THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 HIS OWN IMAGE 
 
 A NOVEL 
 BY 
 
 Alan Dale 
 
 " O, beware, my lord, of jealousy ! 
 It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock 
 Th meat it feeds on. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 COPYRIOMT, till, IY 
 
 G. W. Dillingham Co., Publishers. 
 
 MDCCCXCIX. 
 {All rights reserved.]
 
 /} 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PS. . 
 
 ' 35O5. 
 - 5-5. k 
 
 I. The Actor en Ntgligt ... 7 
 
 II. Felicia Makes a Hit . . . .24 
 
 III. Reginald Dissimulates . . .42 
 
 IV. The Horror of Success . . .58 
 
 V. Crampton Advises . . . -75 
 
 VI. " Marry Me, Felicia " ... 88 
 
 VII. At Tussaud's 102 
 
 VIII. Dejazet 119 
 
 IX. Felicia Writes 136 
 
 X. The Siren of Leicester Square . .157 
 
 XI. La Chinoise Confesses . . . 167 
 
 XII. Justifying Crime . . . .181 
 
 XIII. Felicia Returns to London . . 196 
 
 XIV. She " Interviews " Crampton . .211 
 XV. The Flesh and the Wax . . .226 
 
 XVI. " A Week from To-day " . . . 242 
 
 [5J
 
 Contents 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 PAGE 
 
 XVII. Shrimps and Watercress . . .257 
 
 XVIII. "One Last Kiss," said the Siren . 271 
 
 XIX. The Marriage Prelude . . .285 
 
 XX. His Nemesis . . . .299
 
 HIS OWN IMAGE 
 
 Chapter I 
 
 THE ACTOR en ntgligt 
 
 REGINALD RELLERICK, actor, of carefully em- 
 broidered reputation ; ego-maniac, of almost psy- 
 chological import, turned in his big blue bed, drew 
 up his feet, and yawned. He was unstudied, and 
 unconsciously human, for even a great actor can- 
 not set nature entirely at defiance. 
 
 The dingy sun of London was not allowed full 
 play in Mr. Rellerick's apartment. It fought its 
 way through rosy festooned curtains, and planted 
 an absurd carmine clot on the actor's nose a nose 
 that had been discussed throughout the land. 
 
 Mr. Rellerick " came to " slowly, as though the 
 act were enjoyable one that he savoured. His 
 marvelously one-toned mind gathered up the threads 
 of its own make-up, and the actor, like a serial 
 story, gradually prepared himself " to be continued 
 in our nejft." A smile illumined his chaste, yet 
 classic features, as he realized that, after all, he was 
 
 [7]
 
 8 His Own Image 
 
 himself. He rejoiced each morning as he renewed 
 his own acquaintance. This is invariably a pleas- 
 ant and a goodly thing for an ego-maniac to do. 
 
 As he lay there, wallowing in the mere animal 
 warmth of his own well-groomed body, his import- 
 ance arose in his mind like a mental giant, and 
 filled the room. He saw nothing else. The lur- 
 niture was all-himself ; the decorations were all- 
 himself ; the big blue bed was all himself ; tl 
 pink adulterated sun was nothing but a useful prop- 
 erty designed to agreeably tint it all. 
 
 Mr Rellerick heaved a deep, fat sigh of content. 
 He wondered why the outside world bothered about 
 getting up and fretting around while he was there 
 on his pedestal. For him nobody else existed. 
 The whole non-ego outside was but a feebly de- 
 nned shadow. Tom, Dick and Harry, in the rush 
 and fever of their pursuits are fully aware of their 
 own subordination to the rest of humanity. Mr. 
 Rellerick was unable to see that anything he did, 
 or might elect to do, was not of vast, of universal 
 importance. 
 
 The bottle-washer, who washes bottles for his 
 daily bread, realizes that, necessary as his work may 
 be, the world yet contains men and women who oc- 
 casionally think of other things than bottles. The 
 actor ego-maniac, on the contrary, preferred to be- 
 lieve that the universe was constructed to lead up 
 to the great act of Himself. Those who thought 
 otherwise were his mortal enemies. , Those who 
 coincided were his slaves and his unworthy dupes. 
 The former he hated ; the latter he despised.
 
 The Actor en Ndgligt 
 
 As soon as he was thoroughly awake, Reginald 
 cushioned himself artistically in the big blue bed. 
 His perfect profile indented the soft white pillow. 
 He wished that there was somebody there to see 
 him. He was so accustomed to audiences that the 
 solitude of his bed-room seemed almost ludicrous. 
 A large, cool, white statue, supposed to represent 
 the Venus de Medici in the Museum of Florence, 
 arrested his attention momentarily. He amused 
 himself by thinking liow envious the outside world 
 would be of this Venus, if she could only manifest 
 one single symptom of living appreciation. 
 
 By this time Mr. Rellerick was completely him- 
 self. All traces of unconscious humanity had van- 
 ished. He had resumed his deleterious occupation 
 of acting a part. The external brou-JiaJia of Lon- 
 don surged and circled in the streets, but the big 
 blue bed was just then the actor's world, and he 
 was its population a teeming, tumultuous popula- 
 tion of one. 
 
 He sat up and leaned his cheek upon his hand, in 
 the attitude of his picture at the National Gallery. 
 All the London art critics had lauded that attitude. 
 He rather liked it himself. 
 
 He had " closed his season " at his own theatre, 
 built for him by his own admirers. The night be- 
 fore had been one of much glory. For the final 
 and ornamental event of his season he had pro- 
 duced a new play by a well-known playwright. The 
 playwright's name had figured in tiny type on the 
 programmes as it deserved to do. His own had 
 been limited only by the size of the bills.
 
 io His Own Image 
 
 Every thing came back to him in a sweet, swirl- 
 ing rush. He had made a delightful speech, that 
 had cost his hard-worked secretary at least two 
 weeks of earnest, undiluted thought. He had 
 talked blithely of the education of the masses 
 although he regarded the masses as " supers " in 
 his own seething life-drama. In this world every- 
 thing is pretense, and he was obliged to pretend 
 that he had some object in view, other than his own 
 self-aggrandisement. 
 
 How they had all applauded those dolts in the 
 audience ! The Prince of Wales had been there, 
 with pearl kid gloves, and the Princess. He had 
 led the applause with his own hands, and had re- 
 mained until the final curtain fell. He had been 
 noticed talking to the Princess with quite unusual 
 vivacity, and when Rellerick had glanced, in loyal 
 deference, at the royal box, Albert Edward had 
 been positively observed to very nearly smile. 
 The honour of it all ! The glory ! 
 
 " The strain upon the actor is great," Reginald 
 ! had said. " The constant demands made upon his 
 emotions are bewildering. I am sure you will not 
 grudge me a holiday, ladies and gentlemen. It is 
 hard to leave you, even temporarily. Your favour 
 is sweet ; your encouragement is dear and lovely. 
 However, nature needs recuperation. I go from 
 the fevered splendours of this glittering metropolis, 
 to those glad, poetic haunts, where there are rip- 
 pling brooks, and violet landscapes, and all the 
 gorgeous features of nature unadorned." 
 
 That had been his final utterance. Even the
 
 The Actor en Ntgligt \ i 
 
 ego-maniac is not completely fenced in from the 
 sublime and healing sense of the ridiculous. Regi- 
 nald Rellerick choked with suppressed laughter, as 
 he lay there in his big blue bed. Rippling streams ! 
 there was nothing that he loathed so utterly. Vio- 
 let landscapes ! They were exceedingly useful for 
 threadbare, velveteen artists and school-girl ama- 
 teurs. The gorgeous features of nature unadorned ! 
 They had always seemed to him to be miserably 
 kif-kif. What were all those gorgeous and un- 
 encompassed features to the soothing rebellion, 
 the exquisite mutiny, of Piccadilly Circus? 
 
 He frowned as he reflected that he should prob- 
 ably be expected to leave London for a time. 
 The odious idea of " taking a holiday " like the 
 butcher, the baker, or the candlestick-maker, op- 
 pressed him heavily. The public, however, insists 
 that we shall behave conventionally. We must go 
 to bed when it is night, and rise when it is day, and 
 " take a holiday " once a year, when we are tired. 
 To be successful in the world, we must subscribe 
 to its conventions. That is inevitable. Reginald 
 Rellerick knew it. The fact was perpetually 
 dinned into his ears by his secretary. Great 
 though he might be, there were certain grooves 
 that he would never be permitted to leave. Only 
 the disapppointed and impecunious cynic can af- 
 ford to do as he likes. 
 
 The actor sighed. Could he ever bring himself 
 to leave London appreciative, wonderful London, 
 where he was known and recognised at all times ? 
 A dreadful picture of country barbarians weighed
 
 12 
 
 His Own Image 
 
 upon him. The idea of being obliged to introduce 
 himself ; to explain that he was an actor ; to walk 
 through streets where nobody cared whether he 
 was shaven or unshaven ; to pass whole days 
 among people who were absolutely unconvinced of 
 his greatness, frightened him. The mere notion 
 was self-obliteration. It would be a gap in his 
 life. Yet he smiled again as he recalled his words 
 of the preceding night" the mental strain upon 
 the actor " " the constant demands made upon his 
 emotions." Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! The smile developed 
 into a laugh. Even the cool, white face of the 
 Venus de Medici seemed to smile. What nonsense 
 it all was ! Imagine an actor putting aside the 
 balmy favour of a " crowded house," and rushing 
 off, with a valise, to listen to purling, gurgling 
 streams ! The mental strain of pretending to like 
 it all is surely the most arduous task of his life. 
 At least that is what Reginald Rellerick thought. 
 
 The actor sat up and touched an electric bell by 
 the side of his bed. The gentle tintinnabulation 
 was music to him. It placed him in communica- 
 tion with his sycophants. Without them, he was 
 like an opium eater destitute of drug. 
 
 "Send Mr. Crampton to me," he said to the 
 valet in response. 
 
 The menial stood for a moment in well-rehearsed 
 admiration of his master. He had a part to play, 
 and he played it every morning. It was a think- 
 ing part, but it was one of those " bits " that stand 
 out. All that he had to do, was to look at the 
 recumbent figure on the bed with a sudden expres.
 
 The Actor en Ntgligd 13 
 
 sion of joy, and then draw himself up semi-apolo- 
 getically, as though the lovely sight had been too 
 much for him and had caused him to forget him- 
 self. 
 
 Reginald Rellerick smiled indulgently. The 
 valet was always his first sycophant, and he loved 
 this introduction to the obsequious galaxy ! Some- 
 times he called his menial " sirrah," because the 
 word had a haughty, old-time-y sound that was dis- 
 tinctly luxurious. 
 
 Mr. Crampton, the secretary, was a mouldy per- 
 son, with stooping shoulders and a cadaverous face 
 of jaundiced hue. The face was quite devoid of any 
 expression. The shoulders were very respectable. 
 They had acquired their stoop in Reginald Reller- 
 ick's service. Mr. Crampton wrote his speeches 
 when he opened bazaars, laid foundation-stones, or 
 addressed students. Mr. Crampton answered all 
 his letters, and was responsible for various learned 
 articles that had appeared above the signature of 
 " Reginald Rellerick " in leading reviews. He was 
 an Oxonian Master of Arts, but he had forgotten 
 the fact. He had forgotten everything, in the ser- 
 vice of the great and famous actor. 
 
 Mr. Crampton opened the door and entered. In 
 his right hand, he had half a yard of column, clipped 
 from a newspaper. The ruddy hue of the drawn 
 curtains turned his gamboge face to old rose, but 
 imparted no expression to his features. Nothing 
 could do that. 
 
 " This," said Mr. Crampton, holding up the half- 
 yard of column, " is a most agreeable and just criti-
 
 I4 His Own Image 
 
 cism of your work last night. It will please you, I 
 am quite sure." 
 
 Mr. Crampton hesitated. He knew what was 
 coming. 
 
 " Is that the only clipping you have to give me 
 this morning?" asked the actor, absurdly anxious, 
 and carmining slowly. 
 
 The secretary shuffled, ungainly as a dromedary. 
 " I have carefully read every paper," said he, " and 
 I am sorry to say that many of the notices are flip- 
 pant, and unworthy of your attention. You, sir, as 
 you have told me often, have nothing to learn from 
 the asses who call themselves critics. Every great 
 man has his enemies. This morning I have noticed 
 an unusual amount of spite, malice and pettiness. 
 All these are really tributes to your greatness." 
 
 An observer might almost have imagined the 
 ghost of a smile on Mr. Crampton's corpse-like face. 
 In reality there was none. The mouldy secretary 
 had no illusions. Only people with illusions know 
 the bliss of a surreptitious smile. 
 
 " Read me your criticism," commanded the great 
 actor harshly. 
 
 It was a magnificent adjectival commendation. 
 Mr. Reginald Rellerick was world-famous, and he 
 had produced a new play ; not that the great yet 
 paying public attached much importance to a play 
 when Rellerick deigned to appear in it. He had 
 been plied with a part that again gave his stupend- 
 ous genius emotional opportunities. Far from that 
 genius being on the wane as certain malignant 
 writers professed to believe (Rellerick winced at
 
 The Actor en Ntgligt 15 
 
 this) it had never been more convincingly instanced. 
 The leading lady, Felicia Halstead, had contributed 
 a " reliable " performance, but one that was, of 
 course, unimportant artistically, as compared with 
 the bewildering effort of the actor, who was at pres- 
 ent making the history of the English stage. Et 
 patati. Et patati. 
 
 "It is badly, wretchedly written," said the 
 Oxonian Master of Arts, " but," added the obse- 
 quious secretary, " it is very just." 
 
 " It is admirably written," cried Reginald, push- 
 ing aside the pillow. " Why there is not an 
 unfriendly note in it. It was the work, I believe, 
 of young Winkle you remember the fellow I 
 recommended to the Screamer" 
 
 " I believe that it was, sir," replied the secretary. 
 "He is evidently a very grateful young man." 
 
 The eyes of the ego-maniac rounded themselves 
 in surprise. " I don't know what you mean by the 
 word ' grateful,' Crampton," he murmured. " It is 
 not a question of gratitude. Mr. Winkle saw my 
 performance without prejudice, without envy, with- 
 out spite, without sinister motives, and he told the 
 truth about it. The others are all liars and per- 
 jurers. Winkle, I notice, never even mentions the 
 name of the playwright. He is a far-seeing youth. 
 He knows the love of notoriety, and the hankering 
 for publicity, that move the modern playwright. 
 He declines to prostitute himself to that sort of 
 thing. No playwright's name should ever be used 
 in the review of a great actor's work."
 
 16 His Own Image 
 
 " Except, occasionally, Shakespeare's," suggested 
 the secretary. 
 
 " You are right, Crampton. Shakespeare's name 
 never does any harm. It rather enhances the 
 actor's value. However, as I was saying, I am 
 quite pleased with Winkle. He is a remarkaby 
 talented young writer. If I had my way, I should 
 have his views set up in all the papers. I must dis- 
 cuss the question in the Fortnightly. You can 
 write the article at your leisure, Crampton. Why 
 shouldn't there be but one critic in a big city ? 
 Dissenting opinions are really an obstacle in the 
 way of progress. I like Winkle, Crampton. They 
 tell me that he has a wife and nine dear little chil- 
 dren. Suppose you send Mrs. Winkle an auto- 
 graph letter from me 
 
 " I am afraid that the children won't find it 
 nourishing," interrupted the secretary. 
 
 " I am astonished, Crampton. Nobody has ever 
 yet accused me of penuriousness. I was going to 
 say when you so foolishly interrupted, that you 
 may enclose in the autograph letter, a ten-pound 
 note, to buy boots, or comforters, or under-affairs 
 for the olive-branches. I like to encourage merit. 
 You may leave me now. I shall get up, and possi- 
 bly I may run in to the Garrick for an hour or so." 
 
 Crampton shuffled again, in his dromedary-like 
 clumsiness. "You have said good-bye to the 
 public for the present," he said. " You have 
 announced your intention to rest. If you could 
 bring yourself to avoid the club for a few weeks,
 
 The Actor en Ndgligt 1 7 
 
 the effect, I think, would be artistic. Remember 
 you are tired, exhausted, bent upon recuperation." 
 
 The mouldy secretary again seemed to suggest 
 the inception of a smile. He knew Mr. Rellerick 
 so well ! The great actor lived in the petty adula- 
 tion of his club, in the unhealthy warmth of its 
 sycophancy, in the mute adoration of Tom, Dick 
 and Harry. It was hard to forsake it all, even 
 temporarily. There was the joy of being gazed at 
 when entering ; the bliss of knowing that the Ba- 
 bel of tongues ceased as he took his favourite arm- 
 chair ; the dulcet satisfaction of the triumphal 
 exit. Only the absolutely ego-maniacal actor of 
 diseased personality understands the furious de- 
 light of perpetual pose. 
 
 Reginald Rellerick bit his lips as he listened to 
 the diplomacy of his secretary. It was wholesome 
 advice. He knew it. Yet to accept it was like 
 voluntarily wooing incarceration. The great actor 
 lived for himself, as the public saw him. Minus 
 that public, every incentive to existence was lack- 
 ing. The ego-maniac cares little for riches, except 
 for the sycophancy that they purchase ; he has 
 scant interest in art, save for the glamour that it 
 may cast over his personality. Friendship is a 
 rung in the ladder of self ; love a mere sensual 
 commodity. 
 
 Having offered his modicum of advice, the 
 mouldy Crampton withdrew. Before leaving, how- 
 ever, he -took from his pocket a budget of newspa- 
 per clippings the adverse criticisms of his master's 
 performance and placed them ostentatiously on a
 
 His Own Image 
 
 marble table. This mode of procedure was inevi- 
 table. Baleful curiosity might take possession of 
 Mr. Rellerick. He was human, after all. A great 
 actor, like other deluded people, suffers from what 
 is known as the " mania of persecution." He likes 
 to know his enemies. Adverse criticism is to him 
 the ammunition of the enemy. 
 
 To the public, Mr. Rellerick never " read new- 
 papers." To Crampton, he perused the " helpful " 
 criticisms those that " helped " the illumination 
 of his ego. In the solitude of his sanctum, vis-ci-vis 
 to the voluptuously inert Venus, he mastered the 
 inimical comments of his traducers. Crampton 
 guessed this. He gave him the opportunity to 
 satisfy his craving. After every " first night " the 
 same things happened. The secretary appeared 
 and read aloud all that was laudatory, after which 
 he deposited all that was non-laudatory within the 
 grasp of his master. 
 
 Reginald Rellerick dressed slowly. It was an 
 occupation that he savoured. In the silken gar- 
 ments given the honour of immediate acquaintance 
 with his cuticle, the actor surveyed himself in the 
 long cheval-glass. It was an honest admiration 
 that he felt, and there was no need for disguise. 
 His own personality was, to him, a precious gift. 
 The preparation of his own person for contact 
 with a charmingly appreciative world entertained 
 him extremely. Yet the solitude of it all was at 
 times irritating. He would have admitted an 
 audience gladly, without the slightest qualms of 
 modesty. He enjoyed this daily preparation, but
 
 The Actor en Ntgligt 19 
 
 it would have been sweeter if the chairs in his 
 room had been occupied by an admiring public. 
 
 Reginald Rellerick was not what is known as a 
 " dandy." To have imagined that mere clothes 
 enhanced his glories, that a blue necktie stamped 
 him with individuality, or that a creased trouser 
 betokened refinement, would have been to over- 
 estimate the value of sartorial effect. Clothes are 
 the solace of the squalidly sane. The world said 
 that he was badly clad and that his taste was 
 execrable. These facts made his trademark. He 
 would not have changed his baggily-fitting gar- 
 ments for the sprucest tailor-work he could find. 
 It was all a question of arranged dis-arrangement, 
 of zealously planned slouchiness. 
 
 Breakfast was served to him in an alcove that 
 swelled from his bed-chamber. It was a breakfast 
 of substance. There was nothing in it suggestive 
 of rose-leaves and dew-drops. Although Mr. Rel- 
 lerick posed in public as a genius to whom mere 
 food was distasteful, in private he gratified the 
 longings of a material nature. He ate eggs the 
 acme of all that is commonplace and sordid. He 
 drank the tea that solaces the unintellectual washer- 
 woman and opens the floodgates of a frivolous 
 eloquence. 
 
 The eyes of the Venus de Medici or so it 
 seemed to this connoisseur of eyes and their 
 glances watched him reproachfully, as he ate and 
 drank greedily. He felt uncomfortable. His self- 
 consciousness was embarrassing. 
 
 When he had finished his meal and lighted an
 
 20 His Own Image 
 
 Egyptian cigarette, the great actor unceremoni- 
 ously seized the budget of criticisms which had 
 been placed upon the marble table by the seedy 
 Crampton. 
 
 It was apparently an interminable budget. 
 Every newspaper in London, with the exception 
 of that which owned the worshipful Mr. Winkle as 
 its critic, had a point to make. It was a dreary 
 and an intolerable point. As it was brought home 
 to the ego-maniac he flung the Egyptian cigarette 
 to the ground and stamped it out of existence. As 
 its full significance dawned upon him, the calm of 
 his features was dissipated, and in its place ap- 
 peared an odious expression of rage and hatred. 
 
 He arose and stood glaring at the Venus de 
 Medici as though that white witness of his fury 
 might have helped the situation. Backward and 
 forward he paced, his mind in a tumult as the real 
 force of the catastrophe struck him. 
 
 An actor's soliloquy on the stage is generally 
 considered unreal. A soliloquy in actual life is 
 uncanny. Mr. Rellerick soliloquized aloud in his 
 room. What he said was neither poetic nor elevat- 
 ing. 
 
 " The cat !" he cried. " To undermine me in 
 the minds of those critical vermin. And that is the 
 woman I have helped and praised and loved !" 
 
 He brought his clenched fist down on the break- 
 fast table. The cups shivered in their frail, china 
 way. A plate fell to the floor, rudely broken. 
 Once again he picked up the clippings and read
 
 The Actor en Ntgligt 21 
 
 them all anew, his eyes gleaming, his lips quivering, 
 his frame in a paroxysm of anger. 
 
 It was all too malevolently true. Felicia Hal- 
 stead was the name with which these criticisms 
 reeked. The fact that she had deliberately wrested 
 the honours of the play from his stellar grasp, was 
 the story that they told. Enthusiastic praise of her 
 work was the derogatory theme ; graphic descrip- 
 tion of her " magnetic personality " flavoured the 
 whole thing. Felicia Halstead, his leading lady! 
 Felicia Halstead, his automaton ! Felicia Halstead, 
 his plaything and satellite ! 
 
 The rage of the great actor, like a snowball roll- 
 ing over snowy ground, gathered weight as it re- 
 volved around its own sensations. No such over- 
 whelming calamity had suggested itself to him. 
 There had, perhaps, been indications, but to the 
 ego-maniac, indications rarely indicate. He had 
 never even noticed her work. She had been to him 
 what in the jargon of his over-rated " profession '' 
 is termed a " feeder." She was an animated 
 " super " nothing more. Yet these malignant 
 penny-a-liners, whose lucubrations were permitted 
 full sway, dared to assert that it was she, Felicia 
 Halstead, who had triumphed, and that he, 
 Reginald Rellerick, whose name was a house- 
 hold word throughout the land, had been 
 swamped ! 
 
 The shock of it all dazed him. As he looked at 
 his Venus he saw it distorted. There was a devil- 
 ish smile on its icy lips, a sinister arching of its 
 marble brows. A chilly horror of the figure seized
 
 22 
 
 His Own Image 
 
 him, and with one blow he felled it to the ground. 
 It lay at his feet unbroken, and a slight satisfaction 
 at his manifest power visited him. This satisfac- 
 tion was short-lived. His perturbation returned in 
 full force. A dismal presentiment of waning hap- 
 piness took possession of him. After all, his career 
 was his life, his hope, his excuse for existence. 
 She was a thief, an interloper, a menace. 
 
 He rang the bell and Crampton appeared. The 
 secretary saw what had happened but was quite 
 undismayed. He picked up the bust of the Venus 
 and set it carefully upon its pedestal. He glanced 
 at the shattered plate and at the demoniac expres- 
 sion on his master's face. Then he shrugged his 
 shoulders, and waited. 
 
 " Get a hansom," cried Rellerick, "and go at 
 once to Miss Halstead's house. Bring her here. 
 Don't return without her. If she declines to come, 
 use force. I insist upon seeing her." 
 
 Crampton showed surprise. This was an unusual 
 proceeding. He could imagine no circumstances 
 that could induce Felicia Halstead not to respond 
 to her master's bidding. He could as soon have 
 seen the flowers in the garden opposite refusing to 
 turn to the sun. 
 
 " Go !" shouted the actor. " Why are you wait- 
 ing there gaping ? Bring her back with you." 
 
 Crampton nodded. He could think of nothing 
 to say. Diplomacy seemed to be unnecessary. 
 Advice was out of the question, for what could he 
 advise ? Some inkling of the truth probably
 
 The Actor en Ntgligt 23 
 
 reached him as he turned to leave. Five minutes 
 later he was on his way to Miss Halstead's apart- 
 ment. Poor Felicia! The secretary sighed as he 
 thought of her.
 
 Chapter II 
 
 FELICIA MAKES A HIT 
 
 FELICIA HALSTEAD was one of those neutrally 
 gray, incomplete creatures we used to call woman, 
 before Mme. Sarah Grand's hideous prose had de- 
 clared war against Tennyson's matchless poetry. 
 She was " as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water 
 unto wine." The pale art of self-obliteration was 
 her chiefest coquetry. She was a plaything, with 
 wires made to be pulled by the dominant sex. In 
 any other of life's walks Felicia Halstead would 
 have played the maternal role delightfully. The 
 soft cushions of her being were designed by nature 
 for pillows to the young idea. She might have been 
 a mother of lithe, brave sons, or of sinuous, whole- 
 some daughters. Her life had moulded itself other- 
 wise. Her lovely feminine qualities had been 
 poured into the lap of Reginald Rellerick. All her 
 instincts had been turned in his direction. His was 
 the shrine at which she worshipped, as far as this 
 world was concerned. Her pearls were cast before 
 swine. It is a very usual case. 
 
 Felicia's face suggested sunshine. It was bright, 
 imperfect and warm. There was warmth in her 
 eyes ; healthy life in her red, wet lips. Her face was 
 [24]
 
 Felicia Makes a Hit 25 
 
 shadowed by a tangled growth of thick, picture- 
 book hair. That hair was dyed to the conventional 
 theatrical " shade " of impossible yellow. Mr. Rel- 
 lerick preferred it so, his own being dark and sin- 
 ister. Felicia would have crimsoned her tresses 
 had he suggested it. Her tints were matters of 
 the utmost indifference to her. He had told her 
 that she was pretty with her improbable yellow hair, 
 and she was satisfied. . . She cared to be pretty, 
 because she was eminently natural. She was glad 
 that Reginald had indicated the exact way in which 
 to acquire beauty. It was so much easier than 
 thinking it out for herself. If she had been left to 
 her own resources she would probably have had the 
 courage of mud-coloured hair. 
 
 Her figure, in an artistic country, would have 
 made the fortune of artists. But Felicia lived in 
 London, where curves are looked upon with dis- 
 trust, and a straight corset denotes a straight mor- 
 ality. Miss Halstead laced herself into stays sup- 
 plied by Her Majesty's favourite corset-maker, and 
 did the correct thing unquestioningly. The pretty 
 face of an Englishwoman is supposed to atone for 
 all her defects. It generally does so in England. 
 
 The young actress lived in a quiet little Netting 
 Hill house, with a respectable, black alpaca lady, 
 used as a housekeeper. The housekeeper was pro- 
 priety itself. She always wore a cameo brooch, 
 with an extinct husband's hair at the back, and a 
 circle of white ruching round her neck. Nobody 
 doubted her. Nobody could doubt her. Any jury 
 in England would have acquitted her of anything
 
 2 6 His Own Image 
 
 on earth, without leaving their seats, with the cameo 
 brooch and the ruching as damning evidence of her 
 virtue. 
 
 Mrs. Landington had been selected as the black 
 alpaca associate of Felicia Halstead by Reginald 
 Rellerick himself. Mrs. Landington was there to 
 protect his own reputation, rather than that of the 
 careless Felicia. The housekeeper was amusingly 
 squalid and non-provocative. She could have been 
 the mother of a professional beauty, and have 
 watched her daughter's career, without an inkling 
 of its truth. She could have posed as the parent 
 of a sealskin chorus girl, with princely perquisites 
 and a salary of thirty shillings a week, and have felt 
 no misgivings. Her salient black alpaca bust was 
 comfortable arid reliable. Felicia was to her an 
 ordinary working-woman in need of a domestic 
 background. She fed her on chops and boiled po- 
 tatoes, and affected to misunderstand Miss Hal- 
 stead's aesthetic longings for more artistic nu- 
 triment. She alluded to Mr. Rellerick as Felicia's 
 " employer " and was persistent in her efforts to 
 please him. 
 
 It was Mrs. Landington who opened the door for 
 Mr. Crampton, as the mouldy secretary hastened to 
 do his master's bidding. Crampton, in Mrs. Land- 
 ington's eyes was the lowest grade of servant. She 
 retained her housekeeper's apron, after she had 
 looked through the key-hole of the front door to 
 ascertain the identity of the visitor. 
 
 " Miss Halstead is not up," she said unpromis-
 
 Felicia Makes a Hit 
 
 ingly. " If you wish to talk to her you had better 
 come again." 
 
 " Please tell her," quoth Crampton, " that Mr. 
 Rellerick wants to see her at once. I am to wait 
 for her and take her back with me in the hansom 
 outside." Then he added, in a sort of washed out 
 attempt at easy commonplace : " It's rather early 
 to be here, isn't it ?" 
 
 Mrs. Landington made no response whatever to 
 the secretary. She motioned to him to enter, and 
 swept him into a reception-room that held wax 
 flowers under shades, and woolen mats on ricketty 
 tables according to popular suburban dictates of 
 taste. Then the black alpaca lady trotted upstairs, 
 and two minutes later Felicia's voice was heard 
 from aloft. 
 
 " I shall be ready in a few minutes," it said, for 
 Mr. Crampton's benefit. " Have you any idea 
 what Mr. Rellerick wants ?" 
 
 The secretary raised his foggy tones and sent 
 them upstairs as well as he could. He had no idea, 
 he said. But he bit his lips immediately, and sighed. 
 There was no need to play a prelude to the great 
 actor's evil intentions. She would discover them 
 for herself soon enough. 
 
 Miss Halstead was not long dressing. There 
 were no mysteries about her toilet. It was a sim- 
 ple and unassuming affair. She appeared before 
 the secretary in a robust dark blue costume that 
 would have been scorned by a cook on her Sunday' 
 out. Her face was fresh and rosy. Her gold-dyed 
 hair was exquisitely dishevelled according to
 
 2 g His Own Image 
 
 Reginald's ideas and it was the only feature of 
 her personality that spoke of the fevered life thut 
 she led. 
 
 " Good morning, Mr. Crampton," said Miss Hal- 
 stead. " You are indeed an early bird. I suppose 
 that Mr. Rellerick is going to alter my part in last 
 night's play. I think there was rather too much 
 of it. It conflicted too much with his own, as I 
 thought it would do. The public doesn't want two 
 stars when Reginald is there, does it, Mr. Cramp- 
 ton ?" 
 
 Felicia's sunshine lightened the room. Poor, 
 mouldy Crampton thought she was the most be- 
 wildering picture of a bewildering sex that his 
 pale, platonic eyes had ever seen. The wax flow- 
 ers seemed to melt in her presence, and Mrs. Land- 
 ington's evil, suburban ornamentation to acquire 
 an artistic value. He said nothing, however. Fe- 
 licia knew him so well that she expected his 
 silence. 
 
 " I must just drink a cup of coffee and look at a 
 slice of bread and butter," she went on, "or Mrs. 
 Landington will be mortally offended. She is very 
 touchy on the subject of breakfast, and if I went 
 away without eating she would look upon me as a 
 sort of heathen." 
 
 As she spoke the alpaca housekeeper appeared 
 with a tray that held so much stodgily wholesome 
 food on its lacquered surface, thac Felicia tinkled 
 with laughter. 
 
 " I shan't eat at all, dear," she said to the re-
 
 Felicia Makes a Hit 29 
 
 spectable lady, " because Mr. Rellerick must be in 
 a great hurry. It looks very nice, though." 
 
 Then as Mrs. Landington's lips began to purse 
 themselves rather threateningly, she added, " I'll 
 make up for it, Landy, when I come back. You 
 can give me boiled mutton for dinner, and I'll eat 
 it all. And and do let me have one of your 
 bread puddings, dear. I shall be as a hungry as a 
 hunter and a half. Business is business, isn't it, 
 Landy? You couldn't expect me to eat this nest 
 of eggs, and that aquarium of fish, when my em- 
 ployer sends for me at a moment's notice." 
 
 " I never ask the impossible, my dear," was the 
 housekeeper's reply. " You have a good, indulgent 
 master, and you must obey him." 
 
 In the cab, Felicia's glowing matutinal spirits 
 could not be repressed, either by the dingy pic- 
 tures in the streets or the mouldy secretary's ap- 
 parently obstinate indifference. 
 
 " What do the papers say about last night ?" she 
 asked impetuously ; " I never saw Reginald so 
 completely glorious as he was during my death 
 scene. It was the most perfect piece of work he 
 has ever done. I almost forgot to die, I was so 
 engrossed in that splendid farewell utterance he 
 made to me." 
 
 " But it was your death scene," muttered Mr. 
 Crampton gloomily. 
 
 " And in the second act," went on Felicia > 
 " when he declined to listen to my siren-like bland- 
 ishments I am always an utter failure as a siren
 
 His Own Image 
 
 it seemed to me that his voice was sheer, entran- 
 cing music. Marvelous marvelous, I call it." 
 
 " But the audience sympathised with you," said 
 Crampton, with a sigh. 
 
 " Do you think so ? Well, perhaps a few of my 
 superfluous lines might be removed. Such art as 
 Reginald's should stand alone. The trouble was 
 that Pinerville wrote this play for a stock company 
 rather than a star. Still I am sure that Reginald 
 will be able to make changes in it. What did the 
 critics say ?" 
 
 " Why don't you read the papers ?" asked Cramp- 
 ton, with an almost ferocious intonation. 
 
 Felicia shrugged her shoulders and laughed. It 
 seemed to her a very absurd question. There was 
 nothing that she wanted to hear but a general ver- 
 dict. As a rule she relied upon Mr. Rellerick for 
 this. She preferred to abstain from mere technical 
 criticism. 
 
 "You are a cross person, Crampton," she said, 
 pinching his arm as though he had been a refractory 
 schoolboy. " I should like very much to be vexed 
 with you, but I haven't time. Tell me this : do 
 the critics rave ? I know they do of course they 
 must but I should like to hear it from your sedate 
 and unimpressive lips. You are such a sedate per- 
 son, Crampton ! You know you are. If you were 
 a few years older I should engage you to Mrs. 
 Landington. So rejoice in your youth, my dear 
 sir." 
 
 The mouldy secretary shivered slightly, in spite 
 of the warmth of the morning, and his face looked
 
 Felicia Makes a Hit 31 
 
 more like parchment than ever. It was not neces- 
 sary to answer Felicia's question, for she was chat- 
 tering gaily and volubly, quite forgetful of her 
 temporary desire for a verdict. She was so certain 
 of that verdict ! She took it for granted. Men were 
 not blind, and women were not fools to hold them- 
 selves aloof from the divinest dramatic powers in the 
 universe. 
 
 " I can't imagine you as Mr. Landington," she 
 frivoled, " driven to perpetual boiled mutton and 
 bread pudding. It is bad enough for me. What 
 would it be for you ? Yesterday, Crampton, I stole 
 away to the Grove this is distinctly entre nous 
 and had game pie and a pint of champagne, in 
 sheer self-defence. The poor old lady would have 
 cried her eyes out if she had known. But I felt I 
 couldn't tackle a new play on a boiled mutton 
 foundation. You see I've confided in you, although 
 you are so cross. Why are you so cross, Mr- 
 Crampton ? Don't you ever feel, when you see 
 Reginald act, that life isn't nearly as black as it is 
 painted ? Don't you ever feel that, Mr. Cramp- 
 ton?" 
 
 The secretary made no reply. He moved an 
 inch or two away from Miss Halstead, and mur- 
 mured something anent the lack of swiftness charac- 
 teristic of London cab-horses. They fell into a 
 temporary silence. He, moodily, chewed a bitter 
 cud that seemed to be the quintessential dregs of 
 his nature ; she was lulled into apathy by one of 
 those sudden, presentimental gusts that persistently 
 hover around light, impressionable temperaments.
 
 32 His Own Image 
 
 The hansom rollicked over the neat grey asphalt 
 pavement, and flew through the early street noises 
 and the squalor of Lond6n. The mouldy secretary 
 was the first to speak. His voice had a rumbling 
 sound, as though it were not quite sure of itself. 
 His parchment face seemed to mellow faintly, and 
 there was a distinctly human anxiety in his manner 
 as he turned to her. 
 
 " Tell me, Miss Halstead," he said, " if you, your- 
 self, never feel an individual ambition ? Are Regi- 
 nald's hopes infectious ? Do you never say to 
 yourself that one of these days you, too, will be 
 the puissant theatrical star, dominating tue master- 
 pieces of pinnacled playwrights, spoken of in all the 
 homes of England, Scotland, and Ireland ? Are 
 you content to play second fiddle to Mr. Rellerick 
 for ever and for aye ?" 
 
 It was a high-falutin utterance, that he attempted 
 to vulgarize by his " second fiddle " allusion. 
 Crampton had grown so accustomed to the writing 
 of ornamental English that occasionally he spoke 
 it. He looked earnestly at Felicia Halstead as he 
 talked. He approached her unconsciously and 
 never knew it until the subtle perfume of her un- 
 caught hair spoke fragrantly of her proximity. 
 
 " I have no ambition, Crampton," replied Felicia, 
 rather gravely ; " I am a cog a happy cog in 
 Reginald's mechanism. That is all. I could never 
 be what the world calls ' great,' Crampton. I have 
 no dominancy, no magnetism, nothing that is un- 
 usual. Why do you ask me such questions ? They 
 might almost insinuate that I am lacking in loyalty.
 
 Felicia Makes a Hit 33 
 
 Reginald's success is all that interests me. Don't 
 you know, Crampton, that that I love him ?" 
 
 The confession was surprised from her lips. It 
 was an unpleasant and a compromising confession. 
 She felt that, as soon as she had uttered it. It was 
 Reginald whom the words might compromise. The 
 great actor, as she knew, tried to keep himself un- 
 tainted from the gossip-mongers. For her own re- 
 putation, she cared nothing at all. She would will- 
 ingly have proclaimed her subjection to Reginald 
 from the house-tops. 
 
 " When I say I love him, Crampton," she con- 
 tinued hesitantly, " I mean, of course, that I admire 
 his art, and respect his personality. You under- 
 stand, I am sure." 
 
 Yes, the mouldy secretary understood. He sat 
 there, trembling and uneasy. The cab seemed to 
 him like a hideous projectile, shooting them into 
 infernal comprehension. He understood, for the 
 situation was not in the least enigmatical. It was 
 bald and easy. Mr. Crampton bit his lips. There 
 was enigma in that action, at any rate. Why did 
 Mr. Crampton bite his lips ? 
 
 Mr. Rellerick's door was opened to the couple 
 by a delightfully theatrical looking "character" 
 person with comedy manners. This gentleman 
 aspired to his master's calling, but was as yet un- 
 satisfied. He played persistent roles in the kitchen, 
 however, with Reginald's fat cook as a voluntary 
 ingenue. 
 
 Felicia nodded amicably to the secretary, and 
 ran lightly upstairs to Reginald's study. It was
 
 His Own Image 
 
 there that Reginald encountered many other peo- 
 ple. Miss Halstead was quite safe in this study. 
 Even the " interviewer " was permitted to talk to 
 and to photograph her there. The room contained 
 a huge bookcase, filled with volumes that the great 
 actor had never read. These volumes were affronts 
 to his ego-mania, for they dealt with old, extinct 
 actors. Easy chairs, a couple of sofas, and an orn- 
 amental fire-place were other features of this room. 
 It was aggressively dark and heavy ; magnificently 
 ponderous and uncomfortable. It was popular, 
 however, for in all the pictures portraying " Mr. 
 Rellerick at home " or " The great actor in his 
 study " it appeared gracefully. It was distinctly a 
 room " for the public," glowingly labelled with the 
 " private " brand. It was part and parcel of Rel- 
 lerick's colossal lie to the world. It was mendacity, 
 carpeted and furnished. 
 
 Felicia paused at the open door of the sanctum. 
 She could see Reginald pacing up and down the 
 Orientally-rugged floor. He wore a dressing-gown, 
 with affected carelessness, and a large meerschaum 
 pipe hung from his loose, bulging lips. Much of 
 his smug complacency seemed to have vanished. 
 There was action, alert, crafty and vindictive, in his 
 manner. He saw Felicia at the precise moment 
 that she saw him. He motioned to her to enter, 
 then carefully closed the door. The footstep of 
 Crampton was heard descending the stairs. Then 
 the outer world was forgotten. Felicia and Regi- 
 nald were together. 
 
 The young actress, after a first performance, felt
 
 Felicia Makes a Hit 35 
 
 her keenest joy in congratulating her idol upon his 
 success. It was a pleasure in which she was gra- 
 ciously permitted to indulge by Reginald himself. 
 He accepted her adulation as a matter of course. 
 Hers was merely a voice in the adulatory harmony 
 in which his sycophants bathed him. With her, it 
 was the luxurious expression of a sincerity that was 
 an almost overwhelming gratification. 
 
 On this occasion her words were checked by the 
 saturnine look on the great actor's face. He held 
 up one hand warningly. Then, as a look of blank 
 astonishment crept into Felicia's face, he remarked 
 satirically, " Permit me to congratulate you." 
 
 Felicia Halstead decided to smile. Her Regi- 
 nald's various moods infallibly pleased her. This 
 was a new one, and there was humour in it. Regi- 
 nald rarely allowed himself a dash of humour. 
 
 " As you will, my lord," she said, dropping a 
 mock courtesy, her face radiant with laughter, 
 " Mistress Felicia Halstead is but a woman, and 
 woman is a vain creature. Praise from Sir Hubert, 
 you know, What is the matter, Reginald ?" 
 
 She asked the question quickly, impelled sud- 
 denly from her frivolity. The lines around the 
 actor's mouth emphasized themselves cruelly. His 
 brows fell, blackly menacing, and the tints of his 
 face grew lead-like. He ceased his aimless parade 
 and folding his arms, stood looking at her gloomily. 
 
 " Miss Halstead is playing the usual role of the 
 theatrical ingrate," he said sternly. " She is en- 
 deavouring surreptitiously to cut herself loose from 
 an enviable position. She is eager to pose before
 
 3 6 His Own Image 
 
 the foolish public as a great actress. She has be- 
 gun war against her benefactor the man who has 
 given her every opportunity that a woman could 
 ask." 
 
 The girl, who had not yet taken a seat, stared 
 at him daftly. She could scarcely credit the mean- 
 ing of what she heard. Then, with a rush, the 
 recollection of Crampton's words in the cab surged 
 through her mind. Still it was all a mystery to 
 her. She sat down quietly in an easy-chair, and 
 began to remove her long, fluffy boa, and to pull 
 the pins from her hat. 
 
 " For Heaven's sake say something," groaned the 
 great actor, utterly regardless of her consternation. 
 
 " You ask me to say something, Reginald," mur- 
 mured Felicia. "You are ill this morning. I 
 can see that. You have worked too long and too 
 arduously. You must take a holiday. Reginald, 
 let us go to the lakes where you promised to take 
 me years ago. Nobody will know us. We can 
 live in some little cottage with simple country folks, 
 and we can pretend that we are away on our 
 honeymoon just as though we had never known 
 what a theatre was, or what London meant. You 
 will do this, dearest, will you not ?" 
 
 Reginald's face grew even harder and more ego- 
 maniacal. The " persecution " idea, always preva- 
 lent in the diseased mentality, took possession of 
 him completely. He laughed in an ugly, joyless 
 fashion. Then he came to her, as she waited on 
 her chair, and standing in front of her placed his 
 hands upon her shoulders.
 
 Felicia Makes a Hit 37 
 
 "No," he said harshly, " there will be no lakes for 
 us. There is a plot abroad a plot for my des- 
 truction, and you are in it. The truth has appeared 
 this morning. I won't ask you to deny that you 
 instigated the criticisms that applaud you at my 
 expense. You are a woman. You have made your 
 appeal, and it has been heard. This morning the 
 dolts of the press rave over Miss Felicia Halstead 
 and ignore her star. I might have expected it. 
 Still, remembering the sentimental nature of our 
 attachment, I confess that I looked for other 
 results." 
 
 Even as he spoke the never innately perjured 
 human heart realized the infamy of the uttered 
 words. The sentimental attachment between them 
 had been used by the actor as a means of holding 
 the woman in the blind subjection of love. That 
 was all. It was a means to an end. Everything 
 is a means to an end a selfish end with the ego- 
 maniac. 
 
 Still, Felicia failed to understand. " I don't see 
 what you mean, Reginald," she said. " It must be a 
 horrid jest. I don't like it. You know, dear, what 
 you are to me. What do I care for the theatre or 
 for what the critics say ? I am yours, for as much, 
 or as little as you will. I have told you that my 
 dearest hope is to be your wife. How could a 
 wife war against her husband ? Reginald, you are 
 a silly boy. Let us drop the subject. You have 
 not kissed me to-day. You may do so now. 
 Come." 
 
 She held up a face in which laughter was strug-
 
 His Own Image 
 
 gling with a ferocious battle of tears. If ever sin- 
 cerity spoke, it could be heard in the sweet, 
 pathetic ring of Felicia's tones. It would have 
 impressed the supremest sceptic with her truth. 
 But the ego-maniac is scepticism diseased doubt 
 robbed of all logic. Reginald grew infuriated. 
 
 "Miss Halstead is acting delightfully, as the 
 critics say she always acts," he retorted viciously. 
 " The fact remains that with the idiots who read 
 the newspapers, it is her name that appeals to-day ; 
 not mine. That is where the mischief comes in. 
 It is ruin for me an effort to knock down my 
 splendid edifice. Oh, yes, I believe you, Felicia 
 Halstead. How we should enjoy ourselves at the 
 lakes the famous young actress with the mori- 
 bund actor." 
 
 He had left her side and resumed his walk. Her 
 fair, ingenuous face angered him now, as it had 
 piquantly convinced him before. He had loved 
 her, and love was the weapon she used. 
 
 " You are in earnest ?" she cried at last, rising 
 as it began to dawn upon her that this was tragedy, 
 not comedy. " You are in earnest ? You can 
 really believe that I have tried to rear myself in 
 your place ? You can think that a woman whose 
 only happy moments have been spent in your arms 
 who has given you her past, her present and her 
 future, can prefer the theatre, the applause of the 
 mob ? You, who know me, Reginald, can credit 
 this ? No ! no ! no ! It is too monstrous, too 
 absurd. Do I know the critics ? Do I care what
 
 Felicia Makes a Hit 39 
 
 they say? Do I ever see them, or read them? 
 Oh, Reginald, I am ashamed of you." 
 
 " Spare me your trashy heroics," he exclaimed, 
 cold with indignation. " I have been a fool, and I 
 see it all. I have been an unsuspecting fool, and I 
 am paying the penalty of my criminal blindness." 
 
 Felicia Halstead's face was absolutely blood- 
 bereft. Her lips whitely outlined her mouth. She 
 trembled violently. 
 
 "Admitting that this were true," she said, in 
 hardly audible tones, " supposing that I were like 
 other women of the stage, anxious for my own self- 
 aggrandisement, supposing all this, Reginald ; 
 there is our love which must maka the case differ- 
 ent." 
 
 He burst into laughter. " Our love ! Our love ! 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ? And do you suppose that I should 
 allow the love of any one woman to interfere with 
 my career ? Our love, forsooth ! What is our 
 love ? Merely the mutual admiration of a man 
 and a woman. What is my career ? That is not 
 usual. That is extraordinary. That is my life. 
 Our love! Ha! ha! ha!" 
 
 Felicia sank back, overpowered by this brutality. 
 The ego-maniac stamped his foot to emphasize his 
 vehemence. The overwhelming of the woman be- 
 fore him gave him some slight satisfaction. His 
 nature was sadistic, as well as ego-maniacal. He 
 revelled in his own cruelty. 
 
 " I can say no more, Reginald," sobbed Felicia, 
 the slow tears of anguish dripping from her eyes
 
 40 His Own Image 
 
 " Something has happened to you. You see things 
 as they are not. It is hallucination. It must be." 
 
 She rose and said more, nevertheless. She could 
 not bear to leave him, afflicted and insane. " You 
 will see how foolish you are, dear, when you think 
 it all over. Try me in any way you like. Make 
 me a ' super.' Give me a part to think, and not to 
 act. Degrade me and I shall never complain." 
 
 The great actor, even in this, saw the germs of 
 conspiracy. " And you would set the gossips talk- 
 ing ?" he asked. " You would give my slanderers 
 food for every evil accusation ? You would see me 
 charged with deliberately humbling a woman 
 who, the critics say, has risen from the ranks ? 
 No, Felicia, you had better say no more. 
 You have thrust your ingratitude right in my face. 
 You have flaunted your vanity in front of the 
 world. You " 
 
 Felicia Halstead stopped his further utterances. 
 She went to him, placing one trembling hand over 
 his mouth, while with the other she held his arm. 
 
 " It is not true," she said. " Nothing is true, 
 except that I love you. You do believe this, Regi- 
 nald. You must believe it. I shall leave you now, 
 but when you send for me, I shall come. If I 
 could suppress those dreadful critics, Reginald, I 
 would do it. I never realized their power before. 
 I never believed that they could cause a man to 
 suspect the woman he has loved, and who loves 
 him." 
 
 She turned from him, seized the long fluffy boa 
 and the hat with its pins from the table upon which
 
 Felicia Makes a Hit 41 
 
 she had thrown them, and without another word 
 opened the door and went out. The mouldy sec- 
 retary, at the foot of the stairs, mbled away as he 
 saw her coming. She never noticed him. He 
 opened the door, and she passed out. 
 
 Upstairs, the great actor, walking furiously up 
 and down, stopped in front of a large porcelain 
 picture of his late leading lady. With one blow 
 from his clenched fist he broke it to atoms. That 
 was, to him, the most satisfactory proceeding of the 
 morning.
 
 Chapter III 
 
 REGINALD DISSIMULATES 
 
 THE great actor walked to his club, in order 
 that he might plunge into the voluptuous luxury of 
 hatred one of the most piquant satisfactions of 
 life. He felt impelled toward the club, as the con- 
 victed criminal to the verdict that tells him the 
 worst. He must mingle with the gossip-mongers 
 and the scandal-brewers. He must drink the very 
 dregs of this catastrophe, and see what he could do. 
 He must dissimulate as usual ; he must act more 
 realistically than ever. And to the ego-maniac 
 there is as much glory in acting off the stage as 
 there is on it. 
 
 He saw Felicia's humid face, as she collapsed 
 beneath his keen shafts, but he felt no compassion 
 for her. Tears to him were as valueless as laugh- 
 ter. He had a deep-rooted disbelief in either. She 
 had wept because she had been detected in her 
 surreptitious designs. He bit his lips in anger as 
 he recalled her words : " Make me a super. Give 
 me a part to think not to act." How well she 
 must have known that such a course would be im- 
 possible ! Though he would have liked to humble 
 her to the dust, to sink her to the lowest depths of 
 [42]
 
 Reginald Dissimulates 43 
 
 uselessness, he would not dare to do it. And she 
 was aware of that fact. 
 
 How powerless a man is before a woman's wiles! 
 He had selected Felicia as his leading lady for 
 the simple reason that he had faith in the apparent 
 colourlessness of her nature. She would never do 
 anything of any consequence, he had thought. 
 And he had sealed the bargain by loving her an 
 arrangement in which he thought that body would 
 gradually stamp out the slightest possibility of 
 soul. And now the net-work of his schemes was 
 hopelessly shattered. Far better would it have 
 been for him, if he had chosen some vulgar, arro- 
 gant woman, who would have overreached herself 
 at the end of the first season. 
 
 The public prefers the woman to the man. This 
 js inevitable in man-governed communities. Great 
 actors cannot be too careful. Mr. Rellerick had 
 taken all precautions and they were as nothing. 
 
 He saw his own name in huge letters on the 
 blank walls, and shivered. How long would that 
 name flaunt itself through the thoroughfares ? And 
 beneath the flaring " Reginald Rellerick," in tiny 
 type, almost illegible to the naked eye, was his lead- 
 ing lady's title. If type means anything, Felicia 
 Halstead had vanquished it completely. 
 
 In the celebrity-shows of photographers' win- 
 dows were his own portraits, in every pose conceiv- 
 able. There he was leaning on his elbows, stand- 
 ing bolt upright, luxuriously pillowed in a chair, 
 head without body, head with body, head with body 
 and legs. There were no pictures of Miss HaU
 
 44 His Own Image 
 
 stead. In the photographers' windows he was the 
 sole sovereign. He realized this with a sudden 
 flicker of pleasure. Had he exaggerated the gravity 
 of the situation ? He stopped in front of the most 
 illustrious photographic display and contemplated 
 himself with a glad sensation. The intellect in his 
 face had never appealed to him more convincingly. 
 He was not really a handsome man, but his features 
 were distinguished, patrician, cerebrally entertain- 
 ing. He had never seen a head as perfect as his 
 own. What a forehead ! What eyes, in their 
 slightly sunken enclosures ! What a fine tempest 
 
 of hair! What a 
 
 He paused. Two youths of the ."Piccadilly 
 Johnnie " type stood by his side. They were talk- 
 ing. He clutched at their talk. He needed some 
 slight consolation from the outer world. 
 
 " Did you see the play last night ?" asked one, 
 nodding at Rellerick's portrait, as though further 
 explanation were unnecessary. 
 
 " Yes," responded the other, " I saw it and enjoyed 
 it. But it seemed to me that Rellerick is going off. 
 I never cared much about him, but somehow or 
 other he always managed to be the play. Last 
 night it was all Felicia Halstead. Delightful little 
 girl, don't you think ? I tell you what, old chap, 
 that woman's got a future. If she will only cut 
 herself away from old Rellerick and start out on 
 her own account, she'll be another Ellen Terry. 
 Mark my words." 
 
 " I bet that she will have a dozen offers before 
 the week is out," said the first. Good women are
 
 Reginald Dissimulates 45 
 
 at a premium. There are no more of them. They 
 go up like rockets, and come down like sticks." 
 
 " I say, it wouldn't be a bad idea to " 
 
 They moved gradually away. The last words 
 were lost. The dialogue fell like lead on Reginald 
 Rellerick's spirits. He stood there panting, his 
 breath appearing cloudily on the window pane, his 
 eyes apparently seeking the innermost recesses of 
 the shop. He had listened, by the merest chance, 
 to a fragment of desultory conversation. How 
 many similar fragments were being uttered in Lon- 
 don at that very moment ? The metropolis had 
 organized a gigantic and devilish conspiracy. All 
 London was pitted against him. What had he 
 done ? In what had he been wanting ? What 
 was his crime ? He asked' himself these questions, 
 for the ego-maniacal actor never believes in the 
 spontaneity of an adverse opinion. It has always 
 been bought, or plotted, or manufactured. You 
 can lie about an aQtor's merits until you are blue 
 in the face ; until you sicken at the nauseating 
 mendacity. He will fatten on it, and will regard 
 it simply as a necessary tribute to unmistakable 
 genius. One apparently hostile comment and 
 you are his enemy for life. To the actor there is 
 truth in praise only. Censure is the child of lies 
 lies, villainous lies. 
 
 Every trifle irritated him. He saw people buy- 
 ing newspapers simply to read the story of Fe- 
 licia Halstead's triumph and his own failure. He no- 
 ticed on a "sandwich man " a magazine's announce- 
 ment of " Interviews with prominent actresses,"
 
 46 His Own Image 
 
 and he writhed at the idea that Felicia might ap- 
 pear in the list. He passed a milliner's shop just 
 in time to see the sudden birth of a new ticket, 
 bearing the legend " The Felicia Halstcad hat," 
 and he realized that she was making " capital " out 
 of the very hat that he himself had designed. He 
 heard a gamin whistling the " soft music " that had 
 been played during her death scene. 
 
 Felicia Halstead was in the air. He had exag- 
 gerated nothing. All London was busily singing 
 her praises. How he hated her ! He had hated 
 many people in his life the actor's profession is a 
 sort of manure for the propagation of hatred but 
 he had never felt the insanity of dislike so keenly 
 as he did at present. He must hide it all .... he 
 must act .... he must act. 
 
 He reached his club a dark-brown institution 
 for actors and literary men. The two classes are 
 invariably confused, although the actor is scarcely 
 closer to the literary men than are the fishmongers 
 and the butchers. The club was not very far from 
 Drury Lane Theatre. The neighbourhood was 
 not exhilarating ; nor was the club for the matter 
 of that. 
 
 It resembled a mausoleum, rather than the vol- 
 untary resort of cheerful temperaments. An ob- 
 sequious person in dingy lackey-garb took the 
 great actor's hat and coat, and closed the door 
 after him. Reginald entered the smoking-room 
 an apartment of indescribably dreary aspect. A 
 few of those caked-in monstrosities called " old 
 masters " appeared on the dark, gloomily-papered
 
 Reginald Dissimulates 47 
 
 walls. The furniture was old and heavy, full of 
 lethargic reminiscences souvenirs of days that had 
 passed suggestions of days that would pass. 
 
 Half-a-dozen men drank brandy-and-soda and 
 smoked pipes in silence. It was a convivial club, 
 without a symptom of conviviality. Each mem- 
 ber looked as though he would like to pounce 
 upon a fellow-member's throat and worry the life 
 out of him. They were all pretending to read 
 papers, books or magazines. Through a funereal 
 window dark visions of blackest London appeared 
 the London of chimney-tops, squalid rear views, 
 and hopeless, uncombed civilization. 
 
 A gentleman who wrote book reviews for the 
 Daily Despair was glancing at a flimsy novel by 
 " Gyp," and scowling ferociously, as clearly unable 
 to make head or tail of " Gyp's " sallies as she would 
 have been to wade through one of his column re- 
 views. An actor-manager bitterly opposed to 
 Rellerick on general principles, was skimming 
 through an article entitled "The Drama in the Dol- 
 drums," and nodding his head approvingly. Of 
 course the drama was in the doldrums it richly 
 deserved to be in the doldrums it was always in 
 the doldrums for had not his season failed ? 
 
 A " hanger-on " was apathetically watching the 
 inhuman faces of the clubmen, and looking at his 
 watch occasionally as though he were timing the 
 silence. A dramatic critic, who never wrote any- 
 thing bad of anybody and was consequently most 
 amiably despised sat there contemptuously alone. 
 Another, who never wrote anything good of any-
 
 4 8 His Own Image 
 
 body was equally unnoticed, although his presence 
 was felt. 
 
 And from one of the London slum-courts came 
 the ironical voice of an urchin, singing " We are a 
 merry family we are we are we are." Nobody 
 laughed. In a London club humour is immoral 
 and suggestive. Few people with a sense of 
 humour would belong to one of those sepia-tinted 
 organizations. And looking at these people, one 
 wondered what they would do in a brilliantly- 
 lighted room, amid a company of wits ; how they 
 would take light-hearted badinage ; what they 
 would say if you poked them jocosely in the ribs 
 and said " Bah ! bah ! to you." 
 
 It was the home of ego-mania ; the grotto of 
 heavy selfishness, the breeding-ground of conceit 
 and pomposity. 
 
 Reginald entered, king of the ego-maniacs. They 
 were all feasting on their own innards, but none 
 enjoyed the repast as much as he. They were all 
 wallowing swinily in their own self-consciousness, 
 but he was the prime wallower of all. 
 
 As he entered, a concession was made to his 
 greatness. Books and magazines were cast lightly 
 aside. The members nodded, looked at him atten- 
 tively, sipped their brandy-and-sodas, and prepared 
 to rupture the membranous silence. 
 
 The great actor saw them all uneasily. He re- 
 garded the magazines and the brandies as pre- 
 tences. The gentlemen had been discussing him ; 
 he felt perfectly convinced of that. If they had 
 sworn to the contrary he would not have credited
 
 Reginald Dissimulates 49 
 
 their words. To the ego-maniac there is but one 
 topic, and in this literary-dramatic club Reginald 
 Rellerick was the great attraction. It never oc- 
 curred to him that the dreary people before him 
 might, in sheer desperation, be enjoying a holiday 
 and thinking of something else. Of what else was 
 there to think ? 
 
 However, this dark little room where conviviality 
 parodied itself daily, was merely a stage to the 
 great actor, and he prepared to play his part on it 
 as artistically as possible. His eyes fell upon the 
 dramatic critic who had never been known to write 
 anything bad of anybody. This gentleman was 
 none other than Winkle, whose crescendo family 
 Mr. Rellerick had charged himself with rewarding. 
 But just now Winkle was useless. In their inner- 
 most recesses, actors scorn the men who sugar-coat 
 them with praise. They have little interest in 
 them. The praise-slingers are regarded as myrmi- 
 dons, satellites, flunkeys, and Mr. Rellerick saw 
 poor Winkle without the slightest pang of pleasure. 
 You and I, dear reader, workers in less bewilder- 
 ingly heralded walks of life than the stage, enjoy a 
 little bit of praise, and beam gratefully upon the 
 beneficent praise-giver. He is a ray of light in our 
 darkness, an ounce of sweetness in our pound of 
 bitter. But to the actor he is a tasteless matter- 
 of-course, unworthy of grateful consideration. 
 
 Mr. Rellerick advanced with outstretched hand 
 to Jobberlots, the censorious one, who had inciner- 
 ated him viciously and had taken particular pains 
 to laud Miss Felicia Halstead o the skies. The
 
 50 His Own Image 
 
 great actor's face was wreathed in pleasant smiles ; 
 his manner was cordiality rampant. He was de- 
 lightfully eager ; his voice was sonorous and crev- 
 ice-reaching. Jobberlots trembled in his boots and 
 felt about an inch and a half high. 
 
 " I want to thank you," said the actor-liar, warmly, 
 " for your splendidly-written review of my poor lit- 
 tle production in this morning's paper. No," lift- 
 ing up his hand playfully, as Jobberlots began to 
 stammer unmeaning words, " do not interrupt me, 
 my dear sir. I am not one of those lamentably 
 blind actors who can see nothing in a critic's work 
 unless it be fulsome commendation. Every man 
 is entitled to his own opinion, Mr. Jobberlots. I 
 have always valued yours. You are so frank, so 
 outspoken, so delightfully just with it all." 
 
 As he spoke the pins of keenest hatred were 
 sticking in the vitals of the great actor. If he could 
 have shrivelled up poor Jobberlots instantly, he 
 would have done it, provided that there had been 
 none there to see the deed. 
 
 " I don't know what would become of us all," he 
 said, speaking at the assemblage vid the critic, " if 
 it were not for you gentlemen of the press. How 
 I laughed, how I chuckled when you likened me 
 to a vulture picking the bones of everyone who ap- 
 proached the centre of the stage. Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! I 
 hope I can enjoy a joke even at my own expense, 
 Mr. Jobberlots. I can always appreciate that which 
 is clever." 
 
 Reginald laughed in the most apparently affable 
 manner. He deceived the " hanger-on " who had
 
 Reginald Dissimulates 51 
 
 been timing everything. His contagious humour 
 affected the arid Daily Despair reviewer, who had 
 been thinking up adjectives for the demolition of 
 poor " Gyp." Even the actor-manager felt that 
 here was a superior person with a soul above mere 
 selfish considerations. The ego-maniac is the most 
 dangerous maniac of all. If he had guards or 
 keepers which he should have he would be quite 
 capable of gulling them all. 
 
 " I tried to tell the truth, sir," murmured poor 
 Jobberlots unsteadily. He hated meeting the 
 people he had been forced to criticise, but he 
 bowed to the inevitable. 
 
 " And you succeeded admirably," was the mag- 
 nanimous retort ; " I want to thank you particu- 
 larly," here he raised his voice so that even the 
 menials outside could hear him, " for your splendid 
 tribute to my dear friend and associate, Felicia 
 Halstead. Ah, Mr. Jobberlots, there is a girl who 
 richly deserves to be encouraged. I have recog- 
 nized her abilities for some time, and I was deter- 
 mined that they should have an opportunity this 
 time. That is why I selected Pinerville's play. 
 My judgment was evidently good, you will allow 
 me to say it, my dear Mr. Jobberlots for I am 
 quite sure that Miss Halstead impressed the public 
 very favourably. Am I not right ?" 
 
 Poor Jobberlots fell. He was gulled into 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 "You are right, Mr. Rellerick," he said. 
 " Everybody to whom I spoke seemed to think 
 that there was was a splendid future for her. She
 
 His Own Image 
 
 surprised the audience. All London is talking of 
 her to-day." 
 
 There are some feats that are impossible even 
 to the most accomplished actor-liars. Even an 
 Irving or a Bernhardt meets limitations. Mr. Rel- 
 lerick met his at this moment. Jobberlots' ready 
 enthusiasm overwhelmed him. For a moment he 
 was dumb, paralyzed by the horror of the Damo- 
 clesian sword that seemed suddenly to have fallen 
 on his head. 
 
 It was Winkle who brought him to his senses 
 Winkle with the crescendo family and the miser- 
 able pittance of a salary. " Miss Halstead has bet- 
 ter opportunities in this play," said Winkle, " and 
 it seems to me that a dummy could have made an 
 impression under such very favourable circum- 
 stances." 
 
 The great actor made a mental note of further 
 instructions to Mr. Crampton on the subject of this 
 promising person. Outwardly, however, he cast 
 glances of serene contempt upon poor Winkle, and 
 declined to address him. 
 
 " Don't you think," he continued pointedly to 
 Jobberlots, " that my dear friend and associate, 
 Felicia, would be quite justified in ' starring ' on 
 the top of this unprecedented success ? I do. 
 Not for the world would I interfere with her pro-. 
 gress. Only this morning I said to her, ' My dear 
 Miss Halstead, if I were you I should organize a 
 company of my own ; I will give you the pecuniary 
 backing that is necessary.' I quoted to her the 
 hackneyed but always appropriate lines about the
 
 Reginald Dissimulates 53 
 
 ' tide in the affairs of men.' Ah, Shakespeare was 
 a genius, my dear Jobberlots. He addressed you 
 and me, and our children and our grandchildren." 
 
 " And what did she say ?" asked Jobberlots, scent- 
 ing a " paragraph " for his Saturday's "amusement " 
 column. 
 
 " I am sorry to tell you that she disagreed with 
 me," continued the actor-liar, puckering his brows 
 as though in pain. " She says like our friend 
 Winkle "(here he acknowledged the luckless praise- 
 thrower with an uplifted, dramatic hand), " that her 
 success was simply chance. And I positively be- 
 lieve that she looked upon me as the impetus to 
 that success. Silly girl! Foolish Felicia ! Women 
 are such odd creatures, Mr. Jobberlots. You can 
 argue with them until you choke, without convin- 
 cing them in the least. I told her plainly that there 
 was positive genius in her work, but she laughed.in 
 my face. That is my conviction, however. And 
 I may add that I was scarcely myself last night, 
 for I was simply lost in admiration of her perfect 
 performance." 
 
 " My dear Rellerick," said the Daily Despair re- 
 viewer, deluded into cordial sympathy, " your sen- 
 timents do you credit. I only wish that some of 
 the fools who are always crying out about stage 
 jealousies and all that sort of thing, were present. 
 It does me good to hear an actor of your promi- 
 nence so warmly advocating the merits of a leading 
 lady." 
 
 " What is the use of being unjust ?" asked the 
 great actor with a shrug of his shoulders. " The
 
 54 His Own Image 
 
 public judges. Besides, an artist is in love with 
 art wherever he finds it. If I had seen Miss Hal- 
 stead act in any one's else company I should have 
 immediately engaged her. I can't afford to have 
 mediocrities in my support, my dear Twiston. 
 By-the-by, did you see the play last night ? I told 
 Smithson to send you a couple of stalls. I shall be 
 very vexed if I hear that he didn't." 
 
 " Oh, I was there," remarked Twiston, " and I 
 enjoyed it immensely." 
 
 "And you agree of course," Reginald tried to 
 keep the flood of anxiety from pouring into his 
 voice, " that Felicia distinguished herself very sig- 
 nally ? However there can be no two opinions." 
 (The anxiety conquered. It swept itself in billows 
 over Reginald's tones, and he waited, fervently in- 
 terrogative). 
 
 " Most certainly," was Twiston's verdict. " If 
 there ever was a clever girl, her name is Felicia 
 Halstead. Admirable, my dear Rellerick, admir- 
 able. I should like to see her in some of the old 
 comedies. What a magnificent Lady Teazle she 
 would make. Think of her as Miss Hardcastle. 
 And I don't believe that Shakespeare is beyond 
 her. She is young enough to make a most sympa- 
 thetic Juliet or Rosalind. In fact, in my opinion, 
 she is a budding genius." 
 
 The " hanger-on " put up his watch and joined 
 the discussion. Said he : " Felicia Halstead is one 
 of those women who, like murder will out. You 
 couldn't down her. You couldn't keep her in the 
 background. With women of that sort it is only a
 
 Reginald Dissimulates 55 
 
 question of time and opportunity. I wonder if 
 you could arrange an interview with her for me? 
 I believe that the Weekly Lampoon would be glad 
 to take it. And it would be doing the girl a good 
 turn, don't you think?" 
 
 Reginald Rellerick winced. The "hanger-on" 
 had one specialty, and that was " interviewing." 
 He could make a fool interesting. He had a cer- 
 tain bright and readable "style" that gave force 
 to the most banal subjects. What could he not do 
 with Felicia Halstead, already pinnacling herself 
 in London ? What fame might not she win with the 
 aid of a leisurely and enthusiastic pen such as that 
 wielded by the " hanger-on ?" The .great actor's 
 cup of bitterness had been filled to the point of 
 overflowing. The " hanger-on " had supplied the 
 one drop too much. It was cruelty. It was tor- 
 ture. And in Reginald's heart his hatred for the 
 offending leading lady swelled and rankled more 
 oppressively than ever. He had no fixed policy in 
 his mind, as he entered the club. His sole object 
 was to hear the truth the horrible truth. And he 
 had hoped desperately that things would not be as 
 bad as he had imagined. He had clutched at this 
 thin wisp of hope, and behold it had given way in 
 his hands. His mind was in a chaos of emotion. 
 If his policy had been unsettled that morning, it 
 was even more disastrously confused at the present. 
 There was no longer a redeeming doubt. Cold, 
 deliberate minds had sanctioned Felicia's success. 
 She had been applauded not only by the fools in 
 an audience, but by his grave, disinterested club-
 
 56 His Own Image 
 
 fellows. He had played his part and the effort had 
 left him exhausted. He had nothing further to 
 learn. The ugly knowledge of the worst had come 
 easily, even gracefully. He ordered a brandy-and- 
 soda, and ensconced himself in a corner with a news- 
 paper containing an article headed " London has 
 an actress at last." 
 
 It will afford me great pleasure," he said, dis- 
 mally, to the " hanger-on " before plunging into 
 the atrocious newspaper, " to mention you to Miss 
 Halstead. I should very much like you to see her 
 and talk with her. I will do all that I can. Felicia 
 is a strange girl, however, and she is very afraid of 
 journalists. She may dislike the sudden promi- 
 nence of an ' interview.' But rest assured, my dear 
 sir, that I shall try to talk her out of her foolish 
 scruples." 
 
 Reginald invited no further words'! He sank 
 behind his newspaper and relaxed the tension of 
 his face. How changed he was from the riant, 
 courtly, interested actor, acting so vigorously a few 
 moments before ! His face was hidden. He was 
 almost afraid that the devilish look of hatred, with 
 its accompanying outlines and eye-contortions, 
 would pierce through the flimsy sheet. His jaw 
 dropped and he sat there unable to read an intel- 
 ligible word of " London has an actress at last." 
 
 The club gentlemen resumed their occupations. 
 The book reviewer made another attack upon 
 " Gyp." The actor-manager, who had been a silent 
 but interested auditor, took another plunge into 
 the doldrums which surrounded the drama. The
 
 Reginald Dissimulates 57 
 
 ' hanger-on " began to time things again, and the 
 critics drank more brandy-and-soda in nonchalant 
 enjoyment. 
 
 Others came in, but Reginald forgot to greet 
 them. There he sat, watching the afternoon 
 shadows creep over the mud-colored carpet ; sur- 
 veying the crusty old masters an their saturnine 
 decay on the walls, but still apparently reading that 
 fateful, " London has an actress at last." 
 
 The voluptuous luxury of hatred ceased to be 
 luxury, and twisted itself into agony. He stood it 
 as long as he could, until the beads of anguish 
 forced themselves from his forehead, each opening 
 pore hurting like a newly-made puncture. 
 
 Then he went away through darkening London, 
 and walked through the dim, gray streets in a tu- 
 mult of pain such as a sane man never knows one 
 of those tumults that are reserved exclusively for 
 the abnormal type we call the ego-maniac.
 
 Chapter IV 
 
 THE HORROR OF SUCCESS. 
 
 MRS. LANDINGTON sat at the little round table 
 in the Netting Hill dining-room awaiting the ar- 
 rival of Felicia. The muslin ruching round her 
 neck stood bolt upright, as though prepared to re- 
 sist any attacks. At the top of the fleshly tobog- 
 gan-slide that began under her chin, glistened the 
 cameo brooch that had the extinct husband's hair 
 at the back. Mrs. Landington was a picture of 
 lower-class righteousness. Her black alpaca dress 
 " made at home," fitted her closely, and on her 
 head she wore a respectable cap that seemed to sit 
 there defiantly. 
 
 On the table was a particularly venomous look- 
 ing mutton stew very thick and aggressively 
 nourishing, while on the adjacent sideboard reigned 
 an evil bread pudding of poultice-like consistency 
 and generally unpromising aspect. Felicia was 
 late, and Mrs. Landington was cross. The lower 
 classes in London may be morally lax, grotesquely 
 uncultured, and severely inartistic, but they are 
 always punctual at meal-time. Meals are the great 
 regulators of existence, in their minds, and to keep 
 L58J
 
 The Horror of Success 59 
 
 a dinner waiting shows a criminally disarranged 
 organisation. 
 
 So she sat there, Nemesis-like, as she heard 
 Felicia's latch-key fumbling at the outside lock. 
 Nothing would induce her to stir from her seat. 
 Her almost pneumatic bust tightened itself, and 
 she was quite prepared to say uncharitable things, 
 as she saw Felicia enter. 
 
 She changed her mind rapidly, however. Miss 
 Halstead's eyes were inflamed as though with weep- 
 ing ; her nose was purple (Mrs. Landington won- 
 dered why she hadn't used the powder which every 
 well-regulated woman carries in her handkerchief), 
 and as she flung aside her boa and tossed her hat 
 upon the sofa, it was very easy to see that some- 
 thing had happened. 
 
 Mrs. Landington waited. She forgot the sinis- 
 ter stew and the morbid pudding. Something had 
 occurred between the girl and her " employer," and 
 perhaps the situation was grave. Mrs. Landington 
 had an easy job as the saying is and she lived in 
 mortal dread of events that might jeopardize it. 
 
 " I can't eat any dinner to-day, Landy," said 
 Felicia, sitting down and plunging her head into 
 her hands. " I'm too much upset. Mr. Rellerick 
 has been very unkind and and 
 
 She burst into tears and kept her face well hid- 
 den in her hands. Mrs. Landington looked at her 
 in amazement. A dreary dread of something that 
 might send her out into the cold, cold world, the 
 world in which there were no mutton stews and 
 bread puddings, arose within her. She waited a
 
 6o His Own Image 
 
 few minutes longer, hoping that Felicia's tears 
 would cease and that an explanation would be 
 forthcoming. Then curiosity, urged on by the in- 
 stinct of self-preservation, took bodily possession 
 of her. 
 
 " I do 'ope," she said, " that nothing has 'appened 
 of a serious nature, my dear. You aren't in danger 
 of losing your situation, are you ? You 'ave a nice 
 post, you know. When I think of the girls that 'as 
 to stand be'ind counters all day, until their very 
 legs are dropping under them and not even al- 
 lowed a glass of stimulants, such as we all need 
 when I think of them, I hoften says to myself that 
 you should be grateful. You 'aven't been riling 
 'im, 'ave you ? Employers are tantalizing persons 
 Oh, I know but they must 'ave their way. And 
 it's right they should. They pay the salaries and 
 foot the bills. And I will say for Mr. Rellerick that 
 he grudges you nothing. ' Give her the fat of the 
 land, Mrs. Landington,' he's told me time and again. 
 And I try to do it, my dear. Nothing is saved. 
 Every penny every ha'penny he gives me goes 
 for the table." 
 
 Felicia scarcely heard Mrs. Landington's squalid 
 remarks. They buzzed in her ears ; that is all. 
 She was too completely overwhelmed by the force 
 of the double catastrophe that had fallen upon her- 
 self and upon her actor. 
 
 " I'm sure he's a kind gentleman," continued the 
 housekeeper, "and means well. You musn't mind 
 'im if 'e's been cross. Business is business, my dear. 
 It's 'ard on the men. Don't I know it ? Why, my
 
 The Horror of Success 61 
 
 poor Thomas was often beside 'imself, when we 'ad 
 that little butcher's shop down Dalston way. Many 
 a night 'ave I cried myself to sleep, when 'e 's gone 
 out, and called me a chattering old cat, and other 
 'orrid names. And if a man with a butcher's shop 
 takes on so, why it's no more than natural that a 
 gentleman with a big theatre on his 'ands, should 
 be out o' sorts occasionally what with sceneries, 
 and hactors, and all the expenses to pay, not for- 
 getting 'eat and gas." 
 
 Felicia gave no heed to the querulous suggestions. 
 She heard indistinct sounds of " butcher's shop " 
 and " big theatre " but they could not wean her 
 from the topic of her mind. 
 
 " It's silly crying like that, "persisted Mrs. Land- 
 ington, losing her temper. " Perhaps some folks 
 wants something to cry about. Three meals a day, 
 and a nice salary paid regular every Toosdy, isn't 
 to be sneezed at. I'm surprised at you. It's un- 
 grateful, and you a-sending money every week to 
 your sisters in Lancashire all out of Mr. Rellerick. 
 And there you sit snivelling like a booby, just be- 
 cause he has said ' Boo.' I'm ashamed of you. 
 And 'ere's dinner cold as ice, and me a-getting faint 
 for want of a bit or bite." 
 
 But the housekeeper was uneasy in spite of her 
 brave words. She helped herself to a dish of the 
 glutinous stew, but she failed to cat it. She sat 
 watching Felicia. Suddenly herfearassumed shape. 
 She struck the table with her knife and fork, and 
 her face changed colour. 
 
 " I know what it is," she exclaimed, " I know it.
 
 62 His Own Image 
 
 You've been and given 'im notice, all on account of 
 a little fuss. You 'ave. You know you 'ave. And 
 if it's true, where am I ? I ask : where am I, with 
 nothing to me name but me clothes, and a pound 
 or two in the saving's bank ?" 
 
 Felicia withdrew her hands from her face and 
 looked wearily at the flabby creature in front of 
 her. Was all the world selfish ? Did the universe 
 revolve around one single self-pivot ? 
 
 " I can't forget it, Landy, I can't forget it," she 
 said, the tears still splashing down her cheeks, and 
 an urgent desire for sympathy manifesting itself, 
 strangely and unusually. "He says that I am try- 
 ing to supplant him, and and I can't endure it. 
 I love him so." 
 
 Mrs. Landington clutched the cameo brooch at 
 her breast, as though her extinct husband's hair at 
 its back had suddenly tickled her. 
 
 " You love 'im !" she gasped, " You love 'im ! 
 Well, I like that. Did I hear you say you love 'im ? 
 Oh, tell me I've made a mistake. I can't believe 
 it. You love your employer ? And perhaps you've 
 told 'im so ? Oh, it's all as clear as a pikestaff. 
 Miss Felicia 'Alstead, you're a fool for your pains, 
 and I tell you so, as p'r'aps shouldn't." 
 
 Felicia laughed at last. It was a bitter, defiant 
 laugh, but it was a relief from the abjectly wet sen- 
 sation of tears. She heard Mrs. Landington 's re- 
 marks on " love," and they gave a piquant zest to 
 the situation. And she laughed again still more 
 defiantly. The allusion to love had acted as a sort 
 of red flag waved in front of a bewildered bull.
 
 The Horror of Success 63 
 
 " Yes, I love him," she said, her eyes aglow, "and 
 he knows it, and if you were not as blind as a bat, 
 you silly old thing, you would know it, too. And 
 I would just as soon that you did. I wish all the 
 world knew it. I'd like to publish it in the papers. 
 If I were his wife he wouldn't dare to think such 
 horrid things about me. And I ought to be his 
 wife. Yes, Landy, I ought to be his wife, and you 
 can be as shocked as you like about it. I don't 
 care. Sit there and gape at me. That's right 
 gape gape gape. Landy, I shall throw a spoon 
 at you in a minute. I know I shall. I can't 
 help it." 
 
 The housekeeper might have had a paralytic 
 stroke. Her jaw had dropped until it evinced an 
 inclination to career down the toboggan slide that 
 began at her chin. Her eyes were rounded and 
 bulging. Her bosom threatened to burst its way 
 through the black alpaca that was stretched tensely 
 from shoulder to shoulder. She made one or two 
 ineffectual efforts to speak. She was tongue-tied. 
 
 Felicia looked at her in amusement. It was a 
 satisfaction to spray the painful situation at this 
 typical lower-class matron. 
 
 Mrs. Landington laboured and brought forth 
 words. They were characteristic of her class. 
 Ninety-nine out of a hundred lower-class London 
 matrons would have said precisely the same thing. 
 
 " I know, I know," she managed to cry hoarsely, 
 " I see it all. You ought to be married, you 
 say. That means one thing. You want him your 
 good kind employer to be the father of your
 
 64 His Own Image 
 
 child. Oh, the 'orrid scheme that we read of in 
 the papers every day of our lives." 
 
 Felicia blushed. A wave of pink blood tinged 
 her face, neck and ears. She was used to the 
 lower classes, which, in cases of this kind, look for 
 one result only, and that very immediate. Mrs. 
 Landington could sit still no longer. She heaved 
 herself from her chair, and went and stood like a 
 monument in front of the girl. And through her 
 lower-class brain surged all the vulgar possibilities, 
 all the sordid aspects of the question, all its flam- 
 boyant immorality, unrelieved by a solitary wisp of 
 humanity. 
 
 " Landy, don't be foolish," said Felicia stupidly, 
 a trifle upset by the storm that she had raised. 
 " You don't understand. You don't understand. 
 Reginald loves me and I love him. There is no 
 other question. He was very cruel to me this 
 morning, and I was very, very grieved. If we were 
 married it would be different, because nothing 
 could take him away from me. As it is as it is 
 he will never believe that I am the most unambi- 
 tious girl in the world, and that I want nothing but 
 his love." 
 
 " And more shame of you to say it " the house- 
 keeper spat out the words " you, with a batch of 
 good sensible sisters in Lancashire. A pretty 
 kettle of fish, and no mistake ! No wonder he was 
 cross, poor fellow. I 'ates designing girls. No 
 good ever comes to 'em. Such goings-on I've 
 never heard of, except in the newspapers. A nice 
 look-out for you, with a baby on your 'ands. And
 
 The Horror of Success 65 
 
 I suppose I shall be expected to look after you 
 both and " 
 
 "Oh, no, no, Landy," cried poor Felicia in gen- 
 uine distress. " It isn't so. It isn't so. I wish it 
 were, for Regiuald is so good, and so kind, and 
 and" 
 
 She rose from her seat and in sheer helplessness 
 threw her arms around the fat housekeeper and 
 sobbed on the monumental bosom that began at 
 the cameo brooch. There is a good deal of com- 
 fort in a black alpaca bust. It is always a grateful 
 cushion for grief. 
 
 Felicia sobbed in continuous despair, with the 
 persistent "picture of Reginald's contempt in her 
 eyes, and the unceasing remembrance of Reg- 
 inald's words, phonographically monotonous, in 
 her ears. Not for an instant did a tinge of tri- 
 umph at her unsought success, stain her thoughts. 
 She looked upon it as a calamity, because it tore 
 from her the sympathies of her actor. And as she 
 sobbed, she thought of the very different sensations 
 with which other girls would have surveyed the 
 situation. Women steal, and sin, and sell them- 
 selves, for just such " honours " as had come to 
 her, unasked. It was the irony of a " fearful con- 
 catenation of circumstances." Why was she un- 
 like other women ? Why was she unable to revel 
 in the barren joy of what the world calls success ? 
 Why was there no voluptuous bliss in the knowl- 
 edge that a mob of unkempt, middle-class, mutton- 
 eating Londoners was at her feet ? Was not this 
 the goal for which humanity strives ? Was she not
 
 66 His Own Image 
 
 well aware that man slaves his life away and casts 
 off the creature comforts just to secure that pin- 
 nacle of egotism which the mob alone can crown ? 
 
 And Felicia wept on, as she realized her own 
 old-fashioned femininity. She knew that she was 
 weak and behind the times and unpractical and 
 unpardonable. She saw her own clinging nature 
 as an infirmity which, of course, it was, for the 
 clinging woman to-day is ridiculous to our new- 
 fangled ideas. It was true, as the squalid house- 
 keeper had remarked, that her Lancashire relatives 
 hung upon her earnings, and tugged at her purse. 
 The larger her pecuniary gains the more exultant 
 grew her relatives. Yet she could find but feeble 
 pleasure in this thought. The mere~fact that she 
 owned sisters as to whose appearance in this 
 troublesome world she had not been consulted 
 was not one to influence her largely. The tender 
 fibres of her being cried out for the sympathy of 
 Reginald Rellerick, the man to whom she had 
 given her girlhood, the being for whose approval 
 she would have dispensed with the cheap, mad 
 plaudits of hungry London. 
 
 It was the first time that there had ever been a 
 difference between them. She had aimed for suc- 
 cess in order to reach it with him, and in an en- 
 deavour to please him. He was bound for that 
 goal, and it was not her intention to lag behind. 
 But the goal in itself was as useless and as despic- 
 able to her, as it was necessary and adorable to 
 him. She had tried to be his shadow the dark, 
 inseparable duplicate that the light throws out in
 
 The Horror of Success 67 
 
 keen relief. What horror of fate was it that tried 
 to bring her forward as the substance ? Poor Fe- 
 licia! I say " poor Felicia " although I am not at 
 all sure she will win anybody's sympathy. The one 
 clinging woman among a hundred frenzied bread- 
 winners, may perhaps understand her sorry plight. 
 The others will call her a fool for her pains. Ac- 
 cording to the worldly estimate of to-day she was 
 undoubtedly a fool. 
 
 Through Mrs. Landington's heavy embonpoint, 
 gaudily vulgar sensations surged. Felicia wept, 
 and Mrs. Landington thought. Mrs. Landington, 
 nursed in the canny lap of Whitechapelism, knew 
 that two and two invariably made four. The rude 
 logic of her greasy temperament was infallible. 
 She had been deeply chagrined, for personal rea- 
 sons, by Miss Halstead's revelation, but as she 
 watched the weeping girl and felt her tears as they 
 drippe'd through the black alpaca to the rigid, 
 righteous corset beneath, she was convinced that 
 this force could be utilized just as well as any other. 
 Mrs. Landington gradually grew to perceive that 
 all was not lost. Things might be " rotten in the 
 state of Denmark " but they could be patched into 
 a semblance of integrity. 
 
 The housekeeper in Netting Hill was a philoso- 
 pher in her way. She had been in contact with the 
 rough edges of the world. That fact brews a phil- 
 osopher very readily. 
 
 She made no effort to shake Felicia's gilded 
 tresses from the sable fortifications upon which they 
 rested. Miss Halstead should cry to her heart's
 
 68 His Own Image 
 
 content, and then, when the intensity of her emo- 
 tion had become relaxed, she would be all the more 
 likely to listen to that logic which is the logic of 
 pounds, shillings and pence. There were no fine 
 sensations in Mrs. Landington's make-up. She 
 was spectacularly sordid, picturesquely squalid, 
 overwhelmingly lower-class. While Felicia cried, 
 she carefully matured her plans. 
 
 The young actress' tears were at last exhausted, 
 and she paused, pale and debilitated. The house- 
 keeper plied her with a glass of that lower-London 
 luxury, known as "ginger wine," invaluable alike 
 for pains in the stomach and heart. Then she 
 opened fire. 
 
 "I do 'ope," she said, "that you are not angry 
 with me, Miss 'Alstead. I want you to understand 
 that although I'm a woman I'm not a prude. 
 Oh, no, I'm not a prude. While I'm sorry to 'ear 
 what you've just told me, I won't allow any prudery 
 to interfere with my wish to 'elp you." 
 
 " Thank you, Landy," murmured poor Felicia, 
 her tearful eyelashes quivering. 
 
 " As I have said before," she went on, " I don't 
 believe, and never can believe in those artful 
 schemes we read of in the newspapers. Girls 
 are fools when they try 'em on, unless they are 
 clever enough to carry 'em out without going to 
 the courts. I 'ates the courts. Oh, 'ow I 'ates'em, 
 Miss 'Alstead. Now, it seems to me that you don't 
 need 'em. A breach of promise wouldn't pay you 
 anything at all, because Mr. Rellerick is powerful
 
 The Horror of Success 69 
 
 and popular, and every jury likes a powerful and 
 popular man." 
 
 A flush of mortification reddened Felicia's ears 
 and throat, but she was too limp and lax to at- 
 tempt argument or protestation. Did it matter 
 anyway, what this stupid old creature said ? Felicia 
 sighed and listened because she couldn't help 
 hearing. 
 
 " It seems to me," plodded on the Landington, 
 " that if, as you say and I've read it, too, in the 
 papers to-day, although I didn't quite understand 
 it until you explained if, as you say, you made 
 the success last night, then, my dear, it's very evi- 
 dent that Mr. Rellerick is afraid of you. He is 
 frightened that he is going to lose his applause, 
 and that you'll get it. That makes him quite will- 
 ing to listen to reason." 
 
 Mrs. Landington screwed up her eyes tightly and 
 allowed her double chin to rest negligently upon 
 the barricade of white ruching round her neck. 
 She looked like a Hecate, done up in grease and 
 London. 
 
 " Now, we all know," said she, " that, in this 
 world, the saying is ' Every man for himself and 
 the devil take the 'indmost.' And if a man, why 
 not a woman ? We all 'as to look after ourselves, 
 my dear. Why, when my poor Thomas had his 
 butcher's shop in Dalston, a canny young fellow, 
 who used to take out the meat, he only got ten 
 bob a week threatened one day to leave and set 
 up for 'imself if my Thomas didn't double his 
 salary. And my Thomas wouldn't do it not he.
 
 70 His Own Image 
 
 And I being something of a fool in those days, ad- 
 vised 'im to let the fellow go. The fellow went, 
 and in a month we had another butcher's shop to 
 contend with. And he knew all the tricks of 
 Thomas' trade, my dear, also all Thomas' cus- 
 tomers. He dared to sell our shilling a pound 
 steaks at tenpence ha'penny, and so I may as well 
 say, we was 'opelessly injured." 
 
 Felicia smiled, although as yet she could detect 
 no logic in these remarks. 
 
 "Well, my dear," Mrs. Landington went on, 
 "acting's like meat, I take it, and business is 
 business. Mr. Rellerick 'as a fine trade in the 
 West end, and no opposition. Here ^you are, 
 however, in the field, and the public says as 'ow 
 your steaks are quite as prime and juicy as 'is. 
 That's so, isn't it ? He's been very angry with you 
 to-day not because you gave 'im notice, as I at 
 first thought but because you're coming into de- 
 mand and that he's a-going out of it. What fol- 
 lows ?" (Logically she held up a hand and checked 
 off a thumb.) " He's afraid that you intend to set 
 up in business for yourself, and sell your acting at 
 one corner of the street, while he sells his at the 
 other. He doesn't want you to do this. He'd 
 prevent it in any way." 
 
 A gleam of interest illuminated Felicia's dejected 
 features. Yet even now she could scarcely see any 
 satisfaction in Reginald's fear. 
 
 "You tell me that you love him," said Landing- 
 ton, " and I'm sure that I 'opes you do, under the 
 circumstances. He's taken advantage of you, evi-
 
 The Horror of Success 71 
 
 dently. Oh, 'ow I 'ates that kind of thing. You 
 want 'im to marry you, and as I thinks it over, I 
 find that it is the proper thing for 'im to do. He 
 was a good employer, but, after all, my dear, a girl 
 'as to look after 'erself, with all the neighbours 
 ready to turn on her and give 'er the black looks. 
 There's only one way for 'im to prevent your set- 
 ting up in business for yourself, and that way is 
 marriage. A man's not frightened of his own wife. 
 They eats the same bread-and-butter. If he pro- 
 vides it, she eats it, and if she provides it, 
 he eats it and ain't ashamed to do it, either. 
 Don 't I know that 'my poor Thomas ate mine, 
 when the shop was sold up and I forced to 
 take in washing. So, says you to Mr. Rellerick, 
 * Reginald, dear,' (or perhaps you calls 'im Reggie, 
 for short) ' marry me, and I'll stay in your shop. 
 Refuse, and I opens in business for myself and 
 takes away your customers.' " 
 
 Poor Felicia quailed beneath the quarry-like 
 effect of this crushing logic, which came home to her 
 overwhelmingly. 
 
 " I 'ates scheming," insisted Mrs. Landington, 
 " because it gets into the papers and the courts. 
 But if a woman can get the better of a man in a 
 thoroughly ladylike way, why, let her do it. A 
 girl can be quite the lady when she says to a man 
 who is afraid of her , ' Marry me, or I'll set up in 
 opposition.' There is nothing common or unre- 
 fined in that, my dear. Nobody 'ears of it. It's 
 between 'im and you and the four walls. And 
 poor old Landy would never leave you, my dear."
 
 72 His Own Image 
 
 (Here she pressed a dry eye with a finger-tip, and 
 caused her pneumatic bosom to lift itself in a sigh.) 
 " She may feel sorry to find this peaceful little 
 'ome in Netting '111 all broken up, but she'll go with 
 you, wherever you goes. Even if he starts a big 
 establishment in a swell street, Landy'll find no 
 fault. She'll look after you married, as she has 
 looked after you single. So cheer up, Miss 'Al- 
 stead, all isn't lost. The prospect is encouraging 
 most encouraging. Suppose we 'as a glass of 
 fine old gin, and drinks to the 'ealth of Mr. and 
 Mrs. Reginald Rellerick, the famous actor, and the 
 more famous yes, my dear the more famous 
 actress. The point lies in the * more famous.' 
 That's our little game." 
 
 Non-acquiescent as she was in the grimy details 
 of Mrs. Landington's campaign, a singular repose, 
 nevertheless, crept into the young actress's mind. 
 Perhaps, as the housekeeper said, the situation was 
 amenable to reason. Supposing that marriage was 
 the method that suggested itself to Reginald Rel- 
 lerick, as the solution of this problem, would she 
 be unwilling to accept it ? Would not his love be 
 as grateful to her if it came through a menace as 
 through spontaneous sources ? Poor hungry Fe- 
 licia was bound to answer herself in the affirmative. 
 Without marriage he was lost to her. The loyal 
 London public would see to it that she was pin- 
 nacled and worshipped. Each new success would 
 mean a step away from Reginald. As his wife 
 there would be a plausible reason for her retire- 
 ment from the stage. As the mother of his ehil-
 
 The Horror of Success 73 
 
 dren, the footlights need never claim her as their 
 own. It would be best for him, and oh, how infi- 
 nitely best for her. 
 
 "If this plan is such a good one," she murmured 
 and her voice sounded cavernously unnatural 
 " he will think of it. If he is afraid of me, he will 
 ask me to marry him. That is quite sure. He is 
 wiser than I am, Landy, and wiser than you are." 
 
 She did not " recoil " from the idea, as a noble 
 girl in a play or a novel would have done. She 
 did not cry " Never ! Unless he loves me for my- 
 self, I will not consent to be his." Heroines of 
 that sort are always popular perhaps because 
 they rarely exist in real life, and real life is fre- 
 quently what we struggle to get away from in our 
 books and our plays. Felicia was hopelessly and 
 irretrievably addicted to Reginald Rellerick, and 
 as his wife she saw the only happiness that life 
 held in store for her. Willingly would she have 
 continued as his unmarried slave for the rest of her 
 days colourless, effaced, obliterated. But the 
 demon of publicity was after her. A horror of 
 success had been forced upon her without a con- 
 test a success that was his god and her bugbear. 
 Nothing succeeds like success the French pro- 
 verb says but Felicia felt that failure would have 
 given her keener happiness. It would not have 
 stepped in the way of the absorbing femininity of 
 her nature. 
 
 Mrs. Landington had poured out 'two glasses of 
 rare old gin, the odour of which caused her vivid, 
 lower-class nostrils to dilate in ecstasy. Gin is the
 
 74 His Own Image 
 
 champagne of the London mob, and Felicia's house- 
 keeper was an arch believer in its merits. She 
 handed a glass to Miss Halstead, and holding the 
 other to her lips, she drained it to the dregs, crying 
 " 'Ere's long life and prosperity to Mr. and Mrs. 
 Rellerick. May they live long and be 'appy." 
 
 This toast had such a benevolent effect upon 
 Mrs. Landington as she smacked her lips until the 
 stiff ruching around her neck cracked, that she 
 looked thirstily around for more. Seeing Felicia's 
 untouched glass, and noting the fact that Miss Hal- 
 stead had no intention of using it, she drained that 
 as well, repeating the toast in hilarious tones. 
 
 Felicia was too confused to give her troubles any 
 further consideration. The housekeeper, moreover, 
 started ginwards, was ogling the fat bottle very 
 insinuatingly. The young actress moved slowly 
 away, slightly comforted, but sufficiently despon- 
 dent to have satisfied the most rigid stickler for the 
 theory that virtue is its own reward and vice- 
 versa.
 
 Chapter V 
 
 CRAMPTON ADVISES 
 
 REGINALD RELLERICK did not leave London. 
 He remained in the metropolis, to stew in his sen- 
 sations. He made no excuses for this change of 
 programme, and took no pains to invent a plausi- 
 ble lie for the benefit of the public. A fig for the 
 public, that had shown every disposition to oust him 
 from his unique empire ! Purling brooks and gur- 
 gling streams could be endured when the mind was 
 at rest and the outlook attractive. Just at present, 
 however, Mr. Rellerick felt that his presence was 
 needed in London. There wereMiabolical schemes 
 to thwart, diplomatic measures to pursue, a Mac- 
 chiavellian policy to carry out to the bitter end. 
 So Reginald remained in London, and tossed about 
 on his big blue bed in all the agonies of insomnia. 
 In the meantime, he carefully " sounded " the situ- 
 ation. It was even worse than he had at first 
 thought. Miss Halstead's success was sung 
 throughout London in paeans of praise. They 
 are always waiting for something, in London. The 
 feverish population hangs upon the expectation of 
 novelty. Miss Halstead had furnished it. Her 
 name was served up hot, with afternoon tea, May- 
 fair dinner, and the unsanctioned supper. She had 
 
 L75]
 
 76 His Own Image 
 
 taken the town by storm at the very time when Mr. 
 Rellerick was firing upon it from another direction. 
 The fact that she was a woman was a damning fact 
 for him. The actor, pitted against the actress, gen- 
 erally gets the worst of it for the stage is con- 
 structed to please men, and woman is its primest 
 object. It is by means of an Ellen Terry that a 
 wily Irving prolongs his reign. It is with her name 
 that he fills his hypnotic speeches. It is a Sarah 
 Bernhardt, who wins by sensational means what a 
 Mounet-Sully loses by too much art. The names 
 of Kendal and Bancroft, in the sugar of petticoats, 
 have been enabled to make history. The stage is 
 the platform for women, and the great actors fight 
 their way against terrific odds. 
 
 Offers poured in to Felicia Halstead, and the 
 great actor knew it. Theatrical " speculators " 
 appeared, and begged her to suggest her own 
 terms. They wou!4 " star " her. She should have 
 a theatre " in the West End." There should be 
 unlimited money in the arrangement of her career. 
 It should be built upon the rocks of pecuniary re- 
 sponsibility. A triumphant tour of America was 
 mooted cruellest blow of all to fall upon the great 
 actor. He had been contemplating this tour for 
 some time and the indefatigable Crampton had 
 written innumerable "anecdotes " of Rellerick for 
 the American papers. The New York journals had 
 teemed with stories of the big blue bed, of the 
 famous man's eccentricity, charity, temperament, 
 resources, past, present and future. 
 
 Success rushed upon Felicia like an avalanche.
 
 Crampton Advises 77 
 
 If she had wanted to enjoy it it would have been 
 impossible. It came so quickly that she was un- 
 able to savour its ineffable delicacy. . The London 
 " weeklies " devoted columns to the young ac- 
 tress. Unable to " interview " her for nothing 
 would induce her to consent to the ignominy of her 
 own laudation they dressed up the " remin- 
 iscences " of associate actresses and actors Miss 
 Snooks, the ingenue of the Rellerick company, was 
 induced to bear testimony to Felicia's sweetness 
 and to the purity of her home life. Mr. Kafips, 
 the leading juvenile, contributed some delightful 
 notes upon Felicia's amiability to inferiors. And 
 so it went in the regular cut-and-dried grooves of 
 stage fame grooves in which there is never a sus- 
 picion of originality. Fame is measured out in 
 carefully tested scales, and each lion gets a stereo- 
 typed share. There is nothing more banal than 
 success the success awarded by the mob. 
 
 It was all intolerable to Reginald Rellerick. He 
 had digested just that sort of applause for so long, 
 that his physical and mental apparatus could 
 assimilate nothing else. He could not bear that 
 this printed adulation should be thrust upon another 
 especially when that other was his own little 
 mechanical toy his doll that said " Mamma " and 
 " Papa " his untinted and anaemic Felicia Hal- 
 stead. His ego-mania, thwarted, grew inward, 
 until his entire brain was filled with diseased 
 pictures of his own martyrdom, and odious " group- 
 ings " of persecutors, ready to knife him at every 
 step. A sane man would have made the best of
 
 78 His Own Image 
 
 such conditions and would have bowed to the 
 inevitable as gracefully as possible. Moreover, in 
 the sane man's mind, there would have been an 
 inclination to side with the mob and to realize that, 
 for once, his efforts had been surpassed. But the 
 ego-maniac is not a sane man. For him there is 
 nothing but an " I " in the world, and when that 
 " I " is under a cloud, the world grows suddenly 
 dark, and its progress is stayed. 
 
 After a night of aggressive sleeplessness after 
 one of those vibrant self-agonies that are the un- 
 erring symptoms of the diseased ego the great 
 actor sat up in his big blue bed, with his plans 
 matured. There was a look of defiance in his face, 
 and the calmness of the diplomatic criminal in his 
 eye. He had determined to end all this in the eas- 
 iest and most plausible manner. As he dressed 
 himself slowly, he gloated over his own mental deft- 
 ness. There was a way out of it all. It was a 
 heavy, and eternal way, but it must be followed, 
 and it would bring the slipping land once more 
 beneath his persistent feet. 
 
 As he entered his study where his own personal- 
 ity seemed to greet him from the four walls, his 
 faithful Crampton met him with the usual immov- 
 able features. The secretary, during the past few 
 days, had been obliged to conceal his knowledge of 
 Mr. Rellerick's misfortune. He had behaved as 
 though nothing whatsoever had happened, and had 
 not dared to vouchsafe a sympathy which even if 
 he had felt it would have enlisted him in the 
 ranks of Reginald's persecutors.
 
 Crampton Advises 79 
 
 The great actor deliberately extended himself 
 over a long chair, arranged his classic face in the 
 lines of that marble perfection which it was his aim 
 to copy, and motioned Crampton to a seat. Then 
 he began. 
 
 " Crampton," he said, in his slowest and most 
 archly affected tones, " You have wondered why I 
 remained in town after the close of my season " 
 (Crampton hadn't), " when my public expects me 
 to be climbing blue mountains and gazing into 
 green streams to say nothing of studying red sun- 
 sets and other pretty freaks of nature. I will tell 
 you. Crampton, I find that this life of solitude 
 and celibacy palls upon me. I intend to get mar- 
 ried." 
 
 The mouldy secretary, impermeable to ordinary 
 sensations, drilled in all the arts of self-effacement, 
 was unable to master himself as the actor's words 
 reached his ear. Into his tawny, parchment skin 
 crept the red flush of shock ; while the film that 
 seemed to cover his eyes was dissipated, as they 
 burned in a light that was turned nervously upon 
 Mr. Rellerick. 
 
 " Don't show your surprise in such an ill-bred 
 way, Crampton," remarked the inimitable Reginald, 
 lackadaisically. " Why shouldn't I marry ? I am 
 not too young, and most assuredly, I am not too 
 old. It is an eminently respectable proceeding, 
 Crampton. My only fear is that it is too respecta- 
 ble. What say you ?" 
 
 Crampton moistened his dry lips, upon which the 
 skin stood out in crisp and ugly edges. He mur-
 
 80 His Own Image 
 
 mured something unintelligible, in which the words 
 " proper " and " precedent " seemed to have a place. 
 Reginald was perfectly satisfied with the murmur. 
 He was not particularly anxious to hear another 
 speak. Crampton's gurgle indicated, at any rate, 
 that he was listening ; also that he heard. 
 
 " I have thought of it for some time," said the 
 great man, the blithe lie rising to his lips almost po- 
 etically. " You may have noticed my affection for 
 little Miss Felicia Halstead, Crampton. Ah ! a 
 man cannot conceal his sentiments for a woman, 
 even though he be an actor, and accustomed to dis- 
 semble for a living. The little girl is young, bright, 
 pretty, and, I am inclined to think clever. She 
 is fond of me, Crampton, very fond of me un- 
 worthy and repellent though I undoubtedly am ; 
 and just now it seems to me that she needs a pro- 
 tector. They tell me, Crampton, that she has been 
 pestered by managers and actors who are trying to 
 turn the poor little thing's head. That is true, is it 
 not, Crampton ?" 
 
 Poor mouldy secretary ! He bowed in acqui- 
 escence. Not a word could he find to utter. Some- 
 thing rumbled inside him. It was probably a re- 
 mark that he intended to voice. But the rumbling 
 died away and he was silent. 
 
 " It is my duty to protect Felicia," Mr. Rellerick 
 asserted, averting his profile so that his clear-cut 
 nose lay, whitely triangular, upon the crimson cush- 
 ions of the chair, " So far, her career has been in 
 my charge. What she is to-day I have made her." 
 (This, with a tinge of irrepressible asperity.) " And
 
 Crampton Advises 81 
 
 now they are trying to take her from me to launch 
 her upon a sea of trouble, the waves of which she 
 is not strong enough to buffet with. I have de- 
 cided to marry her, Crampton. Then she can swim 
 with me sail along placidly by my side, share my 
 popularity and be irrevocably a part of it." 
 
 Well schooled as he was, Reginald Rellerick 
 could not subdue the sensation of nauseating ha- 
 tred that came suddenly over him. It altered the 
 expression of his face and imparted a harshness to 
 his final words. The mouldy secretary, who had 
 never moved his eyes from his master's face, saw it. 
 It was not totally unexpected. Crampton was too 
 well accustomed to the lights and shades of Rel- 
 lerick's nature to be deceived by mere words. 
 
 "If she be really so great, Crampton," Reginald 
 laughed easily, and the world would have said that 
 it was an amiable laugh without a tinge of irony in 
 its texture, " why should I not avail myself of her 
 genius ? Why should I not undertake to place it 
 before the world ? And how can I do this better 
 than by marrying her, when I know that she loves 
 me, and have long been aware that I love her ?" 
 
 Then the mouldy secretary recovered his speech. 
 It came with an outburst a singularly energetic 
 outburst for one so repressed and careful. Still, in 
 spite of all, Crampton's words were deferential 
 almost obsequious. 
 
 "You will make a mistake, Mr. Rellerick," said 
 he. " You are not destined for domesticity. Your 
 hold upon the public has been due to some extent 
 to your quite unfathomed life. The world has said
 
 82 His Own Image 
 
 that you are so devoted to art that you need no 
 other mistress ; that your success has been due to 
 a life led alone, without domestic influences. The 
 ordinary actor marries and has children, and the 
 world says that he acts for bread-and-butter. They 
 have never said that of you. They have wondered 
 at you, admired you, regarded you as an enigma. 
 You want to change that by marrying and by 
 marrying a mere chit of an actress " (Mr. Crampton 
 hesitated a moment before uttering the words " chit 
 of an actress " and jumped them out as though they 
 would not bear considering) " who is scarcely fitted 
 to you. Pardon me if I say this, Mr. Rellerick. I 
 do so in all humility. How will it seem to you to 
 find your name invariably associated with that of a 
 wife ' Mr. and Mrs. Rellerick ' instead of ' Regi- 
 nald Rellerick, the great actor?' The world will 
 talk of the ' Rellericks ' and you will be obliged to 
 entertain, to parade your domesticity before the 
 world. You will have children, and they will con- 
 flict with your life labours. Why marry and why 
 marry an actress ?" 
 
 Crampton paused. It had been years since he 
 had spoken so much years since in his voice there 
 had been the ring of a sincerity that had sounded 
 there in the old Oxford days. 
 
 Reginald Rellerick winced. Every reason set 
 forth by Crampton was a reason the truth of which 
 stung him. Marriage ! It had always been his 
 idea of cheap and tinsel uselessness. How he 
 loathed the idea of it ! How dismal to think of that 
 perpetual tie, of that extravagantly foolish solit2tde
 
 Crampton Advises 83 
 
 deux f Ah, he knew that every word his secre- 
 tary had uttered was too feeble to convey the full 
 discomfort of what wedded life would mean to him. 
 Suddenly he drove the vexation from his face. He 
 must act. Crampton was not aware that he was 
 acting. How could Crampton know it? The 
 secretary was merely giving him advice, which un- 
 der normal conditions would be wise advice. This 
 marriage was not to be lightly undertaken for hap- 
 piness ; it was a marriage of diplomacy. It was a 
 marriage destined to avert ruin. Still it was very 
 annoying to listen to Crampton, who was telling him 
 what he knew so well and had known all his life. 
 
 " Actors have married without losing their prestige, 
 my good man," he said in his usual bland voice. 
 " It is a noble institution and the world respects , 
 it. All that you say is selfish and cruel. Why 
 should the happiness of two human beings be sacri- 
 ficed for such unworthy reasons as you suggest ?" 
 
 " Perhaps I am wrong," declared the secretary 
 still vehement, " but if you marry why not choose 
 a woman who could help you a woman with a 
 position in the world, a woman with money ? 
 You, Mr. Rellerick, could select your own wife. 
 Only last year," how quickly the slow and mouldy 
 secretary made his points " it was rumoured that 
 the Countess of Dwight was hopelessly in love 
 with you and would be your wife for the asking. 
 That lady has a million at her command. You 
 knew this, and laughed at the idea and now and 
 now you talk of marrying that poor little girl, 
 that penniless child."
 
 84 His Own Image 
 
 The great actor cast a suspicious glance one 
 that asked some peculiar question at his secretary. 
 There seemed to a sympathetic quality to his re- 
 marks that was not keeping with their tenor. 
 " That poor little girl, that penniless child." What 
 did Crampton mean by that ? Reginald swallowed 
 a lump that arose in his throat at the mere idea of 
 the secretary's perspicacity. But Crampton had 
 fired his parting shot and his face had returned to 
 its everyday apathy. The cheeks were sunken and 
 yellow, the eyes filmed, and the mouth as inexpres- 
 sive as it was its duty to be. And again a biting 
 vexation took possession of Mr. Rellerick. Cramp- 
 ton spoke like an oracle. Marriage was bad 
 enough, but it was worse when it fed upon such 
 non-nourishing material as Felicia Halstead. Yes, 
 he remembered the case of the silly Countess of 
 Dwight, with her well-filled pockets. How he had 
 laughed at it, and enjoyed the newspaper stories it 
 had called forth ! How he had revelled in the 
 knowledge of the foolish creature's discomfiture, 
 and used it as an additional means to add to his 
 own fame ! How the clubs had chattered and the 
 weeklies held forth ! He had refused a countess, 
 and now he was going to wed " a chit of an actress," 
 with a dependent family in Lancashire. Bah ! Then 
 once more he recalled his reasons. It was not a 
 question of choice. It was a matter of grim neces- 
 sity. He could not tread upon Felicia and stamp 
 her out of his path. But he could marry her, and 
 boiled mutton would do the rest. 
 
 So he said simply, laughing inwardly at his own
 
 Crampton Advises 85 
 
 canny plan : " Crampton, you are worldly. I did 
 not love the Countess of Dwight. I could have 
 married her and have built theatres with her mil- 
 lions. But you don't know me, my good fellow. 
 I am not quite mercenary. I have a few human 
 sentiments, thank goodness. In marrying Felicia 
 Halstead the ' chit of an actress ' as you call her, 
 and I hope, Crampton, that you will not think of my 
 future wife in such terms I am responding to the 
 dictates of my nature ahem ! I am very fond of 
 her, and I have no doubt but that we shall be very 
 happy." 
 
 " She will give up her success for such happi- 
 ness," chanted the secretary. It might have been 
 an ecclesiastical utterance that came sing-ily from 
 his lips. 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 And then the certain Rellerick, unable to weed 
 from anybody's nature the ego-idea that dominated 
 his own, was suddenly confronted with the thought 
 that this Felicia this girl of whom he was so sure 
 might choose the spectacular career that had 
 been offered her. He had not seen her since the 
 morning when she had come to him in all her 
 girlish enthusiasm, and he had insulted her and 
 turned from her. What might not have happened 
 since then ? What woman could resist the tempta- 
 tions that had been hers ? The idea was horrible, 
 He intended to marry Felicia Halstead, but was it 
 so positive that she would still be willing ? This 
 revolutionary notion filled him with fear. He had 
 no more confidence in Felicia than he had in him-
 
 86 His Own Image 
 
 self. The ego-maniac judges everybody by his 
 own standard. 
 
 Unable to endure the possibility that had just 
 wedged itself into his consciousness, he sat upright 
 in his chair and with eyes full of dread, said to his 
 secretary, " Crampton, this woman may refuse me. 
 There is a career for her, in which I have nothing 
 to do. What do you think she will say ? What 
 do you think she will say ?" 
 
 And Crampton, who was not an ego-maniac, but 
 who was able to judge poor Felicia Halstead, or 
 any other woman, by the light of his own honest 
 human understanding, shuffled uneasily with his 
 awkward feet. 
 
 "She will say yes," he said in a voice so low 
 that it was almost inaudible. " Of course she will 
 say yes. Women are fools. I mean that a woman 
 in love will sacrifice anything for it." 
 
 A new train of thought, however, had been started 
 in Reginald's mind. The possibility of Felicia's 
 refusal to link her budding name with his mori- 
 bund faculties, occurred to him with renewed force. 
 This marriage was now the one redeeming hope in 
 his life. It must take place, and it must take place 
 as soon as possible. Even while he had been lux- 
 uriously talking to Crampton, and cosily surveying 
 the situation as though it were something estab- 
 lished and certain, he should have been with Fe- 
 licia, pleading his cause with the fresher and bit- 
 terer insults of professed love. 
 
 A few minutes later, as though the crisis were 
 bound to work itself out, with or without his inter-
 
 Crampton Advises 87 
 
 vention, a telegram was brought to Mr. Rellerick, 
 by a salaaming lackey in uniform. The great 
 actor's usual method was to leave all correspond- 
 ence to be opened and attended to by his Cramp- 
 ton. On this occasion he broke the seal of the 
 telegram himself andread as follows : c 
 
 " Am leaving for Liverpool five o'clock to-night. 
 Shall stay with my sisters. Return in three weeks. 
 
 FELICIA." 
 
 Leaving London and to be away for three 
 weeks ! Evidently Felicia had made her plans 
 and according to the methods of the conventional 
 actress was going home with a contract in her 
 pocket. He must know all. He must see her, talk 
 with her, and convince her. Mr. Rellerick made up 
 his mind to an undignified interview with the "chit 
 of an actress " at Euston. He would sink his pride, 
 forget his " position," and hurry matters to the 
 ending he had mapped out, even if by so doing he 
 were forced to make a fool of himself in a railway 
 station.
 
 Chapter VI 
 i 
 
 "MARRY ME, FELICIA" 
 
 "THE fix'd events of Fate's remote decree" 
 took Reginald Rellerick to Euston Station a re- 
 sort that has vivacity, but no very conspicuous 
 romance. The great actor told himself that this 
 little trip was the result of the diplomatic deter- 
 mination set forth in the preceding chapter. Reg- 
 inald, however like the rest of us was merely 
 Fate's little mechanical toy, the string of which 
 was being pulled in order that the doll might 
 work. 
 
 It was a new experience for Mr. Rellerick, and 
 he spared himself none of its flavour. He walked 
 along the dishevelled Euston Road as though it 
 were a new and undesirable hemisphere into which 
 he had been suddenly plunged. It was all so very 
 odd, and so exceedingly revolutionary, that he 
 could scarcely enjoy it. Still, as a new epoch in 
 his life was undoubtedly about to begin, and the 
 whirligig of time evidently contemplated ousting 
 him from his groove, it was perhaps just as well 
 that he should accustom himself to novelty. 
 
 It was very disgusting to the great actor was 
 this Euston Road, so far removed from his own 
 walk in life. Nobody knew him ; nobody paid any 
 [88]
 
 " Marry Me, Felicia " 89 
 
 attention to him ! It was almost as bad as a holi- 
 day among the purling brooks and rippling streams. 
 The ego-maniac saw the vulgarity of the thorough- 
 fare flaunted in his very eyes. It affected him un- 
 pleasantly as an evil odour would have done. 
 His features were puckered up into the expression 
 worn by a person who suddenly and unexpectedly 
 finds a ripe Camembert cheese beneath his nose. 
 You know the expression. It is unique. It should 
 find a place in the category of expressions. I 
 have not coined it for this occasion. The Camem- 
 bert cheese expression is one that has lived, and 
 will live, in the annals of facial history. 
 
 The ego-maniac found himself confronted by 
 cheap and ignominious hotels in which a temporary 
 matrimony is tolerated for ready money ; by frugal 
 and non-luxurious Turkish Bath establishments in 
 which each Euston-roader can stew for a shilling 
 apiece ; by colossal, gaudy houses in which "ac- 
 cordeon-pleating " is done for the high-life of the 
 West end, and by " homes " that laugh at the 
 word. The noisy " busses " rushed past ; the pov- 
 erty-thin sidewalk artists sketched impossible pic- 
 tures in chalk on the sidewalks ; grimy children 
 played at dreary games, sorrowfully parodying 
 " childhood's happy hour," and carriages heavily 
 laden with luggage passed on their way to the sta- 
 tion. All these things were foisted upon Reginald 
 Rellerick's attention. He was not interested in 
 them. He would have played a part on the stage 
 with these sights as " properties," but in real life 
 they were devoid of all significance to him. A
 
 9o His Own Image 
 
 scene in a melodrama setting forth all these facts 
 to beguile an audience's attention before he made 
 his supreme and engrossing entrance, might have 
 captured his approval. How could this ego-maniac 
 feel a spark of curiosity in the real thing, when it 
 went on undisturbed, uninterrupted, even while he 
 passed through its midst ? The great Rellerick 
 made no impression whatsoever upon the Euston 
 Road. The people did not flock to the sides of 
 the thoroughfare and form a lane through which 
 he might pass. The sidewalk artists did not cease 
 to labour ; the children made no pretence of stop- 
 ping their games, and the men in the hotels never 
 noticed his presence. This galled the ego-maniac, 
 and the Camembert cheese contempt puckered up 
 his features more hideously than ever. 
 
 Into Euston Station he turned rather wearily. It 
 was a very rude place all shrieks, and noise, and 
 smoke, and endurance. He had been there before, 
 en route for the provinces for feted weeks, in 
 Birmingham and Manchester and Liverpool. Then 
 there had been groups of sycophants to wish him 
 Godspeed ; now, there was nothing. He was there 
 to intercept a woman whom his soul hated ; to ask 
 her to allow the law to sanction his hatred for ever- 
 more; to beg her to wear his name, and to cling to 
 him as he knew that she would be only too willing 
 to cling. 
 
 " Out of the way," cried an odious person in 
 green corduroys, as the great actor almost fell over 
 a wheelbarrow of luggage. And Mr. Rellerick 
 obeyed the crude command in disgust. The odious
 
 " Marry Me, Felicia " 91 
 
 person had no regard for him at all, but went on 
 his way with the wheelbarrow freight, whistling and 
 unconcerned. 
 
 He inquired the number of the platform from 
 which the Liverpool train started, and was treated 
 with ill-disguised contempt. With these menials it 
 was a crime not to know every detail of this Eus- 
 ton Station's business. He should have been able 
 to check off every train on his fingers, and state at 
 a moment's notice the exact minute of departure 
 and arrival. The actor felt that this world of the 
 non-footlights was a cold and a cheerless affair. 
 
 He reached the Liverpool platform through a 
 labyrinth of clanking pavements. The train was 
 there, snorting and impatient. He had fifteen min- 
 utes in which to mould his refractory career. Twenty 
 minutes from now, Felicia Halstead would be on' 
 her way to Liverpool, his affianced wife, and he 
 would be free to mature his subsequent plans. 
 She was not yet here. The platform was filled with 
 the usual crowd of London-leavers, juvenile busi- 
 ness men with satchels and travelling caps, casting 
 their bundles into the least uncomfortable corners 
 of the least uncomfortable carriages ; old men 
 leaving the metropolis, with families and homes in 
 the provinces; matrons all perturbed and anxious; 
 maidens all giggle and illustrated papers and sand- 
 wiches. 
 
 Mr. Rellerick went to the book-stall and tried to 
 read the titles of the books. He saw one illustrated 
 weekly, from the front page of which the picture 
 of Felicia Halstead stared him in the face. Quickly
 
 9 2 His Own Image 
 
 he turned away his head. Those large, wide eyes 
 and that soft-lipped mouth caused him a pang of 
 distress, and after a moment he left the book-stall 
 hurriedly. He was just in time. A hansom drove 
 up quickly ; a porter rushed forward obsequi- 
 ously ; a portmanteau was flung to the ground reck- 
 lessly, and an instant later Felicia Halstead, ac- 
 companied by Mrs. Landington, was in the station. 
 The housekeeper went to buy the ticket and attend 
 to other details, leaving the young actress standing 
 alone on the platform. His opportunity had come 
 at last. 
 
 Felicia looked pale and ill. Never had he seen 
 her so carelessly prepared for public gaze. She 
 wore an old travelling ulster that was slightly 
 frayed at the edges, and a hat that contained 
 straight and dejected feathers, gone astray. He 
 could even notice that her gilded hair began to 
 look less gold at the roots. It was carelessly 
 twisted into an inartistic knot at the back of the 
 head. Yet Miss Halstead, in her unconsidered at- 
 tire, was delightful to look upon, and the people in 
 the station looked upon her. He could even hear 
 the boy behind the book-stall say to a custo- 
 mer, " That's Miss Halstead, the actress, whose 
 picture you see in this paper." The remark was 
 bitterest wormwood to him. She was recognized 
 she, the novice and the upstart ; while he, Lon- 
 don's favourite, had escaped attention of any kind. 
 
 Mr. Rellerick rushed instantly to his plans. He 
 had twelve minutes. Felicia was there alone, pen- 
 sive, thinking perhaps of him. The sun was not
 
 Marry Me, Felicia" 
 
 93 
 
 shining, but the sort of hay he intended to make 
 could be bleached in any weather. He approached 
 her slowly, drilling from his features the detesta- 
 tion that he felt for her, disciplining himself into 
 the effort to act. Never had acting been more 
 necessary. It was before an audience of one but 
 upon that one depended the applause of audiences 
 of thousands. 
 
 She looked up, just before he reached her, at- 
 tracted by the subtle magnetism that exudes from 
 the person in one's thoughts. As she saw him she 
 started, the blood rushed to her face, her lips 
 trembled, and she sat helplessly upon a wooden 
 bench near her. The great actor advanced with an 
 admirable expression of remorse upon his face, then 
 quickened his steps as though suddenly impelled 
 by sheer gladness. 
 
 " Felicia !" he said, and was silent. He thought 
 that her name, with an exclamation mark, sounded 
 very well. The utterance was distinctly non-com- 
 mittal, but it could be construed and he meant 
 that it should into meaning a great deal. 
 
 She tried to speak, all the sincerity of her nature 
 in the attempt. Her lips moved helplessly. She 
 could only look at him and wait. 
 
 " You were running away from me, Felicia," he 
 said, mournfully. " You were going to Lancashire 
 without a single word of farewell. You were treasur- 
 ing up against me those foolish words I spoke some 
 time ago. Ah, Felicia, I never thought that you 
 were so unforgiving, so vindictive, so ready to for- 
 get your your old friend J"
 
 His Own Image 
 
 He stood there, convincing enough to have satis- 
 fied any audience. Into his voice furtive tears 
 had seemed to drip. His tones were low and 
 admirably dismal. He appeared to be uncertain of 
 himself and of her. The lines of his attitude sug- 
 gested utter depression and melancholy. Not a 
 sign of the raging discontent that steamed in his 
 entrails, was visible to the naked eye. 
 
 Felicia Halstead was instantly aroused, first as 
 was natural to her sweet temperament to sympa- 
 thy for him ; then to a joy and satisfaction for her- 
 self. 
 
 " I did not think you would come," she said, "but 
 but I hoped it. That is why I sent the tele- 
 gram. I could not come to see you again, Regi- 
 nald, for I felt that you did not want me ; that you 
 looked upon me for the first time as an enemy. It 
 was impossible for me to stay in London without 
 seeing you, so I wrote to my sisters and told them 
 to expect me in Liverpool. You have forgiven 
 me, Reginald ? I can see that you have. You 
 realize now that no disloyal thought has ever en- 
 tered my head, and that the stage the horrible 
 stage that separated us is a nightmare, in my 
 eyes." 
 
 How very easy it was, after all, thought Regi- 
 nald. And for an instant he felt the need of break- 
 ing once more into a storm of abuse and of over- 
 whelming her again with fierce invective. For he 
 did not believe a word that she uttered he could 
 not. To him, it was quite impossible that a woman 
 whom the little bookmonger in the station had
 
 " Marry Me Felicia " 95 
 
 recognized as the actress of the hour, could lightly 
 disregard such adulation. He checked himself, 
 however, and forced himself to sit by Felicia's 
 side. 
 
 " I was wrong, Felicia," he said, after a pause 
 that was necessary to him. " I was terribly shocked 
 
 by my " (he stumbled and could not utter the 
 
 word at first. Then he forced himself, and man- 
 aged to murmur it) " my failure. It was a bitter 
 blow to me, Felicia. I have been ill since I saw 
 you last unable to leave the house. I have suf- 
 fered agonies, both physical and mental." 
 
 The ego-maniac, unable to indulge in brutality, 
 seeks to awaken sympathy for himself as a last 
 resource. Reginald Rellerick felt a genuine dis- 
 tress as he talked of his imaginary ailments. It 
 was almost a pleasure to depict them. But his 
 words told upon Felicia, and through her leaden 
 dejection the first ray of sunshine crept. 
 
 " You are a silly boy," she said, lightly, in the 
 tones of the sympathetic woman attempting to 
 administer comfort, " and I can't understand you. 
 Every actor has his ups and downs " (Reginald 
 shivered) " and because you were less successful in 
 this new play than you have been in others you 
 worry yourself sick. I am angry with myself for 
 not having been with you, for I see that perhaps 
 I exaggerated our last interview. I am selfish, 
 Reginald, but but I really thought that that 
 you had begun to hate me." 
 
 Now for an ounce of pity in the actor's breast 
 for this fond, dependent girl, you will say. Surely,
 
 96 His Own Image 
 
 even his nature must be impressed by these weakly, 
 silly words. But, perhaps, you do not know the 
 ego-maniac, the man with the " I " abnormally en- 
 larged. There was no pity for Felicia Halstead 
 from Reginald Rellerick nothing but a sensation 
 of relief at the facility with which this game could 
 be played. By the station clock he saw that the 
 train would leave for Liverpool in eight minutes. 
 The men were still standing outside the carriages ; 
 the matrons were inside, plunged in the illustrated 
 papers ; the giggles of the girls were silenced in 
 the discussion of sandwiches. 
 
 " They tell me that you have had wonderful 
 offers, Felicia," said Reginald he placed one hand 
 before his eyes and knew that this was very effect- 
 ive " I hear that managers have tried to rob me 
 of my little actress ; that they have promised to 
 ' star ' her, to take her to America, to build a theatre 
 for her. It is true, is it not ? And has she lis- 
 tened to all these persuasive voices?" 
 
 He touched her arm and noticed the little gold 
 bracelet with the padlock that he had given her. 
 That was still there, at any rate. 
 
 " What do I care for managers and theatres and 
 America ?" she asked, so genuinely indignant that 
 her truth was unmistakable. "What do I want 
 with them ? It seems strange, Reginald, that you 
 should know me so little. How can I prove to you 
 what I told you the other day that it is you, and 
 you only, that I care for ? These offers came to 
 me unsought, and I scarcely listened to them. 
 The managers whom I saw retired very quickly. I
 
 " Marry Me Felicia " 97 
 
 told them, one and all, that their inducements were 
 absolutely useless.' 
 
 " Ah !" Reginald's exclamation of utter, glad 
 relief could not be suppressed. It sounded loud 
 and forbidding in the echoing, vaulted station, but, 
 great actor though he was, he could not keep it 
 back. He did the most advisable thing under the 
 circumstances. He glossed it over and lied about 
 it. 
 
 " Thank you for that, Felicia," he said, " you 
 have taken a weight from my mind. I could not 
 bear to think that you contemplated abandoning 
 me. After all, we have worked together for a long 
 time. Your methods are my methods. I have 
 helped you, as " (with a great effort) " you have 
 helped me. You will never leave me, Felicia. 
 Promise me that." 
 
 The young actress made no feint at reluctance. 
 It was all so very vital to her. She declined to 
 hesitate a moment. " Of course I promise it, Regi- 
 nald," she said. " You know it, even without such 
 a promise or, at least you would know it, if you 
 were not such a foolish, blind old bat, that can't see 
 and won't see, and has to be taught to see." 
 
 He looked once more at the big, round face of 
 the station clock. Four minutes remained less 
 than four minutes, for Mrs. Landington would hurry 
 up with the tickets and her interminable small-talk. 
 The train was beginning to tremble uneasily. 
 
 " Felicia," he said he must really get it over, 
 for all this sentimental nonsense was unendurable 
 . " what has happened this time, may happen again,
 
 98 His Own Image 
 
 Each time it occurs my heart will suffer as it has 
 suffered during the past week. I shall live in per- 
 petual dread of your leaving me. You really might 
 be induced to do it, you know. Don't protest, for 
 human nature the best of it is unreliable. Marry 
 me, Felicia. Be my wife. Then nothing can ever 
 separate us. My enemies may do their worst ; they 
 will be your enemies, as well. That is the only 
 thing to do." (Then feeling that this parchment- 
 like declaration might cause a sensation of revolt 
 in Felicia's heart, he added a flavouring of senti- 
 ment.) " You know that I love you, dear. You 
 must have known that. You will consent, I am 
 sure." 
 
 The young actress, even after having listened to 
 the diplomatic, sordid words of Mrs. Landington, 
 was unable to link them with this heaven-sent 
 declaration, even though it happened to be the very 
 thing that the housekeeper had foreseen. The sun 
 seemed to have suddenly appeared in a glory of 
 red and gold. Her heart leaped joyfully within 
 her. She tore the glove from her hand and gave 
 him her cool, bare fingers. For a moment she 
 could not speak, and Reginald glanced uneasily at 
 the clock. Two minutes. 
 
 " I will be your wife whenever you like," she said 
 simply. " It doesn't matter to me when. I shall 
 stay in Lancashire for three weeks. When I re- 
 turn, if you so will it, I will marry you. Reginald, 
 do not doubt me any more. Tell me that this time 
 you believe in me fully, irrevocably, eternally." 
 
 Her eyes were wet. The tears sparkled on her
 
 " Marry Me, Felicia " 99 
 
 lashes. There was no lovelier picture in all Lon- 
 don than this overjoyed Lancashire lassie, whose 
 nature the metropolis had been powerless to spoil. 
 
 " I will doubt you no more," he promised, gen- 
 uinely pleased at his own victory. Then for the 
 sake of colour he forced himself to add (and it 
 was with difficulty he succeeded) " my dearest." 
 
 One minute more. " Take your seats," cried 
 the porters. Mrs. Landington, all out of breath 
 and perspiring copiously, hove into sight with the 
 tickets. Reginald Rellerick hastened to secure a 
 compartment for Felicia a dreadful fear that she 
 might miss her train seizing him and causing him 
 to wonder what he could do with her, in the new 
 position she held toward him. A carriage occu- 
 pied by a couple of bicyclists was the only avail- 
 able one. He pushed her in and caught the ticket 
 from the housekeeper's outstretched hand. 
 
 Mrs. Landington, in all her hurry and excite- 
 ment, was unable to prevent a triumphant " I-told- 
 you-so " look from creeping into her face, as she 
 saw Reginald Rellerick and noted the change in 
 Felicia Halstead's expression. 
 
 " I nearly lost myself," she shouted into the car- 
 riage " in this beastly station. Such uncivil peo- 
 ple, such boors I've never met. Good-bye, my 
 dear. Write me from Liverpool. If any more 
 managers call, I'll let you know, and " 
 
 There was a snort and a whistle. The train 
 steamed out of Euston. Felicia's gold head hung 
 from the window. She kissed her ungloved hand 
 to the great actor. Reginald Rellerick turned
 
 TOO His Own Image 
 
 away, the contempt and hatred in his face once 
 more holding sway there. He had forgotten the 
 fat, alpaca housekeeper. She stood there, pant- 
 ingly radiant, having uttered her last words to 
 Felicia for his especial benefit. 
 
 Mrs. Landington's views had changed within the 
 last week. The influence of the kind and necessary 
 " employer " had grown smaller. She had seen 
 that Felicia could be richer, more powerful and 
 more popular Without him, if she chose Her own 
 position, at any rate, was certain, however matters 
 turned out. She was a trifle more independent 
 than usual, therefore, as she spoke to him. 
 
 " I'm glad she's gone," were her words, " she's 
 been a-worrying herself sick, poor thing. And the 
 managers a-rushing to the house as though crazy. 
 She's feathered her nest, Mr. Rellerick. Felicia 
 Halstead won't starve. That's sure." 
 
 " Of course it is," assented the great actor, bow- 
 ing in the most courtly manner to the stout lady. 
 " It is very sure I'm going to marry Miss Felicia 
 Halstead and I don't think I am going to starve 
 just yet." 
 
 Mrs. Landington instantly adjusted herself to the 
 new situation. If Felicia had decided to leave her 
 good, kind " employer," Mrs. Landington, aware 
 of her young charge's growing power, would have 
 ruthlessly snubbed him, in the most graceful, East- 
 London manner. The girl had accepted him as her 
 huband, however. The relative position of the 
 three was virtually unchanged. Before one new 
 minute had been marked on the round station-
 
 " Marry Me, Felicia " 101 
 
 clock, the housekeeper had returned to her former 
 abjectly obsequious manner. 
 
 " Well, and I'm sure and I wish you joy," she 
 said " Miss 'Alstead's a nice, respectable lady, and 
 she's wrapt up in you. I 'ope to be with you both 
 as I've been with 'er, and I shall always endeavour 
 to do my best, I'm sure." 
 
 Mr. Rellerick called a hansom and urged her into 
 it, feeling that if he didn't, there were some cruel 
 and uncomfortable moments in store for him. It 
 was not until he had seen the tired horse pulling 
 her out of Euston, that he slowly followed. 
 
 The air seemed keen and bracing. The Euston 
 Road looked less formidable and ugly. He walked 
 along its turbulent, kaleidoscopic length, and 
 emerged, still according to "the fix'd events of 
 fate's remote decrees," into the Marylebone Road.
 
 Chapter VII 
 
 AT TUSSAUD'S. 
 
 THE Marylebone Road is the great goal of the 
 sight-seeing picnic-mongers that infest London ; 
 for it contains the crimsonly ornate edifice known 
 as " Madame Tussaud's," an edifice devoted to 
 what the late George Augustus Sala called " a 
 world-wide display of ceroplastic art.'" Abomina- 
 bly accessible and dreadfully "convenient " to 
 everything in London or outside of it, this large 
 and hectic building cannot be avoided. Omni- 
 buses rush at it from Baker Street, and the metro- 
 politan underground railway vomits forth crowds 
 that clamour for a mixed shilling's worth of history, 
 biography, sensation and horrors. The juvenile 
 Londoner sees " Madame Tussaud's " before his 
 teens have set in never afterward if he can help 
 it. At that age, the boiled queens, meltable kings, 
 plastic criminals and adjustable celebrities, appeal 
 to him with all the vivid illusion of corpses. The 
 years bring him no desire to revive those illusions. 
 Most Londoners have seen " Madame Tussaud's." 
 They rejoice in that fact, for no fantastic duty 
 compels them to see it again. But the sight-seers 
 go to the Marylebone Road, in all ages and condi- 
 
 .[102]
 
 At TussaucTs 103 
 
 tions, led there by guidebooks, and kept there by 
 cunning catalogues. The effects of colour and 
 costume upon cheap minds is invariable. The 
 picnicking sight-seers who would vote a collection of 
 marvellous sculpture cut by famous artists in im- 
 perishable marble, as "slow" and unimpressive, 
 hasten to Madame Tussaud's for the palatable and 
 easily-digested entertainment of almost libellous 
 figures, with the yellow of death on their faces ; 
 the decay of months in their clothes, and a lack of 
 all photographic veracity in their careless con- 
 tours. 
 
 As Reginald Rellerick stepped in front of Mad- 
 ame Tussaud's Exhibition, he noticed a large poster 
 setting forth the vivacious fact that a brand-new 
 figure of Dejazet, the notorious murderer, who had 
 expiated his crime on the guillotine at Paris, three 
 days ago, had been added to the collection. " Life- 
 like," said the poster, " and absolutely true to 
 nature ; the face was modelled from a cast taken 
 after death." 
 
 The great actor knew nothing whatsoever about 
 Dejazet. He had been too engrossingly absorbed 
 in the details of his own drooping career, to pay any 
 attention to the published accounts of a criminal 
 cause cttcbre. Moreover, Mr. Rellerick rarely read 
 the daily papers. Crampton supplied him with all 
 those points in the world's daily history that it was 
 necessary for him to assimilate. He was not vul- 
 garly curious. He liked to read his own history in 
 a nation's eyes occasionally. That of other people 
 was not particularly stimulating.
 
 104 His Own Image 
 
 He viewed the poster before him with a silly and 
 unintelligible feeling of semi-envy. The ego-maniac 
 is jealous of every human thing that temporarily 
 monopolizes the world's attention. Rellerick felt 
 just a momentary sensation of anger, as he noted 
 the gaping crowd devoted to Dejazet's name. The 
 line that separates notoriety from fame is after all 
 very feebly defined. For some minds it is not de- 
 fined at all, as the students of medical jurisprudence 
 will testify. 
 
 Reginald's pang passed quickly away. He him- 
 self was ignorant of its ephemeral existence. A 
 whimsical idea to enter this flushed and impudent 
 !< exhibition " occurred to him. He had seen it 
 twice once, when he was a boy for whom the effi- 
 gies of Anne Boleyn, Katharine of Arragon, Jane 
 Seymour, Anne of Cleves and Catherine Parr had 
 adequately illustrated the sensational history of 
 Henry VIII ; and, again, when the Tussaud people 
 had invited him to view a ridiculous waxen monu- 
 ment dedicated to his own greatness. The actor 
 felt lighter and happier than he had felt since the 
 fatal performance that had closed his theatrical 
 season. His interview with Felicia at Euston Sta- 
 tion had been so eminently satisfactory that his 
 spirits were volatile and his mind at rest. 
 
 The crowd filed in to gape through the various 
 halls and seek a temporary self-forgetfulness in the 
 contemplation of extinct and famous others. Reg- 
 inald paid his silver tribute with the rest and en- 
 tered the building. He smiled rather wanly as he 
 contemplated this climax to a plebeian day that had
 
 At Tussaud's 105 
 
 begun in the Euston Road and had paused in the 
 Euston Station. 
 
 The exhibition was lighted up and a fitful Hun- 
 garian band was squeezing out " popular " music 
 music that might have convulsed the waxen con- 
 gress of kings and queens if anything on earth 
 could have affected their immutability. Reginald 
 bought a catalogue in order to insult the lifeless 
 figures, as the mob insulted them, by labelling them 
 with the names of the illustrious. Half the joy 
 that attends a visit to Madame Tussaud's is due to 
 the human ecstasy of insult the ferocious idea of 
 dubbing a calm and helpless mound of yellow wax 
 George III, or the Grand Duke Nicholas of Russia. 
 
 The actor's spirits sank as he found himself sur- 
 rounded by these staring, ghostly, tallowy dolls. 
 How sinister and how silent they were ! How ut- 
 terly regardless of the hushed voices of the cata- 
 logue-reading throng they seemed to be ; and yet 
 what a tribute the involuntarily lowered tones of 
 the multitude were to their bloodless and unrea- 
 soning power! 
 
 They overpowered him as they stood there on 
 their pedestals, waiting to be insulted by the sight- 
 seers so dead, and sere, and boiled, and sensation- 
 less. To the trained imagination of the actor they 
 did not seem like real men and women, suddenly 
 mesmerized, or robbed of life. They appealed to 
 him as intangible phantoms, and a chill went down 
 his spine as he forced himself to contemplate them. 
 They unnerved him as their open, glassy, meaning- 
 less eyes met his own, and he could not believe
 
 io6 His Own Image 
 
 that they stood there merely for the easy delecta- 
 tion of these groups of hungry sight-seers. The 
 massive breasts that neither rose nor fell, oppressed 
 him with a heavy sense of melancholy, and he 
 shuddered at the hatefully smooth and nailless 
 fingers, that were moulded into a wicked semblance 
 of life. For a moment he thought of turning back 
 and going out again into the Marylebone Road, 
 where things moved and pulsated. This chamber of 
 death that had never been life, seemed to be singu- 
 larly distressing. He wondered why. He asked 
 himself if his actor's imagination were more suscep- 
 tible to impressions than that of the healthy, 
 thoughtless crowd. 
 
 He tried to recall his early historical, school-boy 
 delight in the halls of royalty. He looked at his 
 catalogue and learnt that the jaundiced atrocity at 
 which he was gazing was Matilda of Flanders, wife 
 of King William I. " She was celebrated for her 
 beauty, and she greatly encouraged her husband 
 to attempt the conquest of England." How cruel, 
 how irrelevant these words sounded ! Was this the 
 reward of Matilda's beauty and wifely encourage- 
 ment this ignominious reign on a platform in a 
 cheap museum, in the midst of an unappreciative 
 and irreverent city ? How much better it would 
 have been for Matilda if she had been hideous, and 
 had left her husband to his own devices ! 
 
 Some youths were gazing in rapt attention at 
 the effigy of " Berengaria, Consort of Richard I," 
 and many of the remarks they made were neither 
 chaste nor elegant. They called the queen of their
 
 At Tussaud's 107 
 
 remote ancestors "the old girl," and they laughed 
 at her soundless lips and her mouldy attire. " She 
 lies buried in the Abbey of L'Espan, near Le 
 Mans," said the catalogue. Reginald could have 
 smitten the gibing boys as they stood there in- 
 sects of to-day, jeering at the phantoms of the 
 past. 
 
 It was exhausting and he began to loathe it all. 
 Why had he entered this sarcophagus ? What un- 
 known force had induced him to slip from his hab- 
 its of exclusiveness and join this collection of un- 
 sympathetic men, preying like vampires on the 
 waxen bodies of Tussaud's exhibition ? Why did 
 it affect him so strangely ? 
 
 Still he wandered around among the kings and 
 queens, and attempted by a supreme mental effort 
 to feel a cold and respectable interest in the imagined 
 forms of Isabella of Valois, Joan of Navarre, the 
 Georges and the Edwards and the Richards. They 
 sickened him, and lowered his vitality. They made 
 him creep, and filled him with genuine gusts of hor- 
 ror. It was absurd ; it was childish ; it was laugh- 
 able but but he could not laugh. He could not 
 smile or even relax the hard and painful tension of 
 his features. The fitful Hungarian band continued 
 to squeeze out tunes, each of which went through 
 him like a knife. Surely even this careless orange- 
 peel mob must feel the impropriety of waltzes and 
 polkas, rung out among these cadaverous effigies. 
 Was the English public utterly devoid of imagina- 
 tion? 
 
 Sandwiched in between Martin Luther and Col-
 
 io8 His Own Image 
 
 onel Fred Burnaby, he saw his own waxen repre- 
 sentation, attired in the costume of Hamlet. If it 
 had really looked like him ! A frisson of horror 
 raised his hair as he thought of that improbability. 
 The figure labelled " Reginald Rellerick " was 
 simply inane. In no line or feature did it resemble 
 him. The mob that looked at it with him, never 
 even guessed that the living Rellerick was in their 
 midst. The face was ugly, expressionless and old. 
 But these facts did not affect him at all, for he felt 
 that he was looking at anybody else. Probably 
 this waxen Rellerick was some unpopular knight 
 or fading celebrity, stewed down to meet the exi- 
 gencies of his own case. It was a ragout of unused 
 figures, flavoured with the Hamlet garbs that he 
 had once popularized. Yes, the clothes were cor- 
 rect. They were neatly copied from those that he 
 had worn ten years ago, when his name first 
 stamped itself upon London. Irving, Ellen Terry 
 and the Bancrofts were there, in his vicinity por- 
 traits that their own mothers would never recog- 
 nize, but waxy, vacant, corpse-like and uncanny as 
 the rest. 
 
 He heard somebody suggest a visit to the Cham- 
 ber of Horrors, where the " brand-new figure of 
 Dejazet, the French murderer," was on view. The 
 Chamber of Horrors ! He could imagine nothing 
 more horrible than those chambers through which 
 his unwilling feet had already pushed him. Possi- 
 bly the Chamber of Horrors was less detestable 
 because its detestability was blazoned forth and 
 the public was invited there to be thrilled and
 
 At Tussaud's 109 
 
 amazed. He had seen enough of this exhibition, 
 however. A cowardly dread of more gaunt and 
 tongueless people induced him to retrace his steps. 
 The incoming crowd was thick and furious. He 
 could not get back without wedging himself into a 
 mass of uncivil men and women bent on getting 
 what they are pleased to call their " money's worth." 
 He must move with the tide and the tide was flow- 
 ing into the Chamber of Horrors. 
 
 So to the Chamber of Horrors he went, mentally 
 protesting against his own weakness. What would 
 Crampton say if he could see his famous master, 
 struggling to gaze at the saffron monsters of Maryle- 
 bone Road struggling with the Toms and the 
 Dicks and the Harry's for a good position from 
 which to view the repulsive objects ? Felicia Hal- 
 stead, in the panting train bound for Liverpool, 
 would probably ascribe his action to the common 
 impetus of curiosity. Madame Tussaud's was 
 exactly her style. He could almost see her with 
 the heated odour-reeking women around him^ 
 ah-ing and oh-ing before each figure, admiring the 
 beauties and the celebrities, and expressing dismay 
 at the criminals and the outcasts. This, to her pro- 
 vincial mind, would be " entertainment." How she 
 would enjoy a day in this odious vault with him ! 
 He could hear her volunteering quite unnecessary 
 explanations. He could almost smell the bag of 
 chocolate-drops that she invariably carried for re- 
 freshment to just such places. Felicia was cheap 
 and happy ; he was rare and miserable. 
 
 The Chamber of Horrors was appropriately
 
 no His Own Image 
 
 gloomy and cavernous. He could scarcely hear 
 the Hungarian band or see the gay illumination of 
 the other halls. Deeper became his sensation of 
 oppression. Lead seemed to clog his footsteps and 
 to hold him back. The voices of the mob grew 
 even lower than they had been previously. Men 
 and women were bent upon seeing the whole 
 ghastly show, and paid their additional sixpence 
 for the Chamber of Horrors with almost pic- 
 turesque alacrity. 
 
 Reginald Rellerick felt damp and unstrung. His 
 life seemed to be an uncertain quantity, as it does 
 in the eerie hours before sunrise. Yet he forced 
 himself to look about him, and fingered his cata- 
 logue nervously. His ringers left wet marks upon 
 the pages. The impression of his thumb was dis- 
 tinctly visible. 
 
 The waxen murderers, however, looked no whit 
 more terrible than did the collection of kings and 
 queens and patriots and orators. " James Lee, the 
 Romford murderer," he saw him vaguely and stu- 
 pidly ; " Marguerite Diblanc, the murderess of 
 Madame Riel in Park Lane," he noticed her with 
 awe in his eyes. She had been a cook and she looked 
 it. " Michael Eyraud, a strangler executed in the 
 Place de la Roquette, Paris," Reginald's eyes were 
 dim as he gazed at this waxen memorial. 
 
 The mob read everything that the grudging cat- 
 alogue vouchsafed, and hungered for more. The 
 meagre details were insufficient. What of the child- 
 hood, the later history, and the personal character- 
 istics of these wretches ? The 'Arries and the
 
 At Tussaud's in 
 
 'Arriets clamoured for these, and nothing of the 
 sort was forthcoming. They could imagine nothing. 
 For London sight-seers every " i " must be dotted 
 and every " t " crossed. 
 
 There was a huge stationary crowd in front of 
 the new figure that of Dejazet, who had died three 
 days ago, and to whom the London papers had 
 devoted columns of space. Reginald followed the 
 procession, but Dejazet was invisible. He would 
 be obliged to wait his turn to stand there until 
 the people had satiated themselves with the details 
 of De"jazet's personality. 
 
 His elbows, pushed by the crowd behind him, 
 were forced into a wide expanse of serge-covered 
 back, the owner of which, inconvenienced in his 
 open-mouthed study of the dead Dejazet, turned 
 upon the great actor, instantly insolent. 
 
 "No pushing, mister," said he, rudely. "Your 
 turn'll come. You'll 'ave to wait with the " 
 
 The sentence was unfinished. The country lout 
 suddenly paused, and stared at the great actor with 
 eyes in which a sort of puzzled astonishment was 
 visible. Then he nudged the woman at his side and 
 whispered a few words in her ear. She imme- 
 diately moved her head and looked over her shoul- 
 der at Mr. Rellerick. In her eyes was the same 
 expression of curious amazement. The masculine 
 and feminine louts were soon whispering and titter- 
 ing, quite oblivious of the waxen brute that they 
 had just studied in silent awe. They were urged 
 on by the crowd, however, and passed out of 
 sight.
 
 ii2 His Own Image 
 
 Reginald was weak from the varied sensations 
 that this hideous wax-work show had called forth. 
 Now he grew physically weary, as he stood waiting 
 before the hidden effigy of the murderer, unable to 
 turn either backward or forward. He was de- 
 pendent upon the caprices of the people in front of 
 him people who had paid out their " good 
 money" and intended to realize its value as much 
 as possible. Nearly ten minutes passed before the 
 strata of perspiring humanity had given to Mr. 
 Rellerick a position in the front ranks. 
 
 By that time he was scarcely able to stand. 
 Listlessly he took his catalogue, opened it, and 
 read the "synopsis " of De"jazet's career, before he 
 studied the figure itself. The Frenchman had been 
 an artist in Paris an artist of renown. He had 
 lived a wild and untrammelled life, and he was 
 known in the Quartier Latin as the most reckless 
 of an aggressively reckless set. He had a mistress 
 the beautiful Genevieve Delaunay. For years 
 the two had indulged in an irregular " manage" 
 that the entire Quartier had visited. Genevieve, 
 however, was the daughter of a noble and almost 
 classic family living near Lyons. Her relatives 
 had hunted for her without success. When they 
 found her, she was discovered living a Bohemian 
 life as the mistress of Dejazet. Thereupon the 
 father insisted that Dejazet should marry the girl, 
 for the sake of her name, which was illustrious. 
 De"jazet declined, but suggested that he should fight 
 a duel with Genevieve's brother. If he were vic- 
 torious, Genevieve should go back to her relatives
 
 At Tussaud's 113 
 
 near Lyons. If he were vanquished, he would 
 marry her. The duel was fought, and Dejazet was 
 slightly wounded. Genevieve's brother was master 
 of the situation. Dejazet redeemed his promise 
 grudgingly. A bitter hatred of Genevieve had 
 taken possession of him a horror of her seemed 
 to have arisen within him. He was forced to the 
 marriage almost at the point of the sword. On 
 the wedding night, unable to overcome his loathing 
 for his former mistress, he strangled her and tried 
 to escape to London. Her body was found with 
 four black finger-marks on the throat. Dejazet was 
 captured, and, without any reluctance whatsoever, 
 confessed his crime, the result of which was 
 death by the guillotine, and Madame Tussaud's in 
 wax. And the catalogue, in a burst of confidence, 
 added : " And these are the last clothes that he 
 wore." 
 
 Reginald read it all in a sort of dreamy stupor. 
 Then he looked up at the gruesome yellow figure 
 before him. The distant strains of the Hungarian 
 band throbbed in his ears. The sombre vault with 
 its galaxy of monsters seemed to close around him. 
 It was Dejazet he was looking at it must have 
 been Dejazet, for all the people said so but the 
 tawny, glass-eyed, soulless image before him was in 
 every line and feature himself. There he stood, 
 fixed to the ground, gazing at his own waxen 
 double, an indescribable terror rendering him sta- 
 tionary. Fascinated, he peered at the repulsive 
 thing. Those were his own eyes set forth in glass ; 
 those were his own features moulded in the filthy
 
 ii4 His Own Image 
 
 wax. The smooth and nailless hands were counter- 
 parts of his own ; the grim, unyielding, selfish, 
 unsympathetic mouth was a copy of his own. The 
 hair, the moustache, the eyelashes were unmistak- 
 able. For the first time in his life Reginald Rel. 
 lerick beheld his own likeness with a sensation of 
 such bitter repugnance, that he was appalled. 
 
 He could not move ; he was glued there. He 
 heard the people around him, vigorously comment- 
 ing on the face of the criminal. The sound of 
 their voices discussing the details of his infamy 
 reached him. How could a girl like this Genevieve 
 Delaunay have possibly been under his influence ? 
 How could she have lived with him as his mistress 
 and have been willing to become his wife? Why 
 were women so foolish and so unreasoning? 
 Really, it almost served her right. Surely with a 
 face like that she should have known and so on, 
 in balefully querulous logic. 
 
 And still the great actor stared as though hyp- 
 notized. The glass eyes seemed to return his look 
 in a sort of cynical sympathy. The saffron-tinted, 
 waxen mouth appeared almost to twist itself into a 
 smile, as he stared and stared and stared. 
 
 The people looked at him and noticed the resem- 
 blance, laughingly and good-naturedly. To them, 
 this was an unexpected relaxation from the oppres- 
 sion of this funereal grotto. They whispered 
 about it, and alluded to it, as to the merriest coin- 
 cidence. Such coincidences were not rare. The 
 clothes worn by the mimic De"jazet were the stum- 
 bling-block to this audience's complete apprecia-
 
 At Tussaud's 115 
 
 tion of the likeness to Rellerick. Clothes mean so 
 much to vulgar and uneducated minds. Had this 
 yellow ceroplastic horror aped the polite frock- 
 coat, the shining, bulging silk hat, and the irre- 
 proachable neck ribbon that the great actor wore, 
 these men and women would have been riddled 
 with awe and curiosity. As it was there was a 
 striking resemblance, and they were quite good- 
 humoured about it. 
 
 "Say, Mister," remarked one old person with 
 whiskers, " next time you sit for these Tussauds 
 don't choose a murderer. Be a king, or a prince, 
 or a prime-minister. He ! he ! he !" 
 
 " Makes you feel as though you was small pota- 
 toes, eh?" asked one of those friendly London 
 matrons to be met at all the " exhibitions." 
 
 They went away, and were soon absorbed in other 
 abominations in Mary Ann Cotton, the poisoner ; 
 in Kemmler, the wretch who was the first to be 
 killed by electricity in New York, and Dumollard 
 and his wife, " fiends who decoyed young women 
 into a wood." 
 
 Reginald Rellerick stood there, lost to all sur- 
 rounding influences, numb and magnetized by the 
 counterfeit presentment of his own personality 
 the personality that had been the joy of his life ; 
 the great solace of his leisure hours ; his early 
 mornings' care ; his daily encouragement to re- 
 newed labour. What a loathsome personality it 
 was that dual arrangement shared by Dejazet, the 
 guillotined criminal, and Reginald Rellerick, the 
 celebrated English actor.
 
 n6 His Own Image 
 
 He awoke slowly from his stupor and read once 
 more the black legend of the girl-killer. "He was 
 forced to marry her, almost at the point of the 
 sword. On the wedding-night, unable to overcome 
 his loathing for his former mistress, he strangled 
 her and tried to escape to London. Her body was 
 found with four black finger-marks on the throat. 
 Dejazet was captured, and without any reluctance 
 whatsoever, confessed his crime." 
 
 Perhaps perhaps this waxen atrocity looked no 
 more like the Paris artist than the figures of the 
 Royal Family resembled their living inspirations. 
 Reginald thought of this, but there was little con- 
 solation in the idea. The face had been modelled 
 from a cast taken after death. It was no whim of 
 the modeller's fancy. He had read the poster out- 
 side. Why had he read the poster outside ? Why 
 had he wandered into this marrow-disturbing re- 
 sort ? What evil fate had led his footsteps in this 
 ghastly direction ? 
 
 He would go at once and speak to the " authori- 
 ties." The figure, merciless and libellous, must be 
 removed. He would not rest while this odious 
 counterpart of a criminal was held up to public 
 gaze in his own likeness. They would laugh at 
 him. They would for the sake of a profitable 
 advertisement revel in 'his wrath and heroics. 
 The affair would be paraded in the newspapers and 
 his persecutors would hail a new field for contempt 
 and vituperation. No, he would utter no word. 
 He would not call the attention of the metropolis 
 to a foolish coincidence yes, it was a coincidence,
 
 At Tussaud's 117 
 
 of course ; even the mob had laughed at it as such. 
 He would laugh at it as well. He certainly 
 would laugh. Ha! ha! ha! These waxen figures 
 were really very amusing, extremely 
 
 His waxen double was looking at him. He felt 
 the cold, glassy eyes fixed upon him. The coloured 
 lips were smiling; the figure seemed to bend in 
 order that it might study him more closely. He 
 knew that this was absurd. He realized that his 
 imagination was unduly affected by this episode. 
 And then the surroundings the place itself the 
 ugly crowd the dark, lowering atmosphere all 
 combined to add to his terror. 
 
 He would go at onceand never set his foot within 
 these precincts again. He would forget it all until 
 it occurred to his consciousness as a joke, one of 
 those jokes, the humour of which never convinces at 
 the time of perpetration. He closed his catalogue 
 with one more glance at the words, " On the wed- 
 ding night, unable to overcome his loathing for his 
 former mistress, he strangled her." These words 
 seemed to appear before him, even after he had put 
 the miserable pamphlet into his pocket. 
 
 He looked straight in front of him. There they 
 were on the walls. They towered over him on the 
 ceiling. He made an intense effort and drew him- 
 self together. This was folly, idiocy, more than 
 puerility. 
 
 He turned on his way out, and took a last look 
 at his waxen double. It was grinning at him. 
 There could be no doubt of it. It was not his im- 
 agination that was playing him a trick.
 
 n8 His Own Image 
 
 " Dejazet !" he murmured, as he passed the outer 
 portal, " Dejazet ! Dejazet ! Dejazet !" 
 
 He hailed a hansom, and told the driver much 
 to that bleary-faced individual's bewilderment, to 
 drive him to " Dejazet." The air fanned his humid 
 forehead and dried the wisps of his wet and strag- 
 gling hair. It revived him. He lay there and 
 closed his eyes in an attempt to think of other sub- 
 jects. But he thought " Dejazet ;" in his mind he 
 saw " Dejazet." He felt that his entity was merged 
 in the wax of the monster at Tussaud's.
 
 Chapter VIII 
 
 DJAZET 
 
 IT was scarcely nine o'clock when Reginald dis- 
 missed his hansom cab, at the door of his club. He 
 had intended to drive home, and plunge his ex- 
 hausted body into his big, blue, restful bed, but he 
 felt that his mind might, perhaps, be easier, after 
 an hour spent in his massive, dark-brown club 
 that clearing-house for all cheques drawn upon the 
 gossip, malice, and petits potins of the metropolis. 
 His face was haggard, and drawn, and he was 
 ashamed of it he, Reginald Rellerick was posi- 
 tively ashamed of his own usually luminous appear- 
 ance, as the obsequious person in the dingy lackey- 
 garb let him in, and took away his hat and coat. 
 
 They were all there, in the " convivial " smoking- 
 room. Apparently they had not stirred from their 
 seats since he had last seen them there. Silent as 
 owls, they sat drinking the incessant brandy-and- 
 soda, while the clock ticked away the club's life. 
 The book-reviewer who had killed and buried poor 
 " Gyp " within the last week, was now exercising 
 his mental scowl upon the latest D'Annunzio novel, 
 which he considered (of course) " morbid " and 
 " unwholesome " utterly inferior in every way, to 
 
 IH.9J
 
 120 His Own Image 
 
 the English health and spirits of the exuberant 
 Anthony Hope. The " hanger-on," with his legs 
 crossed, was on hand, looking at his watch and 
 timing everything, while the dramatic critic who 
 was addicted to unalloyed praise rested, cheek-by- 
 jowl, with the dramatic critic wedded to unadulter- 
 ated censure. 
 
 For a moment the great actor could hardly be- 
 lieve that he had left Madame Tussaud's. This 
 dark, little sepia-tinted room might be another 
 Chamber of Horrors. For an instant, he felt in- 
 clined to refer to his catalogue, and " look out " 
 the description of the fat scowler with the D'An- 
 nunzio novel. He might have been labelled : " An 
 English book-reviewer of the nineteenth century, 
 notorious for his mutilations of popular authors." 
 
 Pinerville, the dramatist, author of the luckless 
 play that had blazoned forth Felicia Halstead, sat 
 in a corner of the room, silent and meditative. 
 Perhaps he was contrasting this morgue, with his 
 own theatrical version of club scenes rollicking, 
 glass-tinkling, chattering episodes, that always went 
 well with the public, because they were so " true to 
 life." If he had dramatized this sodden assem- 
 blage of London "wits," he would have been ac- 
 cused of drawing upon his imagination. 
 
 This time, Reginald entered his club almost 
 unnoticed. The dreary men bowed slightly, but 
 declined to disturb themselves. They had been 
 dining, and the process of digestion was achieving 
 itself slowly. The actor was greatly relieved to 
 find that his entrance was not emphasized. At any
 
 Dejazet 121 
 
 other time, he would have considered this apathy 
 in the light of an insult. Now, it gratified him, for 
 try as he would he could not get rid of a guilty 
 and skulking sensation that his wax-work visit had 
 foisted upon him. Even while he sat in this room, 
 there were crowds in the Marylebone Road, staring 
 at his glassy double, referring to him in the cata- 
 logue, ogling him vulgarly, and uttering comments 
 upon his appearance. He hated to think that he 
 stood in that exhibition among the murderers, 
 powerless to move away from the collection yel- 
 low and hideous, in that sombre cavern of public 
 " entertainment." He could not divest himself of 
 the idea that he had no right to be at large in these 
 haunts of unrestricted life. It seemed to him as 
 though he had a ticket-of-leave, and must return 
 to the Marylebone Road later, to stand and watch 
 his own image ; to see that it was properly cared 
 for, and that the mob did not insult it, or do it 
 bodily harm. 
 
 He stretched himself, and yawned. He could 
 move and pulsate as readily as ever. That was a 
 consolation. Yet his hands looked ignobly smooth 
 and nailless, and he hated to see them. They 
 annoyed him ; he felt that his " convivial " brothers 
 in this club must be watching him. He hid them 
 in his pockets, and drew them forth from time to 
 time to see if the warmth had robbed them of their 
 cold and yellow hue. 
 
 Pinerville, the dramatist, approached him, and 
 took a chair by his side. He hated this man who 
 had been responsible for the first halt in his career.
 
 122 His Own Image 
 
 The eyes of the dramatist seemed to be fixed 
 upon him mockingly, so thoroughly wrought- 
 up was his imagination. Poor little, harmless, 
 plodding Pinerville, who had never owned a sin- 
 ister motive in his life, was meeker than usual on 
 this occasion. He was wise enough to know that 
 a play, however good it might be, that had caused 
 the discomfiture of a popular " star " was doomed 
 to the misfortune of " innocuous desuetude." 
 
 " I do not despair, Mr. Rellerick," he said, 
 amiably, " and I always persevere. I know that 
 my last play will never find a place in your reper- 
 toire next season, but I should like to submit to 
 you the scenario of a new one one that will give 
 you, I feel sure, the best opportunity you have had 
 for years. Nowadays, I do not care to write for 
 the actor for any particular actor that is to say 
 but in this case I have a story that is so eminently 
 fitted to your ahem ! genius, that I cannot avoid 
 submitting it to you, and asking your permission 
 to go ahead." 
 
 Pinerville was bland and excessively polite. His 
 suave, soft tones fell pleasantly upon Reginald Rel- 
 lerick's ear. The actor felt once again that he was 
 his own inimitable self. He clasped his hands 
 expectantly around his knee. They looked warm, 
 and pink, and the white, carefully manicured nails 
 were there as conspicuously as ever. Thank 
 Heaven that this nightmare seemed to be vanishing ! 
 If he could only forget ! Yet even as he tried to 
 do so, there arose before his mind's eye a picture 
 of a thick and aromatic mob gazing intently at a
 
 Dejazet 123 
 
 yellow waxen figure, standing erect among a group 
 of corpse-like horrors in the Marylebone Road 
 Exhibition. He called for a bottle of champagne 
 champagne was the stuff that cleared the mental 
 vision, and penetrated the films of imagination. 
 He poured out a glass for Pinerville, and another 
 for himself, which he drained feverishly. He felt 
 better. After all, he was Reginald Rellerick. He 
 had been Reginald Rellerick for years. Every 
 man in the club, every menial in its kitchen, could 
 swear, under oath, that he was Reginald Rellerick. 
 
 " Of course I want a new play, Mr. Pinerville," 
 he said, pompously he could be pompous again. 
 '* Your last play was good very good but some- 
 how or other I did not feel that I could do myself 
 justice in the leading character. The interest 
 seemed to centre 
 
 " Yes," interrupted the dramatist, anxious to 
 finish with his dead-and-gone creation, " The inter- 
 est centred in the leading-lady. It was a good 
 part for Miss Halstead only. A clever girl a very 
 clever girl. She " 
 
 " My dear Pinerville," said Mr. Rellerick, mak- 
 ing a sickly effort to smile with his usual noncha- 
 lance, " My time is very limited. I have promised 
 myself a good night's rest, for I am tired, and a 
 trifle indisposed. If you will proceed with the 
 story of your new play which is so suited to me" 
 (he was able to inject a dash of appropriately in- 
 credulous sarcasm into his tones), " I can then tell 
 you if I agree with you." 
 
 "You will, I am sure," remarked the dramatist.
 
 is Own Image 
 
 " What do you say, Mr. Rellerick, to a part that 
 runs the gamut of the emotions one that will por- 
 tray you as loving, and hating, and dissembling, and 
 scheming one that will give you a final scene 
 which, I am quite convinced, will be as strong as 
 anything that has been acted upon the modern 
 stage ?" 
 
 He paused. His eloquence was running away 
 with him. Reginald smiled ; he was so used to 
 that sort of thing. Every failure was heralded 
 upon his notice in that way. An indulgent expres- 
 sion stole into his face. Even the popular Piner- 
 ville was a victim to the conventional playwright's 
 mania. He sat there and permitted the dramatist to 
 proceed. All his haughty, up-in-the-sky manners 
 were returning to him, and he felt temporarily 
 happy. The champagne was perhaps responsible 
 for the change. It is an admirable stimulant. 
 
 " I won't say that I have captured a precisely 
 original idea," continued Pinerville, affably. " After 
 all, originality is a myth. I read the papers, Mr. 
 Rellerick. I find in those penny records of daily 
 life most of my inspirations. They are human 
 documents, you know, written in flesh and blood. 
 In my new play, my idea is to dramatize as closely 
 as possible, with a few theatrical improvements, 
 the story with which all the London papers have 
 been teeming of late. You are, of course, familiar 
 with it. Every actor must be. I am referring to 
 the recent history of that clever, artistic, and 
 dramatic criminal, Dejazet." 
 
 Every muscle in Reginald Rellerick's body
 
 Ddjazet 125 
 
 seemed to stretch tensely, as though an electric 
 current had been sent through it. Then came the 
 relaxation, and he sat there drooping and limp. 
 This man this Pinerville knew of the ignominy 
 to which he had been subjected. He was there to 
 scoff at him, and to add to his humiliation. Yet 
 Reginald could not look him in the face, 'with his 
 Dejazet eyes and his Dejazet expression. He felt 
 as though he were being hunted down, and cor- 
 nered. The men around were still silently attent- 
 ive to their brandy-and-sodas. The only voice in 
 the room was that of Pinerville, who was there to 
 subject him to the anguish of the earlier evening. 
 He would not submit to such cruelty. His anger 
 swept everything before it. 
 
 " This is an insult, Mr. Pinerville," he said, 
 thickly ; " one which I will not tolerate. How 
 dare you sit there and suggest to me to Reginald 
 Rellerick for I am Reginald Rellerick such a 
 scheme ? Do I look like a man who could imper- 
 sonate a vulgar criminal ? I ask you that. Do I 
 look like it, Mr. Pinerville? I insist upon an 
 answer." 
 
 The little dramatist seemed to be lost in abso- 
 lute amaze. The violence of the great actor's 
 words overpowered him. He blushed ; he paled ; 
 he looked around in astonished distress. Then he 
 glanced at Rellerick to see if he had heard aright. 
 Possibly the champagne had affected him. The 
 actor was but slightly addicted to wine. 
 
 " You are not in earnest, Mr. Rellerick," he mur- 
 mured. " Why, I do not understand you. Of
 
 126 His Own Image 
 
 course of course you do not look, in your private 
 life, like a man who could play a criminal. But 
 but you are not well ; you cannot be yourself. 
 Look at Irving. Why, his best successes have 
 been in such plays as ' The Bells ' and ' The 
 Lyons Mail.' With this story of Dejazet I can 
 make a play quite as powerful as either of those 
 dramas. The history is a perfect one. All Lon- 
 don will flock to see you as the famous Dejazet, 
 with Felicia Halstead as Genevieve Delaunay." 
 
 "Stop!" cried Reginald, glowing with rage, 
 sweeping his arm across the table that held the 
 champagne glasses, and dashing them to the ground. 
 " I will not listen to you. You came here to-night 
 to tell me this horrible plan of yours. You shall 
 not succeed. I will not sit and listen to you. You 
 couldn't write this play. I say you couldn't. Your 
 last was a hopeless failure. You will never write 
 another play. You are cheap and vulgar, and you 
 appeal to the gallery. Send your horrid drama to 
 the provinces. Keep it away from London and 
 from me." 
 
 His voice was loud and excited. The gloomy 
 creatures in the club arose, and joined the two at 
 the table, kicking aside the fragments of the cham- 
 pagne glasses, and alive for once, with the knowl- 
 edge that something real was happening. 
 
 " This is an affront, Mr. Rellerick," remarked the 
 little dramatist, emerging from his overpowering 
 astonishment, " an affront for which you shall pay 
 dearly. Gentlemen," turning to the parchment 
 faces of his associates, " I was merely suggesting
 
 Dejazet 127 
 
 the scheme of a new play to this actor suggesting 
 it in all humility, and in the legitimate pursuit of 
 my profession when he turned upon me in this 
 unseemly manner." 
 
 Quick as lightning, through Reginald's mind were 
 flashed the prospects of publicity. * Sanely it oc- 
 curred to him that these men would hear of his 
 aversion to the hated name of Dejazet, and would 
 laugh at it. The journalists present would para- 
 graph it, and perhaps even weave it into some sort of 
 penny-dreadful, psychological story. He had 
 aroused Pinerville's ire, and the thing to do was to 
 allay it before further damage was done. 
 
 " I was quite In the wrong, Mr. Pinerville," he 
 said, spectacularly humble, " and before these 
 gentlemen I apologize. Mr. Pinerville," turning 
 to the members " was telling me his idea for a 
 new play. I had heard the story, and it had im- 
 pressed me so vividly, that I could not quite recon- 
 cile to myself the idea of its dramatization. That 
 is all. Mr. Pinerville, I quite agree with you that 
 it would make a good drama one that I should 
 like to produce. Promise me that you will not 
 mention the story to anybody I must insist upon 
 that, for it would be instantly. seized upon and used 
 and I will discuss it with you later, with a view 
 to next season. You forgive my little incompre- 
 hensible " (he paused and looked at the faces be- 
 fore him. Was it incomprehensible ?) " outburst. 
 I can say no more." 
 
 The little dramatist the most peaceful and in- 
 offensive of men held out his hand. The great
 
 128 His Own Image 
 
 actor took it, and wrung it fervently. He was 
 saved temporarily saved, and he would avoid the 
 club henceforth, and deny himself persistently to 
 Pinerville. He would never see that dramatist 
 again, if he could help it. 
 
 The club-members, robbed of their tit-bit, went 
 back to their seats, like dogs that had looked upon 
 a bone which had mysteriously been torn away 
 from their teeth. Reginald Rellerick forced him- 
 self to talk indifferently upon the topics of the day, 
 until he saw that Pinerville had left. Then he fol- 
 lowed, and jumping into a cab, was driven home. 
 
 He was admitted to his own apartments by his 
 comedy-butler. Apparently the domestics were 
 giving a party downstairs. He heard them laughing, 
 and talking, and the mellow tones of his cook's 
 voice were wafted up to him. The sounds grated 
 upon his ear, but he said nothing. He went up- 
 stairs to his study. Crampton was there arranging 
 his scrap-books, mouldier than usual. He nodded 
 to his secretary, threw off his coat and waistcoat, 
 and flung himself into an arm-chair in front of the fire- 
 place. The secretary continued to paste the news- 
 paper clippings into the book. The room was 
 horribly silent, except for the distant sounds of the 
 servants' laughter below stairs. Why was Cramp- 
 ton such a mummy? Why had he engaged a 
 secretary who had no more animation than an 
 oyster ? 
 
 Thomas, the comedy-butler, brought in a tray 
 bearing soda-water and spirits. As he opened the 
 door, the exuberancy downstairs came flowing into
 
 Dejazet 129 
 
 the room. It was irritating to the great actor, and 
 he turned pettishly to the butler. 
 
 " Send the servants to bed," he said, " and tell 
 them that I won't have this noise. It is most dis- 
 respectful. What are they laughing at, Thomas ?" 
 
 The staid butler paused at the door, and straight- 
 ened his upper lip into the usual semblance of dis- 
 creet solemnity. 
 
 "Oh, it's nothing, sir," he replied, reverently. 
 " Cook and Jane went out to-night and were at 
 Madame Tussore's Wax-works. They say they saw 
 there a new figure that looked so much like you 
 that cook declares she almost dropped, and Jane 
 says she went all of a tremble. They're silly things, 
 but they're laughing so much about it now, that they 
 don't feel like going to bed. The figure " 
 
 Reginald jumped from his chair and pointed his 
 quivering hand at the butler. 
 
 " Send them to bed at once, and tell them to 
 behave themselves. If they can find nothing bet- 
 ter to do than discuss such nonsense, they had 
 better go elsewhere and find work." 
 
 The door closed behind the butler, and Reginald 
 sank into his chair again. The mouldy secretary, 
 pasting the slips into the scrapbook, might have 
 been deaf and dumb, so completely was he absorbed 
 in his work. Reginald lay there in a tumult. His 
 cook and his Jane had been merry at his expense. 
 They had seen the loathsome image, standing to 
 be gazed at for a few coins. Perhaps they had 
 been in the building at the very time that he was 
 there menials and master, staring at the waxen
 
 I3 o His Own Image 
 
 counterpart of a notorious criminal. It was intol- 
 erable. He could not endure that these servants 
 should remain in his employ. He could not meet 
 them, day after day, in the knowledge that they 
 had been impressed by the fact that he was dupli- 
 cated in the Marylebone Road, by a lifeless form, 
 labelled " Murderer." 
 
 " Discharge the servants to-morrow, Crampton," 
 he said, huskily. " I must have a quieter set. 
 My home is a pandemonium." 
 
 Crampton nodded in his usual apathetic manner. 
 If Rellerick had told him to ask the Queen to 
 abdicate her throne, he would have nodded in the 
 same remotely human way. 
 
 The silence was almost tangible. If only Cramp- 
 ton would talk, and break this intolerable spell ! 
 But the secretary plodded on with his task, and the 
 great actor stifled by the side of the redly burning 
 fire. 
 
 " Crampton," he said at last he could endure it 
 no longer. "You heard what Thomas said just 
 now." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 ' Well, I am told that at this wax-work exhibi- 
 bition there is a figure that resembles me very 
 strongly. It is meant to portray a criminal who 
 was executed a few days ago in Paris. I never 
 read the papers, Crampton. Do you remember 
 the name of the criminal ?" 
 
 He could see it luminously around him. Every 
 letter in its composition was seared into his brain 
 Yet he wanted to hear Crampton pronounce the
 
 D^jazet 131 
 
 word, as he was anxious to know if it were possible 
 that his well-newspapered secretary could possibly 
 have avoided hearing it. 
 
 "I suppose," said Crampton deliberately, "that 
 you mean Dejazet." 
 
 " Yes yes that is it. D6jazet." 
 
 There it was again, ringing in his ears, this time 
 uttered by the slow-voiced, monotonous Crampton. 
 How dismal it sounded ! What a hideous name it 
 was! 
 
 " Dejazet," sang Crampton, in chant-like sylla- 
 bles, " was the person who murdered his mistress. 
 It was a sensational case, but I did not tell you of 
 it, because there were other more important mat- 
 ters to discuss. The story might make a good play, 
 Mr. Rellerick. You could get a clever dramatist 
 to put a few theatre touches to D6jazet himself, 
 and to that p*oor little girl, Genevieve Delaunay." 
 
 "That poor little girl!" 
 
 The words seemed to smite Reginald Rellerick. 
 Where had he heard them before, recently uttered ? 
 He cudgelled his brains to investigate this stupid 
 trifle of a coincidence. " That poor little, girl !" 
 Why, it was Crampton himself who had used the 
 words, that very morning, in discussing Felicia Hal- 
 stead. He recalled them very well. " That poor 
 little girl, that penniless child." That had been 
 Crampton's own phrase, when Reginald had told 
 him that he intended to marry Felicia Halstead. 
 He laughed aloud. This new idea of making moun- 
 tain out of molehills ws genuinely entertaining. 
 Poor Crampton's vocabulary was very limited. It
 
 i32 His Own Image 
 
 was bounded on the north and the south by " That 
 poor little girl." 
 
 " Talking of poor little girls, Crampton," he said 
 harshly, as though some of his inner strings had 
 broken, " and you like to talk about them, Cramp- 
 ton, don't you ? I must tell you that Miss Hal- 
 stead has accepted me, arid that as soon as she re- 
 turns from Lancashire, we are to be married. ' For 
 we're to be married to-day, to-day for we're to be 
 married to-day,'" he sang stridently. 
 
 The secretary looked at him, a trifle paler than 
 usual more like bleached parchment than any thing 
 else. His fingers trembled with the wet slip of 
 paper that they held, ready for transference to the 
 scrap-book. He looked at Reginald with the eyes 
 of a dumb animal. He knew him so well ! He 
 was so completely initiated into the mysteries of 
 that complicated ego-maniacal mind. But he could 
 not speak. He pasted the moist clipping in the 
 book, shut it up, and after carefully putting away 
 the details of his work, left the great actor alone 
 for the night. 
 
 Yes, he was . alone for the night, in his redly cur- 
 tained room, with its unread books, and its loung- 
 ing chairs. He lay there, still looking at the fire, 
 and finding no comfort in his surroundings. He 
 was alone for the night, shut off from the dimly 
 lighted streets, and removed from the reach of man 
 or woman. He was there and his double ? His 
 awful counterpart was alone for the night in the 
 wax-work exhibition of the Marylebone Road, sur- 
 rounded by other waxen terrors, murderers, poison-
 
 Dejazet 133 
 
 ers and outcasts. He shuddered as he thought of 
 it. He could see the black, impenetrable Chamber 
 of Horrors, robbed of all its illumination, free from 
 the noise of the gaping, sight-seeing crowd. They 
 stood there those monsters just as silent and just 
 as ghastly as they had been when he had viewed 
 them. They would never stir, nor move, nor utter 
 sound, and yet the detestable tragedy would begin 
 again on the morrow. 
 
 The big blue bed was yawning for him, but he 
 could not seek it, with the knowledge that the 
 atrocity which had been perpetrated in his image, 
 was standing up there alone, in the dark of the 
 wax-work collection. Perhaps it was grinning with 
 no eyes other than those glass imitations to look 
 upon it. Perhaps the defiance of its attitude had 
 changed to one of pleading and of pity. At any 
 rate it was there. It must be there. It was an 
 awful thought. He could not bear the idea of stay- 
 ing alone in his own room all night, with the re- 
 membrance of this silent monument, linking itself 
 with him in the Marylebone Road. It haunted 
 him. He looked at himself in the glass, and his 
 face was yellow and bloodless ; his attitude seemed 
 unreal and moulded, and his hands always those 
 hands were as smooth and as nailless as those of 
 of any of the kings and queens and wretches he 
 had gazed upon. 
 
 The silence of his room could scarcely be greater 
 than that in the scarlet edifice devoted to the 
 monuments. He looked around him fearfully, half
 
 134 His Own Image 
 
 expecting to see a galaxy of poisoners and decoyers 
 rearing itself about him. 
 
 He went into the hall, and opened the door of 
 Crampton's room. The mouldy secretary was 
 asleep, but his breast rose and fell, and he breathed. 
 It was such a relief to see those signs of life. As he 
 gazed at the sleeping man, Crampton's lips moved, 
 and he distinctly heard the word " Felicia " emerge 
 therefrom. And as he continued to watch 
 startled into a momentary sensation of genuine, 
 eavesdropping curiosity the secretary's lips bub- 
 bled again, and this time the word " D6jazet " 
 issued forth. 
 
 He left the room hurriedly. Everything was 
 conspiring against him. There was a plot a 
 coldly-laid plot to affect his mental health by 
 these uncanny coincidences. He went downstairs, 
 put on his hat and overcoat, and let himself quietly 
 into the streets. He walked quickly and unthink- 
 ingly along, as though impelled by some hidden 
 mechanism. The policemen on their beat looked 
 at him curiously. The night-owls slunk away at 
 his approach. The roysterers called ribaldly after 
 him, but on he went on on on. 
 
 He never paused, until, miles away from his start- 
 ing point, he had reached that hectic building in the 
 Marylebone Road, where his double stood up, king 
 among the evil-doers ; newest of all the detestabili- 
 ties ; latest addition to the criminals of the century. 
 The poster was still there, flaunting its blueness 
 unseen. Even in the badly lighted street he could
 
 Dejazet 135 
 
 still read the words, " The face was modelled from 
 a cast taken after death." 
 
 How gloomy it all looked, without its sight-seers 
 and its inane, laughing mob. This was the place 
 where they amused themselves in the day-time. 
 This was a sort of vile hereafter for all who dis- 
 tinguished themselves from their fellow-men, either 
 by good or by evil it didn't matter which. Fa- 
 mous and infamous were both stationed here, sepa- 
 rated by nothing more than a compartment. 
 
 He would not go home. He would remain as 
 near to his double as possible. He wondered if 
 Dejazet were at the window, looking out and grin- 
 ning at him, as he stood there nervelessly, outside 
 the cage, pacing backwards and forwards. If some 
 of those laughing sight-seers should pass by, they 
 would think that the new waxen figure had escaped 
 from its prison, and was haunting the Marylebone 
 Road. It was a fantastic idea, but it was not a 
 pleasant one. A night watchman stared at him 
 seriously. He averted his face and moved away. 
 A policeman stood by him and looked at him sus- 
 piciously. He asked the peace-guardian what time 
 it was, more for the sake of hearing his own voice 
 than to secure the information. 
 
 At day-break the edifice looked lighter, and more 
 cheerful. In a few hours the doors would be 
 opened once more, and if he chose, he could look 
 at D6jazet again for one-and-sixpence. In a few 
 hours ! He could wait.
 
 Chapter IX 
 
 FELICIA WRITES 
 
 " LIVERPOOL, May j, 1898. 
 " MY DEAR REGINALD : Doesn't it seem odd to 
 reflect that I have never yet written you a letter ? 
 You can ransack your desks ; you can ask your 
 dreadful, seedy Crampton to rummage through 
 your correspondence ; no letter from your Felicia 
 has a place there. Consequently, my dear, dear 
 Reginald, I am going to try to do justice to myself 
 to-day. Oh, the joy of writing to you ! You don't 
 know what it means to me. All morning I have 
 been nervous and excited at the mere idea of 
 addressing you by pen and ink. And now that I 
 have started well, I have a trembling hand and a 
 palpitating heart. I don't intend to write to you 
 often, my dear, because I have a sort of horror of 
 establishing a volume for 'Letters from Felicia.' 
 Such a title always sounds to me so cheap and 
 penny-dreadful-y, and I hate women who write 
 diaries and letters yes, even Glory Quayle and 
 Marie Bashkirtseff. These words are destined 
 not for publication but for the waste-paper basket. 
 However, I don't insist upon the basket. If you 
 should happen to be in a Felicia mood when you 
 [136]
 
 Felicia Writes 137 
 
 get this well, you can put it next to your heart ; 
 I shan't mind, and you needn't confess, Reginald ; 
 you really needn't. 
 
 " I can't tell you how I got to Liverpool, because 
 I don't know. I believe I sat on cushions and was 
 propelled swiftly through sweet, warm air, but I am 
 not quite sure. You see, I couldn't worry myself 
 about such details. In my mind were words that 
 had been spoken at Euston Station by a certain 
 stern and merciless knight, and they sang them- 
 selves to me until I was in a very ecstasy of reverie. 
 Dear old Euston Station ! Little did I think that 
 my happiness would come to me in that vaulted, 
 noisy, going-away place. How often have I cried 
 there, and despaired there, and rebelled there ! 
 Euston was to me a sort of devils' rendezvous. 
 And now, you original, reckless boy, you have sud- 
 denly transformed it into an Elysium. 
 
 " The bicyclist-boys in the train with me were 
 very polite. They insisted upon pulling down the 
 window when it was warm, and putting it up again 
 when it grew cool. They gave me funny papers 
 to read, and plied me with chicken sandwiches. 
 They were very young, and talked bicycle to me by 
 the hour. They introduced me to sprocket-wheels, 
 and gear-cases, and it is absolutely my own fault 
 that I don't know how to darn a tire, under any 
 condition of puncture. Reginald, these youthful 
 bicyclists recognized me. They had with them a 
 magazine containing my picture. Such is fame 
 which I never have wanted, don't want, and shan't 
 want ! I told you the truth, dear boy, when I said
 
 138 His Own Image 
 
 that I hated the theatre and everything connected 
 with it except one ' star ' actor, in whose halo I 
 I long to participate, for his sake only. I can't 
 understand the joys that fame is supposed to yield. 
 Certainly it can't make one happy to be thought of 
 and noticed by a lot of strangers. If fame could 
 render one more entrancing to one's own selected 
 circle then I should like to be famous. But does 
 it ? I think not. Fame is a bait for the outsiders, 
 for the Toms, and the Dicks, and the Harrys, and I 
 don't want it. (I have just read this over, and it 
 sounds rather nice really book-y, and breezy. 
 Don't you think so ?) 
 
 " Floss and Edna met me at Lime Street, and 
 took me home to mamma, as though I were the 
 prodigal returned. What a fuss they made of me, 
 these three good, and unreasonably affectionate 
 women. Somehow or other, Reginald, I felt that 
 I was a sort of blot upon the purity of their picture 
 a fraud, as it were. It was not until I told them 
 that I was engaged, that I could feel at my ease. 
 You should have heard their exclamations of pleas- 
 ure and their questions. They had been longing 
 for such news, and mamma dear, innocent mam- 
 ma said, ' Well, my dear Felicia, I am glad it has 
 ended so nicely. I have heard of young actresses 
 who fall in love with actors, and who are lured to 
 their ruin.' Dear mamma ! I love that expression, 
 ' lured to their ruin.' It is so picturesque, and so 
 exquisitely middle-class. How middle-ciass we 
 are ! Really, I never knew it so vividly as I know 
 it now. Floss and Edna are typical middle-class
 
 Felicia Writes 139 
 
 girls, addicted to doting upon beardless curates 
 and afternoon tea, and mamma is one of those 
 easily satisfied matrons to whom watercress and 
 shrimps to say nothing of periwinkles are the 
 acme of joy. The metropolis has had its effect 
 upon me, though I thought I was still narrow and 
 provincial. These dear, beloved people flesh of 
 my flesh run so persistently in one groove. They 
 all discuss the fact that I am going ' to marry well,' 
 just as though you were a butcher with a big bank 
 account. I am quite sure that mamma thinks we 
 shall live in a brick terrace in the suburbs, and keep 
 chickens and rabbits. She has warned me that 
 actors are very fond of divorces in fact, mamma 
 believes that it is an incentive to them to marry 
 and I am to be very careful and prudent. 
 
 " Reginald, I hate myself for writing so lightly of 
 my family. It seems so graceless, and so unlike 
 the Felicia of other days. Alas ! I am afraid that 
 the Felicia of other days is no more. In her place 
 has arisen a new, pert, and frivolous creature with 
 but one object in her life, and one desire to get 
 away from everything that is not connected with 
 that object. Floss wanted to know why I hadn't 
 an engagement ring, and when I told her that there 
 was no jeweller's shop in Euston Station, she nearly 
 fainted. Floss and Edna think that a proposal in 
 Euston Station is most ignominious. Edna won- 
 dered what on earth the people thought of you 
 when they saw you on your knees on the platform, 
 begging the radiant Felicia to be yours for ever and 
 for aye. They are very ingenuous girls, Reginald,
 
 140 His Own Image 
 
 Was I ingenuous when you first knew me ? You 
 used to tell me that I was, but seriously I can hardly 
 believe it. I feel so abnormally wise, and sensible, 
 and worldly in this unpoetic, yet secluded Liver- 
 pool. 
 
 " At an afternoon tea, yesterday, I met a spinster 
 with ringlets, who told me that she had seen you 
 in London some years ago, and thought that you 
 looked like a dreadful person, capable of anything. 
 You were playing in ' Richard III,' and she was 
 quite unable to disentangle you from your part. 
 She asked me if something couldn't be done for the 
 hump, and when I told her that you were trying to 
 remove it with caustic like a wart she seemed to 
 be quite pleased. I should hate you to come to 
 Liverpool, and see the people whom I meet daily. 
 They would be so exactly the folks that you would 
 despise you lordly, regal and peerless thing ! So, 
 if you should feel that you can't possibly exist a 
 day longer without your Felicia well, my dear, bid 
 her come to you, but prithee, go not to her. 
 
 " How my pen is flying on, and what nonsense I 
 am writing. Verily, I believe that even the waste- 
 paper basket would reject me. However, I am 
 not always as light-hearted as I feel at this mo- 
 ment. Sometimes I ask myself if really, in your 
 heart of hearts, you love this foolish, flighty Fe- 
 licia ? And the answer is not satisfactory. If it 
 were, it would be too good too consummately bliss- 
 ful. I don't believe that you would die of anguish 
 if she positively declined to see you again I can- 
 not imagine you suiciding on account of hopeless
 
 Felicia "Writes 141 
 
 love for Felicia Halstead. If I were only proud, 
 and correct ! If I only were ! I would force you 
 to woo me violently, and would revel in coyness, 
 and woman's pretty defensiveness. But alas ! I 
 am so desperate, and so very much in earnest. I 
 have no pride, and I am not coy. I would marry 
 you, even if you hated me, and trust to fate for 
 better things afterwards. In fact, Reginald, I was 
 quite willing to be your wife, even when I thought 
 that you might ask me just for the sake of but 
 no, I will not tell you of that contemplated con- 
 spiracy until we have been married five years. 
 Married five years ! I can scarcely realize what it 
 means. Perhaps by that time I shall have grown 
 to think of nothing but boiled mutton, and roly- 
 poly puddings. I am afraid I am not artistic 
 merely feminine. 
 
 " You will laugh when I tell you that I almost 
 expected to find a telegram from you awaiting 
 me in Liverpool, begging me to dismiss the Euston 
 interview from my mind. My first words when 1 
 entered the sitting-room were : ' Is there any 
 message for me ?' What a relief it was when 1 
 heard that there was not. You see, I am uncer- 
 tain and unsettled. But nothing can alter the fact 
 that you have asked me to be your wife, and that I 
 have accepted. It was, as mamma says, a happy 
 ending. There are episodes in our past that we 
 may think of in mental solitude. How much bet- 
 ter that there should be no more of them. Yet, I 
 would have been your slave your willing satellite 
 forever if I could not have been your wife. Never,
 
 142 His Own Image 
 
 to my dying day, shall I forget my agony when you 
 accused me of trying to supplant you never, 
 never, never. And yet, in some way or other, I 
 can't help thinking that this incident is connected 
 with my present happiness. How wretched I was 
 when you saw me at Euston ! Positively, Reginald, 
 I had even neglected to dye my hair. I was going 
 to forsake my colours, not caring whether I was 
 blonde or brunette. Poor old Landy was in des- 
 pair, but I could not do otherwise. 
 
 " By-the-by, Reginald, mamma, who is a most 
 voracious newspaper reader, and frightfully ad- 
 dicted to horrors, which are to her as the salt of the 
 earth,has been telling me about a wonderful case that 
 occurred recently in Paris. It concerned a person 
 called De"jazet, who murdered a girl named Gene- 
 vieve Delaunay, rather than marry her. Mamrna 
 gave me all the details in a very vivid manner, and 
 I couldn't help thinking, after I had heard them, 
 what a very admirable play it would make. I could 
 almost see you as Dejazet made up with a po- 
 maded, spiky moustache, and I am sure that it 
 would be a magnificent r61e for you. And then, 
 my dear, I think I could be Genevieve to perfec- 
 tion just my style. She must have been just such 
 another un-coy, un-proud thing as I am. It served 
 her almost right for insisting upon marrying the 
 poor fellow when she knew that he hated her. 
 I am afraid that I should do precisely the same 
 thing, my poor, entangled Reginald. Conse- 
 quently, who could be a better Genevieve De- 
 launay than Felicia Halstead ?
 
 Felicia Writes 143 
 
 " I read in a local paper that they have just added 
 a picture of De"jazet to the wax-work collection at 
 Madame Tussaud's, and that the face is modelled 
 from a cast made after death. So, my dear, if you 
 should ever play Dejazet, you won't have to worry 
 yourself with the British Museum, where you al- 
 ways go for inspiration, but you can have a cheap 
 shilling's-worth of Madame Tussaud. Wait until I 
 come back and we will go together. I adore the 
 wax-works. Landy and I have spent hours there. 
 In fact, my idea of happiness is a morning at Mad- 
 ame Tussaud's, with a nice catalogue and sixpenny- 
 worth of chocolate creams in a bag. My grave 
 and artistic lord, how you must despise me for this 
 confession. Yet I make it, because I am so anxious 
 to confess everything or nearly everything to 
 you. Dear old Madame Tussaud's ! I am always 
 so desperately anxious to examine the petticoats 
 and lingerie worn by all the queens and princesses, 
 that it is hard work for me to conform to the rules 
 and regulations of the place. 
 
 " I must be thinking of closing. I imagine that 
 the only lines in this letter that you will really care 
 for are those connected with D6jazet, and a possi- 
 ble play. They were really the point of this letter, 
 and I felt so jealous of them that I tried to get 
 even with them by all this flimsy Felicia talk. I 
 wonder if mamma's chatter has really given you 
 an idea. I know that you never read the papers. 
 Perhaps you have never heard of Dejazet, before 
 you receive this. I had not. Landy never dis- 
 cusses horrors, and never tells me of newspaper
 
 144 His Own Image 
 
 topics. Consequently, if I am responsible for any 
 new plans that you may make, let me know. I 
 should love to believe that I was really useful to you 
 at last. And if you do play Dejazet, remember that 
 I must be the Genevieve even if I never play 
 another part, and retire immediately afterwards. 
 I could feel like Genevieve without the slightest 
 difficulty ! I could put myself in her place, with- 
 out the faintest effort. And you you clever, 
 versatile boy you could put yourself with equal 
 ease in anybody's place. You can be an angel as 
 readily as a devil. 
 
 " Forgive me all this frivolous outburst. I have 
 waited until I could wait no longer. I did not 
 expect to hear from you. I do not expect to do so. 
 I tell mamma and Floss and Edna that you are too 
 busy to write. Perhaps you are. How I should 
 appreciate a letter, but but I am not hinting for 
 one. If it came, I should not return it unopened. 
 But, I am not hinting for one, Reginald ; oh dear, no. 
 
 " t l shall return to London at the end of my third 
 week, and then and then well, since you insist, I 
 will be yours. Mamma talks such a lot about trou- 
 seau and bridesmaids, and a wedding-cake with sugar 
 on it, and all the usual things that you know noth- 
 ing about. I have ventured to hint that we may be 
 married by the registrar, and that my wedding 
 dress will probably be whatever I happen to be 
 wearing at that moment. She is very much horri- 
 fied. I have tried to break it gently to Floss and 
 Edna that there will be no bridesmaids. Poor 
 girls, they had already mapped out for themselves
 
 Felicia Writes 145 
 
 blue silk dresses with white tulle veils. Sometimes 
 I sigh, and just for one moment only one I wish 
 that you were a provincial person, who went every 
 morning to business at nine o'clock, and came back 
 to tea at six ; that we were going to settle down to 
 humdrum life ; and that you would like a supply 
 of doilies, knitted mats, clocks and sugar-spoons for 
 wedding presents. For one moment only ! The 
 next and I see you superior to it all soaring 
 above the provincialism of the thing my own regal, 
 peerless, and irrevocable Reginald. Good-bye, 
 dear. One word from you to the effect that I must 
 not stay away three weeks, and back I come, re- 
 gardless of etiquette, of reason, of mamma, or of 
 Floss and Edna. I may be all wrong, but then 
 you know I can't help being 
 
 "FELICIA." 
 
 " What will be the fate of this letter ? Somehow 
 or other, I can picture you reading it, and frowning 
 upon everything but that little business matter 
 concerning Dej'azet. I can see the sheets left on 
 your desk, for Crampton to file away in the H's. 
 Shall you put me in the F's or the H's ? Do you 
 think of me as Felicia or as Halstead ? I have a 
 dreadful idea that Crampton will pigeon-hole me 
 in the H's. O Reginald, save me from this fate. 
 Tear me up, and scatter my bits over the waste- 
 paper basket. Burn me, but don't put me away 
 with demands for engagements, offers to read plays, 
 and other professional matter. What will be my 
 fate? 
 
 " F. H."
 
 146 His Own Image 
 
 This was the letter that Reginald Rellerick found 
 waiting for him after another mentally exhausting 
 evening spent in the Marylebone Road. The 
 address upon the envelope gave him no clue to the 
 identity of the writer. He had never before seen 
 a specimen of Felicia's handwriting. Before he 
 read it, he dried his humid brow and drank deeply 
 of the ever-welcome champagne-cup prepared for 
 him by the obeisant Thomas. What an evening 
 he had passed ! He had stood for two hours before 
 the image of Dejazet, greedily listening to the com- 
 ments of the throng. Every scathing criticism of 
 the murderer stung him as though it referred to 
 his veritable self. He felt humiliated, disgraced, 
 prostrated. He found himself eagerly awaiting 
 some extenuating comment from some extraordi- 
 narily charitable person. He scanned the features 
 of the crowd as though to analyze the sentiments 
 expressed therein. He recalled one graphic utter- 
 ance that had been balm to his bleeding soul. It 
 came from a stout labourer, who remarked : 
 " Women are the devil. This isn't the first victim, 
 and it won't be the last." It had been difficult for 
 him to restrain himself from shaking the hand of 
 that humble and lenient philosopher. But he 
 could not forget that the crowd had growled at 
 the rude philosophy, and had even hissed, as Lon- 
 don crowds consider it their privilege to do. The 
 sympathies of the herd were not with Dejazet the 
 evil, yellow thing with the glassy eyes and the nail- 
 less hands, that stood there recklessly, as though 
 wallowing in its own unholy powers of attraction.
 
 Felicia Writes 147 
 
 Every man in that crowd was a critic, to the 
 wrought-up, nerve-tightened actor. It was as 
 though he were listening to his own judgment ; as 
 if his future life depended upon the whims and 
 caprices of this gathering of 'Arries and 'Arriets. 
 
 He had taken the precaution to don a soft felt 
 hat, which he pressed down over his eyes, so that his 
 panoramic expression, and that odious resemblance, 
 might both be kept from the curious men and wo- 
 men at the exhibition. He skulked, when chance 
 brought him into closer contact with the visitors, 
 and once when a confidential countryman spoke to 
 him, he moved quickly away, without attempting 
 to utter a word. 
 
 And now he had returned to his own apartments. 
 Crampton was out. The house was still. He 
 opened the letter carelessly, and read it derisively. 
 His lips curled at poor Felicia's exuberance of 
 expression, and he laughed aloud at the words that 
 told him she had expected a telegram. It was not 
 until he reached her " point " the allusions to D6- 
 jazet that he was aroused to any sort of demon- 
 stration. He arose from his seat, and pounded 
 round the room, speaking aloud, as very few sane 
 people do off the stage. 
 
 " She would like to see me play De"jazet," he 
 foamed. " She, too! She can ' almost see me ' as 
 De" jazet ' made up with a pomaded, spiky mous- 
 tache.' And she would like to play Genevieve ! 
 Devils! They are all conspiring against me ! If I 
 am not crazy, I shall be soon. What have I done 
 to be cursed like this ?"
 
 148 His Own Image 
 
 He was engaged to be married to the woman 
 who had lacerated his career. Marry her he would, 
 and then and then he could retire her to oblivion, 
 and seek forgetfulness of this morbid horror in his 
 stage work. Yet how loathsome it seemed ! Al- 
 ready she began to speak as though she owned him, 
 body and soul the matrimonial condition at which 
 his ego-maniacal soul rebelled. Would he ever be 
 able to endure her exactions ? Could he ever 
 calmly resign himself to those insistently expressed 
 endearments, which, destitute of passion, were cold 
 and clumsy in his ears. What a detestable fate ! 
 How she would " dear " him and " darling " him in 
 public, and look after his health, and see that he 
 changed his stockings if his feet were wet ! What 
 a prospect ! He was paying a big price for the 
 adulation that the public offers. His ego-mania 
 he called it fame was an expensive luxury, to be 
 obtained at the risk of all personal happiness. 
 
 A normal man even a normal man with a heart 
 of ice would have been touched at the gentle fem- 
 ininity of this clinging Felicia's letter. A normal 
 man might even have become coxcombical, as he 
 read her adoring words. But this ego-maniac hated 
 her as the one obstacle in his glittering, self-lauda- 
 tory path. If he could only have married her, and 
 shipped her next day to Australia. 
 
 Sitting down again, he tried to conjure up some 
 plan by which he could resume his career without 
 marrying Felicia. There was no harm in thinking up 
 a plan. If he could find one, the telegram that she 
 had expected should be hers without further delay.
 
 Felicia Writes 149 
 
 But there was no way out of the tangle. Felicia 
 left alone resourceless as she was, with a family 
 dependent upon her must earn her living. All 
 London was discussing her at present. There was 
 not the faintest shadow of doubt but that she would 
 succumb to managerial persuasion. Moreover, she 
 was a woman, and women were vindictive. If he 
 withdrew his offer, she would oppose him out of 
 sheer revenge. Even the gentle, pliant, lamb-like 
 Felicia had a woman's foibles. 
 
 No, matters had been arranged. He had even 
 blessed the arrangement, and thanked his lucky 
 stars at its success. It was marriage, or the down- 
 ward path. Marriage it should be. 
 
 Henceforth, he would never again seek for any 
 pretext to break the bonds. 
 
 So he forced himself to write a few words of hy- 
 pocritical affection to the Lancashire lass of his re- 
 luctant bosom. No need to chronicle them. There 
 are some tasks at which even the student of human- 
 ity quails. Suffice it to say that he lied as valiantly 
 as possible, and wrote what it would have been im- 
 possible for him to speak. He made no reference 
 to the Dejazet topic. Fate was linking him with 
 it. He would let fate work its own way unaided. 
 
 He went out and posted the letter himself. He 
 felt relieved when he had consigned it to the pillar. 
 For two days at any rate he could forget Felicia 
 and his engagement. 
 
 Once more he felt it impossible to retire. Cramp- 
 ton came in, mouldily uninteresting, sedate as usual.
 
 150 His Own Image 
 
 Was there anything he could do for Mr. Rellerick 
 before going to bed ? No, there was nothing. 
 
 The great actor waited until his secretary was 
 quiet, and stole noiselessly out of the house, bound 
 for the Marylebone Road. He promised himself 
 that this should be the last time he indulged in such 
 folly. His mind must be recovering its tone, for 
 he began to realize the ludicrous side of this noc- 
 turnal promenade. Imagine a man in his sane 
 senses, gazing at a closed exhibition, in the dead of 
 the night, more especially when he had spent the 
 major part of his day there. Reginald laughed and 
 felt better. He would end this farce with to-night. 
 But even as he said this he hurried his footsteps, 
 and arrived panting at the Marylebone Road. How 
 could he sleep, after all, with the knowledge that 
 his own image the image which all London had 
 worshipped, and for the adulation of which he lived 
 and breathed was standing alone, in the dark, in 
 the Tussaud sarcophagus ?
 
 Chapter X 
 
 THE SIREN OF LEICESTER SQUARE 
 
 THE rusty Crampton was quiet, but the rusty 
 Crampton was not asleep. The nerves of the man, 
 whom you may have regarded as an automaton, 
 were on the alert. Crampton was growing suspi- 
 cious. He felt that some strange forces were at 
 work within the masterful Reginald Rellerick. So 
 far, he had been completely able to understand all 
 the motives that actuated the ego-maniac's life. 
 He had read his Nordau, and in the old Oxford 
 days he had studied the psychological authorities 
 from which the astutely advertised author of " Par- 
 adoxes " derived so many of his facts. Rellerick 
 was quite intelligible to him, and he had led the 
 self-dazzled actor into many harbours, from the 
 depths in which his blindness would have sunk him. 
 But now, something else was at work, and Cramp- 
 ton was puzzled. 
 
 He lay awake in his bed as Reginald prepared to 
 leave the house. He heard the creaking of the 
 floors, his master's step in the hall, the opening of 
 the door, and its closing. The rusty Crampton, 
 with an amount of energy quite surprising in one 
 so sere and yellow, leaped from his couch, and
 
 152 His Own Image 
 
 hastily trousering himself, resolved to follow Mr. 
 Rellerick. Quick thoughts coursed through his 
 brain. At another time he might have analyzed 
 them ; now he simply thought them, without won- 
 dering. He was impelled to remember that hour 
 in the cab with Felicia Halstead, when he had 
 brought her from Netting Hill to his master's sanc- 
 tum. She had sat beside him, and had talked in 
 such sweet frivolity that his mission had been hate- 
 ful to him. He recalled her departure from Regi- 
 nald's house, bewildered and miserable, and follow- 
 ing that, like a flash of disaster-bringing lightning, 
 came the news of her engagement to the actor. 
 He thought of all this involuntarily, without at- 
 tempting to ask himself why these old subjects 
 came to him at midnight, as he was about to follow 
 Reginald Rellerick on some unknown adventure. 
 Crampton had once had as much colour as you and 
 I are proud to own. It had simply worn off. 
 Colour is a perishable quality, heightened by con- 
 tact with the world, destroyed by stagnation. 
 Crampton had been colourless for a long time, but 
 in spite of that fact, he is the only irreproachable 
 character in these records, and I insist upon your 
 liking him. It is your duty to like him, because he 
 was a good man, with no vices worth speaking of, 
 and no virtues to worry about lauding. It is the 
 absence of vice, rather than the presence of virtue, 
 that dishes up to the world what the world calls a 
 a good man. . 
 
 Crampton passed into Reginald's sanctum. The 
 lamp was burning low, and the unoccupied room
 
 The Siren of Leicester Square 153 
 
 still reeked of the intense vitality of its owner. 
 Crampton glanced hastily around. Time was pre- 
 cious. He must see on what fool's errand the ego- 
 maniac had started. Under the desk he saw a 
 crumpled letter. The sheets had evidently been 
 squeezed together by a vindictive hand. They 
 were twisted into most uncomplimentary contor- 
 tions. Crampton read a few words of the post- 
 script : " What will be the fate of this letter? . . . 
 I can see the sheets left on your desk for Crampton 
 to file away in the H's. . . . I have a dreadful 
 idea that Crampton will pigeon-hole me in the 
 H's." 
 
 The mouldy secretary looked around him with- 
 what the old-fangled novelists called " the eyes of 
 the hunted antelope." A dash of the colour that 
 had tinged his character in the old University days 
 returned to him like a whiff of youth. The hour 
 was certainly propitious for everything unusual and 
 unexpected. Crampton took up the sheet contain- 
 ing the words he had just read, and kissed it. It 
 crackled against his frayed-out white-ended mous- 
 tache. Then, as though ashamed of himself, he 
 tore open his shirt and placed Felicia's writing next 
 to his heart. " Pigeon-holed in the H 's," he thought, 
 and this eerie person actually smiled at what he 
 considered an excellent jeu de mot. 
 
 All this had taken place so quickly, that by the 
 time Crampton was in the open air, he was able to 
 see the figure of Rellerick at the end of the road, 
 about to turn into a street at the right. He fol- 
 lowed swiftly. He had heard of somnambulists
 
 154 His Own Image 
 
 performing strange feats with which they were un- 
 familiar when awake, but he could not suppose 
 that Rellerick was sleep-walking. Could the actor 
 be in pursuit of some sordid adventure with the 
 street-walkers that infested the vicinity ? He did 
 not believe it, for the actor had a tinge of refine- 
 ment, and his sexuality had never seemed protru- 
 sive. 
 
 Crampton kept about two hundred yards behind 
 his master. The chase was a somewhat exhaust- 
 ing one. The secretary noticed the soft felt hat 
 that the actor had donned, and realized the fact 
 that his mission was evidently one that rendered 
 recognition undesirable. By the time that the 
 huge brick pile in the Marylebone Road was 
 reached, Crampton was out of breath. Reginald's 
 hurried steps had suggested impulsion by electri- 
 city. Such violent exercise was fatiguing to the 
 secretary. 
 
 He stood still and watched his master, who 
 stopped, in an attitude of almost reverent study, 
 before Madame Tussaud's landmark. He remem- 
 bered Reginald's anger with the servants who had 
 visited the exhibition, and he recalled his master's 
 inquiries on the subject of Dejazet, whose image, 
 it appeared, strongly resembled him. Crampton's 
 fatigue soon left him. His brain set to work with 
 remarkable facility, and it made out an astonish- 
 ingly accurate case in a very short time. 
 
 Reginald walked backwards and forwards with 
 his hands in his pockets, and his head bowed. 
 Occasionally he glanced at the windows of the
 
 The Siren of Leicester Square 155 
 
 building and stood still peering through the dark- 
 ness. Crampton's eyes never left him. At the 
 end of a half hour the secretary's mind was made 
 up. He approached the actor, as though meeting 
 him in an opposite direction, and when a few yards 
 away from him, coughed and came to a standstill. 
 
 Reginald looked up, and Crampton noted the 
 haggard, anxious expression that he wore. His 
 eyes were sunken and lustreless ; his face gray in 
 the dull midnight street. The secretary felt a sen- 
 sation of pity sweeping over him. He was rather 
 sorry that he had broken in upon him so suddenly. 
 The great actor's ego however, asserted itself 
 almost instantaneously. No sooner had he recog- 
 nized this intruder, than his listless demeanour van- 
 ished. The life came back to his eyes, and the 
 vitality to his expression. His imperial impudence 
 asserted itself rapidly. 
 
 " So you have dared to follow me, sirrah," he 
 said, blazing forth into anger, and feeling a sensa- 
 tion of relief in the mere change of sensation. 
 " You have presumed to spy upon my actions. I 
 choose, for personal reasons, to walk in this neigh- 
 bourhood with my thoughts, but I find myself 
 confronted by my paid servant, wearing a puzzled 
 look, and behaving like a missionary attempting to 
 rescue a heathen." 
 
 Crampton, usually so limp and dejected, did not 
 wither beneath this scathimg rebuke. His logical 
 mind, scenting complications the significance of 
 which he could not over-estimate, was not to be 
 imposed upon. Moreover, he was genuinely
 
 156 His Own Image 
 
 alarmed at the expression that he had noticed 
 upon his master's face an expression of nervous 
 exaltation that the most exacting " first night " 
 had failed to induce. 
 
 He looked the great actor calmly in the eye, and 
 said quietly, " If I were you, Mr. Rellerick, I should 
 not brood over a fancied resemblance to a waxen 
 figure. You will disturb your mind, and ruin your 
 mental constitution. It is absurd. It is illogical. 
 If you read it in a book, you would say, ' How vastly 
 improbable/ Forget it for your own sake, and 
 for that of " Crampton's voice sank " of the 
 girl who has promised to be your wife." 
 
 Reginald was conscious of a sense of consolation 
 at the beginning of his secretary's remarks. They 
 soothed him as " some sweet oblivious antidote " 
 destined to " raze out the written troubles of the 
 brain." But the allusion to Felicia was unfortun- 
 ate. Impossible as it must always be for him to 
 forget his loathsome double in this museum, it 
 must be equally out of the question peacefully to 
 consider his necessary entanglement with Felicia. 
 His anger gushed forth. 
 
 "Forget ! Forget !" he cried wrathfully. " Could 
 you go quietly to bed, and sleep calmly through 
 the night, knowing that a jaundiced but frightfully 
 accurate model of yourself was standing, reared up 
 among an army of murderers, girl-decoyers, and 
 obnoxious criminals ? I ask you could you feel 
 comfortable you, a man without nerves, a healthy 
 type of British stolidity, addicted to regular habits 
 and stagnation ?"
 
 The Siren of Leicester Square 157 
 
 Crampton saw him shudder, and pondered care- 
 fully over the question. Yes, he was a man with- 
 out nerves, one of those happy go-to-bed-at-ten-and- 
 get-up-at-six specimens of English health. He was 
 a college man, an Oxford M. A., a distinctly normal 
 person. He was bound to admit to himself that 
 Reginald's predicament was a trying one, and he 
 realized that this actor, diseased with ego-mania, 
 and living persistently the hothouse, malarial life 
 of the stage, was a magnificent target for these 
 arrows of the imagination. But Crampton resolved 
 to lie rather than cater to such imaginings. What 
 would become of little Felicia Halstead, linked to 
 such a character ? 
 
 So he answered cautiously. " It is all folly. If 
 I heard of a waxen Crampton in Madame Tussaud's 
 wax-works, I should laugh at it as a ludicrous coin- 
 cidence. You, with your fame, could work this up 
 into a magnificent advertisement for yourself. 
 Think of it." 
 
 He tried, in this way, to lure him from the miasma 
 of his thoughts. It was quite useless. A shock 
 went through Reginald's system, as he even con- 
 templated the odious idea of publicity. An actor 
 will submit to a great deal for the sake of notor- 
 iety's will-of-the-wisp, but the real ego-maniac will 
 not endure abject humiliation, because he has 
 never yet discovered a public that is worth winning 
 at such a cost. 
 
 " No," he said, ferociously. " No, no. It is bad 
 enough to know that this unfortunate creature 
 this yellow waxen horror is there, without publish-
 
 158 His Own Image 
 
 ing it to the world. And he stands there with the 
 vilest of the earth." 
 
 Crampton thought for a moment, before he re- 
 torted. " Undoubtedly. Would you see him with 
 the kings and queens a murderer of the most 
 noxious type a brute who, after having ruined a 
 girl, deliberately took her life ?" 
 
 They were walking slowly towards the end of the 
 railings surrounding the Marylebone edifice. As 
 Reginald heard Crampton's words, he stood still, 
 and just for one second he wondered at himself. 
 He was instantly conscious of a deep-rooted resent- 
 ment as he listened to his secretary's criticism of 
 Dejazet. He forgot his original horror at the 
 knowledge that Dejazet was a murderer. It 
 seemed to him at the present time that such accusa- 
 tions were hideous. Pangs shot through him as 
 Crampton spoke of the ruin and murder of a girl. 
 Then he gazed indignantly at the prosaic Oxonian, 
 and lost all sense of restraint. 
 
 "That's hitting a man when he's down," he 
 declared savagely. " It is insulting and unworthy. 
 Dejazet cannot speak for himself, but I am thank- 
 ful to say that there is one who will not listen to 
 such one-sided charges. How do we know what 
 amount of provocation he endured? Women are 
 the devil. The horrid feminine idea of owning a 
 man's body and soul forever has been the cause of 
 untold misery. Dejazet may have had justification 
 for his act, such as the world knows nothing of. 
 Why call a man a murderer because the mob insists
 
 The Siren of Leicester Square 159 
 
 that he is one ? The mob is always wrong. The 
 mob has injured me. I hate it. I hate it." 
 
 His excitement was painful to see. His over- 
 whelming ego-mania, that was reaching out to in- 
 clude his waxen presentment, filled the poor secre- 
 tary with amazement. The actor glanced at the 
 windows of the exhibition, as though he expected 
 to see his double looking out to applaud him for 
 this defense to applaud him with those smooth 
 and nailless hands. 
 
 " The mob could not be wrong in this instance," 
 Crampton murmured, almost wishing himself back 
 in his bed. " The case was as clear as a pikestaff. 
 He murdered his mistress on their wedding-night, 
 and was captured red-handed. Moreover, he con- 
 fessed his crime. What court of justice could hope 
 for anything more ? It was a horror in the annals 
 of crime." 
 
 " How dare you talk like this ?" the furious 
 actor cried, the volume of his augmented voice 
 reaching a distant policeman, and causing that in- 
 dividual to shake off his lethargy. " I will not 
 be argued with. I will not permit it. You are my 
 satellite, and I will not allow you to thrust me into 
 the wrong." Then, changing his tone to one of 
 almost supplicating import, " Crampton, you are 
 uncharitable. You believe in the conventions too 
 fully. Can you not, as a man, imagine a condition 
 of things so hideous that what we call crime would 
 be justifiable in order to remove it. Can you not 
 believe in an obstacle so monstrous that a man may 
 be pardoned for his anxiety to rid himself of it ?
 
 160 His Own Image 
 
 Suppose Dejazet poor Dejazet felt that his 
 whole artistic career was imperilled by this 
 woman, this clinging, stupid Genevieve Delaunay. 
 Suppose he felt that future generations, which might 
 possibly be delighted with his work, would lose 
 everything, if he lived with this millstone round 
 his neck this daily meal of hatred constantly be- 
 fore him. Suppose all this, Crampton. Why, why 
 should he be placed in this detestable mausoleum 
 to be gazed at day after day by vulgar men and 
 women with catalogues ?" 
 
 Crampton had never seen his master in such a 
 plight with all his soul let loose, as it were. The 
 man might have been pleading for the jewel of his 
 own reputation. The agony of his recent theatre 
 failure was no keener than this. In each case there 
 was an injury to the personality, for the ego- 
 maniac's defense of D6jazet was due solely to the 
 fact that the murderer was flaunting before the 
 public in his image. The actor's hair was damp 
 and the perspiration ran in drops from his fore- 
 head. His ego was endangered, and he had noth- 
 ing else to live for. There was nothing else in 
 the world, as a matter of fact. All other men 
 and women were mere automata. The secretary 
 scarcely knew what to do or say. He felt that the 
 situation was far more serious than he had supposed 
 it to be. It was psychological beyond the reach 
 of medicine and cheap words. 
 
 "There may have been provocation, as you sug- 
 gest," the embarrassed Crampton remarked, " but 
 for the sake of society for the sake of organized
 
 The Siren of Leicester Square 161 
 
 decency, we dare not consider it. Probably all the 
 figures in Madame Tussaud's Chamber of Horrors 
 had some sort of provocation. Mr. Rellerick, you 
 must not dwell on that matter. It is the feeble 
 excuse of most crime. Adam ate the apple be- 
 cause Eve provoked him to do so. Eve's provoca- 
 tion came from the serpent. Even the serpent 
 if tried in court could find a lawyer willing to 
 prove that he was innately bad and suffering from 
 hereditary taint. We must conquer our provoca- 
 tion." 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha !" laughed Reginald, hysterically. 
 " Crampton, you talk like the ' Child's Stepping- 
 Stone to Knowledge ' or ' Mangnall's Questions.' 
 I don't care what the world thinks of provocation. 
 There is something in the knowledge that it has 
 existed. If I could only know and I feel certain 
 of it that this unfortunate artist was more sinned 
 against than sinning, I should feel easier in my 
 mind. I must know it. I must know it," he re- 
 peated, grinding his teeth. " Poor Dejazet." 
 
 They had left the Marylebone Road and were 
 walking quickly to the west. The actor's pallid 
 face and sunken cheeks looked as lifeless in the 
 darkness as those of the wax-works they were leav- 
 ing behind them. It was a gloomy and marrow- 
 chilling night. Each person they met seemed to 
 be abroad for some sinister motive. The sleeping 
 houses appeared to enclose tightly all that was 
 light und virtuous and spiritual in the tortuous and 
 Interminable metropolis. Women spoke to them 
 as they walked through the clanking thorough-
 
 162 His Own Image 
 
 fares, but Reginald, held up by Crampton's arm, 
 was pushed rapidly along. 
 
 They reached Piccadilly Circus, bound for no- 
 where at all. The actor was anxious for move- 
 ment and sensation of any sort. The secretary 
 had sunk into a sort of comatose condition of 
 dread foreboding. It was so much worse than he 
 had thought. It was a farce turning into a tragedy, 
 as so often happens in this world, where extremes 
 meet, and laughter and grief overlap. He could 
 imagine this wax-work notion that was weighing 
 him down, as the theme of a merry, tripping opera, 
 with waxen nymphs coming to life, and the bogie- 
 man subjected to the ever-enjoyable insults of the 
 modern stage. But no laugh could he coax to his 
 lips at the present time. 
 
 Piccadilly Circus had concluded another of its 
 infamous nights, and was comparatively deserted. 
 The ghastly galaxy of creatures that come forth 
 like beetles was no longer apparent. The traffic 
 was over, and the vampires had fled, with but few 
 exceptions. Occasionally the occupant of a cab 
 looked from the windows to see if anything was 
 "going on." A few women chatted hopelessly with 
 some maudlin boys, who were on their way home. 
 The curved expanse of Regent Street looked for- 
 bidding enough, but Crampton knew that in the 
 morning it would be gay and busy once more, and 
 that the virtuousest matrons would stand on the 
 very spot that had just been pressed by the women 
 of the pavement. Messalina and Lucretia share 
 the "modern conveniences " of London together.
 
 The Siren of Leicester Square 163 
 
 It is a very ingenious sort of Box and Cox arrange- 
 ment. 
 
 Reginald and Crampton were just about to cross 
 the Circus in the direction of the Criterion Theatre, 
 when two highly illuminated women coming from 
 the Leicester Square vicinity attracted their atten- 
 tion. The women were undoubtedly French. 
 They had very large, loose, bulging bodies, tiny 
 compressed waists, and sinuously padded hips. 
 They were laughing and talking loudly, and they 
 soon noticed the two men, hesitant at the curb- 
 stone. 
 
 As the largest and loudest of the Frenchwomen 
 approached Reginald, with ribald words on her lips, 
 she suddenly stopped, as though paralyzed, and 
 clutched at the arm of her companion. An 
 electric light that stood near showed that even 
 beneath the kalsomine on her cheeks she had grown 
 white and bloodless. Reginald heard her say 
 ' Grand del!' and a moment later, in response to 
 the query of the other, she cried, " Mais, ma cherie, 
 c'est Dtjazet lui-m$me ! 
 
 Crampton scarcely noticed the words, embedded 
 in French, and Parisianly pronounced, but to Regi- 
 nald the remark came like a bolt from the skies. 
 He was instantly alert, and keenly attentive to the 
 protection of his ego. He pulled his hat over his 
 eyes, and started to cross the street. The siren 
 from Leicester Square was not in the least non- 
 plussed. She followed him, deliberately plucked 
 his hat from his head, and standing before him, 
 arms akimbo, gazed at him relentlessly.
 
 164 His Own Image 
 
 " Sacre bleu /" she cried and there was awe in 
 her tones, " 'C'est Dejaset revenu & la vie." Then in 
 excellent English, " My little gentleman, you re- 
 mind me of a friend of mine who is dead gathered 
 by force to his ancestors. Ah, you are so like him. 
 The same eyes, the same chin, the same hair, the 
 same expression. Tiens ! Tiens ! Tiens ! Ma 
 mouchoir, Cerisette, que j'e pleure" 
 
 Cerisette had joined the group. She immediately 
 handed a handkerchief to the large lady, who forth- 
 with dissolved into tears. Reginald was so agitated 
 that he could scarcely speak. Crampton, upon 
 whose duller brain the meaning of it all had sud- 
 denly dawned, tried by brute strength to drag his 
 master away. He was quite powerless. 
 
 " I will not go," the actor said, hoarsely. " I 
 will not go." 
 
 " No, no, do not go," cried the large lady ex- 
 citedly, " I must look at you again. Ah, De'jazet, 
 mon pauvre bon homme ! Te voila encore. Tu ne 
 pour rats pas rester mort. Sapristi /" 
 
 Again she wept, and Reginald watched her, a 
 wild hope rising in his breast. He waited until her 
 sobs had ceased. t! 
 
 " You knew D6jazet ?" he said. "And you re- 
 member him pleasantly in spite of what he did ?" 
 
 " I knew him. I loved him. If he had remained 
 with me, he would have been alive to-day, and I 
 would have been true to him. Then there would 
 have been no martyred Genevieve. The martyred 
 Genevieve ! What a martyr ! Ha ! ha ! ha !"
 
 The Siren of Leicester Square 165 
 
 " I will come with you," said Reginald excitedly, 
 " and you shall tell me all about it." 
 
 The woman looked at him suspiciously, and then 
 glanced at Crampton in the background, and at 
 Cerisette, who had just waved a farewell and de- 
 parted in quest of livelier scenes, with a thorough 
 French horror of the tearful. 
 
 " This is no investigation ?" she asked. " I have 
 had enough of that sort of thing. You are in 
 earnest, and are interested in De" jazet's story ?" 
 
 " I am in earnest, before heaven," replied the 
 actor solemnly. "And I will pay you well for 
 your trouble." 
 
 " They have him at Tussaud's my poor D6jazet," 
 she whined. " And I would willingly go to him 
 there, if I could. But, Monsieur Monsieur is 
 Djazet. The same eyes, the same chin, the same 
 hair, the same expression. C'est fyatant" 
 
 " For heaven's sake," said Crampton, coming 
 quickly forward, " I implore you, Mr. Rellerick, to 
 leave this woman. Think of your reputation. 
 What would London say if it saw a man like you 
 parading Leicester Square with a creature like 
 this ? Think of the danger of what you are doing. 
 Think of the scandal. What would Miss Halstead 
 say ? For her sake come home with me." 
 
 " For her sake," cried Reginald contemptuously. 
 " For my own sake, I will clear De"jazet if I can, 
 and this woman will help me, I am sure. At pres- 
 ent, Crampton, I am the yellow murderer you can 
 see for one-and-sixpence in the Marylebone Road. 
 I cannot rest under the charge. The mob may
 
 166 His Own Image 
 
 always believe that he is an atrocity, but if I can 
 think otherwise, I may once again be happy. 
 Write and tell Felicia that you left me in the com- 
 pany of what is your name, Madame?" turning 
 to the woman. 
 
 " They call me La Chinoise," she said. 
 
 "Tell her that you left me in the company of La 
 Chinoise. She will marry me still. You couldn't 
 induce her to do anything else. I am not afraid, 
 Crampton. At first I thought that Felicia wanted 
 fame. She has told me herself that she will sacri- 
 fice everything for me. Ha ! ha ! ha ! The situa- 
 tion is clearing itself. Bon jour, Crampton. A 
 demain. Wait till you see me in the morning. 
 And now, La Chinoise, we will get into a cab, and 
 drive to your mansion in Mayfair. Not Mayfair ? 
 Well, Leicester Square. It is all the same to me, 
 and it is equally London. Hey, cabby, go as fast 
 as you can. There is no time to be lost."
 
 Chapter XI 
 
 LA CHINOISE CONFESSES 
 
 REGINALD'S strange exaltation a condition that 
 to the pompous ego-maniac was a comparatively 
 novel one wore off before he reached LaChinoise's 
 apartment in one of the sordid thoroughfares that 
 open into Leicester Square. As he sat beside her, 
 in the swiftly moving cab, he shut his eyes, and tried 
 to forget the odious events that linked Felicia Hal- 
 stead with the dead Djazet in his memory. The 
 task was an impossible one. His jangled brain 
 could not shut out the picture of the tallowy, yel- 
 low model that stood erect in the Marylebone Road, 
 staring with its cold glass eyes, and inert as to the 
 smooth and nailless hands. The torrent of his 
 faith was rushing him into a keen association with 
 Dejazet. His persistent attention to the hateful 
 model, far from having opened to him the joyous 
 jewelled gates of the humorous, had simply en- 
 tangled him more deeply. And now and now 
 he sat in a whirling hansom in juxtaposition with a 
 woman whom Dejazet had loved. He smiled at 
 Crampton's serene advice to forget it all. Forget 
 it all ! Every move that he made on the chess- 
 board of his career brought him into Dejazet's cir- 
 
 [167]
 
 i68 His Own Image 
 
 cle more surely. He cursed the Marylebone Road, 
 and he cursed the girl whose departure from Lon- 
 don had induced him into that bewildering resort. 
 
 La Chinoise was not talkative. Her frivolous, 
 mendacious, Parisian nature had been genuinely 
 moved by her encounter with Rellerick. She sat 
 still and rested, until her mercenary nature should 
 have recuperated itself, and she could face a situa- 
 tion that might prove profitable. La Chinoise, like 
 most of her class, despised her metier. She had 
 not visited Piccadilly Circus for fun, and she would 
 be a fool for her pains, if she allowed a sickly sen- 
 timentality to interfere with legitimate business. 
 She was a handsome woman, marred by the fatal art 
 of "make-up" over-decorated, over-illuminated, 
 over-dyed, over-dressed, over-padded, over-every- 
 thing. Nature unadorned was to her a myth. 
 
 They alighted at her apartment, and she led the 
 way carelessly to her sanctum sanctorum. Her 
 usual moods were re-asserting themselves, and by 
 the time that Reginald had thrown his dejected 
 personality into a chair her impudent courtesanship 
 was on the surface again, and she was congratula- 
 ting herself upon the accidental resemblance that 
 promised to make her day lucrative. 
 
 He sat there, helplessly oppressed and pensive, 
 and watched her as she removed her gown, and 
 threw over the nudity of her shoulders a peignoir 
 of thick pink silk and lace. Then he saw her shake 
 the masses of her sultry hair into a flowing mass 
 that reached to the waist-line. So had Dejazet sat 
 and looked. He could not help wondering if there
 
 La Chinoise Confesses 169 
 
 was envy in the glassy eyes of the monster in the 
 museum. There might be. He thought of that 
 horrid watch among the waxen criminals. The 
 semi-obscurity of La Chinoise's room angered him. 
 Springing to his feet, he struck a match, and lighted 
 every jet in the dust-clouded chandelier. 
 
 " Monsieur loves the light," said La Chinoise, 
 smiling, as she kicked the boots from her feet, and 
 ran her toes into a pair of pink-lined slippers 
 bounded on the instep by whitest fur. " Moi, 
 aussi'. I am not like you Londoners, who are happy 
 in gloom and darkness. II faut etre gai y car demain 
 nous mourons" she murmured. 
 
 Her smile was most attractive. It was the smile 
 that according to her words had fascinated De- 
 jazet. Strange that he should now be basking in 
 its warmth. The very counterpart of the poor 
 artist whose joys and sorrows and virtues and crimes 
 had ended in wax. 
 
 " Tell me, chdri" said La Chinoise, coming to 
 him, sinking at his feet, and looking up alluringly 
 into his eyes as picturesquely as she was able to do 
 it for her lissome days were over " Tell me if we 
 had not better forget the unfortunate Dejazet. It 
 is painful to me to talk of him. I should much pre- 
 fer not to do so. You recall him to me. Does not 
 that satisfy you ? Let poor Dejazet rest." 
 
 Reginald looked at the woman with a ruddy 
 glow of anger in his eyes. Did she imagine that 
 he, Reginald Rellerick, London's pet actor, feted 
 everywhere, a household word through the United 
 Kingdom, had deliberately elected to visit her in
 
 170 His Own Image 
 
 Leicester Square with any object other than that he 
 had named? The man's ego-mania revived imme- 
 diately, his expression changed, and he gazed at La 
 Chinoise with the supercilious air that he usually 
 vented upon Crampton, and Felicia Halstead, and 
 the other satellites of his daily life. His inability 
 to endure the malaise of being unknown prompted 
 him to identification. He proceeded, in his arrant 
 coxcombry, to " give himself away." 
 
 "You are mistaken, woman," he said imperi- 
 ously, " if you imagine that you are dealing with 
 an inebriated soldier or a Londoner out for the 
 night. I am Reginald Rellerick, the actor. My 
 name is undoubtedly familiar to you. I told you 
 why I came. I promised you that I would pay 
 you well. Tell me what you know of Dejazet, and 
 let us finish this miserable evening. My resem- 
 blance to the man you loved has startled me as 
 profoundly as it has astonished you. The model 
 of Tussaud's has overwhelmed me, until I hardly 
 know whether I am here with you, or there with 
 him. They have called him a murderer. You 
 insinuated that Genevieve was no martyr. Ex- 
 plain. Explain." 
 
 She stared at him, blankly amazed, forgetting her 
 coquetries the tricks of her hideous trade. Her 
 round face rested on her elbows, and the lace of 
 her sleeves fell back, revealing a white and rounded 
 arm that an artist would scarcely have passed un. 
 noticed. This was the rich actor of whom she had 
 heard whom indeed she had seen, although her 
 days in London had been very few. Yes, she re-
 
 La Chinoise Confesses 171 
 
 membered that, in the disguise of the role she had 
 seen him play, some vague lost souvenir of Dejazet 
 had occurred to her. 
 
 She continued to look at him. He was nervous, 
 unstrung, irresponsible. This was a richer prize 
 than she had imagined. Cerisette had brought her 
 luck. Cerisette should be her nocturnal partner 
 henceforth. She had the deep-rooted superstitions 
 of the luckless sisterhood. 
 
 "What shall I tell you?" she asked quickly. 
 " What is it that you wish to know ?" 
 
 " Tell me," he said pantingly, " that this man 
 whose features I wear, and whose outward sem- 
 blance I can never shake off, was not the vulgar, 
 purposeless criminal that he has been painted. 
 Tell me that he did not shed the blood of Gen- 
 evieve Delaunay out of sheer brutality. Let me 
 understand him, so that when I see his waxen im- 
 age again, I may know the whole truth." 
 
 La Chinoise was awe-struck. The muddy depths 
 of her character were stirred. This man was inter- 
 esting her, in spite of herself. The larder was 
 empty ; she was hungry, thirsty, and tired, in her 
 silks and laces, but this actor, with his high-falutin" 
 sentences was impressing her. 
 
 "Listen," she said, " and perhaps you will under- 
 stand. Dejazet and Genevieve Delaunay met in 
 the Quartier Latin. They were both young. He 
 was an artist fighting his way to fame. She was 
 well, I don't know what she was. The story of her 
 illustrious name may be true, but I have my sus-
 
 172 His Own Image 
 
 picions of Genevieve Delaunay. I never believed 
 that she was true to him." 
 
 " And you told him that ?" asked Reginald, 
 eagerly. 
 
 " Let me continue. Their manage endured for 
 a long time. They were popular in the Quartier. 
 Everybody liked them, and they kept open house. 
 His name at last became known. There was a rage 
 for Dejazet pictures. She was proud of him, jeal- 
 ous of him, and imperious with him. I don't 
 believe that he had ever loved her very keenly. 
 Many people told me that he had tried to break 
 with her, but had desisted, fearing a scandal. It 
 was in one of his weariest moments that he met 
 me. I would have gone through blood and fire for 
 him, for I grew to love him as I have never loved 
 anyone. He installed me in a little house in Passy, 
 and there he used to see me, guarding his secret as 
 carefully from Genevieve Delaunay as though she 
 had been his legitimate wife. Still, he lived for his 
 art. He was a maniac on the subject of his art. 
 His ambition was to be internatiorally famous to 
 sell his pictures in England and America " 
 
 "Goon," cried Reginald, as she paused, " and 
 come to the point. Never mind about art." 
 
 " I must," she said, "it is the whole point of the 
 story. He had grown, as I said, to be quite indif- 
 ferent to Genevieve Delaunay. His intercourse 
 with me fanned that indifference into hatred. He 
 used to tell me that to meet her day after day, and 
 live in her society week after week, was utterly re- 
 pulsive to him. If it had not been for me he could
 
 La Chinoise Confesses 173 
 
 not have endured it. I helped him, he said, to find 
 some consolation in living. He was a rather mel- 
 ancholy, morose sort of man." 
 
 La Chinoise stopped again and looked at Regi- 
 nald's face. It was so much like that of the dead 
 Dejazet that for the moment she seemed to be 
 telling his story to himself. 
 
 " Well," she resumed, " you know something of 
 what followed. Genevieve's relatives, who had been 
 hunting for her, discovered her whereabouts. You 
 read the story of their indignation, and remember 
 that a duel was arranged between D jazet and Gene- 
 vieve's brother. If he won, Genevieve was to go 
 back to her relatives near Lyons. If he lost, he 
 would marry her. He lost. That day he came to 
 me. ' Claire,' he said I was Claire in those days, 
 for my nickname had not been born ' I have lost 
 everything. I must marry this girl, and you and I 
 must end our relations. I will try and do my duty. 
 Perhaps I have been a brute. I hate her now, but, 
 possibly, when she is my wife, bearing my name, I 
 may become, at any rate, more reconciled to my 
 life.' " 
 
 La Chinoise wiped a tear from her eye, but she 
 went on : " You cannot realize what all this meant 
 to me. Never for one moment had I contemplated 
 the possibility of his losing that duel. The very 
 idea that Dejazet couM marry Genevieve Delaunay 
 was, to me, too utterly preposterous to even worry 
 about. In fact, it had not caused me a moment's 
 trouble. For a time, after he had convinced me 
 that marriage was absolutely inevitable, I was
 
 His Own Image 
 
 dazed and dumbfounded. Then I registered a vow 
 that this marriage should never take place, if I 
 could prevent it. I determined to watch Gene- 
 vieve. She was away from home a great deal, and 
 I hoped to discover that she had other lovers, and 
 thus publish her infamy to her own relatives. 
 Alas ! What I discovered was worse, and it led 
 to the tragedy." 
 
 Reginald was all a-fever with excitement. He 
 almost fell upon the words as they escaped from 
 the lips of La Chinoise. 
 
 " As I told you," she said, " De"jazet lived for his 
 art. Love was a secondary consideration. It was a 
 pastime. Art swallowed up all the serious episodes 
 of his years. He had been annoyed for a long 
 time by the sudden appearance of certain pictures 
 in the market labelled ' Suire.' The pictures were 
 much praised, and their technique strongly re- 
 sembled that of Dejazet himself. He was unable 
 to discover the identity of ' Suire,' who seemed to 
 be a myth. He was invariably told that an intro- 
 duction would be forthcoming, but difficulties 
 always ensued. Poor Dejazet ! He was horribly 
 jealous of the new pictures. They were spoken of 
 in the same way as his own. Soon people began 
 to talk of the D6 jazet-Suire school of art. It was a 
 bitter blow to him. He hated Suire without know- 
 ing him in the least. And then came my fatal 
 work. As I told you, I determined to watch 
 Genevieve Delaunay. I did so, and discovered 
 that her absence from home was easily accounted 
 for. She had a studio of her own. She was an
 
 L,a Chinoise Confesses 175 
 
 artist herself. She was the redoubtable Suire. If 
 I had only known enough to keep this knowledge 
 to myself ! But I didn't. I was blinded by hatred, 
 and a desire to prevent the marriage of Dejazet 
 and Genevieve. I went straight to him, and told 
 him that the precious girl, who was to be his wife, 
 was his deadly rival in art, the unknown Suire." 
 
 Reginald gazed at the woman in wonder. A vast 
 and surging sympathy for Dejazet took possession 
 of him. Joy illumined his face, as he thought of 
 the yellow, nailless thing in the Marylebone Road, 
 and its complete justification. Here was a man, 
 wrapped up in his art, carving a name for himself 
 in the marble of posterity, living for the multitude 
 only suddenly confronted with the torture of 
 rivalry. Before he heard any further, he was ready 
 to pinnacle Dejazet, for was he not Reginald 
 could not finish his thought. His face grew gray 
 in the brilliantly lighted room ; the joy left his 
 eyes ; he saw the pink-clad courtesan still kneeling 
 in confession before him. The hideous parallel 
 that streaked him side by side with Dejazet, be- 
 came blackly emphatic. He placed his hands be- 
 fore his eyes, and murmured, " I must not justify 
 him. I dare not justify him. I will hear no more. 
 Let me go." 
 
 He arose, and staggered towards the door. 
 From his pocket he took his purse, and emptied 
 twenty shining sovereigns into a vase on La Chi- 
 noise's table. The woman heard the chink of the 
 falling money. It satisfied the mercenary direc- 
 tion of her character, but this actor had interested
 
 176 His Own Image 
 
 her so strongly, that she made an effort to detain 
 him longer. 
 
 " I will finish," she cried, " I must finish. Listen 
 for a few minutes more." 
 
 She forced him back to his seat, and fell again 
 at his knees, the pink billows of her silken skirt 
 enveloping him. 
 
 " Dejazet was insane when he heard that his rival 
 was his own mistress," she continued, as calmly as 
 she could. " He had hated her before. Now his 
 hatred took the form of mania. ' She is robbing 
 me of everything,' he said to me, ' and yet I am 
 bound to marry her.' He taxed the girl with her 
 perfidy. Her excuses may seem natural to you, 
 but to him and to me they were forced and exag- 
 gerated. She told him that she had no love for art 
 itself ; and no original ideas whatsoever. She had 
 lived with him for years, and she had studied him 
 carefully. It had occurred to her, she said, that 
 the time might come when his resources would end. 
 He had worked for so long that fatigue might set 
 in at any time. Moreover, she wished to see him 
 rich, and in a position to retire, if he cared to do 
 so. So she determined to work herself, and save 
 her money for him. She copied his style, and en- 
 croached upon his ideas. The success that came 
 to her was welcome to her for his sake only. She 
 cared nothing for what the critics said. In fact, she 
 never bothered herself about their words. And as 
 a proof of all this, she brought her savings to him 
 thousands of francs and threw them into his 
 lap. She gave them to him freely, she said, and
 
 La Chinoise Confesses 177 
 
 only wished that there were more. And more 
 there should be, for she would work, and work for 
 his sake." 
 
 A groan from Reginald frightened La Chinoise. 
 She poured some brandy from a decanter, and held 
 it to his lips. 
 
 " He was intensely exasperated," she said. " Of 
 course he declined to believe her words. They 
 were plausible, but nothing more. I know of no 
 woman on this earth who could snap her fingers at 
 fame, and say to any one man, ' I prefer you.' 
 Such a creature doesn't exist. She would be a 
 curiosity if she did. I told him that. Was I not 
 right ?" 
 
 The actor swallowed the brandy, and gasped : 
 " You were right you were right," he shouted. 
 " Of course you were right. The woman who pro- 
 fesses to look upon success as a secondary consid- 
 eration, is a liar and a perjurer. Yes, you were 
 right. And he believed you did he not ?" 
 
 "He believed me," said La Chinoise. "He 
 loved me as much as he hated her. He used to 
 tell me that if I had been in her place originally it 
 would have been different, for his love would never 
 have changed. But he was not a bad man. Even 
 after this terrible discovery a discovery that nearly 
 unhinged his reason, he thought of me, and of my 
 empty life. He would have broken his promise for 
 my sake, and have positively declined to tie him- 
 self for life to Genevieve Delaunay, had it not been 
 for her relatives. They forced him literally at the
 
 178 His Own Image 
 
 point of the sword to the marriage ceremony, and 
 and as you know, it took place." 
 
 " Yes," he muttered, "I know. It took place." 
 " The rest," she said, breaking into sobs, " it is 
 not necessary to dwell upon. Imagine the poor 
 fellow alone with the woman he hated alone with 
 her, as his wife, for the first time. To a man of his 
 artistic temperament what must it have meant ? 
 There she was, linked to him until death should 
 intervene. She had ruined his life in every way, 
 and the married career was calmly to begin. I 
 have not much imagination," inserted La Chinoise, 
 drying her eyes with a tiny lace handkerchief, " but 
 I can see that wedding-night before me the bride 
 stupidly happy in her senseless, colourless, merciless 
 way ; the bridegroom writhing in agony at a fate 
 that compelled him to be at the beck and call of 
 the creature he detested, day after day, week after 
 week, year after year. I can understand it all 
 the rebellion of his proud, artistic nature, the brave 
 determination to remove so fatal an obstacle, the 
 murder " 
 
 La Chinoise sank back pale and shuddering. 
 Her callous nature had its sensitive spots, and her 
 sympathy for the criminal she had loved overcame 
 her. Reginald looked at her with a curious sensa- 
 tion of gratitude and of admiration, apparent even 
 in his eyes. She was a handsome woman and an 
 intelligent woman. She had never thrust herself 
 in the path of any man. Her calling was degrad- 
 ing, humiliating, beyond the pale of even Christian 
 charity, but she was a woman who understood the
 
 La Chinoise Confesses 179 
 
 tortures of the artist confronted with ingratitude 
 and the terrors of rivalry. 
 
 She could understand and condone the fate of 
 Dejazet. And he thought again of the silent, star- 
 ing figure in the Tussaud exhibition, at which the 
 ribald mob gazed all day, and of which the cata- 
 logues had told cruel lies in plausible prose. 
 
 " You understood him," murmured Reginald, 
 bending forward to rouse her from the semi-swoon 
 into which she had fallen, " you understood him so 
 well. You have the artist's soul. You realize the 
 agony of interrupted glory the pain of knowing 
 that an interloper is wresting your laurels away 
 that all your efforts will count for nothing that 
 the fickle public will tire of you and ring their 
 praises in the ears of your successor. That was 
 what he suffered, and what " 
 
 " You suffer ?" she asked, softly. 
 
 He bowed his head. She bent down and kissed 
 it softly. 
 
 " De" jazet !" she said. " My own De*jazet once 
 more !" 
 
 The name was uttered and it caused him no 
 spasm of anguish. She had applied it to him, and 
 he wondered why the sound was so soothing and 
 so gracious. 
 
 " I will call you De"jazet," she said, " and my 
 better days will return to me, with the sun and the 
 happiness of Paris, instead of the clouds and the 
 misery of London. And you will call me Claire. 
 He used to call me Claire. La Chinoise is my
 
 180 His Own Image 
 
 nickname in Leicester Square, and I thought I 
 should wear it for ever. Will you call me Claire ?" 
 And the ego-maniac, subdued as he had never 
 been before, intimidated, bewildered, hopeful, mur- 
 mured, " Claire."
 
 Chapter XII 
 
 JUSTIFYING CRIME. 
 
 THERE was little sleep for the mouldy Crampton 
 after he had left Reginald Rellerick in the toils of 
 La Chinoise. He returned to the actor's apart- 
 ment, and went conventionally to bed, but he was 
 apprehensive and ill at ease. Vivid pictures of a 
 gross and disastrous scandal arose in his perplexed 
 imagination. But the victim in the case was always 
 Felicia Halstead never Reginald Rellerick. He 
 saw the little goddess of his middle-age rudely con- 
 fronted with the horror of her idol's iniquity, and 
 all his hopes were centred in a wild idea of helping 
 her over the morass that was opening before her. 
 
 He was at his desk early, with his paste-pot and 
 scissors. There was always something to scrap- 
 book clippings from sleepy, out-of-town papers 
 that arrived weeks later. The press comments 
 upon Rellerick and his doings were surprisingly 
 numerous. No wonder that there are more ego- 
 maniacs in the footlight calling than in any other 
 walk of life. Men, better, worthier and honester 
 in every way than the illuminated exponents of 
 mimic passions, may live and die " unparagraphed " 
 and unknown. Those who really love, and hate, 
 
 [181]
 
 182 His Own Image 
 
 and sin, and die, may escape unsmirched by printer's 
 ink. It is for the people who pretend to do it all 
 for so much per week, that the paragrapher exists 
 in all his strength. The actor's road, leading to the 
 goal known as " Household Words," is a swift and 
 easy one. He is pushed toward it by the willing 
 hand of the press. For the lawyer, the doctor, the 
 clergyman, and the scholar it is harder. They are 
 real and desperate, and " too much advertisement " 
 would be bad for their souls. It is given gratui- 
 tously to the man of the stage, and in return he 
 barks at the donor and envelopes himself in his own 
 ego-mania. 
 
 Reginald Rellerick joined Crampton at noon, just 
 as the feverish forebodings of the early morning 
 hours were returning to the secretary. The actor 
 was quieter than Crampton had seen him since the 
 beginning of the Tussaud affair. His eyes were 
 calmer and brighter. These symptoms gave the 
 secretary no satisfaction. They were abnormal, 
 and had been scandalously brought about. 
 
 The actor took his usual long chair, and waited 
 for Crampton to speak. He waited in vain, and 
 irritated by the silence there is nothing more ex- 
 asperating on earth he took the initiative as amia- 
 bly as possible. 
 
 "You will be glad to know," he said and there 
 was an undercurrent of satire in his tones " that 
 my evening was absolutely successful. I have 
 heard Dejazet's justification. I told you that I be- 
 lieved there was much to be condoned. I am now 
 satisfied that my double " he emphasized the word
 
 Justifying Crime 183 
 
 with ferocity " was less detestable than the world 
 supposed." 
 
 Crampton shuffled uneasily. " In other words," 
 he stammered, " you can excuse the man who mur- 
 dered the girl that trusted him." 
 
 "There were extenuating circumstances," the 
 actor murmured. 
 
 " Society does not admit of extenuating circum- 
 stances," retorted the secretary indignantly, shed- 
 ding his coat of mould, and posing before his aston- 
 ished master in the new light of accuser. " Society 
 takes no heed of such excuses. The lunatic asy- 
 lums are filled with the people who make them. 
 Be careful, Mr. Rellerick. You have gone far 
 very far. I should advise you to stop. The papers 
 are beginning to scent something unusual. Here 
 is a paragraph that I clipped this morning from the 
 Weekly Squib. Read it." 
 
 He handed a square cutting to the actor who 
 read as follows : " Strange forces seem to be at 
 work in the complicated personality of the actor, 
 Reginald Rellerick. There are those who say that 
 his recent failure in Pinerville's new play has seri- 
 ously affected his mind. Although he announced 
 his intention of taking a long-needed rest at the 
 summer-resorts that he has always patronized, he is 
 known to be in London. Mr. Rellerick has been 
 seen at Madame Tussaud's wax-work exhibition in 
 the Marylebone Road, eagerly studying the newly 
 added model of Dejazet, the notorious criminal, re- 
 cently guillotined in Paris. The figure is a speak- 
 ing likeness of Rellerick, and they say that it has
 
 184 His Own Image 
 
 annoyed him considerably. We are suspicious of 
 the theatrical profession. We are unwilling to 
 cater to the rage for advertisement that afflicts the 
 actor and actress. This paper tries to steer away 
 from that sort of thing. In the present case, how- 
 ever, there is genuine apprehension for Mr. Rel- 
 lerick's condition. We cannot afford to lose him 
 yet." 
 
 " Dolts !" exclaimed Reginald, tearing the paper 
 into atoms. " Dolts ! What shall I do about it, 
 Crampton ? Shall I write one of my characteristic 
 letters, full of sarcasm, and sparkle a letter that 
 will be read and commented upon everywhere ? 
 Or shall I confer with the Tussaud management 
 with a view to having the figure removed from the 
 Chamber of Horrors?" 
 
 Crampton turned and regarded him pitilessly. 
 " I advise you," he said slowly, " to oust yourself 
 from the web that is closing around you. It is due 
 to your own irrevocable selfishness. Try and forget 
 yourself and these matters entirely. This D6jazet 
 incident has troubled you. Let it rest. Your 
 efforts to justify the crime of a brute who resem- 
 bles you merely because he resembles you is out- 
 rageous. My counsel to you is to forget Tussaud's, 
 to leave London, to break off your engagement 
 with Miss Halstead, and to start upon your next 
 season like a man ready for success, if success is 
 possible ; prepared for failure, if failure must come." 
 
 Reginald winced at this unusual tone, but now, 
 convinced that Crampton was in league against him 
 with the rest of the world, he resolved to overlook
 
 Justifying Crime 185 
 
 their relative positions as master and servant, and 
 see which way the wind was blowing. 
 
 " That is your advice," he said, sneeringly. " And 
 pray what has Miss Halstead to do with the case ? 
 Why should I relinquish the woman I I love, 
 merely because a weekly scandal-monger suggests 
 that Madame Tussaud's exhibition has affected my 
 reason?" 
 
 The frankness of the question perplexed the 
 hopeless secretary. Crampton, however, decided 
 that to voice his suspicions would perhaps be to 
 fill the actor's fevered brain with new ideas. He 
 took a radical course. 
 
 " You do not love Miss Halstead," he said. 
 " Marriage with her would be an evil thing for both 
 of you. The engagement must be broken off. 
 Further scandal must be stopped. There is no 
 middle course." 
 
 " And if I do not marry Felicia Halstead " the 
 actor made a frantic effort to be cool as he asked 
 the question " what will she do ? She loves me. 
 It is the object of her life to be my wife. Sup- 
 pose I break off our engagement. What will 
 happen ?" 
 
 His pulses beat wildly. He hoped against hope 
 that this quaint Oxonian Master of Arts, might 
 also be master of the non-collegiate art of dispos- 
 ing of his detested rival without the infamy of the 
 wedding. It seemed ages before Crampton an- 
 swered. It was in reality one second. 
 
 " She will try to establish herself as an actress in 
 London. She will accept the offers that she has
 
 i86 His Own Image 
 
 had. Yes, she has had them. But the difficul- 
 ties that beset a woman alone and unprotected 
 are innumerable. She will succeed for a season, 
 and then then you will have the coast to your- 
 self." 
 
 Poor Felicia ! As he uttered this callous pro- 
 phecy this cruelty for the sake of kindness 
 Crampton saw her once more as she sat in the cab 
 beside him, driving through the gray and early 
 London to an unspeakable destiny. He glared 
 mercilessly at the ego-maniac. 
 
 " You are too hopeful, Crampton," Reginald 
 said quietly, " too wickedly hopeful, I might add. 
 I should like to ask you your reasons for your evi- 
 dent belief that I am jealous of Miss Halstead's 
 professional prestige. You are quite mistaken.- I 
 am not jealous. Her position on the stage to-day, 
 she owes entirely to me. Ask her, and she will tell 
 you so herself. To further advance her interests, 
 I am about to marry her. I shall not abandon my 
 plans. Perhaps, under the circumstances, it would 
 be advisable for you to seek another position, 
 Crampton. I am not accustomed to such words as 
 you have spoken. You are ungrateful. You for- 
 get that you came to me at a time when you were 
 making a niggardly pittance as tutor to an imbecile 
 boy. You can go. In fact I shall consider that 
 you are now free." 
 
 "You will consider nothing of the sort," replied 
 Crampton, quite as calmly as his master had 
 spoken, but with a light in his eyes that Reginald 
 had never seen there before. " If I go, I will have
 
 Justifying Crime 187 
 
 your footsteps dogged by those whose work it is to 
 prevent crime. I will tell every newspaper writer 
 in London what I know of this fantastic evil story. 
 It shall point the moral of ego-mania. You will 
 never permit me to go. I shall stay, and watch 
 you, in order that no harm may come to her. 
 Take my advice, and let a sleeping dog lie. Do 
 as I say begin your next season as you began 
 your last. Hope for the best. London does not 
 forget its favourites easily. You have failed once. 
 It will be to the interest of this loyal city to see 
 that you do not fail again." 
 
 If he could only have yielded to the wisdom of 
 these words ! Rellerick was conscious of the 
 yearning to be normal and self-oblivious. But ego- 
 mania has roots that entwine themselves round the 
 very entrails of the victim. Try as he would, he 
 could see nothing but the insistently magnified 
 image of himself. He had failed, and she had 
 caused his failure. He could take no risks. He 
 must marry her and remove her from his path. 
 He would buy her a big house, and surround her 
 by servants. She should have children to busy 
 herself with anything that would leave him free 
 for a continuance of the adulation of the London 
 mob, for which his soul hungered. Ego-mania is a 
 gross physical appetite that grows by what it feeds 
 upon. Reginald had fed well, and London had 
 plied him with the food that he must have. He 
 was no longer able to do without it. He thought 
 voluntarily of Felicia and then involuntarily, of 
 the yellow image in the Marylebone Road. That
 
 i88 His Own Image 
 
 reminded him ; he had an appointment that after- 
 noon with La Chinoise. They were to go together 
 to Madame Tussaud's, and look upon the waxen 
 presentment of Dejazet. He quite forgot Cramp- 
 ton, who sat there watching him like a Nemesis. 
 Recalling his utterances, Reginald came to the 
 conclusion that the man was a trifle upset by his 
 experience on the preceding night. Possibly, also, 
 he was awed at the mere notion of leaving the 
 actor's service. Reginald could understand this. 
 A terrible situation it must be for any man, accus- 
 tomed to minister day by day to his choice person- 
 ality, to suddenly find himself cut away from it. 
 Reginald felt quite sorry for Crampton. 
 
 "Your threats are silly, my man," he said. ' I 
 had really no intention of giving you your congif. 
 Stay and watch me as you say. But for the future, 
 we will drop all allusions to the unfortunate image 
 at Madame Tussaud's, and also to my affianced 
 wife, Felicia Halstead. I have been foolish enough 
 to discuss these matters with you, and you have 
 rewarded me by insolence and insult. I wish to 
 see no more newspaper clippings referring to these 
 events. I will take care of them later on. There 
 are such things as libel laws in England, I am 
 thankful to say." 
 
 The secretary, temporarily awed by Reginald's 
 grandiloquent manner, into the subjection that was 
 almost second nature to him, bowed submissively. 
 
 " One thing I would like to ask," he said. " It 
 is this : Did the woman with whom I left you last
 
 Justifying Crime 189 
 
 night really know anything of the mur of the 
 artist who has interested you so much?" 
 
 He waited anxiously. Reginald gave him a malig- 
 nant look, as he answered, " We will discuss the 
 subject no further. Please confine yourself liter- 
 ally to your duties as secretary. As a confiden- 
 tial adviser I find that you are a failure, Crampton. 
 You might write a few lines to Miss Halstead 
 from me. Say that I am very busy and as happy 
 as it is possible for me to be during her absence. 
 Add that I am hungering for her return, and can 
 scarcely wait the day that brings her back to Lon- 
 don. I will sign the letter when I return." 
 
 This parting shot completely satisfied him. He 
 felt more like himself, and less like De" jazet, than he 
 had done for days. He laughed to himself as he 
 heard Crampton's melancholy acquiescence. After 
 all, Crampton was bound to obey him. He might 
 reason, and argue, and advise, and utter futile 
 threats, but he was a paid satellite, doing the duti- 
 ful for so much per week. Reginald was reduced 
 to further good humor by the knowledge that the 
 morose Oxonian was undoubtedly interested in 
 Felicia Halstead. He chuckled at the mere no- 
 tion. 
 
 " If I could only utter a fond ' Bless you, my 
 children,' " he thought, " and pack them off to a 
 desert island ; it would be the best thing in the 
 world that could happen to me. If Felicia would 
 only take a fancy to Crampton ! How perverse 
 women are. I suppose that no force on earth 
 nothing electrical, mechanical, or psychological
 
 190 His Own Image 
 
 would ever induce Felicia Halstead to see happi- 
 ness in a career as Mrs. Crampton. They talk of 
 hypnotism. I don't believe that Charcot himself 
 could move that woman's affections from me." 
 
 He sighed. His ego-mania received no balm 
 from the knowledge that poor Felicia loved him so 
 devotedly. It was the obstacle in his path. He 
 could not quite dismiss from his mind the notion 
 that the union of Felicia and Crampton would be 
 the complete simplification of all his difficulties. 
 
 He met La Chinoise in front of the Exhibition 
 building in the Marylebone Road. The courtesan 
 had risen to the occasion, and had garbed herself 
 in a manner unlikely to offend the fastidious notions 
 of the famous actor. The colour on her cheek was 
 less flamboyant, and the carmine varnish that usu- 
 ally cracked upon her lips was omitted. She wore 
 something black, elegantly designed ; and a chic 
 little hat, of Parisian ingenuity, appealed pleasantly 
 and ungaudily. 
 
 " Mon petit Dtjazet" she said, as she saw him 
 approach, and ran girlishly to meet him with out- 
 stretched hands. 
 
 Reginald smiled upon her almost sunnily. She 
 was assuredly a comely woman, but slightly tainted 
 by the life that she led. He bought the admission 
 tickets for the museum as cheerfully as though he 
 were a light-hearted Lubin out for a half-holiday 
 with his Dulcinea. Proximity to this woman was 
 very pleasant. He felt a keen appreciation of 
 Dejazet's artistic selection. They entered the 
 building, and went at once to the Chamber of Hor-
 
 Justifying Crime 191 
 
 rors. The doleful Hungarian band was twanging 
 out its dirge-like popularities in the other halls. 
 The usual mob of sight-seers was present sight- 
 seers from Manchester, sight-seers from Liverpool, 
 sight-seers from Birmingham. The absence of 
 Londoners was amazing. 
 
 The actor's spirits sank again as La Chinoise 
 steered him through the ranks of staring, tallowy 
 dolls plastic monuments of human weakness, 
 there to teach no lesson, but merely to cater to a 
 sensational curiosity. He shivered as he heard her 
 comments upon the horrors. They were all the 
 same to her the Lambeth poisoner, and the youth 
 that fired at Her Majesty in Constitution Hill ; the 
 Reading baby-farmer, and the Blackheath burglar ; 
 Henry Wainwright, and James Greenacre ; Maria 
 Manning, and Fouquier-Tinville. 
 
 "Des miserable tons," she said, but her voice 
 was frivolously light and she was enjoying it all. 
 The actor could not understand it. He could not 
 comprehend the ease with which this woman flitted 
 from horror to horror with her catalogue open, and 
 her curiosity piqued. The dread feeling that had 
 overwhelmed him at his first visit was with him 
 again. He could scarcely breathe in the close, 
 contaminated air. To him, the models standing 
 dimly in the semi-obscurity, were tangible ghosts. 
 He inhaled the odour of the frowsy stuffs they wore. 
 He shrank from their glassy eyes. He shuddered 
 as he saw their yellow, smooth and polished fingers, 
 nailless and menacing. His vitality was lowered, 
 and the mockery of it all overcame him,
 
 192 His O\vn Image 
 
 " Let us go, Claire," he said, " I cannot stand it. 
 Let us go." 
 
 She took his arm, and led him almost by force 
 to the pedestal upon which Dejazet stood. The 
 figure was still the centre of attraction. It was 
 new enough to capture the attention of the crowd. 
 Reginald stood among the people, and listened to 
 their comments. An ancient clergyman, with white 
 hair, had speared the opportunity to read a lesson 
 on the sinfulness of illicit love, to the gaping 
 youths. 
 
 " Behold," he said, " the end of it all. This man, 
 with a famous career in his very grasp, was brought 
 to ruin by his own untrammelled desires. Had he 
 married Mademoiselle Delaunay in the first instance, 
 and settled down like a Christian to the only asso- 
 ciation in which there is safety, the world might 
 now have been ringing with his praises. Look at 
 him as he stands there, a horrid example of the 
 degradation of those that fail to conform with the 
 laws that hold society together." 
 
 The youths continued to gape at Dejazet, but 
 they heard the words of the old minister, and they 
 were perhaps affected. Reginald laid one of his 
 moist and tremulous hands upon the old man's 
 shoulder. 
 
 " Suppose," he said, " that it was this desire to 
 keep the world ringing with his praises that 
 prompted Dejazet to kill Genevieve Delaunay. 
 Suppose that she was not the innocent victim that 
 the world presumes her to be that she was ready, 
 metaphorically, to cut his throat and rear her own
 
 Justifying Crime 193 
 
 fame upon the spot where his had stood ? What 
 then ? Is not that a justification?" 
 
 " There is no justification," replied the old clergy- 
 man, glancing in astonishment at the eager face 
 half hidden by the soft felt hat that Reginald al- 
 ways wore when he came to see his double. "'Men 
 the most infamous are fond of fame,' as Churchill 
 said. He that can succeed only without competi- 
 tion is a poor specimen of manhood. But there are 
 no records of any rival in this case of Dejazet. 
 We have heard of nothing but simple unadulterated 
 hatred of an unfortunate, misguided girl." 
 
 " No, there are no records," retorted Reginald, 
 heaving a sigh of relief. "Circumstances, my 
 reverend gentleman, alter cases. You nearly 
 admitted it." 
 
 The crowd had turned curiously towards the 
 speakers. Anything for a little sensation, with 
 London sight-seers. The old clergymen, however, 
 with a look of distrust at Reginald and his compan- 
 ion, moved quietly away. 
 
 " I cried yesterday when I saw this waxen 
 Dejazet," said La Chinoise artlessly, " but to-day I 
 can feel no sorrow. It seems to me that I am with 
 him, that I hold him by my side once more. 
 Allans^ mon petit Dtjazet. Let us go, as it seems 
 to grieve you to be here. You are pale and trem- 
 bling. Without doubt it must be terrifying to a 
 man's nerves, to see himself in wax, and hear 
 himself criticised by a mob. Let us go." 
 
 The actor's gaze was fixed imploringly upon his 
 double. He felt that the figure was real and con-
 
 194 His Own Image 
 
 scious, and could see his old love, La Chinoise, as 
 she stood beside him. The wide-open, lashless 
 eyes seemed to be looking directly at him. They 
 hypnotised him. He felt powerless to move. He 
 could have stood there all day, imagining the senti- 
 ments of the yellow monster. He was fascinated 
 in spite of himself. The real woman, however, was 
 asserting herself. She was swaying him, as she had 
 swayed De"jazet. He fancied that he saw a gleam 
 of satisfaction in the eyes of the model, as he 
 finally listened to her voice, and was led away. 
 
 " I hate to hear those comments," he sighed, 
 " now that I understand Dejazet's impulses. He 
 was no more of a criminal than than I am. Is it 
 not so, Claire ?" 
 
 " Man petit Ddjazet," she murmured, affection- 
 ately. It was the stock-in-trade of her remarks. 
 
 Reginald Rellerick installed La Chinoise in a 
 little ornate villa situated in St. John's Wood. And 
 before the week was over her manage was firmly 
 established. She had taken her place among the 
 doubtful occupants of the locality. To her he 
 confided the story of his theatrical contretemps 
 though he was careful to keep from her the fact 
 that he was pledged to marry Felicia. He listened 
 to her bright, Parisian femininities, and a new 
 charm came into his life the charm that a frivol- 
 ous, taquinante woman can always exert over a 
 morbid and sinister nature. 
 
 La Chinoise was extravagant as the woman 
 rescued from the gutter usually is. Reginald 
 catered to her extravagance recklessly. A broug-
 
 Justifying Crime 195 
 
 ham was placed in her stable, and she had carte 
 blanche with the tradespeople of the vicinity. To 
 Crampton he said nothing of this latest move. He 
 started to live what novelists call " a dual life." 
 The man who owns two houses invariably leads a 
 dual life in novels and on the stage. 
 
 LaChinoise understood the situation pretty thor- 
 oughly, and cleverly she endeavoured to illumine 
 the life of her protector. That she had a genuine 
 affection for him was questionable. There are few 
 Felicia Halsteads in this world, willing to pour out 
 their lives at the altar of a worthless egotist. The' 
 illusion, however, was complete. Reginald believed 
 that she loved him, and for the first time in his life 
 he felt an almost altruistic devotion to a woman. 
 
 And so events rushed on. To her, he was 
 D6jazets. To him, she was Dejazet's selection. 
 And the model in Madame Tussaud's was visited 
 frequently. It stood yellow and ugly, on its 
 pedestal, food for the sight-seers, at a cost of one- 
 and-sixpence per sight-seer.
 
 Chapter XIII 
 
 FELICIA RETURNS TO LONDON 
 
 LONDON again ! Felicia Halstead alighted from 
 the incoming train at the Euston' terminus, and 
 looked delightedly around. The dear old brou-ha- 
 ha, the affable tumult, the pungent odour of an 
 intense population, and the fascinating sense of 
 bewilderment that comes from the multitude, ap- 
 pealed to her most agreeably. She shook her 
 skirts free, drank in a long breath of the Euston 
 air as though it were health-giving and pure and 
 remembered that she was alone. She had written 
 to Mrs. Landington and to Reginald to tell them 
 that she intended, at her mother's insistence, to 
 prolong her stay in Liverpool. And then, whimsi- 
 cally, she had rebelled at her exile from what she 
 called penny-dreadfully " life and love." She 
 could endure ex-Londonization no longer. Fam- 
 ily ties were very dear ; her native county pos- 
 sessed all those poetic associations that belong to 
 native counties. London, however, was the only 
 place in the world for her, and after having written 
 that she should be absent for still two weeks, she 
 came suddenly back. Perhaps there was another 
 reason for her unexpected change of purpose, 
 [196]
 
 Felicia Returns to London 197 
 
 Reginald's letters had ceased to reach her. Before 
 they ceased entirely they had been eminently un- 
 satisfactory type-written affairs, engineered by 
 Crampton, and signed crudely by the great actor 
 himself. Felicia felt pained at receiving, in reply 
 to her diary-like effusions to Reginald, cold, me- 
 chanical-looking, Crampton-made notes. The prac- 
 tical ingenuity that has done away with the mag- 
 netic illegibility of handwriting was undoubtedly 
 valuable, thought Felicia. But after a pen-and- 
 ink soul-outpouring it was not agreeable to get a 
 violet-typed note beginning " Yours of yesterday 
 to hand." Felicia's soul rebelled at the labour- 
 saving, poetry-exterminating sentiment of the age. 
 She tried her luck again, and wrote eight crossed 
 pages of frank confessions. Another type-written 
 letter came to her, bearing all the signs of Cramp- 
 ton's work, with nothing of Reginald but the sig- 
 nature. To her plaintive remark about her mother's 
 anxiety to keep her in Lancashire she remem- 
 bered she had worded it, " Ah, there is no love like 
 a mother's. It is the one unselfish passion " the 
 typewriter replied : " Your statements anent moth- 
 er's love duly noted. You are quite right." Poor 
 Crampton had tried to understand her letters. 
 Alas ! he was lacking in sentiment. Where was 
 Reginald ? Surely her letters deserved a fate 
 other than that of being answered by a secretary. 
 
 Felicia's sensation of satisfaction on return to 
 the metropolis, was soon confounded by a feeling 
 of loneliness. It was horrid to get back unwel- 
 comed. She had contemplated surprising Mrs.
 
 198 His Own Image 
 
 Landington and Reginald, but she was inclined to 
 wish that she had been less fantastic. She shivered 
 a little as she saw the crowd pass her by unnoticed. 
 She envied the girls who had travelled with her, as 
 she saw them being embraced vehemently on the 
 platform. She felt like a foreigner in a strange 
 country, and as she hailed a hansom and ordered 
 her luggage deposited upon it, her temporary exul- 
 tation vanished, and she was singularly depressed. 
 
 The long ride to Netting Hill cheered her. She 
 soon discovered, however, that it was not always 
 advisable to " surprise " respectable widows who 
 wear black alpaca dresses, and cameo brooches 
 containing an extinct husband's hair. Mrs. Land- 
 ington was unprepared for Felicia's advent. The 
 actress found her asleep on a sofa in the " best 
 parlour," clad in a rather ribald-looking cotton 
 wrapper too low at the neck, and too short at the 
 edge while by her side was a high tumbler, a bot- 
 tle of " Scotch " that she had invariably saved for 
 " medicinal purposes," and some soda-water ; very 
 little soda-water. 
 
 " Landy," cried Felicia, disgusted, yet amused, 
 " for Heaven's sake, what has happened ? Wake 
 up wake up it is I Felicia." 
 
 The respectable widow with the switchback em- 
 bonpoint^ sat up and endeavoured to collect her 
 respectability. It is hard work for a plump widow 
 to look distinctly proper in a tousled cotton toga, 
 hair dishevelled, and vis-&-vis to what the world 
 insists upon regarding as signs of revelry. Mrs. 
 Landington rubbed her eyes, caught sight of her
 
 Felicia Returns to London 199 
 
 ankles, and of a certain red warmth of flannel pet- 
 ticoats not usually offered to the public, and in- 
 stantly as a matter of course fell back upon the 
 redeeming malady of the London lower classes. 
 
 "Miss 'Alstead," she said, with some asperity, 
 " and without a word of warning. Really, miss, it 
 is the custom for ladies " (she emphasized the last 
 word) " to write to their 'omes, before they arrive. 
 Not that I could ha' done much. I've 'ad the 
 spasms awful. I was awake all night with 'em, and 
 finally, I said to myself, that it was a case for Scotch 
 whiskey. I 'ates it. It regularly goes against me, 
 but 'ealth is 'ealth, and I'm 'appy to say that I feel 
 better." 
 
 Mrs. Landington arose, looking such a ludicrous 
 figure of respectability caught napping, that Felicia 
 was obliged to turn aside her head and laugh. The 
 housekeeper hastily removed various tell-tale signs 
 such as half-a-dozen high tumblers containing 
 the dregs of whiskey and water, plates, cups and 
 dishes. Felicia did not see them. Had she done 
 so, she would have been tempted to believe that 
 the Landington had been " at home " to her 
 friends scions of the nobility of the east end. 
 She straightened out mats, the demoralization of 
 which seemed to suggest that the housekeeper and 
 her guests were not unfamiliar with the " light, 
 fantastic toe." Then her cloak of respectability 
 was ready, and she slipped it on without more 
 ado. 
 
 " I'm glad to see you, my dear," she said, " for 
 I've been as lonely as an 'ermit. 'Aven't seen a
 
 200 His Own Image 
 
 soul since you left. 'Aven't been outside the doors 
 of the 'ouse. If you 'adn't come back, I should 
 have gone melancholy, for by nature, I'm naturally 
 lively, and fond of society." 
 
 Felicia was making herself slowly comfortable, 
 and at the same time giving her housekeeper an 
 opportunity to recover her equilibrium. Mrs. 
 Landington put the whiskey on the sideboard, 
 taking a final sip for the last of her " spasms." 
 Then she asked to be excused, and went upstairs 
 for the alpaca dress, and the cameo brooch, with- 
 out which she was as a fort without defences. 
 
 There were a number of letters awaiting Felicia. 
 She opened them slowly, and glanced at their con- 
 tents. They all referred to her last successful ap- 
 pearance in Pinerville's new play. Verily that 
 success, planted so recently, had ripened with great 
 rapidity. The harvest seemed to be unlimited. 
 Two letters contained offers of engagement in lead- 
 ing stock companies, with comfortable salary and 
 iron-clad contract. She tossed them from her con- 
 temptuously and sighed. The last letter that she 
 opened caused her to think. There comes a time 
 in the life of many a man likewise woman when 
 it is noble and poetic to eschew the mercenary, and 
 scoff sensationally at the sordid inducements of 
 pounds, shillings, and pence. But there also comes 
 a moment when this sort of nobility is inclined to 
 hide its diminished head ; when the man likewise 
 woman feels for the first time that there is 
 nothing particularly poetical in sneering at money, 
 that means independence, emancipation, security
 
 Felicia Returns to London 201 
 
 for one'self and for one's dependents. Felicia 
 allowed the last letter to drop to her feet. Her 
 eyes rounded themselves. She had been offered 
 by the principal theatrical dabbler of London's 
 West End, a stellar engagement to last for three 
 seasons, at a guaranteed salary of one hundred and 
 fifty pounds per week. One hundred and fifty 
 pounds ! A fortune ! 
 
 There was not the slightest change in Felicia's 
 heart. But she had just come from her humble 
 home in Lancashire, where her mother, had it not 
 been for her help, would have been obliged to 
 " make ends meet " on a yearly sum of money that 
 was precisely the same as what this letter offered 
 to her, per week. She made silly little calculations 
 of what she could do with such wealth. She could 
 afford to bestow a dowry upon Floss and Edna when 
 her sisters married, and dowries, while not at all 
 essential to a maiden's welfare are inducements 
 to the right man to come forward. Felicia felt 
 that, in her heart of hearts. One hundred and fifty 
 pounds per week, for perhaps thirty weeks of each 
 of three years ! How they economized at home ! 
 She recalled their teas, with seed-cake, shrimps and 
 lettuce, the luxuries of the impecunious middle 
 classes in England. Floss and Edna " turned " 
 their dresses when the original sides grew shabby, 
 and her mother well, she distinctly remembered 
 her mother's black silk dress, still her " Sunday-go- 
 to-meeting " gown, ten years ago. Felicia grew 
 frightened at her thoughts ; she hid her face in her
 
 2O2 His Own Image 
 
 hands as though to shut them out. They were 
 persistent. 
 
 " Of course, when I'm married to Reginald," she 
 said to herself, " I can do a great deal for them. 
 He is rich, and what he gains, I gain also. I shall 
 be his leading lady, and I shall act, and and but 
 I shall be his wife, and how could I accept a sal- 
 ary ? Then, suppose a time comes when I cannot 
 act. I want children that will bind me more closely 
 to him. If he would only consent to let me accept 
 this engagement, just for the sake of the money, I 
 could come to him a rich woman, and I could have 
 given my family enough to make them comforta- 
 ble. How I should hate it ! How I should loathe 
 it ! How I hope that he will never consent to it ! 
 But it does seem wicked to let such an opportunity 
 slip through one's fingers. If Reginald had an un- 
 lucky season, how welcome my money would be to 
 him, and how glad I should be to know that I had 
 helped him. One hundred and fifty pounds a 
 week. I wonder if Queen Victoria gets as much." 
 
 Felicia, whose knowledge of money was of a very 
 limited nature, drew a mental picture of another 
 Buckingham Palace that she could build for herself 
 and Reginald, with a special wing in it for her 
 mother and the girls. And she imagined them all 
 rising up, and calling her blessed. She thought of 
 Reginald's joy and gratitude. It was a tempting 
 picture. 
 
 Mrs. Landington came back to the room, her 
 seething chest respectably alpaca'd, and the cameo 
 brooch resting comfortably at the top of the fleshy
 
 Felicia Returns to London 203 
 
 toboggan slide. The white ruching fortified her 
 neck, as usual. She was herself again. 
 
 "You must 'ave luncheon," she said busily, "for 
 there's nothing more fatiguing than a railway jour- 
 ney. A nice bit of mutton stew, and a cup o' 
 strong tea will make you as right as a trivet." 
 
 " Not yet, Landy," declared Felicia eagerly. 
 " Sit down. I want to talk to you." 
 
 " Oh, I know," said Mrs. Landington affably 
 the last glass of whiskey had been very kind to her 
 " You want to ask me about Mr. Rellerick. 
 Well, my dear, I 'aven't seen anything of him, but 
 they've got a new figure at Mrs. Tussor's wax- 
 works, that's a speaking likeness. I went to see it 
 one day by-the-bye, my dear, I did leave the 
 'ouse, but on that occasion only and it quite upset 
 me. I went with Mrs. Jones, the 'ousekeeper next 
 door, and if she hadn't had a brandy-flask with her 
 I believe I should have fainted. Such a likeness ! 
 It looked like Mr. Reginald's corpse. I declare 
 that it made me all of a tremble. I 'aven't got 
 many nerves about my constitootion, but if I saw 
 a model of myself perched up there in that way, I 
 believe I should go into a lunatic asylum." 
 
 " Yes, I heard of it," murmured Felicia, anx- 
 iously, " but I didn't know it looked like him. I 
 wonder if he has seen it. I wrote him about it, for 
 I read an account of it in a Liverpool paper. I am 
 sure he must be very annoyed at it. But perhaps 
 you only imagine the likeness, Landy. Probably, 
 if I saw it I should'nt detect any resemblance." 
 
 " I imagine nothing, Miss 'Alstead," declared the
 
 204 His Own Image 
 
 housekeeper majestically, " I went to Mrs. Tussor's 
 in my sober senses, and I tell you that the model 
 of Deejazzy, as they call 'im, made me feel quite 
 sick, knowing Mr. Rellerick as I do. Whether he's 
 seen it or not, I don't know, but he ought to stop 
 it. It can't be pleasant to look like a nasty person 
 who killed the girl he had been keeping company 
 with, and her a-waiting to marry him." 
 
 Felicia looked genuinely disturbed. She knew 
 Reginald's impressionable nature, and she felt con- 
 vinced that this model must have exasperated him. 
 And to make matters worse, she had playfully 
 alluded to it in one of her letters. Still, he was 
 an exclusive person, was Reginald, and she couldn't 
 quite imagine him wasting much time among the 
 cheap wax-works of the Marylebone Road. 
 
 "What I wanted to talk to you about, Landy," 
 said Felicia, trying to dismiss the Tussaud matter 
 from her mind, " was this letter which I have just 
 opened. A manager has written to me to say that 
 he hears I am not to be tempted by outside offers ; 
 that I have been sought by a number of metropol- 
 itan gentlemen, and that they haven't got the cour- 
 age to play their best cards. He is resolved, he 
 says, to offer me terms which no woman to-day 
 could afford to refuse. And," Felicia sighed help- 
 lessly, " he has promised me one hundred and fifty 
 pounds a week, to accept his engagement." 
 
 Mrs. Landington gasped. At first she was not 
 sure that she had heard correctly. Whiskey has a 
 way of playing strange tricks, even with its accus- 
 tomed patrons. She repeated the amount incred-
 
 Felicia Returns to London 205 
 
 ulously, and Felicia nodded her head, and con- 
 firmed it. 
 
 " One hundred and fifty pounds !" she exclaimed 
 melodramatically, " and you a mere chit of a child. 
 It's positively sinful to give such wages to theatre 
 people, when honest men with enormous families 
 and the honester the man, the more enormous his 
 family, I've always found work for a paltry thirty 
 shillings a week, every day but Sunday. It's ex- 
 travagant. It's well, I can't believe it. In a 
 week, you'll earn more than these honest men earn 
 in a year. You can thank your lucky stars." 
 
 " That's precisely it, Landy. I am not sure that 
 Reginald will allow me to accept the offer. We 
 are to be married very soon. That is settled. 
 And he is very peculiar about the theatre. He 
 knows that I hate it, and am delighted at the idea 
 of escaping it. But in this case, Landy, which has 
 come upon me so suddenly, it seems wicked to 
 refuse, when I can earn so much for him, and for 
 my mother and sisters. I've seen them trying to 
 make ends meet, and considering every sixpence 
 before they spend it, and here is a flood of money 
 almost flowing at my feet. Don't you think that 
 Reginald will see it in this light ?" 
 
 The fat housekeeper simply stared at the young 
 actress in amazement. Her veins were all aglow 
 with what seemed to her a sort of Monte Cristo 
 story. It was a few seconds before she was able 
 to answer. 
 
 " You don't mean to tell me," she exclaimed, 
 stridently, "that you would consider this man.
 
 206 His Own Image 
 
 He was afraid you'd set up in opposition to him, 
 or he'd never have married you. We argued that 
 out together, you and I. It suited your purpose 
 then to marry him. It was safer and better. He 
 proposed, as I said he'd do, and you accepted. 
 But now, something new has happened. The best 
 man on earth isn't worth a hundred and fifty pounds 
 a week. You could buy a prince for less, if you 
 cared for titles, which don't amount to much in my 
 humble opinion. Let Mr. Rellerick go, my dear 
 Miss 'Alstead, and if he wants to marry you, when 
 you've made this fortune, all well and good. That's 
 the way I look at it." 
 
 Poor Felicia ! There was no consolation to be 
 received from her own sex. That seemed cer- 
 tain. 
 
 " No," she said sadly, " that I would never do. 
 He is dearer to me than any money could be. I 
 only care for the money for his sake, and for that 
 of my family. My only hope is that he will see 
 how much better it would be for me to take this 
 engagement, work for three years to come into the 
 possession of several thousand pounds, make my 
 people comfortable for life, and then give myself 
 to him, not penniless. If he is sensible, he will 
 think this. But if not well, I will go to my dear, 
 obstinate Reginald just as I am, and he will not 
 begrudge me the money that his wife's relatives 
 will undoubtedly need." 
 
 Mrs.Landington lost her patience, her politeness, 
 and her usual sense of subservience. " Felicia 
 'Alstead," she said, angrily, " you're a fool, and
 
 Felicia Returns to London 207 
 
 you'll rue it to your dying day. There aren't many 
 girls who get a chance to make a fortune in an easy 
 and ladylike manner, without toadying to a man. 
 You get the chance, and are willing to throw it 
 away for an actor, who has been a good employer 
 to you, but who won't pass his life trying to make 
 you 'appy when you're his wife. One hundred and 
 fifty pounds a week ! And to think that you hesi- 
 tate. I'm only sorry this offer didn't come before 
 you met him in Euston Station, and jumped at his 
 proposal." 
 
 Felicia caught her breath, in a sort of sob. " It 
 would have made no difference," she said. ' I don't 
 care for money, and I don't care for fame. I am 
 simply struggling between selfishness and unsel- 
 fishness. It seems selfish to give this all up, when 
 by a small sacrifice of my own heart's desire, I can 
 do so much good, not only for my people, but for 
 Reginald himself. I really ought, I suppose, to 
 postpone my marriage indefinitely, and write him 
 in the strain that * 'tis best for you and best for 
 me !' But I can't do it, Landy. I can't do it, and 
 I shan't. I am pledged to him. He might think 
 that I was trying to be his rival, and that I loved 
 the theatre for the theatre's sake, as he does. I 
 must ask his permission, and oh ! I know I'm a 
 fool, Landy but I do hope that he will insist upon 
 my marrying him." 
 
 The actress took up the letter that had caused 
 her this riot of sensation, and read again the 
 blackly traced words standing forth so unmistak- 
 ably upon the white paper. There was no deny-
 
 2o8 His Own Image 
 
 ing their significance. The letter meant everything 
 that she had understood it to mean. It was a real 
 stereotyped case of the penny-dreadful " strife 
 between love and duty." As Reginald's leading 
 lady her salary had been a small one just enough 
 for her own wants, and for a few of those experi- 
 enced by her dependents in Lancashire. It seemed 
 strange to her that any manager should be sud- 
 denly anxious to multiply her value by ten, when 
 she had done so little to warrant the multiplica- 
 tion. Why, if she were worth one hundred and 
 fifty pounds to the manager, had Reginald thought 
 so economically of her services ? Those are the 
 questions that occur resentfully to every man who 
 is confronted suddenly by the luminous vision of 
 appreciation. Felicia, being a woman, resented 
 nothing. She merely thought it all over, and pon- 
 dered over the queries that she was unable to 
 answer. She was perfectly well aware that she had 
 not even the faintest inclination to avail herself of 
 this golden opportunity ; that it was as distaste- 
 ful to her as it could possibly be ; that the idea of 
 being Reginald's wife, safe in the harbour of her 
 husband's affection, was as precious to her as ever. 
 But she had just come from Lancashire, and she 
 could not forget the picture of her mother strug- 
 gling with gas-bills, and water-rates, and butchers' 
 demands, and grocers' exactions, with two buxom 
 girls on her hands, waiting to be launched upon the 
 sea of life. 
 
 It made her feel detestably small and selfish. 
 They were all making wedding-presents for her at
 
 Felicia Returns to London 209 
 
 home, rejoicing in her happiness, and thankful for 
 the marriage that would give to her the man of 
 her heart. And suddenly the golden bolt had 
 fallen at her feet, and she was bound to admit that, 
 for her mother and sisters, its value was unlimited. 
 And for Reginald ! He good, unselfish soul (so 
 she thought) was perfectly willing to link himself 
 with the penniless girl of his choice. How much 
 better it would be for him, if she had money. He 
 might at any time lose his health and his ability to 
 induce public patronage. He was not wealthy. 
 He lived extravagantly, and spent every farthing 
 that he made. Would he not feel more comfort- 
 able if he knew that there was a cozy bank-account 
 placed to the credit of his wife ? 
 
 So she reasoned, and as each step in her logic 
 showed her its pellucid, unquestionable quality, her 
 spirits sank and her courage fell. She would 
 frankly consult with Reginald, and she would try 
 to influence him to her way of thinking. It was 
 true that she and her housekeeper had ignobly 
 foreseen his proposal of marriage, in his unwilling- 
 ness to face competition. But she never really 
 believed that any such thought occurred to him 
 when he had met her on that cherished morning, in 
 Euston Station, and they had plighted their troth. 
 This was the one little blur upon her complete 
 happiness, and she would tell him all about it some 
 day some day when she was his wife, and they 
 were in a confidential mood. For Felicia believed 
 that married life was one long and lovely vista of 
 confidential moods.
 
 210 His Own Image 
 
 In the meantime there was no use perplexing her 
 soul about this merciless situation. She was 
 pledged to her word, at any rate, and she liked to 
 remember that. If he were willing to wait for three 
 years, while she gathered in the golden shekels, 
 well she sighed, as she thought of it she would 
 be a martyr to duty. It would be a martyrdom at 
 which her soul would ultimately rejoice. If on the 
 other hand, he bade her give it all up, to be his 
 wife immediately as had been arranged, well she 
 did not sigh this time she would be blissfully 
 obliged to bow to the force of inexorable circum- 
 stances. 
 
 How she hoped for those inexorable circum- 
 stances ! It was not noble, perhaps, to hope for 
 them, but she was thankful for the web that had 
 been woven around her. She would go at once to 
 Reginald's apartments. She would not sleep over 
 her doubts and her fears. 
 
 Felicia sat down to Mrs. Landington's conven- 
 tional dish of glutinous stew, with weak tea accom- 
 paniment. The housekeeper was highly displeased 
 with her, and endeavoured between mouthfuls, to 
 picturesquely display the criminality of her behav- 
 iour. But Felicia, tired of logic, declined further 
 argument. When the meal was over she dressed 
 herself, arranged her hair as Reginald liked to see it 
 arranged, and called a cab.
 
 Chapter XIV 
 
 SHE "INTERVIEWS" CRAMPTON 
 
 REGINALD'S irregular incomings and unex- 
 plained outgoings were at first unnoticed by his 
 secretary. His visits to St. John's Wood, deftly 
 arranged, with all the secret enjoyment of clan- 
 destine meetings, did not appeal to Crampton. The 
 secretary's mental opthalmia was, however, soon 
 dissipated. Tell-tale bills which he was bound to 
 open, came in ; letters " confirming orders " reached 
 him ; there were receipts to file away and other 
 documents, upon which the ego-maniac had scarcely 
 reckoned. The first of these papers caused Cramp- 
 ton to bound in his chair, as though he had been 
 suddenly syringed with electricity. It occurred to 
 him that his master had quietly married Felicia 
 Halstead, and ensconced her in a " nest " in St. 
 John's Wood. The absurdity of this conclusion 
 soon forced itself upon him. He was, nevertheless, 
 unable to rest without ocular proof that it was not 
 Felicia upon whom Rellerick lavished so much 
 attention. The ocular proof was easy to obtain. 
 A green bus to the " Angel " and a short walk 
 afterwards, settled Mr. Crampton's mind. He saw 
 the little ornate villa with his own eyes, and he 
 
 [211]
 
 212 His Own Image 
 
 saw La Chinoise herself, clad in the sumptuousest 
 of parvenu clothes, stepping from its veranda into 
 her brougham. And Crampton went back, heav- 
 ing sighs of relief upon the unresponsive air. Al- 
 though this was a new complication, in an already 
 unduly complicated case, the secretary was thankful 
 for it. It meant breathing time ; a possible post- 
 ponement of a dreaded denouement Although, in 
 his heart of hearts, he resented this fresh and das- 
 tardly insult to Felicia Halstead, he felt that it 
 might militate in her favour. He had faith in the 
 desperate measures of women like La Chinoise. A 
 faint feeling of loyalty the loyalty that comes to 
 every Englishman from a long line of ancestors 
 compelled him to conceal Reginald's cheap and 
 unromantic behaviour from the world. What a hit 
 this story of the actor's new household would 
 make in the weeklies ! How the paragraphers 
 would gloat over the mendacity of the man who 
 had once lectured upon " the beauty of the actor's 
 life," and tried to convince a public that the real 
 artist was happiest at home. 
 
 The day after his discovery Crampton sat alone, 
 in a corner of Reginald's sanctum. He made no 
 pretence of work. There were letters to answer, 
 letters to file away, at least two articles for maga- 
 zines to be written, and Mr. Rellerick's opinion on 
 the influence of the Greek drama to be set forth 
 for a well-known weekly. Crampton preferred to 
 read. He was anxious to study his master's case 
 scientifically. It was not a medical volume that 
 he had selected, but a stout book by Nordau, and
 
 She " Interviews" Crampton 213 
 
 a chapter entitled " Ego-Mania." But from Nor- 
 dau's generalization he could obtain no very par- 
 ticular comfort. 
 
 " The ego-maniac," he read, " must of necessity 
 immensely over-estimate his own importance and 
 the significance of all his actions, for he is only 
 engrossed with -himself, and but little, or not at all, 
 with external things. He is, therefore, not in a 
 position to comprehend his relation to other men 
 and the universe, and to appreciate properly the 
 part he has to play in the aggregate of social insti- 
 tutions." 
 
 Crampton was so absorbed in his book that he 
 failed to hear the sudden stopping of a hansom cab 
 at the outside door, and the subsequent peal of 
 the door-bell. He read on and on, his parchment 
 face bent over his book. It was not until the 
 rustle of a dress, not a yard from his ear, diverted 
 his attention from his metaphysical researches, that 
 he looked up and saw Felicia Halstead. 
 
 She had rushed up stairs in joyous juvenility, and 
 she had bounded into the room like an elastic ball. 
 Her features, always mobile, had expressed the 
 emotions of the most adorably kaleidoscopic fem- 
 ininity. But now, as he looked up, he saw that her 
 face was blanche and surprised, that her hands 
 had fallen limply to her side. A grave disappoint- 
 ment wrenched the pleasure from her eyes. Cramp- 
 ton closed his book hastily. 
 
 " When did you return, Miss Halstead ?" he 
 asked agitatedly. " In your last letter you said 
 you would not be back for two weeks. I am quite
 
 His Own Image 
 
 sure of that. I I could not possibly be mis- 
 taken." 
 
 " You were not mistaken," she said with a little 
 satirical laugh. " You are a good secretary, 
 Crampton. " You know your master's letters by 
 heart. You answer them so poetically that they 
 might almost be addressed to you personally. 
 Where where is Reginald ? I felt sure that I 
 should find him here." 
 
 Crampton indulged in his customary shuffle, but 
 he determined to be as non-committal as possible. 
 " Why should you expect to find Mr. Rellerick in 
 his apartment," he queried, " when he could not 
 possibly be aware of your return ? Had you in- 
 formed him of your plans, he might possibly have 
 met you." 
 
 " Possibly !" exclaimed Felicia. 
 
 "As it is " Crampton moistened his lips, which 
 were dry and feverish " as it is, I am sorry to tell 
 you that Mr. Rellerick is out of town for a few 
 days. He may be back to-day ; he may be back 
 to-morrow ; I cannot say. He was a little bit ' run 
 down,' and felt that a change of scene would be 
 beneficial. Had he known that you were to re- 
 turn - '" 
 
 " Crampton," said Felicia slowly, " where has 
 Reginald gone ? Tell me and I will send him a 
 wire. I am sorry that I came home so suddenly. 
 It has not been as pleasurable as I expected it to 
 be. It shall teach me a lesson. Give me Regi- 
 nald's address." 
 
 The mouldy secretary was nonplussed. A loyal
 
 She " Interviews" Crampton 215 
 
 lie would do no good. He sat silent, his heart op- 
 pressed with pity for this girl. She stood before 
 him, anxiety in every feature, and he felt that pre- 
 varication was powerless to help her. 
 
 " Tell me his address, Crampton," she cried im- 
 patiently ; " he was to remain in London until I 
 returned. Not in one of his letters did he speak 
 to me of feeling out of sorts, or of going away for 
 a holiday." 
 
 " Still " Crampton decided to be on the safe 
 side, " there is no use concealing from you the fact 
 that Mr. Rellerick is out of sorts. I have been 
 much worried about him. I I even now I am 
 trying to diagnose his case." 
 
 Felicia trembled. This was an unexpected blow. 
 Her return to London had not surprised Reginald. 
 The surprise was all on her side. 
 
 " My poor Reginald !" she murmured. " I knew 
 nothing of this, Crampton ? Why don't you ex- 
 plain yourself ? Why do you sit there, parrying all 
 my questions, when you could tell me everything 
 and set my mind at rest in a minute. It is not like 
 you. It is cruel. It is unkind." 
 
 Felicia's perplexity resolved itself into tears. 
 She sat down and cried from sheer vexation and 
 alarm. The sight of Felicia's grief lacerated poor 
 Crampton's heart. He tried to think of some con- 
 soling remark. He conjured his brain for balm. 
 The more she cried the more perturbed he grew. 
 Resentment at Rellerick's behaviour soon came 
 uppermost in his mind. Still he could think of no-
 
 216 His Own Image 
 
 thing to say, and the more he tried to speak the 
 more hopelessly tongue-tied he felt. 
 
 Felicia arose in stormy anger. " You watch me 
 as though you enjoyed my sorrow," she said furi- 
 ously. " I will not be treated in this way. You 
 are keeping something from me, and I am deter- 
 mined that I will know everything. He is not 
 seriously ill, is he, Crampton ? Tell me at once. 
 If you don't, I will scream and alarm the servants. 
 Tell me. Tell me. Tell me." 
 
 She went to him and taking his arm, she squeezed 
 it until he winced with pain. Crampton realized the 
 fact that Felicia was growing hysterical. He had, 
 as she said, parried her questions. 
 
 " Mr. Rellerick is not seriously ill," he said, walk- 
 ing to the other end of the room so as to avoid as 
 much as possible the spectacle of her anxious face. 
 " He has been very much upset. It is an imaginary 
 ailment one that it would be no use consulting a 
 physician about. The truth is, Miss Halstead, that 
 he has been foolish enough to worry himself about 
 a figure in Madame Tussaud's exhibition that 
 strongly resembles him. It is the figure of a mur- 
 derer. He has been so much affected by it that he 
 has even endeavoured to find excuses for this 
 murderer, whose likeness he bears. I can't quite 
 understand his sentiments. I have tried to do so. 
 He seems to grow worse." 
 
 " Poor Reginald !" sighed Felicia, in keen distress. 
 "I might have known that a man of his artistic 
 temperament would be haunted by this singular 
 coincidence. Can't something be done ? Cannot
 
 " Interviews " Crampton 217 
 
 he bring influence to bear upon these wax-work peo- 
 ple, and induce them to withdraw the model ? It 
 seems simple enough. They are not in existence 
 to insult the public, but to amuse it." 
 
 Crampton shook his head. " Mr. Rellerick 
 wouldn't call attention to his vexation," he said, 
 " He feels it too keenly." 
 
 " And he has left London to to try and forget 
 it?" 
 
 Crampton jumped at the suggestion. It was a 
 perfect fit for the occasion. He nodded in acqui- 
 escence. 
 
 " And where has he gone ?" she persisted. 
 
 " He did not tell me," the secretary replied, as 
 though pleading for mercy. " I swear to you, 
 Miss Halstead, that he did not tell me. Not by 
 one word did he indicate his whereabouts. And I 
 tell you that he may be back at any moment. Be- 
 lieve that I am speaking the truth." 
 
 Felicia's feminine intuition read Crampton like a 
 book. She looked him through and through. She de- 
 tected the grain of loyalty for his master, that still 
 remained. This would have pleased her at any 
 other time. It exasperated her under these cir- 
 cumstances. 
 
 " He did not tell you," she remarked furiously, 
 " no, he did not tell you. But you know ! I am 
 willing to swear that you know. He. is not in a " 
 she hated to say it " in a " the word choked her 
 " sanitarium." 
 
 The secretary looked at her bewildered. The 
 very question showed that she had analysed Regi-
 
 2i8 His Own Image 
 
 nald's moods far more surely than he had done. 
 And he wished at that moment that he could have 
 answered her in the affirmative. It would have 
 been painful, but it would have been a relief. 
 
 " He is not in a sanitarium as far as I know," 
 Crampton responded. " Mr. Rellerick, as I told you, 
 may return at any moment. Miss Halstead," here 
 he changed his tone to one of extreme deference 
 and humble suggestion, " you are young and you 
 have a future. Be advised by me and I am old 
 enough to be your father. Do not marry Reginald 
 Rellerick." 
 
 Felicia started up, enveloped in her indignation. 
 " You are going too far, Mr. Crampton," she said. 
 " Really the position of a secretary should be lim- 
 ited. I assure you that I shall inform Mr. Rellerick 
 of your behaviour. It is rank disloyalty." 
 
 " It is not," said Crampton. He was wound up 
 now. The winding up of Crampton was not a facile 
 task. " It is not rank disloyalty. You can tell him 
 what I say, Miss Halstead. I am perfectly willing 
 that you should do so. Mr. Rellerick knows my 
 views on the subject. I have already made them 
 quite clear to him. If you marry him, you will rue 
 it, and " he thought this was a strong card to play 
 " he will rue it as well." 
 
 This finale brought Felicia to tears again. She 
 sobbed so convulsively that the warm, womanly 
 heart of the secretary was crushed. He sat there 
 in agony looking at her. He longed to take her in 
 his arms the arms that were old enough to belong 
 to her father and comfort her. Why was he sere,
 
 She "Interviews" Crampton 219 
 
 and why was he fifty, to still feel the outrageous 
 blood of something-and-twenty still avalanching 
 through his veins ? Crampton was ashamed of him- 
 self, and his tortured brain asked him if it was really 
 pure unselfishness that prompted him to warn this 
 girl against a marriage with the ego-maniacal actor. 
 And while his heart was still pumping the red tor- 
 rent through his body, he could not answer the 
 question satisfactorily. He felt that he was deceiv- 
 ing himself. When he had grown cool again, and 
 had forced himself to look tamely at this woman in 
 distress, he knew that it was genuine unselfishness. 
 If he never saw her again, he would still love to 
 warn her against a union with the ego-maniac. If 
 he knew that she would give herself to the first man 
 that passed in the street, he would still persist in 
 trying to prevent her from wedding this actor who 
 looked, and he believed felt, like Dejazet the 
 murderer. 
 
 " I don't mind your saying that I shall rue it," 
 fretted poor Felicia, " because you don't, and can't 
 know me. But but why why do you say that 
 my Reginald will rue it ? I never before thought 
 you were so cruel, Mr. Crampton." 
 
 The secretary was touched. He wished that he 
 was safely away from the whole unfortunate affair. 
 It was a harsh fate that had mingled him with it. 
 
 He answered evasively : " He is a man of moods, 
 which change like the colours of a chameleon. He 
 is nervous, excitable, unstrung. You are not afraid, 
 because you think that you can rectify all this. 
 You will not succeed, Miss Halstead. Therefore I
 
 220 His Own Image 
 
 say that you will be sparing yourself much wretch- 
 edness if you take my advice." 
 
 Felicia dried her eyes. She felt weak and stupid. 
 Yet she reflected that circumstances were relent- 
 lessly pointing her out the path of duty. She 
 would never give up Reginald. Duty or no duty 
 she would be his wife. Nothing should prevent 
 that. But was not Reginald's apparent indisposi- 
 tion a very strong plea in favor of her acceptance 
 of the princely one hundred and fifty per week for 
 three years ? Might he not have lived through his 
 sorrowful imaginings by that time ? Surely his con- 
 sent would not be withheld. 
 
 " Mr. Crampton," she said quietly, after a pause 
 of five minutes that seemed like five hours, " I will 
 confide in you. You have been cruel, and insolent, 
 and merciless, but still you know Reginald, and 
 you appear at the present time to be prodigal of 
 advice. When you suggest that I break off my 
 engagement, you talk futile nonsense. I would 
 sooner die. That sounds rather radical, doesn't it, 
 but I assure you that it is quite true. I came here 
 to-day to see Reginald, and to ask him for counsel. 
 I have received an offer such as I never imagined 
 would have befallen me, had I been a Bernhardt or 
 a Duse. I knew I was in demand, but that fact 
 scarcely interested me. A manager has offered me 
 one hundred and fifty pounds per week for three 
 years, and I want at least I intend to ask Regi- 
 nald to allow me to accept. We can wait three 
 years, and then marry, when I shall have some 
 money, and my family will be provided for."
 
 She " Interviews " Crampton 221 
 
 Crampton surveyed her curiously. Her strange 
 devotion to the ego-maniac puzzled him. He knew 
 all that philosophers had said about the eccentri- 
 cities of woman, but try as he would he could not 
 fathom Felicia's attachment to Reginald Rellerick. 
 The actor was not particularly young ; his ego- 
 mania had almost stamped itself upon his face, until 
 his once regular features were simply a reflection 
 of his unlovely nature ; he had none of the quali- 
 ties that women were supposed to love. And yet 
 this girl, young, lovely, adorable, amiable, and 
 gifted was willing to sacrifice herself, her fame, and 
 her family, for his possession. Crampton put her 
 metaphorically beneath the microscope, and looked 
 at her as though he were Grant Allen analysing an 
 ichneumon fly or a Colorado beetle. 
 
 " My dear Miss Halstead," he said at last, and it 
 seemed to him that he was listening to his own 
 voice, reproduced by a phonograph, " Fame is a 
 wonderful thing, and only foolish poets call it barren 
 and ephemeral. It appeals to men, because it brings 
 not only empty glory, but substantial wealth. I 
 can quite understand that your real lover is dearer 
 to you than mere glory. But here is an offer that 
 means a competence for you, with fame at the same 
 time. You cannot seriously hesitate. You must 
 accept this offer. If I were you, I would go back 
 home and instantly notify your manager that you 
 agree to his terms." 
 
 His voice squeaked phonographically. He could 
 almost hear a br-r-r as he spoke the final words. 
 
 " Then you think Reginald will agree to it ?"
 
 222 His Own Imgae 
 
 Felicia said, and she could not suppress a mournful 
 intonation as she thought how horribly easy it was, 
 and how readily her suggestion could be carried 
 out. 
 
 " Your Reginald will not consent," cried Cramp- 
 ton harshly. " Most assuredly he will not consent. 
 He will hold you to your promise. At the end of 
 three years when you are famous and wealthy he 
 would not want you. He would not then marry 
 you if you brought him a million. He refused the 
 Countess of Dwight, who was rolling in wealth. 
 She was deeply in love with him, and he would not 
 listen to her." 
 
 Felicia clasped her hands rapturously, as a six- 
 teen-year-old school-girl might do, when the gay 
 cavalier upon whom her fancy has rested waves his 
 hands to her, as he prances past the door of her 
 seminary. Felicia heard Crampton's words with a 
 sensation of voluptuous joy, that the poor secretary 
 would have been fiercely unwilling to induce. 
 
 " Then," she said, " if he will not consent, that ends 
 it. The offer is as good as though it had been unmade. 
 What you tell me so angrily, Mr. Crampton, is the 
 sweetest news I could hear. I shall put the ques- 
 tion to him, for I am determined that I will do my 
 duty. Surely Reginald will understand why I ask 
 his advice !" 
 
 Crampton lost his patience, and seeing how 
 vainly he had laboured, he resolved to pull down 
 this insensate girl's hope with one mighty tug. 
 " Mr. Rellerick," he said, " will never consent to this 
 engagement, because he would fear you as a rival,
 
 She " Interviews " Crampton 223 
 
 and while your name was stamping itself upon the 
 public, he would be gradually effaced. I am tell- 
 ing you the truth, Miss Halstead." 
 
 Felicia laughed. She felt light-hearted and al- 
 most gay. Perhaps Crampton spoke the truth, but 
 it was a truth that brought no gloom to her heart. 
 If Reginald were afraid of her as a rival, she felt 
 glad that she had artistic qualities enough to in- 
 duce such a sentiment. She thanked heaven for 
 her gifts, if she had any, inasmuch as they were the 
 means of linking her to the man she loved. Don't 
 think that Felicia was a fool. She was merely ar- 
 dently in love with a worthless object, and if you 
 have never heard of the blindness that accompanies 
 such a condition, then you have come across very 
 few romantic, unreasoning women. 
 
 " You are telling me the truth, and I am satisfied 
 with it," she murmured. " You have done what 
 you perhaps consider you were called upon to do, 
 Crampton. I shall not take your advice. I shall 
 say to Reginald, ' Please let me accept this engage- 
 ment. It will be best for you and best for me." 
 Oh, I shall urge it seriously, Crampton. I shall, 
 indeed. My people at home are greatly in need 
 of money, and it will be unpleasant for me to ask 
 it of my husband my husband," she repeated, 
 savouring the cherished words. " But if he refuses, 
 I shall marry him as soon as he likes, and not fear 
 the result." 
 
 Crampton's head was bowed in anguish. He 
 felt that he had clumsily muddled the whole affair. 
 Had he possessed any eloquence he could surely
 
 224 His Own Image 
 
 have convinced this usually sane girl of her folly. 
 But he had angered her, insulted her, spoken 
 harshly to her, brought her to tears he saw them 
 now dripping from her eyes and he had simply 
 led her to her fate. 
 
 He was desperate. " I shall be near you, he 
 said at last, inanely. " I shall be near you. No 
 harm shall come to you. You will trust me, will 
 you not, Felicia ?" 
 
 " Miss Halstead," she corrected, imperiously. 
 " This interview has not changed our relations, Mr. 
 Crampton. You will notice that I call you Mr. 
 Crampton and not " 
 
 She wondered what his name was. A slight 
 smile twined around her lips as she reflected that 
 it was probably Ebenezer r or Thomas, or, more likely 
 still, James. He looked a James. He had James 
 indelibly marked on his person. Cramoton, how- 
 ever, declined to come to her aid. 
 
 She continued : " Whatever your Christian name 
 may be, I do not use it. As for your promise to 
 stay near me, I am afraid that I shall not need your 
 services. I imagine that no harm can come to me 
 when I am the wife of the man I love. Should 
 any harm come at that time I shall welcome it." 
 
 She tinkled with sarcastic laughter. He merely 
 echoed the words " welcome it." 
 
 " In the meantime," said Felicia, surprised how 
 easy, and how not unpleasant it is to be unkind 
 and imperial (it is wonderful how quickly the sad- 
 istic taste for wounding other people's feelings is 
 acquired) ' in the meantime, I shall ask you to
 
 She " Interview's" Crampton 225 
 
 wire as soon as Regi Mr. Rellerick, returns from 
 this strange vacation, of which you decline to tell 
 me anything. I shall expect to hear from you as 
 soon as he appears. Until then I shall not see you. 
 Good-day, Mr. Crampton. No, do not trouble," 
 as he moved towards the door to accompany her 
 down stairs. " I know the way. I shall walk home. 
 The weather is pleasant. Good-morning, Mr. 
 Crampton." 
 
 And Crampton, as soon as he had heard the 
 closing of the outside door, did what he had not 
 done for years since the first of his old Oxford 
 days, when he was young, and emotional, and easily 
 impressed. He wept.
 
 Chapter XV 
 
 THE FLESH AND THE WAX 
 
 FELICIA HALSTEAD'S ingenuously uncultured 
 mind had always revelled in Madame Tussaud's 
 wax-works. She was one of those women who may 
 be termed naturally uneducated. She had fre- 
 quently enjoyed a contemplation of the yellow, in- 
 artistic mockeries that seem to parody and cheapen 
 the noble art of sculpture. She appreciated the 
 impudent figures in the Marylebone Road collec- 
 tion, for the sake of the gaudy clothes they wore. 
 The more clothes she inspected, the more com- 
 plete was her appreciation. She liked to wonder 
 how much Isabella of Valois paid for her gown, 
 and to picture Catherine of Arragon indulging in 
 the vulgar modern pastime of " shopping." She 
 was interested in the dresses of Bloody Mary and 
 Queen Elizabeth, and she liked surreptitiously to 
 lift the gowns of the models, in order to discover 
 if Philippa of Hainault and Berengaria wore under- 
 clothes. The details of the multi-colored exhibi- 
 tion were what she liked, and what most of its 
 patrons like. The high and mighty object of 
 education which it professes, was totally ignored 
 by Felicia. She had studied the lives of the Kings 
 
 [226J
 
 The Flesh and the Wax 227 
 
 and Queens when at school. It was a satisfaction 
 to see them modelled in wax. She believed im- 
 plicitly in the portraits, and if anybody had told 
 her that by boiling down Richard I, it would be 
 possible to trot him forth as Gladstone or Disraeli, 
 she would have laughed scornfully. It is lucky 
 that the percentage of sceptics in the world is a 
 small one lucky for trade, lucky for art, lucky for 
 the world itself. Felicia Halstead was one of the 
 amiably ordinary women for whom the amusement 
 caterers work. Such women simplify the labours of 
 the entertainers. The success of Tussaud's is 
 probably due to the fact that it appeals exclusively 
 to the ordinary. 
 
 Felicia took Mrs. Landington with her to see 
 the figure that had so strangely affected Reginald 
 Rellerick, and she started for the exhibition in any- 
 thing but a holiday frame of mind. It seemed odd 
 to her to set out for her cherished wax-works in a 
 mournful mood. The bag of chocolate creams that 
 invariably accompanied her (for it is always pleas- 
 ant to middle-class amusement-seekers to punctuate 
 sensations with sweetmeats) was omitted. Felicia 
 dragged Mrs. Landington from her household 
 duties, and plunged with her into the wax-work 
 abominations of the bus-riddled thoroughfare. 
 
 The young actress felt melancholy and oppressed. 
 Her interview with Crampton had pained her, and 
 his strange information that her actor was away 
 from London, without plans, and without address, 
 appealed to her as inexplicably ominous. Mrs. 
 Landington had heard the news with a series of
 
 228 His Own Image 
 
 " Well, I nevers !" that seemed to insinuate her 
 black-alpaca incredulity. She hoped that every- 
 thing would end well, but she doubted it. The 
 prospect of possible misery is always inexpressibly 
 dear to women of Mrs. Landington's chaste and 
 usual category. 
 
 Felicia paced through the various rooms, silently, 
 but obviously distressed. Her Kings and Queens 
 irritated her. She felt inclined to regard them as 
 interlopers. Their aspect was corpsey, and she 
 wondered how they could ever have entertained 
 her. She knew them by heart, and they were quite 
 unchanged, save that their clothes looked rustier 
 and more dust-covered. John, who signed the 
 Magna Charta, seemed to be running to seed, and 
 Henry VIII. to be resting upon his sextuply con- 
 jugal laurels in a sort of mildewed atmosphere. 
 She would not allow the buxom housekeeper, 
 anxious to get the most for her shilling's-worth, to 
 consult her catalogue. She tore her past the 
 groups, until the cameo brooch at the top of the 
 fleshly toboggan-slide heaved. They all vexed her. 
 She was there to see one particular figure, and to 
 get at it she had to wade through Geoffrey 
 Chaucers and John Wycliffes and Cardinal Wol- 
 seys and Oliver Cromwells. They were all in the 
 way all blocking her path, there so placidly erect 
 and so uncompromisingly rigid. 
 
 Yet when she reached the Chamber of Horrors, 
 and was pushed into it by the crowd of hungry 
 sensation-seekers, who had accepted the roomsful 
 of good and illustrious folks as a Jwrs cfoeuvre to
 
 The Flesh and the Wax 229 
 
 the delightful criminals, she was in no hurry to find 
 Dejazet. She disliked the idea of viewing Regi- 
 nald's alleged double before she had seen the actor 
 himself. She had returned to him after a long 
 absence. It seemed horrid to seek the wax before 
 she had found the flesh. Felicia was slightly super- 
 stitious. Before she had been ten minutes in the 
 Chamber of Horrors, she regretted her visit as 
 thoroughly as Reginald had done, on the eventful 
 morning when he had first looked upon Dejazet. 
 
 "We'll go, Landy," she said, quickly. " I don't 
 want to see this model. The idea frightens me. 
 I don't know why I came. Come. We will re- 
 turn." 
 
 But the housekeeper had been permitted to do 
 scant justice to the crowned heads, and had not 
 the slightest intention of ignoring the criminals. 
 She said simply, but very decidedly : " I shall stay, 
 my dear, now that I am here. If you don't wish to 
 wait, I will not detain you." 
 
 Felicia, the unimaginative Felicia, had worked 
 herself up into such an excitement that she was 
 literally unable to return by herself. She dreaded 
 repassing those quaint, immovable men and wo- 
 men on their pedestals. So she resolved to see the 
 thing through to the bitter end, and taking a light 
 hold of Mrs. Landington's cape, she followed that 
 immaculate matron in childlike obedience. 
 
 The edge had worn off Dejazet's novelty, and 
 the crowd had other enticements. The tide of sin 
 had washed in new candidates for admiration. One 
 cannot even be a pinnacled murderer, undisturbed
 
 230 His Own Image 
 
 for very long. The affable youths, the giggley 
 girls, the boiled-mutton matrons, and the frolicsome 
 fathers all edged for the latest inducements a 
 precocious child who had stabbed her baby brother, 
 and a prominent physician, whose guilty practice 
 in London's Mayfair region had won him notoriety. 
 Felicia and Mrs. Landington left these titbits for 
 future reference. The young actress had been 
 forced by the mob to relinquish her grip upon the 
 housekeeper's cape. She became separated from 
 her, and unwilling to walk about alone, in her 
 wrought-up condition, she sat upon the first bench 
 she found, and determined to rest for a short time 
 and recover the energy which she felt that she 
 needed for an inspection of Dejazet. 
 
 There was a wax figure in front of her, but she 
 felt too dejected to look at it. She leaned her 
 head upon her hands, and only the feet of the 
 model appeared to her. The crowd ebbed and 
 flowed. Men and women drifted past her, chat- 
 tering idly and volubly, dipping into paper bags 
 containing the necessary sweets, and enjoying 
 themselves in the stodgy and slouchy way peculiar 
 to the English crowd. She thought of the vaunted 
 "educational usefulness " of Tussaud's, and smiled. 
 How the Londoners loved to furnish excuses for 
 their eccentric pastimes! Nothing but the lack 
 of a semi-religious, semi-educational pretext, is re- 
 sponsible for the omission of the bull-ring from the 
 ranks of metropolitan entertainments. Felicia felt 
 better, as she sat there without looking at the 
 " sights." The almost apoplectic effect of wading
 
 The Flesh and the Wax 231 
 
 through those lines of rigid dolls wore gradually 
 off. 
 
 She began to feel once more the desire to be 
 confronted with Reginald's Rellerick's double the 
 object of her visit to Tussaud's. Her eyes which 
 had listlessly rested upon the feet of the model 
 before which she had cast herself, were energetic- 
 ally uplifted. Then Felicia arose, and unable to 
 overcome her feelings, uttered a slight shrill cry 
 of surprise. The feet at which she had gazed 
 belonged to Reginald's double. She had been sit- 
 ting apathetically in front of Dejazet. Felicia 
 rubbed her eyes, and stared at the doll. A slight 
 frisson ran through the roots of her hair. She felt 
 as she used to feel when she read ghost stories, and 
 anecdotes with a supernatural flavor. 
 
 It was Reginald horribly and distinctly, but 
 with an evil insinuation that alarmed her. The 
 expression in Dejazet's face was bad, but it was an 
 expression which she had seen she must have 
 seen it, for it seemed so familiar in that of her 
 lover. The glass eyes that stared at her so emptily, 
 had nevertheless something of the look she had de- 
 tected in Reginald's that morning when he had told 
 her that she was trying to supplant him. Dejazet's 
 mouth was slightly twisted with cruelty, and his 
 lips were thick and sensual. Felicia drew a breath 
 of shivering resentment, as in spite of herself, her 
 brain recognized this ugly monster as the counter, 
 part of her beloved actor. She wished that she had 
 never seen it. She began to bitterly reproach her- 
 self for morbid, and wholly unnecessary curiosity.
 
 His Own Image 
 
 Then her pliant feminine nature asserted itself, 
 and she began to think, in poignant distress, of the 
 agony that this sight must have given Reginald, in 
 the flesh. Ah, she knew him and his temperament. 
 Could any man survive the horror of seeing himself 
 ceroplastically displayed as a murderer ? She re- 
 membered Reginald's complete self-satisfaction. 
 How he had cherished his own personality! What 
 joy the flattering photographer had given him ! 
 How he had revelled in the idealism of the crayon 
 artist ! With what bliss the imaginings of the " im- 
 pressionist " had filled him ! And now to see him- 
 self done in wax, as an assassin, for idle droves of 
 people to look at, must have been a bitter blow. 
 Felicia's sympathetic instincts gushed forth, and 
 she felt that she must go to Reginald at once, and 
 comfort him in his mortification. She recalled an 
 old legend that she had read somewhere she 
 couldn't remember where setting forth the fact 
 that the man who is permitted to look upon his own 
 double must shortly afterwards die. The legend 
 returned to her. It must have been years since she 
 had read it. It had remained, unremembered, on 
 one of the curious shelves of her memory. It came 
 forth, flavoured with her early enthusiasm. It had 
 appealed to her as so inordinately fantastic, years 
 ago. 
 
 She looked around for Mrs. Landington, feeling 
 a keen desire to hear her h'less talk again. An illit- 
 erate person is most refreshing in a crowdedly 
 sensational moment. An illiterate person is a sort 
 of relaxative, the value of which cannot be overesti-
 
 The Flesh and the Wax 233 
 
 mated. But the housekeeper was not to be seen, 
 and Felicia gave up all hopes of finding her in the 
 turgid crowd that blocked the Chamber. 
 
 She made a solemn promise to herself not to 
 look at Dejazet's face again. She would try and 
 forget that she had ever been guilty of recognizing 
 the features of Reginald, in the jaundiced waxen 
 cast of the model. Her visit had seemed to open 
 the door to disloyalty, and Heaven knew that she 
 clung to the man who had asked her to be his wife. 
 
 She deliberately turned her back to Dejazet, and 
 prepared to move away from the figure. And 
 then Felicia felt that her eerie sensations must 
 have unhinged her mind. Her face grew white, 
 and she was suddenly seized with a fit of trem- 
 bling, for with her back to Dejazet, and her eyes 
 resolutely fixed upon the group of people twenty 
 yards away, she saw the horror again. She knew 
 that he was behind her, and yet in front of her, he 
 stood gaunt, erect, and staring, among the sight- 
 seers. It was an illusion, of course. It must be. 
 She turned and looked back. Yes, Dejazet stood 
 there, and she sanely realized that fact before 
 glancing ahead. Then, with the determination to 
 be cool, in spite of everything, she gazed in front 
 of her. The other Dejazet had not stirred. 
 
 Perhaps it was a looking-glass effect the result 
 of curiously-disposed mirrors, destined to amaze 
 the mob. Felicia would not have been surprised 
 if she had seen galaxies of Dejazet, to the north, 
 to the south, to the east, and to the west. The 
 Dejazet in front of her, however, moved, and she
 
 234 His Own Image 
 
 watched him, fascinated, as one is fascinated by 
 the horrors of a nightmare. 
 
 She saw him deliberately turn his head, and speak 
 to a woman by his side. She remarked the woman 
 stout, magnificently dressed, and undoubtedly 
 French one of those women English girls hate as 
 the possessor of a chic that is rarely acquired, and 
 quite unpurchasable, in England. He smiled. 
 She smiled. They both stared at the figure behind 
 Felicia. He spoke. She spoke. They looked 
 again, intently and silently. He linked his arm 
 through hers as though for fleshly protection. She 
 pressed it closely, in immediate response. Felicia 
 winced at the ugly fact of possession that the wo- 
 man made quite clear. 
 
 An instant later, and her faculties alertly re- 
 turned to her. She realized the fact that the ap- 
 parent Dej'azet in front of her was the real Reg- 
 inald Rellerick. There could be no doubt at all 
 about that. This was not the resort of the fantas- 
 tic and the imaginative. She was with cheap peo- 
 ple, in a cheap place, in a cheap locality. Cheap- 
 ness was branded upon everything. This was the 
 abode of the ultra-ordinary. Her lover had re- 
 turned to London and* had determined to visit the 
 wax-work exhibition once more. She stared at him, 
 quietly and subtly anxious to explain everything 
 reasonably and satisfactorily. 
 
 Who was the woman by his side ? What did 
 this companionship signify? Felicia moved from 
 her position directly ahead of them and turned to 
 the side, resolved to watch them. Her heart was
 
 The Flesh and the Wax 235 
 
 beating violently. She felt it cannon against her 
 ribs, in an irrepressible tumult. Reginald and his 
 companion appeared to be studying Dejazet 
 earnestly. There was no anger in his eyes. They 
 shone with a sort of softened light. To Felicia it 
 looked very much as though this horrid yellow 
 monster was favorably considered by her lover. 
 The woman merely appeared to acquiesce in every- 
 thing he said. Yes, she was French. Felicia could 
 detect the " outs " forming themselves upon her 
 red and humid lips. How horrid she was, and how 
 audacious ! Felicia called her " bold." It is the 
 word invariably applied by the English girl to the 
 insouciant, rebellious demeanour of the French- 
 woman. The mystery of her presence there was 
 quite inexplicable. Reginald was so fastidious, so 
 solitary, so uncommunicative, that the sight of him 
 in familiar and agreeable intercourse with a person 
 branded, even in Felicia's inexperienced eyes, with 
 the stigma of the courtesan, amazed and stupefied 
 her. 
 
 They stood there quite oblivious of the passing 
 crowd. Men and women came and went ; gazed 
 and commented ; chattered and laughed but 
 Reginald and this woman paid not the slightest 
 heed to them. Felicia saw Mrs. Landington walk- 
 ing alone at the back of the crowd, moving towards 
 the exit. She made no effort to rejoin her. She 
 allowed her to pass from the Chamber of Horrors, 
 preferring to meet Reginald unaccompanied. 
 
 If Felicia had seen the slightest symptom of hor- 
 ror upon the face of her lover the horror she had
 
 236 His Own Image 
 
 imagined for him she would have broken through 
 the crowd instantly, and thrusting aside his com- 
 rade, have flung herself unconventionally in his 
 arms. But there was not a tinge of distress visible 
 upon his features. If he had been staring at a 
 benefactor of the human race his look could not 
 have been blander, or more benign. It puzzled 
 and grieved her. Again she looked at the waxen 
 Dejazet, and felt the tingling of disgust in her 
 veins. Yet he, whom this monster suggested so 
 strongly, appeared to be almost happy, and quite 
 unmoved. 
 
 Felicia herself began to attract attention. Two 
 rude boys approached her, and pretending to be- 
 lieve that she was a wax- work, as she stood there 
 so silently and attitudinally, they pinched her arm. 
 She reddened, but the action served to stimulate 
 her. She went to the exit, and made up her mind 
 to wait there until Reginald and the woman were 
 ready to depart. 
 
 The time passed so slowly that Felicia could 
 scarcely repress her impatience. She heard the 
 outgoing crowds expressing their satisfaction at the 
 sixpenny-worth of misery they had witnessed. She 
 felt exasperated at their idle, unfeeling comments. 
 How could she ever have revelled in this hideous 
 array of ghosts, and have spent afternoons in their 
 midst, with chocolate creams and catalogues ? 
 
 She saw Reginald and the woman slowly ap- 
 proaching. They seemed unable to tear themselves 
 away from the place. Reginald turned frequently 
 to gaze at the solitary figure that was no longer a
 
 The Flesh and the Wax 237 
 
 piece de resistance of the exhibition, but had 
 settled down to a long catalogued career of com- 
 mon-or-garden criminality. Summoning all her 
 pluck, she advanced and placed herself in their 
 path. 
 
 The woman made some remark in French, ex- 
 pressing annoyance. Then Reginald saw her, and 
 if she had ever doubted the inadvisability of return- 
 ing to one's " loved ones " unannounced, she had 
 no opportunity to doubt it now. His face grew 
 marble in whiteness, and into his eyes came the 
 very expression that she had seen in Dejazet's 
 glassy counterfeits. It was the identical expression , 
 and Felicia saw it for herself. Fortunately her 
 own amour propre stepped in, and she preferred to 
 believe that she was unstrung and imaginative. 
 The actor dropped the arm of the woman, and it 
 fell to her side, fat, and bulging through its silken 
 sleeve. 
 
 The ego-maniac recovered himself almost imme- 
 diately, long before Felicia had emerged from her 
 emotion. 
 
 " Felicia !" he cried in astonishment. " I I 
 had thought you were in Liverpool. You you 
 have returned." 
 
 The banality of these remarks was obvious, but 
 they gave him time for further machination. He 
 spoke a few words in a very low tone to La Chinoise, 
 who cast a semi-derisive look at the little actress. 
 
 " I I came back to surprise you," she said 
 haltingly, " I I seem to have succeeded." 
 
 " Of course I am surprised," Reginald remarked
 
 238 His Own Image 
 
 " but " sarcastically " it is a very pleasant sur- 
 prise. If you will permit me to take this lady to 
 her carnage we will go to my apartments to lunch- 
 eon." Then to La Chinoise, with a great display 
 of solemn politeness, " Permit me, Madame." 
 
 La Chinoise smiled, and followed Reginald. Fe- 
 licia trotted quickly behind them. In spite of her- 
 self, she felt glad. Reginald's tone to this woman 
 was one of deference rather than familiarity. He 
 had probably been in Paris, and had returned with 
 some French artist, to whom he was displaying the 
 " sights " of London. She hoped so. It was such 
 an easy and pleasant thing to hope. 
 
 "Where shall I tell your coachman to drive 
 you ?" asked Reginald, as La Chinoise entered the 
 brougham, and he stood waiting for her orders. 
 And when Felicia heard the command to start for 
 a well-known milliner's establishment in Bond 
 Street she felt a still keener inclination to be satis- 
 fied. 
 
 They were alone at last. Reginald tried hard 
 to keep from his features the malignant hatred he 
 felt for this girl. The very sight of her had aroused 
 in him sensations that had been dormant since her 
 absence. She was the cause of all his agony, and 
 he was obliged to marry her in the far-fetched hope 
 of thus removing her from one path to another. 
 And the other seemed to him utterly detestable. 
 
 " Who was that woman, Reginald ?" Felicia asked 
 instantly, anxious to clear up that muddy point. 
 
 Reginald had his reply ready. "A costumer," 
 he said. " I have engaged her to make my ward-
 
 The Flesh and the Wax 239 
 
 robe for next season. They say she is very clever. 
 She was anxious to look at the clothes worn by our 
 kings and queens. So I brought her here." 
 
 There was not a tremor in his voice, as he ut- 
 tered this coagulation of lies. 
 
 "You have been in Paris?" queried Felicia, feel- 
 ing the titillation of hope in her breast. 
 
 11 In Paris !" echoed Reginald. " Why, my dear 
 girl, I have never left London." 
 
 " Then Crampton lied," cried Felicia. " I went 
 to your house and he told me that you were away 
 out of town he did not know where. I felt that 
 the man was romancing. I asked him to let me 
 know when you returned." 
 
 The ego-maniac shuddered. Here was the be- 
 ginning of the symptoms of obnoxious possession, 
 that the law was soon to sanction that he was even 
 anxious to court, for the sake of his career. How 
 ugly it looked this affection of which poets prated, 
 and which novelists blazoned forth ! 
 
 " My dear child," he said loftily. " Crampton is 
 a fool. A friend of mine in St. John's Wood has 
 written a play. He is a very busy man, and could 
 not afford the time to come to me. So I put my- 
 self in the position of Mahomet with respect to the 
 mountain, and went to him. Don't listen to Cramp- 
 ton, Felicia," a shade of uneasiness crept into his 
 voice " he is growing old and stupid. I shall be 
 forced to dispense with his services very soon." 
 
 How easily it was all explained ! Felicia almost 
 laughed as she recalled the hideous hour she had 
 spent at Madame Tussaud's. How useful all her
 
 240 His Own Image 
 
 agony had been as a pleasant paving to the delight- 
 ful way of Reginald's sunny mood. 
 
 "If you only knew how exquisite it is to see you 
 again," she murmured, pressing his arm, and as she 
 pressed it she quickly remembered La Chinoise's 
 action and forgot it. 
 
 The actor could not reply. His aversion was so 
 strong that poor Felicia's girlish pressure irritated 
 him beyond expression. 
 
 "And I am so sorry," she went on, "that I wrote 
 you about that horrid Dejazet. I came to see if he 
 really looked like you, and " she felt an almost 
 voluptuous joy in the pretty lie " I couldn't see 
 any resemblance. Imagine Reginald Rellerick 
 looking like a murderer. What an absurd idea." 
 
 "D6jazet," he said, bitterly resentful, " was per- 
 haps what the world calls a murderer. But he was 
 not as bad as silly people think he was. I know 
 many worse people than D6jazet." 
 
 He said this so indignantly, that Felicia looked 
 at him dumb with astonishment. But she reflected 
 that this was probably his consolation for what was 
 undoubtedly a most deplorable incident. It was 
 an extremely plausible consolation. Felicia's sym- 
 pathy for him gushed forth again, and she pressed 
 his arm even more affectionately. 
 
 " Let us go," she said purringly, looking up into 
 the face of the ego-maniac. "I have something to tell 
 you, Reginald some advice to ask you. I shall 
 wait until we are alone, because I want to argue, 
 and I don't feel in the mood for it just yet." 
 
 He looked at her suspiciously, but Felicia's glance
 
 The Flesh and the Wax * 241 
 
 met his own so sweetly, that he was disarmed. He 
 hated her very sweetness, in its lack of sophisticated 
 quality. What a difference between this bread-and- 
 butter girl, and the richly-caparisoned womanhood 
 of La Chinoise ! How could men run after the 
 silly enigma of guilelessness, when it was possible 
 to obtain the splendid authority of autumnal ma- 
 turity ? 
 
 He fretted in impatience, as they were whirled 
 to his apartment.
 
 Chapter XVI 
 
 "A WEEK FROM TO-DAY " 
 
 How dissimilar were the sensations of the two 
 as they sat in the suave juxtaposition of the vehicle ! 
 Felicia almost forgot her own troubled individual- 
 ity in Reginald's presence. The memory of her 
 impecunious mother and stagnating sisters faded 
 slowly away. She still recalled the " big offer '' 
 that had appealed to her practical sense. It 
 loomed up occasionally, as she leaned on his arm, 
 and assumed the proportions of an ominous black 
 cloud. Suppose he should consent to her three 
 years' contract ! As she reflected upon this faint 
 possibility,, she was almost tempted to leave un- 
 mentioned the managerial inducement. It was so 
 pleasant to be by his side again ; to respire with 
 him the ambition-laden atmosphere of London ; to 
 know that she was the only creature privileged at 
 this particular moment to bask in his sunshine. 
 She lay there with her eyes half closed a captiva- 
 ting picture of confidence. 
 
 Reginald felt suddenly weary and nervous. The 
 presence of this woman was hateful to him. The 
 fact that he was enduring this malaise for the sake 
 of his own ego-pedestal that she had endangered,
 
 " A Week From To-day " 243 
 
 simply enfuriated him more thoroughly against 
 her. He felt her head as it rested upon his coat 
 sleeve, and physical contact which is one of the 
 most capricious, the most illogical, and the most 
 potential of all human conditions stung him into 
 dismay. And the time was approaching rapidly, 
 unerringly, irrevocably, when he must acknowledge 
 her as his wife ; when he must sit with her at the 
 breakfast-table, and watch her eating boiled eggs 
 and kippered herrings ; when his dinner-hour must 
 be hers, and his nights be passed by her side. 
 Reginald, like most ego-maniacs, had no very grave 
 respect for the institution of marriage. The very 
 fact that Felicia, by this union, would share his 
 name, and enjoy the reflection of his lustrous 
 career, was melancholy enough. The ego-maniac 
 wants everything for himself. He must be the one 
 luminous object in a sky that is otherwise dark. 
 
 He thought almost tenderly of his yellow double 
 in the Marylebone Road, alone and emancipated. 
 The model had interested him strangely that 
 morning. He wondered why he had considered it 
 uncanny. It had his own classic and thought-lov- 
 ing profile, and every characteristic of his own per- 
 sonality that he had for years admired. Dejazet 
 seemed to have stared at him sympathetically, as 
 he stood in the museum with La Chinoise the 
 very woman whom the French artist had wor- 
 shipped. After all, this waxen hereafter at Tus- 
 saud's was not so dreadful. Dejazet was sur- 
 rounded by the ceroplastic emblems of men and 
 women who had won notoriety, either by the ex-
 
 244 His Own Image 
 
 tremes of virtue or of vice. His was not an ordi- 
 nary position. The world which is the ego-mani- 
 ac's heaven had marvelled at him, and the Lon- 
 don crowds watched him day by day. Genevieve 
 Delaunay slept in her grave, unremembered, and 
 unmodelled. The man who, for the sake of his 
 art, had removed her from his path, had a pedestal 
 all to himself. To the ego-maniac (and the world 
 is full of types less pronounced than Reginald 
 Rellerick) there is danger in the contemplation of 
 notoriety. The mental pervert, who would rather 
 be an extraordinary criminal, than an ordinary 
 nonentity, is not a stranger to the annals of crime. 
 Morbid museums are much frequented. The tiny 
 urchin, who reads penny-dreadfuls, and loves to 
 imagine himself in the varied situations of their 
 heroes, is the egg from which the ego-maniac is 
 hatched. 
 
 Crampton's face was a study in perplexity, as he 
 saw Felicia and Reginald drive up to the door. 
 The actor looked at his secretary with an impu- 
 dently satirical and quasi-triumphant air. Felicia 
 tossed her stupid little head as she noticed the 
 humble Oxonian, who had been guilty of the 
 iniquity of offering advice to the headstrong girl. 
 And the secretary knew that his cause was lost. 
 
 " Any letters, Crampton ?" asked Reginald, 
 loftily, proudly conscious that he was master of the 
 occasion, now as ever. 
 
 Crampton was reckless and defiant. " A few 
 bills from St. John's Wood," he said, pointedly. 
 " I paid them, presuming that they were cor-
 
 " A Week From To-day " 245 
 
 rect. There was an account of thirty pounds, and 
 some odd shillings at " 
 
 " That will do," Reginald interrupted, with a sin- 
 ister glance at his mouldy factotum. " I do not 
 wish to be worried with money affairs. I have 
 never asked for such details, Crampton, and I do 
 not intend to begin now. I am surprised at you." 
 
 " I thought " began the secretary, with the sink- 
 ing feeling of deference that Reginald's high-falutin 
 way invariably induced. But what he thought was, 
 in the language of the law-court, " irrelevant and 
 immaterial," and Reginald moved away to his 
 sanctum, followed by Felicia. She closed the door 
 quickly. 
 
 " Now," she said, standing at the portal, expect- 
 ant and laughing. " You may kiss me." 
 
 The fact was so obvious, that the humor of the 
 poor, clinging thing appealed to him, and he smiled 
 in his ugly and sournois manner. Probably he 
 would have appreciated her more, if she had dis- 
 played the tawdry coquetries of La Chinoise, the 
 courtesan, who had studied the philosophy of the 
 offensive and the defensive in matters of sexual 
 companionship. Felicia was the foolish, unsophis- 
 ticated English girl, redolent of strong tea, and 
 lettuce, and she was not amusing. He summoned 
 up his courage for it 'was really a matter of 
 courage and kissed her. As he did so, the image 
 of D6jazet, standing up at Tussaud's, with a smile 
 on his pink wax lips, appeared before him, and gave 
 him strength. He kissed her with a semblance of 
 earnestness.
 
 246 His Own Image 
 
 "And now," said Felicia, quivering with delight, 
 " we'll have a nice long chat. Sit down and listen, 
 Reginald, and be prepared to advise." 
 
 A vague and almost hopeless hope came to him. 
 Perhaps some Lancashire squire with a rent-roll 
 had proposed to her, and mamma had favored his 
 suit ! Possibly some domestic difficulty had oc- 
 curred which urged her to settle for ever in the 
 provinces. Reginald was conscious of a huge and 
 overwhelming menace of magnanimity. He would 
 not withhold his consent. He would sorrow- 
 fully, of course refuse to keep her to her engage- 
 ment. He would dower her handsomely. He 
 would give her his friendship for life friendship 
 was so nice and cheap. He would cause her to 
 remember him gladly for the adulation of Felicia 
 at a safe and unsurpassable distance, would not be 
 disagreeable. He would place a box in his theatre 
 at the disposal of herself and husband, whenever 
 she visited London. He sat there, dreaming of a 
 swift and gorgeous release. And as this faint pos- 
 sibility of happiness flecked the darkness of his 
 mind, he thought once more of Dejazet, and saw 
 him this time, in all his frightful ostracism. 
 
 " Reginald," said Felicia, slowly and tentatively. 
 " While I was at home in Lancashire, I could not 
 help remembering that I am a horribly dependent 
 girl. You know that mamma is poor, and my 
 sisters dear girls are expensive. I have given 
 them regularly half of my earnings " (and she did 
 not think resentfully of the pittance he had allowed 
 her), " and they have managed to jog along as
 
 " A Week From To-day" 247 
 
 cheerfully as possible. But " sighing, " the girls 
 are grown up. They need attractive gowns in 
 order to keep up appearances, and and mamma's 
 expenses seem to me to be larger than they were." 
 
 This sounded promising, and Reginald's almost 
 hopeless hope flickered spasmodically. 
 
 " Of course," he said, nearly kindly. " Of course." 
 
 He felt more inclined to be magnanimous than 
 ever willing to give half his fortune to the Liver- 
 pool girls. He felt that they were ungainly, seed- 
 cake-eating women, who wore white muslin, with 
 blue sashes, and had large feet in buttoned boots. 
 
 " It would be humiliating to me, Reginald," she 
 went on, almost pleadingly, " to ask for money, 
 every time I needed to send some home. Of 
 course I know that you are generosity personified, 
 and would never refuse it, but but there is a way 
 out of the difficulty, and perhaps perhaps you 
 will consent to it." 
 
 Her heart sank, for an expression that distinctly 
 resembled benevolence was woven into the texture 
 of his features. Perhaps, after all, he was going to 
 relinquish her for her own sake, and listen to the 
 promptings that a sheer sense of duty induced her 
 to make. Misericorde ! 
 
 " You need not mind asking me for money, 
 Felicia," he murmured, vif with a hope that seemed 
 almost dazzling, still haunted by the vision of 
 Dejazet sneering and deriding. " What I have is 
 yours, now and always." 
 
 " Dear Reginald !" she said, and a tear trickled 
 down her cheek. He was certainly going to see
 
 248 His Own Image 
 
 everything as she dreaded him to see it. " Then 
 again," she went on. " I know that you, my dear 
 boy, are not overburdened with riches, that you 
 live extravagantly, that you make big productions 
 which call for the expenditure of thousands of 
 pounds, that your cherished profession is, at the 
 best, but a game of speculation, and and I don't 
 want to be an incubus." Then frightened at what 
 appeared to her to be a veritable Niagara of irresist- 
 ible logic she began to cry. Going up to him, she 
 put her arms round his neck, and sobbed : " You 
 know, dear, that I love you as much as ever." 
 
 For the first time, since the malevolence of fate 
 had allowed her to supplant him, he felt that there 
 were some redeeming features in poor Felicia Hal- 
 stead. She was surely about to do the Marguerite 
 Gautier act, and loving, relinquish him. She had 
 undoubtedly been wooed in Lancashire. And he 
 amused himself by imagining her lover some sleek 
 and well-fed business man, with glistening pomaded 
 hair parted on the side, a respectable diagonal 
 " tail-coat " and a nice silk hat, worn on Sundays 
 only. 
 
 " Felicia," he said and he made a pretense of 
 being deeply moved, " I have your welfare always 
 at heart. It has ever been my desire, as I think 
 you will acknowledge, to see you happy and com- 
 fortable. Although it might wound me deeply to 
 find our plans set aside " the words seemed too 
 sweet to utter with nonchalance " you can be quite 
 persuaded that I shall never do anything to inter- 
 fere with your prospects."
 
 " A Week From To-day " 249 
 
 The ego-maniac loves to " make sacrifices," be. 
 cause, by so doing, he seems to enhance his own 
 value. But the sacrifices must naturally be inex- 
 pensive, and not calculated in any way to interfere 
 with his own voluptuous self-idolatry. 
 
 " But," said Felicia, drying her eyes and giving 
 her duty-cause a dig, " I don't want you to let me 
 go, if you really feel that it will be too hard for you. 
 Remember that. Please remember that." 
 
 Reginald twitched with the excitement of an ex- 
 pectation that seemed to him to open the doors of 
 heaven an expectation of freedom, of permission 
 to resume his career, non-confronted by the danger 
 of a dreaded and feminine rival. He could scarcely 
 wait for her to continue. He arose and placed his 
 trembling hand upon her shoulder. " Go on, Felicia, 
 tell me all," he muttered. 
 
 Felicia scarcely knew how to begin. She made 
 a supreme effort however, and started : " You are 
 an actor, Reginald, for the sake of art and glory. 
 I told you truly, some time ago, that I could not 
 understand that. It seems to me such a poor thing 
 to live for the adulation of a crowd of people one 
 cares nothing whatsoever about. I could never act 
 for laurels, my dear, but I could act for the sake of 
 the money that the work brings in. When I got 
 back from Liverpool, I found a letter from Morti- 
 mer Branton your old friend, Reginald offering 
 me a three years' contract, at one hundred and fifty 
 pounds a week a fortune, Reginald. And and 
 it seemed to me " 
 
 She stopped, terrified by the look upon his face
 
 250 His Own Image 
 
 a look oppressive, vindictive, deadly the look 
 that Dejazet at Madame Tussaud's wore in yellow 
 wax. She paused for a moment, mortally afraid of 
 that look, and then moistening her lips, upon which 
 the crusts of fever were forming, went on : " It 
 seemed to me that it would be sinful to set aside 
 such an offer, unconsidered. One doesn't find such 
 opportunities every day, dear. As I told you, I 
 have no interest in the stage for itself, but if you 
 consent, I I will work hard, diligently, unceasingly 
 for three years, and come to you then, as your wife, 
 not not quite penniless." 
 
 The reaction came swiftly to the actor. From 
 the height of a golden promise that seemed to be 
 the acme of exaltation, he was hurled headlong into 
 the old pitiless and irremediable situation. The 
 shock was so great, that the torrent of words which 
 would have indicated his fury was fortunately 
 stayed. The very pitfall that he had dreaded the 
 morning after his failure had opened at his feet. 
 Here, right before him, was the woman whom Lon. 
 don would rear up in his stead. He felt sick with 
 disgust. Mortimer Branton, one of the wiliest and 
 most infallible of the money-makers in the market 
 of theatrical speculation, had seen the possibilities 
 of Felicia Halstead, to the tune of a three years' con- 
 tract, at an enormous salary. What he feared had 
 come to pass, and in his ego-mania and dank selfish- 
 ness he judged her by his own standard, and disre- 
 garded even the power of her love. 
 
 The torrent of anger that the sudden shock had 
 dammed, broke loose at last. He grew apoplectic-
 
 " A Week From To-day " 25 1 
 
 ally red in the face, trembled, and paced the room 
 like a caged beast. " What did I tell you," he 
 cried, " when you came to me with pretty pathetic 
 stories of devotion ? What did I say when I accused 
 you of trying to oust me from my position ? Ah, 
 I knew you, Felicia Halstead, I knew you. What 
 is a promise of marriage to you ? With all your 
 protestations, you succumb to the smallest tempta- 
 tion. I am tired of it. I am weary, disgusted. 
 Curse Pinerville. Curse his play that brought me 
 to this. Bah !" 
 
 The room swam, and he almost fell, in the whirl- 
 wind of his anger. He forgot La Chinoise ; he for- 
 got the last few days of his strange and threatening 
 self-composure. But he could see the waxen figure 
 of Dejazet at Madame Tussaud's, and to his excited 
 imagination, it seemed to be laughing in a waxen 
 ecstasy of impossible mirth. 
 
 Felicia was afraid, but Felicia was a woman, 
 wearing the opaque bandage of love. Reginald's 
 coarsely evident wrath was to her but the pardon- 
 able fury of a baffled lover. She sat and watched 
 him, as though she were admiring the reckless 
 grandeur of an electric storm. Her feelings were 
 hurt by the savagery of his words, but they daz- 
 zled and stimulated her. 
 
 " You shall never accept this contract," he 
 shouted, " Never. I swear it. You shall fulfil 
 your promise. You shall not mortify my soul by 
 your vacillations and your disloyalty." 
 
 He ground his teeth in his rage. She threw back 
 her head in a little nervous way that was not un-
 
 252 His Own Image 
 
 usual with her. He saw her cool white throat, with 
 its thin blue veins. Once again the picture of 
 DeJ'azet leaped into his mind. The crowds were 
 gazing at him now in the Marylebone Road, and 
 recalling the details of his murder-crime. For once 
 Reginald was afraid of himself. The effort to rid 
 his mind of the Dejazet idea, was such a tremen- 
 dous one that it exhausted his mental force. He sat 
 down, the perspiration dripping from his forehead. 
 
 " Why, my dear, dear Reginald," cried Felicia in 
 alarm, " I did not mean to vex you like this. I 
 merely suggested to you my own idea an idea 
 that had you in view just as much as myself. I 
 told you that I wanted your advice. I was afraid 
 that you would tell me to sign the contract and go 
 ahead. Your manner a few minutes ago seemed 
 to indicate your willingness. You frighten me 
 when you behave like this. I have done nothing 
 at all. I have signed no contract. We are in pre- 
 cisely the same position now, as we were when you 
 spoke to me at Euston Station." 
 
 He stared at her, and tried to penetrate the sig- 
 nificance of her words. The ego-maniac always 
 looks for a " significance," even when a blessing is 
 bestowed upon him. He would suspect an angel 
 of mercy of ulterior motives. His hatred of this 
 woman surely exceeded the limits of mortal hatred. 
 It was like a sirocco and it seared him. He had 
 been buoyed up by the fantastic hope that she 
 would pass out of his life, surely and for ever, only 
 to find that she was more irrevocably tangled up 
 than ever with his career.
 
 " A Week From To-day " 253 
 
 " You will fulfil your promise ?" he asked 
 harshly, and it seemed to him that a roomful of 
 people looked at him, and called him No. 37, and 
 commented upon the expression of his face, and 
 declared that he looked the criminal, from head to 
 foot. 
 
 " Of course I will," she answered, gladly, still 
 alarmed at the storm she had called forth, and 
 trembling slightly. " I love you, and my life has 
 but one object. I hate the stage. I purposed 
 resuming work simply for the reasons that you 
 already know." 
 
 Suspicion filmed his eyes, and he looked at her, 
 darkly questioning. Her earnestness, the sincerity 
 that had not swerved at the tirade that would have 
 driven away a practical, unclinging woman seemed 
 to convince him. He had made a mistake. She 
 had not intended to compete with his stage career, 
 unless he himself had advised it. She was still his, 
 to hunt from the eyes of men, and fetter with the 
 chains of an eternal domesticity. He had hated 
 her before this, and now he dreaded her. She was 
 a rival in imagination before this hour. Now she 
 appeared before him as an actual combatant, 
 selected as worthy to cope with him, by one of the 
 shrewdest theatrical men in London by the very 
 man, in fact, 'whose championship he had himself 
 sought in vain. Poor Felicia's unselfishness had 
 operated cruelly against herself. Unselfishness 
 frequently does this, for it is less vulgarly spectac- 
 ular than ego-mania, and it is generally miscon- 
 strued.
 
 254 His Own Image 
 
 There was no time to be lost, however. He real- 
 ized that. She was still his, and the nauseating 
 task of rebinding her to him confronted him 
 eagerly. 
 
 " You frightened me, Felicia," he gasped. " I 
 had relied upon upon our marriage, and and 
 you seemed so desperate." 
 
 Felicia went to him, and with her handkerchief 
 a pretty little lace affair that she wore at her waist 
 wiped the perspiration from his brow. Then she 
 stroked his hair and kissed him as though he had 
 been a spoiled child. And Felicia belonged to a 
 sex that has taken to wearing trousers and inveigh- 
 ing against the tyranny of man a sex that can 
 never accomplish this new mission, until the Felicias 
 of the world have been stamped out. And they 
 are being born every day. 
 
 An inkling of sense crept into her mind. She 
 said, simply : " I don't believe you love me, Regi- 
 nald." 
 
 It was so quietly spoken, and there was such 
 apparent resignation in it, that the ego-maniac felt 
 another qualm of fear. In spite of all, she might 
 never marry him, if she even suspected a fraction 
 of the unlovely truth. 
 
 " I love you, Felicia," he said, with a force of 
 will that astonished him, " else why should I have 
 troubled to quarrel with you ? We are angry only 
 with those whom it is worth while to reproach. I 
 talked nonsense about your supplanting me, but it 
 was an excuse you will admit that it was a plausi- 
 ble excuse, Felicia."
 
 " A Week From To-day " 255 
 
 He seemed self-reproachful, and Felicia's ready 
 sympathies came forth as usual. "Yes, yes, I 
 know," she remarked, soothingly. " It is all under- 
 stood. You were a wicked, spiteful boy, and you 
 are sorry for it." 
 
 "Do you " he put the question uneasily "do 
 you believe that I love you ?" 
 
 " If you say it," she replied, ingenuously, " I be- 
 lieve it. Say it." 
 
 He still felt the eyes of a roomful of people upon 
 him. He seemed to be standing erect before them, 
 awaiting their comments. In his ears rang such 
 phrases as "Look at his expression," "See that 
 queer compression of the lips," and " Can't you 
 notice the lines about his mouth ?" His feet ap- 
 peared to be stiff, and his legs without sensation. 
 The clothes he wore pressed uncomfortably against 
 his flesh. He experienceS a strange inclination to 
 laugh, but he was unable to coax a smile to his 
 lips. Above the voices of the roomful of people 
 he heard Felicia's words " If you say it, I believe 
 it. Say it." 
 
 "I say it," he murmured. " I love you." 
 
 He took her hand and held it in his own. It 
 was pink, and plump, and pretty. His own fin- 
 gers struck him as looking yellow and nailless, like 
 those of the model at Tussaud's. 
 
 Felicia stood on tiptoe and kissed him. He was 
 about to shrink from the embrace that gave him a 
 sensation of something akin to pain, but too much 
 was at stake. For the present, at any rate, he 
 must dissemble. Later on, perhaps He remem-
 
 256 His Own Image 
 
 bered La Chinoise, and the very different feeling 
 of her warm, ripe and enthusiastic lips. Ah, he 
 had met very few women like La Chinoise. How 
 easy it would have been to follow the decrees of a 
 fate that compelled him to marry La Chinoise ! 
 
 " We will be married a week from to-day," said 
 Felicia. " And then my poor boy will have no 
 further occasion to fear the desertion of his sweet- 
 heart. Will a week from to-day suit you, Regi- 
 nald ?" 
 
 " A week from to-day ?" he echoed. " Yes, a 
 week from to-day." 
 
 They passed from the room, almost stumbling 
 against Crampton at the head of the staircase. 
 The secretary looked at them helplessly. He fol- 
 lowed them downstairs. Reginald went first, and 
 entered the dining-room. Felicia, a few yards be- 
 hind, was on the threshold of that apartment. 
 Crampton came forward, and she heard him say, in 
 her ear : " A week from to-day. Do not be afraid. 
 Remember my words."
 
 Chapter XVII 
 
 SHRIMPS AND WATERCRESS 
 
 THE die was cast, and the denouement must 
 work itself out to its very knots. The web into 
 which fate had pushed him was closing around 
 him. He could still wriggle a little, and feel the 
 freedom of his wings, but there was no ultimate 
 hope. He had made his bed, and it was there 
 yawning for him. Felicia left him shortly after 
 the naming of the " glad day," and went back 
 to Notting Hill, on the condition that she should 
 see him again that evening. She had reached the 
 position when she was able to make " conditions," 
 and he ground his teeth as he thought of it. His 
 callous selfishness never suggested to him that poor 
 Felicia's eagerness was due to a desire to take him 
 away from himself, and from the odious souvenirs 
 of his waxen counterpart. 
 
 He was to go to Notting Hill that night. He 
 sat in a sort of stupor in a veritable mental cul- 
 de-sac. His thoughts flew to St. John's Wood and 
 La Chinoise. He would not give her up. He 
 could afford two households, and he could render 
 life endurable in that way. It was an arrangement 
 with which London was extremely familiar. The 
 
 [257]
 
 258 His Own Image 
 
 rule in the metropolis was external monogamy, 
 internal polygamy. Who would care ? Possibly 
 not even Felicia, as the bloom wore off the love- 
 apple, and sentiment resolved itself into boiled 
 mutton and caper-sauce. 
 
 He shut his eyes and thought. Before his men- 
 tal vision arose the omnipresent Dejazet, still erect 
 on his pedestal, yellow and menacing. And he 
 remembered La Chinoise's story with a. shudder- 
 "Claire," Dejazet had said, on the eve of marriage 
 with Genevieve, " I have lost everything. I must 
 marry this girl, and you and I must end our rela- 
 tions. I will try and do my duty. Perhaps I have 
 been a brute. I hate her now, but possibly when 
 she is my wife, bearing my name, I may become, 
 at any rate, more reconciled to my life." 
 
 Was he more infamous than the dead artist who 
 had reached Madame Tussaud's, branded as a 
 " murderer ?" Even this sinister thing, at which 
 the ribald mob stared, had possessed the decency 
 that holds the civilized world in its clasp. Even 
 this murderer had contemplated abandoning the 
 woman he loved, for the sake of the woman he 
 married. Reginald hated to think contemptuously 
 of himself. The ego-maniac is frequently virtuous, 
 not in order to please society, but in order to please 
 himself. He dislikes to damage the symmetry of 
 his own picture. So Rellerick made up his mind 
 that he would, for his own sake, inform La Chinoise 
 of his contemplated marriage, and rupture their 
 relations. 
 
 It would be a bitter blow to her, of course, for
 
 Shrimps and Watercress 259 
 
 she loved him as she had loved Djazet. There 
 would be a scene of agony that would be horrid, 
 yet pleasant. And she would swear, as she had 
 sworn before, that this marriage should not take 
 place. He never doubted the affection of the 
 Frenchwoman. It seemed to be such an exceed- 
 ingly tangible affair and so absolutely reasonable. 
 Moreover, he felt impelled to love her. She ap- 
 peared to be knitted into the texture of his life. 
 So had Djazet felt, but D<jazet had said : " You 
 and I must end our relations. I will try and do 
 my duty." He would do the same. The grinning 
 effigy in the Marylebone Road should be allowed 
 no advantages. He would not be inferior to one 
 whom the world called criminal. 
 
 Crampton came into the room, noiselessly, more 
 mildewed than ever. The stoop of his shoulders 
 seemed to have emphasized itself, and his rusty coat 
 shone. The secretary was nervous and unable to 
 settle to his usual tasks. He hovered around Reg- 
 inald, as though he were trying to make up his mind 
 to speak, and were unable to bring himself to it. 
 He " pottered " about, and his parchment face was 
 more bloodless than ever. Finally, he nerved him- 
 self to his effort, and his phonographic voice 
 emerged from its silence. 
 
 He stood in front of the comatose actor, and 
 said : " Shall you leave London after your mar- 
 riage ? Shall you take your your wife away ? 
 It is usual, I know, but is it not useless ?" 
 
 Reginald looked up, and pondered over the words 
 before he quite understood what they meant.
 
 260 His Own Image 
 
 Their import came upon him with a rush and 
 aroused him to impatience. 
 
 " What has that to do with you ?" he cried. 
 " What does it matter to you whether we stay in 
 London or. go to Jamaica ? I have no plans. 
 What is your interest in the matter ? Perhaps " 
 sarcastically " you have some advice to offer in 
 your latest role of confidence-dispenser." 
 
 Crampton had no illusions, and sarcasm was 
 quite lost upon him. He was grappling with a 
 tragedy, and his own skin mattered very little. " I 
 have advice," he said earnestly. " Stay in London. 
 You would be miserable away from it. It is your 
 life, and the atmosphere that you love. Remain in 
 London, with the crowd. It is the wisest thing to 
 do." 
 
 Reginald laughed harshly. " You can't picture 
 us cooing on a mountain," he said, " or billing by 
 the side of some dirty stream that the poets call 
 pellucid ? You can't imagine us as twin souls with 
 but one single thought and that thought a purple 
 mountain, or an orange sunset ? Ha ! Ha ! Ha j 
 I am afraid that you know me, Crampton. You 
 think it more reasonable that we should stay in the 
 metropolis, and start our manage in the tumult 
 begin as we mean to go on. Ha ! Ha ! Ha !" 
 
 But even as he laughed the prospect grew hate- 
 ful and black. He must indeed begin his wedded 
 life as he meant to end it. It was not his plan to 
 establish Felicia Halstead in the crowd to supply 
 the Londoners with a Mrs. Reginald Rellerick. 
 Her establishment should be everything that was
 
 Shrimps and Watercress 261 
 
 seemly and luxurious. But it should be where she 
 could languish, unknown and unsuspected. Yes, 
 he had already settled that point in his mind. 
 Her London life should end when the wedding- 
 ring was on her finger. There could be no regrets, 
 and no false hopes. 
 
 " Your advice is useless, Crampton," he said, 
 lightly. " We shall go away as every respectable 
 married couple should do. While I may not care 
 to join the throng of picnicking Benedicts, and do 
 the stereotyped visit to Paris, or the conventional 
 trip to Switzerland, we shall go away. And " 
 with a sudden impulse " I will give to you the 
 task of discovering for me a honeymoon resort. 
 Let it be some secluded hotel not too secluded 
 in some seaside place where there are not too 
 many tourists, so that we shall not have to pick 
 our way through gingerbeer bottles, and confec- 
 tionery bags. Don't worry yourself about pasting 
 any more clippings in my scrap-book, Crampton. 
 Just busy yourself with my honeymoon resort, 
 where I must go " he tried to repress the look 
 that came into his eyes " a week from to-day." 
 
 'A week from to-day!" echoed Crampton again. 
 " A week from to-day." 
 
 Presently he said slowly, " Mr. Rellerick, what 
 am I to do while you are away ?" 
 
 While he was away! Reginald was unable to 
 realize the real meaning of the words. While he 
 was away, honeymooning with Felicia Halstead ! 
 What was Crampton to do while he was away? 
 What would he do himself ? He could not see so
 
 262 His Own Image 
 
 far into the future, and yet he would begin being 
 " away " in a week. Eight days from now he 
 would be " away." It seemed ridiculously improb- 
 able. Yet it was nothing of the sort. He would be 
 " away " as surely as he was now in London. He 
 could not help smiling at the ludicrous audacity of 
 Crampton's question. 
 
 "You will do as you please," he answered. 
 " There is still a week to decide." 
 
 " I suppose "the secretary's voice faltered, and 
 he seemed to be whipping himself to the question 
 " I suppose that you will not want me to accom- 
 pany you ?" 
 
 The actor stared at him in amazement. He 
 wondered if Crampton were taking leave of his 
 senses. " No," he said, " I shall not want you. Al- 
 though they say that a solitude a deux becomes 
 very tiresome personally, I know nothing about 
 it, though I suspect that ' they ' are right I do not 
 look upon you, Crampton, as the right sort of per- 
 son to cheer us up. With the best of intentions, 
 one could not call you lively. And I shall have no 
 duties for you to undertake. There will be no 
 letters to write or to answer. You can remain in 
 London until you hear from me. Or, if you care 
 to end your services in my behalf when I leave, I 
 will release you." 
 
 He spoke lightly, but it was an effort, He hated 
 Crampton, and was half afraid of the distrustful 
 eyes that stared at him so pitilessly. With this 
 taciturn person to greet him when he resumed his 
 career, he would always feel uncomfortable.
 
 Shrimps and Watercress 263 
 
 There would invariably be references to Mrs. Rel- 
 lerick, and a tender solicitude for her welfare. He 
 would prefer a myrmidon to whom his past was un- 
 known. Crampton had been very valuable to him. 
 All his most famous " addresses," and his most 
 widely discussed magazine articles had been the 
 work of Crampton. But he was sacrificing so much 
 for the sake of his career, that he could well afford 
 to include Crampton in the sacrifice. He feared 
 his secretary. He did not dare to discharge him 
 pointedly. 
 
 " I will wait for you," said Crampton slowly. " I 
 will be in London when you return." 
 
 He shuffled away, with ambling, awkward steps, 
 each long arm a pendulum swaying at his side. 
 He had grown singularly non-acquiescent, Reginald 
 thought. But he soon forgot Crampton. Cramp- 
 ton was a mere detail just a spot on the web, and 
 nothing more. 
 
 That evening he went to Netting Hill, deter- 
 mined to do his duty the duty that the dead De- 
 jazet had emphazised so strongly. It was a 
 nauseous pill to swallow, but there would be others 
 more nauseous, before his interrupted career could 
 hope to reassert itself ? Would he ever again be 
 the idol of London, his doings the pet themes of 
 the newspapers, and his words the directions for 
 the multitude ? He tried to peer into the future, as 
 he sat jolted in a tight omnibus, on his way to Mrs. 
 Landington's retreat. But the haze was thick and 
 impenetrable. He could not pierce it. Looming 
 up in the blackness, he could always detect Dejazet.
 
 264 His Own Image 
 
 It was invariably Dejazet. He struggled vainly 
 against this eternal obsession. 
 
 Reginald could scarcely induce himself to ring 
 the respectable brass door-bell that decorated the 
 side of Felicia's bower. He looked impudently at 
 the house which held the woman whose tentacles 
 were fastened upon his life. How relentlessly 
 matter-of-fact it all was! No wonder people 
 clamoured for romance and excitement at the 
 theatre, when their daily life was so ugly and 
 colourless. He was going to see fair Rosamund. 
 He had dashed up to the bower in a twopenny bus, 
 sandwiched between two fat women with shopping 
 bags. And the bower was a cheap suburban 
 house, with eight rooms and a bath, and a back 
 door, and a yard. It was all so kif-kifznd. yet he 
 was a great actor, upon whom the public had relied 
 for entertainment and self-oblivion. The bell 
 rang lustily as he pulled it. He gazed into the 
 bower through a " frosted " pane of glass in the 
 front door. The steps of the bower had been 
 " whitened " by a London slavey, at twelve pounds 
 a year and the kitchen fat, and in the window at 
 the top of the bower he could see the looking-glass, 
 at which the slavey brushed her hair, and removed 
 the smuts from her face if, indeed, she ever re- 
 moved them. This was Felicia's bower, and a very 
 good bower he had thought it, when it had served 
 his purposes unobtrusively. But now, she was 
 about to enter his life as the only means of saving 
 that life, and he sniffed contemptuously at the 
 bower, and hated himself for being so close to it.
 
 Shrimps and Watercress 265 
 
 " Why, it's Mr. Rellerick," said Mrs. Landington 
 joyously, as she opened the door, and wiped her 
 mouth upon her apron not because she needed to 
 do it, but because lower-class London matrons 
 always wipe their mouths upon their aprons, in 
 emotional moments. " I do declare it's Mr. Reller- 
 ick," she continued. " I've 'card the good news, 
 sir, and I congratulate you, from the bottom of my 
 'eart. She's a good, dear girl is Miss 'Alstead. 
 And she's a lucky girl, too, I say, for you've been 
 a kind employer, sir, and you'll be a good 'usband." 
 
 Reginald felt sick at heart, as he was ushered 
 into the parlour. Why had he come ? This was 
 surely an unnecessary torture. But it was part of 
 his duty, the " duty " of which Dejazet had prated 
 to La Chinoise. The ugly farce must proceed. 
 Felicia was taking tea with a couple of friends. 
 They were girls of the neighbourhood, who had 
 " dropped in." In cities one has to live in " neigh- 
 bourhoods," and they mean " neighbours." She sat 
 there a radiant picture, her lovely face illumined, 
 and her features wreathed in animation. It was a 
 picture that all London would have loved to see, 
 with its insipid suburban framing, and its odd con- 
 trast of cheap respectability. But to the ego-ma- 
 niac it was loathsome. He looked at the tea, in- 
 stead of at the divinely sympathetic face of the girl 
 who presided at it. Alas ! that face was powerless 
 to affect him, as it would have affected others. 
 
 And the tea ! He saw shrimps in a glass dish, 
 and water-cress, with drops of freshness on it, on a 
 plate. His eye took in hunks of soggy seed-cake,
 
 266 His Own Image 
 
 and mounds of plebeian bread-and-butter. She was 
 pouring tea from a dark brown teapot, into ugly 
 cups with red flowers on them, and on the plate by 
 her side was half a muffin, with a large semicircle 
 bitten out of it. This was his affianced wife to 
 be his in one week. And this was the woman 
 whom London was willing to raise up in his stead 
 a woman with no soul, but with a soulless ability 
 to act. At least that is what he thought. Morti- 
 mer Branton had offered one hundred and fifty 
 pounds a week to this unfledged girl, who bit semi- 
 circles out of muffins, and poured out tea for the 
 spinsters of the neighbourhood. His heart was filled 
 with bitterness. Of what use is a reputation when 
 it can be intruded upon by such a substitute? 
 
 " Reginald !" she cried, putting down the teapot, 
 and rushing up to kiss him. He could almost taste 
 the buttered muffin on her lips. " You dear good 
 boy to come. I had almost given you up. You 
 have never had a meal here before, and I'm sorry 
 that Landy didn't provide anything nicer. I know 
 you would sooner have seventeen courses, begin- 
 ning at oysters, and ending at coffee, but well, this 
 will be a new experience to you. Sit down, and 
 pretend you are at home." 
 
 She knew that he hated it, and she was secretly 
 angry at those stupid girls for being present. She 
 should have been " out " to them, or have dismissed 
 them early. But Felicia had longed to pour the 
 story of her happiness into feminine ears, and she 
 had hailed her visiting neighbours. What did it 
 matter to her that they were merely Miss Robinson
 
 Shrimps and Watercress 267 
 
 and Miss Smithson ? But now she felt thoroughly 
 vexed about it. The introductions were made, and 
 the great actor bowed to the suburban nobodies. 
 The nobodies were delighted. Miss Robinson in- 
 sisted that Mr. Rellerick must sit by Felicia, be- 
 cause they were 'engaged. And Miss Smithson 
 playfully asked if they should withdraw, and leave 
 the lovers alone. Miss Robinson thought that it 
 must be lovely to be engaged, and Miss Smithson 
 asked pointed questions about true lovers' knots 
 and " Mizpah " rings. There was no need for 
 either Reginald or Felicia to utter a word. The 
 nobodies kept up an endless chatter, anent the 
 pomp and ceremony of marriage. 
 
 " To think," said the one, " that it will take 
 place a week from to-day. I shall have to buy 
 Felicia a ready-made present instead of working 
 her a table-centre, as I should like to have done." 
 
 " You are impetuous people," chirruped the 
 other, " but I suppose that true love knows no rea- 
 son. Oh Felicia, if I were you, I should beg Mr. 
 Rellerick to take you for your honeymoon to 
 Ramsgate. The hotels there are always full of 
 newly married people. It's such fun looking at 
 them. If you go to Ramsgate I shall really be 
 tempted to follow." 
 
 Simple, unsophisticated, suburban maidens ! 
 Felicia sighed as she realized their discordant 
 notes. Yes, she could have found it in her heart 
 to wish that the lordly actor, trying to separate a 
 shrimp from its shell (and failing) was nothing but 
 a " young man," with none of the exotic qualities
 
 268 His Own Image 
 
 that in her heart she despised. If the fatiguing 
 parade in front of other people had only ended for 
 him when the final curtain fell ! If he could have 
 rushed from the gilded salons of the playhouse and 
 found pleasure in the simple comfort of the suburbs, 
 how much easier it would have been for them- 
 But the actor becomes absorbed by the scenes that 
 he mimics, and she knew that only too well. Still 
 and she cleared away her sighs she would not 
 like him if he were different. He was her ideal 
 just as he was Perhaps if he enjoyed shrimps and 
 seed-cake he would lose the glamour that sur- 
 rounded him. 
 
 Reginald felt more at his ease when the nobodies 
 told him how they doted upon him as an actor ; 
 how they had waited at the pit-doors for hours, 
 every time that he produced a new play ; how they 
 saw him a dozen times in every role that he essayed. 
 This was more pleasing to his ears than the sense- 
 less orange-blossom cackle that brought him so 
 close to his agony. 
 
 " But in your last play," said Miss Robinson, 
 with a coy finger raised, " I will frankly confess 
 that I was more interested in this dear, good girl, 
 Felicia. It would have been dreadful for you, Mr. 
 Rellerick, if you had married a novice. Fancy the 
 two of you, always being able to play opposite 
 parts, and each adored by the audience." 
 
 " It isn't often that stage honors are divided so 
 charmingly," chirped Miss Smithson. " It is like 
 Irving and Ellen Terry. But I often think that 
 Miss Terry could get along very nicely without
 
 Shrimps and Watercress 269 
 
 Irving, but that he would be useless without 
 her." 
 
 " You are silly girls," said Felicia she did not 
 dare to look at the face of her lover. " I shall 
 never be a great actress, because I don't care about 
 acting. It wouldn't vex me in the least if I never 
 appeared again, and I shall coax Reginald, in all 
 probability, to give me a long holiday for life." 
 
 She looked at him, when she had finished. His 
 face was stern and set. There were crows' feet 
 around his eyes, and even at that squalid little tea- 
 table, amid the shrimps and water-cresses, he looked 
 yellow and unreal and heavy like the waxen De- 
 jazet in the Marylebone Road. He tried to shake 
 it off. The time had not yet come when he could 
 dare to assert himself. He assumed a light mood, 
 but it was more difficult to assume than that of any 
 role he had ever played. 
 
 It was a melancholy evening but it was the first 
 step on the awful ladder that he was to mount be- 
 fore he could see his cherished career again. He 
 might possibly be able to climb the rest of the lad- 
 der. He felt quite sure that he would be able to 
 do so. He intended to do his duty ; he was quite 
 sure of that. The bitter pill must be swallowed, 
 and it was just as well for him to get some idea of 
 what it was going to taste like. It was going to 
 taste very nasty indeed, but there was everything 
 at stake. He cursed her, as she sat there with her 
 spinsters, and he cursed the day when he had first 
 seen her. But it was waste of time. Everything 
 was arranged. The loophole through which he
 
 270 His Own Image 
 
 would emerge was open. He had opened it, and 
 he must try to feel thankful for its possibilities. 
 Perhaps he would live to laugh at this watercress 
 tea, and to look back upon all these agonies as a 
 nightmare that would never be resumed. 
 
 He arose to go before the nobodies had attempted 
 to depart. He was not anxious for another tt$e-a- 
 t$te with Felicia. That which was to begin in one 
 short week was all that i.e could endure. It was 
 easy to see that the nobodies were disappointed in 
 him. All girls love a lover, and Reginald Rellerick 
 had not played his role convincingly. There is no 
 such thing as originality in love-making. The good 
 old fever must take its course in the good old way. 
 The " ars amatoria " of Ovid's day has reached 
 the twentieth century, without suffering the vestige 
 of a change. 
 
 As he left the house, he swore [that he would 
 see La Chinoise the next day. He would see her, 
 if only to tell her that everything must be at an 
 end between them. And he thought as a gour- 
 mand thinks of an epicurean dish of her tears 
 all for him ; of her agony all for him ; and of her 
 certain determination not to relinquish her second 
 Dejazet all for him. Yes, there was a whiff of 
 pleasure in store for him, before he allowed his 
 career to swallow everything. But he would do 
 his duty ; he really would. So far, he felt rather 
 pleased with himself.
 
 Chapter XVIII 
 
 "ONE LAST KISS," SAID THE SIREN 
 
 As Reginald Rellerick entered La Chinoise's or- 
 nate villa in St. John's Wood from the front, 
 Cerisette left it surreptitiously from the back. La 
 Chinoise had not abandoned her old friends there 
 wasn't a man in London good enough to induce 
 her to do it, she often said but she knew ex- 
 tremely well that the fastidious actor would not 
 admit the feminine souvenirs of her Piccadilly Cir- 
 cusdom, and she could not afford to take risks. 
 She was a wise woman in her generation. More- 
 over, she was no longer young, and maturity is 
 obliged to look before it leaps. So the interchange 
 of confidences between La Chinoise and Cerisette 
 ceased, as the former, peering through the cur- 
 tains, saw her protector approach, and Cerisette 
 went out at the back as Reginald came in at the 
 front. 
 
 She received her "petit Ddjazet " with a charm- 
 ing affectation of nonchalance, and Reginald con- 
 trasted this entrance with that which he had made 
 the day before in the Netting Hill house. Here 
 it was warm, luxurious, unstudied, and tinted. 
 Felicia in her " tidy " gown, with an immaculate 
 
 [271]
 
 272 His Own Image 
 
 bodice, neat collar and cuffs, and generally middle- 
 class atmosphere, had repelled him. La Chinoise, 
 in an indescribable peignoir, all lace and little jig- 
 gly bows, her tiny feet pushed into a pair of em- 
 broidered Persian slippers, was a pleasing spectacle 
 to enjoy. She might be an exotic, and Reginaid 
 told himself that, when a man attains his fourth de- 
 cade, the watercress damsel palls. Felicia sug- 
 gested long walks before breakfast, cold baths and 
 absolute health. La Chinoise told of the orna. 
 mental, pictorial femininity that some natures pre- 
 fer. He heaved a sigh of relief as she greeted him. 
 Like Felicia, she was also pouring out tea but the 
 tea service sat daintily on an absurd little table, 
 and it was " egg-shell " china, furnished with curi- 
 ous little handles. 
 
 " I did not expect you," she said coquettishly, as 
 he embraced her (and there was no buttered muffin 
 on her lips), " and I did not particularly want you 
 to-day. Why did you come ?" 
 
 This was what he liked, and she probably knew 
 it. He hated to be jumped at with words of wel- 
 come, and kissed smackingly on each cheek. He 
 preferred the senseless coquetries of the diplomatic 
 woman, as warped men usually prefer such coquet- 
 ries. 
 
 " I came to see you," he said, "because I have 
 something very important to tell you something," 
 he sank his voice to a mournful whisper " that it 
 will pain you to hear." 
 
 The women belonging to La Chinoise's class are 
 always prepared for the worst. They expect it,
 
 "One Last Kiss," said the Siren 273 
 
 and are surprised when it doesn't come. La 
 Chinoise was not in the least affected. She arose, 
 and poured boiling water from the gypsy kettle 
 into the fragile teapot. 
 
 " You must drink some tea," she said, " before 
 you make yourself unpleasant. I know what you 
 are going to tell me. You have discovered that 
 this dear little place is too expensive. Of course, I 
 know that. That is why I like it. I can survive 
 that, tnon De/azet, as long as you love me and as 
 long as you do not cast me off." 
 
 She handed him a cup of tea, and sat at his feet on 
 the white rug, as he tried to drink it. Her face 
 was lighted with what seemed to be the most undi- 
 luted sort of affection. She sank into involuntary 
 silence. There was no anxiety to hear what he 
 had to say. Her pose was that of a woman simply 
 exuding unselfish affection. Reginald sipped his 
 tea in slow epicureanism. How delightful it was 
 to rest amid such surroundings! Even the knowl- 
 edge that, in a few short moments, he must virtu- 
 ously push her aside, and shatter her hopes, was a 
 sort of melancholy pleasure. Poor thing ! How 
 horrible for one solitary woman to find her life in- 
 truded upon by a brace of Dejazets. She had 
 lived through the misery of her first disaster. 
 Would she survive the second ? Could she survive 
 the second, when he was the second ? 
 
 And he sipped his tea, as though it were nectar, 
 gazing all the time upon the top of her head. A 
 man never feels so puissant, so masterful, so abso- 
 lutely one of the sterner sex, and so unconsciously
 
 274 His Own Image 
 
 noble, as when he is looking at the top of a woman's 
 head. Possibly she had sat thus with Dejazet when 
 the artist had told her of his contemplated mar- 
 riage with Genevieve Delaunay. But the surround- 
 ings were different. Here it was a hothouse in the 
 hothouse quarter of London. There it was the 
 cold, Bohemian, Latin region, all students, and bread 
 crusts, and poverty. Yes, he had advantages. 
 The original Dejazet was less fortunate. Women 
 loved comfort and opulence. What he had to tell 
 her would be a bitter blow to her. Would she 
 faint ? Would she seize the Japanese sharply- 
 pointed paper-knife that lay upon a table, and stab 
 herself a la Bernhardt ? The idea was not displeas- 
 ing to him, but still, from a sense of duty, he would 
 prevent it if possible. He reached out to the 
 table, and taking up the knife, felt its edge, and 
 quietly put it in his pocket. 
 
 " What are you doing, mon petit f" she asked, 
 lifting her fluffy head from his knee. " Why do 
 you take my knife ? Are you afraid that I am go- 
 ing to commit suicide ? Alas ! my poor little D6- 
 jazet, I am not that kind of woman. If I were, I 
 should have done the deed long ago. There have 
 been many ' situations ' in my life, that could have 
 led up to it." 
 
 He was conscious of a slight sense of disappoint- 
 ment. It would have been a distinct satisfaction 
 to the ego-maniac, to see the woman whom he 
 loved, and whom D6jazet had loved, in the throes 
 of a suicidal determination. Every actor loves a 
 dash of melodrama, and to Reginald this would
 
 " One Last Kiss," said the Siren 275 
 
 have added to the sorrowful piquancy of the occa- 
 sion. 
 
 " You would not do anything so foolish, I feel 
 sure," he said reluctantly. "You are sensible, 
 Claire, and as you say, your life has not been a 
 very radiant one. I only wish I could have made 
 it so, at this late day, but circumstances forbid 
 it." 
 
 She was curious, at last, for she felt the begin- 
 ning of the end. Her keen eyes took in the sump- 
 tuous apartment she occupied. She noted the 
 richly embroidered stuffs that hung from the doors, 
 the oddly fashioned furniture, the magnificent car- 
 pet, the ornaments that decorated the cabinets, the 
 mantel, and the numerous shelves. Still, she told 
 herself that this was a peculiar man, filled with pe- 
 culiar ideas, and she steeled her heart. In her face 
 there was nothing but complete confidence in him. 
 She took a chair opposite to him, and gazed gravely 
 at his face. It was very dark and grief-worn. She 
 began to fear the worst, and it was hard work to be 
 tranquil and insouciant e, as she took his empty cup 
 away from him, folded her hands, and waited for 
 her doom. She had known so many of these 
 dooms, but each seemed worse than its predecessor. 
 It is impossible to grow accustomed to a continu- 
 ous performance of disappointments. 
 
 He cleared his throat, and began : " You saw 
 that little girl we met at Madame Tussaud's, Claire, 
 when we were looking at Dejazet, and enjoying 
 our first happiness." 
 
 La Chinoise remembered her extremely welL
 
 276 His Own Image 
 
 It was her business to do so. " That little English 
 miss, with the Christmas-card face, and the badly- 
 fitting clothes. The girl with features like an 
 angel, and the outfit of a rubbish-basket. Yes, I 
 saw her. How could I forget her, when you sent 
 me away from you, to join her? She was your 
 leading lady, you said." 
 
 " Yes," he assented dully. " She was my leading 
 lady." 
 
 He could not continue. There was a clot in his 
 throat that choked him. He felt like a coward, 
 about to dash the happiness from a woman who 
 adored him. He put himself in her place perpetually. 
 He could imagine no worse fate for a woman, than 
 that of being suddenly cut off from association 
 with himself. His ego-maniacal instinct almost 
 rendered him unselfish. t 
 
 " Well ?" said La Chinoise expectantly. " What 
 of it ? She looks like a harmless poor thing." 
 
 ' I hate her," he cried vehemently, rising and 
 steering himself through the alleys of chairs and 
 tables and palms. " I hate her. I am sick of her. 
 She is nauseating to me. I cannot endure her 
 baby ways, and her incessant exactions. She is the 
 one force in my life that I abominate. The idea 
 of meeting her day after day is horrible to me, and 
 yet ?r- 
 
 La Chinoise was silent in thought. Then she 
 said laughingly for it seemed too impossible to 
 believe : " One would think that this was the story 
 of Dejazet all over again ; that irate parents in- 
 sisted upon your marrying her, and that you would
 
 " One Last Kiss," said the Siren 277 
 
 he led to the altar almost at the sword's point. 
 But this is chilly, cloudy, foggy, unromantic Eng- 
 land, nest-ce-pas?" 
 
 He would be brave. He must do it. There was 
 no use prolonging the agony any more. Agony it 
 was, of course, but it had a silver coating, and he 
 would not have abandoned this hour, if he could 
 have done it. 
 
 " It is the story of Dejazet," he said slowly, and 
 he almost felt the glass eyes of the image in the 
 Marylebone Road looking at him through the dis- 
 tance. " There are no parents in the case. There 
 is no duel to be fought, but I am going to marry 
 that girl, and I have come here .to-day to tell 
 you so." 
 
 He looked round to see if she were prostrate 
 upon the carpet. But she was not. She sat idly 
 playing with the lace of her peignoir, her brows 
 knitted in thought. You or I who are inclined to 
 think that there are other people in the world be- 
 sides ourselves might have regarded that medita- 
 tion as something with clammy calculation in it. 
 The actor could see no calculation. She was dis- 
 traught, and he waited in keenest anxiety for her 
 mind to arrange itself. 
 
 " Well," she said, slowly and her extreme effort 
 to be seemly, and to avoid all false steps was not 
 apparent to him. " It is certainly droll that there 
 should be two Dejazets in my life. But this case 
 is different. It is quite dissimilar. If you marry 
 this girl, whom you hate, why need it make any 
 difference to us ? I can stay here in St. John's
 
 278 His Own Image 
 
 Wood, and I will still look upon you as my dearest 
 friend and champion." 
 
 This was tentative, but he did not know it. " I 
 came here to-day," he continued, " to tell you that 
 our relations must end. I love you, Claire. It 
 will be one of the cruellest blows dealt me, to sep- 
 arate from you. But it must be done. My duty is 
 clear, is it not ?" 
 
 Claire forgot herself for the moment. " Why is 
 it clear ?" she asked angrily. " It was clear in De- 
 jazet's case, but he was a different man. He was 
 an artist, with a chivalrous nature, and he gave me 
 up, filled with a sort of Quixotic notion that he was 
 unable to carry out. With you, it is otherwise." 
 
 " With me it is otherwise," cried the ego-maniac, 
 roused to self-defense, in a bitter effort to be as 
 symmetrical as his counterpart. " Am I indeed 
 worse than this man who poses in a Chamber of 
 Horrors, as the newest of the horrors ? He was so 
 chivalrous ! He was so Quixotic ! It was noble 
 for him to give up the woman he loved, and tie him- 
 self to the woman he married. But with me it is 
 different. I am not chivalrous ! I am not Quix- 
 otic ! I can easily do what this criminal scorned to 
 do. You can think of De"jazet tenderly, as a mar- 
 tyr. But I am different. And, pray, what has in- 
 duced you to think that I am different ?" 
 
 He stopped in front of her, furiously wrestling 
 for his own cause. He looked upon the woman 
 with much of the anger that he usually vented upon 
 Felicia Halstead. She was unable to credit him 
 with the decent motives that had actuated the dead
 
 "One Last Kiss/' said the Siren 279 
 
 De"jazet, and his indignation knew no bounds. 
 She saw that she had made a mistake that her cal- 
 culations had miscarried. That the evil was irre- 
 mediable, she did not believe. That he would leave 
 her was tolerably certain, for his miserable compe- 
 tition with the dead original was clear to her. But 
 the cases were different. They were certainly dif- 
 ferent. Dejazet was a struggler and a Bohemian 
 of the old-fashioned type. This man in front of 
 her, with the exotic ideas, was a Bohemian of the 
 new-fashioned type a Bohemian who could " rough 
 it " only on quilted silken couches, with costly ac- 
 cessories. The cause was not at all hopeless. 
 
 La Chinoise, with a sudden impulse, threw her- 
 self upon a sofa and sobbed. She had carefully re- 
 moved the pins from her hair, and it fell in a mass 
 over her shoulders. Her attitude was that of abso- 
 lute abandonment to an almost masterful grief. 
 She knew that he was watching her, and that she 
 made an artistic picture. It was not all assumed. 
 She was genuinely* distressed at the unexpected 
 turn that things had taken. It seemed that the 
 fates were against her. She could never make any 
 headway against the turbulent seas of her life. 
 Tantalus-like, the cup was always snatched from 
 her lips, as she was about to drink. She wept for 
 herself, but the effect upon him was agreeable. His 
 sarcasms died upon his lips, and he saw only the 
 woman, prone, and tear-drenched, bewailing his 
 loss. 
 
 " Forgive me," she said presently, drying her 
 eyes, " and do not reproach me. De\jazet was lost
 
 280 His Own Image 
 
 to me, and I dread a repetition of that misery. 
 Forgive me for ever suggesting that you would do 
 what he disdained. If he was good, you are bet- 
 ter " (she might have added " because you are 
 richer," but didn't), " and I apologize to you for my 
 unworthy ideas. Oh, mon petit, je suis dtsotie. I 
 would say, as I said to him, ' You shall not marry 
 this girl,' and I would search London for proofs of 
 her infamy. But oh ! how well I remember it 
 it was that very search of mine in De" jazet's case, 
 that brought about the disaster. I would not do it 
 again. I discovered that she was his rival. It could 
 not be, in your case, and I would not tell you, if I 
 knew that it was. I have reproached myself ever 
 since." 
 
 There was the ring of sincerity 'in these last 
 words, but to him the false and the sincere sounded 
 alike, inasmuch as they both catered to his own 
 vanity. The maggots of his endless self-love fed 
 easily upon everything that she said. But he 
 started as she spoke of the " disaster " that her 
 work had hastened. He started, and trembled, 
 and as he stood before her, erect and immobile, he 
 felt that she was a mob of women, gazing at him, 
 and commenting upon him. Once more he seemed 
 to be No. 37 in the catalogue yellow and sinister. 
 
 "You could discover nothing about Felicia," he 
 said at last, resolutely pushing aside these ideas. 
 " You could not tell me that she is my rival. I 
 know that she is. I discovered it for myself." 
 
 La Chinoise sat up, and her eyes looked like 
 those of an owl, in their solemnity and darkness.
 
 " One Last Kiss," said the Siren 281 
 
 " Then," she said falteringly, " You hate her quite 
 as he hated her. It is impossible. It is beyond 
 the natural. Grand del ! Quel horreur /" 
 
 He might have been a somnambulist, a man in a 
 hypnotic condition, as he sang dreamily : " I have 
 lost everything. I must marry this girl, and you 
 and I must end our relations. I will try and do my 
 duty. Perhaps I have been a brute. I hate her 
 now, but, possibly, when she is my wife, bearing my 
 name, I may become at any rate more reconciled 
 to my life." 
 
 Claire heard him, as though dazed. It sounded 
 like an echo of the past, translated into English. 
 The real woman in her nature leaped into life for 
 an instant, and forgetful of herself, oblivious of the 
 ruin of her prospects, she sprang from her chair, and 
 cried out, " You shall not marry this woman. I 
 will prevent it. It shall not be permitted. I 
 swear it." 
 
 The ego-maniac was satisfied. Unable to realize 
 the intensity of the words she uttered, and the rea- 
 son for their utterance, he accepted them blindly 
 as proof that she loved him as she had loved D- 
 jazet. A dulcet self-complacency crept into his 
 face. He was reinstated in his own self-affection. 
 The rest was easy. 
 
 " Claire," he said peacefully, " It is all over. I 
 must marry, and you shall not prevent it. Be rea- 
 sonable, my dear one. He left you to the fate that 
 brought you to the painted atrocities of Piccadilly 
 Circus. I shall do nothing of the sort. You have 
 told me that in reality I am better than Dejazet.
 
 282 f His Own Image 
 
 I will show you that you were right. I am not 
 what the world calls rich, but I shall do what I can. 
 Before coming here to-day, I instructed my lawyers 
 to buy this house for you. Within a week, it will 
 be yours for life, and you will be beyond the clutches 
 of immediate want. The furniture I have already 
 presented to you. I hate to make the gift. It 
 seems like a bargain, but, my dear, it will be some 
 relief to me to know that you are provided for, and 
 although it will not compensate you for my loss 
 it will" 
 
 He broke down, touched by the harrowing 
 picture of his own magnanimity. How splendidly 
 he had behaved. What quiet force, and resolute 
 self-sacrifice there were in his words. He had 
 never been fonder of himself than he was at this 
 moment. But he had not reckoned upon such a re- 
 sult as came almost immediately, and he could 
 scarcely credit it. The courtesan, suddenly reared 
 up by his words, took the place of the woman who 
 had threatened to prevent his marriage. The cosy 
 little house in St. John's Wood, thrown into her 
 lap, as it were, banished forever the heroic dregs 
 that had struggled to the top for one moment, in 
 the outcast's nature. The house, the furniture, 
 were hers for life, without the incubus of an exact- 
 ing protector. La Chinoise struggled to her feet, 
 and hurled thanks at his head thanks that pro- 
 claimed her in her true colours thanks that over- 
 whelmed him with humiliation. 
 
 And when the effervescence of her gratitude had 
 subsided, she said quietly, " You were right, man
 
 "One Last Kiss," said the Siren 283 
 
 Dfy'azet. It is an odious thing to separate, but it 
 must be done. And in time, my darling Reginald, 
 you will grow to love this girl. She will bear you 
 children, and she will be true to you. T.hat much 
 of her character I could read when we met her at 
 the wax-works. I shall grieve for you always, 
 Reginald. I shall never forget you. Your gifts 
 will not compensate me for your love, but, as you 
 say, it is something to be provided for, and I must 
 be satisfied." 
 
 She smiled, and although she tried to inject a 
 wistful expression into her features, it was not pos- 
 sible. She was plainly radiant, and at peace. She 
 threw herself into his arms, and tried to sob, but 
 even as she did so, he could see her in the mirror 
 opposite, looking at the pictures, the furniture, and 
 the hangings, and mentally saying a gratified " All 
 mine." 
 
 He shook her from him in a rage of despair and 
 disenchantment, which she did not understand. 
 He was horribly in earnest, this poor petit Dfjazet, 
 who was richer, and consequently more generous 
 than the other. And as she tried to soothe him, 
 her words stung him, and her glad reconciliation 
 to life without him, stabbed him in the tender region 
 of self. 
 
 He was deserted deserted by the woman who 
 had loved the thing in the Marylebone Road 
 deserted because he had cast his gifts in her lap, 
 and because with her, and her ilk, it was all a ques- 
 tion of gifts. It was complete humiliation, that
 
 284 His Own Image 
 
 drove him, even more furiously than anything else 
 had done, into the web spun by Felicia. 
 
 " One last kiss," said the siren, grateful for her 
 competence. " You cannot refuse me that." 
 
 But he flung her rudely aside upon the quilted 
 sofa that would help to extinguish the tragedy of 
 his loss. He stalked from the house, more com- 
 pletely crushed than he had ever been, and as he 
 banged the front door, he knew that he had banged 
 from his life a parody of love that would have been 
 apparent to the merest youth. And La Chinoise, 
 peering through the curtains, saw him go. She 
 laughed quietly, and threw herself luxuriously into 
 a chair. 
 
 " I can't afford to interfere now," she thought. 
 " I am settled for life. And he will probably live 
 happily with that girl for ever. Those two Dejazet 
 stories, similar up to the present, must separate at 
 some time. Ah, mon D(/azet, you have brought 
 me peace at last."
 
 Chapter XIX 
 
 THE MARRIAGE PRELUDE 
 
 IN a few hours the wedding-day would dawn. 
 Reginald, tossing about on his big, blue, bed his 
 his big, blue, solitary bed, for the last time tried 
 vainly to sleep. It was out of the question. His 
 brain was alert and busy, and the shadows in the 
 room might have been alive, as they bumped them- 
 selves against him absolute obstacles in the way 
 of his self-forgetfulness. The night was intermina- 
 ble. He could not drive from his mind the picture 
 of his double also alone with the shadows. Be- 
 fore another sun had set Reginald would be miles 
 away from London miles away from his waxen 
 counterpart. An almost frantic desire to look 
 upon the yellow D6jazet, for the last time, took 
 possession of him. It would be for the last time. 
 When he returned to London, with all his troubles 
 in the background, Madame Tussaud's would be to 
 him but the husk of a hideous memory. But he 
 longed to see how he looked in the eyes of the mob 
 once more, and then cut himself resolutely away 
 from his obsession forever. He would like to gaze 
 at the wax, and cry " Criminal ! Criminal !" before 
 it. He wished to see if he could hurl this epithet 
 
 [285]
 
 286 His Own Image 
 
 at his double, without wrenching his heart-strings. 
 It was the final effort of the ego-maniac to be nor- 
 mal. In the life of every such man there is one 
 fierce struggle to be as his fellows are. 
 
 Reginald arose, and threw on his clothes. He 
 was not quite sure what he was going to do, but 
 he was desperate and unreasoning. All around 
 him he saw the preparations for his departure. 
 There was his portmanteau, labelled "Winder- 
 mere." It was at Windermerethat he was to spend 
 his honeymoon. Crampton had suggested Winder- 
 mere. He could not imagine why. It was a long 
 way off so many tearing, merciless miles from 
 London. Reginald looked at the clock on the 
 mantel-piece. It struck two o'clock. He would be 
 alone alone with Felicia with Felicia, his wife 
 that very night. He shuddered as he thought of 
 the relentless rush of events. It was cold. The 
 unlived hours of the morning are usually chilly and 
 devitalizing. He could not stand the horror of thi s 
 silent, almost reproachful house, and acting on the 
 impulse that had prompted him to throw on his 
 clothes, he rushed out into the street. 
 
 He trod the weary, dreary way to the Maryle- 
 bone Road, but it seemed to him a quick and 
 almost invigorating route. How often had he 
 walked there before ! And what had he gained by 
 it ? Nothing but the inspiration to justify a man 
 whom the world abhorred. If he could be normal 
 again ! He almost envied the poor homeless 
 wretches the sediment of metropolitan life who 
 passed him on his way. They were not duplicated
 
 The Marriage Prelude 287 
 
 in wax for the public to gaze upon. They existed 
 and they died, and nobody cared. For an instant 
 he wondered if fame were really worth while if it 
 were human if it were not a struggle for the ab- 
 normal, for no other reason than to be abnormal. 
 
 When he reached the hateful building in the 
 Marylebone Road, the fever of its colour seemed to 
 have disappeared. It looked gray, and sombre, as 
 such a resort for ghosts should look. The desire 
 to enter simply overwhelmed him. Why should 
 this museum be closed at its most interesting mo- 
 ment ? Fantastic ideas of a carnival of criminals 
 in the Chamber of Horrors occurred to him. If he 
 could only detect his Dejazet in undignified orgies. 
 Possibly the wax that stood so turgid during the 
 day relaxed at night. Perhaps Dejazet came down 
 from his pedestal at night, and laid siege to the 
 waxen hearts of Maria Manning and Elizabeth 
 Gibbons. Perchance the luckless hounded artist 
 leaped from his thraldom in the cavern of criminals, 
 and aspired to higher things, in other rooms, with 
 the kings and queens. What if the " horrors " 
 revolted, in the dead hours of the morning, forced 
 the monarchs and celebrities to abdicate their 
 positions, and sat, high and mighty, in the haunts 
 of the lucky ones ? 
 
 There was a dim light perceptible through one 
 of the windows. Prosaically, Reginald told him- 
 self that workmen were making repairs. Even in 
 the world of wax, things went wrong occasionally. 
 The actor watched the light as though it were his 
 last hope. It seemed to beckon to him to come in.
 
 288 His Own Image 
 
 and make himself at home. As he looked at it, it 
 was suddenly extinguished, and a little old man, in 
 an overcoat turned up at the collar, let himself out 
 of a tiny door at the side, and locked it. The 
 workmen had gone, and the watchman had made 
 his rounds. 
 
 The watchman saw the eager, fevered actor, and 
 frowned. " I've seen you here before," he said. 
 " It's a strange hour for honest folks to be out in. 
 I must ask you to move on, or I shall call a police- 
 man." 
 
 " No," murmured Reginald in low tones. " It 
 is not necessary. I am an actor studying a part. 
 I should like to enter for a few minutes, and see 
 how the waxworks look at this hour of the morn- 
 ing." 
 
 " Impossible." was the stern retort. " You had 
 better go away. There's a bobby at the corner." 
 
 " Look here," said Reginald, with the diplomacy 
 of desperation, " this is a very serious matter to 
 me, my man. If you let me in, I swear to you 
 that nobody shall be any the wiser. I promise you 
 that I will stay five minutes only, and and 
 here's a five-pound note for your kindness. That 
 means a pound a minute. You don't often get 
 such good pay, I imagine." 
 
 The obduracy of the watchman gave way. A 
 five-pound was a five-pound note, and actors were 
 strange people. The man probably spoke the truth. 
 He had heard of Bernhardt sleeping in her coffin, 
 for the sake of the experience, and he had been 
 told of several ladies who had visited consumptive
 
 The Marriage Prelude 289 
 
 patients in hospitals, in order to study the symp- 
 toms. In any case, a five-pound note was a five- 
 pound note. 
 
 He turned slowly, and unlocked the door. The 
 five-pound note crackled in his fingers there is no 
 other paper money that crackles so musically and 
 he beckoned to the actor to follow him. 
 
 "Five minutes," he said. "I am breaking the 
 rules, sir, but you are paying me well for it. Five 
 minutes, and no more." 
 
 He lighted a gas-jet in each room, and led the 
 way to the Chamber of Horrors, at the instigation 
 of Rellerick. 
 
 " In five minutes I shall be back," he said. " I 
 will leave you until then." 
 
 The actor's footsteps clanked over the deserted 
 floors. As soon as he was alone, a dreadful desire 
 to shriek out aloud, seized him. He seemed to feel 
 the obscurity of the horrible cavern. The waxen 
 figures in their draperies, looked like corpses in 
 winding-sheets. If they had been silent and un- 
 fathomable in the day-time, they were incompar- 
 ably more oppressively taciturn at this unexplored 
 hour. In the gloom he could see the sere out- 
 lines of their faces, and the dark cavities that held 
 their glassy eyes. It was like a visit to a sepulchre, 
 and the actor's blood seemed to coagulate in his 
 veins. This was the hall that echoed the cockney- 
 ism of the 'Arries and 'Arriets of the metropolis. 
 Now, there was not a sound alive through its length 
 and breadth. Reginald could almost hear himself
 
 290 His Own Image 
 
 breathe. The noise of his pumping pulses was the 
 only real issue he encountered. 
 
 Dejazet stood there with the others, just as lugu- 
 brious as ever. There was not the least indica- 
 tion of illicit revelry, or of nocturnal resurrection. 
 The figure maintained the same attitude that Reg- 
 inald had noted previously. It looked darker, 
 more deathlike, more uncanny, in these watches of 
 the night, than during the picnicking hours of 
 daylight. An unoccupied pedestal stood by the 
 side of Dejazet. They were preparing a new hor- 
 ror, culled from the sensationalism of the day. 
 
 Before he knew what he was doing, Reginald 
 leaped upon the deserted pedestal, and stood by 
 the side of his counterpart, his limbs seeking the 
 same attitude, the terror of his expression sinking 
 into the unsightly yellow nothingness of the 
 double. And as he stood there, his own identity 
 seemed to wither and vanish. He was Dejazet, 
 indubitably. It seemed to him that he understood 
 every motive that had actuated the poor artist, as 
 he had never understood before. He wished that 
 the doors at the end of the hall would suddenly 
 frame the sight-seeing mob that he knew so well. 
 He longed to be on exhibition by the side of his 
 double, and to hear the ribald comments of the 
 multitude. 
 
 Then he recalled his intention to hurl the epithet 
 of " Criminal !" at the helpless wax, but the word 
 burned his lips. He could not give it utterance. 
 Instead, he would have liked to cry " Martyr !" so 
 that every image in the room could hear it ; so
 
 The Marriage Prelude 291 
 
 that he might pose as the champion of this yellow, 
 bloodless thing, that could no longer defend itself. 
 
 There was no more terror for him in his sur- 
 roundings. He would prefer to stay where he was, 
 and be catalogued with the criminals. They were 
 at rest, any way. There was no further contest to 
 worry them. The rapt attention of the mob was 
 theirs by day and by night. Their deeds had been 
 sifted and classified. Perhaps the watchman would 
 forget him, and when Felicia went to the church to 
 claim him as her own, she would not find him. 
 And in the days to come, she would visit Tussaud's, 
 and perhaps see him there, far beyond her reach, 
 in the dismal, but imperishable ranks of what she 
 would call " atrocities." 
 
 'His position on the pedestal tired' him. His 
 pulsating blood could not endure the perpetual 
 pose, and he alighted from the standing-place, so 
 that Dejazet towered above him once more, in his 
 yellow, waxen superiority. Then the spell was 
 broken, and the cold, dark hall caused him to 
 shiver. The watchman appeared suddenly a cu- 
 rious contrast, in his little, old, sordid life, to the 
 majesty of the silent wax-works. 
 
 " Time's up," he said and his voice echoed 
 through the hall, until the very wax-works seemed 
 to ring with it. 
 
 " I'm ready," whispered Reginald for he could 
 not permit his own voice to journey through the 
 cavern. Then he turned to D6jazet, and his lips 
 formed the word " good-bye." He looked to see if 
 his double heeded his departure, and it seemed to
 
 292 His Own Image 
 
 him that the features of the model were contracted 
 as though in anguish. 
 
 " Good-bye," he murmured again. 
 
 Then he followed the silent watchman, anxious 
 to save his vitality from further depression. The 
 little old man heaved a sigh of relief as he locked 
 his unusual visitor from the exhibition. He had 
 taken risks, for the sake of five pounds risks of 
 dynamite and other explosive possibilities. Thank 
 heavens, that it had all ended so satisfactorily, and 
 that he was five pounds the richer, without grave 
 results. 
 
 Reginald was back in his own apartments before 
 the day dawned, and for a couple of hours he slept 
 a dream-ridden, uneasy sleep. He was with the 
 wax-works again, this time " assisting " at the wed- 
 ding of Dejazet and Marie Antoinette's head. 
 The dream was so gruesome, yet vivid, that he 
 awoke with the perspiration streaming from the 
 pores of his skin, and was thankful for the light 
 that came into his room through the blinds. 
 
 It was his wedding day a black, forbidding 
 morning. The day had dawned reluctantly, as 
 though it were scarcely worth while, and more for 
 the sake of keeping up the old battered routine, 
 than to confer any new comforts on mankind. It 
 was to be a quiet wedding, and none of the actor's 
 friends had been bidden to it. Reginald Rellerick 
 had never been able to understand the theory of 
 inviting crowds of people to watch two mortal 
 atoms linking themselves in conventional bonds. 
 
 Crampton was abroad early. He seemed to have
 
 The Marriage Prelude 293 
 
 grown older within the last few days. Reginald 
 almost pitied him, as he saw the old shoulders 
 stooping over their self-imposed work, and noted 
 the haggard, dessicated face that scarcely looked at 
 him. 
 
 "You will start from Euston,"said Crampton,in 
 rough, gritty tones, " and you will reach Winder- 
 mere late. Rooms have been secured for you, and 
 a four-wheeler will meet you at the station." 
 
 It sounded as though Crampton were parcel- 
 ling him off to eternity. How thoroughly the 
 machine had worked ! The wheels had gone round 
 and round, and in a few more evolutions they would 
 have whizzed him to Windermere, where he would 
 find a four-wheeler awaiting him at the station, and 
 rooms that had been secured for him, in advance. 
 Nothing had been left to chance. The wheels had 
 done their work well. There was not the slightest 
 possibility that he would lose his way at Winder- 
 mere, and wander into the lake. There was no 
 hope of rooflessness and houselessness. It had all 
 been cut and dried. Everything was cut and dried. 
 Even the clothes that he was to wear had been pre- 
 arranged. They lay on the big, blue bed the limp 
 trousers waiting for his chaste limbs ; the sprawling 
 coat clamouring for the support of his arms. His 
 collar, his tie, his boots were there before his eyes. 
 Even the chrysanthemum that was to adorn his 
 buttonhole spread its starry white petals on the 
 dressing-table. 
 
 He dressed himself slowly, and surveyed his form 
 carefully in the long mirror. Yes, he looked yel-
 
 294 His Own Image 
 
 low and dry, and there was a sinister twist to his 
 features. He had once thought himself beautiful. 
 Now, he was unable to detect any grace in his face 
 or figure. He had aged. Possibly he would be 
 rejuvenated. When he came back to London, his 
 prospects brilliant, all the impediments in his path 
 rigorously removed, then. . . . But he could not see 
 himself back in London. He tried to imagine the 
 old playhouse, in its glow of electricity, and with 
 its crowd of eager faces but it looked dark and 
 distant. He could see nothing but the present that 
 was jostling his vision ferociously. 
 
 The news of the marriage had " leaked out," and 
 Crampton, for reasons best known to himself, had 
 supplied the leak. The little ivy-covered church 
 was well filled with the Bohemian element of the 
 metropolis. Each newspaper had a reporter on 
 hand, and there were artists, actors, managers, 
 stage-hands, and a few of the "flaneurs" who live 
 for the world behind the scenes. It was all in- 
 formal ; but it was none the less pictorial for that. 
 Reginald had anticipated a deserted church. A 
 few " witnesses " there must always be "wit- 
 nesses " to the deed of marriage had been sug- 
 gested to him, arid he had easily consented to the 
 names submitted. But the marriage of a great actor 
 is scarcely less interesting than his death, and a 
 few subtle paragraphs, in a few subtle journals, had 
 sufficed to fill the little church. 
 
 Reginald went there as in a dream. It was a 
 torture that must be endured, and if he could 
 dream through it, it would be all the better for
 
 The Marriage Prelude 295 
 
 him. It was a simple and unadorned wedding, as 
 far as the spectators were concerned. They saw 
 the great actor in conventional morning attire, with 
 a face set and stolid. Their eyes rested upon a 
 radiant little bride, in a gray walking-dress of 
 unobtrusive fashion. The witnesses were equally 
 subdued in appearance. Crampton, Mrs. Land- 
 ington, the two "nobodies" of the Netting Hill 
 tea-party ; and half a dozen other selected acquaint- 
 ances, stood beside the bride and bridegroom at the 
 altar rails. 
 
 Reginald heard the dull, drab tones of the 
 minister with a smile upon his face. As the rever- 
 end gentleman took up the book, it seemed to the 
 actor that it was a catalogue he held, and instead 
 of the marriage service, he would not have been 
 surprised to. hear: "This is Dejazet, the self- 
 confessed murderer of the beautiful Genevieve 
 Delaunay. On their wedding night he strangled 
 her to death, and " 
 
 It was a ridiculous idea, but all these witnesses 
 and acquaintances might have been wax-works 
 the relics of his former days, Tussauded around 
 him. The funny little person over there was Piner- 
 ville, a man who had written very bright plays. 
 Watch his smile, and study his features. There 
 was Winkle, the dramatic critic, who praised every- 
 body so highly that he had been driven to drink. 
 See how red his nose was. There was a group 
 from the club to which he belonged. Note the 
 dark, unlaughing faces of the men. And beside 
 him was Crampton. Crampton was the secretary of
 
 296 His Own Image 
 
 a famous actor, who had taught him to be reticent. 
 Was he not a funny, mouldy thing ? That fat 
 woman with the cameo brooch over the toboggan 
 of her bust, was Mrs. Landington, a fat house- 
 keeper of Netting Hill, and the girl by his side was 
 Felicia Halstead, an actress whom all London 
 
 Reginald awoke, and heard the final words of the 
 minister. It was the riot of his emotions as he 
 read the imaginary catalogue over Felicia Halstead, 
 that woke him. She might have been a famous 
 actress. She would have been a famous actress. 
 Now it was impossible. He had torn her from the 
 grasp of the insatiable London public. She was 
 his wife. 
 
 The clergyman was ending his service : " and 
 have pledged their troth, each to the other, and 
 have declared the same by giving and receiving a 
 ring, and by joining hands. I pronounce that they 
 are man and wife, in the name of the Father, and 
 of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen." 
 
 He laughed aloud as the final words were spoken. 
 The people around him thought it was the eccen- 
 tricity of glee. They were man and wife. He had 
 plucked her from his path, as an obstacle, and she 
 was his to do with as he chose. He looked at the 
 fair and luminous face of the bride in disgust. 
 How could he go on looking at that face which he 
 detested until death released one of them ? He 
 heard the hum of the people, and he knew that 
 some were shaking his hand, and that others were 
 expressing impossible hopes to him. It was a 
 tragedy-farce, but this was the last act. The cur-
 
 The Marriage Prelude 297 
 
 tain would be rung down shortly, and the play con- 
 signed to the critics. 
 
 What they were all saying he never quite knew. 
 Pinerville, after his congratulations, seemed to 
 murmur something about a comedy. He rather 
 fancied that Winkle informed him of the birth of 
 No. 10, to be named Reginald Rellerick Winkle. 
 Mrs. Landington, he thought, was crying. He 
 wondered why. What reason on earth had Mrs. 
 Landington to cry ? The club-men threw phrases 
 with " old fellow," and " old boy," and " old chap- 
 pie," and " old pal," always something old at 
 him. They were apparently the chorus, and they 
 were singing the " old boy " song instead of the 
 usual " tra-la-la." 
 
 Felicia took his arm, and they walked to the ves- 
 try, and thence into the dark, threatening morning. 
 Mortimer Branton, whom he had noticed in the 
 crowd, approached, and wrung Felicia's hand. 
 
 " You slighted my offer," he said, " but I am 
 persistent. It is still open." 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Branton," laughed Felicia in her irre- 
 pressible delight ; " don't you see that I am mar- 
 ried ? Doesn't that settle it forever ?" 
 
 The manager shrugged his shoulders. " No," 
 he answered, " You will have your month of honey- 
 moon. You can think it over, then. I leave the 
 offer open for one month." 
 
 Reginald scowled upon Branton, and would have 
 insulted him at the church door, if the manager had 
 remained. As it was, Branton stole quickly away,
 
 298 His Own Image 
 
 casting one amused look at Felicia's perplexed and 
 indignant face. 
 
 An elegant brougham stood in the street, just 
 behind the carriage assigned to the bride and bride- 
 groom. Felicia had already stepped into the vehi- 
 cle, and Reginald was about to reluctantly join her 
 when the owner of the brougham came down the 
 path, and called to the coachman. She cast a look 
 at the bridegroom and he recognized her instantly. 
 It was La Chinoise. She made a quick step for- 
 ward and took his hand. 
 
 " I wish you luck," she said, nervously, " Mon 
 petit man petit Reginald." 
 
 He started. It was not her usual mode of ad- 
 dressing him. " Have you forgotten Dejazet ?" he 
 asked. 
 
 Through her carmine tints she paled. " I will 
 forget him," she replied, hurriedly, " if you will. 
 Forget him. He belongs to the past. Be happy, 
 mon petit bonhomme. Je te le souhaite" 
 
 She pressed his cold, limp fingers in her own, 
 stepped into the brougham, and was driven away. 
 Reginald stood still for a moment, and watched the 
 receding carriage. Then, with a sigh, he jumped 
 into the conveyance that held Felicia, the driver 
 whipped up his horses, and the marriage prelude 
 had been played.
 
 Chapter XX 
 
 HIS NEMESIS 
 
 REGINALD sat alone in the black, horsehair smok- 
 ing room of the little hotel at Windermere. They 
 had arrived late, after a taciturn journey from 
 London ; they had supped in the dining-room with 
 half-a-dozen belated travellers, and then Felicia 
 had gone to their room, collapsing from the strain 
 of the last few days. Her joy had been gradually 
 checked, during the miserable journey from Euston 
 the fateful, melancholy Euston and as she had 
 left Reginald for the cruellest parody of a bridal 
 chamber that had ever been imagined, she had 
 looked almost apathetically at his rigid, tallowy 
 face, unenlivened by a solitary human sentiment. 
 She had murmured a weary " Au revoir" and had 
 pressed his damp and unresponsive hand. 
 
 And now he sat alone, listening to the wooden 
 ticking of an odious grandfather's clock, and to 
 the tumult of the weather outside. It was a noisy 
 vehement night. A raging wind almost shook the 
 foundations of the slender hotel, and the rain was 
 blown against the windows in showers. The large 
 drops tapped electrically at the panes, and his 
 
 [299]
 
 300 His Own Image 
 
 wrought-up imagination tried to read a message in 
 the din of the storm. 
 
 The smoking-room was deserted. One solitary 
 man from London had arrived by the same train 
 as the bride and bridegroom, and apparently he 
 was as restless as Reginald himself. The actor 
 could hear his footsteps upon the veranda outside, 
 and he wondered if this was another bridegroom 
 at Windermere for the sake of sweet communion. 
 The man made him nervous, with his insistent 
 footsteps. Yet he was interested in him, for the 
 landlord had told him that he hailed from London. 
 A metropolitan unit in this God-forsaken silent 
 spot, seemed like the last link that bound him to 
 his other life. 
 
 The grandfather's clock seemed anxious to tick 
 away the minutes. The noise of the pendulum 
 was like that of the tramp, tramp of soldiers, and 
 combined with the swishing wind and the electric 
 rain outside, it made Reginald feel that his ears 
 were filled with sound. Here he was, sitting alone 
 in this hideous country room, miles away from the 
 vivid life of the metropolis, a prey to the keenest 
 agony of dread and misery, and for what ? For 
 the sake of a woman who had clambered into his 
 life, and who had perched herself upon his hopes 
 and his prospects. The noose was around his neck, 
 and she held the ropes. And she was upstairs, 
 in white and lace, awaiting his advent, and prob- 
 ably listening to this dreadful fracas of the ele- 
 ments, that threatened to lift up the hotel and 
 fling it away.
 
 His Nemesis 301 
 
 A horrible sense of helplessness took possession 
 of him. His blood seemed to engorge itself in his 
 veins, and his breath came stertorously. Then 
 he was calm and reflective again, and the tapping 
 of the rain at the window was distinctly audible. 
 
 " Lights out at twelve, sir," said a voice at the 
 door. " We close at midnight." 
 
 Lights out at twelve ! He looked at the grand- 
 father's clock. It was half-past eleven. He had 
 still half an hour in which to reconcile himself to 
 his fate. Still, if he chose, he could stay there even 
 when the lights were out, as Dejazet stayed in the 
 darkness of the Tussaud Exhibition of the Maryle- 
 bone Road. What would he give if he could look 
 upon Dejazet at the present moment ? 
 
 He reached over to the tiny marble table at his 
 side, and poured out, with a hand that shook, a 
 goblet of brandy. He swallowed it greedily, but 
 the life that it caused to rush through his veins 
 was not what he had thought. The grandfather's 
 clock ticked louder ; the wind howled its gusty re- 
 quiem more vociferously ; and the torrents of rain 
 beat against the window as though rhythmically 
 crying, " Let me in ! Let me in !" 
 
 Again that engorgement of blood and that ster- 
 torous spasm made themselves felt, and he was 
 conscious of waiting until the crowd in his 
 brain had passed away. He felt red, but as he 
 glanced in the fly-spotted mirror opposite he looked 
 yellow as yellow as his double, now so far away 
 from him ; as waxenly jaundiced as his poor De- 
 jazet, who had suffered as he now suffered.
 
 302 His Own Image 
 
 "Unable to overcome his loathing" he was 
 reading from the catalogue of Tussaud's Exhibi- 
 tion the plaintive story of the French artist's life 
 and death. Perhaps Dejazet had sat in a smoking- 
 room, and listened to a grandfather's clock ticking 
 him towards his Genevieve. Reginald tried to 
 calmly consider the sequence of events that had 
 led him to this moment, for of course there was a 
 sequence, and a logical sequence at that. His 
 mind was incapable of logical reasoning. The mo- 
 ment itself stood forth, black and threatening, like 
 a jet star, in a clouded sky, and the moment was all 
 he could perceive. 
 
 She had wrecked his life, and ruined his career. 
 And he had married her for the sake of that career. 
 Could he ever resume his old life with this millstone 
 of hatred around his neck ? Would future gener- 
 ations ever remember the name of Reginald Reller- 
 ick ? Would he ever go down to posterity ? 
 Everything seemed far away from him. There 
 was nothing in this baleful place that suggested 
 the glittering intoxication of London, and the lu- 
 minous clot of fame that had been his before his 
 Nemesis appeared. 
 
 His Nemesis ! Yes, she was his Nemesis this 
 pale, languid, and clinging woman, who was at this 
 moment breathing his name and forgetting the 
 raging storm outside. She was his Nemesis the 
 infernal daughter of Nox ; the goddess of ven- 
 geance ; one of the Parcae with a helm and a wheel 
 by her side. And she was waiting for him to crush 
 his ambition in her embrace, It was she who had
 
 His Nemesis 303 
 
 dragged him to Windermere. If anybody had told 
 him a year ago that he would be sitting alone in a 
 squalid hotel, miles away from London, the unwill- 
 ing bridegroom of a detested bride, he would have 
 laughed derisively. He laughed hysterically even 
 now. It seemed so utterly ridiculous. His life had 
 been one long and emphatic worship of self. He 
 had exclusively followed the dictates of his own 
 will. And what had it all signified ? Merely that 
 at the prime of his life and of his hopes, he was sit- 
 ting alone in a deserted hotel, listening to an old- 
 fashioned clock that teemed towards midnight, 
 when the lights would be put out. 
 
 The man on the veranda outside irritated him, 
 and hurt his nerves. Why was that man parading 
 his heels outside the hotel on such a merciless 
 night ? Perhaps it was the waxen Dejazet who 
 had followed him from London to whisper advice 
 in his ear, and to hurl an " Et tu Brute /" at him. 
 His lips formed the word " Dejazet." He spoke it 
 aloud, and the sound in the empty, horsehair smok- 
 ing-room was dismal enough. 
 
 He was a weak fool after all. Men with wills of 
 their own men who went down into history had 
 not tamely submitted to a fate such as his. Even 
 De"jazet had fought for the sake of posterity, and 
 had won a yellow waxen notoriety in the eyes of 
 the English middle-classes. Better that, than noth- 
 ing at all. By all the silly, unstable laws of man, 
 he was bound in a few minutes to rush joyfully to 
 his wife, and fling himself into her unreluctant arms. 
 His mind recoiled from the idea. He hated her
 
 304 His Own Image 
 
 very name ; he detested her personality ; he loathed 
 the obstacles that she had thrown in his path. 
 Why should he lie to himself for her sake, and for 
 the sake of the world ? 
 
 And at that moment there came upon him, like 
 a shock, the certain knowledge that he would 
 never see London again ; never again hold rapt 
 multitudes in the splendid enthusiasm of the the- 
 atre ; never again look upon the metropolis that 
 had pinnacled and feted him ; never again pose 
 before admiring crowds as a hero and an idol ; 
 never again live the glorious, selfish life that had 
 pampered his ego, and raised him in his own eyes 
 above the common herd. He would never see 
 London again. He knew it. This was a new 
 world to which he had been rushed by relentless 
 steam. This was a world that some natures might 
 prefer, but that was to him far inferior to death. 
 
 It was five minutes to twelve, and the woman 
 who was the cause of it all, lay awaiting him on her 
 pillow. He ground his teeth, and pressed his hands 
 to his head, that seemed as though it would burst 
 with the pent-up atrocities of his imagination. 
 And when he recovered, he could have sworn that 
 at the end of the room there there by the cur- 
 tains that framed the entrance there by the door 
 that scarcely shut out the storm he saw Dejazet 
 on his pedestal Dejazet, the man, the hero, who 
 had taken fate into his own hands, and determined 
 to submit to nothing. 
 
 He arose unsteadily, and staggered to his feet. 
 He could afford no further thoughts. Those that
 
 His Nemesis 305 
 
 had come from his brain seemed to have seared 
 and pressed it. The grandfather's clock struck 
 twelve. The last stroke died away unwillingly, as 
 though it were a pity to end so brilliant a day 
 his wedding-day. A menial came in, and ap- 
 proached the dingy chandelier. 
 
 " Good-night, sir," said the menial firmly but 
 obsequiously. A moment later the lights were ex- 
 tinguished, and he was groping his way up the 
 stairs to his room. Even at that moment, with his 
 brain whizzing, he was conscious of feeling the 
 threadbare stair-carpet, and wondering how many 
 weary feet it took to wear out the carpet path from 
 the smoking room to the bridal chamber. And he 
 knew that the man from the veranda had also come 
 in, and was likewise going to his bed-room. It 
 could not be very far removed from the bridal 
 chamber judging from the adjacent footsteps. 
 
 A resentment that seemed like an electric shock 
 tugged at his heart, as in the dimly lighted corridor, 
 he saw the door of the bridal chamber marked 
 " No. 37." No. 37 ! It was Dejazet's number in 
 the Tussaud catalogue, and he realized it with a 
 smile that seemed to twist his features. Here at 
 last he would be brought face to face with his 
 Nemesis the woman that had dragged him from 
 the metropolis that he would never see again. . . . 
 
 He opened the door, which was unlocked, and 
 turning quickly, as soon as he had entered, he tried 
 the key in the lock to shut out the world. The key 
 resisted his efforts. He could not lock the door. 
 It might have been tampered with, so powerless
 
 306 His Own Image 
 
 was he to bolt himself in. What did it matter any. 
 way? Nobody would disturb them. This was a 
 deserted hotel in Windermere, and who would dare 
 to force a way into his bridal chamber ? 
 
 " Reginald !'' said Felicia in a low tone, raising 
 her head from the pillow, and looking at him from 
 her recumbent position. He stood still by the 
 door, and his eyes fell upon his wife, in her white 
 linen and lace. If he could only be calm. . . . 
 
 The blood rushed through his veins, and then 
 engorged itself in his brain. The swollen red cur- 
 rent shut out all external noise. The grandfather's 
 clock ticked no longer ; the wind outside had suc- 
 cumbed to the concert within him ; the rain tapping 
 at the window-panes seemed suddenly to have 
 stopped. 
 
 " Reginald," she murmured this poor little 
 bride, in one vain woman-effort to be coy. 
 
 He opened his eyes and saw her. She was as 
 white as the dimity counterpane that covered the 
 bed. The lace fell from her neck, and he saw her 
 blanche blue-veined throat, a throat as slender as 
 that of Lady Jane Grey, that had been severed by 
 the axe of the executioner. 
 
 "The body was found with four black finger- 
 marks on its throat," he muttered to himself, clos- 
 ing his eyes, while the blood swished no longer, but 
 seemed to coagulate in his head. 
 
 " Reginald !" For the third time the little bride 
 called to him, extending her arms as though to wel- 
 come him to her bosom. 
 
 He opened his eyes, but he could see her no
 
 His Nemesis 307 
 
 longer. A red mist arose and interposed itself be- 
 tween him and her. A horrible bloody curtain 
 spread itself before his view. His Nemesis was 
 calling to him, and beckoning to him. 
 
 " Unable to overcome his loathing. . . . 
 
 He rushed at her like a maniac. He knew where 
 she lay, white and quivering, although he could no 
 longer see her. It was but a step to the bed. 
 He bounded over the intervening space, agile as a 
 panther, although blinded by the curtain that 
 darkened his brain. The iron of the bedstead 
 struck him in the chest. It was a guiding blow. 
 A moment later he had found her. He felt the 
 lace upon her gown. It brushed against his fingers, 
 and in his rage he pulled it and tore it from her 
 throat. His fingers had reached her warm white 
 flesh. He pressed the four tips against her 
 throat, . . . 
 
 There was a scream that rose loudly above the 
 noise of the storm, drowning the whirling wind and 
 rain, in its acute penetrating agony. The maniac 
 paused for a moment, stayed by the affrighted voice 
 of his bride. Then it seemed to give him fresh 
 nerve. He was avenging his wrongs ; he was 
 championing his career ; he was struggling for the 
 sake of posterity as Dejazet had done. Again he 
 saw her throat, and lifted her violently from her 
 pillow. . . . 
 
 There were steps outside ; a hand taking posses- 
 sion of the door-knob, and in an instant he realized 
 that they were no longer alone. Into the chamber 
 burst Crampton, the secretary, mouldy no longer ;
 
 308 His Own Image 
 
 the stoop in his shoulders vanished, a man alert, 
 erect and resolute. He lost no time. He saw the 
 poor little bride, with the veins standing blue in her 
 face, as the fingers of the bridegroom tried to force 
 the life from her body. 
 
 He grappled with the maniac, seizing him from 
 the back. Reginald, in his mental revolution, knew 
 that he was to be balked of his victim. He turned 
 his murderous hand upon the intruder, and tried 
 to find his throat. As he did so, the climax to his 
 fate came swiftiy. For an instant he knew every- 
 thing ; the next instant the clot in his brain seemed 
 to break. He fell heavily to the floor, the blood 
 pouring from his mouth and ears, and staining the 
 carpet with a red halo. 
 
 Crampton looked down upon him, tumultuously 
 thankful for one moment, that his own hand had 
 been spared the horror of shedding this blood 
 this blood that oozed so slowly but so certainly. 
 
 Felicia, half fainting, raised herself from the bed, 
 and saw the prostrate form of her hero. She 
 motioned to Crampton to take her to him, and the 
 secretary lifted her in his arms, and placed her 
 tenderly in a chair by the side of the awful, swollen 
 ego-maniac. 
 
 " He would have killed you," said Crampton 
 softly. " He was Dejazet, wreaking Dejazet's 
 vengeance on the helpless Genevieve. And " he 
 added this as a consolation "he was not responsi- 
 ble for what he did. I knew it. I tried to avert 
 it, and and " 
 
 Crampton broke down ; the tensity of his nerv-
 
 His Nemesis 309 
 
 ous strain gave way, and he sobbed helplessly, like 
 an overgrown schoolboy, in the presence of a sud- 
 den catastrophe. But Felicia was dazed. She 
 had not yet quite recovered from the frenzied 
 clutch of those murderous fingers. The four marks 
 on her throat were distinctly visible. Crampton 
 saw them and shuddered. The lace of her gown 
 hung in strips from her body, and as she sat there, 
 mute in her chair, the ends of the lace fell into the 
 pool of Reginald's blood and were dyed carmine. 
 She remained there, comatose, and stupid, for a 
 half hour. The grandfather's clock below had re- 
 sumed its noisy sway. The wind and the rain had 
 taken a new lease of din, and filled the room with 
 a swirl and a patter. Crampton was thankful for 
 Felicia's semi-swoon. He stood there and watched, 
 as she sat silent by the side of the man to whom 
 she had given her girlish, illogical life. 
 
 Then he felt that the spell must be broken. He 
 lifted her in his arms, motioned to the people out- 
 side the bridal chamber to open another room for 
 him, and carried her in. He listened to the doc- 
 tor, who declared that she was suffering from shock 
 rather than from strangulation, and prepared to stay 
 in Windermere, until she was ready to be conveyed 
 
 to London. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Great was the sensation, in the London papers, 
 as the news of Reginald Rellerick's death was 
 flashed to the metropolis. The real facts were 
 suppressed by the reverent Crampton, who perhaps 
 alone knew them. Death from apoplexy on his
 
 310 His Own Image 
 
 wedding-night was, however, quite dramatic enough 
 to satisfy the Londoners. The papers teemed with 
 columns of obituary, and eulogies that the dead 
 ego-maniac would have gloried in. He was the 
 greatest, the best, the most artistic, the most en- 
 lightened. Everything was superlative in death, 
 as is generally the case, when the positive and com- 
 parative have been the rule during life. 
 
 A few of the Londoners, his friends, noticed a 
 strange coincidence. Pushed away in an obscure 
 part of the papers, far removed from the magnifi- 
 cent obituary notice and the sensational headlines, 
 was a tiny paragraph that read as follows : 
 
 STRANGE ACCIDENT AT TUSSAUD'S : Just before mid- 
 night yesterday, as the watchman was making his first rounds 
 among the wax-works at Madame Tussaud's, a remarkable 
 thing happened. Without any warning whatsoever, and 
 without the slightest apparent reason, the large artistic figure 
 representing the murderer Dejazet, in the Chamber of Hor- 
 rors, fell from its pedestal. It was comparately new, which 
 makes the event peculiarly odd. Nothing of the kind seems 
 to have ever happened before. The waxen Dejazet was 
 smashed to atoms. The watchman was quite upset, and has, 
 it is understood, resigned his position. 
 
 THE END.
 
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