almost as hot a fever of anticipation as the 
 children. The emulation was intense as to who 
 should show the greatest originality in costume. 
 I remember how we children spent long hours 
 in puzzled endeavour at choice. Cecily had it 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 15 
 
 in her mind to go as Mary, Queen of Scots. 
 She was ten years of age, and had the sweet- 
 ness and roundness of a rosy apple. " I will 
 go as Mary," I hear her now beseeching my 
 mother, " and Reuben " — a little lad with whom 
 we often played — " shall be my executioner, 
 and carry my block behind me draped in 
 black," she added enthusiastically ; " it will be 
 perfect." She went, I remember, as Phyllis, 
 and Reuben as Corydon. They were the 
 prettiest pair imaginable. But I digress over- 
 much. I weary telling my tale, as I foresaw, 
 with manifold twistings and turnings. Now as 
 the days passed I pestered my mother with 
 eternal questions as to what character I should 
 best present, but she ever avoided my question, 
 looking at me with eyes full of fret. 
 
 " Art so anxious to go, my heart ? " she 
 asked me once. " Think of your mother lonely 
 at home ; will you not stay with her, my 
 Tony?" 
 
 Now, although my intelligence lagged so in 
 understanding my infirmity, I was a shrewd lad 
 enough in other ways ; and when my mother, 
 who was ever keen to throw pleasures in my 
 road, now suddenly put herself first, and begged 
 me to refrain from a delight, the like of which 
 
i6 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 had never been known in Chilwaithe, to 
 pleasure her fancy, I felt, child as I was, some- 
 thing of doubt. 
 
 "Not go?" I halted. 
 
 " But once," she pleaded ; " and we will sit 
 together, you and I — and I will read you tales 
 of King Arthur." 
 
 She looked at me with her dear blue eyes 
 again, and then she stooped and put her arms 
 around me. 
 
 " My little lad," she said softly, and when she 
 lifted her head I could see the sparkle of tears 
 on the smooth velvet of my shoulder, and I 
 wondered more than ever. 
 
 " Wouldst like to hear of Sir Galahad ? " she 
 coaxed cunningly, — for Sir Galahad was my 
 favourite knight in all that gallant band, — " and 
 Sir Lancelot ? You shall sit up as late as the 
 others, my Tony, and we will read together, 
 and have a pleasant evening ; is it not so ? " 
 
 " No, no ! " I broke short her words, half 
 angry, half puzzled at this intent to defraud me 
 of my pleasure, suspicious, child as I was, of 
 some hidden reason for this unwillingness. " I 
 would love to go as a soldier," I coaxed, pulling 
 at her gown, " with a sword and a cocked hat of 
 many feathers " ; and when she made no reply, 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 17 
 
 I burst into tears, stung by the injustice that 
 would cut me out of the coming delights which 
 were making the days of the others bright with 
 anticipation. It was just as I clung to her, and 
 she turned away with her face working, that 
 the door was flung open, and Joseph announced 
 a Mistress Granby and her son. 
 
 Mistress Granby entered with an angry rustle 
 of silk, her skirts standing stiffly round her and 
 almost obscuring from view the lad who fol- 
 lowed on her heels. She was a lady of gener- 
 ous proportions and good height, the latter 
 augmented by the waving feathers in her bon- 
 net, and she took full advantskge of the facilities 
 her amplitude afforded for purposes of bedizen- 
 ment. Her fleshly body, I mind, burgeoned 
 above a stiff stomacher glinting with glittering 
 beads twisted in strange device. This feature 
 of her attire is impressed on my memory ; for 
 having paid obeisance to my mother, she turned 
 mumbling something of condolence regarding 
 my pale looks, and enveloped me, regardless of 
 my shrinking distaste, in a voluminous embrace, 
 from which I emerged panting and smarting 
 from an affectionate but ill-advised pressure. 
 
 I loved her not, and included her son in my 
 distaste. It was almost as if — baby though I 
 
 B 
 
i8 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 was — some prescience that my calamity would 
 come to me through these folk advised me to 
 avoid their vicinity. 
 
 I shook myself free of her with scantest 
 courtesy, and backed precipitately towards my 
 mother, who frowned heavily, and yet sought 
 my eyes with a glance pregnant of sympathy. 
 She — I discovered as the years passed — shared 
 my detestation of these grand neighbours, al- 
 though it never reached the full vigour of my 
 hatred. Having mannerlessly freed myself, I 
 glowered at Mistress Granby, who regarded me 
 with a somewhat obtuse benevolence. 
 
 Tardily just, I must acknowledge the excel- 
 lence of her intention, and recognising the fact 
 as clearly as I now do, I cannot understand 
 why my memories of this lady should fill my 
 mind with such harsh jarring. Some have it 
 that kindly time, dulling a too critical remem- 
 brance, oft transforms quondam enmity to 
 friendship or at least tolerance. It is an amiable 
 fancy, but I cannot — speaking for myself and of 
 such as have made me intimate of their private 
 loves and hates — believe it true. There is no 
 truer instinct than a child's ; mine indeed never 
 played me false. Where I loved, my heart still 
 lies ; where I hated, the sum has grown with the 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 19 
 
 accruing years. If there be aught of verity in 
 words of holy men, you and I, Master Cosmo, 
 will sometime settle a long account. But I 
 diverge. 
 
 Indubitably on this occasion I treated Mis- 
 tress Granby right scurvily, being a child spoiled 
 and indulged beyond all reason. I was ever the 
 first considered, and was allowed many little 
 indulgences denied to Cecily. I played little 
 A^ith other children, and they — I know now — 
 carefully warned beforehand, treated me as if 
 I were of a finer clay than they boasted. I 
 now understand that my mother — I had no 
 father — had instituted a curious law of atone- 
 ment, and was perpetually striving to com- 
 pensate me by a flawless childhood for the 
 griefs that life must inevitably hold in the 
 future. 
 
 "Poor child," sighed Mistress Granby. She 
 looked at me with the fishy eyes I abhorred, and 
 swayed her head from side to side, till all the 
 funereal plumes waved in desolate sympathy. 
 "You bear these hot days well, Anthony." 
 
 " He is well enough," interposed my mother 
 with a touch of acidity, as I instinctively turned 
 towards the door. Dear heart ! Now I know 
 how truly my every hurt was hers. " Go into 
 
20 " PUNCHINELLO^' 
 
 the gardens, Tony, and take Cosmo with you. Go 
 and see the foal," she added, arresting my flight 
 
 I saw no other way of escaping from the 
 drawing-room, and catching from my mother's 
 voice a hint of her desire to be rid of me, I 
 somewhat ungraciously stepped out of the long 
 windows on to the lawn, followed by my guest. 
 Perhaps it was the irritating consciousness of 
 his superior strength and his fine limbs — I 
 being but of a poor build, tiny for my years, 
 and of an exceeding slow growth, which I 
 steadily strove to accelerate by stolen watches 
 in rain showers — or it may be Cosmo's slow, 
 heavy complacency with himself and indifference 
 to my claims when we met, which was but 
 rarely. I incline to the latter theory, for he 
 treated me with a scantily veiled contempt. 
 Indeed, I know not truly the why and the where- 
 fore, but this boy I could not endure. 
 
 Still, at first, on that eventful afternoon, we 
 walked with apparent amicability through the 
 gardens on our way to visit the new foal. For 
 the moment I had forgotten the masque till he 
 minded me of it with a boastful tale of his 
 adornments. "I go as a courtier," quoth he, 
 "of Louis XII.'s time — velvet knee-breeches, 
 long coat, and silk stockings. Do not tell it 
 
*' PUNCHINELLO " 21 
 
 abroad," he simpered ; " my mother thinks the 
 effect will be the greater if none know before- 
 hand. Very full the knee-breeches," he maun- 
 dered, " lace ruffles over the hands," I confess 
 I felt a little sick. We are told that vanity is a 
 vice of the weaker sex ; but, methinks, the wise 
 king, when he confined a solemn warning to 
 women against the wearing of vain apparel and 
 the love of adornment, showed undue and un- 
 just favouritism to man. I have seen old bucks 
 of seventy, corseted, rouged and curled with an 
 infinity of art that topped their years of two- 
 score in daylight, and I have seen these same 
 prepared for rest. It was ungallantly done of 
 Solomon. 
 
 Now when he told me of these things my day 
 clouded again, and I felt somewhat bitterly to- 
 wards my mother because I had no tale with 
 which to match his vaunt. I was sore put to it, 
 for I could not bear that he should guess the 
 truth, when an impish thought struck me and I 
 smiled wisely. 
 
 " I keep my secret till the night," said I ; and, 
 not content with that, went on to tease him. 
 " I have a careless tongue," I said regretfully. 
 " I would you had not told me, Cosmo — not but 
 what I will strive to keep silence." 
 
22 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 Now Cosmo, for all his grace of limb and pink 
 healthy face, was as stupid as a carp, and he fell 
 headlong into my trap. 
 
 " Anthony, you would not ! " he prayed ; " gen- 
 tlemen (oh, the air of him !) do not do these 
 things." 
 
 " Slips of the tongue happen," I said senten- 
 tiously. " Think not I would do it for malice," 
 and I regarded him from the corner of my eye, 
 wondering how far I might trade on that carp- 
 like density. 
 
 It seemed I had somewhat miscalculated his 
 thickheadedness, for he turned on me in sudden 
 fury. " Malice — why, you are made of it ! 'Tis 
 
 a common trait of " And then he halted, 
 
 while the angry blood flooded his face. 
 
 Even now, had I forborne, I might have kept 
 my happy ignorance a little longer, but I rushed 
 to my doom. " A common trait — big words ! " 
 mocked L " Art fallen short before the close of 
 the phrase ? " 
 
 He looked at me wickedly and smiled. 
 
 " I can make a fair guess at your dress," he 
 grinned ; " 'twill suit you to the life — an ex- 
 cellent Punchinello ! " 
 
 " Punchinello ! " I said in honest amazement ; 
 " why Punchinello ? " 
 
" PUNCHINELLO " 23 
 
 " Come," he said, still with that curious smile, 
 and he cut across the grass in the direction of 
 the pond that glistened like a huge glass set in 
 the earth. Against the long crowded years, 
 with all their tumult and striving, that sleepy, 
 summer noon stands out in curious relief. I 
 turn my eyes inward and a mental picture is 
 before me. The long lush grasses through 
 which we stumbled, mercilessly crushing fragile 
 bells o' Bethlehem, and startling grasshoppers 
 into flight and whirr. The foal we had come to 
 see, I mind, was shaking long, ridiculous legs 
 in the next field. On our way we passed an 
 apple-tree from which the rosy foam had not 
 entirely drifted. From where we stood we 
 could see the house veiled with ivy, and a turn 
 of the gravelled drive sentinelled by flaunting 
 tulips, that from the distance made the 
 effect of a strip of gay ribbon winding to the 
 door. The air was sweet with the scent of 
 cabbage roses and mignonette, floating from the 
 flower-beds we had left behind us. We hurried 
 through the grass, I too breathless, in my en- 
 deavour to keep pace with him, to question till 
 we came to the edge of the pond. It lay still 
 and clear, throwing back faithful reflections of 
 a willow that hung over it : I remember there 
 
24 " PUNCHINELLO " 
 
 was a gigantic water-lily floating on it, resting 
 placidly on its green leaves, with a gold heart 
 bared to the blaze of sunshine, and hints of tur- 
 quoise fringed it where the forget-me-nots lifted 
 blue eyes. The whistle of a mavis in the dis- 
 tance made gay music. I remember it keenly. 
 
 Now when we had come to the edge, Cosmo 
 beckoned to me to lean over. " Look at your- 
 self," he said gleefully, " and understand why 
 you shall be Punchinello." 
 
 I hesitated, thinking that in his malice he 
 meditated precipitating me into the water. 
 " Have no fear," he said again. " Stand thus ! " 
 He moved a few paces away from me and looked 
 sideways into the water. 
 
 I followed his example, and the tranquil pond 
 flashed back our images. 
 
 " Understand ? " said he. 
 
 " No," said I, and pulled uneasily at the vel- 
 vet blouse I wore, striving to straighten its 
 clumsy folds. Despite my aversion to them, 
 I always wore in those days full blouses and 
 large lace collars instead of the trim coats I 
 coveted. 
 
 " Pull harder," said he. 
 
 And I, poor baby, pulled harder with no 
 result. " Now do you understand ? " he asked 
 
** PUNCHINELLO '* 25 
 
 again. He came quickly to my side and drew 
 my velvet blouse tightly over my back. " Pun- 
 chinello," he said sweetly ; " indeed, an excellent 
 Punchinello ! " 
 
 I cast a sharp glance over my shoulder, 
 fearing I knew not what, and saw my shape 
 outlined in pitiless distinctness. It was surely 
 some passing ripple that lent that distorted out- 
 line to my back. My head too, sunk between 
 my shoulders, loomed enormous in contrast to 
 my meagre body ; but it was on the outline 
 of my back that my eyes fastened — it was, if not 
 a hump, the very surest indication. I put my 
 hand behind me and strove to feel it through 
 the folds and frills of my blouse. 
 
 " It is my blouse," I faltered. My pride was 
 gone, and to my shamed ears my voice sounded 
 full of tears. " These clumsy folds ! " I plucked 
 at them feverishly — I can feel the surface of 
 that velvet now. " The blouse," I said again. 
 
 Cosmo laughed and shrugged his shoulders. 
 " As you will," said he. I looked at him help- 
 lessly, fighting with the flood that was smarting 
 in my eyes. " I have a weak back," I babbled 
 again ; " I shall be stronger when I'm grown 
 up." 
 
 "Grown up ! " he scoffed ; " such as you do not 
 
26 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 grow. I " — he smiled complacently at his own 
 image, bending over it enamoured, like a young 
 Narcissus — " promise six feet, so they tell me." 
 
 A great knot rose in my throat and choked 
 me : all the gracious world, that had been so 
 fair a few moments before, swam blurred before 
 my eyes. My voice sounded strangely when I 
 strove to speak. " I will keep your secret," I 
 gasped ; " Cosmo, say it is not true ! — Cosmo." 
 
 But his eyes were rivetted on the foal that he 
 had just spied, and he was wearying of the sub- 
 ject. " What do words avail ? " he yawned ; "it 
 is common talk, but I will lie an it please you, 
 Punchinello ! " And he ran towards the stile of 
 the meadow, and left me gazing at the figure 
 mirrored in the pond. Now, curious as it may 
 seem, I had had no idea of my deformity. I knew 
 indeed that I was not over-strong. I was for 
 ever coddled and petted and made to rest 
 unduly, and resented, as I said before, a clumsy 
 compassion ; but, having mixed little with other 
 children, and those carefully chosen, I was in 
 perfect ignorance of my shape. A mirror 
 might have disillusioned me, but I had little 
 vanity, and indeed I might have gazed by the 
 hour at my own image and have detected no- 
 thing — it was only in profile that my cruel shape 
 
'' PUNCHINELLO " 27 
 
 showed. Even as I gazed into the water, with 
 my blouse held firmly down with both hands, 
 that my outline should be presented in all its 
 hideous nakedness, I saw no hump, only a sug- 
 gestion. I wondered, as I gazed, how much it 
 would grow. To my excited eyes my deformity 
 increased with the speeding moments. Punchi- 
 nello ! God could not be so cruel, I knew. I 
 strove to comfort myself with sobbed assevera- 
 tions of the Divine inability to promulgate so 
 great a wrong ; I looked up into the blazing blue 
 overhead, half expecting the skies to open and a 
 comforting negative to issue therefrom. I knew 
 He would not — could not ; but for all my 
 certainty I sickened to have my convictions 
 echoed by another. 
 
 My thoughts flew to that sweet presence — my 
 mother. She would set all things right, and 
 comfort me. We would laugh together at this 
 brutal jest ; — and for the future I would wear, 
 I resolved, close-fitting coats, like other lads, 
 instead of these slovenly blouses that cheated 
 even ponds to such cruel semblance of de- 
 formity. 
 
 I forgot Mistress Granby in my distress, or 
 more truly, remembered and did not care, 
 could hear Cosmo's laughter as he frolicked 
 
28 '* PUNCHINELLO " 
 
 with the foal. I heard him shout " Tony," but I 
 did not wait, so anxious was I to hear from her 
 dear lips the sweet, saving truth that I was as 
 others. She would laugh at me, soothing my 
 terrors with that tender ridicule with which she 
 coaxed me out of my frequent fits of passion. 
 I sped towards the house, fast as my legs could 
 carry me, and struggled panting through the 
 long window. Mistress Granby's voice was 
 rasping the air as I entered. 
 
 " Mother," I said, heedless of her interrupted 
 words ; " mother." I clung to her gown with 
 one hand, while with the other I sought my 
 back. " Tell me — it is not true," I gasped, 
 breathless with my running. " I am not 
 Punchinello ; it is not true. Cosmo says, 
 mother " 
 
 She spoke no words of denial, but drew me 
 on to her knees. 
 
 " Take thy time, Tony," she said quietly. 
 "What is it now?" 
 
 And so, with more or less lucidity, I stumbled 
 through my tale, and still she kept silence, 
 while now and again she pressed me closer 
 to her. 
 
 Only Mistress Granby kept up a running 
 accompaniment, " H'm, ha ! " of surprise and re- 
 
" PUNCHINELLO " 29 
 
 gret, as women will ; but my mother signalled 
 her to silence, and I told my story, which was 
 indeed but short and took few moments in the 
 telling, in peace. "Why did he say it?" I 
 finished, and again her arms wound closer 
 round me. " My little lad ! " she whispered, 
 and something wet and hot splashed on my 
 hand. 
 
 At this moment Cosmo burst into the room. 
 
 " Why did you not come to me ? " he said 
 reproachfully. " I waited for " 
 
 Methinks later he regretted that he had not 
 waited longer, for at this moment an amazing 
 departure occurred. My mother slipped me 
 from her knee, and made two steps to where 
 Cosmo stood. She seized him by the collar 
 with one hand, the other glittered, be-ringed, for 
 a moment in mid-air, and then descended, with 
 a decision that rang through the room, on Mas- 
 ter Cosmo's ears. I stared at her, fascinated. 
 Another violent box. Had the last trump 
 sounded, I should not have averted my eyes. 
 Never before had I seen my mother angry. 
 She was transformed in one moment from a 
 Madonna to an avenging fury. Two splashes 
 of pink burned on her white cheeks ; her mild 
 blue eyes shamed the diamonds on that punitory 
 
30 " PUNCHINELLO '* 
 
 hand. Another blow, and Mistress Granby, 
 who, like myself, had sat open-mouthed and 
 paralysed with amazement, interfered. 
 
 " He meant no harm ; he is but a child," I 
 heard her say ; and she forced Cosmo from my 
 mother's grasp. She let him go with a final 
 shake. 
 
 "You coward\" she panted with heaving 
 breast. " You reptile ! " 
 
 My mother, my saintly mother, whom I had 
 ever likened, in her pure stillness and whiteness, 
 to the tall lilies of the Annunciation ! My 
 mother, on whose lips I had never heard a 
 harsh word ! My mother, who ever, by a tender 
 twist of speech and voice, turned a reproof to 
 kindest phrase ! 
 
 "Go," she said, and turned her back on 
 mother and son. 
 
 As the Granbys passed down the drive in 
 mute acceptance of summary dismissal, I saw 
 the Mistress cuff Cosmo again with a vigour 
 that matched my mother's ardour, and some- 
 thing of the sweetness of satisfied animosity 
 stole into my heart. But I was still unhappy, 
 and my uneasiness was in no way allayed, for, 
 after all, my mother had said no word. I looked 
 at her in mute appeal, but her shoulder was 
 
" PUNCHINELLO " 31 
 
 turned on me, and I knew nothing of what was 
 written in her face. 
 
 " Mother," I said at last, " why did he taunt 
 me thus ? It is not true." 
 
 Then my mother turned and faced me with 
 the old love-light in the eyes that had lately 
 glittered so angrily. 
 
 " Come to my room, Tony," she said, taking 
 me by the hand, "and we will have a little 
 talk." 
 
 Now, above all things, I loved to sit alone 
 with my mother in her own private chamber. 
 At. these times I was wont to make hideous 
 havoc in her jewel-cases and wardrobes, thumb 
 her books, all unreproved ; and when tired of 
 this, listen while she read aloud tales of the 
 knights of old in which I so delighted. I 
 would bring my violin, certain of a loving 
 audience, and scrape my beloved airs, sure of 
 applause, and she would smile, well pleased, 
 and ask me if I would not love to be a musician, 
 and write music that should move others as 
 these writings of past giants moved me. And 
 I would answer in the affirmative, truly enough 
 being hungry for fame in any shape, but adding 
 frequently as a rider that my first desire was to 
 be a soldier in a scarlet coat and gold lace, and 
 
32 " PUNCHINELLO " 
 
 win great battles. Here she would often sigh 
 and kiss me suddenly, to my bewilderment, and 
 fall back to talk of music. But this day, instead 
 of leaving me free to choose my fancy to pass 
 the hours, she made me sit on a chair close to 
 her, and tucking her fingers under my chin to 
 raise my face, she looked me squarely in the 
 eyes. 
 
 "What is most needed in a man to make 
 him a great soldier, my Tony ? " she asked me. 
 
 "Bravery," I answered quickly, wondering 
 somewhat at this beginning, for my mother till 
 now had ever hated talk of soldiers, sports, and 
 all such things, ever striving to turn my fancy 
 towards the arts, and music, and more peaceful 
 pursuits. 
 
 "You would love to be a brave man, really 
 brave, of a courage that passed the common ? " 
 she said, with a catch in her breath. 
 
 I was getting desperately impatient ; my 
 tongue was trembling with unspoken questions 
 as to the why and wherefore of Cosmo's cruel 
 taunt and her sudden flare of anger. But there 
 was that about her that day that filled me with 
 something of awe, and I answered her mechani- 
 cally, striving to understand wherein the differ- 
 ence lay. 
 
''PUNCHINELLO" 33 
 
 " Indeed, yes ! I will be of a great courage 
 when I am a man, fight great battles, and 
 wear " 
 
 Then suddenly I remembered the children's 
 masque. 
 
 " Mother," I began. But she che.cked me 
 with soft fingers on my mouth, and spoke again 
 with a tremor in her voice. 
 
 " Listen, Tony," she said, " and I will tell you 
 a tale. Once upon a time a little child was 
 born, ordained by God to bear something more 
 of pain and sorrow than other children. At 
 first he did not know, but one day a great 
 coward" — she hesitated, and her pretty white 
 hands fidgetted restlessly, and I thought of 
 Cosmo, for all my trouble — " told him he was 
 not as others. This child had always enter- 
 tained, from his first understanding of life, great 
 dreams of glory and valour. He would be a 
 soldier, and fight his way to honour, and he 
 loved to talk of trumpets and chargers, the 
 brass of conquering bands, torn tatters of rescued 
 standards. Later he understood " — the tension 
 in her voice was piteous. " What did he do 
 when he knew that he could never fight the 
 battles he had chosen ? Did he fight those of 
 God's making? or did he turn his face to the 
 
 C 
 
34 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 wall ? What did he do, mine own ? " Her 
 arms were round me, her sweet, brave face with 
 dimmed eyes was pressed to mine. " What 
 did he do, my Tony? What will he do, my 
 heart ? " Her face was working and white. 
 
 And now — I write it with touch of shame for 
 all the lapse of years — instead of comforting 
 her, I dragged myself away from the loving 
 clasp of her arms, and dashed myself on the 
 ground. 
 
 " It is not true ! " I sobbed. " It is a lie— a 
 lie ! " I shouted, striving to believe the falseness 
 of my own assertion. " Mother ! mother ! " I 
 pushed my wet face into the folds of her gown. 
 " Mother, I am no Punchinello ! I am straight ! 
 These thick velvet folds do the mischief." I 
 tugged at my blouse. " Mother, I have no 
 hump. I shall grow tall and strong — be a 
 soldier, mother." 
 
 Still she did not speak, but lifted me from 
 the floor on to her knees, and waited till my 
 sobbing subsided for very dearth of breath. 
 
 " Be a man, sweetheart," she said at last ; " do 
 not fret that life can hold no battles for you ; 
 you will have enough to conquer, my poor 
 laddie." Her kisses covered my face. 
 
 " If I must have a hump," I wailed, " and be 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 35 
 
 like old Martin in the village, I had rather be a 
 daftie like him, and not understand." 
 
 " Hush, hush ! " She quelled the torrent of 
 my passion with a loving hand. "Dear, you 
 have one gift by God's grace ; let other things 
 go by. Cleave to your music. It is not only 
 by battles that men make undying names." 
 
 I lifted up my blurred face. " He called me 
 Punchinello," I said. 
 
 " And what shall we call him ? " said my 
 mother, with a flash of the temper that had 
 reddened Cosmo's ears. " There are worse 
 names than Punchinello," and she muttered 
 something beneath her breath that sat strangely 
 on her Madonna mouth. 
 
 " I will not go to the masque," I faltered. " I 
 understand." 
 
 And thus I learnt that by God's branding I 
 was Punchinello. 
 
II 
 
 IN my life, as it lies behind me, a gray, in- 
 determinate sea, sharp crags of incident 
 stand out, and on these I^ purpose to string my 
 clumsy tale. The realization of my infirmity 
 at seven years of age, the first crag, and from 
 this I leap on ten years. I should, following 
 my own desire, have written the history of this 
 time, telling of a boy's fight with fate, and of 
 a dear woman's loving aid. But I am old, and 
 every day I feel my hold on life slacken. This 
 knowledge would hasten the most dilatory 
 hand ; and again I want to write of Nancy. 
 So I will skip these ten years, which indeed 
 held nothing but a training in music from our 
 organist ; an ever-increasing solicitude concern- 
 ing my health from my dear mother, and the 
 breaking into womanhood of Cecily. From the 
 day I learned from Cosmo's gibe how heavily 
 God's hand had fallen on me, I developed some- 
 thing of an antagonistic attitude towards life 
 and its pleasures. I had never been used to be 
 
 86 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 37 
 
 shy ; indeed, with the vanity fostered by my 
 mother, and my companions, who, carefully in- 
 structed, never jarred on my egoistic felicity, I 
 was over-bold ; but the bitter revelation of an 
 afternoon changed me utterly. It was all I 
 could do, I remember, having gained the key 
 to the sympathetic environment that had so 
 puzzled me, to face a stranger. That terrible 
 excrescence between my shoulders grew, in fact, 
 but slowly, though in my fevered imagination 
 it took weekly distinctive shape and weight. 
 I myself laboured to a pitiful height, some four 
 feet ten inches, with heavy shoulders and mas- 
 sive sunken head. I could not spit a forgiveness 
 at Cosmo in mine old age for his brutal veracity ; 
 but, nevertheless, I grant he named me truly. 
 I am, indeed, a Punchinello. 
 
 I rest on my seventeenth year, for it was at 
 this age an event occurred that was the cause 
 of my leaving home for a period. I say the 
 cause, because I left home owing to the episode ; 
 but I know that my mother had had it in her 
 mind for some time to send me abroad, an 
 ambition that I had fostered to the greatest 
 extent of my ability. Thrown on myself for 
 interest, and fearing companionship, I slaved 
 unintermittently at my music, under Fritz 
 
38 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 Ooterwint, organist of our church, who in- 
 structed me also in counterpoint and harmony. 
 He was a kindly man, of a patience more 
 common to moralists than musicians, and bore 
 the sounds of his choirs with a fortitude 
 that should have earned him a crown in the 
 Golden Land of the future. While under his 
 tuition I needly hardly say I composed love- 
 songs, oratorios, symphonies, madrigals, and 
 ballads. He would sigh sometimes as I thrum- 
 med in his ears the fruits of my fecund imagina- 
 tion, calling on him at short intervals to admire 
 freely. I had a passion for the writing of 
 anthems in those days, which in no wise inter- 
 fered with a taste for lighter music. " Dear 
 boy," he would say with his patient smile, 
 dragging a red pencil ruthlessly the while 
 through my most cherished combinations of 
 notes, " let us have patience — be Palestrina, 
 Beethoven, Handel, Bach, in turn, not all to- 
 gether. Your life is still to come," and then 
 he would fling my MS. at my head ; and I 
 would catch it, smiling somewhat wryly, and 
 go home across the fields to my mother, who 
 ever praised and listened. Let us be true, my 
 chronicle. I was a pitiful figure enough, God 
 knows ; yet I was a jackanapes of the first 
 
PUNCHINELLO " 39 
 
 water at that age, and as proud of my musical 
 brayings and squeakings as other youths of their 
 fine figures and courtly tongues. 
 
 It happened that one day I brought him an 
 anthem of my writing, to which he accorded 
 some of his rare praise ; at which, for all my 
 indifferent air, I was much delighted, for I knew 
 Ooterwint, for all his queer sayings and eccen- 
 tric doings, to be as full of music as an egg 
 of meat, and when he grunted approbation, 
 turning the leaves hurriedly, I grew hot with 
 delight. 
 
 At this time my prime ambition was to hear 
 something of my writing given in public, I 
 suffering from no qualms as to its sufficiency 
 of merit, and enjoying prematurely the savour 
 of fame. Holding this a golden opportunity, 
 I straightway prayed him to allow it to be 
 rendered in our village church, which boasted 
 in its choir two fine voices. The soprano was 
 indeed a magnificent organ presented by some 
 fantasy of fate to a woman as devoid of all 
 understanding of the deeper meaning of music 
 as any stone. Still she had a fair ear, and if 
 sufficiently trained occasionally simulated some 
 shadow of passion and emotion. The other 
 voice was a baritone — invariably designated a 
 
40 " PUNCHINELLO »' 
 
 tenor by its owner. (I have never yet met a 
 man who, except under compulsion, would 
 acknowledge his voice a baritone ; they are 
 always tenors.) The remainder of the choir 
 was composed of average voices, such as com- 
 monly form the body of their choir in country 
 churches ; but they were all taught with infinite 
 care by Ooterwint, whose music was his life, 
 and who proudly boasted that his choir stood 
 among the best in the country parishes of all 
 England. Although he did not negative my 
 wish when first I told him of it, he laughed with 
 a touch of bitterness. 
 
 " Dulcie Graham of course will take the first 
 part," he said at last, and he whistled the melody 
 of the opening phrase. " What words ! " he said 
 gently to himself ; " and you have well matched 
 the music. * Set me as a seal upon thy hearty 
 as a seal upon thine arm : for love is strong as 
 deaths is strong as death^ — a fine crescendo — 
 ^is strong as death! Let us pray Miss Dulcie 
 may catch some understanding of the fact — 
 ^Jealousy is cruel as the grave! — I'll lay you a 
 wager, Anthony, she proclaims that with the 
 most placid intonation — * The coals thereof are 
 coals of fire^ which hath a most vehement 
 flame! — Here we have the man's voice. To 
 
*' PUNCHINELLO " 41 
 
 God we had a genuine tenor ! Ah, good ! 
 good ! — * Many waters cannot quench love^ 
 neither can the floods drown it^ Now we have 
 the body of the choir — ' If a 7nan would give all 
 the substance of his house for love, it would 
 utterly be contemned! They will shout that 
 grandly. It is indeed a fair truth. You have a 
 happy suggestion of water here, * Many waters 
 cannot quench love! I have known a woman's 
 tears go far towards drowning it, nevertheless," 
 he muttered. " I like not these chords," he said, 
 with a sudden dash of the old familiar pencil ; 
 "they are too thin. You must re-write this 
 passage. But for the rest, it is excellent — most 
 excellent. You have brought the very note of 
 scorn into this phrase, * If a man would give all 
 the substance of his house for love, it would 
 utterly be contemned — utterly be contemned! 
 You linger excellently." His sharp brown eyes 
 twinkled as he looked on me. " Think much of 
 love, Tony ? " 
 
 And I, fool that I was, answered him in the 
 fulness of my ignorance. " Love," I laughed. 
 " I regard it as an argument upon which to 
 hang my music." 
 
 He pulled my papers together, and pushed 
 them towards me. 
 
42 ''PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 " You are a clever lad, Anthony," he said ; 
 "but there are things of which you are igno- 
 rant, in spite of your youth. However, in justice, 
 I admit that love has made you an excellent 
 argument. We will have your anthem when 
 you will. Master Gregory, our baritone, casts, 
 I am told, sheep's eyes at Miss Dulcie, who is 
 not indifferent. Between the composer, who 
 understands love in the abstract as an argu- 
 ment " — he smiled not unkindly — "and the 
 exponents of the argument, who know its prac- 
 tice, we should have fine music, eh, Tony ? 
 ^ Love is strong as death,'" he mocked me 
 openly. "^ If a man would give all the substance 
 of his house for love, he would utterly be con- 
 temned^ There must be something in it, An- 
 thony — something strong, perhaps dangerous. 
 A wise man has said of love, ' in life it 
 doth much mischief.' He may have begun 
 by using it as merely an argument." He locked 
 the organ, and put his hand on my shoulder. 
 " What say you, Tony ? " 
 
 I laughed, and flung my glove at Fortune's 
 feet, puzzling awhile over those chords at which 
 he had taken exception. " I am not afraid. 
 These things are not for hunchbacks. Give me 
 satisfied ambition, an applauding crowd, the 
 
** PUNCHINELLO " 43 
 
 substance of a man's house," I quoted irrever- 
 ently, "and let them take their love." 
 
 "You are a fool, Master Anthony," he re- 
 torted civilly, and jangling the great keys in 
 his pocket, went his way and left me staring. 
 
Ill 
 
 As I write these memories solely for my 
 own pleasuring, I may linger as the 
 fancy takes me, and indeed, if needful, I have a 
 valid excuse to hand for this lengthy detailing 
 of the story of my beloved anthem. It was 
 thanks to this that I so soon found myself 
 abroad. But even my own patience revolts at 
 thought of recapitulating in detail my stormy 
 endeavours, Miss Dulcie's impregnable calm, 
 the nervous tremors of the baritone and choir, 
 the chuckles and chortles of Ooterwint. 
 
 Enough to say that at last I felt the limit of 
 excellence attainable by the choristers had been 
 reached, and determined that my anthem should 
 be heard on the following Sunday. Some hint 
 of it had reached the neighbourhood, and there 
 were not lacking folks who regarded the ven- 
 ture with dubiety ; for although in every prayer 
 book was clearly inscribed " in quires and places 
 where they sing here followeth the anthem," an 
 
" PUNCHINELLO " 45 
 
 anthem at that date in village churches was a 
 rare if not an unknown interlude, and there 
 were some who thought it savoured of popish 
 practices. 
 
 I awoke on the morning of the eventful Sun- 
 day with a consciousness of the day holding 
 great things, which I struggled to place in my 
 drowsy sluggishness. Suddenly it leaped on 
 me through the mists of my departing sleep — 
 my anthem ! I jumped from my bed, and 
 hurried through my ablutions while the melody 
 of the opening phrases sang sweetly through 
 my splashings. I was ever a shade superstitious ; 
 and, looking from my window, rejoiced that the 
 day augured so well. The gardens lay in a 
 blaze of sunshine, and the dews, yet undried, 
 turned the lawns to a white sparkle of diamonds. 
 The stars of climbing clematis which struggled 
 through my open casement were sweet with all 
 the fragrance of newly-burst buds. It was one of 
 those fair days on which it seems as if God rests 
 loving hands on the world, saying that His 
 work is good, and that all creation praises Him 
 in a song of gladness. Beneath my window 
 there was a flush of pink, where the heavy- 
 headed roses wafted up their breath as incense ; 
 beyond them the white lilies bowed their pure 
 
46 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 petals ; here a patch of pansy-purpled ground, 
 there an angry flare of scarlet geraniums. A 
 wilderness of gilliflowers, sweet williams, and 
 matted pinks cloyed the scented air ; and, cleav- 
 ing through the sweetness, came the whistling 
 of blackbirds, and the songs of full-throated 
 thrushes. 
 
 Fortunate environment lends to optimistic 
 recognition, and I easily stifled my apprehen- 
 sion of the choir's possibilities, comforting my- 
 self, as I tied my cravat, with the remembrance 
 of Dulcie's last rendering. She had caught 
 either the infection of my enthusiasm or pos- 
 sibly the meaning of Solomon's words. I 
 remembered that she and the baritone tarried 
 in the dusky sweetness of summer nights, later 
 than the proprieties allowed, and caught a clue 
 to the understanding of this late emotion. 
 " Many waters cannot quench lover How 
 triumphantly she had filled the church ! Her 
 golden notes had taken wings, filling the arches 
 and floating forth this passionate word of a 
 wise king, had gone through the opened, painted 
 glasses of the windows, in comfort to the dead 
 that lay without in the stillness of the church- 
 yard. It was a glorious voice, and when 
 vitalised held the desire of thousands of lovers 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 47 
 
 long since dry dust. I forgive her final fiasco 
 for love of that last rehearsal. " Neither can 
 the floods drown it'' Ooterwint had done his 
 best. The sobbing accompaniment of that 
 great avowal had sustained her. The choir had 
 thundered it. A pitiful conceit ; but I wondered, 
 as I listened, that the shrouds and coffins 
 around us did not burst asunder, and the dear 
 dead rise with loving, outspread hands. " Love 
 is strong as death— as death!' When she sang, it 
 seemed indeed somewhat stronger, and the 
 long-since dead burst their bonds, and the 
 churchyard was peopled with a thundering 
 throng. And all for walking with that im- 
 mature baritone in the sweet stillness of sum- 
 mer lanes. At least, it was to that I ascribed 
 the erotic rendering. 
 
 After breakfast we started together for the 
 church, walking soberly ; my mother, as was ever 
 her habit at this time, silent, communing 
 with God, if her eyes were aught of guide, and 
 the tenderest smile playing round her sweet 
 curved mouth as she marked me decapitating 
 the wind-flowers and nodding bluebells in my 
 fret. 
 
 Thanks to the anodyne of time, I linger not 
 ungratefully on this sad season. For months 
 
48 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 after I could not bear the faintest reference to 
 that day, but now I call to mind every trifle of 
 our progress to the church that was to be the 
 scene of my undoing. We went through the 
 meadows, following the worn line of many feet, 
 while beside us the gay green of the coming 
 corn rustled and whispered in the morning 
 breeze ; on the hedges the convolvuli turned the 
 sweet grace of their flushed faces to the skies. 
 Before us, at short distance, the grey Norman 
 tower of our village church stood stolidly. It 
 was yet early for the congregation, but now and 
 again a man or a woman passed us, and we saw 
 them flit through the white tombstones and 
 enter the church door. As we reached the 
 entrance I was seized with a spasm of nervous 
 terror, and would fain have stayed without. It 
 rings conceitedly in the phrase, but to be candid, 
 it was Dulcie I doubted, for all her sweet sing- 
 ing at that last rehearsal. In later years this 
 calm complacency on the eve of a performance 
 deserted me in some measure, but I had no 
 terrors regarding myself in my boyhood, for 
 such is surely seventeen, when it measures the 
 years of a man ; women I have known who 
 counted but sixteen years of life. Cecily was but 
 a year and two months my senior, but she had 
 
** PUNCHINELLO " 49 
 
 the wisdom of the world at her finger-tips, and 
 would often instruct me, saying, " You are but 
 a boy, Tony," in tones that suggested a decade 
 at least between our respective ages. 
 
 Now it had been arranged that Ooterwint 
 should accompany my composition, and that 
 I should sit in my mother's pew as usual, taking 
 no part in the performance ; so after having paid 
 a hurried visit to Ooterwint, who met me with 
 laughter and soothing words in the vestry, I 
 returned to my mother's side. Never had the 
 morning prayers seemed to me so interminable. 
 I could have wept in the Psalms. David, no 
 doubt, was an excellent man ; he undeniably 
 possessed the gift of language, but he is long, 
 very long. I stood first on one foot, then on 
 the other as the choir prattled through the 
 vicissitudes of the sparrow upon the housetop. 
 It is an unhappy comparison, intended no doubt 
 to suggest forlornness, but trenching somewhat 
 upon the absurd. By a malicious turn of fortune 
 the lessons were long. I kicked the varnished 
 seats and a worn hassock till I choked for the 
 dust it held. I was in such a fever by the time 
 I learned in my Prayer-book " in quires and 
 places where they sing here followeth the 
 anthem," that my mother lifted her head quicker 
 
 D 
 
50 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 from her devotions than was her wont, being 
 attracted by my fidgetings. 
 
 " Anthony," she said reprovingly, *' Anthony," 
 with a severe lingering on the second syllable. 
 
 " She will ruin it," I whispered for answer ; 
 " she will, I know she will ! " But for all my 
 anxiety I pulled myself together and adopted 
 a devotional attitude, refraining from a furious 
 kick that I was speeding on its way. At last 
 we came to the Collect for Grace. The grand 
 appeal, droned drowsily by our Vicar, sounded 
 through the church ; the bowed heads lifted to 
 swell the Amen — a silence^then the prelude 
 to my anthem. 
 
 I could hardly hear — my heart was hurrying 
 so ; the blood knocked furiously in my temples, 
 overcoming the music, while chill shivers raced 
 each other down my spine. As I recovered 
 myself I grasped that Dulcie was singing the 
 opening phrase. Now in my writing I had 
 struggled, as is ever the way with young com- 
 posers, to imitate a great man, and ** il Sassone," 
 as they termed Handel in Italy, was my god. 
 It is well known that his music is essentially 
 characterised by a softness and suavity borrowed 
 from the Italian schools, and that he allowed it 
 in great measure to counterbalance the German 
 
*' PUNCHINELLO" 51 
 
 element. Being young and ardent, I was, no 
 doubt, plus royaliste que le roi, and followed 
 Corelli with even more enthusiasm than my 
 leader. It is sufficient to say that my music 
 was essentially emotional, so much so as to 
 border on the sensuous, and depended im- 
 mensely on its exponents. By this I mean that, 
 ignorant as I was of form, my anthem was little 
 more than a series of melodies ; and melody, as 
 the merest tyro knows, is irretrievably marred 
 by an unsympathetic rendering. Now Dulcie 
 was rendering it in a tone that combined sar- 
 casm and contempt, and hurrying the time 
 cruelly. The organ panted onward, and I 
 listened, fighting for calm. Her carelessness 
 increased ; she sang falsely, falling flat with 
 cheerfuUest complacency. "Love is strong as 
 death" she chirped gaily, with a strong note of 
 interrogation in her voice, and a bitter glance 
 at the baritone. "Jealousy is cruel as the 
 grave : the coals thereof are coals of fire^ which 
 hath a most vehement flajne." His voice now 
 joined her. I had written the most exquisite 
 canon here, and they stumbled through it 
 together, she petulantly and he sullenly. 
 I restrained myself with difficulty, while my 
 mother watched me nervously, and Cecily 
 
52 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 giggled. The choir burst in and assuaged me 
 somewhat, while my wits worked to solve the 
 reason of this terrible rendering. I anticipate 
 somewhat, but taking advantage of the fact that 
 this MSS. is for mine eyes alone, I must write 
 that later it transpired that these two had 
 quarrelled the previous evening, and Miss Dulcie, 
 with truly feminine astuteness, had seized this 
 opportunity to flaunt love. The choir sang well 
 enough, the altos and the trebles chiming 
 through the aisles and losing themselves in the 
 carved arches overhead ; the booming basses 
 joined them, the pulsating melody growing 
 stronger and higher till it seemed to be^t 
 against the walls of the church like a panting 
 bird seeking egress. But my supreme effect, on 
 which I had calculated, fell dead. I had im- 
 agined the soprano rising out of the subsiding 
 tumult in clear- winged notes : " Many waters 
 cannot quench love^ neither can the floods 
 drown it^ I hear the false notes now in all 
 their cheap flippancy. Oh, Dulcie ! Dulcie ! 
 I had thought better things of you than, for 
 a turn of spite, so to ruin my anthem. I 
 could better have heard Handel murdered, 
 or listened with indifference to her pestilent 
 poises making havoc with Purcell — but this 
 
"PUNCHINELLO 53 
 
 was mine own child, and I loved every quaver 
 that went to its making. 
 
 Poor Dulcie ! the grasses are waving high 
 above you now, and the baritone has mourned 
 and has found comfort again on other lips. I 
 forgive you, but it was a sharp unkindness at 
 the time — my teeth are all on edge in sheer 
 remembrance. 
 
 " Neither can the floods drown it,' she sang 
 so out of tune that she almost sang in tune — 
 another tune ! I could not bear it — I could not 
 " Stop ! " I shouted. My mother tugged my 
 sleeve, my sister raised a reproving eyebrow, 
 Ooterwint halted in sheer surprise. I was too 
 wild to heed them. " For pity's sake," I cried, 
 " go no further." And then 1 left my pew, and 
 made for the door. Even in my agitation I 
 noted the shocked glances of the villagers ; the 
 furious glare of the Rector, uncomfortably 
 hurried to his homily, pierced my back, but even 
 at the asinine age of seventeen I had discovered 
 the comforting value of an exact localization of 
 personal woe. I hated the sense of scenic effect. 
 My " Stop ! " two seconds after I had voiced it 
 filled me with shame, and I burnt with mingled 
 wrath and nervousness as I marched down the 
 aisle. But whatever I suffered in my exit, it in 
 
54 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 no wise matched the agony of mind concomitant 
 with longer waiting upon Dulcie's shrilly-voiced 
 spite. With laughter so akin to tears and the 
 salt of memories smarting in my eyes, I cannot 
 but enjoy the thought of that hour. It was the 
 most supremely ludicrous moment of my life ; 
 but at the time I detected no hint of comedy. 
 I rushed home, I remember, and locked myself 
 into my room, and raged and rampaged, re- 
 fusing to partake of our mid-day meal although 
 keen with hunger and tormented with a desire 
 to shout my grief to a sympathetic audience. I 
 could have hanged the choir high as Haman, 
 and reserved Dulcie and the baritone for a 
 harder fate. I cried, so far as I remember, over 
 the unhappy fate of my music. I was only a 
 lad, sickly and conceited, and for the time my 
 disappointment touched anguish. Then my 
 mother came and comforted me, and I con- 
 sented to be comforted, realizing fully the while 
 the extent of my complaisance, for it hurt her 
 cruelly to see me grieved. She promised me 
 that I should go to Town to study. It was 
 a glorious anthem, had its rendering been but 
 passable. Some day I would be a great man. 
 
 Dulcie was she paused — an eloquent pause. 
 
 And by some fantastic turn of fancy my mind 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 55 
 
 leapt back to a hot summer day — a sobbing 
 child, half startled out of his tears by the sudden 
 transformation of a Madonna into a virago, and 
 clack ! clack ! an angry hand vibrated on the 
 scarlet ears of a boy ! 
 
 " You shall go away and study, Tony," she 
 said, "and some day we shall all be proud." 
 She patted my shoulder comfortingly. (I have 
 the excuse of senility that I so dwell on these 
 memories.) " It is ridiculous to keep you here. 
 Ooterwint tells me that you can do anything 
 you will," she faltered sweetly. " And now, 
 my Tony," she whispered through her kisses, 
 "come and have something to eat" 
 
IV 
 
 I REMEMBER during my last weeks at 
 home a great excitement trembling in the 
 air ; jumbled recollections of motherly exhorta- 
 tions concerning flannel next the skin, and 
 hinted warnings regarding the wickedness of 
 towns still linger in the vast limbo of my 
 memory. Even Cecily's attitude towards me 
 at this time savoured of respect and lost the 
 note of patronage that had formerly charac- 
 terized it. Only Ooterwint mocked at the fond 
 foolishness of women, although he openly re- 
 joiced at the good fortune that had befallen 
 me. 
 
 " Every man has once his chance," he would 
 say, half in jest and half in earnest, " and only 
 once. Grasp it ! Hold it firm ! Never let go ! " 
 and then he quoted the immortal words : "There 
 comes a tide in the affairs of men which taken 
 at the flood leads on to fortune," while I listened, 
 already luxuriating in my future fame. For 
 
 56 
 
*' PUNCHINELLO '* 57 
 
 the pitiful episode of my anthem he had nothing 
 but laughter. "Your face, Tony — one furious 
 glance of murderous impotence ! " and then 
 would follow a Homeric burst of mirth. 
 
 "It hurt," I endeavoured to explain, " it hurt. 
 I had rather have burnt it than have suffered 
 such a crucifixion." 
 
 " The first endeavour ! " he mocked, " the 
 primary effusion — so hideously mangled. Oh, 
 youth, fair gracious youth, to be so delici- 
 ously at the beginning of things ! Did it ever 
 strike you, Tony, that a tremendous despair 
 argues a tremendous hope ? " 
 
 " I had worked so hard! " I stammered ; "and 
 it was music." 
 
 " Worked so hard — seventeen years hold your 
 days, eh, Tony ? And music spelt with a co- 
 lossal M ! I have worked fifty years, and I still 
 — honour to myself — write music. (I knew he 
 was thinking of his choir.) But I have been 
 blunted. You cannot credit me, but I envy you 
 your fever and fret. Time was" — I looked at 
 him all agog with expectancy. Ooterwint's 
 moments of expansion were rare — " Time was 
 when I, too, would have known hell hearing 
 * Set me as a seal^ " he jigged in exact imitation 
 of Miss Dulcie. "But now," he shrugged his 
 
58 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 shoulders, and his eyes twinkled, " I have 
 written for fifty years. Go on and prosper " ; 
 and so he bade me farewell. 
 
 « * * 4: « 
 
 It had been arranged that I should go to 
 London and study under Mathieson, who was 
 then considered in the front rank regarding con- 
 trapuntal instruction. I was to live in a lodging, 
 and spend my days at the rooms where he beat 
 knowledge into the heads of some half-dozen 
 pupils. 
 
 On my journey to Town a fantastic incident 
 happened to me, of which I will write, by reason 
 of its holding a curious shadowing of the future, 
 and also because the episode is not devoid of a 
 certain humour. It was indeed of a caustic 
 flavour at the time, but is so sweetened by the 
 lapse of years that the comedy concomitant on 
 my first squiring of dames is not a harsh re- 
 membrance. 
 
 We were but a stage from London, and had 
 halted awhile at Doynings in order that fresh 
 horses should be substituted for our lagging 
 cattle. Being unaccustomed to travelling, I was 
 somewhat weary, and gladly welcomed these 
 opportunities of descending from the coach ; in 
 this instance I hailed the occasion with cheerful 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 59 
 
 alacrity, little guessing at the tempestuous hours 
 that were winging their way towards me. 
 
 I entered the hostelry, and calling for a 
 draught of ale, proceeded to settle myself into 
 the most comfortable lounge in the tap- room. 
 I had fain have rested in silence, but mine host 
 carried a long tongue, and started on a generous 
 length of gossip, regardless of my yawns ; and 
 when my attention too visibly slackened, his 
 round face took on an added access of impor- 
 tance as he hinted darkly at a tale that should 
 effectually rout my slumbers, nodding his head 
 the while towards the stairs. An accomplished 
 gossip, he desired to keep his tit-bit for the 
 end, and used it as a stimulant to attention while 
 carefully avoiding its expression. My fellow- 
 companions hung about the doors in twos and 
 threes, sometimes joining in our talk, but rapidly 
 wearying of my garrulous gossip. At last, I 
 myself could no longer endure the patter of his 
 tongue, and half rose from my chair, when he 
 quickly laid his hand on my arm and prayed me 
 hearken to the romance that was in process of 
 being enacted beneath his roof The man be- 
 side him jeered, divining a ruse by which he 
 sought to hold me ; but now it seemed indeed as 
 if mine host would string his hints and innu- 
 
6o " PUNCHINELLO " 
 
 endoes into a plain tale, for he straightway 
 opened fire. "An elopement," he gasped, his 
 ruddy cheeks purpling with excitement ; " two 
 runaway lovers — they arrived this morning, hear 
 how they quarrel ! " And, sure enough, as 
 he spoke, the shrill tones of a woman, mixed 
 with the deeper notes of a man's voice, came 
 floating down the stairs. 
 
 " She has wearied of him already," con- 
 tinued our host. " She would return to Town 
 — he would have her press on to Gurness as 
 first planned. Hark ! she is something of a 
 shrew for all her modish air." 
 
 " How have they come to quarrel so early?" 
 I queried, roused from my apathy, while the 
 others gathered round us. 
 
 "Who shall explain the workings of a 
 woman's mind ? " returned the host " An he 
 were wise he would further her wish," he added, 
 as the vixenish voice rose high. " For my 
 part " 
 
 What he would have said I know not, for as 
 he nodded his head with sapient air a door was 
 loudly banged above, there was a great rustle 
 and stampede on the stairs, and a lady suddenly 
 appeared at the entrance leading to the upper 
 apartments of the house. She was followed by 
 
" PUNCHINELLO " 6i 
 
 a young man with a shamed, flushed face, who 
 vainly strove to restrain her. 
 
 " Sylvia," he mumbled in her rear ; but she 
 heeded him not, as she marched steadily to- 
 wards the landlord, who, suddenly checked in 
 his tale, gasped at her affrighted. 
 
 " At what hour will the coach start for 
 London ? " she began in a high-pitched voice 
 vibrating with emotion, apparently regardless 
 of the stares and nudges that encompassed her. 
 
 To be honest, I stared with the rest, for she 
 made a pretty picture enough in her silks and 
 satins, with the powder somewhat shaken from 
 her hair, and a crimson patch of fury on each 
 cheek paling the generous rouge. 
 
 Mine host bowed low, mumbling something 
 about having understood that she had desired 
 two places taken in the next coach that passed 
 to Gurness — this he had done — but madam had 
 changed her mind — the seats were paid for — 
 he regretted, etc. 
 
 Such was his agitation that an incipient 
 apoplexy threatened to interrupt his winding 
 phrases. 
 
 Madam stamped an imperious foot. 
 
 " I asked you at what hour the coach left for 
 London ! " she shrilled — a virago in the bud. 
 
62 " PUNCHINELLO " 
 
 " In another half-hour," gobbled the landlord. 
 
 " Take one seat," she said firmly, with a most 
 spiteful emphasis on the numeral, and an ac- 
 companying glare at the youth behind her ; " I 
 return by it." 
 
 Her companion essayed another remon- 
 strance, laying a detaining hand on her arm ; 
 but she flung it off furiously with a passionate 
 " Touch me not ! " and darted up the stairs 
 again. 
 
 We heard the bang of a door, the turning of 
 a key in the lock, and then came a great peace. 
 All eyes were fastened on the luckless gallant, 
 who stood for a moment braving our stares ; 
 and then he flung himself out of the house, 
 apparently finding the situation intolerable. 
 
 Though laughter bubbled in my throat, I felt 
 something of pity for him. His position lacked 
 dignity in marked degree, and through his dis- 
 comfiture he looked cut to the heart at this 
 inappropriate termination to his idyll. Still 
 his demeanour was signalised in no way by 
 despair, and when some five minutes later he 
 galloped past the window, spurring his horse 
 to its utmost speed, he carried an alert air of 
 determination that suggested a conceived plan 
 of action. 
 
" PUNCHINELLO " 63 
 
 We saw no more of the lady until the coach 
 was about to depart. The horses were rattling 
 their harness in an anxious fret to be away, 
 the coachman and guard were exchanging final 
 words on the iniquities of the way bill, when 
 suddenly she appeared, and clearing her way 
 through the knot of assembled people, climbed 
 into her seat. An amused glance or so fol- 
 lowed her, for her history had been freely 
 retailed ; and audible comments on her townish 
 graces and fashion were also not wanting. 
 
 I pitied her somewhat for the awkwardness 
 of her position, for in that time, as this, for a 
 woman to travel unattended, was to expose her- 
 self to much unpleasantness ; and I noted that 
 though she carried her head so high, her face 
 was swollen as if from recent crying, and that 
 she shrank visibly from the interested eyes 
 about her. 
 
 Now the coach was but poorly tenanted, 
 holding in all some half-dozen passengers, of 
 whom five were of the yeoman class. The 
 sixth bore the appearance of an antiquated 
 beau, who by strenuous endeavour strove with 
 scant success to ward off all appearance of age. 
 It was he who had ogled the distressed damsel 
 most freely ; and I noted that instead of mount- 
 
64 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 ing to the box seat as before, he sat down 
 within the coach, apparently desirous of be- 
 guiling the length of road by converse with his 
 fair companion. 
 
 For my part, loving neither the society of 
 ladies nor the interior of coaches, I was about 
 to mount to my old seat, when madam stuck 
 her head from the window and pressed me to 
 enter. 
 
 Innocent of boorish intention, I yet protested 
 my preference for the outside ; but she would 
 take no denial, and I most unwillingly entered 
 the coach. 
 
 Now came a blast from the horn, a lurch of 
 the vehicle, and we were away. 
 
 Though of limited intelligence in these 
 matters, even my obtuseness was not proof 
 against understanding the reason of my incar- 
 ceration, for the disappointed beau scowled 
 fiercely on my entrance, while the lady in- 
 sisted upon my taking a seat near her, and 
 promptly started a most vivacious discourse. 
 
 It seemed to me, from certain symptoms, 
 that the bibulous nose of the beruffled rake, 
 who sulked opposite us, in no way traduced 
 him, for he grew more and more incoherent in 
 his talk, and otherwise testified to the generous 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 65 
 
 libations he had imbibed. Shortly, to my in- 
 tense gratitude, he slumbered peacefully, and 
 my companion and I were practically alone. 
 
 " The drunken brute ! " she snapped, regard- 
 ing him with much disfavour as he snored with 
 lolling head. 
 
 " I trust he had not insulted you before my 
 coming ? " I said formally, for in truth I felt a 
 little shy of this brilliant lady. 
 
 " Ah, no — and with so valiant a defender I 
 fear naught," she responded, with a twinkle in 
 her eyes. 
 
 I feared she jested, and turned away rather 
 sharply. 
 
 " La ! " she rattled on in her high, mincing 
 voice, " have you a soul above women ? " 
 
 " No, madam," I returned with rising 
 asperity, " but a body beneath them." 
 
 " Ah, no, no," she cajoled. " Had it not been 
 for you " — she tossed a pregnant glance at 
 the slumbrous swine before us — " I should 
 have suffered a — er — temporary incon- 
 venience." 
 
 She had an arched eyebrow, and she utilised 
 it. " Morpheus would no doubt have saved me 
 — in time — in time. But all things come in 
 time," 
 
 S 
 
66 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 She uttered this used platitude with a 
 sprightly air that lent it virginity, and then 
 glinted an arch glance at me, which I strove 
 to meet. I failed ignominiously, and promptly 
 feigned an incipient catarrh, and turning my 
 head aside, buried my face in a gay bandana, 
 and blew my nose with a great noise. Truth 
 to tell, my manners were not over-burnished. 
 
 " Oh, hist ! " she warned, " you will awake 
 him, and I so desire to have a little private 
 converse with you. Dare I " — she clasped a pair 
 of much be-ringed hands — "plead a favour?" 
 
 Dare I, jumped my mind in agonised reflec- 
 tion — dare I refuse it ? For I had no desire 
 to be saddled with her company or her affairs, 
 and was counting the hours to our arrival in 
 Town. But she left me scant space for reflec- 
 tion, hustling me to attention by pure vigour of 
 speech. 
 
 "You may not listen, but you shall hear," 
 exactly phrases her attitude, and Heaven knows 
 she was not chary of her words. She told me 
 the history of her elopement, painting luckless 
 Master Chetwynd in the most sombre of hues, 
 herself in the most innocent of tints. She had 
 given up all for love, had broken her father's 
 heart, and deliberately relinquished by her rash 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 67 
 
 act all possibility of benefiting by his will — he 
 never forgave. 
 
 She paused, bereft of breath, and I seized the 
 fleeting chance and inquired the reason of their 
 quarrelling. This I gathered but vaguely — for 
 the lady sketched the premises with the lightest 
 hand — arose from jealousy on her part of some 
 past inamorata of his. She had apparently 
 assailed her character in the grossest terms, 
 and he, goaded beyond endurance, had fool- 
 lishly striven to defend it, whereat madam had 
 promptly bade him return to his old love, and 
 leave her to return to London to throw herself 
 upon the clemency of her parent. 
 
 I feared to word my thought — my com- 
 panion's air suggested ignorance of adverse 
 criticism — but I could not help thinking that 
 her evident belief in parental forgiveness and his 
 oblivion of things past, fitted in but badly with 
 the picture she had drawn of a furious father, 
 intent on testamentary vengeance. 
 
 Still I said no word, knowing the futility of 
 reason with her sex, and in measure forgiving 
 her the length of her tale by reason of the time 
 and the miles it had covered. 
 
 But she, not content with an acquiescent 
 silence, must needs jog my elbow and pester 
 
68 " PUNCHINELLO " 
 
 me with questions as to what I thought of her 
 present doings, her lover's past doings, her 
 father's future doings — while, envying him his 
 vicious slumber, I stared alternately at the sleep- 
 ing man before us and at the flying landscape, 
 striving to gather from the aspect of the coun- 
 try how far we were from our destination ; but 
 I said no word, being terrorised from expression 
 of my natural candour, and for the moment 
 being only conscious of a gigantic envy of the 
 lucky youth who had escaped from the clutches 
 of the damsel at my side. 
 
 What — what had I done to be so plagued 
 by this combustible female ? cried my heart in 
 great bitterness. It is an ill world that allows 
 of such doings, and the rank injustice that had 
 parcelled out to the innocent the brunt of the 
 idle doings of the wicked filled me with impo- 
 tent fury. 
 
 Had Master Chetwynd not played the fool, 
 had Mistress Sylvia (I was ignorant of her 
 patronymic) not assisted him with such ardour, 
 I should have been seated without upon the 
 coach, enjoying the fresh air and peace, in 
 place of facing a tipsy hog, with an injured 
 and wordy maid at my side, intent on excited 
 recital of her wrongs. 
 
" PUNCHINELLO " 69 
 
 The hysteric clamour at last proved beyond 
 bearing, my stultified brain lost all sense of 
 courtesy due to sex, and I spoke gruffly as I 
 would have spoken to any hind, praying her to 
 be silent. 
 
 " Promise me one little favour," she said for 
 all answer. " Just this : when we arrive at 
 London, to go and seek my father and bring 
 him to me. I dare not seek him," she gasped, 
 " I dare not." 
 
 " Madam," I returned, clutching at the skirts 
 of peace, ** to hear is to obey." 
 
 At least I reflected I should be quit of her, 
 and considering what I had already borne by 
 her being foisted upon me — I, who avoided 
 women as the plague — a little more or less 
 seemed of minute importance. 
 
 Having attained her end, she was graciously 
 pleased to allow me a temporary repose, but it 
 was of brief duration. I had just composed 
 myself in the corner, and was feigning sleep, 
 when she started afresh. 
 
 " We will beguile the hour by studying what 
 the future holds." 
 
 Her sharp, decisive tones filled me with 
 dismay. 
 
 From this there was no appeal. 
 
70 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 " See ! " she drew a pack of playing-cards 
 from her pocket, and flourished them under 
 my nose with a scintillating smile. "Come 
 opposite me — so. Closer, closer," she rapped 
 out impatiently, "so that our knees touch." 
 
 I was shocked at her forwardness, but obeyed 
 her automatically, while she straightened out 
 her wide skirts and commenced laying out the 
 cards in a wide circle. 
 
 " We will learn what the future holds ! " 
 
 Now I had heard of this fool's pastime, but 
 had never seen it acted, and I stared stupefied 
 at her rapt face as she leaned over the horse- 
 shoe she had made, carefully noting the mean- 
 ing of each card and its relation to its neigh- 
 bour. 
 
 The day was dying, and the guard had lit a 
 lantern. Its light glimmered fitfully on her 
 excited face, leaving it partly in shadow. She 
 might have been a sybil painted by Rembrandt. 
 
 " I lay them first for myself," she panted, 
 " then for you." 
 
 I bowed my thanks, striving by an exagger- 
 ated obeisance to suggest the contempt with 
 which I regarded this suggestion ; but she was 
 impervious to satire. 
 
 " King of clubs and ten of hearts — a sincere 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 71 
 
 lover," she muttered. " He crosses me. Is it 
 possible ? But no. Here is the seven of 
 spades, but in the past." A gleam of grati- 
 fication passed over her silly face. " Tears lie 
 behind me " — she flicked the five of diamonds 
 with her finger — " also kisses. Above me the 
 seven of hearts, knave of diamonds — ^jealousy. 
 That also lies behind. Could it be that I was 
 over-quick?" 
 
 She kept up this running commentary, appa- 
 rently oblivious of my existence except so far as 
 I served to support her cards. 
 
 " In the future, king of hearts and nine of 
 hearts — happy love affair. Can it be ? " 
 
 Her eyes brimmed up. She cut carefully 
 with the left hand, and laid the cards afresh. 
 
 "Shall I get my wish? Here am I, the 
 queen of clubs." Her voice vibrated with 
 excitement. " Crossed, the saints be praised ! 
 by the wish card " (methinks the holy men 
 would have been astonished at their company), 
 " the nine of hearts. Do you see ? " She 
 literally banged me on the knees lest I fail to 
 note every detail of her fooling. "Do you 
 see ? Do you understand ? This is me." 
 She planted her forefinger firmly on the queen 
 of clubs — "this is my wish." She stuck the 
 
72 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 wretched card beneath my very nose, and I 
 retreated vainly. "It crosses me ; I get my 
 wish ! " 
 
 Anxious to propitiate her, I mastered my 
 aversion to her and her proceedings. 
 
 " My mission will not be in vain," I smiled. 
 " Your father will prove of kindlier mettle than 
 you lately anticipated." 
 
 How gaily does improvident youth engage in 
 disaster ! In a moment her face was black in 
 the gloom, and she glared at me most furiously. 
 She was about to speak, and I cannot doubt 
 that her words would have matched her looks, 
 when, to my intense relief, her mood changed, 
 and she smiled at me with the friendliest air. 
 
 " I had forgotten for the moment," she con- 
 fessed with engaging candour ; " I am so rich 
 in desires." 
 
 I gaped at her perplexed. 
 
 " You absolve me from my mission ? " I said 
 hurriedly, for indeed I had no desire to travel 
 afield of the great city in search of an irate 
 parent. 
 
 " Not at all," she answered quickly. " I pray 
 you abide by your word." 
 
 Then, seeing that I looked somewhat sulky, 
 and answered only with a glum grunt, she 
 
" PUNCHINELLO *' 73 
 
 started afresh with her pieces of painted 
 card. 
 
 " Now for ^^/^^r fortune," says she, flirting her 
 curls, and making very free with her eyes. 
 " Here you stand." 
 
 She poked me vigorously with her fan, for I 
 was gazing out of the window at the glooming 
 landscape, and trying to express the contempt 
 that I dared not voice in a disgusted back. 
 
 "Now here you are." Her rings flashed 
 through the dusk as she shuffled the cards. 
 " We will count you king of spades, with your 
 black eyes and hair. Now we will see what 
 surrounds you, what gifts great London holds 
 in reserve." 
 
 She fluttered her cards, and I maintained a 
 haughty silence, which deterred her in no wise. 
 
 " Oh, sakes alive ! " she laughed out, with a 
 genuine enjoyment that disturbed the sleeping 
 toper, and woke him to a fleeting knowledge of 
 passing events, " if there is not a fair woman 
 spreading a net for you ! Now do not glare at 
 me, sir, for, indeed, unpowdered, I am dark, and 
 my eyes, as you may see, are brown." She 
 gave me the benefit of their liquid depths in a 
 cleverly shot glance. " You escape from her 
 clutches, but not until she has reaped a gener- 
 
74 " PUNCHINELLO " 
 
 ous harvest. 'Ware, Master — by the way, I 
 am ignorant of your name ? " 
 
 " Dallas," I flung at her. 
 
 " Now, Master Dallas, I insist on your atten- 
 tion. You see how the cards lie " — she forced 
 me to attention — " the fair woman uses you for 
 her own advantage — how, I know not ; but 
 beware, for this lies in the immediate future. 
 Further, I see" — she shuffled the cards afresh, 
 and bade me cut, which I did most unwillingly. 
 At this point the gentleman in the corner flung 
 a witticism at us ; on finding it ignored, he 
 turned on his side and slumbered afresh. 
 " Further, I see a great change in family cir- 
 cumstances, a stranger — a woman," her voice 
 rose in an ever-increasing crescendo. " Her 
 life and yours intermingle — a ring." She flung 
 a coquettish glance at me, " There is great 
 happiness — love follows the ring. See," she 
 nudged me impatiently, "how the red cards 
 preponderate ! " 
 
 "Defend me," I burst out, "from all women!" 
 
 But she, heedless of my words, bent over 
 her cards full of interest. " What happiness ! " 
 she cried, " and what blackness ! The woman 
 is gone — the love is fled. You eat your bread 
 in strange lands, for ever pursuing — what?" 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 75 
 
 Her voice rose, and fell vibrant with feeling. 
 " There is enmity — these spades point to 
 trouble. Do you indulge in enemies, Master 
 Dallas ? " she asked flippantly. " Personally I 
 regard them as luxuries — friends are a necessity. 
 When I can afford it, I promise myself the 
 indulgence of one or two enemies." Mistress 
 Sylvia's eyes gleamed with a light that pro- 
 mised ill for the victims of her choice. " I 
 cannot read further." She looked at me with 
 new interest in her face ; it was purged of the 
 old frivolity, and her wide eyes were full of 
 a mystic light. " I see as in a glass darkly," 
 she whispered. " You jeer at me ; but if, indeed, 
 is given to you such a love as Fortune traces 
 by the aid of these letters " — the cards slipped 
 idly through her fingers — " be careful of it," 
 she prayed. " Such love, when lost, is lost 
 to all eternity." 
 
 (Nan, my Nan. I mocked her in my heart, 
 though I spoke no word.) 
 
 " Myself," she whispered to herself, while I 
 listened half-credulous, half-scornful, " I feel the 
 shadow of a great tragedy." 
 
 " My tragedy is told." I shrugged my mal- 
 formed shoulders. " No woman shall ever have 
 it in her power to make or mar my fortunes." 
 
76 ♦* PUNCHINELLO** 
 
 And I gazed at her defiantly, for I knew she 
 had exerted all her artifices to subdue me. 
 
 " She will come into your life, and for a 
 time your days will be flooded with sunshine — 
 such gladness as you have never dreamed 
 will be yours. And then — and then the shadows 
 thicken. In truth, Master Dallas, I can see no 
 further," she broke off. 
 
 Indeed, could she have gone further with her 
 prophesyings, there had been no time to hear 
 them, for now the coach rattled into the court- 
 yard of The Bear, which lies just within the 
 shadow of Holborn, and we were at our journey's 
 end. Mistress Sylvia promptly dropped her 
 weird airs, and alighting briskly bade me 
 follow her into the inn. Arrived, she plucked 
 me by the sleeve, and drew me apart from the 
 crowd of be-wigged and be-ruffled beaux who 
 were thronging the entrance hall. " See," she 
 whispered emphatically, " here is his address. 
 Fetch him for the love of Heaven ! Tell 
 him I pray his forgiveness — that a penitent 
 daughter awaits him. Make no error, but look 
 carefully. Sir William Nash, of 12, Charlotte 
 Street ; you cannot mistake. Now, hurry, 
 hurry," and she almost pushed me from her. 
 
 " Madam," I remonstrated, " I cannot leave 
 
" PUNCHINELLO '» 77 
 
 you here." Already people were staring at her, 
 and anxious though I was to be quit of her 
 and her affairs, it seemed to me impossible to 
 leave her thus ; but she ordered me away, as 
 though I were her valet, and I — my solicitude 
 turned to indifference by her rudeness — sped 
 on her errand, thanking Heaven as I went 
 that my message was not to a female. As 
 I cut my way through the people thronging 
 the steps, a man's back struck me with a 
 curious familiarity (I have always held that a 
 back more thoroughly individualises a per- 
 sonality than a face). The straight shoulders, 
 that alert, well-poised head, where had I seen 
 them before ? Somewhere, and lately, of so 
 much I was certain. No doubt, had I been 
 less fretted, my indeterminate recognition had 
 reached clear knowledge ; but as it was I 
 hurried on my way, dismissing all reflection 
 but how best to accomplish my ungraceful task. 
 Unchivalric as I was regarding superficial at- 
 tendance on the sex, a woman's tears and a 
 woman's need, resist as I might, invariably 
 touched me. 
 
 Knowing my powers of non-resistance, I 
 swore a great oath as I wended my way to 
 Charlotte Street — no more petticoats for me ! 
 
78 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 My oath used a passing breath ; for the rest 
 it has availed me nothing. There was Marjory 
 within the year, a commonplace maid enough 
 seen by the light of later knowledge. There 
 
 was Shall I put you in such company 
 
 my life? My heart revolts at the thought. 
 
 Far better return to Mistress Sylvia, and my 
 desperate chase through London in search of 
 her parent, my timepiece at intervals assuring 
 me of the flying hours. At length I sighted 
 the street, and arriving at the house clattered 
 the knocker with an extreme fervour born of the 
 desire common to all men to know the worst. 
 Before the quarter had made its mark on my 
 timepiece (I noted its course with feverish in- 
 terest), the obdurate parent, heralded by a 
 pleasing Abigail, was before me. 
 
 " I bring you news of your daughter." I 
 flung the intelligence at his head, and he 
 straightway anticipated the news. 
 
 " He has deserted her," he tossed at me. 
 
 " Pardon me," I returned with a not unpar- 
 donable acerbity, "she has deserted him; she 
 craves " — I hurried on in an ever-increasing 
 feverishness — " your pardon — her rehabilitation 
 in your affections." 
 
 Now with great eagerness he took me by 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 79 
 
 the arm, and, interrupting me at every other 
 word with questions, he drew the story of what 
 had passed from me. Grateful though he pro- 
 fessed himself, I could see that he felt I was 
 amply rewarded for my trouble in acting 
 as his daughter's emissary, and by the know- 
 ledge of having been of service to her. Vainly 
 I searched for symptom of the stern parent 
 so graphically depicted by Mistress Sylvia ; I 
 saw only an old man, fond and foolish as any 
 Lear, with tremulous hands, and eyes that 
 filled with every allusion to his beloved child. 
 
 " She was always wild," he said fondly. " A 
 maid so lovely is beset with temptation. Master 
 Chetwynd has a winning tongue, yet how could 
 I doubt that she would return to her old 
 father ? " 
 
 And so he maundered while we traversed 
 London at such speed as a chaise could take 
 us. He fumed and fretted, eternally urging 
 the driver to renewed effort, as if the tiresome 
 female I had left at the inn embodied the 
 Mecca of his dreams. 
 
 We arrived 1 Gladly would I leave the fol- 
 lowing lines blank, for young or old, simpleton 
 or wiseacre, who cares to write himself a sheep ? 
 But this is the story of Punchinello, known only 
 
8o *' PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 to himself, and embracing his years between 
 seven and twenty-three — even the astute bio- 
 grapher is ignorant of this foolishness, so let 
 it pass. I had rather not be as dull as that 
 erudite gentleman, so quench a desire to talk 
 alternately of my music and my love, and 
 relate my tale as it occurred. 
 
 Who will may scoff! We arrived, my rev- 
 erend Signor and I — he bubbling over with 
 fatherly affection, I conscious of a certain trepid- 
 ation regarding the course of events. I could 
 not forget the glare of anger with which 
 Mistress Sylvia had received my reading of 
 her wish. I certainly brought its lawful ful- 
 filment ; but who shall satisfy a mind so rich 
 in desires that while the breath of the one is 
 in the air another is agape for satisfaction ? 
 In my mind I saw the calf carefully roasting 
 in Charlotte Street, already the ring was fitted 
 on the prodigal's finger. 
 
 We passed together, he and I, through the 
 knots of people that filled the entrance to the 
 inn where I had left his penitent offspring. 
 An hour or so had passed, and more than one 
 coach had deposited its freight and taken up 
 fresh passengers since my departure. There 
 were new faces in the tap-room, and the apart- 
 
" PUNCHINELLO " 8i 
 
 ment in which Mistress Sylvia had promised 
 to await me was filled by a country family, 
 all agog with excitement at the thought of 
 having entered the precincts of magic London. 
 They were flattening their noses on the window- 
 panes when I entered. 
 
 " Mistress Sylvia," I began gaily, and promptly 
 started, greenhorn that I was, at being greeted 
 with a jingle of giggles that seemed to emanate 
 from every corner of the room. I retired, 
 quickly followed by the anxious father, who 
 crooned low terms of endearment beneath his 
 breath, all of which I have no doubt were in- 
 tended for the absent Sylvia. Then, scenting 
 evil, I shook him off, and beseeching speech 
 with the landlord asked him if he had noted 
 aught of Mistress Sylvia and her movements. 
 He remembered her well enough (she was of 
 the type that insists on recognition in any 
 company, however motley), and received my 
 inquiries with a sapient twinkle in his eye. 
 " Mistress Sylvia Nash departed for Gurness 
 by the last coach," said he, obsequiously rub- 
 bing his hands the while. Blankly staring 
 before me, I yet realised that he waited care- 
 fully on my countenance, striving to learn how 
 far he dared, by a venturesome wink, express 
 
82 " PUNCHINELLO " 
 
 his understanding of the complex position. 
 My determination that he should not enjoy 
 the moment stung me to the exercise of his- 
 trionic ability hitherto undreamed of. 
 
 " Ah," I said, turning on my heel. " No 
 doubt she has received intelligence that neces- 
 sitated her departing before my return. She 
 expected it, and mentioned the possibility 
 before I left her, but" — (here I feigned an 
 anxious air — who knew better than I Mistress 
 Sylvia's genius for self-preservation ?) — " it is 
 hardly the place or the hour for a gentle- 
 woman to travel unattended. I would," I 
 sighed — God forgive me ! — " I had returned in 
 time." 
 
 "She was not unattended," he said respect- 
 fully; "be not troubled on this count. She " 
 
 but I departed hurriedly, suddenly cognizant of 
 the elusive personality that had struck me with 
 a curious fugitive resemblance in the courtyard 
 just after I had left Mistress Sylvia. Now I 
 remembered where I had before seen the care- 
 less carriage of the head, the straight, well-built 
 shoulders — they had flung defiance at us as the 
 owner had rushed out of the tap-room. Master 
 Hugh Chetwynd had no doubt vowed venge- 
 ance on the veiled smiles of the company. 
 
" PUNCHINELLO " 83 
 
 Could he but have known it, one individual 
 paid the debt in full. 
 
 The lusty laugh of the landlord, as I hurried 
 away, jangled in my ears. My powers of en- 
 durance snapped short, and left me shorn of 
 all artificial courtesies. I marched straight to 
 where Sir William waited for his daughter, his 
 expectant eyes fastened on the door, the un- 
 spoken word of forgiveness trembling on his 
 lips. Now Heaven knows I pitied him from 
 my heart in having begot such a jade as Mis- 
 tress Sylvia, and went to him in all tenderness 
 of spirit, seeking, as I walked, how easiest to 
 break him the uncomfortable news. I mind 
 that in the supreme moment my diplomacy 
 deserted me, and that sharply cutting short his 
 passionate cry of Sylvia^ I told him the truth 
 in all its ugly baldness. When I had done he 
 said no word but " Sylvia, Sylvia," crying her 
 name with trembling mouth as a hurt child, and 
 then launched into a passionate diatribe against 
 Master Hugh Chetwynd, who had again lured 
 her from the paths of righteousness. 
 
 " She will marry him," I blurted, in haste to 
 console, regretful as I spoke that I had care- 
 lessly posed my pronouns. " She satisfies a 
 romantic craving — you will dandle your 
 
84 " PUNCHINELLO " 
 
 grand-children on your knee and thank this 
 hour." 
 
 " I would she had told me," he sobbed for all 
 answer. " To think of her at the mercy of that 
 rake ! He will ill-use her ; had he not already 
 done so, why should she have desired to 
 return? He has followed her, or rather been 
 beforehand with her, and again seduced her 
 with fair words." He paused, gasping for breath. 
 
 Now I could not bear to see so much fine 
 feeling and affection wasted on the soulless 
 woman, and seized the opportunity to disillu- 
 sion him as to the veritable worth of the 
 baggage he was bewailing. Disillusionment is 
 ever an ungrateful process, and I noticed, as I 
 proceeded, that my listener regarded me with 
 growing anger. " What mean you, sir ? " he 
 said, when I had detailed my version of Mis- 
 tress Sylvia's escapade. 
 
 " I mean," I stammered, " I mean " I 
 
 had no doubt as to my meaning, but how most 
 happily to express it passed my comprehension. 
 " I mean," I said, again flurried into idiocy. 
 
 " Sir," said he, with an awful calmness, " I 
 await your pleasure." 
 
 The truth leapt to my lips for all my gallant 
 endeavour to lie adequately. "Sir," I stam- 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 85 
 
 mered, " accept my best congratulations. Give 
 to Master Chetwynd — an you ever see him — 
 my heartfelt sympathy." God knows I had 
 not flouted him for the world, but I had been 
 over-tried, and my patience was frayed to rags. 
 
 He stared at me for a moment petrified, and, 
 as he stared, I felt a sickly smile skulk over my 
 face in endeavour at propitiation. That was 
 one moment, the next I stood without the door 
 reflecting on the ease with which a summary 
 ejection had been performed and the foolishness 
 of venturing within a mile of a woman. 
 
 But for all the indignity to which I had been 
 subjected, as I left the inn, glad to have at last 
 shaken myself free of Mistress Sylvia and her 
 business, I did not forget to waft a prayer 
 heavenwards for Master Chetwynd. 
 
 Anxious as I was to forget her and her 
 follies, as I wended my way to the house where 
 I was to lodge during my stay in Town, her 
 prophecy haunted me. " Be careful. Master 
 Dallas, for such love, when lost, is lost to all 
 eternity." 
 
 I scorned her words, yet for a time they 
 would not be ignored. Now in this sad time 
 of waiting they are ever with me, insistent with 
 their presage of the unforgotten hours ; still J 
 
86 "PUNCHINELLO'^ 
 
 know, for all her mysterious foreshadowing of 
 events yet unborn, that she was not infallible, 
 that a love once lost, however great, shall live 
 again. Why else on sunny days, my sweetheart 
 of long ago, dancing beneath the spreading 
 boughs, flinging kisses in remembrance? 
 
 Mad ? No, not mad ! But the line is over- 
 delicately drawn, and to remember and re- 
 gret, to linger and repent overmuch, is foolish 
 work. Better to get on with my story and the 
 telling of the time that my biographer has so 
 successfully ignored, those sixteen years in 
 which all the life I have lived lies crushed in 
 the dust, yet blossoming with fairer memories 
 than all the gorgeous years. 
 
 You sweated hard in the performance of 
 your duty, my biographer. You were greedy 
 of detail and quick-set with hunger of the im- 
 material. Much you wrote and right well, but 
 not my life — my little life counted in the brief 
 spell of sixteen summers. 
 
THOSE studious days of mine were 
 flavoured with a sweetness that my 
 more prosperous times have lacked. For 
 whole days we never saw our master, and 
 worked or lounged as fitted our humour. For 
 myself I slaved, struggling with counterpoint 
 and harmony, endeavouring to understand the 
 old masters and in some measure to express 
 mine own melodies. We had a gay time 
 enough among ourselves. I lived in the same 
 house as Simon Maers, a Dutchman by ex- 
 traction, who was for ever writing oratorios of, 
 I must admit, a most shocking quality. He 
 had no genius for composition, being intended 
 by nature for an executant, largely gifted in 
 perception, with an exquisite ear, and of great 
 physical address, with pliant hands and long 
 fingers. Violinist was indeed inscribed upon 
 him, but he burned to compose, and would 
 spend long hours in vain travail to be at last 
 rewarded with a monstrosity. Sometimes he 
 
 87 
 
88 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 would forget his ambitions and allow himself 
 to take the part assigned to him by God 
 Almighty, choosing some thought of Tartini 
 and throwing it forth to men in all its gracious- 
 ness, and almost before the sweetness had left 
 the air rending it with lamentations that he 
 could never hope to match so fair a creation, 
 oblivious to the fact that without such middle- 
 men (if I may be allowed so vulgar a simile) 
 as he, creative genius and the world at large 
 had stood parted to all eternity by an impass- 
 able chasm. 
 
 I mind him one evening, when the day's 
 work was over, and we were both too out- 
 wearied to seek amusement without, how he 
 seized his violin and played a little romance of 
 his own composing. I shivered as I heard him, 
 for it was as if poor puerilities were clothed in 
 fair form and he endeavoured to cover de- 
 formity by fair adorning. It came to an end at 
 last, and he asked me what I thought ; and as I 
 hesitated, fearing to say how I loved the manner 
 and abhorred the matter, he dropped his head 
 upon the table for a moment and then lifted 
 wet eyes reviling the gift of exquisite expres- 
 sion with which the good God had blessed him. 
 
 " 1 have it. I know. I know it all." With a 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 89 
 
 sudden change of mood he turned and laughed. 
 " Look at me," he cried ; " I am interesting from 
 the psychological point of view. I am pregnant 
 with unborn symphonies ; my unsung songs 
 would fill many a programme ; but I cannot 
 write, I cannot. Directly I strive to give my 
 thoughts expression, they evade me and vanish 
 into thin air. I suggest paint, ink, and pencil. 
 I am a medium, Mr. Anthony, for the telling of 
 other men's tales. It is not amusing." Poor 
 lad, it was the old struggle — the passion for 
 creation and no creative power, coupled with a 
 delicacy and facility of perception that made 
 him an exquisite executant. He renewed my 
 passion for the violin, and I learnt to play with 
 ease, taking to all things musical with the 
 utmost naturalness. 
 
 Now up to this date I had known, exclusive 
 of Mistress Sylvia, nothing of the charms of 
 femininity, regarding woman indeed as a super- 
 fluous sex, of excellent use no doubt for persons 
 who desired to be born, but lacking in value 
 except from an utilitarian point of view. My 
 mother, indeed — but then she was my mother ! 
 As a rule I regarded the sex disinterestedly, 
 occasionally according a supercilious tribute to 
 their attractions from my superior masculine 
 
90 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 vantage. Sweet maids had rarely smiled upon 
 me : I lacking physical charms and adding to 
 the boyish clownishness common to all lads of 
 my age a morose manner grafted upon an 
 original awkwardness by the realisation of my 
 deficiencies. 
 
 But Simon was of another way of thinking. 
 I was for ever hearing of ladies whose charms 
 I fancied to be of an evanescent nature, so 
 quickly did these stars succeed each other. 
 But there was one fixed planet in his gay con- 
 stellation, one Marjory Davenant, which never 
 waned. The charms of this lady were eter- 
 nally sounded in my ears. Never before had 
 one woman so absolutely exemplified the de- 
 lights of femininity. Her beauty of feature was 
 only second to her beauty of soul ; she was 
 gay, sympathetic, pretty as a flower ; her voice 
 was musical — he laid great stress on its delicacy 
 of timbre, as befitted one whose trade was 
 sweet sound. Mistress Marjory was, I heard, 
 a damsel of fair means, being the daughter of 
 a physician who lived in a comfortable solid 
 mansion some way out of town, at Calingham, 
 on the river. Here Simon would often betake 
 himself for his brief interlude of holiday. He 
 often invited me to accompany him on these 
 
"PUNCHINELLO'^ 91 
 
 expeditions, and I as eternally refused him, 
 being shy of women, as I have said. But one 
 Sunday I succumbed to his entreaties and went 
 with him. I regard this visit as a turning-point 
 in my life, for it was the means of transforming 
 me from a raw boy into a man. Woman, what- 
 ever her faults, is an excellent educator at this 
 period of existence. 
 
 When I was first introduced to Mistress 
 Marjory, I suffered a very anguish of disap- 
 pointment. At this time, although mortally 
 afraid of women, I loved looking at them, 
 delighting in the graceful lines and soft colours, 
 the pretty smiles and dainty ways that go to 
 the making of a fair feminine creation. Mis- 
 tress Marjory had, however, little to offer from 
 an aesthetic point of view. In truth she startled 
 me when I first saw her. 
 
 She was broidering at a work frame when 
 we entered the reception room, and jumped up 
 from it suddenly. "Simon," she said quickly, 
 " Simon ! " and looked at him with a great 
 transfiguration, metamorphosing her from a 
 plain woman to a beautiful one — so great a 
 power is love — and then shot a curious glance 
 at me out of her grey eyes, as she bade me 
 welcome. 
 
92 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 She was a diminutive woman, with flaxen hair 
 and insignificant features, no longer in the 
 first freshness of youth, yet with something 
 about her that compelled attention. God had, 
 indeed, balanced her chary charms with a 
 tender voice and a luminous smile, yet looking 
 at her it was hard to say where the arresting 
 charm that individualised her personality lay. 
 
 At first I was, as I have written, disappointed, 
 but before the day had died I envied Simon, 
 who, to my mind, accepted the gift of the gods 
 with an indifference that bordered on irreverence. 
 He loved her no doubt, and she loved him, as 
 he explained with a fatuous chuckle, and he 
 was fortunate. But, to my mind, he regarded 
 his future as too assured ; it seemed to me a 
 tremor or so would have been graceful. 
 
 From the first, silly fool that I was, she 
 twisted me round her finger — I, who had always 
 hated women, or so feigned to myself, fighting 
 ever to believe this lie, now fell in love, as I 
 called it, with a passion that bade fair to set 
 my whole life out of gear. I knew it was hope- 
 less, or, to be accurate, believed it to be so at 
 the commencement of our acquaintance. She 
 was a clever woman, so clever that she disguised 
 the slightest symptom of learning, showing her 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 93 
 
 ability only in her quick appreciation of the 
 wit of others, and in a never- failing faculty to 
 fill any awkward hiatus that should arise. She 
 was so clever that, desiring to please me, I 
 being a friend of the adored Simon, she never 
 for all her kind words or looks made the mis- 
 take of poisoning the sweetness by a note of 
 pity. She did me an awful mischief, but I 
 uncover my head to her aptitude and forgive 
 her ; it was all due to that Simon. 
 
 I do not think, to be just, that she had any 
 thought of utilising me in the first stage of our 
 acquaintance ; she fell a victim to expediency. 
 To put it brief, she encouraged my nascent 
 adoration until I pitied Simon in my vanity. 
 From going to visit her with him and expecting 
 little of her society — Simon, having an egoistic 
 way of taking her out for a stroll, leaving me 
 to converse with her father — I soon paid her 
 visits on my own account at her express in- 
 vitation, and we would spend delightful days 
 together. She was adorably companionable, 
 and I know no better place to work a young 
 man's undoing than summer hours by the 
 Thames. 
 
 At this time both Simon and I were greatly 
 exercised in our minds owing to a scholarship 
 
94 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 for composition that was being offered in 
 London. He had, I knew, no chance of it, but 
 he struggled in impotent throes to achieve suc- 
 cess, impelled not only by his own ambition but 
 by a sharp desire to excel in the eyes of his 
 beloved. I knew nothing of what he was doing, 
 all of us keeping our endeavour secret from each 
 other, but I guessed from his fretted air and 
 the bitterness of his moods that, as ever, 
 he was hammering at a closed door. Marjory 
 knew of this scholarship. She suffered, poor 
 maid, from Simon's despairs on the one hand 
 and from my premature jubilation on the other, 
 and bore with us with patience, wishing us 
 both success with the prettiest kindness. Now 
 we could not both succeed, and I knew where 
 her wishes lay, so I have no excuse for my folly 
 excepting my youth and the preference she had 
 of late so violently accorded me. But, on 
 my life, at this time I believed she wished me 
 first, and I worked and strove, fired with love 
 as well as with ambition. 
 
 " Whistle me one of your motifs, Anthony," 
 she said to me one hot afternoon as we drifted 
 down the river ; I pretending to scull, but in 
 truth lost in contemplation of her who sat 
 before me, looking in her white lacy draperies 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 95 
 
 a very poem of daintiness. I had been talking 
 to her for the last hour of my hopes and am- 
 bitions, boring her, as I understood later, most 
 mercilessly, although at the time my gladness 
 was unchequered. We had hardly mentioned 
 Simon, she speaking of his gifts of composition 
 slightingly, and I answering her in acquiescence. 
 
 My hopes were burning very high that day ; it 
 seemed to me a decade in place of a few short 
 weeks since I had thought myself debarred from 
 the felicity enjoyed by others. I was undeniably 
 deformed, but there are other gifts than the 
 physical, and I was beginning to understand 
 my worth. I was cleverer far than Maers, and 
 would go where he could never hope to reach. 
 I was inflated at this time with my coming 
 honours, and mazed with vanity. She appar- 
 ently held my deformity of minor moment, 
 accepting my homage as kindly as though it 
 emanated from one of Fortune's favourites. My 
 hopes and dreams were gay enough that after- 
 noon. What if after all I were unnaturally mor- 
 bid ? Alas, poor Punchinello ! This was my 
 mood as we drifted down the river. 
 
 " You are secure, you think, of this prize ? " 
 she asked, while I reflected as to which melody 
 I should select from out my cantata. 
 
96 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 " I fear not Simon," I laughed in my conceit. 
 Her eyes clouded and the pink in her face 
 deepened, but she answered my mirth. " There 
 is Max Verlene," I added. In my mind I held 
 Verlene. with the exception of myself, the 
 cleverest of us, and kindly vouchsafed him a 
 recognition in my optimistic hour. " But I 
 have small doubt as to the winner," I added 
 conceitedly. 
 
 She looked at me again out of her eyes that 
 were clear and changing as the waters, and 
 asked me once more to let her hear some of my 
 melodies. I began to whistle a song in the 
 third act, which I held to be the gem of my 
 writing, and Marjory listened eagerly. She 
 was a musician herself of no mean order, for a 
 woman, and understood the difference between 
 good and evil. 
 
 I paid a fair price later for my happiness, but 
 I had my hour, which is always something, and 
 I would not have my memory ravished of it for 
 a ransom. It was the gayest afternoon ; a light 
 wind stirred the river and bent the reeds on the 
 banks, making strange music in them, till it 
 seemed as if Pan might be lying concealed 
 therein. There were times when the breeze 
 parted theqi bravely, and I could have sworn to 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 97 
 
 a strange shape lying half hidden and piping 
 gaily. The guelder trees were white with' 
 flower ; the flush of the dog-rose warmed the 
 tangled briars lying over their reflected faces. 
 I dally, but it warms the chill blood that runs so 
 lingeringly in my veins to remember that day 
 again. The whisper of the willows and the 
 great lilies floating on the breast of the river ; 
 far away the fields of young wheat tossing, all 
 green and gold ; the uplands, over which the 
 black belts of the woods lay in gloomy masses 
 to where the horizon cut a clean line and the 
 skies trembled to earth, and over it all glimmer- 
 ing the blessed sunshine, lying like a gilded 
 veil. It was a dangerous environment, and I 
 was never over-wise. So I looked at Marjory, 
 half intoxicated with the beauty round me, and 
 lost such wit as I possessed. I whistled my 
 melody — all my melodies. I explained to her 
 the scheme of my cantata. I showed her my 
 particular gem, hurriedly noting it on paper, 
 which she thrust into the bosom of her gown, 
 saying she would like to try it on her harpsi- 
 chord. All the things I had so long and 
 jealously concealed from others I gave Marjory 
 in that hour, and made love to her besides ; 
 all pf which madness I ascribe to the sights and 
 
 G 
 
98 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 sounds of that midsummer day, the phantasies 
 by which nature so often aids a woman's art 
 to further a man's undoing. She was very kind 
 to me and in no wise repelled my advances, 
 although betraying an inconvenient anxiety to 
 converse on music. Commonly, I had furthered 
 the desire, but on this halcyon day I desired 
 to talk of love. I was a novice in the graceful 
 art of phrase-making, and I blundered forth 
 my adoration with a lamentable disregard of 
 sequence. I loved her . . . loved her so . . . 
 that was the burden of my song so far as 
 memory serves ; and, unbelievable as it seems 
 at this far date, it sounded quite a fresh and 
 original declaration. To be so satisfied by 
 the mere gazing at a woman that one was con- 
 tent to sit and drink in the sight of her, finding 
 fresh beauty in every scanned line, to hear new 
 music in her voice at every parting of her lips, 
 to know rest in her presence and fret at her 
 going, was all new to me, never having enjoyed 
 the ghost of a romance, and I felt that some of 
 my passion must necessarily infect her. She was 
 very, very gracious to me, I mind. Her repul- 
 sions of my suit were so kind that in my hot 
 haste I could have termed them encourage- 
 ments. She bade me come and see her again 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 99 
 
 and to bring with me my music, and I accepted 
 gladly, without thought of treason to Simon. 
 Indeed, I was irresponsible at that time, suffer- 
 ing violently from the innocuous malady which 
 the cynics term calf-love. I admit I played no 
 pretty part, but my punishment matched the 
 crime. Here followeth the tale of my undoing, 
 which can be told in some half-dozen phrases. 
 
 I had submitted my cantata in order with 
 the others, and awaited with anxiety the result 
 of the competition, which was given in due 
 course. For all my vain-glorious talk I had 
 some doubts of Verlene ; he was diabolically 
 clever, but was not, I genuinely believed, so 
 dowered by God as I. Still he had claims 
 enough to power to give me a wakeful night or 
 so. For the rest I had no fear. Imagine then 
 my astonishment when I learned that Simon 
 Maers headed the list, and that Verlene was 
 second, and that my name was not mentioned. 
 I received, indeed, a private note, asking me to 
 call at the residence of Dr. Grenfell, who was 
 one of those concerned in the awarding of this 
 scholarship. My brain was in such a whirl of 
 fury and frenzy that even Marjory for the time 
 faded from my recollection, and I was only 
 alive to my ignominious failure. I hastened to 
 
100 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 the Doctor's, arriving in such a tumult of feeh'ng 
 that I could hardly greet him when he entered 
 the room. 
 
 He was a large portly person, with a rubicund 
 countenance that suggested an intimate acquaint- 
 ance with the delights of the table, and an 
 exceedingly urbane manner. He was celebrated, 
 I learned later, for his aversion to aught that 
 savoured of friction and trouble, and had appar- 
 ently escaped the unpleasantnesses of life .with 
 much success. 
 
 " Good -morning, Mr. Dallas," he purred; 
 "pray be seated." He waved me towards a 
 capacious chair, in which I rashly seated myself 
 and was speedily enveloped. I struggled to 
 the edge of it, and sat waiting. 
 
 " I have come," I began intelligently. It was 
 not my place to speak, but the words would not 
 be withstood. " I do not understand " 
 
 He waved his hand again and I was dumb, 
 oppressed by the signal weight of his personality. 
 "There is so much in life, my dear young 
 friend, that we cannot understand," he sonorously 
 enunciated. He had a passionate prejudice in 
 favour of the trite. " I have sent for you," he 
 went on placidly, "owing to a — er — somewhat 
 unpleasant incident connected with the— er — 
 
" PUNCHINELLO " loi 
 
 competition. I say unpleasant, but there — er — 
 is no reason for — er — unpleasantness. An 
 explanation will, no doubt — er — explain every- 
 thing." His placid patter of words drove me to 
 the confines of madness, but I kept my tongue 
 between my teeth and prayed for patience. 
 
 " There is a curious similarity between your 
 work and that of Maers," he resumed. 
 
 But I could bear no more. I slipped from 
 my chair and confronted him. As he was sitting 
 and I standing, our faces were almost on a level. 
 " It—" I stammered, " I— he— we " 
 
 He regarded me imperturbably and purred 
 afresh. " Agitation is always to be deplored. 
 Pray be seated," he implored me — there was 
 almost a note of pain in his voice. " The prize 
 has been awarded to Maers," he went on a 
 shade more quickly, spurred no doubt by the 
 reflection that the speedier his communication, 
 the speedier my departure. " There was, indeed, 
 little to choose between the compositions, but 
 the final vote was cast in favour of Maers. As 
 we do not understand the similarity between 
 the pieces, and Maers can throw no light, we 
 thought that you might possibly be able to do 
 so." 
 
 A horrible answer to the riddle was in my 
 
102 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 mind, but I still kept silence. Had I opened 
 my mouth, it would have been to cry, " Fool ! 
 fool ! " 
 
 " May I see his cantata ? " I asked humbly. 
 
 " Most certainly." He opened a drawer at 
 his elbow, and handed me Maers' composition. 
 
 His cantata ! It was mine — almost note for 
 note, stolen from me as cleverly as theft was 
 ever yet committed. My song, that I showed 
 so proudly on the river that day, here it was ; 
 and now I understood why, for all our amorous 
 divergences, we had always returned to music as 
 the Leit-motif oi our talk. 
 
 "You can explain," began the suave voice 
 again. The Doctor was regarding me ner- 
 vously ; something of my disturbance had com- 
 municated itself to the air, and he felt the 
 uncongenial element. I wanted time, and sought 
 foolishly to attain it. 
 
 " Why, if both cantatas were equal, was Maers 
 given the preference ? " I asked, knowing well 
 that my colleague had friends that sat in high 
 places and that the answer was not far to seek. 
 He hesitated for a moment, and then spoke 
 some commonplace explaining the preference by 
 some fictitious superiority in Maers' work which 
 I knew well did not exist I hardly heard, being 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 103 
 
 so stunned and bruised by this discovery of 
 perfidy. My attention was rivetted by little 
 details of the room, from which my eyes wan- 
 dered to the window, whence I could see the 
 gray towers of Westminster, and in the distance 
 a silver twinkle of water, gay with shipping. 
 My eyes came back to the room and fastened 
 on a heavy bookcase, packed with Latin and 
 Greek authors, lending an air of erudition to the 
 apartment. Among them was Plato, and I 
 wondered inconsequently how far his philo- 
 sophy had availed him in my present plight. 
 Then my eyes in their journeyings about the 
 room arrived at Grenfell and fastened on his 
 eupeptic rosiness. I wondered how he had so 
 successfully evaded the slings and arrows of 
 outrageous fortune. Then, to my eternal shame 
 be it said, I began to giggle, with wet eyes, 
 suffering from what the women term hysterics. 
 A great knot rose and choked me in my throat. 
 I desired to weep, and yet laboured to keep back 
 mad laughter. " Tut-tut," he clucked, " agita- 
 tion is always to be deplored, — always to " 
 
 And then my risibility won the day, and I 
 rocked in my chair, shaken with hideous mirth. 
 I laughed and laughed, with tears running 
 down my cheeks, till I had to pause for lack 
 
104 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 of breath. Every time I realized the fulness of 
 my gullibility I shouted again, and when, added 
 to this, I incidentally caught sight of the troubled 
 face of the Doctor, startled out of all its normal 
 placidity, fresh fuel was added to my merri- 
 ment. The river and the lilies — Marjory in her 
 white gown — my golden afternoon — the plea- 
 sant fooling in which I had so fervently indulged 
 — Maers the victor in a trial for composition — it 
 was too excellently ludicrous, and the large pink 
 face before me puckered into unaccustomed 
 worried lines from which ever issued, " Be calm ; 
 be calm ! Nothing is ever gained by agitation ; 
 all, no doubt, can be pleasantly explained." I 
 got away somehow, leaving my inquisitor under 
 the impression that I was a plagiarist of the 
 first water, and not an agreeable one at that 
 (which last I cannot help thinking did for me 
 finally in his favour). A plagiarist may be 
 pardoned ; but a plagiarist who plagiarises 
 crudely, and accepts natural queries with 
 shrieks of laughter and tears, who is un- 
 pleasant to the eyes and who apparently 
 finds it impossible to do things " pleasantly," 
 was practically damned in Dr. Grenfell's eyes. 
 "So very fatiguing," he sighed in my rear as 
 I left him, promising incoherently to explain 
 
** PUNCHINELLO'* tog 
 
 everything next day. " So very fatiguing — and 
 you know, my dear young friend," he laid a 
 hand upon my shoulder, which I shook off, and 
 departed in a flourish of cachinnation, punctu- 
 ated by farewell. 
 
 In the first turmoil of feeling I felt that I had 
 relegated myself to the lowest asinine imbecility 
 possible. I had been tricked, fooled with such 
 infinite ease, that apparently no further outlet 
 for such particular incapacity was possible ; but 
 the Fates furthered me downwards. 
 
 I went to my room, I remember, and tried to 
 grasp the situation. Of course Marjory was 
 blameless. Simon had by some chance got 
 wind of my ill-advised confidences and utilised 
 them. She had been tricked, and no doubt at 
 this moment was suffering agonies from the 
 
 prick of a tender conscience, and yet 
 
 Here an interval of intelligence intervened, and 
 I tried to dismiss Mistress Davenant from my 
 thoughts. The position, indeed, was ugly 
 enough. It is unpleasant to start professionally 
 branded with the stigma of plagiarism, and I 
 failed to see how it was possible to clear myself 
 without involving Marjory, at which thought I 
 revolted for all my anger. Simon at least 
 should hear what I thought of him ; but when 
 
io6 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 the heart is one white blaze of anger, words, how- 
 ever biting, seem but a poor revenge. I cursed 
 my puny inches, as I thought of the physical 
 perfection that so effectually defended him from 
 me. One thing was possible to me — to write 
 to Marjory and accuse her straightly of her act. 
 I knew it would avail me nothing eventually, 
 but I grasped at the solace of delivering myself; 
 and so with mighty preparations I sat down 
 and indited an epistle. As I filled my pen 
 and drew my paper towards me, I had no fears 
 of finding suitable expression for my fury ; but 
 no sooner had I made all arrangements than I 
 found myself confronted with an apparently 
 insuperable obstacle. How commence? For 
 the last weeks, I had run through the varied 
 stages of address, beginning formally and 
 ending in most lover-like terms. Now I had to 
 recommence, which I did with the stateliest 
 courtesy. I found a copy of my letter lately. 
 It is a curious document, commencing with 
 frigidity and ending in a flare of boyish 
 anger. 
 
 " Mistress Marjory " (it opened severely), 
 " I am informed that my cantata and that 
 wriettn by Mr. Simon Maers are practically 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 107 
 
 identical. As to my certain knowledge he 
 knows nothing of my writing, I arrive unwill- 
 ingly at the conclusion that you have betrayed 
 the foolish confidence reposed in you by me. 
 I write to inform you that I intend instruct- 
 ing the authorities at the earliest possible date 
 of the reason of this peculiar similarity." — 
 (Now here I should have stopped, remaining 
 her obedient servant, but my heart was stronger 
 than my head, and I resumed in a burst of 
 opprobrious epithets.) — " False, fickle ! I cannot 
 find words strong enough to express my loath- 
 ing of the meanness of which you have been 
 capable. Oh, Marjory ! all the hours I was 
 basking in your presence you were meditating 
 this villainy. Marjory, I can even now not 
 believe it. Write and tell me it is false. Sug- 
 gest some means by which Simon has been 
 enabled to outwit me. Marjory, my loved one, I 
 have not yet seen my enemy, who is away from 
 Town. Possibly, when accused, he will admit his 
 guilt and I shall be for ever abashed." — (The 
 mere fact of corresponding with my loved one 
 made the charm of her presence felt, and as I 
 wrote I almost believed that she was guilt- 
 less.) — " Write to me and set my mind at ease." 
 I ended, " Marjory, my beloved, I cannot bear 
 
lo8 "PUNCHINELLO'' 
 
 this foul surmise that has come to me in my 
 dire distress. Marjory, forgive me ! 
 
 " Your broken-hearted 
 
 " Anthony." 
 
 This curious effusion I sealed and sent 
 hurriedly, not daring to wait longer. It had 
 hardly been gone an hour when I heard a tremu- 
 lous knocking at my door, and Simon entered. 
 " Anthony," he said, " Anthony." His voice was 
 broken and died away ashamed. He closed the 
 door behind him and stood looking at me. 
 Never have I seen a man so honestly abashed ; 
 his eyes refused to meet mine and sought the 
 floor, while his hands pulled feverishly at each 
 other. " Yes," I said, " what would you ? " He 
 dropped into a chair and hid his face between 
 his hands. " She tempted me," he said at last. 
 Now before, I had not thought highly of Mr. 
 Maers, but at these words I found him the 
 sorriest cur that ever stepped on earth. I made 
 no answer, and he went on : " She tempted 
 me ; she said it would help on our marriage. 
 With this success I shall get more offers for 
 public playing. Besides, there is the money ; 
 with what I have already saved, the sum is 
 almost complete. Her father will not give her 
 
"PUNCHINELLO*' 109 
 
 to me unless I have a fair sum on which to 
 commence my married life. The disgrace, the 
 shame," he stammered in his incoherent talk, and 
 failed to meet my eyes. " You will be silent, 
 Anthony, for her sake ? " Now indeed I thought 
 he had touched the lowest rung. " Anthony, 
 it means so little to you, you are so clever, 
 neither do you want the money. There will be 
 no scandal ; they will not press the point. My 
 uncle is one of the judges ; he has his suspicions ; 
 but he is only too glad that I succeed by foul 
 means, if not by fair, to press the point ! 
 Anthony ! " But still I sat silent with locked 
 lips. 
 
 Then without in the passage I heard the 
 patter of feet, and a woman closely veiled 
 entered and flung herself before me on her 
 knees. It was Marjory, with the fair whiteness 
 of her face all blurred by tears. " For my sake, 
 Anthony," she said, and no word more, while 
 her sobs shook her from head to foot. 
 
 This I could not bear, and I tried to raise her, 
 but she clung to me, always with that piteous 
 whisper — " Promise me, Anthony ? Oh, the 
 shame, the shame ! I am undone ! " — till I could 
 stand it no longer. 
 
 " You are safe from me," I said sharply, 
 
no "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 fighting to speak indifferently, for the world 
 seemed rocking. And in a flash she was on 
 her feet, her eyes were dried and her lips 
 smiling. 
 
 " Good Anthony," she said sweetly, " I could 
 not help it — I was so sorely tempted. We do 
 strange things for love," she mused, "and Simon 
 there has not the gift, for all his cleverness. I 
 so desired to help him," she explained, with a 
 glance at her lover, who stood beside her with 
 shamed, averted head. " Good-bye, Tony," she 
 added. " You forgive, eh ? We do much for 
 love." 
 
 Here I spoke. " At times we leave a thing 
 undone — for love," said I. She looked a trifle 
 abashed, and hurried towards the door, followed 
 by Maers. Was it my fancy that a triumphant 
 glance flashed between them ? 'M fair woman 
 
 shall lay a net " " You did not care at all, 
 
 then ? " I faltered. God knows why ! 
 
 " For you ? " she said, startled. Her eyes en- 
 veloped me, and I shrank from the contemp- 
 tuous compassion. 
 
 " Oh go," I said, and they left me. And 
 when they were gone I sobbed with bent 
 head, not for the anguish of my disappointment, 
 which indeed was keen, nor yet for the trickery 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" in 
 
 to which I had been subjected, nor for loss of 
 friend and love. All was swamped in a great 
 wave of pain. "For you?" It had been so 
 genuine — the amused compassion in her eyes. 
 
 O God, what had I done that Thy Hand 
 should lay so heavy on me ? " For j/ou ? " 
 Scant wonder that she was amazed that I, poor 
 stunted dwarf, should harbour the same desires 
 as the handsome lad at her side. " For you ? " — 
 the light words stung as a lash. Yet never had 
 I said, " She tempted me." 
 
VI 
 
 IT spoke largely for the favouritism of these 
 times that so glaring a theft could be 
 committed with impunity, and indeed connived 
 at by the judges ; for nothing but connivance 
 explains the ease with which my lame apology 
 satisfied the examiners. I term it an apology 
 for lack of a better word ; it was, indeed, no 
 explanation, being a confused jumble of words 
 in which I traced the identity of the compo- 
 sitions partly to coincidence, and possibly to 
 my having heard Maers' songs in embryo. 
 My apology was so absurd that I could not 
 think it would pass ; yet it was impossible for 
 me to devise a better plan, thrash my brains 
 as I might. So far did decency prevail that 
 the prize was withheld from us both, and Maers 
 gained nothing by his lady's strategy. This 
 arose in great part, I imagine, from the open 
 incredulity of some others — Verlene pre-emi- 
 nently — who, knowing both Maers and myself, 
 
 112 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 113 
 
 scoffed openly at the notion of the former 
 excelling me. 
 
 I cannot think that my affections were as 
 deeply involved in this affair as 1 imagined at 
 the time, but my pride was sorely bruised at 
 the ease with which I had served as cat's-paw 
 to Mistress Marjory, and her evidently sincere 
 amazement at the feelings with which I re- 
 garded her had wakened all the old anguished 
 revolt at the doom of circumstance. By some 
 recognition of compensation being due to me, 
 I was offered at this time a post as organist 
 at St. Mary's, in Town, which I gladly accepted, 
 being thankful to change the scene of my dis- 
 comfitures, and also because I felt that it em- 
 bodied a direct recognition of my ability — it 
 being commonly reserved for older men, and 
 carrying with it a fat salary. Before taking 
 up my duties, I went now for a few weeks to 
 my home. I found my mother and Cecily 
 shaken from the even tenour of their ways by 
 a letter, lately arrived from the brother of my 
 father, in which he spoke of himself as dying 
 and commended his daughter Nan to my 
 mother's care. " A stranger — a woman — a 
 great change in family circumstances." Cheap 
 as 1 held Mistress Sylvia, her words, mo- 
 
 H 
 
114 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 mentarily forgotten, were quickened with new 
 life. 
 
 This uncle had always been a somewhat 
 shadowy personage in the family annals ; refer- 
 ence to him was rare, and always accompanied 
 by a reticence that suggested to the kindest 
 understanding nebulous improprieties. Never 
 having known my father, I cannot tell whether 
 the family affection was strong enough to con- 
 done the fraternal frailties, or whether he spoke 
 of Uncle Harry with my mother's shake of 
 head and the damning adjectives, " Poor dear ! " 
 — so she called him, and the words are enough 
 to sink any man. Before I go forth to the 
 world as " Poor dear ! " may I be offered the 
 choice of the savagest epithet! 
 
 Well, I learned, on returning to my home, 
 that "poor dear Harry" was dead, and had 
 bequeathed us his daughter of sixteen summers, 
 who was, so wrote her father, not lacking in 
 looks. He wrote, indeed, it seemed to me, 
 somewhat over eulogistically of her graces for 
 one so near of kin, and considering how nearly 
 he trenched on things eternal ; he also dwelt 
 with too generous emphasis on her physical 
 charms, and the price that, properly offered, 
 should attend them in the market. I cannot 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 115 
 
 think that a man should write with such infinite 
 unction of things temporal in a caligraphy 
 already tremulous with death. 
 
 So ran his letter, showing in its poor pathetic 
 scrawling words the effort with which it had 
 been penned : — 
 
 "My dearest Sister, — The sands are 
 nearly spent, or I had not dared address you. 
 I write now in dire distress to commend to 
 your kind offices my daughter Nan, who, 
 when I am no more, will be friendless. She 
 will not lack competence, and her beauty is 
 in itself a fortune ; yet, for all this, I am 
 fearful of her future, knowing something of 
 the snares that beset young maids" — (And 
 indeed, if my mother spoke accurately, he had 
 set a generous portion himself, being no lean 
 liver and of an excellent taste in woman), — 
 "and so I pray you, my very dear sister, to have 
 compassion on her and take her into your 
 household. I have written to the Lady Agatha 
 — my Nan's godmother — begging her also to 
 extend her protection. She is a lady of fashion, 
 and will no doubt invite Nan to town for a 
 time when her mourning be ended " — (Did ever 
 man anticipate the advent of the great King 
 
ii6 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 so coolly beforehand?) — "and be the means, per- 
 haps, of her making a brilliant marriage, which 
 indeed she should do, dowered as she is. I 
 can write no more. For Christ's sake have pity- 
 on her ... I dare not pray your clemency 
 on my own behalf; but she is but a child, and 
 is guileless of any part in the sad past. I write 
 no more, leaving her to plead her own cause, 
 which she will assuredly do with success, carry- 
 ing as she does the earnest of a pure soul in 
 her face. I pray the Lady Agatha may secure 
 her future ; she is fair and she is rich — not a 
 maid, methinks, to go a-begging " 
 
 And with this last vain-glorious boast, the 
 letter ended in a weakly-written signature. 
 
 It had flung our peaceful household into a 
 very fever. My mother, although never for 
 a moment dreaming of refusing the guardian- 
 ship thus thrust upon her, yet fretted at the 
 responsibility attached to it, while Cecily was 
 all agog with joyous anticipation at the thought 
 of a companion. For myself, I earnestly en- 
 deavoured to deter my mother from receiving 
 another inmate into our home, and especially 
 one with so unhappy an ancestry, holding as 
 I did a firm belief in heredity, and foreseeing 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" T17 
 
 troubles ahead. But so soon as I counselled 
 prudence, pointing out that the girl was by no 
 means friendless, having the mighty Lady 
 Agatha at her back, or even, if this female 
 prove indifferent, having at her disposal money 
 and beauty, with which no woman need face 
 the world unattended — my dear one fell on me 
 in a very fury of compassion, crying out how 
 pitiful it was for a young girl to be bereft of 
 her natural protector at so early an age, and 
 how it behoved her to atone by an excess of 
 kindness for so sharp a desolation. This is a 
 trait that I have ever noted in women, even in 
 the very best — a curious love of contradiction 
 that always insists on their adopting an anta- 
 gonistic attitude to the one preferred by their 
 companion. I would lay my last stiver that 
 had I welcomed my cousin's advent, my mother 
 would have flowed over with reasons against 
 her coming. Indubitably she would have re- 
 ceived her, and cossetted and petted her to the 
 verge of foolishness when it came to the prac- 
 tical point, but she would first have enjoyed a 
 preliminary difficulty — she would have feared 
 for Cecily's sake — she herself was no longer 
 young, etc., etc. Women are ever so, being 
 characterised, whether young or old, wise ma- 
 
ii8 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 trons or foolish virgins, by an eternal and 
 sweet unreasonableness. Now, when she had 
 sufficiently pointed out to me my callousness 
 in demurring at the advent of this lovely 
 stranger, she vouchsafed me a precis of my 
 Uncle Harry's life, and explained the reason 
 of his addressing her with such humility. It 
 appeared that from his earliest youth Master 
 Harry had devoted himself to the philosophy of 
 pleasure, showing himself an apt pupil and mas- 
 tering all the tenets of Epicureanism with fatal 
 facility. His ambition was to be a soldier, and 
 its gratification helped him on his downward 
 path, he being able when in the army to satisfy 
 his love of gambling and strong waters without in- 
 terference. All went merrily as marriage bells for 
 some two years, and then came the reckoning. 
 It appeared that this gentleman, for all his vices, 
 was blessed by fortune with a wonderfully win- 
 ning personality that insured him friends, even 
 apparently of the rare genus that appear in 
 time of need ; for no sooner was he in straits 
 than a saviour appeared in the form of a Cap- 
 tain Lascelles, who paid up his debts, and was 
 with difficulty persuaded to accept an I.O.U. 
 According to my mother, no one was more 
 amazed than the culprit, he having always re- 
 
"PUNCHINELLO'* 119 
 
 garded Lascelles with something of contempt, 
 as slow of wit and bucolic in appearance, 
 "over-suggestive of beef and beer," my mother 
 had it, and absolutely devoid of drawing-room 
 arts. Yet this heavy individual had apparently 
 admired my brilliant uncle from afar, and when 
 Nemesis overtook him he showed the strength 
 of his devotion to the tune of many hundreds 
 of pounds. He not only paid my uncle's debts, 
 but he likewise made him free of his house, 
 stretching out a friendly hand at a time when 
 his boon-companions for the greater part looked 
 distinctly askance at my unfortunate relative. 
 Mr. Harry, not being of a diffident habit, seems 
 to have taken full advantage of this foolishly 
 accorded permission, and also to have had his 
 woes solaced with considerable success by Mrs. 
 Lascelles, a lady reputed of decided attraction. 
 They apparently suited each other so admirably 
 as to risk scandal and marital vengeance by an 
 elopement, rendered possible by the outraged 
 husband's generosity in the first instance, and 
 trusting faith in the second. It was indeed a 
 scurrilous return, yet fortune favoured knavery, 
 for the captain was so agitated at this unlooked- 
 for response to his kindness, as to quit the 
 world in an apoplexy at discovering the trea- 
 
120 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 chery of his friend and wife, and the infidelity- 
 remained unavenged. The sinews of war soon, 
 however, became exhausted, and having killed 
 the goose that laid the golden egg, mine tmcle 
 looked vainly round for succour. He was con- 
 strained to leave the army, and shortly touched 
 with his paramour the lowest depths of 
 desolation. The love — if so pure a term can 
 be utilized to express so vile a passion — that 
 had brought them to such sad pass, proved 
 inefficient to condone the material miseries of 
 their state. They parted by mutual consent 
 (according to my uncle, whose statements I 
 ever receive with certain restrictions), and he 
 shortly appealed to my father for monetary 
 help, basing his claim on a professed desire to 
 lead a clean life for the future and an abject 
 repentance of the past. He appears to have 
 failed to impress my father with a due sense 
 of even tardy virtue ; my parent punctuating 
 his wordy regrets, with reiterated assertions to 
 the effect that his abduction in the past paled 
 in villainy when compared to his present deser- 
 tion. My mother places the scene most happily 
 in her pregnant phrase, " Your father said only : 
 *What have you done with her? what have 
 you done with her ? ' sweeping away all Harry's 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 12I 
 
 penitence with an impatient shrug of shoulder. 
 I cannot understand," continued my mother, 
 with her rare tightening of the lips, "his infinite 
 pity. I would have done my duty by her, but 
 I cannot understand the tenderness with which 
 he spoke of her. She put herself, of her own 
 will, outside the pale." 
 
 "She was no worse than Uncle Harry," I 
 hazarded. 
 
 "He was a man," she returned, "and but 
 young." 
 
 "And she?" I queried. 
 
 " Five-and-twenty," said my mother, regarding 
 me with disapproval. " I could almost think 
 you desire to defend her," she added tartly. 
 
 " I defend no one," I said ; " but I cannot 
 think it good logic to paint the one criminal 
 so much blacker than the other. I fail to 
 distinguish." 
 
 "She was a woman." The finality in her 
 tone was unanswerable. 
 
 "She was a woman," and so I would add 
 for rider, "God help her!" Over and over 
 again, times multiplied beyond arithmetic, have 
 I wondered in my long span of years at this 
 curious condemnation of woman by woman — 
 at the charity so universally accorded to man, 
 
122 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 yet so pitilessly withheld one from the other 
 by the weaker sex. " She was a woman," and 
 therefore condemned by that gentlest of crea- 
 tures — my mother. 
 
 "Your father," she resumed, "saw no virtue 
 in Harry. He took the severest reading pos- 
 sible of his conduct, finding by some strange 
 paradoxical reasoning his blackest act in what 
 he termed his blackguardly desertion, by which 
 extreme expression he alluded to his tardy 
 recognition of the awfulness of his sin and 
 his determination for the future to lead a fair 
 life. He spoke so hardly that Harry rejected 
 the guineas with which he ended his homily ; 
 they were, indeed, offered in no happy guise, 
 * Even carrion has its claims,' said your father, 
 and so flung the money at your uncle. Your 
 father had ever a bitter tongue," explained my 
 mother in excuse, "and Harry a hot temper. 
 He left the money lying there, and struck your 
 father between the eyes, drawing blood and 
 leaving a scar to death. I heard the scuffle, and 
 opening the door found them locked in each 
 other's arms. Your father, on seeing me, drew 
 away, and Harry flung himself out of the room, 
 and I have never set eyes on him since that 
 most unhappy hour. I heard, some seventeen 
 
" PUNCHINELLO " 123 
 
 years later, that he had married an Italian sig- 
 norina of fortune, and I have prayed he might 
 be happy. Poor dear Harry! his being exposed 
 to the machinations of that designing temptress, 
 Netta Lascelles, was the direst of misfortunes." 
 
 "What of her?" I asked. 
 
 " She remained in the mud," sniffed my dear 
 one. 
 
 " And my estimable relative ? " I fought 
 vainly to stifle the sarcasm in my voice. 
 
 " He got an appointment under the Govern- 
 ment, and married, as I have said, an Italian 
 signorina of good family. He has held no 
 communication with us until this date," re- 
 sumed my mother briskly, " when he prays me 
 take my niece under my protection, which 
 I shall most assuredly do." 
 
 " Lady Agatha } " I queried. 
 
 " I know nothing of her. Nan will no doubt 
 explain." 
 
 And so my mother left me chewing the cud 
 of my reflection. Fresh from Marjory, I could 
 not bear the thought of a petticoat, seeing in 
 every woman a Delilah ; yet, for all my egoistic 
 regret, I could not but think my mother did 
 rightly in being true to her dear self, side by 
 side with which assurance ran the comfortable 
 
124 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 consciousness that my sojourn at home before 
 leaving for London would be brief 
 
 She arrived shortly after her father's letter, 
 heralded by a brief note from the lawyer who 
 had had the management of her father's affairs, 
 in which he concisely stated what monies had 
 been left her, and how they were invested. It 
 appeared that my uncle, with the naive disre- 
 gard of common law that characterised him, 
 had appointed my mother his daughter's guar- 
 dian without troubling her for her consent. 
 He had ever, she explained with a condoning 
 smile, an objection to formulas. 
 
VII 
 
 AT the risk of stamping myself foolishly 
 self-conscious, I must admit that I care- 
 fully avoided my cousin for the first hours of 
 her arrival, dreading the compassionate glance 
 with which I was so terribly familiar. I failed 
 to remember in my colossal egoism that pity for 
 others is rare when a great personal sorrow is in 
 its first burst, and that the man whom I held so 
 cheap in his living and dying may have filled a 
 niche in his daughter's heart So I held myself 
 aloof from her until the supper hour, when I 
 took my courage in both hands and entered the 
 parlour with such calmness as I could muster. 
 Now I had pictured her of a certain beauty, for 
 even the prejudiced affection of a father has its 
 limits, and there is always in any extreme 
 admiration certain hints which have been exag- 
 gerated into statement. Still the hint is there 
 if patiently sought, and I was certain Mistress 
 Nancy had some claim to be considered pass- 
 able if not beautiful. Also I had determined 
 m 
 
126 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 her moderately grieved, showing the resignation 
 that is so poor a compliment to the dead, and is 
 held to cast such a halo of superiority upon the 
 living — a virtue which in this case one had 
 thought not beyond the reach of the most 
 nearly related, holding the villainy of the 
 defunct clearly in mind. I expected her 
 swathed in crape, arrayed in the most sombre 
 habiliments, thereby tendering a sartorial tribute 
 to the dead. She would be heavy, glum with 
 sorrow, yet not closed to consolation. I would 
 detract her attention, diverting her from her 
 late griefs, imbue her with new interests, 
 writhing the while under the pitying glances, 
 which, as I knew from past experience, would 
 be fixed on my malformed spine. Only Mar- 
 jory had ever refrained from unhappy expres- 
 sion of sympathy, and she had given her 
 natural instinct full rein when the necessity for 
 self-control was passed and she had attained 
 her end. I braced myself to endeavour as I 
 entered the room, fearing to give my curiosity 
 rein in too curious a glance, and striving to 
 simulate a serene demeanour. Written here, in 
 this hard black and white, my ever-wakeful 
 consciousness of deformity reads a puerile weak- 
 ness. I indeed recognised it as such, and was 
 
" PUNCHINELLO " 127 
 
 for ever striving to overcome it, yet for all my 
 struggles a meeting with a stranger, especially 
 a woman, filled me with shame. My hump 
 seemed to press upon my back more heavily, 
 and my imagination, needing no physical sight, 
 showed it me in exaggerated hideousness ; my 
 stunted stature, emphasized by the width of my 
 shoulders, the colossal size of my head lending 
 me a ridiculous suggestion of overweight — all 
 this I saw with mental eyes that spared me 
 nothing. There is an optimistic fallacy abroad 
 that dwarfs are protected by a sturdy crust of 
 self-satisfaction that renders them impervious to 
 an appearance that would be intolerable to 
 more sensitive organizations ; they are held con- 
 ceited, bitter-natured, spiced with spite, and 
 commonly characterized by an infernal personal 
 vanity, based, the public has it, on their very 
 defects. I may have been the one exception 
 that proves the general rule, but I cannot think 
 it. The world is full, in my belief, of wretches 
 doomed to an inglorious martyrdom, writhing 
 under compassionate eyes and stinging from 
 pitying words, endeavouring with scant success 
 to hide their mortification under a cloak of 
 cheap cynicism and a turn of mocking speech. 
 To be truthful, on entering our parlour I did 
 
128 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 for the moment forget myself in blank astonish- 
 ment. Crouched in the large armchair in the 
 corner sat Nan, crying as I have never seen 
 another cry. Her face was half twisted round 
 and pressed against the back of the seat, her feet 
 were drawn up — I could just catch the twinkle 
 of a shoe-buckle beneath her frock — and she was 
 sobbing in an abandonment of tears that defies 
 description. Children cry in something of this 
 fashion with a hearty, never- tiring vigour, but 
 never before or since have I witnessed such a 
 torrent of grief in an adult. To add to the 
 strangeness, she wore no outer sign of woe, but 
 was attired in a scarlet cotton gown made in 
 cunning fashion with innumerable tucks and 
 laces, falling loosely round her. I could see the 
 back of a dark curly head and one little white 
 hand, in which was rolled a wet wisp of cam- 
 bric ; her face was completely hidden, only she 
 sobbed, and sobbed, and sobbed, till it seemed 
 as if the violence of her woe would wrench her 
 slim body in twain. My mother sat beside 
 her whispering gentle comforting words which 
 apparently availed nothing. I was about to 
 retire, but my mother stayed me with a gesture. 
 " Here is your cousin, Anthony," she said, 
 resting a hand on the girl's shoulder, which was 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 129 
 
 promptly shaken off with a gesture that for all 
 her grief I could not but think a trifle petulant. 
 But my mother persevered. 
 
 " Here is your cousin, Anthony," she said 
 again, and for all answer Mistress Nancy buried 
 her face a little deeper in the cushion. Then 
 my mother motioned me to seat myself, and we 
 talked a little of the weather and the crops, and 
 such like commonplaces, ignoring the unhappy 
 baby huddled in the chair. Our diplomacy was 
 soon rewarded, the sobbing grew fainter, the 
 pressure on the friendly chair-back less, and 
 Mistress Nancy lifted her ruffled head and 
 turned and looked on me. 
 
 I might have spared myself those previous 
 tremors. I have written the words "looked 
 on me," as expressing an accurate definition 
 of her act ; she certainly looked on me, but I 
 doubt her seeing me. Yet I, by some accident 
 that the godly had termed divine, saw at that 
 moment the real Nan. She took in the after- 
 math as many changes as a weathercock, flying 
 from one point to another with the utmost ease 
 and all genuine for the hour. My pretty one, 
 there were some who flung stones at you later — 
 yet I must stay my hand writing of them. Did 
 not I, vouchsafed an initial understanding, mis- 
 
 I 
 
130 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 understand and so lead to that — accident? I 
 will not erase the pause. I am old, growing 
 very old, and at times the correct word is hard 
 to seek. Accident, yes accident, I know, every 
 one knows ; yet at times I use other nomen- 
 clature, and people call me mad. But I am not 
 mad,aswriting this coherent chronicle will prove. 
 I suffer only from Anno Domini — a common 
 failing— and Nan had an accident. Accident ! 
 accident ! I love the word accident. Perhaps 
 they are right, and there is a queer crank in my 
 brain, for at times I see another word blazoned 
 on sea and land, but that word will not write — 
 it was an accident. Shame on me to vapour so 
 wildly instead of telling my tale in straight- 
 forward terms ! It seems as if I could not hold 
 myself to the point and make steadily to the 
 end, but must be for ever doubling and turning, 
 flying to the extremest end of my narration and 
 then dwelling by the way on some minor trifle 
 that holds no claim to interest. But one thing 
 is sure, whatever I do, my imagination must not 
 rest unduly on that — accident. I do strange 
 things when my thoughts fly there, impelled by 
 terrible remembrances, and people call me mad 
 — an ugly word ; I love it not, neither is it true ; 
 did they but know. Sometimes the more 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 131 
 
 cultured among them, aiming at exact ex- 
 pression, term me a monomaniac, which is to 
 say mad on the one subject, viz. — no, I will not 
 write it, but rather return to Nan in her great 
 chair looking at me with swollen eyes, which, I 
 would lay a handsome wager, saw me not. 
 The tears were still wet on her pretty face, but 
 she did not appear conscious of them ; her 
 mouth drooped at the corners as that of a 
 miserable child ; the colour, though of God's 
 painting, was washed from her cheeks by her 
 tears, and her eyes, like great black stars, 
 looked out from under a mass of curling hair 
 that fell low on her brows. Never, and I have 
 rubbed shoulders with those who have drunk 
 deep of the waters of Marah, have I seen such 
 desolation in a face ; she looked stunned with 
 grief, and all for love of that ne'er-do-well, mine 
 uncle Harry. On the little white face turned 
 towards me, I read a capability for suffering 
 that shocked me, but before twenty-four hours 
 had passed I could have sworn that my cousin 
 was incapable of grief, presenting as she did an 
 incarnate joy. 
 
 To return to the hour of our introduction, she 
 looked at me a moment unseeingly, and then a 
 touch of self-consciousness stole into her face, 
 
132 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 and she sat straight in her chair and uncurled 
 her feet from under her, regarding me somewhat 
 shamefacedly. " Is it — Anthony ? " she said ; 
 and looked from me to my mother and back 
 again, as though praying an introduction ; she 
 had obviously heard nothing of my mother's 
 words. "Your cousin, Tony," my mother said 
 again, and smiled at me with a touch of nervous- 
 ness knowing my sensitiveness, and then left the 
 room. Up jumps Mistress Nancy and straight- 
 way makes me the handsomest curtsey. " How 
 did I do it ? " said she, almost before she had 
 regained her natural pose. " Some tell me I 
 am awkward," she remarked, with the utmost 
 gravity. " I could not bear to be awkward." 
 In her elevated eyebrows I read an insistent 
 interrogation, and mumbled complimentarily. 
 
 " I was a fool to ask you ; men can only say 
 one thing." She turned an irritable shoulder 
 upon me, and I loved her. Men ! men ! She 
 classed me among my happier brethren without 
 thought of differentiation, and my heart went 
 out to her. Until this moment I had harboured 
 the saddest terrors, born of an agonising ex- 
 perience, about our meeting. She would pity 
 me, no doubt ; and pity, some liar has written, is 
 akin to love. Truer tongues have placed it in 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 133 
 
 painful proximity to contempt, but she said 
 " Meuy" and I loved her for the word. 
 
 " I had no thought of flattering," I babbled. 
 " To my mind it was a very charming greeting." 
 
 " * Stiff in the uprising ! ' some whisper. Now 
 look, and tell me true ! " and to my great amaze- 
 ment she dropped me another curtsey, or 
 indeed, to speak more correctly, the first half 
 of a curtsey, and remained half-bent in the 
 prettiest pose. " Now see me rise, and tell me 
 true." And she swayed again to her feet and 
 looked at me anxiously. She looked at me for 
 a moment in silence, and then, seeing the trouble 
 in my face, turned contemptuously on her heel. 
 " You are ignorant of these things, I see," she 
 tossed over her shoulder in the loftiest tone. 
 " I thought, coming lately from Town, your 
 opinion had been worth hearing," and left me 
 standing there. Lately from Town and so knew 
 the fashions in curtseys ! Did she imagine I 
 spent my time tacked on to gay petticoats, 
 studying the tricks of their owners. I could 
 hear the click of her high heels on the wide, 
 shallow stairs as she mounted. Lately she had 
 been sobbing her heart out, and now was eager 
 to know the proper curtsey. She left me some- 
 what breathless, I remember, vaguely trying to 
 
134 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 understand whether she had been stiff. I could 
 remember nothing but the warm whiteness of 
 her neck turned towards me, and her eager eyes 
 still heavy from her late lamentations. 
 
 Within a few moments she and my mother 
 entered the room again, linked arm in arm, 
 Mistress Nan chattering like a jay and with 
 never a hint of her late troubles glooming her 
 vivacity. Heavens, how she talked, flying from 
 one subject to another as a bird from tree to 
 tree, interlarding her speech with scraps of 
 French and Italian, laughing shrilly, moved to 
 merriment by her own gay speech. She was 
 adorably, astonishingly pretty, in a brilliant 
 mocking style, and she seemed to me to flash 
 like some rare jewel as she sat before me in her 
 scarlet gown. I remember it was bandless at 
 the neck and that she wore a string of pearls 
 twisted round the rare column of her throat, 
 and that her hair, a thing I had never before 
 seen in woman, was cut close all over her head, 
 and curled in soft dark tendrils like a child's. 
 Across the years I feel my blood run warmer 
 for memory of the sparkle of her presence and 
 the freshness of her laughter. Nan, if you 
 know aught in the Great Beyond of us below, 
 understand and believe that it was the mon- 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 135 
 
 strous strength of my love that served to my 
 undoing. I loved you then, I loved you to 
 your last breath on earth. Dear heart ! I 
 cherish the tiniest memory of you now with 
 greater love than other quick or dead, and 
 they glance covertly at me and make strange 
 gestures, signifying that my reason rocks. We 
 know better, sweetheart — you and I ! 
 
 My mother and Cecily at this first meal ably 
 seconded my cousin in her desire to cast sadness 
 behind her ; they talked easily and without 
 apparent strain, avoided unfortunate allusion, 
 while I for once, proving my right to be termed 
 a man, blundered hopelessly. All these years 
 I had never spoken of my uncle, yet now my 
 innocentest observation by some elfish trick of 
 fate inevitably trenched upon this subject. Nan 
 talked lightly of life abroad, and I told an 
 anecdote (a good anecdote by the way, yet 
 none the less inexcusable) of one who had 
 cheated creditors on the charitable Continent. 
 My mother drew her brows together and looked 
 black as a paid mourner, while Cecily glared at 
 me and then threw an agitated glance towards 
 Nan so as to further emphasize my discom- 
 fiture, which is often the way with women. 
 Mistress Nancy only glinted her black eyos at 
 
136 " PUNCHINELLO *» 
 
 me, and shrilled with laughter, in perfect sym- 
 pathy with the culprit. I later learned that she 
 cherished not only a passionate love, but also a 
 deep respect for her father, and saw not even a 
 fortuitous resemblance between him and the 
 hero of my tale. He must have used his 
 histrionic ability to the utmost limit, for if ever 
 an unhung rascal had walked the earth, it was 
 mine Uncle Harry. 
 
VIII 
 
 FOR a day or so foUowing the arrival of my 
 cousin I saw little of her, she keeping 
 her chamber for the greater part, rising late and 
 seeking her bed early. She seemed worn out 
 with the past stress to which she had been 
 subjected, and slept till the day was stale. My 
 mother fussed round her when she descended, 
 with cushions and strong soup, as is the way of 
 women, and Mistress Nan would at times play 
 the invalid, assuming for the nonce the sickliest 
 airs and toying with her food in a genteel 
 manner, while in other moods she would affect 
 the most boisterous spirits. Her fatigue, I am 
 assured, was genuine enough ; she would laugh 
 and talk, entertaining us merrily, while the 
 black shadows grew beneath her eyes, telling 
 of her exhaustion. My mother told me she 
 had terrible interludes of weeping like the one 
 I had witnessed, and that these would be 
 succeeded by fits of the maddest merriment. 
 Nan was ever a creature of moods and im- 
 
 187 
 
tsd "PUNCHINELLO'* 
 
 pulses, sombre as crape one hour, and before 
 one had space to inquire the why and where- 
 fore of this mournfullest mood, positively corus- 
 cating with gaiety. 
 
 She wore always her scarlet gown, some- 
 times doffing it in the evening for a white 
 satin, cut rather over-low my mother thought, 
 from which her exquisite neck and shoulders 
 rose triumphant, lending, it seemed to me, 
 by force of contrast a hint of dinginess to 
 her glistening robe. My dear one was much 
 vexed at my cousin's fixed aversion to wear- 
 ing a black gown. " He hated it," she sobbed 
 when my mother tried to impress her with 
 a sense of conventionality and the outraged 
 susceptibilities of our neighbours. " He always 
 hated mourning clothes. I will never do 
 what he hated — never — never ! " she sobbed, 
 and then, by way of emphasizing her defiance, 
 indifferent to the tears still wet on her face, she 
 would execute apas-seuly holding her gay gown 
 away from her with both hands as she pranced. 
 " So much for the conventions 1 " said she, cock- 
 ing her toe at my mother. " I am passing 
 pretty," she went on unabashed, " and I will 
 not swathe myself in these black horrors ; 
 my darling Harry would not have liked it." 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 139 
 
 Another thing she always did was to call her 
 father Harry. He had never allowed her to 
 call him "Father," owing to his dislike to 
 formalities and ordinary customs. I cannot 
 help thinking he pushed his aversion somewhat 
 far. I sympathise with his aversion to crape, 
 and original nomenclature is always good ; but 
 there were departures in his career at which my 
 gorge rises — no doubt it was his aversion to 
 custom — but I cannot approve of his utilising 
 another man's substance and later cheating him 
 of his wife. I remember that at this season I 
 conceived a highly moral ideal, born, I cannot 
 doubt, of the late trickery to which I had been 
 subjected. My past disillusionment had been 
 sufficient, one would have thought, to have 
 killed the very toughest romance, but for the 
 life of me I could not help my thoughts flying 
 to the fickle Marjory, which mental departure 
 occasioned me great uneasiness. 
 
 Nancy had been with us a week when a droll 
 incident occurred relating to the Lady Agatha, 
 which I tell as exquisitely illustrating the 
 tempestuous, changeable temper of my cousin. 
 She knew, it appeared, her godmother fairly 
 intimately, and had written to apprise her of 
 her safe arrival at our house, following in this 
 
140 " PUNCHINELLO " 
 
 her father's wish. She had herself, so far as I 
 could see, no love for this fashionable dame, 
 whom she aptly described as "a whaleboned 
 prejudice." "Dissolved," she cried one day in 
 petulant mood, "her component parts would 
 resolve themselves into lemon water ice and 
 east winds ; she is bitterly acid, keen as a 
 razor. Ouf ! " said Mistress Nan with a simu- 
 lated shiver, " I saw her once." 
 
 " Your father appears to have kept in touch 
 with her," replied my mother, who was puzzled 
 at the amicable relations between two such 
 incongruities as mine uncle and his sister-in-law. 
 
 " Harry did it for my sake," said Nan, with 
 the shadow falling on her face that mention of 
 her father always brought. " She is well placed 
 in the fashionable world, and he thought," she 
 pursued unabashed, " would give me a taste of 
 gaiety from time to time. It was for my sake 
 — always — always ! " and up she jumped with 
 the water springing in her eyes and fled away. 
 
 " Poor child !" said my mother, looking after 
 her, "she is too easily moved to know happiness 
 in this world." 
 
 " Yet when she is happy," I amended, " she 
 crowds felicity into an hour that another would 
 spread over a week. She has her share, but she 
 
" PUNCHINELLO '» 141 
 
 takes it in greedy gulps, thickly laid on, and 
 goes without in the interim." 
 
 " Poor child ! " said my mother again, and 
 went slowly towards the house in search, I 
 knew, of Nan. 
 
 Being left alone I went and fetched my 
 violin, in which I ever found congenial com- 
 panionship, and came again into the gardens to 
 play, hoping to find inspiration in the summer 
 sounds and scents, and yet feeling in measure 
 antagonistic towards them. For all the garish- 
 ness of day I was in somewhat a bitter humour, 
 and the joyousness of the world jarred on me. 
 I felt, to put it clear, the only ugly blot on 
 the fair graciousness around me. I thought of 
 Marjory, and in my exceeding depression could 
 not find it in my heart to reproach her for the 
 scurvy trick she had played me — what else 
 could I expect ? No doubt my sojourn abroad 
 would be full of slights. How charming Mar- 
 jory had been ! — the traitress. I wailed a 
 requiem to my lost ideal upon my violin as 
 I thought of her — and Simon, whom I had 
 thought leal to the backbone. Was there 
 nothing true in life? Even that unhappy 
 Nancy worshipped a fair creation that in no 
 wise resembled the father she believed it repre- 
 
142 " PUNCHINELLO »♦ 
 
 sented. I thought of her for all my private 
 griefs, picturing her sobbing within doors, turn- 
 ing a deaf ear to my mother's comforting, as 
 I had seen her on our first meeting. Poor little 
 maid, I need not have feared her critical eyes, 
 she had been far too centred in her own griefs 
 to think of another. 
 
 I played on, revelling in my own music, 
 which gradually soothed my fretted nerves. 
 It was difficult to harbour depression in such 
 gladsome surroundings, and I gradually yielded 
 myself to their potent influences, and forgot 
 even my wretched personality. I slipped, I 
 mind, from grave to gay, and finally broke into 
 a Southern dance. Music born of foam and 
 wind, that flashes breathlessly in its hurrying 
 time through a thousand moods, flying from 
 maddest merriment to broken sombre notes 
 that hint of tragedy. 
 
 As I played I saw, as in a vision, the sun 
 blazing on olive-cheeked men and scarlet-ker- 
 chiefed women, dancing beneath a glowing sky. 
 The clash of castanets rang out and was an- 
 swered by the tinkle of a girl's laugh. The 
 dance grew wilder and wilder, the buckles on 
 the women's shoes flashed in the sunlight. In 
 the far distance a river wound its way, lying like 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 143 
 
 a gigantic glittering serpent in the molten sun- 
 shine. The gaiety begins to fail a little, a 
 hint of sombreness is dulling the rejoicing 
 music, and the dancing feet move, it seems to 
 me, less lightly. Another tone has crept into 
 the music, the merriment is more riotous, the 
 passion is stronger. Two men glance angrily 
 at each other, and the hate in their faces finds 
 expression in the dance. They look across at 
 a gipsy girl with a face like a tropical flower, 
 she sees the glance, her eyes grow frightened 
 and the music falls to a pleading phrase, 
 and still they dance, dance, while the wind 
 rollicks through the slender spiral cypresses 
 and the keen leaves of the aloe cut the 
 air. A sharp dissonancy — the white flash of 
 steel, the shrill shriek of a woman sounding 
 through the tumultuous melody. Is it the 
 angry discord that brings a red veil before the 
 eyes, or is blood flooding the parched grasses ? 
 Voices are clamouring, and the music falls 
 abruptly to an end. 
 
 I raised my violin again, eager to conjure 
 another fantasy, and played a tripping measure 
 of woodland elves. I was half through it when, 
 happening to shift my position a trifle, I looked 
 across the lawns to the great cedar, and dis- 
 
144 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 covered an auditor — no other than Mistress 
 Nancy, who had so lately left us in a very 
 avalanche of woe. She was dancing to my 
 music in the shadows of the tree, which 
 danced with her, making quaint patterns on 
 the dappled grasses. I could not but smile 
 at seeing her, she made the most exquisite 
 picture. Behind her the land dipped to a great 
 hollow, and where it rose again was gilded with 
 a gallant glare of gorse, the scented flame of 
 which stretched away for miles and miles, 
 making a golden background for my cousin's 
 slim figure. She looked like a swaying flower 
 in her scarlet gown, her face flushed with eager- 
 ness, her eyes sparkling with excitement ; and 
 I had imagined her cooped within the house, 
 shedding salt tears in tribute to a reprehensible 
 memory. She discovered that I had detected 
 her and waved her hand in greeting. "Quicken, 
 quicken ! " The light gay voice floated to 
 me, and I obediently played quicker, and Nan 
 danced. And in that hour, although I knew it 
 not, she danced my heart away. When it was 
 over she came and perched herself on the seat 
 beside me, and looked at me with something in 
 her face that I had never seen before — had she 
 been any one but herself, I should have termed 
 
" PUNCHINELLO " 145 
 
 it respect. " It is very wonderful," she said, in 
 an awestruck tone ; " and to think it is only a 
 piece of wood and some catgut," and she cast a 
 glance at my beloved fiddle. 
 
 " It is a Stradivarius," said I, a shade warmly. 
 
 "A piece of wood and some catgut," she 
 repeated unabashed. I shrugged my shoulders, 
 having learnt at a painful expense something 
 of the sex, and made no answer. In no wise 
 disconcerted she settled herself more comfort- 
 ably on the bench and crossed her feet, casting 
 an admiring glance at her twinkling buckles. 
 " I dance well ? " she went on with a note of 
 interrogation in her voice. 
 
 " Fairly," said I, mindful of her past slight to 
 my Stradivarius (a thing of wood and catgut 
 indeed !). 
 
 "Well?" repeated she firmly. 
 
 "Fairly," said I. 
 
 "Well, well," she enunciated in a shrill 
 crescendo, "well, do you hear?" The storm 
 signals were beginning to hang out, and I 
 capitulated. 
 
 "Oh, well then," I agreed peevishly; "it seems 
 a pity to mar the harmony of the hour for such 
 a tawdry question." 
 
 She, having gained her point, made no 
 
 K 
 
146 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 response, and then broke out suddenly, flinging 
 her arms above her head, " Oh, to play like 
 that! I would give anything to be you, 
 Anthony." 
 
 " To be me," I echoed, in truth too amazed 
 to say more. To hear this fair young creature 
 envying me was indeed enough to send the 
 steadiest brain rocking. " Why ? " I asked. 
 
 " For being such a magician," she said im- 
 patiently. "You desire an emotion — evoke it 
 — and luxuriate in it. To be grave or gay, 
 frivolous or earnest, and all by touching that 
 — er — Stradivarius," she graciously concluded. 
 
 " You envy me ? " I asked again, and began 
 to laugh, " I— I— Punchinello." 
 
 " Punchinello ? " asked she curiously, all agog 
 
 with interest ; " who — who " she began 
 
 stammering, her words failing her. 
 
 " It was an unkind baptism," I said, and then 
 in a few words I sketched the story of that 
 afternoon, and as I told my tale with half- 
 averted face her hand stole into mine, but she 
 said never a word. Even when I had finished 
 there was silence, and then with the pretty 
 grace that was so natural to her she put her 
 lips to my cheek, but still she did not speak. 
 
 " It is a cruel name," I said. 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 147 
 
 " How he could ! " she said in a little gasp. 
 
 " I shall never forget it," I said mournfully, 
 watching her. I did so want another kiss. 
 
 "Children are so cruel," she said senten- 
 tiously. 
 
 " It is an awful name." 
 
 " You never hear it now ? " said she with 
 acute reason. 
 
 " But yes," I explained eagerly ; " the village 
 lads when overheated with wine call it after 
 me. 
 
 " Oh, poor, poor Tony ! " She took my hand 
 again, but there was no kiss. Now at this 
 moment I was seized with a curious fancy, no 
 more, no less, than to hear her call me by my 
 nickname. If her pretty lips once uttered it, 
 I felt the sting would be in a measure gone. 
 
 "Call me once by that name," I said abruptly, 
 "and I shall never mind it again." 
 
 " No," said she, tightening her lips. 
 
 " Humour me, Nan," I prayed ; " say * Punchi- 
 nello ' just once." 
 
 She wriggled a little, then she put her lips to 
 my ear. " Punchinello," said she, very softly. 
 " And now play to me again and I will dance. 
 The day is dying — see the crimson west — we 
 waste it. I should love never to sit still, but 
 
148 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 to dance to your fiddling all day long. Play, 
 Anthony." She stood up and whirled her 
 scarlet skirts. " How beautiful it is to be 
 alive ! See the gorse," she cried. " I under- 
 stand Linnaeus so well — who fell on his knees 
 when he saw the sheets of gold. Oh, Anthony, 
 how good a thing it is, come weal or woe, to be 
 alive ! Play ! " she said imperatively. 
 
 " Call me Punchinello, not in a whisper, but 
 out loud," I said sulkily. Moved by her own 
 uttering of this hideous appellation, she would 
 surely kiss me again. 
 
 " Are you going to play, or are you not ? " 
 she returned in a rising tantrum. 
 
 " Call me Punchinello," I responded stolidly. 
 
 " Play first, and, if it is good enough, I will 
 humour your whim," said she loftily. "Talk 
 of women's fancies ! Play that first dance, it 
 warms the blood like new wine." And she 
 rushed back to her old place in the shadows, 
 and I obediently played. 
 
 I shall never forget her — the flying skirts, 
 the clustering curls, flecked here and there with 
 gold where the sun pierced the foliage over- 
 head. She danced till she was forced to pause 
 for dearth of breath, and then, all panting, she 
 clapped her hands, and tossed ipe a kiss on 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 149 
 
 her finger-tips (I would rather have had it 
 otherwise), and shouted, " Bravo, bravo, Punch- 
 inello ! " I gazed at her as she sank on the 
 ground, looking, in the folds of her scarlet 
 gown, like some monstrous poppy, and won- 
 dered at her beauty. 
 
 "Come here," she called across the low 
 grasses ; " I cannot come to you, I am fairly 
 spent." 
 
 I rose, and was half way to her, when I spied 
 my mother issuing from the house, followed by 
 a stranger. She was apparently a lady of 
 fashion, being pranked out in the costliest 
 raiment, and rustling, as she stepped gingerly 
 on her high heels, with the most luxurious 
 rustle. Nan, too, had noticed their coming, as I 
 detected by certain minor symptoms. She put 
 one hand to her head in ineffectual endeavour 
 to set in order her fluffy, wind-blown curls, with 
 the other she pulled at her gown. " It is the 
 Lady Agatha," she whispered with the haugh- 
 tiest smile. " Oh, Tony, 'ware ! " I looked 
 round for a means of escape ; but it was too 
 late, the ladies were upon us. 
 
 Nancy rose from her feet, and went forward 
 to meet her godmother, and then happened the 
 cruellest thing. She went forward ^yith the 
 
150 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 light in her eyes and the rosy colour on her 
 cheeks brought by her late exercise, a smile of 
 greeting on her lips. The Lady Agatha fell 
 back a step and stopped, as though paralyzed by 
 horror. " And your father hardly cold in his 
 grave ! " said she, with stern eyes on Nan. 
 " Have you no heart ? Whatever his faults, 
 he loved you well." It takes a woman to do 
 a thing like that. The pretty pinkness fled 
 from my cousin's cheeks, she turned white to 
 the very mouth, the great tears splashed down 
 her face, and with a piteous cry of " Harry ! 
 Harry!" she turned and ran swiftly from us. 
 I have seen a rose sunning itself in its ex- 
 quisiteness suddenly broken down and battered 
 out of all beauty by an angry summer shower, 
 and I could not but think of it when I saw 
 Nancy's face lose all its grace and gladness in 
 one swift rain of tears. The heartless old 
 harridan ! I could have brained her where she 
 stood. 
 
 Lady Agatha was in no wise disturbed by 
 the disastrous effects of her observation. "That 
 scarlet frock — disgraceful ! disgraceful ! " she 
 muttered. " Your son ? " she said sharply to 
 my mother. " I heard that he was afflicted. 
 You suffer ? " she said, turning to me. 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 151 
 
 " No," returned I with suavity to match her 
 own. I could have sworn she looked a trifle 
 disappointed. 
 
 "You will," she went on, wagging her head 
 with a most portentous gravity. " They always 
 do." She flung this cheery dictum at my 
 mother. Having settled this matter to her 
 satisfaction, she expressed a wish to be seated. 
 " I see a chair yonder." She waved towards a 
 garden seat that stood a hundred feet or so 
 distant. " Are you strong enough to carry it ? " 
 she said. 
 
 " No," said I. But I caught my mother's 
 eyes, and went and fetched it. To my horror, 
 when I came back she was fingering my violin. 
 
 " A nice amusement for you," said she 
 patronizingly, as I took it from her. " I am 
 musical myself — I sing." 
 
 " You what ? " I asked, stupefied out of all 
 courtesy. 
 
 " Sing to the guitar," she explained, noting 
 nothing. " I have a passion for Courtain." 
 
 Now Courtain's songs I knew well. They 
 are the sweetest, lightest nothings, telling of 
 love and moonshine, roses and blue eyes — 
 things blown together, and by their very 
 simplicity requiring the greatest skill and the 
 
152 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 freshest voices. Now, to think of this dame 
 who had left sixty well behind, and spoke with 
 the cracked notes of age, singing these things 
 amused me immensely. " I should love to hear 
 you," I said with the greatest truth. 
 
 " I have not my guitar," she said regretfully. 
 " Some other time." 
 
 " I will improvise you an accompaniment," 
 I said obligingly. 
 
 She was on the verge of yielding when that 
 dear nuisance, my mother, who could never 
 bear to see aught put to shame, intervened. 
 
 " You wanted to speak to me concerning 
 Nan ; and she, too, must be consulted. 
 Some other time," she continued hurriedly. 
 " Go and find Nan," she said to me. 
 
 "Just a verse." I loitered, unwilling to be 
 defrauded of my mischief 
 
 " It is indeed late. Lady Agatha," said my 
 mother feverishly. " The drive back to your 
 friends is long ; it grows chill in the evenings. 
 Go, Anthony, and find Nancy," she finished in 
 a most commanding voice; and, having no 
 choice, I took my violin and went, the Lady 
 Agatha looking regretfully after me. 
 
 "Some other time. Master Anthony," she 
 said consolingly, " I shall be most happy." 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 153 
 
 I went in search of Nan, calling her name 
 through the ground, and receiving nothing in 
 return but the echo of my shout. She had 
 evidently sought the shelter of the house, and 
 thither I betook myself, guessing she had taken 
 refuge in her own room. I knocked at the door 
 with something of trembling, fearing a scene. 
 Never in my life have I conquered my inability 
 to witness a woman's tears. Well, I knocked 
 and knocked, but received no answer, but it 
 seemed to me that there was some one in the 
 room. 
 
 "Nancy," I said, and rattled the handle. 
 Now I heard a distinct splash, but never a 
 word. " Nancy," I said again. It seemed to 
 me impossible to enter a lady's bedchamber 
 without permission, so I rattled the handle 
 some good ten minutes, saying " Nan !" at in- 
 tervals, standing first on one leg, then on 
 another, for very weariness. At last, my 
 patience exhausted, I gave a most furious 
 shake to the handle. I knocked a violent 
 rat-a-tat-tat on the door with my disengaged 
 hand, and again I said " Nancy," with a some* 
 what marked emphasis. 
 
 This time a startled voice, feigning astonish- 
 ment, bade me enter. 
 
154 " PUNCHINELLO " 
 
 "Is that you, Anthony ? " said she. 
 
 "It is," I returned a little shortly, "still 
 me. 
 
 "What do you want?" she snapped with 
 much asperity. 
 
 " You." I could not well see her face owing 
 to her back being turned straightly to the light, 
 but I fancied I could detect marked signs of 
 her recent tears. " At least," I amended, " they 
 want you." 
 
 " Go and tell them that they may want and 
 want, but that I will never come," she returned 
 with a toss of the head. 
 
 " It seems a pity to offend the Lady Agatha," 
 I began sensibly. 
 
 " Go away, if that is all you have come to 
 say," she screamed. 
 
 " With all my heart," I replied, and turned 
 to the door. 
 
 " Hi ! wait a minute ! " she sent after me in a 
 moment. " Does Lady Agatha really want 
 me ? " she inquired. 
 
 " Well, it was like this," I began, and I told 
 her the story of her aunt's desire to show off 
 her singing, while she shrieked with delight at 
 my recital, forgetting her late griefs. 
 
 " I have heard her myself," she said, shaking 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" I55 
 
 with laughter, "trilling most languorously of 
 the moonshine and of love in her cracked old 
 voice, strumming fervently on a gay beribboned 
 guitar the while " ; and so she mocked and 
 laughed, while I watched her, marvelling at her 
 easy change from grave to gay and back again. 
 The afternoon sped on ; we forgot my mother's 
 mandate, and sat laughing and joking like two 
 children, ignoring the flying minutes. 
 
 At last my mother, followed by Cecily, 
 appeared, simulating vexation at Nan's non- 
 appearance, and all delight at the departure 
 of her guest. " She has returned to Despard 
 Manor : she is spending a few weeks there 
 and drove over in her coach, thinking to take 
 us all by surprise " 
 
 "Which she did," concluded Mistress Nan 
 regretfully. 
 
 " Part of next year she hopes you will spend 
 with her," went on my mother, watching my 
 cousin. " She is gay — very gay, she tells me." 
 
 " I love routs and balls," said Nan ingenu- 
 ously, " but Milady ! ugh ! " and she flourished 
 round the room, holding out the skirts of her 
 gay gown, singing some ridiculous roundelay 
 the while, my mother regarding her with 
 worried eyes. 
 
156 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 " Are you never serious, Nan ? " she said at 
 last. 
 
 " I serious ? " She stopped short in her pranc- 
 ing. " I don't know. Ask Anthony there, 
 looking wise as a boiled owl — or Cecily, my 
 pink and placid Cecily " ; and, without waiting 
 for an answer, she whirled herself out of the 
 room, and two minutes later I saw the red 
 cotton of her gown glowing in the dusky 
 twilight that had gathered on the gardens. 
 
 " I don't know what we are all doing in 
 Nancy's bedchamber," said my mother, sud- 
 denly waking from a reverie. " That child has 
 a genius for the upsetting of all law and order. 
 What are you doing here, Tony ? " 
 
 " You sent me," I explained, making for the 
 door ; but I received no answer, she astutely 
 feigning deafness. 
 
 And so closed the incident of the Lady 
 Agatha's introduction to our humble home. 
 
IX 
 
 THE date fixed for my return to London 
 was rapidly approaching, and in the 
 excitement of my impending journey my cousin 
 faded in measure to the background of my 
 interests. She accepted this unflattering posi- 
 tion with equanimity, and affected a respect- 
 ful attitude towards me and my future career, 
 as she emphatically termed it, that was not in- 
 frequently leavened by unexpected and pungent 
 sallies at my expense. But I bore her tricks 
 with exemplary fortitude and calmly suffered 
 her impertinences, knowing that she loved no- 
 thing better than to tempt me to reprisals in 
 speech. " In a tournament of tongues a woman 
 is invariably victor," she placidly explained to 
 me one day when she had taunted me to futile 
 reply. "You had best go and grapple with 
 your chromatics and harmonics"; and so she 
 would tease until I departed huffily, vowing to 
 have speech with her no more. But though I 
 
 157 
 
158 '' PUNCHINELLO " 
 
 was indeed fired with ambitions, I could not 
 oust her from my thoughts, and knew that my 
 mind dwelt on her more than was wise. I 
 spent much of my time at this period discussing 
 with Ooterwint the onerous duties of the post 
 that awaited me, magnifying my responsibilities 
 with all the solemn conceit of youth. He took, 
 or as my maturer judgment holds, affected to 
 take, me very seriously, and we would spend 
 hours discussing the relative influences of nation- 
 ality on art, he giving full honour to the aptness 
 of the Italians for grace and melody, while ap- 
 plauding the more intellectual character ot 
 Teutonic art. With a Job-like patience he 
 would soften the generous effusions of my muse. 
 Handel I copied most artlessly, striving not only 
 to attain his power of melody, but also following 
 devoutly in his steps as regarded realistic ex- 
 pression. If he conveyed the rolling of the sea, 
 the buzzing of flies — why not I ? He laced his 
 works with phrases from Corelli, Scarlatti and 
 Carissimi. I ingenuously followed his excellent 
 example, a substantial difference being that he 
 adopted them so gracefully that the most foreign 
 excerpts sat bravely in his works as in an ex- 
 quisite setting, while I, having dug out what I 
 wanted, planted it carelessly, studding my com- 
 
" PUNCHINELLO ' 159 
 
 positions with flowers that bloomed unhappily 
 in an uncouth soil. 
 
 When at last I found myself in Town, it 
 seemed as if Fate was anxious to atone for the 
 kicks and blows of which she had been so lavish 
 in the past by a generous lavishment of good 
 fortune in the present. I began to taste the 
 sweets of success, and encouraged by the favour- 
 able reception accorded to a Jubilate which I 
 wrote at this time, flung myself into a very 
 furore of work, seeing before me a glittering 
 road to fame. 
 
 I would not linger on this time, which indeed 
 holds little of my intimate life, yet I loved it 
 well. I speedily found myself launched into a 
 gay vortex of young men, mostly artists and 
 musicians, with a sprinkling of writers — who, 
 despising the milder forms of enjoyment, re- 
 garded life as a barbaric entertainment, and 
 were for ever crying : " Enjoy, enjoy ! " Yet 
 they were no sluggards, but bravely burned the 
 candle at both ends, being both hard workers 
 and hard pleasurers and avid to extract the 
 uttermost from life. In later times they termed 
 such Bohemians, and they were, I discovered, 
 commonly identified by laxity of morals and an 
 aversion to cleanliness ; but it would ill become 
 
i6o "PUNCfflNELLO" 
 
 me to reflect unkindly on this company, for I 
 discovered the kindest hearts among them, 
 which the owners eternally struggled to conceal 
 under a show of bravado, and also, I must 
 admit, the foolishest heads. These not so much 
 among the set themselves as among the gay 
 young blades of fashion with which some were 
 intimate, and who held it a principal tenet in 
 their code of honour to be for ever brawling. 
 
 Some months ago, scanning an old file of 
 Spectators^ I ran against a paragraph which 
 truly expresses the gospel of these lads : " He 
 never went to bed before two o'clock in the 
 morning because he would not be a quiet 
 fellow, and was every now and then knocked 
 down by a constable to signalise his vivacity. 
 He was initiated into many clubs before he was 
 twenty-one, and so improved in them his natural 
 gaiety of temper that you might frequently trace 
 him to his lodgings by a range of broken win- 
 dows and other the like monuments of wit and 
 gallantry. To be short, after having fully estab- 
 lished his reputation of being a very agreeable 
 rake, he died of old age at twenty-five." There 
 it lies, a most exact defining of this wondrous 
 creed, in faithfulness to which many feather- 
 patecj lads sacrifice their health. There w^s one 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" i6i 
 
 I mind in whose veins ran a strain of Gallic 
 blood, for whom I felt something of love. He 
 was the prettiest lad, with a face like a girl, and 
 professed the ethics of a Don Juan. Listening 
 to his talk was as seeing worms crawl from out 
 the heart of a rose, so terribly incongruously did 
 his lewd words steal out of his innocent-seeming 
 lips. He was a poet, and as yet unlaurelled. 
 According to his own showing, the world was all 
 to blame for its tardy recognition of his merits, 
 but he endured no uneasiness as to the ultimate 
 tribute. Being a youth of lively parts, he was 
 exceedingly partial to feminine society, and not 
 over-fastidious as to the ethics of the damsel 
 who served to while away the hour. " Women 
 are like flowers," he sneered in the loose talk 
 which I hated — "when faded, fit only to be 
 tossed away. Dear loves, I have had many ; 
 see here ! *' And he would show me locks 
 of hair and faded blossoms by the gross, the 
 sketched head of a celebrated courtesan, at 
 which he looked with much satisfaction. "I 
 share her favours with one who sits in a high 
 place," he said with a horrid laugh ; and so he 
 would talk, all his speech informed with the 
 dreary negation of his creed that held nil both 
 virtue in woman and honour in man; and I 
 
i62 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 would look at him in wonder, for always it 
 seemed to me that he was fretted to madness 
 by a fever of unrest, and struggled to drown 
 despair in dissipation. I individualise him from 
 out the general herd because he stands among 
 my memories a pathetic personality for all his 
 gross living and grosser talk, and when the end 
 came it was proved that my intuitions had not 
 proved me false. He met his death in a duel 
 fought with a man with whom he had picked a 
 quarrel in a coffee house, because of some 
 fancied insult when both were hot with wine. 
 
 When he lay a-dying he sent for me, and I 
 went in great fear of what he would be suffering 
 at the thought of death — he who had been so 
 piteously in love with life. But he met me with 
 the gay philosophy that had ever characterised 
 him, saying only : " It is written," and essaying 
 even, as he lay bandaged in his bed, a weak 
 shrug of shoulder. But at the last he gave his 
 whole life the lie, for as I sat beside him, my 
 heart sick with pity at sight of the gray anguish 
 written in his face that so denied its simulated 
 indifference he fell to fingering something hang- 
 ing round his neck by a chain, and I saw the 
 tense lines of his features relax and quiver. 
 * Slip it from the chain," he prayed weakly, and 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 163 
 
 I undid the little heart-shaped locket and put it 
 in his hands, where the feeble fingers plucked at 
 it, fighting the stubborn clasp. I read the desire 
 in his face and undid the catch, and the hinge 
 slipped back, showing the fair, sedate face of a 
 maid of some twenty years. " I loved her," he 
 said with a little laugh that mocked a sob, 
 "but she was for the good God. . . . My 
 dear — my dear!" and he fell to crying in his 
 great weakness. "She was my wife a week," 
 he wept. "Jess — my pretty Jess! I wanted to 
 forget her, and now I shall never see her more 
 — so base am I." The room was littered with 
 evidence of his late libertinage, and now in the 
 supreme hour his mind, as if slipped from a 
 leash, was back with the only pure love he 
 had ever known. "Jess — Jess," he cried, ever 
 weaker, till death stilled his crying, and he slept 
 with cold lips pressed to the smiling miniature. 
 
 When all was finished, I put the little gold 
 piece on his breast and went home wondering. 
 None of us had ever known of his past marriage. 
 He had cheated us all, even himself, until the 
 eleventh hour, and then the ghost of the past 
 rose up, and the present was as nothing. To 
 escape the smart of the intolerable memory, he 
 had flung himself into a whirl of feverish dissi- 
 
i64 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 pation, wronging the very memory upon which 
 he had cried to help him through the Valley 
 of Shadows. I cannot think he cried vainly. 
 There was a peace on his face when all was 
 over that it had never known in life. Who 
 shall say? Did she leave Christ's choirs and 
 stand by him at the last for love of the old 
 days? "Jess!" — the last cry had rung jubi- 
 lant as if a Presence from the Spirit Land 
 had waited on him. Infinite is God's clemency, 
 say the priests. Infinite is woman's love, cry 
 the generations of all time. When the wings 
 of Azrael flutter over me, will you answer, 
 sweetheart, or shall I cry in vain? 
 
 For all my work and multitudinous interests, 
 my mind was wont to stray to my home, and 
 I was always eager to welcome my mother's 
 letters. She wrote to me constantly, but her 
 epistles had a fault of wasting space on me and 
 my doings, in place of narrating the history of 
 her days. For all her meagre words I gathered 
 that Mistress Nancy had wound herself into my 
 mother's heart, although she rarely mentioned 
 her name without deploring the vagaries of her 
 moods. My mother had a prejudice in favour 
 of convention, especially regarding maids, and 
 Nan flung her cap, to clumsily translate, over 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 165 
 
 the windmills many times a day. But the 
 weeks slipped past, and I seemed to read a 
 hint of illness between the lines. '* I am feeling 
 stronger," she wrote; "this autumn briskness 
 braces me finely." This sentence haunted me, 
 arguing, as it did, a past weakness ; but when I 
 inquired relating it I received a most mirthful 
 epistle for my pains, in which she told me she 
 was luxuriating in the rosiest health. " I would 
 come to Town to prove it," she wrote, " did I 
 not dread the long journey," etc., etc., with gay 
 gibes at my womanish faddishness which fancied 
 a wasting distemper at the slightest excuse. 
 
 Now I, being but a man, read and believed, 
 although I took an opportunity that shortly 
 offered itself of posting to Chilwaithe. I spent 
 a week in my home, but could detect nothing 
 amiss in my mother, save that she was slighter 
 than of yore, and that her eyes burnt with a 
 new fire — for the rest she seemed well enough. 
 Mistress Nancy had wondrously developed ; 
 she was prettier than ever, but had a new 
 manner, having entirely lost the childish air that 
 had characterised her, and treated me with a 
 civil aloofness. Her nascent modishness was 
 explained when I learned that she intended to 
 spend the following season in Town with the 
 
i66 " PUNCHINELLO " 
 
 Lady Agatha, who boasted the key to the 
 inmost sanctuaries of fashion. She made some- 
 thing of a grimace when she vouchsafed me this 
 information, her love for her godmother having 
 apparently in no wise increased, but seemed 
 pleased at the thought of change and, above 
 all, of peacocking in the Mall. 
 
I RETURNED to Town with my head full of 
 my cousin. , The past image I had enter- 
 tained of her was wholly obscured by this later 
 development, for the Nan I had known was gone 
 and a maid waiting on womanhood was in her 
 place. She had developed a curious shyness 
 which jarred strangely with what I remembered 
 of her past ease. There was a truce to all im- 
 pertinence, and we mutually showed each other 
 an extreme courtesy that bordered on formality 
 — no more dancing al fresco ! But I loved her 
 the more for her difficult primness, and none the 
 less that I knew she could never be mine. 
 
 In the ceaseless weighing and measuring of 
 past occasions that torments my restless brain, 
 my fancy is eternally endeavouring to body 
 forth what would have come to me in life had I 
 by some fortuitous freak of fortune been de- 
 barred for fulfilling my duties at St Mary's 
 Church one Sunday evening, some six weeks 
 after my return to Town, Would I have wedded 
 
 167 
 
i68 " PUNCHINELLO " 
 
 Nan and escaped the ugly influence that 
 even as a child had so pitilessly marred my 
 life ? Would she be near me now ? I cry 
 aloud in fruitless questioning, though all the 
 while aware that no answer can ever reach 
 me, and that even if it could, my life lies past 
 patching. I am no believer in premonitions, 
 dreams, and the follies with which old wives 
 would fain claim powers of divination, yet I 
 maintain that I woke the morning of the day on 
 which Fate waylaid me with such unkindly in- 
 tent, with a depressing prescience of evil. I 
 ascribed it at the time to my generous potations 
 of the night before, for I had enjoyed a festive 
 end to my day of toil at the " Cheshire Cheese " 
 in Russell Street, and, excited by the gay ex- 
 amples around me, had mixed my liquors some- 
 what freely. 
 
 On the night to which I refer a wave of de- 
 votion had apparently actuated half London to 
 its undoing, or possibly the expected advent of 
 a renowned preacher was the cause of the 
 serried ranks of worshippers that I noticed as I 
 came up the aisle. Suffice it to say that the 
 church was filled to the uttermost limit, an un- 
 usual number of men preponderating in the 
 assembly. The service was half way through 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 169 
 
 when I imagined that I detected a faint smell of 
 burning ; it was so slight that for a moment I 
 imagined myself mistaken, but in the passing 
 of an instant I sniffed it stronger and rose from 
 my knees intending to tell the officiating priest 
 that the people be warned and advised to leave 
 the church quietly, without panic. But even as 
 I moved a woman's voice, sharp with fear, clave 
 across the parson's drone, crying, " Fire ! " and 
 before the note of her warning had died to 
 silence there ensued a hideous stampede. Men, 
 women and children rushed helter-skelter to the 
 door, and as they rushed a blue tongue of flame 
 crept from behind the altar and a monstrous 
 volume of smoke belched forth. Then hap- 
 pened a scene, the bare remembrance of which 
 nauseates me ; the weak were trampled under- 
 foot by the strong, and the high-pitched shrieks 
 of women and children mingled with the curses 
 of men, while with a celerity I had hardly 
 deemed possible the fire gained ground, leaping 
 in scarlet forks through the heavy clouds of 
 smoke. The crackling of wood added to the 
 turmoil, and I mind noting a loosened beam and 
 striving to drag a woman from beneath it, but 
 she was mad with fear and waited shrieking for 
 her husband till the beam crashed down on to 
 
170 " PUNCHINELLO '* 
 
 her head, and she lay in a crimson pool of blood 
 with the gray matter of her brain oozing from 
 out the cracked skull. God ! Such a scene 
 might Dante have haply depicted at the very 
 heart of hell. Now and again the bewildered 
 sob of a babe would sound, and once I 
 heard a shrill cry of "Mother, I burn," fol- 
 lowed by a scream ; and that voice was heard 
 no more. Myself, I made a fight for life, 
 though hardly hoping to escape. I was beaten 
 back at every step and a deadly faintness began 
 to grow on me, numbing my endeavour, while 
 the stink of burning flesh filled me with a 
 deadly sickness, and being both undersized and 
 weakly I had hardly a chance where many 
 stronger than I lay stark and suffocated. I had 
 indeed given up all hope, when a strong arm 
 lifted me and I was raised above the crowd. 
 " Take heart, Punchinello," said a mocking voice 
 that struck me with a curious familiarity, and 
 then I fainted and knew no more. 
 
 My eyes opened on an environment of such 
 luxury that I thought I must be dreaming. 
 The delicate-tinted walls were hung with rare 
 pieces of tapestry and curious carven brackets 
 on which bowls of roses reposed. I noted by 
 these some pictures placed in the happiest light 
 
"PUNCfflNELLO" 171 
 
 in the room, and as my scattered wits came back 
 to me, and I realized that I was in the land of 
 realities, my amazement increased. There was 
 a toilet table near me covered with silver-backed 
 brushes and hand mirrors and fantastic little 
 boxes for the holding of powder and cosmetics. 
 I had thought I had strolled into a lady's 
 chamber had it not been for a pair of breeches 
 tossed over a chair. The sheets of the bed on 
 which I lay were of the finest, and the pillows 
 fringed with lace. Indubitably a lady's cham- 
 ber — yet those breeches ? My gratitude for- 
 bade a slanderous thought, still I could not 
 forbear harbouring certain suspicions regarding 
 the owner of my present residence. Suspicions 
 I admit that in no wise alloyed my felicity, and 
 I was on the point of dozing again when I heard 
 a voice of familiar intonation. " Punchinello," 
 it said softly, " how goes it ? " I looked up, and 
 there emerged from behind the curtains a very 
 Adonis. Straight and tall as a man should be, 
 with clear-cut, impassive features, and dressed 
 in the very height of fashion, reaching indeed, 
 in his adornments, a finery that touched foppish- 
 ness. There Wcis something intimate to me in 
 his face and voice ; his presence stirred the 
 mists of memory, and slowly the shadows lifted 
 
172 « PUNCHINELLO '» 
 
 and a picture rose before me. A fair orchard in 
 which two children stood — the one as splendid 
 a specimen of God's handiwork as the world 
 could offer, the other a miserable stunted boy. 
 They hurried through the grasses and stood by 
 a patch of water that glistened like a silver 
 shield in the garish sunlight, throwing back a 
 faithful reflection of the drooping branches that 
 shadowed it. It seemed to me in the shifting 
 panorama of my vision that the elder lad 
 mocked the younger, who looked at him be- 
 wildered, fearing he knew not what. Then 
 the handsome boy ran away, vaulted over a 
 stile and raced gaily with the foal that frolicked 
 in the field, and the child at the water's edge 
 stared into the pond and tugged vigorously at 
 his blouse the while. Then he looked up into 
 the laughing skies with a tiny ashen face and 
 great frightened eyes and as suddenly turned 
 again to his flickering reflection. I watched 
 him fascinated. Who had said " Punchinello " ? 
 In a moment he would turn and fly to the house. 
 Ah, he ran ! " Punchinello ! Punchinello ! " 
 Who had said it ? I groped vainly. Then sud- 
 denly through the fog of reminiscence — Cosmo 
 Granby. As my sick brain grasped understand- 
 ing, I voiced the word. " Cosmo 1 " said I with a 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 173 
 
 catch in my breath, looking up at the handsome 
 debonair face. " Cosmo ! " 
 
 "The same at your service," said he, "and 
 now how goes it, Master Anthony ? There is 
 something left of you besides cinder, I see." 
 He flung himself into a chair and regarded me 
 with interest. " Had it not been for a woman's 
 whim, methinks you had bidden this vale of 
 tears a long farewell. Nothing would suit 
 Mistress Letty last night but to go and hear 
 this Parson Sharpe, who has the repute of mak- 
 ing penitents by the gross by his dexterous 
 balancing of the joys of Heaven against the 
 penalties of Hell ; and where Mistress Letty 
 goes, I follow," he went on, evidently joying in 
 this opportunity of making me intimate with 
 his fashionable amours. 
 
 " What happened to her ? " I asked, curious 
 to know how it had chanced that he had found 
 opportunity to succour more than one from out 
 that Gehenna of the dying and dead. 
 
 His laugh filled the room with a jocund roar. 
 " Hardly had the service fairly opened when 
 Letty was weary and panting to leave. The 
 devil takes care of his own ! She was in a 
 nasty mood," he added reflectively, " and turned 
 on me like a wild cat, when I offered to accom- 
 
174 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 pany her, saying that she desired no company 
 but her own. She was all smiles and wiles 
 when she entered the church ; but there is no 
 counting on a woman's mood " he flung out — 
 an opinion I cordially endorsed, which seemed 
 to entertain him monstrously. 
 
 "Ha, ha, Tony!" he chuckled, "you too? 
 I had not believed it possible." I winced 
 under his gaze. " But there, so long as a man 
 be a man, no matter what, they are bound to 
 upset his peace." 
 
 " You remained to pray, or to give your soul 
 a chance of salvation through Sharpe ? " I asked, 
 desiring to divert his thoughts. 
 
 " Well, no," he said with a fine candour, " I 
 remained because I had caught sight of you, 
 Tony, and thought to have speech with you 
 later. And then this affair happened and I 
 made shift for auld lang syne to lend a 
 helping hand — no more, no less." He spoke 
 with a sort of vexed shame — that shame often 
 noticed in brave men when forced to speak 
 of their own deeds. And Cosmo, though it 
 hurts me to speak well of him in any way, was 
 strong in physical courage, being in no wise 
 deterred but rather excited by the thought of 
 danger. 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 175 
 
 For the moment my heart warmed to him, 
 for after all, however lightly he phrased it, he 
 had risked his life to save mine, and I put my 
 hand out and would have grasped his, but he 
 turned away impatiently as I broke into thanks, 
 and cut across my words with questions as to 
 what I would eat and if I cared to rise. He 
 had sent for no physician, he said, having scant 
 faith in them, and knowing I had suffered no 
 burns. 
 
 Indeed, I was little the worse save for a re- 
 curring weakness and giddiness, the result of 
 the shock I had sustained, and a feeling of 
 nausea that seized me when I thought of the 
 hideous sights I had witnessed. 
 
 Thanks to his steel nerves, Cosmo seemed 
 not in the slightest degree incommoded by 
 the ghastly experiences through which he had 
 passed. He dismissed it from his mind as 
 summarily as he dismissed an inconvenient 
 visitor, wrinkling his nose and shaking his head 
 distastefully if I referred to them. 
 
 " An unsavoury subject," he flung at me that 
 evening, regarding me, as I could not escape 
 noting, with the well-bred aversion of one who 
 avoided all indelicate mention in fashionable 
 circles and was quick to reprove a transgression 
 
176 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 of the unwritten code. My reference, consider- 
 ing all things, was not perhaps particularly for- 
 tunate, for when I made it Granby's rooms were 
 filled with the gay blades of his acquaintance 
 who had dropped in, and to whom he intro- 
 duced me in most cavalier fashion as a Lillipu- 
 tian who had escaped from his native land. At 
 this time men were holding their sides at Dean 
 Swift's bitter wit, and Gulliver's Travels was 
 the book of the hour, so Granby's joke met 
 with instant response. God ! how I hated 
 him when he mocked me thus, and none the 
 less that I knew his merriment was devoid of 
 malice, and that I owed him "the debt of my 
 life. 
 
 Perhaps it was in part to whip my memory to 
 necessary gratitude that I cut across their gay 
 speech of women and assignations, the toast 
 called over brimming cups, the talk that under 
 cover of excited disputation regarding the 
 tumult in Ireland whispered that the "white 
 cockade " was dear to many who professed 
 Hanoverian sympathies and that they carried 
 their heads carefully, and spoke of the confla- 
 gration of the day before. One, I remember 
 him well, put his handkerchief to his nose and 
 looked at me more in sorrow than in anger. 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 177 
 
 " Sh — ," said a second, and Granby threw me an 
 annoyed glance. 
 
 " This IS not a charnel house," said he. 
 
 I looked at them and envied the address with 
 which they turned their backs on death and all 
 unpleasantness, indeed suffering me in their 
 midst with something of difficulty owing to my 
 misshapen form. One surveyed me through his 
 glass. " Passing strange," sighed he, " that fair 
 genius should inhabit so poor a shell." 
 
 When I took my leave Granby was well in 
 his cups. 
 
 " Adieu, Punchinello," he hiccoughed with 
 infinite difficulty, stuttering heavily in his 
 speech. He was playing cards, and as he spoke 
 he flung a knave on the baize and looked at 
 it with angry eyes. " No luck to-night," he 
 maundered, and suddenly rose and staggering 
 to my side, laid his fingers on my hump. The 
 touch burns me now. " It brings luck, they 
 say," he grinned. 
 
 How I got away I do not know. I wandered 
 through London till the break of morning, 
 stumbling weakly in my sickness, yet with 
 strength to curse him. And he had saved my 
 life, which fact I cursed also. Indeed, I termed 
 it cursing, but it was blessing compared to the 
 
 M 
 
178 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 words that fill my mouth when his image crosses 
 me to-day. Then I cursed him for one — now 
 my maledictions are for two lives undone. 
 Then it was but the smart of an outraged 
 nature — now that accident lies at his door. 
 
XI 
 
 I HAVE always held that Cosmo's saving of 
 my life in the terrible fire at St. Mary's was 
 the original cause of all my miseries ; for by 
 this act, he knitted up again the threads of a 
 severed friendship and made it impossible for 
 me to reject his overtures. Indeed, my mother, 
 when she heard of his succouring me, forgave 
 him all the past, and wrote him the warmest, 
 most cordial letters, praying him to visit our 
 home, that she might be enabled to thank him 
 in person, and eulogising his conduct to the 
 skies. I, to my shame be it told, still hated 
 him with unabated fervour, and felt I had rather 
 died the tortured death from which he had 
 carried me at so great a risk, than be in his 
 debt. 
 
 St. Mary's being but a charred block of 
 buildings, I was constrained at this time to 
 make holiday until I found another post, and 
 was indeed not loth, for my health still suffered 
 from the heavy strain lately put upon it, and 
 
 179 
 
i8o . "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 also because I was more free to engage in 
 composition. On my return home I noted a 
 piteous change in my mother, which she sought 
 to hide with artifices that had not deceived an 
 infant, denying that aught serious ailed her and 
 declining to speak of any health but mine. 
 
 I straightly questioned my sister regarding 
 her, but she deemed me fanciful, her own eyes 
 being blinded by the constant view of my 
 mother, so that the minor symptoms of sickness 
 that fretted me went unperceived. 
 
 Nan had gone to Town, I learned, to taste 
 life under the auspices of the Lady Agatha, 
 and my mother seemed somewhat troubled on 
 her count. " According to Lady Agatha," 
 she said bitterly to me, " it seems as if a man 
 needed but a pedigree at his back and a 
 generous sum at the bank, to make an ideal 
 husband. She talked of mating her with the 
 Viscount Lothair — the man might be her grand- 
 sire. My poor little Nan ! " 
 
 I hated to hear this matrimonial talk re- 
 garding my cousin, although I confidently 
 assured myself that I had no touch of love in 
 my heart for her or any other woman, hav- 
 ing been cured of these foolish follies by the 
 drastic measures of Mistress Marjory. I 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" i8i 
 
 writhed in remembrance of her sneer and yet 
 cherished the memory, feeling that my best 
 safeguard in the future lay in the careful 
 cherishing of this word. So sought I to spare 
 myself, poor fool, another such bitterness. 
 
 It smacks of meanness, I confess, yet I must 
 write that it was gall to me to listen to my 
 mother's kind words, praising Cosmo, and to 
 know that she regretted her past enmity to- 
 wards him. Mistress Granby had kept up 
 an intermittent intercourse with my mother till 
 her death, but I had never seen him since the 
 episode of my childhood till that unfortunate 
 day in the burning church. My mother never 
 mentioned his name, being full of wisdom and 
 knowing that silence accelerates forgetfulness ; 
 but I had seen her face change when by some 
 chance the lad's name was spoken, and knew 
 how strongly the old rancour still flourished. 
 Now all was changed : she lacked words fair 
 enough with which to deck his name, and was 
 eternally praying me to bring him to her that 
 she might speak her thanks in person. Thanks 
 be to God ! Mistress Granby was no longer 
 among the living, or I believe my mother had 
 insisted on her eternal company in order to pour 
 her Te Deum into her ear§. 
 
i82 '* PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 The days glided on, seeming curiously restful 
 to me after my sojourn in Town, where time 
 was flecked with incident and there was ever 
 the scandal of the hour ; but our peace was 
 not for long. 
 
 One morning I found my mother much 
 troubled by the receipt of a missive from the 
 Lady Agatha in which Mistress Nancy's pecca- 
 dilloes were set forth at a generous length. My 
 cousin had, it appeared, wasted no time before 
 entering into her aunt's bad graces, where she 
 was apparently disporting herself, undismayed 
 by consequences — so at least wrote the god- 
 mother. The letter lies at my hand, almost as 
 magnificent in its fine violet caligraphy and 
 gilded coronet and crest as its sender. It 
 began with long-winded inquiries touching my 
 mother's health which I will not transcribe, 
 extracting only the lines relating to my cousin's 
 misdemeanours, which were indeed the body 
 of the letter. 
 
 " I write to you," began this part, " in dire 
 distress regarding my god-daughter, who has 
 most grievously disappointed me by her mon- 
 strous behaviour. I do not refer to her ignor- 
 ance of the usages of polite society nor to her 
 familiar ipanners regarding myself, which border 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 183 
 
 on disrespect. These things I would gladly 
 pass, knowing the manifold disadvantages that 
 attended her youth, but I write of graver mat- 
 ters, viz., what the rigour of the truth compels 
 me to define as an immodest behaviour towards 
 the sterner sex. She treats men — young and 
 old indifferently — with a careless graciousness 
 that I have never before seen in her rank of 
 life. When a youth takes her fancy, she is all 
 smiles and sweetness, caring not one jot for 
 his position ; indeed, I sometimes think she par- 
 ticularly affects the Bohemians and artists 
 which fringe society. On the other hand she 
 treats Viscount Lothair — you may remember 
 my hopes regarding this gentleman — with a 
 carelessness that trenches on indifference. He 
 is attracted by her — God wots why — and I 
 know by a little cautious manoeuvring and 
 moderate exercise of diplomacy, he could be 
 brought to the asking of her in marriage ; but 
 my damsel lifts her nose in the air and screams 
 with laughter when I speak of it. Now I must 
 warn you that in the event of his asking her in 
 marriage and meeting with a refusal, I shall 
 return my thankless ward to you straightway. 
 I shall have done my best to settle her in life, 
 and if she prefers to frustrate her own salvation, 
 
i84 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 on her own head be the consequence." Here 
 the letter drifted off to general gossip : a ref- 
 erence to the marked change in women's head- 
 gear and an allusion to the importation of a 
 new silk. It was a formal letter as was natural, 
 considering the slightness of our acquaintance 
 with the correspondent, but there was a genuine 
 note of anger in it touching Mistress Nancy ; 
 and again beneath the signature — written in 
 post-scriptum, as is the inevitable habit of 
 women — lay the gist of the letter, gathered into 
 a pregnant phrase. " If Nancy declines Lo- 
 thair's offer, I send her home." 
 
 Now I with unpardonable egoism was re- 
 joiced at this possibility. My heart, school it 
 as I might, rebelled at the thought of Nan 
 belonging to another, and there was to me 
 something horribly repulsive in the thought of 
 her being sold — for I cannot dignify such mar- 
 riages by a higher name, and see little differ- 
 ence between the woman who so gives herself 
 and the prostitute who takes her wage. 
 
 Five days later following this letter came 
 another from the same source, breathing fire 
 and fury. "He has asked her hand " (I take 
 sentences from here and there, the communica- 
 tion itself being too long to transcribe), "and 
 
^* PUNCHINELLO*' 185 
 
 has been refused — yes, refused, and that most 
 impudently : Nancy feigning to think that he 
 wished to adopt her, and shrieking with laugh- 
 ter (so Lothair tells me) when she mastered 
 the nature of his request. I send her back 
 to you at your earliest convenience, and wish 
 you joy of the baggage," etc., etc. My mother 
 could not keep from smiling when she read 
 this precious paper ; even the sedate Cecily 
 looked conscious, while her eyes darkened and 
 I could see that she was thinking of a straight 
 youth, no other than little Reuben, who had 
 grown to man's estate and was for ever hanging 
 on her skirts. He was a prosperous man, and 
 his years passed hers by five, which is a good 
 majority for a man to hold over his wife. 
 
 " Poor Nan ! " said my mother at last ; and her 
 eyes dwelt on her daughter with a new gladness, 
 as if she was more sharply aware by this con- 
 trast of fortunes of Cecily's good fate in having 
 fallen to the taste of a meet mate. 
 
 " She was never a respecter of persons," said 
 my sister with a giggle. Nan's impertinences 
 had always amused her vastly ; neither of us 
 heeded her. My mother's eyes had waited a 
 moment on me, and then her glance had drifted 
 away. I struggled to decipher its meaning. 
 
1^6 <* PUNCHINELLO " 
 
 Half puzzled, half wistful, glad with a felicity 
 that is afraid to rejoice, fearful as one who has 
 not abandoned hope, her eyes waited on me 
 momentarily, almost as if they conveyed a 
 warning. 
 
 " I fear she will regret so early a return," went 
 on Cecily, who could always prattle placidly, 
 indifferent as to the compliment of attention. 
 " She has been so restless latterly, always pant- 
 ing for some fresh diversion, so starved for 
 amusement as to be constrained to study," and 
 she turned to me gaily. " I pray the harpsi- 
 chord be none the worse," said she. " She 
 practised most diligently — poor Nan " ; she pro- 
 nounced the closing words with infinite com- 
 passion. My sister had an honest terror of all 
 musical exercise. 
 
 " I have noticed no harm," said I, wondering 
 still at my mother, who had returned to her 
 letter, and was re-perusing it with rapt attention. 
 
 When Cecily left us, as she shortly did, I was 
 so pricked by curiosity as to question her ; but 
 she rose laughing from her seat and would tell 
 me nothing, mocking at my fancifulness. By 
 the light of further events I read that glance, 
 and knew what she by aid of woman's wit fore- 
 saw. If aught could comfort me for her loss, 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 187 
 
 it would be the knowledge that by her death 
 she was spared the horror of the final tragedy. 
 
 Not a week had passed when another letter 
 arrived from the Lady Agatha, telling us that 
 her god-daughter was on the eve of quitting 
 her mansion. "She returns to you forthwith," 
 wrote Milady in a tremulous hand, eloquent 
 of the mighty passion that animated her. " I 
 have done with the ungrateful hussy ! " " Un- 
 grateful," I may mention, was heavily scored 
 with ink, that the opprobrious adjective might 
 lose no jot of its unkind significance. 
 
 My cousin arrived two days after this missive, 
 and appeared in no wise dejected by the abrupt 
 closing of her gaieties. She had gathered in 
 her brief absence a marvellous assortment of 
 tricks and fashions, and gave me the tips of her 
 fingers, when I greeted her, with an ineffable 
 air. She had likewise changed the manner of 
 her walk, and truly peacocked, if I may coin a 
 verb, in her smart silks and satins ; but she was 
 prettier than ever and wore her affectations 
 with the sweetest grace. I can write sanely 
 now of this time, and would love to dwell on 
 it, stimulating my memory by dry statement 
 in black and white, of what she wore and what 
 she said ; her merest trivialities of speech lie 
 
i88 " PUNCHINELLO " 
 
 burned in my heart, each nonchalant phrase 
 dear as when spoken by her lips, each ripple of 
 her laughter greedily guarded from oblivion. 
 But I am old, and the decay of years is crum- 
 bling the citadel of my memory ; my treasures 
 I feel are slipping away as golden coins may 
 slip through lax fingers of weakness. There is 
 no time to write all, so, true to the plan I con- 
 templated when beginning this chronicle, and 
 from which I have most grievously lapsed, I will 
 strive to confine myself to the incidents from 
 which my life lay strung. I could laugh when 
 I think of my other life that will go forth to 
 the world when I lie dead. It has been most 
 carefully written by an erudite biographer, and 
 tells of my successes and failures, and how, 
 aided by an indomitable will, I reached the 
 highest rung of success : it tells of jealousies, 
 and favours, and of the rapturous applause that 
 greeted the first public performance of the 
 oratorio that I hold the crown of my life's work. 
 There is no hint of that affair in which Mistress 
 Marjory so practically proclaimed that all is 
 fair in love and war — nothing of the ridiculous 
 fiasco of my first flight into public favour. 
 There is indeed a polite reference to the — 
 accident, and the cloud of grief that marred 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 189 
 
 my youth. I chuckled as I read it, and the 
 faces of those around me waxed anxious, and 
 although silence reigned I knew that they were 
 thinking — " he is mad." 
 
 But I am not mad — quite the contrary. My 
 finest work has been done since that accident ; 
 my eminent biographer proves it past doubt in 
 that beautiful book which is to go forth to the 
 world when the earth is over me. I laughed to 
 myself when I read it : he is so complacently 
 satisfied with his dreary record, not witting that 
 I am writing my life too, my own inmost per- 
 sonal life, a " king of shreds and patches," and 
 as far removed from that stout profitable per- 
 sonal existence that he fondly imagines repre- 
 sents my span on earth, as aught can be. With 
 all his learning he has missed the man. He 
 prattles comfortably of how at the zenith of 
 my success, when thousands were shouting their 
 throats hoarse to do me honour at the great 
 
 annual festival in H , I dropped down in 
 
 a dead faint, " overcome," he ponderously ex- 
 plains, " by the widespread recognition of his 
 genius." I jeer — yet how should he know, 
 poor fool, that I cared not one jot for their 
 shoutings and clappings, but that my senses 
 left me owing to the similarity of a maid who 
 
190 "PUNCHINELLO^' 
 
 sat in the audience to one who was sleeping 
 sound beneath the daisies. Just the line of a 
 profile, a dark curly head, and by some refined 
 torture of fortune, a scarlet gown. She flung a 
 pert word at a man near her as I stared, and 
 smiled — 'it was Nan herself — that quick parting 
 and closing of the lips. I do not know what 
 happened next My biographer is no doubt 
 an excellent authority. Let it stand : " The 
 applause of such an audience was no doubt too 
 potent for the composer, coming as it did 
 after arduous mental toil." Let it stand — what 
 matter ? We know better, you and I, sweet- 
 heart. " Nan ! Nan ! Nan 1 " I cry aloud, and 
 there is no answer. Shall it be so at the very 
 end, my darling? To some, as a saving 
 anodyne, is given belief in another world, where 
 once again they shall stand face to face with 
 all they hold most dear. I know that in my 
 foulness, even if such a place exist and not be 
 a mere mirage evolved by the passionate desire 
 of some lonely heart, I could not enter it. Yet, 
 if I believed that somewhere Nan lived again, 
 and that by long cycles of torment spent in 
 atonement God in His mercy might grant me 
 a moment's vision of her, I should be the 
 happier. But my faith wavers and I am afraid 
 
" PUNCHINELLO " 191 
 
 to die, for my dying means the blotting out 
 of all memories, the final effacement of that 
 shadowy figure that haunts me in the garish 
 days. I am afraid — afraid — and death is com- 
 ing very near. 
 
 When I read over these last incoherent lines, 
 treading so closely on my expressed intention 
 to write lucidly the remaining little that remains 
 of my life, I feel indeed that I am very old. 
 Yet it is not worth erasing, and indeed if a 
 man may not write as he likes regarding his 
 own life, where shall the liberty of the subject 
 enter? Nathless I must make an end of my 
 vapourings and tell my tale lucidly, for now 
 begins the time that held the very salt of my 
 life. Up to this period, barring my musical 
 life, which I have practically left to my good 
 biographer, there has been little to relate. After 
 this time there are many years crammed with 
 striving ambition. Let all broken hearts take 
 " work " for a cement — it covers the cracks 
 in a measure, if a man does not look too 
 close. These years may interest the amiable 
 public : they seem of no import to the man 
 who lived them, besides — there is always the 
 biographer. 
 
 But there is a time between Nancy's return 
 
192 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 and an — accident which I would fain write 
 clearly, so that by definite statement I may 
 know something of relief. Yet I doubt my 
 hand be nerved sufficiently, though what I 
 would be telling lies so far behind. 
 
Xll 
 
 ANALYSE as I may, dissecting every 
 hour with merciless exactitude, I can- 
 not place the moment when the divine possi- 
 bility that Nan loved me first entered into my 
 life. It may have been a conviction born of 
 my hot desire ; for so does a great hope beget 
 a happy certainty, holding that by its very 
 force it must cleave through all obstacles to 
 the golden goal, or more likely — to descend 
 from these heights of speech — the swollen 
 vanity that ever characterised me and which at 
 that time was receiving such gracious nourish- 
 ment from the world, may have encouraged 
 the fair thought that she was not averse to 
 me. It matters not. Slowly, surely through 
 the sad autumn-tide this belief held me faster 
 and filled my days with light — yet I spoke no 
 word. I was still living at home, working hard 
 in an enforced abstinence from public employ- 
 ment, and Nancy came to be part and parcel 
 of my daily life. My mother, who, in spite of 
 
 193 j^ 
 
194 " PUNCHINELLO " 
 
 her gallant fight to prove the contrary, was 
 patently passing with the year, watched us with 
 the dying eyes that see so clearly, and as the 
 days fled I could see ♦'he question more and 
 more clearly signalised in her face as to the 
 end of this silent wooing. 
 
 Now I must go softly and pick my words 
 with care, in order that my word-pictures prove 
 successful and the mirror of my memory flash 
 the past faithfully. 
 
 We sat together. Nan and I, in the music- 
 room that I had made peculiarly my own. 
 The first touch of winter was on us, and with- 
 out the world lay white and frostbound, but 
 within the great logs lay piled high on the 
 hearth, making a glowing oasis in the dusky 
 shadows and flinging warm lights on the oaken 
 panelling. 
 
 Nancy sat on a low seat before the fire, and 
 the music of her voice filled the room. She 
 was in a mocking humour, and was jeering at 
 her estimable godparent and her choice of 
 swain. " Yet," she surprisingly flung at me, 
 " I sometimes wish I had married him. I 
 should have been envied by many," said she. 
 
 " The compensation seems to be inadequate," 
 I observed. 
 
*' PUNCHINELLO '» 195 
 
 " He had his points," said she perversely. 
 " He knew what he wanted and feared not to 
 ask. * Will you be my wife ? ' said he. I like 
 a man like that." And then she fell to ap- 
 parent musing, and stared into the ruddy 
 hollows of the logs. 
 
 " He approached seventy, and could not lay 
 his hand on a clean five minutes of his life," I 
 retorted. 
 
 " I never heard of his being of vicious nature 
 when an infant," she remarked. " He may have 
 ogled his nurse." 
 
 I said no more, and Mistress Nan shortly 
 resumed : " It is one of the many advantages 
 of being a man — being — er — " (I had never 
 known her hesitate before) — " able to ask whom 
 you will in marriage. A fat satyr may ask me, 
 but I may not venture an offer — no, not to the 
 most suitable," and she sighed profoundly. 
 
 Now here my heart gave a great leap — 
 paused — and then fell to a most agitated 
 trotting. 
 
 " I should word it more adroitly than he, I 
 fancy," she prattled, with her back to me. 
 " * Nan, will you be my wife ? ' he said, never 
 doubting an affirmative. How should I say?" 
 The hope that by its very magnitude trenched 
 
196 " PUNCHINELLO ' 
 
 on fear grew stronger in my heart. I do not 
 know why I delayed, perhaps reluctance to 
 break the pretty string of her words, and Nan 
 meandered on : "I should say — had I the right 
 to voice my preference — I should say — I should 
 say " 
 
 Now I deliberately held my peace, savouring 
 beforehand the delight of the moment when 
 she should whisper, "Anthony," while great 
 waves of golden firelight leapt and fell. " I 
 do not know what I should say," quoth she 
 discontentedly ; " it is not so easy, after all." 
 
 Then I took my courage in both hands and 
 flung myself on my knees before her, crying 
 out all that had been locked in my heart for 
 so long, mixed with bitter recognition of my 
 physical defect. I was half-choked with ex- 
 citement, and the words came with difficulty, 
 yet she understood and mocked me through the 
 tears that wet her eyes. 
 
 "It is ill work forcing a maid to such for- 
 wardness, Anthony. 1 was on the verge of a 
 proposal, and it is not leap-year that I know." 
 Her laugh went chiming through the room as 
 a peal of silver bells ; the logs crackled gaily, 
 flinging out a shower of sparks. " For better 
 for worse," said she, with lips pressed to mine ; 
 
" PUNCHINELLO " 197 
 
 "till death us do part." And so we were 
 betrothed. 
 
 Later we went without for a moment and 
 looked up at the jewelled skies glittering with 
 stars, and Nan made an obeisance to the moon. 
 " For luck," she explained. I mind that, as 
 she passed again within the house, I noted that 
 she had left the print of her foot on the lightly 
 fallen snow, and that I stooped and kissed it. 
 It is a curious emotion — love. " Strong, per- 
 haps dangerous," as old Ooterwint warned me 
 — good for other things than an argument on 
 which to hang an anthem. Were there ghosts 
 abroad that night that the sombre chanting of 
 the choir came to me through the shadows of 
 the night ? " For jealousy is cruel as the grave — 
 as the graver The pines sobbed it, and the 
 pitiless words went sighing over the Downs — 
 " as the grave — cruel as the grave!' I shook 
 off the remembrance and followed Nan within 
 the house, while the thought of what the day 
 had brought me sang as a jubilant psalm in 
 
 my brain. 
 
 « • • « • 
 
 For a few weeks it seemed as if this happy 
 issue strengthened my mother's hold on life. 
 She was very anxious that we should be wed 
 
T98 " PUNCHINELLO '» 
 
 without delay, and somewhat hurried us over 
 the Vorspiel of our marriage, in which Nan 
 and I had willingly dallied. But my mother 
 would have us fix the day that made us man 
 and wife ; crying that she feared the delay that 
 might hold her death. So by her wish we were 
 quietly married one morning in the little church 
 that had witnessed the scene of my discom- 
 fiture. I remember with distinctness my 
 mother speaking with me privately that morn- 
 ing in her bedchamber. She sent for me early 
 and gave me her blessing, and then spoke a 
 word of warning. " Be not over-quick to 
 judge, Tony, nor over-quick to despair ; especi- 
 ally guard against this latter, for of all things 
 that cut us most completely off from God 
 despair stands first ; and, Anthony " — here she 
 waited, and by a twist of fancy I was again a 
 puzzled child watching her face, not knowing 
 what her sad eyes portended — " Nan is young, 
 very young, and fairer than the common run 
 of women. She will get admiration in plenty, 
 perhaps be greedy of it. Be not jealous, Tony ; 
 jealousy is a foul thing, born often of a great 
 love, and pitiless beyond all things." 
 
 " She loves me," I said, half hurt. 
 
 "Yes, yes." She kissed me on the mouth 
 
" PUNCHINELLO '' 199 
 
 " I would not cloud your marriage morn, but 
 I would warn you, Tony. If ever a thought 
 comes to you that your Nan is slipping from 
 you for love of a goodlier man," her sweet voice 
 took all sting from the words, " cast that 
 thought from you. For so most surely will 
 the devil try to enter." And then she kissed 
 me again and spoke lightly of other things, as 
 if relieved to have ended an onerous task. 
 
XIII 
 
 THE tale of the following three months, 
 suitably written, should be spelled in letters 
 of gold, so full, so perfect, were these days of 
 bliss. Perhaps the gods grew jealous that a 
 mortal should enjoy a felicity that matched their 
 own, and let me savour these hours that in the 
 gray loneliness of the future they should serve 
 to accentuate my loss. Sometimes, in my black 
 hours, when I curse my fate and sob in weak 
 self-pity over my wasted life, these gay days 
 mock me till I feel it were almost better to have 
 missed them. Three months — three little 
 months of a gladness, at the thought of which 
 I hold my breath in pain — when I would for- 
 get, they mock me, a lustrous oasis in the 
 desolate past — yet in truth I know, had I 
 the choice, my^ remembrance should not be 
 ravished of them. 
 
 Methinks on Olympus the gods held their 
 sides with laughter when the missive from 
 Cosmo Granby arrived, holding an intimation to 
 
 200 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 201 
 
 the effect that circumstances at last enabled him 
 to accept my mother's kind invitation, and that 
 he proposed posting to us the following week. 
 My mother broke into gratulatory ejaculations, 
 thanking Heaven that she should see her son's 
 saviour before she died. Thanking Heaven ! — I 
 could laugh now had I but leisure, but I must 
 hurry — hurry — for Azrael tarries for no man's 
 convenience, and I have yet much to write. 
 Granby wrote most civilly, hoping that I had 
 recovered from the effects of the fire from which 
 he had had the good fortune to rescue me. He 
 had heard that I had married a lady of exquisite 
 beauty (when I read this sentence I could not 
 but smile sardonically, till checked by my 
 mother's fretted gaze) — again he prayed I had 
 sustained no ill effects. At this point my 
 mother pressed the paper to her lips, and her 
 eyes grew tenderly grateful. " You owe him 
 your life, Tony," said she ; and I — may I be 
 forgiven ! — stamped for rage. 
 
 The New Year had been born six weeks when 
 he came. It was a sparkling day, with a tur- 
 quoise sky blown clear of any film of cloud ; the 
 bare tracery of the stripped boughs flashed with 
 the glitter of frost, in the roads the pools were 
 sheeted with thin ice. He arrived in the early 
 
202 " PUNCHINELLO " 
 
 afternoon, and as he stepped into the room 
 where we sat awaiting his arrival, it seemed as 
 if he brought with him a hint of the bracing 
 invigoration without. He was looking in ex- 
 cellent health and spirits, and as he entered with 
 the buoyant careless grace that characterized 
 him, he presented, even to my jaundiced eyes, 
 the figure of a very goodly man. Puerile 
 though I felt it, I could not help contrasting 
 his fine vitality, that appeared to luxuriate in 
 this bitter weather, and my own poor health, that 
 hardly allowed me to leave the house in these 
 sharp days. Nan had lately come in, and stood 
 by the great stove with her furs loosened round 
 her throat, and her delicate face whipped by the 
 keen air without to a brilliant rose. My mother 
 lay on her couch, her nerves strained to listen. 
 She was the first to hear his coming, and flung 
 us the intimation. The next moment he was 
 with us, and my mother was thanking him 
 through her tears for the gift of my life. He 
 listened to her courteously enough, greeting me 
 the while ; but I could see that his eyes had 
 fastened themselves on my wife, and the sharp 
 pain that I was to know so intimately pierced 
 my heart. 
 
 His glance puzzled me — through its ad- 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 203 
 
 miration, as he bowed to her, I fancied I de- 
 tected an uncertain recognition. In her eyes, 
 too, there was a bewilderment, as if she were 
 puzzled by a strange likeness. Then in a 
 moment the cloud lifted from his face and he 
 smiled delightedly. " Little Nan," said he, 
 coming forward with outstretched hands, as one 
 who meets an old acquaintance, " Nan Dallas," 
 said he, using her maiden name, which was 
 naturally the same as my own surname. 
 
 " Master Granby ? " she said sedately ; " nay, 
 Jasper Ruthven — an unexpected pleasure," and 
 then joined my mother in lauding his noble act 
 in St. Mary's Church, while I, the saved, and 
 therefore the cause of all this adulation, sat by 
 morose, and feeling incapable of more than a 
 conventional civility. 
 
 When the tumult of gratitude had in some 
 measure subsided, I learned the history of this 
 acquaintance. 
 
 Cosmo, it appears, when travelling abroad, 
 had met my uncle, and on his occasional visits 
 to his lodgings had seen Nancy, who was then, 
 he kindly informed me later, one of the sweetest 
 buds of womanhood he had ever had the delight 
 of knowing. He had changed his name before 
 going abroad, which accounted for my wife not 
 
^04 « PUNCHINELLO '» 
 
 recognising an old friend in the hero of my 
 adventure ; he gave me no reason for this 
 dubious proceeding, but I learned later, through 
 a trustworthy authority, that less choice than 
 expediency had advised travel. 
 
 From the first he made no endeavour to hide 
 his great admiration for my wife. He would 
 sit — his eyes fastened on her, with an intentness 
 for which I could have struck him — gloating on 
 her beauty ; his gaze glued o' nights to the 
 white curve of her naked neck. And I had to 
 sit silent and watch him till, nerved by the 
 mesmeric force of his gaze. Nan would lift her 
 eyes, wide wells of light, and fling him a word 
 or smile. " She will be given much admiration." 
 The sage words of my mother's homily on my 
 marriage morn beat in my brain, needing not 
 her warning eyes that would be fixed on me 
 sometimes when I turned from watching the 
 pair with a fear in them that trembled into 
 panic. " He saved my life ! he saved my life ! " 
 I would repeat this formula to myself as a 
 panacea when I felt the rising passion master- 
 ing me, striving to strike sparks from a dead 
 emotion that refused to be quickened. At this 
 time I held Nan as guileless of any evil intent 
 as I hold her now, when it is too late for any 
 
"PUNCHINELLO*^ :Jo5 
 
 human praise or blame to touch her. Truly 
 she gave him look for look and smile for smile, 
 and to my jealous eyes adorned herself more 
 carefully to pleasure him ; but in these early 
 days my maniacal obsession was not such as to 
 utterly pervert my judgment, and I valued her 
 wanton ways truly, seeing in them nothing more 
 nor less than the flattered delight of a beautiful 
 woman revelling in the first force of her beauty. 
 By a grotesque accident / was his trump-card. 
 When Nan would note, with the flawless in- 
 tuition of a keen-witted woman, what was pass- 
 ing in my mind and accord him a chilly shoulder, 
 cleverly enough avoiding all personal suggestion, 
 he would turn her thoughts to the augmen- 
 tation of my weakness, thereby unerringly in- 
 dicating the cause. From that for her thoughts 
 to fly to his gallant part so lately played, took 
 but the space of a moment, and where she had 
 showed an indifferent attention she became all 
 smiles and sweet graciousness, seeing in the 
 over-bold gallant her Tony's deliverer. As I 
 sat silent over my writing 1 could see his game 
 well enough, and knew the value of his cards 
 as well as he. He was a careful player, not 
 foolishly rash, and played to win ; nor was he 
 tempted by adverse success to risk his highest 
 
2o6 "PUNCHINELLO** 
 
 card too soon in the deal. If he had a fault, it 
 was his indifference to the onlooker whom we 
 know proverbially sees the most handsome part 
 of the game. But he had always despised me. 
 " Indeed, a very Punchinello ! " These phrases 
 live everlastingly in the brain when kind words 
 are forgotten, and I had always an excellent 
 memory for a slight. 
 
 As the days passed his familiarities increased, 
 and I would wonder at the breaking of each day 
 whether my patience would endure to night. 
 Only my sense of indebtedness — for, after all, 
 he had risked his life for mine — stayed my 
 speech. 
 
 Once I was within an ace of losing my con- 
 trol. Nan had caught something of a chill, and 
 was confined to the house, and Granby had ap- 
 parently lost all zest for exercise and air, and 
 hardly left her, striving always, as he had it, to 
 lighten my wife's imprisonment. 
 
 One afternoon he left us for a little, and Nan 
 and I were alone in the parlour. 
 
 She was in a curious moody humour, and 
 spoke with an irritability foreign to her. I my- 
 self was in not too gay a temper, and we needed 
 but an excuse to put our smouldering vexed- 
 ness into words. 
 
" PUNCHINELLO " 207 
 
 " How dull it is ! " said Nan, with both arms 
 above her pretty head and opening her red lips 
 into a very heigh-ho of weariness. 
 
 " He will soon be back," I said unpleasantly. 
 
 "Who?" said she artlessly enough. 
 
 " Your admirer," I grunted. 
 
 She looked at me, and the temper gathered in 
 her face. 
 
 " The saints be praised ! " She gave another 
 yawn enough to tear her mouth apart, and then 
 snoozled her head into the cushions of her couch 
 and made as though she would sleep. 
 
 This was more than flesh and blood could 
 bear, and I plumped myself upon the end of 
 her seat and made ready for war. " Nancy," 
 I said, appreciating the added dignity of the 
 second syllable, " I would speak with you." 
 
 " Speak," she flung at me in a tone of ex- 
 tremest weariness. 
 
 My head swims when I would write of this 
 time. To think that the awful tragedy opened 
 with a man's coarse stare — with these trivial 
 words ! There should have been a graver note ; 
 but no, I remember well enough our ridiculous 
 falling out. Had we known, my sweetheart, 
 had we known ! But we had no thought of what 
 the future held. I was sore and jealous indeed, 
 
2o8 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 but my wrath was all centred on Granby, and 
 she — what was she thinking when she turned 
 her head away and bade me speak ? How best 
 to tease^ — I would wager my soul. Had we 
 known ! But we did not know, and squabbled 
 as two children. 
 
 " It is regarding Granby," I said sharply ; " you 
 appear to find favour in his eyes." 
 
 " His eyes are such a pretty blue," she re- 
 turned, with her face in the cushion, " he finds 
 favour in mine." 
 
 " He insults you by his open admiration," I 
 went on. " You— you do not encourage him. 
 Nan," I paused, longing to urge her to rebuff 
 him, yet fearing to banish her innocence. 
 
 She looked at me placidly and sat up 
 straightly on her sofa. " I put my arm round 
 his neck — so," said she, suiting the action to the 
 word ; " my hands meet his — so ; then I put my 
 lips to his cheek — so ; and I say : * Anthony, 
 how great an owl art thou ! ' " And she laughed 
 outright. " Jealous ! " she mocked. " Fie — for 
 shame ! " 
 
 " I am not jealous," I said, semi-appeased. 
 " Nan, shall we give him a hint to go ? " 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders and looked away. 
 " He saved your life," she said. I knew she would. 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 209 
 
 " Damnation ! " said L " Had I as many 
 lives as a cat and he had saved them all, it 
 would not pardon his present behaviour." 
 
 She looked at me with disfavour. " Othello 
 was an unpleasant character," she said unex- 
 pectedly ; "jealousy is the meanest of vices." 
 
 " At the worst there is always the pillow," 
 I said in bitter jest, with my mind on Othello 
 and my eye on the cushion. And here she 
 burst into a storm of tears, and I could only 
 retract and apologize, and proclaim her a very 
 incarnation of the proprieties, a past-mistress in 
 the art of careful behaviour, till she was pleased 
 to be comforted. 
 
 Peace was hardly assured and I was still 
 humiliating myself before my beloved, when 
 Cosmo returned from his walk, and marched 
 into the parlour with the jubilant, colours- 
 flying air that I so resented. A morbid mind 
 will evolve monstrous emotions with the utmost 
 facility. I cannot explain it, but it seemed to 
 me that in Cosmo's presence I grew more 
 stunted and wizened, that such poor vitality as 
 I owned was sucked out by him to the enrich- 
 ing of his magnificent physique. Vampires are 
 held part of the legendary lore that is builded 
 by weak superstitious minds, yet for all my 
 
 O 
 
210 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 boasted scepticism of such follies, they peopled 
 my mind in Granby's presence. He was so 
 gloriously, magnificently alive. As he came 
 towards Nan with a little bunch of newly- 
 plucked violets in his hand, I could not but 
 admire him for all my hatred. 
 
 He greeted Nan with a low obeisance. "Spring 
 is coming," he said, " the earth is stirring — her 
 first offering," and he strove to push the violets 
 into the girdle of her gown. 
 
 When I saw his hands fingering her body, 
 and she smiling and not repulsing him, but 
 treating him with an added kindness as if to 
 punish my late temper, a great surge of passion 
 rose up in my heart, rendering me speechless. 
 I could only stare at the pair, noting how well 
 they matched each other as they stood side by 
 side, his fair head inclined towards her dusky 
 curls : he striving to fasten the flowers in her 
 band, she pushing him away with a coquettish 
 feint of resistance. I do not know what would 
 have happened. A scarlet veil was before my 
 eyes and my hands were twitching ; I could 
 fancy them pressing on his strong throat, press- 
 ing, pressing till the eyes started and the head 
 hung helpless. My fancy revelled in this 
 ghastly picture. I must do it soon, I felt, before 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 211 
 
 the old influence began to work, and my blood 
 ran as water in my veins. 
 
 I do not know what would have passed, but 
 at this moment there was a scuffle in the room 
 over us in which my mother slept, and a woman 
 shrieked. Nan was out of the room and half- 
 way up the stairs in a moment, and I followed 
 her with such speed as I could muster, mechani- 
 cally apologising to Granby as I brushed past 
 him. 
 
 The scene that met my eyes as I pushed 
 open the door of my mother's bedchamber, 
 cooled my passion. 1 forgot my anger, for I 
 saw death clearly written in my dear one's face. 
 She lay fighting for breath in her maid's arms, 
 her features twisted with pain, the great drops 
 of sweat standing on her brow. 
 
 When the spasm was passed, she turned her 
 eyes on me, and made a movement with her 
 lips as if she would speak, and then turned to 
 the others making as if she wished them away. 
 I had been used to her attacks and took her 
 woman's place without delay, motioning to the 
 others to fall back. - " Tony," she breathed 
 through her white lips, each word wrenched 
 from her in extremest agony, " jealousy — cruel 
 as the grave — beware 1 " The pain seized her 
 
212 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 again, till we who loved her, tortured by the 
 sight of her agony, wished her dead. Once, as it 
 partially subsided, I fancied she fought again 
 for words. Her eyes indeed reached the elo- 
 quence of articulate appeal. And then with a 
 great sob her soul went forth. 
 
XIV 
 
 HAD my mother lived, I sometimes think, 
 with that love common to us all of 
 crediting unhappy circumstance with events 
 long since decreed by Fate, I had not reached 
 the extremity I did ; but her dying robbed me 
 of a saving influence, and the devils I harboured 
 worked their will unchecked. 
 
 Primarily, out of the sad evil of her dying a 
 temporary good ensued, inasmuch as decorous 
 usage rendered Granby's departure from the 
 house of mourning imperative ; and, in my brutal 
 egoism, the knowledge that death had hurried 
 his going in measure mitigated my grief at my 
 dear one's loss. 
 
 Spring was upon us in all its glory, the 
 meadows were gay with cuckoo flowers and 
 cowslips, when one morning I noted a letter 
 addressed to Nancy, in Granby's hand, lying in 
 the vestibule. I recognised the optimistic up- 
 start of his fist, his grandiloquent capitals, his 
 vain-glorious crest A familiar scent arose fron^ 
 
214 " PUNCHINELLO " 
 
 the missive. I had smelled it before, arising 
 from the packet in which he had written to 
 my mother apprising her of his approaching 
 arrival. 
 
 It must be confessed that I fingered it some- 
 what over-carefully, studying it with an interest 
 that infringed the code of honour which pro- 
 tects the correspondence of another. I would 
 have given much to have broken the seal, but 
 some instinct of delicacy prevented me, and I 
 left it there, curious to know if my wife would 
 speak to me of having received it, or if my 
 jealous behaviour had driven her to diplomatic 
 secrecy. 
 
 Stainless as I knew her to be of aught savour- 
 ing of intrigue, I was relieved when she spoke 
 to me concerning this letter. It was not till 
 after our mid-day meal, and I had spent the 
 forenoon in idleness, incapable of concentrating 
 my attention on my work. I could hardly bear 
 to sit opposite her at table, listening to her light 
 talk, knowing what lay in her pocket. Cecily 
 was away from home, spending a few weeks 
 with Reuben's mother, and Nan and I were 
 alone, so I could not take refuge in silence, but 
 was forced to play an indifferent part, utilising 
 such histrionic ability as I possessed, 
 
" PUNCHINELLO '* 215 
 
 "From your friend Granby," she broke out 
 suddenly, pulling forth the packet and looking 
 at me with a face filled with complex emotions, 
 amusement not hindermost amongst them. " He 
 writes most concernedly of your health," she 
 went on, "and also of a scandal that is wag- 
 ging tongues in Town, from whence he has 
 lately returned. The letter is not franked, as 
 you may see," she babbled on, holding it up. 
 " His servant brought it." She made a fine 
 feint of great ease, but I could see that she 
 was troubled. 
 
 " I hate him ! " I burst out suddenly, knowing 
 it vain to dissemble. She looked at me re- 
 proachfully and shook her pretty head. 
 
 " Oh, Tony ! he saved " she began (I knew 
 
 she would), but got no further, for I leapt to my 
 feet in a very fury, and in my hurry dragged 
 the cloth, and a dish fell crashing on the floor. 
 I did not heed it, and would have left the room 
 had not Nan seized my arm and forced me to 
 a chair, screaming with laughter the while. 
 Her merriment rang so heart-whole that I could 
 not choose but join. 
 
 Lately our days had been but grey, haunted 
 with a lost presence, and this flash of jocundity 
 was welcome, as breaking the thraldom of our 
 
2i6 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 sorrow and subtly tuning life to a normal key. 
 But loth though I was to mar the hour, I de- 
 sired to bring home to her the necessity for 
 caution with one of Granby's creed regarding 
 women. But she — she would not heed, nor 
 even affect to listen, stopping my mouth with 
 kisses when I spoke of him, or else assuming a 
 vexation that bid fair to tremble into anger. 
 
 "I will forbid him the house," I fumed. 
 
 "No — no," she said, and for a moment I 
 could have sworn that a monstrous terror shone 
 in her eyes ; " do not anger him." 
 
 "Any one would think you feared him," I 
 said, the memory of that evanescent flash green 
 in my memory. " I hate him, too," she whis- 
 pered, as if fearful that walls had ears. "For 
 why? He sows dissension between us two." 
 She would have kissed me again, but I knew 
 that she lied, and rejected the proffered caress. 
 Her face shadowed, as will that of a child when 
 repulsed, but she dared my glance ! " Honest ! 
 I hate — hate — hate him ! " she repeated, putting 
 out a hand in earnest of good faith. 
 
 " Honesty is said to be the best policy," I 
 returned, striving to speak lightly. 
 
 " An apothegm that no doubt emanated from 
 the dock," she flipped at me. 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 217 
 
 " Turning cynic ? " I said, and laughed, in spite 
 of my irritation, at her ready tongue. 
 
 " What is a cynic ? " she said, with feminine 
 astuteness, striving to coax me from the stormy 
 subject of our converse. 
 
 " A cynic is a believer in human nature," I 
 sneered. " He holds that it will triumph over 
 love, truth, faith, and honour ; and, by my soul, 
 I hold him right," I added with returning 
 temper. 
 
 " Swear not at all," she reproved gravely ; 
 "not even by a negligeable quantity." 
 
 "Granby " I began. 
 
 " Oh, Granby me no Granbys ! " she said, 
 with an imperious stamp of foot ; " one man at 
 a time is enough for any woman." 
 
 " I am not jealous," I said, clutching at my 
 
 dignity with both hands ; " but — but " and 
 
 I stuck unhappily, shamed by the gay interro- 
 gation in her eyes, and for the time my fears 
 were lulled. 
 
 I do not know whether Granby had read 
 what was passing in my mind at our last meet- 
 ing, when my mother's death had saved nie 
 from an inexcusable passion, but when he rode 
 over some days later to visit us, his manner 
 had lost the arrogance that had formerly charac- 
 
2i8 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 terized it, and was, indeed, conciliatory. He 
 stayed but a few minutes, for Nan, to my great 
 thankfulness, did not appear, and I made no 
 effort to detain him. He had but lately arrived 
 from Town, he told me, and was living at his 
 own house some ten miles from us. He made 
 a few remarks regarding the dulness of the 
 country, congratulated me on my recovered 
 health ; and then came an awkward silence, 
 which I did not break, and he rose. As he 
 was leaving he bade me give his respects to my 
 wife, and express his regret that the continued 
 lowness of spirits from which she suffered made 
 it impossible for her to receive visitors (an ex- 
 cuse, it appeared, that the maid had pleaded 
 when he called at our house a few days pre- 
 viously, and which he obviously thought had 
 emanated from me). I knew nothing of the 
 matter, and would have said a civil word, when 
 his manner suddenly changed, and he broke 
 into a low, mocking laugh. 
 
 " She is not over-strong," I began, and waited 
 puzzled. 
 
 " Be careful of her, Punchinello," he said ; 
 "accidents happen." And before I could re- 
 spond his horse was away, and only the clatter 
 of the hoofs sounded up the avenue. 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 219 
 
 I spoke of his visit to Nan, but she said no 
 word but " I hate him," while her face grew 
 white to the very mouth. 
 
 "Is there aught between you?" I said in 
 fury, noting her eyes of fear. 
 
 " Nothing — nothing ! Please God, I shall 
 never see his face again ! " was all she cried, 
 and then flung her arms round my neck, saying 
 she loved me the better for my silly jealousy, 
 and gibing at Granby ; but I could not forget 
 her frightened eyes, and, despite myself, a sus- 
 picion stole into my mind that she was fooling 
 me. 
 
 One spring evening a week later an inci- 
 dent occurred which, trivial in itself, was suffi- 
 cient to fan my suspicion to a quicker flame. 
 I had not seen my wife since the early after- 
 noon, when she had spoken of walking to see 
 a sick child in the hamlet that lay a mile's 
 distance from our doors. I had begun to feel 
 uneasy, for the greyness was fast growing 
 opaque, and I could not bear the thought of 
 her wandering lonely through the lanes, when 
 she suddenly appeared, all panting with run- 
 ning and her face marked with traces of late 
 agitation. 
 
 When I asked what ailed her, she turned on 
 
220 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 me furiously, saying I made her life a hell with 
 baseless suspicion — I, who had had no thought 
 of aught but that some accident had happened 
 to her. But her words set the latent jealousy in 
 my mind working, and no doubt my expression 
 testified to the error of judgment she had com- 
 mitted, for she would have reclaimed her speech 
 and made all smooth with pretty words ; but it 
 was too late, and though I strove to answer 
 her easily I could not help my voice, that rang 
 curiously even in my own ears. 
 
 A few days later I walked alone, striving to 
 allay my mind's uneasiness by such rapid exer- 
 cise as I could compass. Being feeble, I seldom 
 went great distances, but on this particular day 
 it seemed as if my body were informed with 
 a feverish restlessness that I could not control, 
 though my limbs ached from weariness. I 
 walked on and on, resolving every moment to 
 turn, yet forced further by a mysterious force 
 that rendered me incapable of volition. I had 
 long left the high road, and was skirting a 
 wood preparatory to again striking out across 
 country, when my eyes were caught by the 
 flutter of a woman's gown between the trees. 
 It was a black gown, and the sombre folds 
 struck a dismal note in the gay green of the 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 221 
 
 newly-leaved trees. She was speaking to some 
 one half concealed by a trunk, and was seem- 
 ingly entreating this hidden personage — at least, 
 so I gathered from her clasped hands. There 
 was something strangely familiar about her 
 back. I held my breath in pain as I advanced, 
 fearing I knew not what, and not allowing my 
 real fear even to myself. Suddenly the girl — 
 for she was no more — turned her head, and the 
 thought that I had denied crystallized and 
 flashed clearly, no longer to be cheated. I 
 recognised my wife and Granby. They could 
 not see me as I crept towards them, but I could 
 see that Nan's face was drenched with tears, 
 and scraps of their talk floated towards me on 
 the breeze. 
 
 I crouched towards them ; my senses seemed 
 to have all converged into that of hearing, 
 which was intensified to a point that touched 
 anguish. " Cosmo — Cosmo ! " I heard her say, 
 and then the wind wantoned in the canopy of 
 leaves over my head, and I heard but a con- 
 fused murmur when she spoke. I could just 
 see him, as he stood with the confident, con- 
 quering smile on his face that I had so hated 
 when a child. 
 
 "You fear him mightily" — the breeze was 
 
222 " PUNCHINELLO " 
 
 stayed for the moment, and his voice travelled 
 clearly to me. " Is it a savage Lilliputian ? " 
 I knew he spoke of me, and how my ears were 
 strained to hear her answer ! But the accursed 
 flutter began again in the dancing leaves, and 
 worse — a great bar of golden light cleft the 
 interlaced boughs and glittered on the silver 
 buttons on my coat, so I was forced to crouch 
 lower ; but although I could not hear her 
 speak, their actions were clear enough. I saw 
 him step forward and take her in his arms, and 
 press his mouth to hers, which she suffered all 
 unresisting. " I must go," she said ; " it grows 
 
 late. Give " I could have sworn for fury 
 
 at the breeze. What was it she craved ? His 
 love and kisses, no doubt. Again his arms 
 wound round her, and she lay unresisting in 
 them while he covered her face with kisses. I 
 could not hear their farewells, but suddenly she 
 broke from him and went running, swift as a 
 lapwing, towards home, while Cosmo turned and 
 went in the opposite direction. 
 
 It seemed to me that, although sh^ suffered 
 his caresses without resistance, there was no 
 happiness in the meeting ; for at the corner of 
 the path, as she turned, I saw that she was still 
 crying, and, if I know aught of the language 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 223 
 
 of gesticulation, her outstretched hands spoke 
 clearly of some unfulfilled desire. He, too, 
 looked back, and shook his head and laughed, 
 as one who kindly denies a child an unreason- 
 able request, and I wondered for a moment, 
 striving to unravel the mystery. But I could 
 not think consecutively. My jealous fury meta- 
 morphosed me for the time into a wild beast. 
 I fell on the ground and tore the earth with 
 my hands, while my brain worked blindly in 
 endeavour to compass a meet revenge. 
 
 Out of the whirling tangle of my mind a 
 plan slowly evolved itself, and showed me that 
 I could at least defeat his designs. If not 
 mine, at least not his. Death, the merciless 
 knife that cuts knots that mock man's in- 
 genuity ; by death might she be saved. One 
 or the other must go. I prayed not my Nan. 
 If I bided my hour, some chance might de- 
 liver him into my hand, and then she might 
 spend her span of years on earth, for aught I 
 cared, unharmed. I had no desire to send her 
 after him into eternity — as soon should she 
 breathe the same air here below. Even know- 
 ing the monstrous wickedness she did, my heart 
 cried out for her, as memories of her sweet 
 presence flooded my mind, and my love, that I 
 
224 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 had thought lay dead, leapt up victorious, van- 
 quishing my anger at her unfaithfulness ; and I, 
 who but a moment past had cursed her, now 
 sought excuse for her wantonness, and found it 
 in mine own infirmity and the temptings of 
 the devil by whose wiles she had fallen. 
 
 What was I to hope to keep a woman's 
 love — I, Punchinello? I laughed through my 
 tears, and the mad ring of gaiety in my ears 
 checked my merriment. If I would do my 
 work, it behoved me to keep sane and sober, 
 and, by a mighty effort, I beat back the mani- 
 acal laughter on my lips. 
 
 Surely, surely — and I moved cautiously, 
 making no alarm, was cunning and patient — 
 my desire would be given me, and I should 
 see Cosmo lying stark and still, with all the 
 comeliness gone from his face for ever. The 
 glory of the brief spring afternoon died to wan 
 twilight, and a chill fog crept up from the far 
 sea and lay over the land, lending fantastic 
 shapes to commonest objects and drenching 
 the grass heavily. The sinking sun hung a 
 gigantic ruddy ball low in the west, a ray 
 struck the pale mist, lacing it with scarlet, till 
 it looked streaked with blood. But I did not 
 move ; c&reless of time, ^nd loth to brec^k the 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 225 
 
 returning coherence of my thoughts. The 
 reason of the curious pleadings of her attitude 
 that I had noted, and could not fathom, chimed 
 in my ears — a peal rung gaily by Satan — " She 
 prays him take her from you." He is cautious 
 and bids her wait, saying, " Not yet ; not yet." 
 She prays him, but he will not ; he is adamant 
 to her tears and last appeals. " Not yet ! " — I 
 smiled to myself as I thought how far better 
 he had done to have made speedy with his 
 prize. The coolness of head, on which he so 
 relied, had for once lost him the game. I had 
 but to exercise self-mastery, and the victory 
 was mine. I forced myself to keep still and 
 quiet, balancing my chances one against the 
 other, while the shadows deepened and the sky 
 began to hang out its lights. 
 
 They say in their ignorance now that I am 
 mad. Ah, fools ! I was mad then, as I sat in 
 that wood planning a murder, lingering on my 
 revenge lovingly, lest I mar it by haste. Mad — 
 that I did not harbour, for the flash of a second, 
 the thought of my wife's innocence. Mad — that 
 when in the mist-wreaths I seemed to see her 
 face, innocent as I had known it, with only the 
 shadow of a great terror on it, I mocked and 
 jeered, pointing scoffing fingers at it. Once I 
 
226 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 shrieked the foulest name with which a woman 
 can be smirched, and an echo leapt in answer. 
 
 Then I laughed and cried all in a breath, for 
 it seemed as if the wide world had caught wind 
 of her shame and was proclaiming the news. 
 Side by side with this fancy I embraced the 
 knowledge that I held the power to save her. 
 If he should escape me — then she should lie 
 safe in the warm earth's breast, and her name 
 be kept pure at any cost. It has been said by 
 poets and women that hearts break. I do not 
 know whether the brain burns the brighter for 
 this sacrifice, but when at length I rose and 
 began to make my way homeward, it seemed to 
 me that my mental powers were marvellously 
 intensified, and that all my emotions lay dead 
 for ever. I felt myself braced by an iron self- 
 control. I could have watched Cosmo philan- 
 dering with Nan and made no sign. What did 
 it matter now my path lay clear before me ? I 
 buoyed myself with the knowledge of my new 
 strength — and then, all in a moment, the sharp 
 contrast between my present misery and the 
 fair happiness that I had thought my future 
 life would hold broke my resolution, and I fell 
 to crying bitter tears and calling, " Nan ! — 
 Nan ! " like any weak fool. 
 
"PUNCHINELLO'' 227 
 
 I would not wait on this hour though it 
 holds place in my life, but as I write I know 
 again the aching desolation, the awful loneli- 
 ness. Tricked and fooled, first by one and 
 then another ; scorned by God and man alike ; 
 I cursed the God that had so mocked me 
 and the folly that had rendered it so easy. I, 
 Punchinello, wedded to one of the fairest maids 
 in England. How well she had matched 
 Cosmo, had they mated ! but I, poor dwarf, 
 stunted semblance of a man, stood between — 
 I, Punchinello, so aptly named in the long 
 ago. 
 
XV 
 
 WHEN I reached home that night, my 
 wife overwhelmed me with caresses 
 and attentions, commenting the while on my 
 worn-out appearance. She chatted incessantly, 
 questioning me as to where I had spent the 
 afternoon, and without waiting for an answer 
 telling of how she had wandered far afield, 
 careless of the lapse of time. 
 
 I watched her, as she ministered to me, with 
 eyes that saw her with a clearer vision. Never 
 had she seemed so winsome to me as she ap- 
 peared that night, and never had she appeared 
 gayer. I had no difficulty in following her 
 mood, giving her jest for jest, and capping her 
 nonsense easily enough — while, even as the light 
 words flowed, my brain worked steadily at 
 compassing her lover's destruction, with suffi- 
 cient craftiness to ensure success. 
 
 Once my attention flagged a little as my 
 thoughts drifted to ways and means, and she 
 checked her strain of gay speech, feigning a 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 229 
 
 pouting displeasure : " What are you thinking 
 of, Tony? You afford me scant attention." 
 
 I remember that, drawn by the fascination 
 that tempts moths to flutter round danger, I 
 could not forbear alluding in cypher — so to 
 speak — to the knowledge I had attained in the 
 last four-and-twenty hours. I said no word that 
 could have afforded a clue to the keenest wits, 
 but I played a little with my sorrow, mocking 
 myself as men will, feeling if they do not laugh 
 they must go mad. 
 
 " Scant attention ? " I caught the words sweet 
 with her breath. " It is ill," I said, " to study a 
 woman over-carefully — one finds flaws in the 
 most exquisite creation. For myself, I look 
 neither forwards nor backwards, but enjoy," and 
 I slipped my arm uxoriously round her waist, 
 and smiled at her with a simulated pride of 
 possession, watching her carefully the while for 
 some symptom of betrayal. 
 
 I remember this time down to its smallest 
 detail, for in it, by what I regarded as vaguely 
 exculpatory words, intended to allay the smart 
 of a wounded conscience, my Nan finally 
 damned herself in my eyes. 
 
 "Look forwards? look back?" She re- 
 peated my words after me much as I had 
 
230 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 repeated her own. " Must a woman be flawless 
 to be loved ? " she asked ; and I knew whither 
 her mind tended, and chuckled with my breath. 
 I had not thought to hear her condemnation 
 from her own mouth. 
 
 " It is wiser," I repeated, " when close inspect 
 tion is fatal, not to court disillusion. See here " 
 — I took a book from the shelf and would have 
 read her an allegory which I have always loved 
 — " this is how the wise behave." But she in- 
 terrupted me, snatched the book from my 
 hands and laughed long and loud. 
 
 "/will read it, Tony — you omit too generously 
 when scanning printed matter, and it is a great 
 matter to know how to preserve an illusion. 
 Shall I read it ? " she said, looking up into my 
 face from the low chair on which she sat. " I 
 will do it justice in my most mellifluous ac- 
 cents." 
 
 For a moment, as she stood before me, 
 her perfect face not a foot from mine, the 
 fragrance of her breath in my nostrils, the 
 curve of her bosom swelling beneath her close 
 bodice, I feared that the devils I held in leash 
 would prove the stronger. As I looked at her 
 they rose clamouring, and my fingers itched to 
 press the life from out her fair body. But 
 
" PUNCHINELLO " 231 
 
 as I stared at her the fit passed, and I saw the 
 terror in her face. 
 
 " What is it ? " she said brokenly. " Do not 
 look at me like that ! " 
 
 Her voice calmed me, and I answered her 
 lightly, pushing the book towards her. 
 
 " Read — read ! '* I said, and kissed her on 
 the mouth, where so lately Cosmo's caresses 
 had lain. 
 
 She took the book and commenced the tale, 
 and slowly, as she read, the fever in my brain 
 subsided, and my blood ceased to run in such 
 mad tumult through my veins. I will write the 
 tale she read. Every line is informed with her 
 voice. As I gaze on the dull printed lines, I 
 hear the clear notes and see her again with bent 
 head reading bravely to the end, breaking off 
 now and again to scoff. Whatever her faults, 
 she was of a rare courage. Hush ! she is read- 
 ing now ; the quick, light tone of her voice is 
 sounding in my ears ; I hear her clearly. 
 
 The Scarlet Lily. 
 
 In her garden there were half-blown buds 
 flushing rosily through their green sheaths, and 
 half-open lily cups shyly hiding their golden 
 hearts. 
 
232 " PUNCHINELLO " 
 
 On the trees the young leaves quivered a pale 
 green, or lay curled in soft knots upon the 
 boughs, slowly breaking into life. There were 
 tiny shoots just showing above the rich brown 
 earth, and here and there the beds were broken 
 up by masses of purple and gold, where pansies 
 glinted in the sunlight. 
 
 She walked unheeding among the beds, and 
 stopped before a large scarlet bud that shot up 
 from among the dark green leaves which veiled 
 its perfection. 
 
 " My choice ! " she whispered ; " my heart's 
 desire ! " 
 
 She pressed her lips to the flower, and under 
 her warm breath the petals of the bud quivered 
 and wavered a shade apart, showing in some 
 degree the nascent beauty within. 
 
 She breathed away a grain of dust that had 
 fallen on the glossy calyx, and broke apart an 
 overhanging branch, so that nothing could come 
 between her flower and the sunshine. 
 
 And day by day, as she tended it, the plant 
 grew in strength and beauty, flooding the garden 
 in its overpowering fragrance. The butterflies 
 floated round it in gaily-painted hordes, paying 
 it court as it stood swaying in the breeze, like a 
 queen acknowledging homage. 
 
*' PUNCHINELLO " 233 
 
 Round it the maiden cleared away the grasses 
 that threatened to choke up the ground, in order 
 that the roots should spread out freely, and 
 watched it hourly, with the tender loving eyes 
 of a mother for her firstborn. 
 
 Through the long nights she lay on the ground 
 beside it, lest it open in the darkness and she 
 lose the flowering of her desire, watching and 
 waiting until she grew pale and wan with 
 deferred hope. 
 
 Round her, sun-kissed and wind-caressed, the 
 other flowers flourished in a great luxuriance, 
 but they were forgotten — in her passion she 
 never noted or cared. 
 
 Above her head there swung a quivering 
 canopy of green, through which the sky showed 
 like patches of blue mosaic among the tracery of 
 leaf and branch, but she never looked higher than 
 the height of the scarlet lily. 
 
 One night, worn out with long watching, she 
 slept, and when she awoke the bud had opened ; 
 and she cried out aloud with great joy, and 
 knelt before it in worship, half-blind with its 
 dazzling beauty, and drunk with her great 
 gladness. 
 
 But even as she knelt, from out the heart 
 of the flower crawled a worm — another — and 
 
234 *^ PUNCHINELLO'* 
 
 yet another; and she saw that her pride, her. 
 desire, was decayed and corrupt within — a foul 
 thing from which she shrank and shuddered. 
 
 And as she lay on the ground, crying with 
 great sobs, a white rose — a poor, pale bud — bent 
 its head down to her face and whispered, " Take 
 comfort ; it is so poor a thing for which to 
 grieve — so fair without, so foul within. Love 
 me ! " But the girl pushed it impatiently away, 
 and cried again, refusing to be comforted. 
 
 And then she saw that from where she had 
 flung herself in her passionate recoil, and lay 
 looking through her blinding tears, the decay 
 was no longer visible, and the flower flamed 
 scarlet and perfect in the golden flooding sun- 
 light, as fair as the lily of her dreams. 
 
 Now the tears dried on her face, as its beauty 
 struck her afresh with a great thrill ; she felt 
 the old love return, and was comforted, and lay 
 keeping guard over it in the distance, never 
 venturing too near. 
 
 But in a few days she could discern its grow- 
 ing decay from even that point ; but this time 
 she had learnt wisdom, and instead of lament- 
 ing, moved hurriedly a few steps further away, 
 and fell again to its adoration. 
 
 And as the days passed, she moved further 
 
" PUNCHINELLO " 235 
 
 and further away, until the flower was only a red 
 patch in the grey distance ; but she looked at it 
 with loving eyes, casting away all thought of its 
 honour, and seeing only the beauty. 
 
 The roses raised their pink faces to her, and 
 touched the air with their fragrant whispering : 
 " Hearken to us, whose beauty is not only seem- 
 ing " ; but she turned away. 
 
 The proud, pure lilies bowed their stately 
 heads as she passed, turning the silken sheen of 
 their snowy petals towards her ; but she would 
 none of them, and gazed always, with tired, 
 shining eyes, at the flower she loved so well. 
 
 Time passed on, and she grew old and grey, 
 but still she gazed at the same spot, although 
 the lily had long since fallen, and lay on the 
 ground in festering corruption. 
 
 But the woman looked always towards the 
 place where it had waved triumphant in the 
 light and air ; and as time passed, she forgot 
 the things she had seen, and how, day by day, 
 she had shrunk back for fear of what she might 
 behold ; and again she saw the tall crimson 
 bud in its glowing beauty, and her heart 
 throbbed as she yearned afresh for the hour 
 of its unfolding. 
 
236 " PUNCHINELLO '» 
 
 " That woman was a fool," said my wife, with 
 a touch of bitterness. "If one has been tricked, 
 it is well to cast away the worthless rag. The 
 heroine is aptly feminine. It takes a woman 
 to go on loving when she understands. No 
 man condones," and she looked at me with a 
 challenge in her face. " This sickly fable illus- 
 trates the attitude of women from all, time. No 
 man forgives," she went on, and her voice broke 
 suddenly, while I stared at her, wondering what 
 her next words would hold. But in a flash her 
 mood changed. 
 
 " The maid was passing foolish — the tale was 
 passing long. I would rather waste my breath 
 on this," and she took up a book of verses that 
 lay at my side. " Hearken, Tony, — by such 
 symptoms shall a man recognise the tender 
 passion. It seems a prodigious waste of emo- 
 tion. Didst ever *thy soul in numbers move,' 
 Tony ? Nay — more like in chromatics ! Now 
 listen ! 
 
 "Once did my thoughts both ebb and flow, 
 As passion did them move ; 
 Once did I hope — straight fear again — 
 And then I was in love. 
 
 Once did I, waking, spend the night, 
 And tell how many minutes move. 
 
" PUNCHINELLO " 237 
 
 Once did I, wishing, waste the day — 
 And then I was in love. 
 
 Once, by my carving true-love's knot, 
 
 The weeping tones did prove 
 That wounds and tears were both our lot — 
 
 And then I was in love. 
 
 Once did I breathe another's breath, 
 
 And in my mistress move ; 
 Once was I not mine own at all — 
 
 And then I was in love. 
 
 Once I wore bracelets made of hair, 
 
 And collars did approve ; 
 Once wore my clothes made out of wax— 
 
 And then I was in love. 
 
 Once did I sonnet to my saint. 
 
 My soul in numbers move ; 
 Once did I tell a thousand lies — 
 
 And then I was in love. 
 
 Once in my ear did dangling hang 
 
 A little turtle-dove ; 
 Once, in a word, I was a fool— 
 
 And then I was in love.** 
 
 She finished with a trill of merriment, and 
 would have kissed me ; but my self-control was 
 strained to its uttermost limit, and I could only 
 push her from me in dumb passion. 
 
 She feigned to notice nothing, only saying 
 petulantly: "Methinks you are turning sage — 
 
23B "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 at least you are no longer a fool by reason of 
 being in love," and, pleading something of 
 fatigue, left me. Her eyes were misty, for 
 all her gay smile. Ah, God ! the lash of 
 memory! She would have kissed me, and I 
 would not ! 
 
XVI 
 
 FOR another week or so life flowed on evenly, 
 Granby's name never passing between us 
 by a tacit agreement that needed no putting 
 into words. I was waiting, and she ? — God 
 knows what lay beneath the froth of her gaiety 
 and her never-failing mirth. Sometimes I read a 
 shadow in her eyes and surmised that she was 
 impatient of the deferred hour that should bring 
 her lover ; her speech was informed with a touch 
 of bitterness foreign to it, which lent keener edge 
 to her sayings, and in some indefinable way I felt 
 that for all her jocundity she had parted with her 
 youth, and looked on life with sadder eyes. 
 
 "We see little of Granby," I said carelessly 
 one day. I spoke tentatively, vaguely conscious 
 that my murderous intent were easier were he 
 unsuspicious, also hounded on by a sick desire 
 to see them together and watch them at my ease, 
 yet fearful of awakening mistrust by too sudden 
 a change of front. Nan regarded me curiously, 
 and turned away with a laugh on her mouth. I 
 
240 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 could see that she was acting, for her eyes had a 
 curious watchful stillness in them and her lips 
 smiled as if twitched to merriment by force. 
 
 " For my part I care not whether he comes or 
 goes," she answered lightly enough, though her 
 voice had a strained note in it. 
 
 " No ? " I said, my gaze rivetted on her face 
 to note if she blanched or flushed. 
 
 Her eyes lifted and met mine, and for one 
 moment my vile thoughts fled as the darkness 
 before the spreading whiteness of dawn, and I 
 knew her innocent. But even as I looked she 
 spoke, and my suspicions returned strengthened 
 a thousand-fold. 
 
 "Do not anger him," she said. The water 
 brimmed in her eyes. " O God ! O God ! " she 
 cried and fell to weeping tempestuously. For all 
 the black fury in my heart I could not bear her 
 crying ; I tried to comfort her, and then she flung 
 herself before me, and it seemed as though she 
 trembled on the verge of a confession. Yet I 
 had accused her in no way. 
 
 Looking back, it seems to me incomprehensible 
 that I should not have guessed that she was 
 oppressed with a great sorrow ; but I was full of 
 my own explanation of her griefs and tempers, 
 and never dreamed of another key to the 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 241 
 
 mystery. I noticed that she began to grow 
 white and wan. Often in her sleep she would 
 speak Granby's name and fall to sobbing in her 
 dreams, while I lay beside her alert to hear, and 
 smiling in the darkness as she called on her 
 lover. 
 
 My one idea possessed me to the exclusion 
 of all others — to kill Granby, and if possible in 
 such manner as to make the manner of his death 
 seem accidental, thereby avoiding an inquiry 
 that might result in the blackening of my wife's 
 name. 
 
 His visits had re-commenced. He was for 
 ever in our house making open love to my wife, 
 while she would sit smiling on him, yet with 
 terror in her eyes — and I waited. 
 
 I waited and waited till the summer flushed 
 the land and the spring lay far behind us, and 
 still I waited patiently. I pressed his hand in 
 greeting, and never showed by deed or word 
 that his presence was unwelcome or that I knew 
 of his clandestine meetings with my wife. I 
 was ever the genial host, pressing him to join us, 
 throwing him with Nan, and always I waited for 
 my chance. 
 
 But it never came for all my waiting ; or 
 perhaps more truly I lacked the tenacity of 
 
 Q 
 
242 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 purpose necessary for such work as I contem- 
 plated. 
 
 It grew hourly more difficult to play my part, 
 and to preserve the appearance of ignorant 
 placidity that was so essential — the facile smile, 
 the ready words. In place of these it seemed 
 to me sometimes that the beast in me must win 
 and I spring suddenly at Cosmo's throat while 
 he bent towards my wife, speaking to her in 
 that semi-whisper he affected, and which eter- 
 nally suggested confidential words. Still I 
 might have kept up the play a little longer had 
 it not been for news that my wife brought me 
 one morning. She came to me looking with 
 great frightened eyes out of her white face that 
 had grown to look so small and drawn in 
 these last few months, and I was arrested by 
 a curious change in her expression. Lately 
 she had been alternating between the gayest 
 and saddest moods, each of which left an 
 evanescent mark on her face, but now she 
 looked somewhat awe-struck and glad with a 
 solemn joy. 
 
 " Anthony ! " she said, and the warm pink ran 
 racing to her cheeks. " Anthony ! " 
 
 I stared at her impatiently, for lately I had 
 grown to hate her presence, and never more than 
 
" PUNCHINELLO " 243 
 
 when she simulated love for me. " Anthony I " 
 she said again with despair in her voice, as I 
 glared at her with hard, incurious eyes, — "An- 
 thony, we shall soon be three." 
 
 And then — God forgive me ! — I fell to laugh- 
 ing, for I harboured no doubt as to the begetter 
 of her child, and it seemed to me the supremest 
 irony that she should come to me with her 
 flushings and paleings, whispering of the coming 
 third. And she fell back a pace with a look in 
 her eyes of one wounded to death. " Anthony," 
 she said again, and put out her hand and touched 
 me timidly on the sleeve, and I shook her off in 
 a sudden access of passion. 
 
 " Have you no shame ? " I flung at her. 
 
 She fell at my feet in a swoon. I could not 
 trust myself, and calling the maids to attend 
 her I left the house and sought peace in solitude, 
 striving to regain my lapsed self-control. My 
 reason rocked as I realized my full impotence. 
 Though I forbid him the house, I knew he would 
 meet her elsewhere. If I took her away, he 
 would follow. Money was nothing to him. The 
 gratification of his desire was the end and aim 
 of his life. His life ! his life ! I had gladly 
 followed him into the future would it have 
 aided me to terminate his existence. But at 
 
244 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 least he should not have Nan. Lost to me — 
 she should be lost to him. He was impregnable, 
 secure from my assaults. The last few weeks it 
 seemed as if he had read what was passing in 
 my mind, for I had caught his eyes fixed on me 
 uneasily once or twice, and he came less often to 
 our house, but I knew that she often met him. 
 I used to follow them and sit and watch them 
 in the grey gloaming, and count his kisses and 
 her tears. Why did she weep ? I often 
 wondered. A handsome lover abroad and an 
 easy dupe — as she thought — at home. 
 
 Can any woman want more ? I was indeed 
 ungainly, but my name served her as protection, 
 my house as home, so even I served a purpose 
 and was, with the exception of rare outbursts, 
 sufficiently ductile. 
 
 So in my thoughts I would mock myself and 
 her, but most the vanity that had brought me 
 to this pass, and led me to reckon that I could 
 win and hold, like happier men. She had 
 loathed me somewhat less than the aged rip to 
 whom her aunt would have given her ; perhaps, 
 to be fair, she had felt something of kindliness 
 towards me — the pity that is akin to love — and I 
 in my madness had snatched at it, half afraid of 
 the magnitude of tlie gift vouchsafed me. I 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 245 
 
 blamed her not What was I to hold a woman's 
 love ? Like to like — they matched each other 
 well ; but he should never take her from me — 
 never — never. 
 
XVII 
 
 I STRIVE to write coherently, but my pulses 
 race when I linger on this time ; and for all 
 my endeavour to sort a right incident and emo- 
 tion I stand confused before the tide of mixed 
 remembrance, glad and sad, that sweeps every- 
 thing before it. Yet I would write with stable 
 hand, and fling my life on the page precisely as 
 it passed. 
 
 Now I tell what cannot be explained by strict 
 laws of logic, viz. : that inasmuch as I suspected 
 in darker moments the paternity of the embryo 
 life that Nan carried, my heart went out to her in 
 her difficult hour as it had never done in her 
 happiest days. I had loved her gay and flippant, 
 with her unerring shaft of speech, her fresh 
 beauty, her light laughter, but I loved her better 
 now with her tired eyes and dragging gait. In 
 my heart there came a desire to believe in her 
 again. I do not know what had checked me 
 from voicing my suspicions to her, but it was 
 hardly fear. Now that time has rendered lumin- 
 
 946 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 247 
 
 ous the days of my sorrow, I fancy I dreaded 
 hearing her confess her sin ; and clung to some 
 shadowy hope, the existence of which I barely 
 recognised. But one night when we sat in the 
 gloaming without, talking, as had come to be 
 our habit, with an assumption of ease that 
 deceived neither of us, she made some careless 
 jest, and I heard the rain of falling tears through 
 her laughter, and knew that silence was no 
 longer possible. There came a hush in our 
 speech, and we looked into each other's eyes, 
 and I knew her innocent. 
 
 " What has come between us, Tony ? " she 
 said, and with the old familiar gesture her face 
 nestled on my shoulder. " I am miserable, 
 Anthony," and her cry — Christ forgive me — 
 was as the sobbing of a strayed child. 
 
 For the moment the devil in my heart rested, 
 and I knew that she was pure for all the black 
 evidence against her. She was young and care- 
 less, irresponsible, irreflective, but white as the 
 angels. I knew it for the moment, and took her 
 in my arms, comforting her, and praying her 
 tell me her trouble ; and before I knew it 
 Granby's name was out of my mouth, and she 
 was shuddering and trembling so that she could 
 barely speak. 
 
248 " PUNCHINELLO " 
 
 " Anthony, Anthony ! " I hear her now, and 
 the breath of lips long dead is warm on my 
 face. " Do not ask me," she cried : "I am 
 ashamed, ashamed." 
 
 "Of what?" Still I held her in my arms, 
 loth to let her go, believing in her, though my 
 heart grew heavy at her words. "Of what ? " I 
 said impatiently, for as every minute flitted it 
 grew more difficult to combat my growing 
 terror. **0f what?" I repeated harshly, and 
 shook her not too gently by the arm. "Tell 
 me, or shall I ask Granby?" 
 
 She made no answer to my foul insinuation, 
 but twisted herself free of my embrace, and 
 would have gone swiftly into the house, leaving 
 me to my bitter thoughts, had I not stayed 
 her ; and in a great flood there leapt out the tale 
 of what I had witnessed, while she stared at me, 
 aghast at my knowledge. 
 
 " You think " she began, and could not 
 
 finish for very shame, while I vainly awaited the 
 words that should explain the mystery. 
 
 " What had your father said ? " I asked, filled 
 with scorn for the name by which I sought to 
 conjure her, yet grasping at any means to make 
 her speak. But she, with sobbing breath, bade 
 me never speak of him again, and broke away 
 
"PUNCHINELLO'* 24$ 
 
 I let her go, perceiving, finally, the futility of 
 endeavouring to coerce her ; but as she went the 
 tiny flame of my hope was extinguished, and I 
 knew her for what she was. 
 
 A few days passed, in which, to the best of 
 my belief, she had not met him. I watched her 
 with unnecessary vigilance, for I knew that 
 shortly he would bid her seek him at his house, 
 and that she would go ; but it seemed as if we all 
 waited in the hush of a coming storm. 
 
 Then one night, goaded by a passion that 
 turned my brain to madness, and in which all 
 prudential considerations were lost, I went and 
 waited for him at his gates, meaning to shoot 
 him as a dog ; but though I waited long, until 
 the darkness lay like a heavy pall on the earth, 
 he did not come, and I went home baffled, 
 praying patience. 
 
 Nan met me on my return, and in her I noted 
 a subtle change. She seemed the Nan I had 
 known in the past, with the shadow lifted from 
 her eyes, and some of the old joyous timbre in 
 her voice. 
 
 " Ooterwint is here ! " her voice came gaily to 
 me. "Where have you been, Anthony — lost 
 
^50 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 afield ? " And I wondered at her, learned 
 though I was in her sudden changes of mood. 
 
 I brushed past her, fearing her eyes, and 
 greeted Ooterwint, who stood behind her with 
 his wig pushed awry, and his face eloquent of 
 great tidings. 
 
 " Pack in haste, Master Anthony," he said to 
 me hurriedly, not heeding my greeting. " You 
 must be in Town before the week is passed," and 
 then burst into jubilant predictions, jumbling 
 possibilities and probabilities, talk of honours 
 and the necessity of speedy travelling, in hetero- 
 geneous speech. At length from very lack of 
 breath he was forced to pause, and I turned to 
 Nan, seeking an explanation. 
 
 " He says that you have a fair chance of 
 being elected organist at the Abbey." Her 
 eyes met mine, glad with congratulation, yet 
 with something of withholding in their gaze, as 
 if she feared me, and watched warily lest she 
 offend. 
 
 " You must be in Town as soon as possible." 
 Old Ooterwint was himself again, and his words 
 flowed fluently. "Why not you as well as 
 another? But you must catch the hour and 
 get the ear of His Majesty. The affair will be 
 settled in two months at farthest. Ah! poor 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 251 
 
 Hermann ! " he flung in tribute to the dead, 
 " to think that he should be no more ; " and here 
 he fetched a portentous sigh in a regret that 
 for- all its voluminous expression sounded fic- 
 titious. " And madam here," — he made my wife 
 a handsome bow, and smiled brightly, but I 
 noted that his jocundity was somewhat forced, 
 and I puzzled what he knew or guessed, — " And 
 madam," he repeated, " does she go to see the 
 fashions ? You will accompany him ? " he asked. 
 His gaze swept over her, and it seemed to me 
 his eyes grew strangely pitiful. And yet at 
 that moment she seemed no mark for com- 
 passion. Her cheeks were pink — painted with 
 excitement — her eyes bright, her pretty face 
 all aglow. 
 
 "Of course I go," she answered him, and 
 would have laid her hand on mine, but I 
 shrank back involuntarily, and her hand fell by 
 her side. Oh ! Nan — Nan ! Then she winced, 
 as if stung, but recovered herself gallantly, and 
 turned again to Ooterwint, and talked and 
 laughed as if she were ignorant of all care ; but 
 I had seen her lips blanch, and knew that she 
 understood. 
 
XVIII 
 
 HAD it not been for Ooterwint's unflagging 
 entreaties and commands, I doubt if I 
 had gone to London at this time, for all the 
 golden opportunity I should be missing. 
 
 The bent of my life was changed, and my 
 ambitions were sapped and dead. I had no 
 place for any emotion but the jealousy that de- 
 voured me and the hunger of revenge. Time 
 had be^n when I had spent many days and 
 nights, my brain fruitlessly planning and calcu- 
 lating how to strike at Granby without slurring 
 my wife's name. Now I would have shot him 
 in full glare of noon, and laughed to hear them 
 talk. 
 
 But it seemed as though he had divined my 
 thoughts, and evaded me. I watched my wife 
 as a cat does a mouse, but they apparently 
 appreciated their danger, and either endured a 
 temporary severance, or had discovered a way 
 of meeting unknown to me. Myself I believe 
 that he was content for the nonce to let her be, 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 253 
 
 knowing that he had but to lift his hand, and 
 she would come to him. He was by nature 
 cool and wary, and of a never-failing patience 
 where his ends were concerned. I imagined 
 him smiling quietly to himself at his facile 
 success ; he was no hot-headed fool to risk his 
 life or impede his wishes by a too hasty clear- 
 ance of impediment, else long ago he had 
 brushed me from his path, I knew. I was mad 
 — mad as any poor soul in Bedlam, tortured be- 
 yond endurance, and the keenest pang of my 
 anguish was the great love I bore her, that 
 seemed to grow and strengthen in proportion as 
 she became lost to me. I had indeed my hours 
 when I hated her, when I flung bitter taunts 
 and foul accusations, not choosing my words 
 over-carefully ; but surely her sobbing would 
 close my lips, and always in my extremest 
 bitterness there lurked the cruel knowledge that 
 I had done her an irrevocable wrong when I 
 took her to wife. Yet before God I had 
 dreamed that she loved me. 
 
 When at last Ooterwint prevailed, and I con- 
 sented to go to Town, her delight knew no 
 bounds. In my blindness I believed that it was 
 due to the increased opportunities it would 
 afford her of meeting Granby, who would 
 
254 " PUNCHINELLO " 
 
 assuredly follow her. I was mad, mad — and 
 
 now it is too late. 
 
 « « « 4^ « 
 
 We had been in Town the best part of a week, 
 and the ultimatum regarding the rival merits of 
 the candidates were still in abeyance. It was a 
 coveted post, and there was much talk of fav- 
 ouritism and influence, of angry jealousies, and 
 so forth— at least, so I read in that exquisite 
 biography. Myself I remember only Nan. 
 Vaguely, indeed, lies in my mind the remem- 
 brance of interviews and writings, of hearing 
 eager talk, but it is all more or less misty. But 
 clear as yesterday, indeed more sharply, I mind 
 each word and laugh of my wife's, her quick 
 interest, her gay delight. I mind how I winced 
 under curious eyes when we walked abroad ; 
 she so fair and gracious, I ! 
 
 She seemed to have flung the untoward past 
 behind her for the hour, and seized with avidity 
 such chance of gaiety as her health permitted. 
 And I noted that wherever she went men's eyes 
 lingered on her, telling the same tale that was 
 written in Cosmo's gaze that winter afternoon. 
 ^^ For jealousy is cruel as the graved The 
 sombre line haunted me, eternally whispering in 
 the stir and sunshine of the streets, speaking to 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 255 
 
 me in the silent night as I lay beside her ; she, 
 
 tossing restlessly and babbling of Cosmo, her 
 
 vigilance of the day availing her nothing. 
 « # » « « 
 
 Sometimes, when tortured beyond endurance, 
 I strive to wring comfort from the thought that 
 it was she who planned that pleasure-trip on 
 the river. At first I would not consent to take 
 her. Why, I cannot say, for I always humoured 
 her every whim ; and when she pressed me for 
 the why and wherefore of my refusal, I could 
 not ascribe it to any valid reason. An invinc- 
 ible repugnance bade me negative her prayers, 
 and please God, had I only been firm to the 
 end . . . but finally I succumbed to her 
 entreaties. 
 
 It was a gay day, trenching on the final lease 
 of summer, when we drifted down the sleepy 
 river, my sculls dropping slowly on the leaden 
 water. Some two years past, much in this 
 environment, I had been duped by Mistress 
 Marjory. As the remembrance crossed my 
 mind I fell to laughing loudly, thinking that 
 this time I was not so easily fooled, and Nancy 
 turned and looked at me curiously with fright- 
 ened eyes. 
 
 " What is it ? " she asked. 
 
256 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 Nothing," I said, and laughed again, while 
 she turned away with the old wan look of 
 trouble on her face ; but it was gone in a 
 moment, and she was teasing me to near the 
 bank to enable her to tear away a bunch of 
 guelder-rose. My mental picture gallery is set 
 with memories of that day. I see her dragging 
 the bough ruthlessly back, standing in a white 
 shower of scattered bloom, with face dimpling 
 with smiles at my remonstrances. I see her 
 stacking her hands with forget-me-nots, pushing 
 a posy into my coat, jesting all the while, fore- 
 stalling the terror to come, in gay teasing speech. 
 " How long would I live in your thoughts, Tony 
 — an the river took me, as was the sad fate of 
 the maid in the legend, and I flung you a 
 remembrance? — your Nan of the past would 
 be lost in the oratorio of the future." And 
 I, striving to meet her mood, denied it not, 
 but made merry with her, while mocking Death 
 stood by waiting. 
 
 She was not feigning — I know it. I cannot, 
 I will not doubt it. She had a happy hour 
 before the end. Oh, my beloved, to feel that 
 you did not go, glad to leave me, broken 
 by a burden too heavy for your bearing ; to 
 know that there were no false notes in your 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 257 
 
 laughter, no undercurrent of meaning in your 
 careless words. " How long shall I live in your 
 thoughts, an the river take me ? " How long ? 
 Eternity shall reply. Are you answered now, 
 my sweetheart? Your remembrance is naught 
 but a tiny shre'd of withered weed, a skeleton 
 thing half gone to dust, but to me it is blue 
 with flowers and dripping damply when I stare 
 at it. I feel an impatient hand thrusting itself 
 against me, and hear a petulant voice in clam- 
 orous insistence. Your touch was very sure, 
 my Nan ; did you know it was a parting gift, 
 that you fixed it so firmly and would not be 
 gainsaid ? 
 
 We had brought our meal with us, having 
 thought not to touch land until the day was 
 spent, and we ate and drank together, making 
 merry as two lovers, and never a shadow of 
 what had marred our life for so many weeks 
 darkened that day. Later it seemed to me as if 
 some premonition of what the future held must 
 have unconsciously influenced us to greedy 
 ravishment of the flying hours, bidding us crush 
 out their utmost sweetness. But they sped 
 swiftly on, the glory of the day began to fade, 
 and the west grew vivid-hued, and at last, 
 warned by the growing twilight, I turned and 
 
 R 
 
258 « PUNCHINELLO " 
 
 began to scull homewards. The gloaming dark- 
 ened rapidly, touching the river to mysterious 
 loveliness of fading light and quickening shade ; 
 the lap-lap of the water made music against the 
 sides of the boat, mixing with the plaintive 
 sighing of the osiers on the bafiks, and Nan's 
 talk began to come less trippingly, and she 
 shivered a little, as if chilled by the ghostly 
 beauty round her, staring silently at the flowing 
 water starred with white lily-cups, stretching 
 out an idle hand from time to time to snatch at 
 a floating bud. I tried to revert to the old 
 pleasantries, but the jests sounded stale, and for 
 all my trying the words stuck in my throat, and 
 my laughter rang discordant. At last, with a 
 tired sigh. Nan broke the long silence, during 
 which she had stared down at the river as 
 though she would pierce its depths. " I am 
 weary," she said, her head bent down, "so 
 weary." Her voice was full of tears. " The 
 river sings a lullaby. I could sleep to its croon 
 for ever, and never know another fret." She 
 leaned over, and her tears splashed on the water, 
 while I cried out to her impatiently that she be 
 careful — fearful of her change of mood, and 
 anxious to stop her words, believing in my mad- 
 ness that I was already familiar with her coming 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 259 
 
 talk. She settled herself in the stern and looked 
 at me with brilliant eyes, burning with a flame 
 that dried her tears, and her mouth narrowed 
 into a hard line. It was another Nan confront- 
 ing me to any I had ever known — a desperate, 
 driven woman with trapped, miserable eyes that 
 steadfastly sought my gaze. 
 
 " Anthony," she began, and her voice died. 
 " Anthony, for weeks past I have been trying to 
 tell you " 
 
 " Do not," I prayed her sharply ; " we have 
 been so happy. To-morrow " 
 
 " If not to-day," she broke out passionately, 
 "it will be never — never — never," and the 
 "waters caught the echo of her prophecy and 
 sang it in their splash ; it rustled in the rushes 
 the wind caught it and sent it flying over the 
 far stretch of fast-glooming upland, "never — 
 never." She bent forwards and wrung her 
 hands. " Help me, Tony," she cried, " question 
 me — by love of the old days, help me to set 
 my life aright again." 
 
 I stared at her, powerless to check her tale. 
 " I know — I know," I flung out. 
 
 " You do not" she said fiercely ; " you are 
 mad with your jealousy, Tony. Granby " 
 
 His name stung me to madness, and I stopped 
 
26o "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 her again most brutally. We drifted down the 
 waters in silence for a time, and when she next 
 spoke it was of some indifferent matter, and for 
 a space we talked of trifles. But always it 
 seemed to me as if she lingered on the brink of 
 a confession, and always I repulsed her, affecting 
 not to understarxi. I could not bear to hear it 
 from her own mouth. 
 
 Whether she would have told me the entire 
 truth, thereby changing the whole tenor of our 
 lives, I shall never know ; for as seizing a silence 
 in her feverish talk she bent towards me, seek- 
 ing vainly for words while her colour leapt and 
 paled, I heard a cry near me, and from behind 
 one of the islands with which the Thames is 
 studded a wherry shot forth, rowed by a drunken 
 man. In a moment he was on us. All might yet 
 have been well had not Nancy flung herself into 
 another seat to escape the sudden onslaught, 
 but she rose in panic and in a moment we were 
 all three struggling in the water, and beneath us 
 the weeds lay tangled in very death-traps. 
 
 Now the danger swept my mind clean of all 
 other thoughts save that of my wife's preserva- 
 tion, and when I rose choking from the water 
 my first idea was her safety. A few yards from 
 me the fool who had wrought this folly, now 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 261 
 
 temporarily sobered, spluttered oaths ; and just 
 past him was Nan struggling and clinging to 
 the upturned boat. " Tony ! " — the ghost of her 
 voice trembled on the water, and she strove to 
 come to me. In a moment I was beside her, 
 and at that moment my punishment began. 
 "For myself, I — do— not — care — " she gasped, 
 " but the other — " and her hands plucked at the 
 life she carried beneath her heart. " For myself 
 — I — do — not — care — " she who had been the 
 very incarnation of warm, beautiful life turning 
 indifferently to death as holding at least peace. 
 Now the remembrance of her despairing speech 
 gives another turn to the knife ; but at the time 
 I spoke impatiently in my terror, and my last 
 words — God forgive me — were sharp. 
 
 I shouted for help, but the night was already 
 on us, and there was no sign of any living soul 
 along the banks ; and when I strove to swim, the 
 weeds, like long snakes, twisted round my legs, 
 impeding my progress and snaring me the more 
 I struggled, while Nan, unconscious, pressed 
 heavily upon me. Then slowly, sickeningly, 
 the drunken brute who had brought us to this 
 pass began to drown. He had struck out towards 
 the bank, and was making fair way, when he 
 became entangled in the water-weeds, and 
 
262 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 stopped, powerless to free his legs. It was 
 awful to see him die, sucked slowly down by 
 the quiet-flowing river, hardly a ripple on it to 
 break its gleaming sheen. Overhead the white 
 moon hung like a benediction, turning the great 
 lily-cups to silver, and looking down remorse- 
 lessly on the drowning man below. As he 
 struggled he shrieked hideous blasphemies, and 
 from them lapsed into a mad prayer ; but he 
 only sank the quicker for his struggles, as if 
 Nature, intolerant of so foul a blot upon her 
 still loveliness, was hurried to its oblivion by 
 the frantic emphasis of his piteous plight. He 
 sank as if into a quicksand ; and a few seconds 
 later the river gleamed unsullied, with not a 
 fretted ripple to tell the tale. For all his end- 
 ing I knew that we must strive to reach the 
 shore ; the boat showed sign of sinking, and I 
 noted that it had sprung a slight leak where it 
 had teen struck. So, upholding Nan as best I 
 could, I made another effort, this time with 
 something more of success, and attained a few 
 lengths towards the bank. We were in one of 
 the widest parts of the river, and my heart sank 
 as I realized the distance. " We will soon be 
 safe," I lied intermittently to Nan ; but she was 
 unconscious, barred to pain, and I held only her 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 263 
 
 senseless body. I was but weakly, and every 
 stroke seemed as if it must be my last ; but I 
 struggled on, and gradually the distance less- 
 ened, and with possibility of safety recurred 
 something of the tumult into which Nan's 
 words had cast me, and by some accursed trick 
 of fortune I wondered for whom I was saving 
 her. I thrust the thought from me and held 
 her the tighter, but it would not be gainsaid, 
 and at every stroke that brought us nearer land 
 I heard the question louder. We were not four 
 lengths from the shore, when out of the murky 
 darkness stepped Cosmo, standing and stretch- 
 ing out triumphant hands — " an hallucina- 
 tion," they whisper, finger on lip, " mad." Ah, 
 mad indeed ! for as I looked I was knotted 
 afresh by the water-weed, and Nan loosened 
 from my arms, and this time I let her go — I 
 let her go. . . . 
 
 Only a moment's madness, and then I was 
 fighting wildly for freedom from the hellish 
 liens that bound me, fighting vainly, while be- 
 fore me, just out of my reach, Nancy was 
 sucked down to her death within a stone's- 
 throw of safety. The gleaming waters closed 
 over her head. My darling, it was an accident 
 — an accident born of a passing madness — yet 
 
264 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 in the glory of the skies another word sometimes 
 lies blazoned. I hear it in the roar of a crowd ; 
 it is whispered in the silence of solitude ; the 
 winds fling it wide ; in the breaking of the waves 
 it is screamed to the shore. I cannot evade it ; 
 all the world knows what the river and I did 
 between us, though to me men speak honeyed 
 words, pretending that the waters did their foul 
 work unaided. " It had taxed a strong man's 
 strength," they say, seeking to comfort me with 
 empty words — " you are but weakly," and the 
 old hated look of pity steals over their faces ; 
 and I, for the moment, I love it, and wring 
 gladness from the knowledge of the infirmity 
 that has blasted my life. I did my best ; what 
 am I to save a life ? No fault of mine, I cry to 
 my dead ; all man could do I did. There are 
 none to give me the lie, and yet — I know my- 
 self for what I am — I know what I did when I 
 pushed her away in that one mad moment when 
 my brain was all a-fire and Granby stretched 
 out willing hands to take my burden from me. 
 When the shades thicken, and the river-mists 
 rise, the gray ghosts of the river sob the truth ; 
 I hear it in strange lands proclaimed by alien 
 tongues ; it comes to me in the jocund tumult of 
 the spring, when the world lies pranked out in 
 
*^ PUNCHINELLO" 265 
 
 its fairest; I. hear it in the falling flutter of the 
 autumn leaves. The little children stare at me 
 affrighted, and their elders pass me by uneasily. 
 They know — they all know, though they will 
 not speak of it, preferring their weary comedy ; 
 but the truth clamours ever in my ears, for who, 
 though he cheat the whole world, shall salve his 
 heart with belief in his own lies ? Christ pity 
 me ! Once I wished her dead, and within the 
 year she lay with the heavy mould upon her 
 face, and her jangled requiem is for ever sound- 
 ing. " Such lovcy when lost^ is lost to all 
 eternity^ 
 
 * * in in * 
 
 As I write, the ashes of the dead past quicken 
 and glow, stinging my memory to over- keen 
 remembrance, and by such pain impeding the 
 telling of my tale. Fifty years have passed — 
 fifty years of toil and suffering, holding many 
 failures, yet rich in success and in the com- 
 mendation of men ; but of these things it is but 
 the wraiths that haunt me in a phantasmagoria 
 of misty shadows that ghost-like flit through 
 my brain, leaving my pulses unstirred. But 
 there are scenes branded into my very soul that 
 live quick and fresh as though but a sun had 
 set since their happening. 
 
266 "PUNCHINELLO'^ 
 
 It is night, and I stand beside a grave newly 
 carved in the earth ; a curious crowd is surging 
 in the churchyard, the yellow flicker of torches 
 makes fantastic shapes of the heavy tombstones 
 and uneven mounds that lie in their irregularity 
 as though the dead slept but fitfully beneath ; a 
 great bat flaps heavily through the air, and from 
 out the gloom of the woods the discordant note 
 of a corn-crake jars the silence and fuses with 
 the sobs of women ; now and again whis- 
 pered words of sympathy reach me, and I beat 
 down the laugh in my throat. Did they but 
 know ! but they did not know. Only once in 
 the lurid glare of a torch Ooterwint's eyes met 
 mine, and I read knowledge of the truth in his 
 stern gaze. 
 
 ^^ In the midst of life we are in death: of 
 whom may we seek for succour but of Thee ? " 
 
 A wind woke suddenly, and the long grasses 
 stirred and shivered on the graves as though 
 voicing the plea of those that lay prisoned 
 beneath — whispering — whispering to the in- 
 different skies and the silent stars. "But of 
 Thee, Lord — but of Thee" and the priest 
 droned on, " Deliver us not into the bitter pains 
 of eternal death." 
 
 Perhaps, after all, madness was working in 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 267 
 
 my brain, for it seemed to me that Nan's voice 
 cried aloud : " Deliver me not — deliver me 
 not " — her voice was sharp with terror. I could 
 not think that she was dead, and stretched out 
 staying hands when they lowered the coffin, 
 praying them desist from this monstrous wrong. 
 
 I remember that I was forcibly held back, 
 and that a woman cried out pitifully ; but I 
 broke away from their grasp, and would have 
 hurled myself into the grave had not Ooterwint 
 held me in a grip of iron. 
 
 God ! when the first earth rattled on her, was 
 it I who shrieked, understanding finally what I 
 had done ? What did the voice say ? " Blessed 
 are they that die in the Lord!" I could not 
 follow it. My mind was blurred to all under- 
 standing but of the black chasm at my feet, 
 and of my love that lay within. 
 
 It was over at last, and they would have 
 forced me to return with them, but I would not 
 leave her lying there alone, and at last even 
 Ooterwint tired, and left me alone with my 
 dead. For long hours I prayed her send me 
 some token of her presence, but the night 
 slipped on, and never a sign came for all my 
 crying, and at last, overcome with weariness, I 
 slept 
 
268 *^ PUNCHINELLO'* 
 
 When I awoke the stars had died, and the 
 east was glinting with the glory of the coming 
 day. As I stared stupidly, numbed with sleep, 
 a great shaft of light leapt from it, a bird began 
 to sing, and the world waked ; but she — she did 
 not wake. 
 
 The first days after the funeral lay heavily 
 blurred in my memory. I remember only that 
 Ooterwint rarely left me, and was for ever pray- 
 ing me return to my home, and that I could not 
 tear myself away from the place where she lay. 
 
 It seemed to me, as I waited by the roughly- 
 tossed earth that marked the new-made grave, 
 that she must know of my presence, and in my 
 madness I would cry to her deaf ears, be- 
 seeching her forgiveness, praying her have no 
 fear in her loneliness — she lying there deso- 
 late with her unborn child, shut away from all 
 the brightness that she had so loved. 
 
 At last, almost by force, Ooterwint took me 
 home, and as we neared the end of our long 
 journeying, the Nan I had left behind faded to 
 the unsubstantial fancy of a wrecked brain, and 
 almost I believed that she awaited me at home. 
 It could not be that she was dead, and that the 
 world bustled with its ' old cheerfulness ; the 
 
** PUNCHINELLO'* 269 
 
 jovial tones of the driver and the clang of the 
 horses' hoofs rang familiarly in my ears. Just 
 so had it been when she sat by my side some 
 two weeks past. It could not be that she was 
 dead. 
 
 Ah me, the heart-break of that home-coming ! 
 I faced it alone, praying Ooterwint leave me to 
 myself, which he did, unwillingly, begging me to 
 suffer his presence, but I would none of him. 
 
XIX 
 
 NOON of the next day I went to her 
 private room where she had been used 
 to write and work. I was drawn by a fasci- 
 nation that I was unable to resist to move 
 among things personal to her, to stand where 
 she had lately stood, to finger what her hands 
 had lately touched. 
 
 When I opened the door I fell back, for all 
 her occupations lay as she had left them in 
 her hurry — a book half-opened tossed upon a 
 table, a white tangle of work with a needle 
 thrust in it and a thimble beside it — I knew 
 what she had been stitching, and turned faint 
 where I stood. Despite myself, my hands 
 went out to it for love of her late contact, 
 and as I moved it a bunch of keys went rat- 
 tling to the ground. I picked them up me- 
 chanically, and as I did so noted that among 
 the heavier keys hung the tiny gilded one of 
 her escrit^ ire. 
 
 It flashed across my mind, as I laid them 
 
 270 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 271 
 
 aside, that sooner or later I must arrange these 
 things and look to her papers ; but in this hour 
 my will failed me ; it seemed as though the 
 last link was snapped between us when her 
 late environment, so eloquent of her past pre- 
 sence, was marshalled to order. 
 
 Perhaps she swayed me f om beyond the 
 grave, for when I would have gone from the 
 room, unable longer to endure it, I staggered, 
 blind with the rain in my eyes, against the 
 table, and again the keys fell at my feet. 
 
 This time, driven by a sudden impulse, I 
 turned and fitted them in the lock of her 
 desk. What did it matter what I found? It 
 was too late for repentance— for either of us. 
 Now, O God have mercy ! — I repent me. 
 
 There were no letters from her lover, only a 
 few papers and notes from my mother and Cecily, 
 and a tiny volume rose-bound with " Nan " 
 broidered on the cover in seed pearls. It was 
 her diary, telling sketchily of her life abroad 
 with mine uncle, but written with more fulness 
 of detail from the hour at which she came to 
 us. There was a page or so devoted to my 
 mother and Cecily, with an incidental mention 
 of my name. She wrote of me with a certain 
 petulant interest : — 
 
272 ** PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 " Anthony glowers at me as if I were some 
 strange beast. They tell me he is monstrous 
 clever, and most terribly sensitive on the sub- 
 ject of his crooked back. It is a cruel affliction, 
 but little noticeable when he is speaking of 
 what interests him — his great eyes lighten, his 
 face glows and you forget all. . . ." 
 
 She wrote no more till she came to the 
 episode of her dancing, and the arrival of the 
 Lady Agatha, which she related with much 
 spirit — Christ ! her jests tore my heart. 
 
 " To-day I danced to Tony's playing. What 
 sound ! what music ! My feet patter the 
 ground as I write, in sheer remembrance, and 
 all from handling a piece of wood and cat- 
 gut. He was monstrous tempersome when 
 I called it by this name, and would not 
 admit the beauty of my dancing. It is the 
 one thing in which I succeed, and I love to 
 hear it praised ; but when I said, * Is it well ? ' 
 he answered with nothing but a tepid * Fairly,' 
 and in hot discussion of the question we verged 
 on quarrelling. We stayed on the brink, how- 
 ever, for, with a fretted sigh, some grumble 
 regarding feminine unreasonableness, he let me 
 have my way. * Who shall contend with a 
 woman's tongue?' I heard him grunt beneath 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 273 
 
 his breath, but I affected not to hear. Though 
 I cannot keep from teasing him, there are times 
 when he brings a smart to my eyes. He told 
 me to-day of how a child had mocked him. 
 * Punchinello !' it had said, scoffing at his de- 
 formity. He told me the tale in the baldest 
 mode, in bitter, sneering tones, yet for all his 
 posing I heard the heart — break through the 
 mock, and I — I — almost I am ashamed to write 
 it — I kissed him. He looked so pitiful, and the 
 indifference covered his pain with so thin a 
 veneer. 
 
 " Methinks he liked it, for he tried to soften 
 me to another kiss, telling me the story afresh 
 with detail and a melancholy air ; but I saw 
 through his ruse — poor ingenuous Tony — and 
 would not. He is such a baby for all his 
 genius and tantrums. I cannot choose but 
 tease him. 'The lads in the village call 'it 
 after me,* he said, and sighed till the leaves 
 overhead fluttered. Now the mother told me 
 that five years ago a drunken man had done 
 this thing, and that the other lads had set upon 
 him and ducked him freely in the horsepond ; 
 but Tony looked at me unashamed, with head 
 a trifle askew. 
 
 " * Punchinello they call me,' he moaned — 
 
 S 
 
274 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 and waited. But I minded how ofttimes he 
 had jeered at women and their free lips, and 
 sprang away from him, praying him play his 
 brave dance again. Then it was, ' Call me 
 — Punchinello, and the smart will be gone 
 from the word.' Never was there such a lad 
 of whims and cranks, but pretty speeches are 
 indeed a fresh departure. He was so keen 
 set on it that I bargained with him — if he 
 would fiddle afresh I would twist my mouth 
 to the hideous word. To which he assented. 
 Oh, what a dance ! I could trip the whole day 
 to its measure." 
 
 Her lust of life and movement glittered 
 through the lines. Her rash phrase rang in my 
 ears. " Come weal or woe, how good it is to 
 be alive''' — and still I read : — 
 
 "While we were without on the lawns the 
 Lady Agatha arrived in her chaise, a wondrous 
 dame with daubed cheeks but a most exquisite 
 gown. It must be passing sweet to so rustle 
 with every step, and to wear nodding plumes 
 that wave with every motion of the head. 
 Were I so gowned and feathered, I would be 
 for ever whirling and bowing. Tony loved 
 her not ; in part, I fancy, because she goaded 
 me to tears regarding my dear Harry, but more, 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 275 
 
 I trow, because she be a woman. To list to 
 him one would think we were the devil's lures, 
 leading only to grief and sin. I fled from my 
 godmother, crying like a babe, and shortly Tony 
 followed me to bid me go back ; but we re- 
 turned not, and spent a pleasant hour in chat- 
 ting. Anthony looked at me not unkindly — 
 methinks his hatred of women is somewhat 
 superficial. I think — I do not know — I think 
 I might train him to toleration of our sex. It 
 seems a sad waste of his affections to spend 
 it all on music, however beautiful. I should 
 like a fragment, and most certainly he looked 
 not unkindly at me ! " 
 
 Swiftly I turned the page with shaking 
 hand : — 
 
 " Anthony has returned to Town — I miss him 
 terribly. Oft I wonder if he misses me. I 
 doubt it, living in a cloud of dreams as he 
 does. I wish " 
 
 She prattled of my return for a few days : 
 " Anthony comes to us for a brief stay — me- 
 thinks he is anxious regarding the mother, who 
 fails somewhat. I will wear my white taffeta, 
 and he will stare at me with solemn eyes, and 
 just when the pretty compliment should be 
 ripe he will turn his back and break out about 
 
276 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 the different schools of art. Tony is not 
 gallant. How I hate that music ! If it were 
 not for that, he would notice me more seri- 
 ously." 
 
 Then again a lapse, after which the pages 
 were filled with the history of her brief stay 
 in Town, and her regret that she never met 
 me in her gay circle ; then later a thanksgiving 
 that I had been rescued from the conflagration 
 of St. Mary's. 
 
 " Had he died, I could not have borne it," 
 she wrote. " He regards me little ; I — I love 
 him." 
 
 Truly, sweetheart, your vengeance was great ! 
 On — on it went — the laying bare of a white soul. 
 
 "To-day the Viscount Lothair made me a 
 handsome offer of his hand and heart. I de- 
 clined both ; not, I trust, discourteously, but I 
 could scarce keep my countenance. Lady 
 Agatha is furious. I go home to-morrow, 
 and I shall see Anthony. They speak of 
 him as of great promise, and I listen proudly. 
 Only one more day and night, and I shall 
 see him with mine own eyes. Though he re- 
 gard me not, caring for nought but crotchets 
 and quavers, he cannot help my loving him. 
 Perhaps — perhaps , , ." 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 277 
 
 Again a long hiatus — then some few scrawled 
 words telling of her great happiness when I 
 prayed her be my wife. 
 
 " Surely I am fearful by reason of the great- 
 ness of my joy ! Anthony — my dear, dear 
 love . . ." 
 
 The fragmentary lines were almost illegible, 
 scribbled carelessly, and often ceasing before 
 the sentence was closed, as though the writer 
 had known how vain a thing it was to attempt 
 to express her joys in words. As I read I 
 could see her writing, in gay impatience using 
 a tedious page for lack of happier confidant. 
 I saw her, too, with white face and dripping 
 hair ; yet I read, forcing myself further. 
 
 Of the first perfect months of our married 
 life there was little written. Just a word 
 telling she doubted such happiness could be. 
 Then she wrote of Granby's advent, and how 
 she desired to thank him in person, and I — 
 although I felt the dead beside me — laughed 
 with a strange mirth. 
 
 " To-day the hero who saved my Tony comes 
 to us. I am keen to thank him for delivering 
 my dear love from danger. Had he died — 
 I cannot think of it . . ." 
 
 I turned the page. 
 
278 •* PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 "Cosmo Granby is no other than Jasper 
 Ruthven. Why did he travel under an alias ? 
 What matter — to each his own affair ! I would 
 he looked not so boldly at me — my dear love 
 is all a-fire. Yet when I would check Master 
 Granby, I cannot. I remember he saved my 
 darling's life, and perforce bear his broad com- 
 pliments." 
 
 Here she drifted away to talk of other things, 
 to anxious noting of my mother's failing health 
 and fear that the snap of winter prove too 
 strong for her, with now and again an irritated 
 note of impatience at Granby, and a fond 
 toleration of my mad jealousy. Further, she 
 wrote : — 
 
 " My poor Anthony, it is a cruelty so to 
 tease him, but I cannot for the life of me 
 forbear. Master Granby has but to glance at 
 me, and his great eyes glow and his lips tighten 
 to a thin line. It is a wholesome discipline 
 for him nathless — I remember this and check 
 my desire to tell him that his little finger is 
 more to me than ten thousand handsome block- 
 heads of Granbys. My clever Anthony! It 
 is the greatest pity that he has this crank in 
 his brain touching the visitation with which 
 God has afflicted him — it touches madness. 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 279 
 
 The mother told me to-day that it was Granby 
 who mocked him as Punchinello when a child 
 — a brutal act, but surely atoned for by his 
 heroic saving of his life at St. Mary's. Tony 
 is terribly unforgiving. No doubt the wound 
 still gapes." 
 
 Here several days passed unmarked by 
 entries, and when again she wrote it was in 
 a graver vein. 
 
 " Anthony's moods try me terribly. It is in- 
 deed most curious that one so gifted should, 
 in these matters, act as a very child. Still, as 
 the dear God has so made him — perhaps, after 
 all, he cannot act otherwise. If it were not 
 so irritating, it would be intensely humorous. 
 He has hardly eyes or ears even for his 
 mother, whom he adores, but sits and glares 
 at Master Granby and myself with murder in 
 his face — my dear ridiculous love ! I cannot 
 but feel it would be well to let him glare 
 unnoted, but I cannot bear to see him look 
 unhappy. A few days past I happened to 
 glance suddenly up and found his eyes fixed 
 on me, and in them I saw a monstrous anguish, 
 and as I looked he rose and went out of the 
 room with bent head. There is a glass let 
 into the further wall of the parlour, and as 
 
28o "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 he passed he raised his head as if involuntarily, 
 and I saw him wince and cower before his 
 own reflection — mine own dear silly Tony. He 
 must be humoured. Adieu to Master Granby's 
 pretty speeches. I will be cautious, and treat 
 him with growing coldness, and he will no 
 doubt accept the hint. 
 
 " Tony has not glowered so furiously for the 
 last day or so, as I have striven to foist Master 
 Granby on to Cecily, but the position is still 
 rich in discomfort. Now Cosmo is irritated, 
 and not tardy in showing it, and Reuben too 
 looks not over-charmed. Still I care not. 
 Anthony looks happier and is in a more gra- 
 cious mood, and every day nears us to Cosmo's 
 departure." 
 
 Now there came a blank space ; and when 
 again she wrote, the pages were blistered with 
 the dropping of hot tears. 
 
 "The mother is dead. I can hardly realize 
 it, and miss her every hour. God never made 
 a better woman. It was terrible to see her 
 die, yet we could not wish the struggle pro- 
 longed, so acute was her agony, and somehow 
 it seemed to me not all physical, but as if some 
 trouble lay on her mind, and she would have 
 spoke it before she died. It was piteous to 
 
*» PUNCHINELLO" 281 
 
 see her fighting her weakness, and staring at 
 Tony with eyes all alive with meaning, yet 
 unable to articulate. Some word she spoke, 
 and he answered in rapid response, as though 
 he had known what she would say ; but he 
 had signed to Cecily and me to stand apart, 
 so I know not what she whispered. I would 
 she had not died with that terrible look of 
 unrest on her face — even death failed to iron 
 out the marks. 
 
 " Granby has left us, thank God, and gone 
 to his home : it is too near, stfll yet it is 
 something to have him away. He spoke when 
 he left us of soon coaching to Town — I pray 
 he may do it. Temporarily my mind was 
 wiped clear, by the sad fortune that has be- 
 fallen us, of the miserable hour that heralded 
 it. My heart flutters when I think of it. I 
 had not thought, for all Anthony's airs, that 
 the mischief rankled so deep. The day she 
 died Granby had gone out walking, and in his 
 absence Anthony took it upon himself to speak 
 to me regarding his attitude towards me. I 
 am not over-placid as to temper, and Anthony 
 is a very firebrand, so in five minutes we 
 had the makings of a very pretty quarrel. He 
 indeed irritated me so by his way of speaking 
 
282 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 — I might have been a damsel of ten years — 
 that I wept with rage, after which all was 
 well. I will remember it in future, 'Women's 
 weapons water-drops,' and most excellent 
 weapons too. I was just preparing to forgive 
 him — it seemed wiser not to rush at this 
 desirable end too soon ; my Tony must learn 
 something of manners — when the door opened, 
 and Granby strode in with a bunch of violets 
 in his hand. Now for all my good resolutions 
 I could not keep from teasing my love a trifle, 
 and I smiled with a touch of extra sweetness 
 at Cosmo as he moved towards me. He is 
 never tardy in his advances, and he marched 
 up to me and slipped the flowers in my girdle. 
 At this moment I glanced at Tony to mark 
 how he took the lesson. Ouf — never again ! 
 He may behave as he will for tl^ie future, I 
 instruct him no more. He looked a very devil, 
 his face twitching and his body bent forward 
 as though for a spring. I do not know what 
 would have happened had not at this moment 
 a cry sounded from above which sent me 
 flying up the stairs, followed on my heels by 
 him, to find the mother in extremity. I 
 would he had not this mania. When we were 
 first betrothed, the mother gave me a word of 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 283 
 
 warning regarding it, saying that it was due 
 in great part to his affliction, which makes 
 him feel that other men must assuredly pass 
 him on the road to the goal of any woman's 
 love. I was a brute to tease him. Nevermore ! " 
 
 Avid to learn, I yet could hardly turn the 
 leaves for terror of the coming knowledge. It 
 was as though her lips, sealed in life, now 
 spoke from the grave. Had I wronged her, 
 after all ? Yet I had seen her in his arms, 
 his kisses on her face : were there words in all 
 the world that could spell in that picture a 
 different story to the one I had read? Of a 
 spell of time there was no word ; and when 
 again she wrote, the shadow of her trouble was 
 looming large. 
 
 " I am sorely troubled ; I know not where to 
 turn. To-day, when walking at some distance 
 from home, I was waylaid by Granby. He 
 flung himself from his horse and kissed me 
 where I stood ; his mouth burns me now. In 
 my passion I struck him sharply on the cheek. 
 * 1 am no light o' love,' I said, scarce able to 
 speak for fury and fear. Had Tony chanced 
 to pass — I dare not think of it. His face grew 
 very evil. * No,' he sneered ; * stranger things 
 have been. The wise doctors have it that his 
 
284 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 ancestors live in each man — and woman. Boast 
 not too soon, Mistress Nancy ! ' and then in 
 his anger he burst out with a filthy tale — lies — 
 lies — lies. Yet I grow hot when I write it. 
 He said that my mother was a woman of the 
 streets, picked up by Harry for love of her 
 perfect face. * He had always a nice taste in 
 women,' he grinned, 'but she was fairer than 
 the last, — indeed, beat the record, — and there 
 were some winsome women among them, un- 
 less rumour lies with more than a thousand 
 tongues.' 
 
 "'You lie,* I said, forcing the words with 
 difficulty, for my brain seemed numbed as if 
 from a great blow ; ' Harry had never wedded 
 such a woman.' 
 
 " Here he burst into a roar of laughter. 
 * Harry Dallas wedded ! Dallas a Benedict ! 
 Though he loved you above all things, he 
 would never let you call him father — too 
 domestic ! If he heard that, he would laugh 
 for all the fires of hell.' He spoke in the heat 
 of his wrath, and as it cooled, he looked some- 
 what ashamed. 'There, think no more of it,' 
 he said ; ' why should we not be friends ? ' and 
 essayed to touch my hand, but I shuddered 
 away from him and would not. 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 285 
 
 " * You lie — you lie ! * I cried again. Long 
 had I struggled to say it, but the words seemed 
 frozen on my lips. And having voiced it I 
 was afraid and left him, while he, having some 
 grain of compassion, forbore to follow." 
 •X- * * ^e * 
 
 The book slipped from my hand, and I 
 looked through the windows at the brilliant 
 world without. A great creeper that covered 
 the house, tossed by a passing breeze, flung a 
 branch across the lattice ; the leaves painted 
 with their dying scarlet flush hung as in brilliant 
 defiance of the death that menaced them. 
 Silently they echoed Morturi te Salutant ; 
 the conceit pleased me. They had reddened 
 early this year, I reflected, for it was but the 
 end of August. External things laid hold on 
 me. Other trifles I noted — a worn patch on 
 the tapestry, a picture hanging terribly askew. 
 I rose and set it right. 
 
 It hung in line at last, and then I turned 
 and saw her words lying on the floor ; but I did 
 not move, for from where I stood the lines 
 were but as a faint blur, and I dared not 
 advance lest I should read further. 
 
 The lattice was not closed ; the air stirred 
 the pages till it seemed as though they were 
 
286 <* PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 informed with life and beckoned to me in mute 
 appeal. I read again : 
 
 " Fool that I was to hearken to such slander 
 of the dead. Here, safe at home, I sit and 
 laugh at the base malice that stimulated his 
 sluggish imagination to such mean revenge. 
 I would tell Tony if it were not for his temper. 
 I would do better to coax him to be civil to 
 Master Granby, not that I care what he may 
 say; yet at times — how shall I put it? I 
 am indifferent and anxious all in a breath. 
 If he were to speak to Anthony — and he is 
 malicious enough for aught — Jesus mercy ! 
 
 " I received a letter from Granby to-day, 
 praying my pardon, and begging me receive 
 him when he comes in person to offer his 
 apologies. Never will I receive him, the base 
 hound ! How dare he ask me ? I will speak 
 to Anthony. No, I dare not. Indeed, had 
 I the courage, I lack the heart. He is work- 
 ing very hard at an oratorio, and if it were not 
 for the shadow of our late loss he would be as 
 happy as these spring days are gay. Nature 
 is in her best mood ; the world is freshly painted 
 to meet the wear and tear of the new year ; the 
 skies are as great seas of blue, all flecked with 
 white, like the fretted edges of breaking waves, 
 
« PUNCHINELLO " 287 
 
 and everywhere the sap seems stirring. We 
 enjoy to the uttermost these fair days — my 
 Tony and L I would I could wipe from my 
 mind the memory of Cosmo Granby's brutal 
 insult. It was but idle fire and fury, yet it 
 haunts me. 
 
 " He has again sent me a letter by his ser- 
 vant. Again he threatens to come in person 
 if I will not meet him without In his epistle 
 he tells me that he has given the strictest 
 injunctions that it be given straight into mine 
 own hands ; and a foolish maid, of new service, 
 failing to hap on me instantly, left it lying in 
 the vestibule, where Tony chanced on it and 
 brought it to me. At the time I could barely 
 speak, my tongue clave to the roof of my 
 mouth ; but by the time we met at our mid- 
 day meal I had mastered myself, and brought 
 it out from my pocket and read him a page 
 or two in which Granby prattled of common 
 gossip. Excellently well I acted, talking and 
 laughing. My strength is more than I thought. 
 He suspects nothing ; but ah, how he hates 
 him ! If I were not so troubled, I could smile 
 at the remembrance of the crockery smashing 
 on the floor when I minded him that Granby 
 had saved his life. At the time my laughter 
 
288 « PUNCHINELLO '» 
 
 would not be checked ; even Anthony was in- 
 fected to such measure as wrung from him the 
 shadow of a smile. Granby writes that if I 
 will meet him in Taunton woods, he will show 
 me proofs incontestable of the truth of his foul 
 tale. I will not go ; and yet — Taunton woods 
 is five miles as the crow flies, a generous seven 
 as we trudge it. Anthony would never know, 
 and I should find out once and for all on what 
 fool's evidence Granby has manufactured this 
 foul lie." 
 
 My hands shook when I would have turned 
 the leaves ; the pages seemed glued together. 
 Did I pray the record break off short, and the 
 next leaf prove blank ? But there was more 
 to come. 
 
 "It is true — true ! O God, what shall I 
 do? If Anthony come to know! I went to 
 the woods and met him. At first he would 
 have ignored the subject and only prayed my 
 pardon, begging me again receive him at my 
 house. But when I told him that never again 
 should he stand under roof of mine he fell 
 to the old evil laugh, and brought from his 
 pocket a packet of letters, old, yellowed with 
 years, written by Harry to an uncle of Granby's. 
 Oh, shame — shame ! Till this day I was 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 289 
 
 ignorant of the meaning of the word, now I 
 cannot hold my head erect. If Anthony come 
 to know ! " The phrase beat as a pulse through 
 the history of her pain. 
 
 With monstrous difficulty I deciphered the 
 swerving, blotted lines, piecing together the 
 pathetic incoherent words, till the story of her 
 undoing lay clear before me. 
 
 " Ir these letters he tells of having found 
 the loveliest maid wandering in the streets of 
 Florence, and of having taken her to his house. 
 * It is good,' he writes, * to have a woman about 
 me again ; when one has grown habituated to 
 them, it is exceeding dreary without the frou- 
 frou of a skirt, and this one is passing lovely, 
 fairer than Netta Lascelles, and of more wit 
 than my little Spanish love.' He described 
 her beauty minutely, with an exact observance 
 that I cannot bring myself to write. It could 
 not be my Harry who wrote so obscenely. 
 Christ save me from madness ! He is writing 
 to an old friend, and is very free ; my face 
 burned as I read. I opened another letter, a 
 year later. * My beauty has tired of me, but 
 left me a tribute. Impossible though it sounds, 
 I am fond of the squawking brat ; it has its 
 mother's eyes and is of her sex. Poor little 
 
 T 
 
290 " PUNCHINELLO " 
 
 devil, it shall have a chance! I wrote to-day 
 to the Lady Agatha, my sister-in-law, to beg 
 her stand godparent, by proxy ; she had always 
 a soft place in her heart for scapegrace Harry. 
 My relatives think I have made a great match. 
 Ho, ho ! Laugh with me, old friend. I dare 
 not write to the Dallas tribe, though my brother 
 be dead. We split, he and I, when I tired of 
 Netta Lascelles.' 
 
 " Another letter he showed me. * I came to 
 hear of these letters,' he said, with a touch of 
 shame, * when through an affair it was de- 
 sirable that I should leave England for a time. 
 My uncle wrote to Dallas — here is the letter 
 you should have read first — the others fol- 
 lowed.' 
 
 " * I am sorry to hear that your nephew is in 
 trouble ; let him come and visit me under an 
 alias. Things will blow over, and I will take 
 heed to his welfare while he is in gay Florence.' 
 
 " What shall I do ? What shall I do ? The 
 world seems rocking. I cannot doubt him 
 longer. Incontrovertibly he speaks the truth. 
 When I had finished the letters and stood silent, 
 unable to move, he took me in his arms and 
 kissed me. I made no resistance. What am I ? 
 O God, if Tony come to know ! 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 291 
 
 " I returned home safely. Tony was in a 
 fantastic mood, he insisted on my reading a 
 foolish allegory, telling of a maid and a lily. 
 It seemed to me that he thrust, under cover of 
 this tale of hidden foulness, a hint at me. But 
 that cannot be. I am dazed with trouble, yet I 
 managed to match his humour, and belittleing 
 his choice, read him some gay verses that I 
 picked at random from out a volume lying by 
 his side." 
 
 Again a space in the narrative of events. 
 When she wrote again it was as if she had 
 passed through some severe crisis, and that 
 danger had nerved her wits.' 
 
 " I must coax those letters from him. To me 
 my mother wit ! Despair helped no man yet, and 
 in truth Granby is but a fool — such part of him 
 as is not a brute. Appeals to his compassion 
 are but waste of breath. Suppose I feign the 
 love he demands ; perhaps, being satisfied, he 
 will tire of me and quit this place." 
 
 The ignorance matched the innocence. I 
 could not choose but smile ; my sorrow and 
 my anger seemed things afar. I burned to read 
 faster, but oft-times the paper was blurred to 
 such extent as frayed my patience to rags. 
 Strangely cool and calm I felt ; the pages held 
 
292 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 me, and it seemed that other eyes than mine 
 traversed the lines, marching in time with my 
 reading, lingering where I lingered, hurrying 
 where I made speed. 
 
 " He bade me meet him to-night ; I was late 
 returning. Tony looked strangely at me, and 
 in my terror I reproached him for baseless 
 suspicions. Yet he had not accused me. Fool 
 — Fool — Fool ! 
 
 " A little more and I go mad. Cosmo is ever 
 in our house. My self-control is slipping from 
 me ; to-day I almost screamed for a passing 
 sound. I cannot think what ails me. I am 
 beset with fears and hopes. Is it because a 
 new life stirs within me? Or does a sick 
 fancy, born of distress, mock me? God 
 help me, I am with child. I had thought to 
 be so glad, and now I scarcely dare inform 
 Tony. He looks at me curiously, and there 
 is a lurking fury in his face that frightens me. 
 But he can know nothing ; I am full of fancies. 
 Yet surely it was no fancy when he flung me 
 from him to-night when I would have kissed 
 him. I am lonely — very lonely ; still I hope. 
 He knows nothing ; he meets Cosmo as though 
 he were his dear friend. I am afraid." 
 
 The room seemed strangely cold, yet without 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 293 
 
 the world was lapped in a flood of glaring sun- 
 shine, and the creeper blazed as though drenched 
 with blood. 
 
 " He knows, and all my endeavour is for 
 naught. To-day I told him of our coming 
 child — how long I have dreamed of this hour — 
 and he looked coldly at me. * Have you no 
 shame ? ' he said, and no word more." 
 
 For the life of me I could not resist look- 
 ing over my shoulder, but there was no one 
 there. I knew she would return, and read 
 on : — 
 
 " I have striven to tell him but he will not 
 hear, and I am afraid — afraid. If the mother 
 were alive she would help me. I write it 
 dreading no denial, for she is dead. In truth, 
 she would have loathed me. She had but one 
 word for sinning women and the fruit of their 
 love. I am ill, and terribly afraid. Anthony 
 regards .me as though I were a foul fester, 
 and a little while ago we were lovers still. 
 I must tell him — I must. But he and 
 Granby will quarrel, and what will the end 
 hold ? " 
 
 Again I was aware of the presence behind 
 me ; her breath was on my neck, the perfume 
 of her hair floated in the air as she leant over 
 
294 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 my shoulder with eager eyes that scanned the 
 page. I dare not turn for fear of affrighting 
 her ; but I spoke in the silence, anxious to re- 
 assure her. " Dear, I understand," I said, for 
 she was troubled I knew that in her hurry and 
 fever she had omitted something of moment. 
 
 " To-day Cosmo " 
 
 I filled the blank to the fulness of the insult 
 that had been too black for her to trace, and 
 remembered with a great joy that Granby lay 
 under no protecting earth. 
 
 " I have missed another chance of making my 
 confession, but the clouds are lifting. Tony 
 does not know, but he has seen us together — 
 now all is explained. This evening we sat 
 together in the shadows of the dying day, and 
 for all my endeavours my weakness overpowered 
 me. I felt that I could suffer my life no more. 
 Only half a word I said to him, but he met me 
 as though my cry had unsealed his lips, and 
 in a great flood of passionate words that tripped 
 each other up he told me of what he had seen ; 
 how he had watched our meetings and seen 
 Granby take me in his arms. Then the old 
 cry of his deformity. He should never have 
 wedded me, and for all his anger his voice 
 broke suddenly and he sobbed some vague 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 295 
 
 word of having undone my life. Only he had 
 believed I loved him. O God ! for all his 
 genius was there ever such a fool ? Now — now 
 in this most difficult hour, maddened as I am 
 by trouble, I could shake Tony as a froward 
 child for his foolishness. Of course, appearances 
 stand terribly against me ; but what are appear- 
 ances ? An Tony swore to me with his dying 
 breath that he loved me not, I should not 
 believe him, but should make excuses for his 
 folly in his dying as I do now for his folly in 
 his living. Who knows, his love may survive 
 even this ordeal. To hearken to him, a stranger 
 would think that we were wedded in the dark, 
 and that I first saw his crooked back after our 
 marriage was sealed and we were linked 
 together for better, for worse, for all our days. 
 My spirits are lighter, though I fled away from 
 him in tears, fearing every minute I should out 
 with the truth. I cannot bear to be lowered 
 in my love's eyes. How tell him ? No longer 
 will I remain under that devil's thumb! I 
 would I had told Tony at first ; my temporising 
 has availed me nothing ; and after the other 
 day — I blush in the dark when I think of it. 
 Yet, to be just, what could I expect ? Assuredly 
 if I do not tell him Cosmo will. * Your Lilli- 
 
296 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 putian has a proud spirit,' he crowed lately at 
 me. * I broke it once when a child, but it has 
 mended bravely, and is stiffer than of yore ; it 
 needs my care again.' 
 
 " The child is father to the man. The devil 
 who so torments me has changed in no whit 
 from the coward who jeered at my poor love's 
 deformity. I hate him, but all my hate is 
 powerless to wreak him the tiniest evil. What 
 shall I say to Tony — how begin? After all, 
 it is not my fault ; but he is so proud, so 
 sensitive. I can almost find it in my heart to 
 rejoice that the mother is no more ; she would 
 die of the shame. What will Cecily say ? She 
 is shortly to be wedded, and will drift out of 
 our lives ; perchance, she will never know — it 
 matters not. Suppose Anthony scorn me. Me- 
 thinks he would try to hide it, for he has a 
 generous heart and wounds no one willingly. 
 But I should discover it. 
 
 " I hope much from this new life, which I 
 pray may bind our two more firmly together. 
 Tony will forgive it for the child's sake. If 
 only I were not such a coward ! I cannot tell 
 him. I know not how to word it. It sounds 
 worse outspoken than dimly sketched in the 
 thoughts. It is terrible to be degraded in the 
 
" PUNCHINELLO »' 29? 
 
 eyes of those we love. I will not tell him. 
 No, coward that I am, whatever my story cost 
 me 1 must out with it." 
 
 I put my hand behind me seeking her, but 
 my fingers closed on space. Still I knew she 
 was there ; her gown rustled as she stepped 
 back a pace and eluded me. 
 
 " Indubitably the clouds are lifting ; almost 
 — almost I discern a finger of blue. Ooterwint 
 has been here in reference to the appointment 
 of organist at the Abbey ; it is a big plum, and 
 many hungry mouths are open to receive it 
 when it drops. He thinks Tony has a good 
 chance, but he must haste to town. He is, 
 indeed, very young, but Purcell was younger. 
 It is a long journey, and we start as soon as 
 possible. Adieu, Master Granby, for the 
 present. When we return " — surely a sob came 
 from behind my chair, but I could not look — 
 " Tony will know all — all — all^ and you may 
 do your worst. Perhaps, after all, he will not 
 be so sorely angered as I feared. All this time 
 I have fretted myself for naught, for he obviously 
 knows nothing, and is only jealous — this time, 
 I must admit, with reason. I have been a fool, 
 so has Tony. If I saw him kissing another 
 maid in the woods, straightway would I inquire 
 
298 «* PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 the reason, not sit, as is apparently the mode 
 of Tony, eating my heart out at a little distance, 
 and then, when some three months and two 
 weeks have passed, make a flare. I would 
 that the spring-tide was breaking, and that 
 the autumn and dark winter lay behind. I 
 should have a tiny advocate then to help my 
 cause ; but I must be brave. This is but 
 August, and it has still two weeks to run. I 
 have a feeling that all will yet be well, and this 
 time but a hideous nightmare of which we 
 shall never speak. 
 
 " We coach to town to-morrow. Anthony 
 is in a fearful temper, all glares and scowls, and 
 mostly spends his hours tramping the lanes. 
 I am beset with a fancy that he seeks Cosmo 
 Granby. To God we were away ! Granby 
 will not think it worth his while to follow us 
 for so short a space of time, and before we 
 return he will be powerless to harm me. How 
 proud I shall be if fortune favours Tony. My 
 mind swings between his possible success and 
 my trouble. 
 
 " It is a terrible thing to say to him, but 
 after all not so bad as what he suspects, and 
 it is not my fault. (Now I hardly believe it of 
 Harry, I love him still.) I could see he 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 2^9 
 
 believed nothing of my denial. Poor Tony ! I 
 
 wonder Granby is still alive. Still, what he 
 
 suspects is false, and so easier to bear. But 
 
 the truth, the hideous truth, and he fastidious, 
 
 sensitive to a fault. When I think of how I 
 
 welcomed Granby, seeing in him the means 
 
 by which my happiness had been preserved 
 
 to me, and how foul he has proved himself, 
 
 I could tear out the tongue that greeted him. 
 
 I hate him — hate him. If aught give me 
 
 courage it will be that I outwit his malice. Oft 
 
 I sit and seem to hear him pouring out his tale 
 
 to Tony, all adorned with gibes and sneers. 
 
 "What avails this waste of words? But it 
 
 relieves my heart. Without these pages me- 
 
 thinks I had gone mad. Here I register my 
 
 vow. Before we turn our backs on town, Tony 
 
 shall know all. No care can be worse than 
 
 this. I am very weary, and I have none 
 
 in whom to rest. Between my love and I 
 
 stands a great wall ; but it will not be for much 
 
 longer, and Tony and I have yet many fair 
 
 years before us in which to atone for this sad 
 
 waste of months." 
 
 « % « « 
 
 When I turned and would have kissed her, 
 and with sweet words made all well again, there 
 
300 "PUNCHINELLO '' 
 
 was only space, and Cosmo's grinning face 
 mouthing at me from out a corner. At last ! 
 I remember a great exultation leaping in my 
 veins, a wild rush at the phantom, and the 
 crash as my head met the wall. There was a 
 great hurry of people; and men held me, saying 
 I was mad ; and then a brief struggle, after 
 which for many days I knew nothing, not even 
 that my love was dead, but dreamed in my 
 delirium that she and I went drifting, drifting 
 down an eternal river, talking sweet foolishness 
 one to the other, and that suddenly the waters 
 rose and engulfed us, and Nancy cried " the 
 other " ; but I would not hear, and still she 
 struggled. And a great beast, with the face of 
 Cosmo, who lay upon the banks doubled with 
 laughter, gaily shrieked, "The courageous 
 Lilliputian ! " And there was no more water, 
 only land ; and a great crowd collected round 
 a newly-dug grave. The priest had the face 
 of Granby, and he seized the coffin and flung 
 it in the gloomy hole, and I knew that Nan 
 was within and would have stayed him. 
 " Deliver me not into the bitter pains of eternal 
 death " ; her voice was thick with sobs and 
 terror, but they held me back, and now it is 
 too late. 
 
XX 
 
 YEAR in, year out, I sought Cosmo Granby 
 and was for ever baffled, although there 
 were times when success seemed so near that I 
 paused on its threshold and whispered to my 
 dead — so she should sleep the easier — that soon 
 she would be avenged. Only in this long pro- 
 bation I learned patience, and for all the sicken- 
 ing failure of the year played no mad juggle 
 with my desire or rashly strove to wrest it from 
 the hand of Fate, but grew ever more stealthy 
 and unhurried, knowing that he who would win 
 must learn to fold his hands and wait. 
 
 I had followed him over weary continents, but 
 always it seemed as though some supernatural 
 power protected him, and though oft-times he 
 had but a few minutes start of me, still he kept 
 that start, and so we wandered, pursuer and 
 pursued, through the length and breadth of 
 Europe. 
 
 Once he was so near that I could have sobbed 
 for disappointment when, as ever, he eluded me. 
 
 301 
 
^2 " PUNCHINELLO ^» 
 
 One Easter-tide we kneeled together in St. 
 Peter's at Rome, but in the great multitude I 
 saw him not till the service was almost closed. 
 The Host was raised high and the crowds 
 abased themselves in adoration ; lower, lower 
 bent the heads of the people in the silence ; still, 
 individually, when the eyes travelled over the 
 closely-packed masses they seemed to swerve 
 and sway as though stirred by a silent wind. 
 Through the incense a bell sounded, telling of 
 the Presence, and in the monstrous tension of 
 the moment a woman's voice smote sharply 
 through the air. Startled, I lifted my eyes and 
 met Cosmo's gaze rivetted on me in a stare of 
 terror. I smiled back on him — long had I 
 waited for this hour — and tried to make my 
 way through the serried ranks of worshippers 
 that hemmed me in. He too rose and carved 
 his way out towards the great doors, indifferent 
 as I to the shocked stares and muttered execra- 
 tions that followed us. But when I reached 
 the exit he was gone, and though I searched 
 Rome, tramping the streets all day and half 
 the night till my limbs failed me and I could 
 do no more for very weariness, my search 
 availed me nothing. 
 
 When next I heard of him he was in Paris, and 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 303 
 
 thither I went, but too late. - It was a year 
 since my darling was done to death, and I was 
 starving for my vengeance, but seemed no 
 nearer to it than in the first weeks: 
 
 Then one day, when hope was burning very 
 low, God heard. 
 
 In despair I had returned to London and 
 was striving to stun remembrance with work. 
 Slowly the magic of my Art soothed me, and 
 there were times when my sorrow lifted for a 
 space and I was almost happy. But these were 
 brief interludes succeeded by hours the blacker 
 for the respite. 
 
 At this date an infectious fever was raging in 
 town, and men were falling like flies. It was a 
 fearful time ; for all went in terror of their neigh- 
 bours, regarding even their nearest and dearest 
 with suspicion, and there was hardly a house in 
 which death had not levied tribute. 
 
 One morning I woke, conscious of a curious 
 heaviness in my limbs and a racing pulse. They 
 were portents of the terror that was thinning the 
 streets, and for the moment I was seized with a 
 great fear that death might balk me of my de- 
 sire. But as the day advanced my strength re- 
 turned to me in measure, and cursing myself for 
 a weak fool I dragged myself from my bed, and 
 
304 " PUNCHINELLO " 
 
 pricked by a renewal of the old energy, again 
 took up my search. My limbs ached piteously, 
 almost refusing their office, but I was impelled 
 by a foreign force that urged me to renewed 
 effort as often as I lagged. Reasonless though 
 it was, it seemed to me that I heard a voice 
 murmuring courage, and that before the night 
 fell I should have attained my end. 
 
 The afternoon crept on, the gray shadows be- 
 gan to haze the world, and I had seen nothing. 
 
 Then suddenly my heart leaped into my 
 mouth, for walking down the Mall, indivi- 
 dualized from the passers-by on account of his 
 great height and heroic proportions, I imagined 
 I recognized Granby. 
 
 My futile stalking had taught me something 
 of strategy, and I shadowed the man carefully, 
 taking prodigious precautions against his sight- 
 ing me, and fingering at whiles the stiletto I al- 
 ways carried — I had learned the habit in Italy, 
 and it clung to me. He walked slowly, often 
 tarrying to exchange a greeting with an ac- 
 quaintance, and men looked after him with a 
 smile. As I gained on him a trifle I noticed 
 that he was much the worse for wine, and 
 staggered heavily in his gait. At last he left 
 the frequented parts and diverged into a side 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 305 
 
 street. I followed him with difficulty, striving 
 to knit my wits together as I went, for a re- 
 crudescence of the morning's symptoms held 
 me. My heart leaped and halted in great 
 bounds, as though it would burst my ribs ; I 
 burned and froze alternately, while a great nausea 
 overwhelmed me. At last mine enemy hurried 
 into a low coffee-house, and I lingered with- 
 out a moment, struggling to master my excite- 
 ment. I was about to enter when the man I 
 had followed hurriedly re-issued from the en- 
 trance and I found my eyes had played me 
 false — it was not Granby. 
 
 Something had apparently sobered him, for he 
 looked scared to death, and went flying up the 
 street as though an enemy were at his heels. 
 His likeness to my quarry was marvellous, but 
 in my passionate disappointment I paid little 
 heed to the curious resemblance and cursed my 
 easy gullibility. Now the zest of the chase was 
 over, and I again found my revenge resolved 
 into a vain mirage, my sickness overwhelmed 
 me with fresh violence. 
 
 Knowing the terror of infection that reigned 
 I doubted it being worth my while to seek re- 
 fuge in a public resort, and so at first made no 
 endeavour to enter the coffee-house. But the 
 
 II 
 
3o6 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 darkness was increasing rapidly, and my limbs 
 failed me when I strove to push on, and think- 
 ing that in common charity they would at least 
 seek me a hackney-coach, I pushed open the 
 door and entered. 
 
 Commonly full of chattering gossips, the 
 place was now deserted but for two servants, one 
 of whom as I entered approached me with 
 mouth all agape. " Sir," he began, but the 
 other stopped him, bidding him hold his peace, 
 and turning towards me asked what I wanted. 
 
 When I replied that a private room would 
 best suit my need, he pointed up the stairs and 
 mumbled directions that I did not catch, but 
 made no offer of practical guidance. I was too 
 glad to get a refuge to resent his incivility, and 
 stumbled up the flights with swimming head 
 and trembling knees. " Room number five ! " 
 he yelled at me as I reached the top, and I stood 
 in a darkness that mocked the pale gleam of 
 the lantern he had thrust into my hand. Four 
 — two — the numbers ran irregularly, printed in 
 confusing hieroglyphics that rendered their 
 value nil from a utilitarian point of view. I 
 staggered on till I came to what I imagined tc 
 represent a five, and pushed forward the door 
 with a sigh of thankfulness. 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 307 
 
 By careful generalling of the flickering light I 
 discerned that the room was untenanted and 
 marshalled to a severe and comfortless order. 
 The bed, pushed up against the wall, was covered 
 with a white sheet, the table was bare of all 
 necessaries, and a broken blind flapped restlessly 
 against the window. Still there was at least 
 quiet and peace, and flinging the door to behind 
 me, I staggered to the bed, my one thought a 
 pillow on which to lay my head. 
 
 The lantern I had dropped at the other end 
 of the room, and only the faintest flare glim- 
 mered upon the bed, on which the shadow of 
 the blind swept forwards and backwards, mak- 
 ing fantastic arabesques of light and shade. 
 
 For all the shifting shades it seemed to me as 
 I approached the bed that something lay 
 beneath the stretched linen, and I lifted the 
 sheet. 
 
 A dead man lay there with face turned to the 
 wall and spread arms flung wide, as if in one 
 last despairing fight for breath. 
 
 At this moment my first feeling was one of 
 anger that I should find myself thus cheated of 
 my bed ; my voice was weak as an infant's 
 when I tried to call for help, my strength was 
 ebbing fast Hardly could I drag the corpse 
 
3o8 " PUNCHINELLO " 
 
 from the bed of which it stood no longer in 
 need, and for which I so craved. The man was 
 obviously but lately dead, the rigour of death 
 was hardly on him, and as I dragged him in 
 futile weakness his head fell to the side, and his 
 eyes mad, tortured with a terror written in them 
 that mocked life in its quick intensity, met mine. 
 
 God ! O God ! Death had cheated me. 
 With his staring eyes and dropped jaw it was as 
 though Granby mocked me from beyond the 
 grave as he had mocked me in life that, as ever, 
 
 1 was impotent to harm him. 
 
 For the moment my strength returned, and 
 remembering my stiletto, with beast-like fury I 
 hacked and cut the mouth that had- so fouled 
 my darling and the eyes that had gloated on 
 her beauty, and with each stab I minded look 
 and word of hers. " O God ! " she had cried, 
 " if Anthony come to know ! " 
 
 I laughed and wept as I worked — so much 
 for her — so much for the unborn life — so much 
 for me. They were heavy items and swelled to 
 a handsome bill — what say you, Granby? It 
 was good work well done, but I cried to think 
 that there could come no crimson tide to mark 
 the hour. The fever fired me, bringing mocking 
 voices and strange faces in its train. Dead 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 309 
 
 Cosmo grinned at me with the mouth I had so 
 deftly widened, and on his slit lips hovered 
 " Punchinello," but his eyes were gone, and I 
 was penitent, regretting my hastiness. That 
 stare of terror had been balm to me — perhaps 
 after all he pafd the bill. What did he see 
 when he lay untended, slowly a-dying to print 
 an agony that scorned death's effacements ? 
 What did he see ? Perhaps only a girl with a 
 face like a flower and a voice that matched run- 
 ning water. Water ! Water ! 
 
 In my delirium I had dreamed of a great 
 flood, and as I worked lovingly, gardening his 
 face and tasting the moment to its fullest 
 savour, a great river poured into the room from 
 behind that flapping blind, and on it, undrowned, 
 was borne my sweetheart laughing — laughing as 
 she was swept past us ; but in her hands she 
 carried a dead child, and her face was white 
 and wild with pain. The walls of the room 
 faded away, and the great river in monstrous 
 rolling waves rushed to its goal — a grave. On 
 its edge she danced and flung wild kisses, and 
 Granby suddenly appeared and would have 
 taken her in his arms, but she flung herself 
 back with a great cry and went head-down into 
 the grav©. And Cosmo shovelled earth upon 
 
310 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 her— such heavy earfh and she so small — and 
 when I prayed him not, he mocked me in his 
 great strength. The scene changed — I was back 
 in God's acre by the river. . . . Darling, listen, 
 you have slept long enough. The east burns red 
 and the world is stirring from its sleep. . . . She 
 will not hear. ... A bird is carolling. ... But 
 she is deaf and still sleeps for all a man's mad 
 crying. Mad ! mad ! They shall not part us. Who 
 says '^Mad"} "This fever sends the bravest 
 brains reeling," says another. Oh, foolish words 
 they speak ! " Sir, I am not mad." Is that my 
 voice? It screams like a frightened woman's 
 pipe. "No, no," they whisper soothingly, and 
 part us, though I cling to him so lovingly — I 
 cannot bear to leave my work half done. The 
 wrong room ? The wrong room — if so it be, 
 the finger of God guided me. I will not let him 
 go ; but they are the stronger ; so we part. 
 Master Granby, till we meet again in Hell. 
 "Watch for me, for I shall surely come," I 
 whispered where his ears had been ; but they 
 dragged me away with their foolish cry of 
 " mad," and flung the sheet again over the thing 
 on the bed. 
 
 «   « « 
 
 For, one long year my brain was numbed to 
 
"PUNCfflNELLO'^ 311 
 
 all things, and I moved among men as a ghost 
 —among them, not of them — with difficulty 
 grasping the meaning of their commonest 
 phrases and acts, and indifferent to the curious 
 glances cast askance at me, indifferent when 
 with pursed lips and nodding heads they called 
 me mad ; indifferent when Reuben, weeping, 
 brought me tidings that my sister bade fair to 
 slip away in the throes of her travail ; indiffer- 
 ent when the scale turned in her favour and he 
 sang aloud for joy hanging over the little life 
 that had threatened to cost so dear. These 
 things touched me not ; what had I to do with 
 hope or despair ? But in my mind there lay, I 
 knew, a covered place, and sometimes, as I grew 
 stronger and my memory strengthened, it be- 
 came more and more difficult to ignore it. 
 
 At last it was no longer possible, and the 
 ghosts of my past clamoured round me and 
 would no more be silenced, and I understood 
 why men looked queerly at me. 
 
 Now, as once before, my music saved me, and 
 I travelled and studied, flinging myself into my 
 work with the energy of despair lest that little 
 word which men mixed so freely with talk of 
 me, come to be true, and I indeed go mad. 
 Striving, striving, always striving to forget, 
 
312 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 the years fled after one another, my youth, my 
 strength passed, and I grew old and white ; but 
 I had not forgotten, although my ceaseless en- 
 deavour, that filled every hour with work, and 
 left no nook or cranny in which thought could 
 creep, kept my madness at bay. Success came 
 to me, more than I had ever sought or dreamed ; 
 success that outstripped the furthest length of 
 the ambitious programme of my childhood ; 
 success that frightened me, foreseeing as I did 
 a time when all goals attained and the zest of 
 endeavour past I should be left the prey of my 
 memories. Yet never have I lost the sense of 
 detachment with life, or shaken myself free of a 
 feeling that in truth my life ended some fifty 
 years ago, and that what has since passed is but 
 a string of dry events, episodes and incidents 
 in which I have played an automatic part, even 
 to an ugly trick played on a dead face. To 
 men I live ; to myself I died one fair day in a 
 long past summer ; died, while the world lay 
 without a painted picture of delight, and a trail- 
 ing creeper flung scarlet tendrils across the 
 open lattice ; died while my fingers turned the 
 pages of a girl's foolish tragedy. Heart of my 
 heart ! is it not the truth ? What have the 
 years held but a great emptiness for all the 
 
" PUNCHINELLO " 313 
 
 seeming flare and flash, and it has availed 
 nothing to its end. For I have not forgotten, 
 neither seemingly have you, my darling, though 
 you are over chary of your presence. Dear, 
 the days and nights outvie each other in length 
 — I am very desolate — and you come but rarely. 
 Hush, what am I writing i* — vapouring wildly 
 as ever when I should write carefully, nor give 
 men chaJnce to scoff or call me mad. My bio- 
 grapher would hold his shaking sides did his 
 eyes fall on this poor supplement to his grand 
 volume. He brought it to me half finished, that 
 I might correct the dates and lend verisimili- 
 tude to his graceful legends. Here I read what 
 formed my staple food — there what style I 
 favoured in the fashion of my coat — of a falling 
 off in my work, of a stupendous recovery. A 
 good biographer, how cleverly he writes, lending, 
 as is the way of biographers, momentousness 
 to nothings, and deep meaning to veriest 
 platitudes. No doubt it will present a fair 
 appearance when, handsomely bound, with his 
 patter lying in generously margined pages, it 
 goes forth to kind readers. I have seen other 
 volumes and wondered at the poverty of the 
 lives described ; perhaps they also had a supple- 
 ment by the subject that held the gist. 
 
314 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 Fool that I am (as my dear one wrote) even 
 now with the end of my — shall I say supple- 
 ment ? — so near, I cannot keep in line, but must 
 needs rush on only to slink back. Why do I 
 drivel of her presence? She is dead — lying 
 among thousands such with a green grass above 
 her that speaks by its luxuriance of ugly things 
 below ; not far from her flows the river, the 
 perfect flowing river that smiles so sweetly, yet 
 beneath which lie the green weeds waiting — only 
 waiting — for their prey. 
 
 Perhaps, as the generous majority has it, my 
 brain began to fail again. It matters not the 
 reason. Suffice it to say that five years ago, as 
 I sat in my rooms at Bruxelles watching the 
 gay tide of foreign life slip past, a great desire 
 to re-visit the home that I had not seen for so 
 many years came over me ; it was an irresisti- 
 ble impulse that refused to be gainsaid, and I, 
 knowing well that I did foolishly to rend open 
 wounds so lightly healed, yet obeyed it. 
 
 I came home in the chill of the early spring, 
 and walked again in the old paths where I had 
 so often wandered with my love. The chill 
 bands of the winter tide still held the world ; 
 the sap of new life stirred but weakly in the 
 budding branches. Though the days were 
 
"PUNCHINELLO" 315 
 
 drear and desolate, with but scant promise of 
 the coming glory, I could not withstand the 
 charm that held me. 
 
 Down that long path, bordered by brown 
 earth, tortured to fantastic pattern, all starred by 
 breaking crocuses, she had rushed with quick, 
 light steps. As I stared with drenched eyes at 
 the straight stems crowned with gay cups of 
 colour, I minded how she had loved these bright 
 heralds of spring. Nan ! Nan ! 
 
 On the bare lawns she had oft-times wan- 
 dered, walking pensively on their gay summer 
 carpet, pulling apart poor daisies. Once on the 
 tender sward that cheated foot-falls, I had fol- 
 lowed her unperceived, "// m'aime" she had 
 been muttering; "il m'aime^ un peUy beaucoupy 
 passionhnenty pas du tout" The gold heart, 
 bereft of petals, had been flung angrily over 
 her shoulders and struck me in the face. Dost 
 mind, sweetheart ? 
 
 Within it was worse, for the shallow stairs 
 still held the clatter of her high-heeled shoes, 
 and the passages were haunted by the rustle of 
 her gown. In that great chair she had sat when 
 first I saw her ; there we had quarrelled, and 
 here we had made our peace again. My coming 
 meant the agony of a resurrection ; yet for 
 
3i6 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 all the pain I could not tear myself away, and 
 lived on in the old house till spring had come 
 and gone and the earth lay brown and burned 
 under a summer blaze of sun. 
 
 One afternoon I wrote at my desk as was my 
 habit ; but strive as I might I could not nail my 
 attention to my work. Against the present, the 
 might-have-been lay pitilessly contrasted. I 
 was too old to fight the unequal contest with 
 memory, but gave myself up to dreams. Now, 
 whenever my wits refused to work, I let myself 
 go, and my imagination ran riot, picturing the 
 past, revelling with exquisite torture in what 
 the present might have held. 
 
 The long years had wrought no change ; from 
 where I sat I could see the rise of ground where 
 she had danced that summer day ; the glory of 
 the gorse lay in wide yellow sheets, the shadows 
 wavered on the lawns. 
 
 Moved by a desire to live again, as much as 
 lay ix} my power, that scene of long ago, I 
 went without into the garden taking my violin 
 to play the music to which my darling had 
 danced in the far past. The notes broke 
 through the air, and as I played I saw — as 
 there is a God above us — I saw my dead love 
 dancing, her red skirts flying wide, the twinkle 
 
"PUNCHINELLO'^ 31? 
 
 of the shoe-buckles flashing silverly on her 
 feet that moved gaily to the rhythm of the 
 time. As clearly as I perceive this white paper 
 and its wavering lines, I saw my Nan, and as 
 I looked it seemed to me her lips stirred, and 
 with the clash of the closing phrase her voice 
 came to me. " Bravo ! Bravo ! Punchinello ! " 
 she cried, and then was gone. 
 
 They say I am mad — but I am not mad. I 
 saw her then, I have often seen her since, and 
 my sorrow lies the lighter. Would she come had 
 she not forgiven me ? I cannot think it. Such 
 love when lost is lost to all eternity. We 
 know better — she and I. 
 
 Yet one great flaw mars this joy. The dead 
 are held to come in shadowy lights when the 
 world lies hushed, creeping through the mists of 
 twilight or when night veils the earth. But my 
 love comes only to me when the sun blazes 
 high and the world lies in the full glare of the 
 summertide — one little space in the year. I 
 am happy then, but for long long months I 
 watch desolate and she comes not, neither at 
 any time is she near me, and if I would approach 
 her she is gone. Still I see her and I hear her 
 voice, and for my love of these things I am 
 afraid to die; lest I know them no more. 
 
3i8 "PUNCHINELLO" 
 
 What to me is Heaven or Hell ?. I live only 
 for the hour when I see you dancing, my pretty 
 Nan, with the gilded slopes behind you ; 
 dancing on the dappled lawns while flickering 
 shadows make a moving mosaic beneath your 
 feet, and the winds ruffle your curls, dancing, 
 dancing till you can dance no more and you 
 fling a kiss to me. " Bravo ! " you cry. I 
 hear the tinkle of your laughter. " Bravo ! 
 Bravo ! " the gay notes of your voice leap the 
 long years and make music in my brain, 
 "Bravo! Bravo! Punchinello 1" 
 
 FINLS, 
 
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6 L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY'S 
 
 Punchinello. By Florence Stuart. 
 
 Library i2mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 325 pages . 1 1.50 
 
 A love story of intense power and pathos. The hero is a hunch- 
 -back (Punchinello), who wins the love of a beautiful young girl. 
 Her sudden death, due indirectly to his jealousy, and the discovery 
 that she had never faltered in her love for him, combine to unbalance 
 his mind. The poetic style relieves the sadness of the story, and 
 the reader is impressed with the power and brilliancy of its concep- 
 tion, as well as with the beauty and grace of the execution. 
 
 The Golden Fleece, Translated from the French of 
 Amedee Achard, author of "The Huguenot's Love," etc. 
 Illustrated by Victor A. Searles. 
 Library 1 2mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 450 pages . I1.50 
 
 Amedee Achard was a contemporary writer of Dumas, and his 
 romances are very similar to those of that great writer. "The 
 Golden Fleece " compares favorably with " The Three Musketeers " 
 and the other D'Artagnan romances. The story relates the adven- 
 tures of a young Gascon gentleman, an officer in the army sent by 
 Louis XIV. to assist the Austrians in repelling the Turkish Invasion 
 under the celebrated Achmet Kiuperli. 
 
 The Qood Ship York. By w. clark russell. 
 
 Author of " The Wreck of the Grosvenor," " A Sailor's Sweet- 
 heart," etc. 
 Library i2mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 350 pages $1 50 
 
 A romantic and exciting sea tale, equal to the best work of this 
 famous writer, relating the momentous voyage of the clipper ship 
 York, and the adventures that befell Julia Armstrong, a passenger, 
 and George Hardy, the chief mate. 
 
 " Mr. Russell has no rival in the line of marine fiction." — Mail and Express. 
 
 Tom Ossington's Qhost. By richard marsh. 
 
 Author of " Frivolities," " Ada Vernham, Actress," etc. Illus- 
 trated by Harold Pifford. 
 Library i2mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 325 pages . $1.50 
 
 " I read ' Tom Ossington's Ghost ' the other night, and was afraid to go up-stairs 
 in the dark after it." — Truth. 
 
 "An entrancing book, but people with weak nerves had better not read it at 
 night." — To-day. 
 
 " Mr. Marsh has been inspired by an entirely original idea, and has worked it out 
 with great ingenuity. We like the weird but not repulsive story better than anything 
 ke has ever done." — World. 
 
LIST OF NEW FICTION 
 
 The Glory and Sorrow of Norwich. By 
 
 M. M. Blake. 
 Author of " The Blues and the Brigands," etc., etc., with 
 
 twelve full-page illustrations. 
 Library lamo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 315 pages . $1.50 
 
 The hero of this romance, Sir John de Reppes, is an actual 
 personage, and throughout the characters and incidents are instinct 
 with the spirit of the age, as related in the chronicles of Froissart. 
 Its main claim for attention, however, is in the graphic representa- 
 tion of the age of chivalry which it gives, forming a series of brilliant 
 and fascinating pictures of mediaeval England, its habits of thought 
 and manner of life, which live in the mind for many a day after 
 perusal, and assist to a clearer conception of what is one of the most 
 charming and picturesque epochs of history. 
 
 The riistress of JTlaidenwood. By hulbert 
 
 Fuller. 
 Author of " Vivian of Virginia," " God's Rebel," etc. 
 Library 1 2mo, cloth decorative, 350 pages . . . I1.50 
 A stirring historical romance of the American Revolution, the 
 scene of which for the most part being laid in and about the debatable 
 ground in the vicinity of New York City. 
 
 Dauntless, a tale of a lost cause. By Captain Ewan 
 
 Martin. 
 Author of " The Knight of King's Guard." 
 Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 400 pages, illustrated . ^1.50 
 
 A stirring romance of the days of Charles I. and Cromwell in 
 England and Ireland. In its general character the book invites 
 comparison with Scott's " Waverley." It well sustains the reputa- 
 tion gained by Captain Martin from " The Knight of King's Guard." 
 
 The Flame of Life. (Il Fuoco.) Translated from 
 
 the Italian of Gabriel D'Annunzio, author of " Triumph of 
 
 Death," etc., by Kassandra Vivaria, author of "Via 
 
 Lucis." 
 
 Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 350 pages . . . I1.50 
 
 This is the first volume in the Third Trilogy, "The Romances 
 of the Pomegranate," of the three announced by the great Italian 
 writer. We were fortunate in securing the book, and also in securing 
 the services as translator of the talented author of "Via Lucis," 
 herself an Italian by birth. 
 
Selections from 
 
 L* C. Page and Company's 
 
 List of Fiction* 
 
 An Enemy to the King, {Thirtieth Thousand.) 
 From the Recently Discovered Memoirs of the 
 
 SlEUR DE LA TOURNOIRE. By ROBERT NeILSON STE- 
 PHENS. 
 
 Illustrated by H. De M. Young. 
 
 Library i2mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 460 pages . $1.50 
 
 " Brilliant as a play ; it is equally brilliant as a romantic novel." — Philadelphia 
 Press. 
 
 " Those who love chivalry, fighting, and intrigue will find it, and of good quality, 
 in this book." — New York Critic. 
 
 The Continental Dragoon. (Eighteenth Thousand.) 
 
 A Romance of Philipse Manor House, in 1778. By 
 
 Robert Neilson Stephens. 
 
 Author of " An Enemy to the King.** 
 
 Illustrated by H. C. Edwards. 
 
 Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 300 pages . . . $1.50 
 
 " It has the sterling qualities of strong dramatic writing, and ranks among the 
 most spirited and ably written historical romances of the season. An impulsive ap- 
 preciation of a soldier who is a soldier, a man who is a man, a hero who is a hero, is 
 one of the most captivating of Mr. Stephens's charms of manner and style." — 
 Boston Herald. 
 
 The Road to Paris. {Sixteenth Thousand.) By Robert 
 Neilson Stephens. 
 
 Author of " An Enemy to the King," " The Continental Dra- 
 goon," etc. 
 
 Illustrated by H. C. Edwards. 
 
 Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 500 pages . . . $1.50 
 
 " Vivid and picturesque in style, well conceived and full of action, the novel is 
 absorbing from cover to cover." — Philadelphia Public Ledger. 
 
 " In the line of historical romance, few books of the season will equal Robert 
 Neilson Stephens's ' The Road to Paris.' " — Cincinnati Times-Star. 
 
L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY'S 
 
 A Qentleman Player. {Thirty-fifth Thousand.) ms 
 
 Adventures on a Secret Mission for Queen Eliza- 
 beth. By Robert Neilson Stephens. 
 
 Author of " An Enemy to the King," " The Continental Dra- 
 goon," " The Road to Paris," etc. 
 
 Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill. 
 
 Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 450 pages . . . fi.50 
 
 " A thrilling historical romance. ; . : It is a well-told tale of mingled romance 
 and history, and the reader throughout unconsciously joins in the flight and thrills 
 with the excitement of the dangers and adventures that befall the fugitives." — 
 Chicago Tribune. 
 
 " ' A Gentleman Player ' is well conceived and well told." — Boston Journal. 
 
 Rose ^ Charlitte. {Eighth Thousand:) An Acadien 
 
 Romance. By Marshall SaunderSo 
 
 Author of " Beautiful Joe," etc. 
 
 Illustrated by H. De M. Young. 
 
 Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 500 pages . . . f i-50 
 
 "A very fine novel we unhesitatingly pronounce it ; . . one of the books that 
 stamp themselves at once upon the imagination and remain imbedded in the memory 
 long after the covers are closed." — Literary World, Boston. 
 
 Deficient Saints, a tale of Maine. By Marshall 
 
 Saunders. 
 
 Author of " Rose a Charlitte," " Beautiful Joe," etc. 
 
 Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill. 
 
 Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 400 pages . . . f 1.50 
 
 " The tale is altogether delightful ; it is vitally charming and expresses a quiet 
 power that sparkles with all sorts of versatile beauty." — Boston Ideas. 
 
 Her Sailor, a novel. By Marshall Saunders. 
 Author of " Rose a Charlitte," " Beautiful Joe," etc. 
 Library i2mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 325 pages $1-25 
 
 A story of modern life of great charm and pathos, dealing with 
 the love affairs of an American girl and a naval officer. 
 
 "A love story, refreshing and sweet." — Utica Herald. 
 
 " The wayward petulance of the maiden, who half-resents the matter-of-course 
 wooing and wedding, her graceful coquetry, and final capitulation are prettily told, 
 making a fine character sketch and an entertaining story." — Bookseller, Chicago. 
 
LIST OF FICTION 
 
 Pretty M.icha.1. a romance of Hungary. By Maurus 
 
 JOKAI. 
 
 Author of « Black Diamonds," " The Green Book," " Midst the 
 Wild Carpathians," etc. 
 
 Authorized translation by R. Nisbet Bain. 
 
 Illustrated with a photogravure frontispiece of the great Mag- 
 yar writer. 
 
 Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 325 pages . . . )?i.50 
 
 " It is at once a spirited tale of * border chivalry,' a charming love story full of 
 ! poetry, and a graphic picture of life in a country and at a period both equally 
 English readers." — Literary World, London. 
 
 genuine 
 new to " 
 
 Midst the Wild Carpathians. By maurus 
 
 JOKAI. 
 
 Author of " Black Diamonds," " The Lion of Janina," etc. 
 
 Authorized translation by R. Nisbet Bain. 
 
 Illustrated by J. W. Kennedy. 
 
 Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 300 pages . . . j?i.25 
 
 " The story is absorbingly interesting and displays all the virility of Jokai's 
 powers, his genius of description, his keenness of characterization, his subUety of 
 humor, and his consummate art in the progression of the novel from one apparent 
 climax to another." — Chicago Evening Post. 
 
 In Kings' Houses, a romance of the reign of 
 
 Queen Anne. By Julia C. R. Dorr. 
 Author of *' A Cathedral Pilgrimage," etc. 
 Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill. 
 Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 400 pages . . . $1.50 
 
 " We close the book with a wish that the author may write more romances of the 
 history of England which she knows so well." — Bookman, New York. 
 
 "A fine strong story which is a relief to come upon. Related with charming, 
 simple art." — Philadelphia Public Ledger. 
 
 Omar the Tentmal^er. a romance of old 
 
 Persia. By Nathan Haskell Dole. 
 Illustrated by F. T. Merrill. 
 Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 350 pages . . . %^-S'^ 
 
 "The story itself is beautiful and it is beautifully written. It possesses the true 
 spirit of romance, and is almost poetical in form. The author has undoubtedly been 
 inspired by his admiration for the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam to wTite this story of 
 which Omar is the hero." — Troy Times. 
 
 " Mr. Dole has built a delightful romance." — Chicago Chronicle. 
 
 " It is a strong and vividly written story, full of the life and spirit of romance." — 
 New Orleans Picayune. 
 
L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY S 
 
 ManderS. a tale of Paris. By Elwyn Barron. 
 
 Library i2mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 350 pages $1.50 
 
 " Bright descriptions of student life in Paris, sympathetic views of human frailty, 
 and a dash of dramatic force, combine to form an attractive story. The book contains 
 some very strong scenes, plenty of life and color, and a pleasant tinge of humor. 
 ... It has grip, picturesqueness, and vivacity." — The Speaker, London. 
 
 "A study of deep human interest, in which pathos and humor both play their 
 parts. The descriptions of life in the Quartier Latin are distinguished for their 
 freshness and liveliness." — St.Jatnes Gazette, London. 
 
 " A romance sweet as violets." — Town Topics, New York. 
 
 In Old New York, a romance. By Wilson Bar- 
 rett, author of " The Sign of the Cross," etc., and Elwyn 
 Barron, author of " Manders." 
 Library i2mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 350 pages ^1.50 
 
 " A novel of great interest and vigor." — Philadelphia Inquirer. 
 
 " * In Old New York ' is worthy of its distinguished authors." — Chicago Times- 
 Herald. 
 
 " Intensely interesting. It has an historical flavor that gives it a substantial value." 
 — Boston Globe. 
 
 The Qolden Dog. a romance of Quebec. By 
 
 William Kirby. 
 
 New authorized edition. 
 
 Illustrated by J. W. Kennedy. 
 
 Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 620 pages . . , $1.25 
 
 " A powerful romance of love, intrigue, and adventure in the time of Louis XV, 
 and Mme. de Pompadour, when the French colonies were making their great 
 struggle to retain for an ungrateful court the fairest jewels in the colonial diadem of 
 France." — New York Herald. 
 
 The Knight of King's Guard, a romance of 
 
 the Days of the Black Prince. By Ewan Martin. 
 Illustrated by Gilbert James. 
 Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 300 pages . . . $^-^o 
 
 An exceedingly well written romance, dealing with the romantic 
 period chronicled so admirably by Froissart. The scene is laid at a 
 border castle between England and Scotland, the city of London, 
 and on the French battle-fields of Cressy and Poitiers. Edward the 
 Third, Queen Philippa, the Black Prince, Bertrand du Guesclin, are 
 all historical characters, accurate reproductions of which give life 
 and vitality to the romance. The character of the hero is especially 
 well drawn. 
 
LIST OF FICTION 
 
 The Making of a Saint. By w. somerset 
 
 Maugham. 
 Illustrated by Gilbert James. 
 Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 350 pages . . . j^i.50 
 
 " An exceedingly strong story of original motive and design. , . . The scenes are 
 imbued with a spirit of frankness . . . and in addition there is a strong dramatic 
 fiaMox:' — Philadelphia Press. 
 
 " A sprightly tale abounding in adventures, and redolent of the spirit of mediaeval 
 Italy." — Brooklyn Times. 
 
 Friendship and Folly, a novel. By maria 
 
 Louise Pool. 
 Author of « Dally," " A Redbridge Neighborhood," " In a Dike 
 
 Shanty," etc. 
 Illustrated by J. W. Kennedy. 
 Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 300 pages . . . jS5i.25 
 
 "The author handles her elements with skilful fingers — fingers that feel their 
 way most truthfully among the actual emotions and occurrences of nineteenth 
 century romance. Hers is a frank, sensitive touch, and the result is both complete 
 and full of interest." — Boston Ideas. 
 
 " The story will rank with the best previous work of this author." — Indianapolis 
 News. 
 
 The Rejuvenation of Miss Semaphore. 
 
 A Farcical Novel. By Hal Godfrey. 
 
 Illustrated by Etheldred B. Barry. 
 
 Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 300 pages . . . $1.25 
 
 " A fanciful, laughable tale of two maiden sisters of uncertain age who are induced, 
 by their natural longing for a return to youth and its blessings, to pay a large sum 
 for a mystical water which possesses the value of setting backwards the hands of 
 time. No more delightfully fresh and original book has appeared since ' Vice 
 Versa' charmed an amused world. It is well written, drawn to the life, and full of 
 the most enjoyable humor." — Boston Beacon. 
 
 The Paths of the Prudent. By J. S. Fletcher. 
 Author of " When Charles I. Was King," " Mistress Spitfire," etc. 
 Illustrated by J. W. Kennedy. 
 Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 300 pages . . . ^1.50 
 
 " The story has a curious fascination for the reader, and the theme and characters 
 are handled with rare ability." — Scotsman. 
 
 " Dorinthia is charming. The story is told with great humor." — Pall Mall 
 Gazette. 
 
 " An excellently well told story, and the reader's interest is perfectly sustained to 
 the very end." — Punch. 
 
L. C. f AGE AND company's 
 
 Cross Trails. By victor Waite. 
 Illustrated by J. W. Kennedy. 
 Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 450 pages . . . |i-SO 
 
 "A Spanish- American novel of unusual interest, a brilliant, dashing, and stirring 
 story, teeming with humanity and life. Mr. Waite is to be congratulated upon the 
 strength with which he has drawn his characters." — San Francisco Chronicle. 
 
 " Every page is enthralling." — Academy. 
 
 " Full of strength and reality." — Athemetim. 
 
 " The book is exceedingly powerful." — Glasgow Herald. 
 
 Bijl 
 
 the Dancer. By james blythe patton. 
 
 Illustrated by Horace Van Rinth. 
 
 Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 350 pages . . . I1.50 
 
 " A novel of Modem India. . . . The fortunes of the heroine, an Indian nautch- 
 jirl, are told with a vigor, pathos, and a wealth of poetic sympathy that makes the 
 )Ook admirable from first to last." — Detroit Free Press. 
 
 "A remarkable book." — Bookman. 
 
 " Powerful and fascinating." — Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 "A vivid picture of Indian life." — Academy, London. 
 
 Drives and Puts, a book of golf stories. By 
 
 Walter Camp and Lilian Brooks. 
 Small i2mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 250 pages . |i-25 
 
 "It will be heartily relished by all readers, whether golfers or not." — Boston 
 Ideas. 
 
 " Decidedly the best golf stories I have read." — Milwaukee Journal. 
 
 " Thoroughly entertaining and interesting in every page, and is gotten out with 
 care and judgment that indicate rare taste in bookmaking." — Chicago Saturday 
 Evening Herald. 
 
 Via Lucis. By Kassandra Vivaria. 
 With portrait of the author. 
 Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 480 pages . . . j?i.50 
 
 "'Via Lucis 'is — we say it unhesitatingly — a striking and interesting produc- 
 tion." — London AthencBum,. 
 
 "Without doubt the most notable novel of the summer is this strong story of 
 Italian life, so full of local color one can almost see the cool, shaded patios and the 
 flame of the pomegranate blossom, and smell the perfume of the grapes growing on 
 the hillsides. It is a story of deep and passionate heart interests, of fierce loves and 
 fiercer hates, of undisciplined natures that work out their own bitter destiny of woe. 
 There has hardly been a finer piece of portraiture than that of the child Arduina, — 
 the child of a sickly and unloved mother and a cruel and vindictive father, — a mor- 
 bid, q^ueer, lonely little creature, who is left to grow up without love or training of 
 any kmd." — New Orleans Picayune. 
 
LIST OF FICTION 
 
 *' To Arms I " being some passages from the Early 
 Life of Allan Oliphant, Chirurgeon, Written by 
 Himself, and now set forth for the First Time. 
 By Andrew Balfour. 
 
 Illustrated by F. W. Glover. 
 
 Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 575 pages . . . $^'5^ 
 
 " A tale of ' Bonnie Tweedside,' and St. Dynans and Auld Reekie, — a fair picture 
 of theicountry under misrule and usurpation and all kinds of vicissitudes. Allan Oli- 
 phant is a great hero." — Chicago Times-Herald. 
 
 " A recital of thrilling interest, told with unflagging vigor." — Globe. 
 
 "An unusually excellent example of a semi-historic romance." — World. 
 
 The River of Pearls; or, the red spider, a 
 
 Chinese Romance. By Ren6 de Pont-Jest. 
 With sixty illustrations from original drawings by Felix Re- 
 
 gamey. 
 Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 300 pages . . . $1-50 
 
 Close acquaintance with the manners and customs of the Chinese 
 has enabled the author to write a story which is instructive as well 
 as interesting. The book, as a whole, shows the writer to be pos- 
 sessed of a strong descriptive faculty, as well as keen insight into 
 the characters of the people of whom he is writing. The plot is 
 cleverly conceived and well worked out, and the story abounds with 
 incidents of the most exciting and sensational character. Enjoy- 
 ment of its perusal is increased by the powerful illustrations of Felix 
 Regamey. 
 
 The book may be read with profit by any one who wishes to 
 realize the actual condition of native life in China. 
 
 Lally of the Brigade, a romance of the irish 
 
 Brigade in France during the Time of Louis the 
 
 Fourteenth. By L. McManus. 
 Author of "The Silk of the Kine," "The Red Star," etc. 
 Illustrated. 
 Library 1 2mo, cloth decorative, 250 pages . . . j55i.25 
 
 The scene of this romance is partly at the siege of Crimona (held 
 by the troops of Louis XIV.) by the Austrian forces under Prince 
 Eugene. During the siege the famous Irish Brigade renders valiant 
 service, and the hero — a dashing young Irishman — is in the thick 
 of the fighting. He is also able to give efiicient service in unravel- 
 ling a political intrigue, in which the love affairs of the hero and the 
 heroine are interwoven. 
 
8 L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY'S 
 
 Frivolities, especially addressed to those who are 
 Tired of being Serious. By Richard Marsh. 
 Author of " Tom Ossington's Ghost," etc. 
 Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 340 p^ges . . . J5i.50 
 
 A dozen stories in an entirely new vein for Mr. Marsh. The 
 humor is irresistible, and carries the reader on breathlessly from one 
 laugh to another. The style, though appealing to a totally different 
 side of complex human nature, is as strong and effective as the 
 author's intense and dramatic work in " Tom Ossington's Ghost." 
 
 Sons of Adversity. a romance of queen Eliza- 
 beth's Time. By L. Cope Cornford. 
 Author of " Captain Jacobus," etc. 
 Illustrated by J. W. Kennedy. 
 Library 1 2mo, cloth decorative, 325 pages . . . $1-25 
 
 " A tale of adventure on land and sea at the time when Protestant England and 
 Catholic Spain were struggling for naval supremacy. Spanish conspiracies against 
 the peace of good Queen Bess, a vivid description of the raise of the Spanish siege of 
 Leyden by the combined Dutch and English forces, sea fights, the recovery of stolen 
 treasure, are all skilfully woven elements in a plot of unusual strength." — Pittsburg 
 Bulletin. 
 
 The Count of Nideck. from the French of 
 Erckmann-Chatrian, Translated and Adapted by 
 Ralph Browning Fiske. 
 
 Illustrated by Victor A. Searles. 
 
 Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 375 pages . . . ^1.25 
 
 '"The Count of Nideck,' adapted from the French of Erckmann-Chatrian by 
 Ralph Browning Fiske, is a most interesting tale, simply told, and moving with 
 direct force to the end in view." — Minneapolis Times. 
 
 " Rapid in movement, it abounds in dramatic incident, furnishes graphic descrip- 
 tions of the locality, and is enlivened with a very pretty love story." — Trojf Budget. 
 
 MUf iella ; or, Le Selve. By Ouida. 
 Illustrated by M. B. Prendergast. 
 Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 250 pages . . . $1.25 
 
 "Ouida's literary style is almost perfect in ' Muriella.' " — Chicago Times- 
 Herald. 
 
 "'Muriella' is an admirable example of the author's best ^oxV." — Brooklyn 
 Times. 
 
 " It dwells in the memory, and bears the dramatic force, tragic interest, and 
 skilfulness of treatment that mark the work of Ouida when at her best." — Fittsburg 
 Bulletin. 
 
LIST OF FICTION 
 
 The Archbishop's Unguarded Moment. 
 
 By Oscar Fay Adams. 
 Library i2mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 300 pages $1.25 
 
 "A very captivating volume." — Evening Wisconsin. 
 " Brimming over with humor." — Chicago Chronicle. 
 
 " He who cares to pass a few hours in quiet enjoyment and subdued laughter will 
 do well to become the possessor of this clever volume." — American, Philadelphia. 
 
 The Works of Gabriel d^ Annunzio, 
 
 The Triumph of Death. 
 The Intruder. 
 The Maidens of the Rocks. 
 The Child of Pleasure. 
 
 Each, I vol., library i2mo, cloth decorative . . jPi.50 
 
 " The writer of the greatest promise to-day in Italy, and perhaps one of the most 
 unique figures in contemporary literature, is Gabriel d'Annunzio, the poet-novelist." 
 — The Bookman. 
 
 " This book is realistic. Some say that it is brutally so. But the realism is that 
 of Flaubert and not of Zola. There is no plain speaking for the sake of plain speak- 
 ing. Every detail is justified in the fact that it illuminates either the motives or the 
 actions of the man and woman who here stand revealed. It is deadly true. The 
 author holds the mirror up to nature, and the reader, as he sees his own experiences 
 duplicated in passage after passage, has something of the same sensation as all of us 
 know on the first reading of George Meredith's Egoist.' Reading these pages is 
 like being out in the country on a dark night in a storm. Suddenly a flash of light- 
 ning comes and every detail of your surroundings is revealed." — Review of the 
 Triumph of Death, in the New York Evening Sun. 
 
 Ye Lyttle Salem Maide. a story of witch- 
 craft. By Pauline Bradford Mackie. 
 
 With four full-page photogravures from drawings by E. W. D. 
 Hamilton. 
 
 Printed on deckle-edged paper, with gilt top, and bound in 
 cloth decorative, 321 pages $i-50 
 
 A tale of the days of the reign of superstition in New England, 
 and of a brave "lyttle maide" of Salem Town, whose faith and 
 hope and unyielding adherence to her word of honor form the basis 
 of a most attractive story. Several historical characters are intro- 
 duced, including the Rev. Cotton Mather and Governor and Lady 
 Phipps, and a very convincing picture is drawn of Puritan life during 
 the latter part of the seventeenth century. An especial interest is 
 added to the book by the illustrations, reproduced by the photo- 
 gravure process from originals by E. W. D. Hamilton. 
 
lO L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY S 
 
 Mademoiselle de Berny. a story of valley 
 
 Forge. By Pauline Bradford Mackie. 
 With five full-page photogravures from drawings by Frank T. 
 
 Merrill. 
 Printed on deckle-edged paper, with gilt top, and bound in 
 
 cloth decorative, 272 pages jJi-S^ 
 
 " The charm of ' Mademoiselle de Beray ' lies in its singular sweetness." — Boston 
 Herald. 
 
 " One of the very few choice American historical stories." — Boston Transcript. 
 
 " Real romance . . . admirably written." — Washington Post. 
 
 " A stirring romance, full of life and action from start to finish." — Toledo Daily 
 Blade. 
 
 " Of the many romances in which Washington is made to figure, this is one of the 
 most fascinating, one of the best." — Boston Courier. 
 
 Captain FraCaSSe. translated from the French 
 OF Gautier. By Ellen Murray Beam. 
 Illustrated by Victor A. Searles. 
 Library 1 2mo, cloth decorative, 575 pages . . . $1.25 
 
 " The story is one of the best in romantic fiction, for upon it Gautier lavished his 
 rare knowledge of the twelfth century. — San Francisco Chronicle. 
 
 " One of those rare stories in which vitality is abundant. — New York Herald. 
 
 In Quiana Wilds, a study of two women. By 
 
 James Rodway. 
 Author of " In the Guiana Forest," etc. 
 Library i2mo, cloth, decorative, illustrated, 250 pages j!^i.25 
 
 "In Guiana Wilds" may be described as an ethnological 
 romance. A typical young Scotchman becomes, by the force of 
 circumstances, deciviUzed, and mates with a native woman. 
 
 It is a psychological study of great power and ability. 
 
 The Qray House of the Quarries. By mary 
 
 Harriott Norris. 
 With a frontispiece etching by Edmund H. Garrett. 
 8 vo, cloth decorative, 500 pages $i-50 
 
 "The peculiar genre, for which, in a literary sense, all must acknowledge obliga- 
 tion to the author of a new type, is the Dutch-American species. The church-goings, 
 the courtings, the pleasures and sorrows of a primitive people, their lives and deaths, 
 weddings, suicides, births, and burials, are Rembrandt and Rubens pictures on a 
 fresh canvas." — Boston Transcript. 
 
 " The fine ideal of womanhood in a person never once physically described will 
 gratify the highess tone of the period, and is an ennobling conception." — Time and 
 th* Hour, Boston. 
 
LIST OF FICTION II 
 
 Vivian of Virginia, being the memoirs of our 
 
 First Rebellion, by John Vivian, Esq., of Middle 
 Plantation, Virginia. By Hulbert Fuller. 
 
 With ten full-page illustrations by Frank T. Merrill. 
 
 Libraiy i2mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, deckle-edge 
 
 paper, 375 pages $1.50 
 
 " A stirring and accurate account of the famous Bacon rebellion." — Los Angeles 
 Sunday Times. 
 
 " We shall have to search far to find a better colonial story than this." — Denver 
 Republican. 
 
 " A well-conceived, well-plotted romance, full of life and adventure." — Chicago 
 Inter-Ocean. 
 
 " A story abounding in exciting incidents and well-told conversations." — Boston 
 Journal. 
 
 " Mr. Fuller will find a large circle of readers for his romance who will not be 
 disappointed in their pleasant expectations." — Boston Transcript. 
 
 ' Instead of using history as a background for tlae exploits of the hero, the author 
 hi; 
 
 used the hero to bring out history and the interesting events of those early days in 
 Virginia. 1 he author has preserve ' ' ' 
 rably . ' ' — Philadelphia Telegram. 
 
 Virginia. 1 he author has preserved the language and customs of the times admi- 
 dIv."-.""   ~   
 
 A nan=at«= Arms, a romance of italy in the days 
 
 OF GiAN Galeazzo Visconti, the Great Viper. By 
 
 Clinton Scollard. 
 Author of " Skenandoa," etc. 
 With six full-page illustrations and title-page by E. W. D. 
 
 Hamilton. 
 Library i2mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, deckle-edge 
 
 paper, 360 pages ^1.50 
 
 " The style is admirable, simple, direct, fluent, and sometimes eloquent ; and the 
 story moves with rapidity from start to finish." — The Bookman. 
 " A good story." — JV. Y. Commercial Advertiser. 
 " It is a triumph in style." — Utica Herald. 
 
 Bobbie McDuff. By Clinton Ross, author of "The 
 Scarlet Coat," "Zuleika," etc. 
 Illustrated by B. West CUnedinst. 
 Large i6mo, cloth decorative, 260 pages . . . $1.00 
 
 " ' Bobbie McDuff,' by Clinton Ross, is a healthy romance, tersely and vigorously 
 told. " — L ouisville Courier-Journal. 
 
 "It is full of mystery and as fascinating as a fairy tale." — San Francisco 
 Chronicle. 
 
 " It is a well-written story, full of surprises and abo\jn4ing in vivid interest."-- 
 Th0 Congregatiottalist, Boston. 
 
12 L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY'S 
 
 A Hypocritical Romance and other stories. 
 
 By Caroline Ticknor. 
 Illustrated by J. W. Kennedy. 
 
 Large i6mo, cloth decorative $i.oo 
 
 Miss Ticknor, well known as one of the most promising of the 
 younger school of American writers, has never done better work 
 than in the majority of these clever stories, written in a delightful 
 comedy vein. 
 
 A Mad Madonna and other stories. By l. 
 
 Clarkson Whitelock. 
 With eight half-tone illustrations. 
 
 I vol., large i6mo, cloth decorative . . . ' . $i.oo 
 
 A half dozen remarkable psychological stories, delicate in color 
 
 and conception. Each of the six has a touch of the supernatural, a 
 
 quick suggestion, a vivid intensity, and a dreamy realism that is 
 
 matchless in its forceful execution. 
 
 On the Point. a summer idyl. By Nathan Has- 
 kell Dole. 
 Author of " Not Angels Quite," with dainty half-tone illustra- 
 tions as chapter headings. 
 I vol., large i6mo, cloth decorative . . . . ^i.oo 
 A bright and clever story of a summer on the coast of Maine, 
 fresh, breezy, and readable from the first to the last page. The 
 narrative describes the summer outing of a Mr. Merrithew and his 
 family. The characters are all honest, pleasant people, whom we 
 are glad to know. We part from them with the same regret with 
 which we leave a congenial party of friends. 
 
 Cyrano de Bergerac. a heroic comedy from 
 
 the French of Edw^ard Rostand, as Accepted and 
 Played by Richard Mansfield. Translated by How- 
 ard Thayer Kingsbury. 
 I vol., cloth decorative, with a photogravure frontis- 
 piece ;^i.oo 
 
 I vol., paper boards .50 
 
 The immediate and prolonged success of " Cyrano de Bergerac," 
 in Paris, has been paralleled by Mr. Mansfield's success with an 
 English version, dating from its first night at the Garden Theatre, 
 New York, October 3, 1898. 
 
 As a literary work, the original form of Rostand took high rank;, 
 and the preference of Mr. Mansfield for Mr. Kingsbury's new trans- 
 lation implies its superior merit.