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THE DEGRADATION OF 
 GEOFFREY ALWITH 
 
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 Frontispiec$!\ Page 99. 
 
THE DEGRADATION 
 
 OF 
 
 GEOFFREY ALWITH 
 
 BY 
 
 MORLEY ROBERTS 
 
 AUTHOR OF "RFD EARTH," ETC. 
 
 WITH A FRONTISPIECE BY B. S. LE FANU 
 
 DOWNEY & CO. 
 
 12 YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN, LONDON 
 
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CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. PACE 
 
 Forecast i 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 Nellie . 7 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 A Portion of Bohemia . . . , .14 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 The Woman he loved 29 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 The Shadow of Fate 40 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 Dr. Benson '. 52 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 For did She not love Him? .... 71 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 Yes ! or No ! .81 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 Qutside the Studio ...... 192 
 
viii Contents. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 A Sister of Mercy 114 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 A Case of Conscience 127 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 On the Verge 141 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 A New Departure 154 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 In Paris 162 
 
 CHAPTER XV. ' 
 Mother and Son 165 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 A MoabitiSh Woman 182 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 A Crisis .... ... 200 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 Could Fate do worse? ..... 208 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 Where Nellie lived 226 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 The Valley of the Shadow .... 240 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 i he Face of Death 2 6 2 
 
THE DEGRADATION OF 
 GEOFFREY ALWITH. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 FORECAST. 
 
 Will Curgenven, writer, teacher, and general 
 apostle of culture, as it is understood by the 
 elect, had been hard at work for some hours 
 on an essay on Greek metres, and was growing 
 tired of it. His dingy subject and dingy Baker 
 Street flat began to pall on him, and he rose to 
 pace his narrow room. 
 
 "Damn the nature of things, as Parson 
 said when he swallowed embrocation instead 
 of whisky ! " he cried at last. " I can't get 
 Harmer's mystery out of my head. I should 
 very much like to know what he meant about 
 my cousin Geoffrey. His inexplicable hints 
 
 B 
 
2 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 worry me. Does the half educated medical 
 think the artist is going off his head ? I am 
 half — yes, more than half, inclined to go and 
 have it out with him ! " 
 
 He stood and stared through his window at a 
 ghastly array of chimney pots and discoloured 
 roofs, for his rooms were at the top of a build- 
 ing, which was one of the loftiest in that 
 crowded, squeezed-up neighbourhood. 
 
 " No," he went on after a long stare at no- 
 thing, " I must stay here and read these metres ; 
 after all there is something extremely satisfac- 
 tory in the minuter differences between Doch- 
 miacs and Antispasts." 
 
 He chuckled to himself as he took one of his 
 numerous books from the nearest shelf. But 
 after reading for half an hour, he threw the 
 volume down. 
 
 " I don't know the difference between Alwith 
 and a Glyconic, and Harmer's mystery is mixed 
 direfully with all my thoughts. I can't work. 
 
 " I went to Strasburg, and there got drunk 
 With the most learned Professor Runck. 
 I went to Wortz, and got more drunken 
 With the more learned Professor Runcken. 
 
Forecast, 3 
 
 I must go and dissipate with Harmer ; for this 
 will never do ! " And he went. 
 
 His friend's rooms were not more than a half 
 a mile from his own, and were close to the 
 Marylebone Road. The street was narrow and 
 dim, and never very brilliantly clean ; there were 
 numerous boys in it shouting at the top of their 
 voices, as they played games, the chief point 
 of which seemed to be the making of as much 
 noise as possible, while vendors of strange 
 articles in hand-barrows screamed in various 
 keys inarticulate advertisements of their wares, 
 and at the street corner a very dirty Italian 
 ground perseveringly at a brazen-toned organ. 
 
 When Curgenven entered Harmer's den he 
 found him just come from the office ; for Jack 
 Harmer, after many years spent abroad, had 
 for a time settled down to a clerk's work, which 
 suited him as well as it would have a prehistoric 
 man. For he was essentially a savage in his 
 instincts. 
 
 " Well, metrical and most musical ruffian," was 
 his greeting, u have you come to tea with me ? " 
 
 u No, sir," said the other, " I have come to 
 have it out with you." 
 
 B 2 
 
4 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 Harmer looked at him oddly, and though he 
 was as a rule one of those men who have a cer- 
 tain difficulty in not telling everything in their 
 minds, Will recognized an expression he seldom 
 saw in his friend's face, which wrote up " no 
 thoroughfare " at once. 
 
 " Then," said Jack after a pause as he knelt at 
 the fire, " we had better have tea first, for deuce 
 the information you'll get from me now. Will 
 you drink it English fashion or Russian fashion, 
 or shall I make it in Australian bush fashion, in 
 a tin billy and stir it up with a stick ? n 
 
 " As you please, my boy/' said Will, and he 
 sat down. 
 
 They drank two cups of tea in silence. 
 
 " When are you going to get married, Jack ? " 
 asked Curgenven suddenly. 
 
 "When I'm very rich and old, Will, and that 
 means not yet. I have plenty of time for age 
 and wealth I n 
 
 " I thought you meant to be Alwith's brother- 
 in-law ? n 
 
 * I would rather be that than marry Elizabeth 
 Kyle," said Jack. 
 
 u I thought you used to like her ? " 
 
Forecast. 5 
 
 M I prefer her sister infinitely. Agnes has 
 some kind of a soul, I'll swear." 
 
 " Then Elizabeth hasn't," said Curgenven. 
 u But if that is so, how will my cousin get on 
 with her ? " 
 
 Harme-r looked troubled, and for a moment 
 did not reply. 
 
 " I wish you would leave Alwith alone. 
 What's Hecuba to him or he to Hecuba ? " 
 
 " Why, everything, apparently, if he's going 
 to marry Hecuba ! " 
 
 " Set your mind at rest, Will. He will never 
 marry her." 
 
 Curgenven stared at him and whistled. "Jack, 
 this is an entirely new departure in your cha- 
 racter. Are you the deus ex machina in this 
 little plot ? I want to know what it all means. 
 I want to know what is the matter with Geoffrey. 
 You looked at him queerly enough the other 
 night, and I want to know why you say he won't 
 marry the girl to whom he has been engaged 
 for two years and whom he loves far more than 
 she deserves. For in that I agree with you." 
 
 "Will," answered Harmer, "we have been 
 friends a long time, and almost everything you 
 
6 The Degradation of Geoffrey A /with. 
 
 want me to do I do ; and if I needed anything 
 from a letter of introduction to a fiver, I would 
 sooner ask you than anyone else. But this 
 doesn't concern myself. I will tell you as soon 
 as I can. Perhaps I may be wrong, but I don't 
 think I am." 
 
 There was silence in the room for several 
 minutes, and Harmer took down a long pipe 
 from the wall and gave it his friend, while he 
 himself smoked a black and ancient clay. 
 
 " Very well ! " said Will at last, " I must be 
 content perforce." And they talked about 
 current literature for the next hour. But at nine 
 Harmer arose and took his hat. 
 
 " Is this a hint, Jack ? " said Curgenyen. 
 Harmer nodded and they went out together. 
 " Where are you going, Harmer ? " 
 " I have an engagement with Dr. Benson." 
 They shook hands at the corner of the street. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 NELLIE. 
 
 SOON after Harmer and Curgenven parted in 
 Marylebone Road, Geoffrey Alwith left his club 
 in Albemarle Street to walk home to his Chelsea 
 studio. Though he was now at last a successful 
 artist, he still retained habits of penury, by no 
 means characteristic of his tribe, which had not 
 endeared him to his rivals. But for long years 
 he had fought, and now the victory was won 
 self-denial seemed almost easy for him. He knew 
 he could take a cab if he liked, but he deliber- 
 ately preferred to put off all indulgence until the 
 time came to which he was ardently looking 
 forward. Then, he said, there would be no need 
 of physical or spiritual starvation ; with what he 
 had made and saved and with his growing repu- 
 tation he would be able to enjoy himself, able 
 to refuse work which he hated, able to indulge 
 
8 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 the ideality of his soul, which had been so long 
 suppressed in the sordid struggle for success. 
 Now he was ready to shake hands with relenting 
 Fate, and almost eager to forgive destiny the 
 trials he had passed through. For had he not 
 been given the temperament to endure, the will 
 to persist, and the endowment that should con- 
 quer in the end ? There was a smile upon his 
 face as he came in the lights of Sloane Square, 
 and the harder lines of his face were relaxed. 
 
 As he passed under the tall building whose 
 clock looks west down the long King's Road, 
 his arm was touched softly by a woman whom 
 he had not noticed, and he turned quickly with 
 an air of sudden awakening. She who had thus 
 stopped him and surprised his dreams with the 
 deadly reality of the bitter streets and life of 
 London, was a young woman whose years 
 numbered perhaps one or two less than his own; 
 she was nearly as tall as himself and somewhat 
 thin ; her eyes were brown and brilliant, and 
 her hair, worn in a knot on the back of a small 
 but well-shaped head, was almost black. She 
 was the first to speak, and there was a painful 
 ring of forced lightheadedness in her tones, 
 
Nellie. g 
 
 which were purer in accent than might have 
 been expected. 
 
 11 It is you, then, Mr. Alwith ? It is a long, 
 long time since I saw you, but I recognized 
 your step and walk." 
 
 For a moment Geoffrey stared at her without 
 recognition. 
 
 * Nellie Mitchell ! why my dear girl, it is you, 
 is it ? " he said at last. " It must be two years 
 since I saw you, and then you sat to me. But 
 you are very thin now ! n 
 
 She looked at her hands, and as it were con- 
 templated her own figure. " Yes, I am thin. I 
 have been ill for a long time, and times are hard 
 nowadays." 
 
 " Why, what are you doing then ? " said 
 Alwith, carelessly and without thinking. 
 
 She burst into a bitter laugh. " One would 
 think you were a child, Mr. Alwith. What am 
 I doing, eh ? What are you doing ? Painting ? " 
 
 "Yes/* said Alwith, simply. 
 
 " Suppose no one would buy any of your 
 pictures. Then you wouldn't paint. Well, no 
 one wants me for a model now. My figure is 
 not what it was, and I am not so good-looking. 
 
io The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 So I have had to change my trade, that is 
 all!" 
 
 Alwith looked grave, but did not speak. He 
 was sorry for the woman, but her concerns 
 seemed to have nothing to do with him. He 
 had known her since she was twenty. In the 
 old days she often sat to him, and Nellie Mit- 
 chell had taken a fancy for the quiet young 
 painter who was so unlike most of the painting 
 brotherhood. With him the gay and careless 
 girl grew quiet ; with him she was always 
 modest, and she recognized often in the studies 
 the artist had made of her face that he had 
 though possibly without knowing it, drawn the 
 best and sweetest in a naturally good disposition. 
 Had not Alwith's unfailing desire been set on 
 the possession of another, he might have seen 
 that his model was yet a woman and loved him. 
 And in the fibre of Nellie's soul ran one golden 
 thread of faith and endurance, though she felt 
 she could not be more than a moment's thought 
 to him whom she loved. 
 
 But Alwith had never consciously seen deeper 
 than the skin. He employed Nellie as a matter 
 of business, and rarely thought of her after he 
 
Nellie. 1 1 
 
 had paid her the stipulated sum, which he had 
 never failed to beat down to the lowest amount 
 she could accept. Now on seeing her again his 
 curiosity was aroused for a moment, but he had 
 no enduring interest in her ; she was no business 
 of his ; he could not afford to be sympathetic, 
 for the sake of the home he hoped for and the 
 wife he dreamt of as its worshipped mistress. 
 So he shook himself and shrugged his shoulders 
 at her last words. 
 
 " Well, Nellie, I must be going home. It is 
 late, very late, and I must be busy to-morrow." 
 
 Nellie said nothing, but held out her hand, 
 and Alwith, after a moment's hesitation, took 
 it. But the woman noticed the pause, and let 
 him go a yard or two. Then she ran after him. 
 " Mr. Alwith, stay one minute. I am very sorry ; 
 I don't like to ask you, but would you give me 
 a little money, or lend it me ? I will try to give 
 it you back." 
 
 She stood panting, with her soul in her eyes, 
 and Alwith was silent. 
 
 w I don't ask you as I would anyone else. I 
 cannot tell you why, but give it me, Mr. 
 Alwith." 
 
1 2 The Degradation of Geoffrey A Iwitk. 
 
 Her attitude and expression should have 
 moved him, and indeed they did inwardly, but 
 for the one end of his life he had learnt to deny 
 himself luxuries of all kinds, and among them 
 was charity. 
 
 " I have no money to give away, Nellie. I 
 cannot afford it. I am hard upon myself and I 
 never spend any." 
 
 And his tone was more decided even than his 
 words. Nellie said no more but turned very 
 sadly and walked away until she came to a 
 darker place. Then she leant against the wall 
 and the tears ran down her face slowly and 
 faster and faster. It was very bitter to think 
 that he would have yielded to her if he had but 
 known why she had thus pleaded with him for 
 money. For the sight of the man she loved 
 brought back to her in full force the dulled 
 desires of a once instinctive purity, and she had 
 longed suddenly and with a feverish revolt for 
 one night's, one day's, respite from the bitter 
 fetters cast upon her by fate and the pitiless 
 decrees of a foul civilization. 
 
 But he had refused her, and she wept against 
 a deaf and dumb wall, while Elizabeth Kyle, 
 
Nellie. 13 
 
 for whose sweet sake Geoffrey Alwith had sold 
 his passionate soul and body to a devouring 
 Moloch of work and money, smiled to herself in 
 the most comfortable room of her father's house 
 and was at peace with a world that did not war 
 against her. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 A PORTION OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 Here and there in riverside Chelsea, stand in 
 certain streets clusters of studios. Some build- 
 ing plots whose rapid increase in value through 
 the action of that mysterious entity which 
 political economists call the "unearned incre- 
 ment " renders it hardly necessary for their owners 
 to require of them quarterly interest in rent, are 
 yet readily turned to an additional profit by the 
 erection of light and flimsy buildings or by the 
 conversion of old houses or antiquated offices 
 into ramshackle edifices quite sufficient for a 
 struggling artist or sculptor. It was in one of 
 these, and in one of the poorest and worst of 
 them, that Geoffrey Alwith had lived and worked 
 from the time when, free at last from the Aca- 
 demy schools, he had taken a studio of his own 
 and made a resolve to win both money and 
 fame. 
 
A Portion of Bohemia. 1 5 
 
 The building had probably been at one time 
 little better than an outhouse, and the walls were 
 old and shaky. The door by which the artist 
 entered had been made, at the time of its conver- 
 sion into a studio, in the dead wall that faced 
 the street, and its woodwork and frame had 
 gradually and by neglect come to look as old as 
 the walls themselves, which were now naturally 
 pointed by long lines of thick green moss. On 
 entering, one went down three steps into a small 
 courtyard, nominally sheltered by a rotten 
 shingled roof, whose pavement was rough and 
 uneven. In the corners of the courtyard were 
 some broken plaster casts, and one hand was 
 thrust appealingly from a pile of brick and lime 
 as though the living owner of the member had 
 been overwhelmed in some dreadful cataclysm. 
 In another corner lay a quantity of broken 
 bottles, but their uniform old age forbade the 
 supposition that the present owner of the studio 
 was responsible for their appearance about his 
 dwelling. A handleless broom, and some use- 
 less boots, completed the picture of the entrance. 
 
 Inside the inner door hung a dingy porti&re, 
 which could only be imagined to remain there 
 
1 6 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 on sufferance, as its faded appearance prevented 
 it by any possibility being considered an orna- 
 ment, and its dismally thin texture precluded 
 its being of any use. The room itself was a 
 long parallelogram, lighted from the roof, and 
 the roller curtains which enabled Alwith to 
 diminish or increase the daylight, seemed con- 
 temporary with the portiere, if one could judge 
 from the colour they had attained or the nume- 
 rous holes which made them inadequate to the 
 task they had to perform. On the floor was a 
 square of ancient carpet, if Persian, probably of 
 the period of Darius, which succeeded in its 
 darker parts, that had once been red, in rivalling 
 the dingy appearance of the boards, in trying to 
 cover which it had split in the middle and lay 
 in disorganized rucks. 
 
 Most artists' studios have some little attempt 
 at ornament, but here there was none. Save 
 some of Alwith's own work, not a picture adorned 
 the bare walls, not a feather or a fan put light or 
 colour into it. Alwith painted to sell, and of 
 late he sold much ; he used up or disposed of 
 his ' old canvases, he worked unfailingly from 
 daylight to dark in winter, and in summer as 
 
A Portion of Bohemia. 17 
 
 long as he could hold the brush with a sure 
 hand. It was said that Alwith was avaricious 
 and a miser, and he was not a favourite with the 
 truer Bohemians who sometimes made so merry 
 next door or over the way. But a miser is a 
 man who seeks to make money for money's 
 sake ; the motives of a man like Alwith were 
 different. 
 
 Like many others who become painters in 
 spite of their circumstances and their astonished 
 and incredulous relatives, Geoffrey Alwith had 
 been forced to combat many obstacles before he 
 could even begin to enter upon the career that 
 he, with a deliberate knowledge of his own pos- 
 sible capabilities which few possess, felt and 
 knew to be best suited to him. His father was 
 a business man and the descendant of business 
 men, and such was the force of his enduring 
 prejudice and belief in his own transmitted city 
 qualifications, that the early manifestations of 
 artistic power and instinct in his son almost led 
 him to doubt his wife, who certainly had never 
 shown the slightest proclivity or interest in the 
 subjects which began to engross the attention of 
 her only child. Had Mr. Alwith known the 
 
 C 
 
1 8 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 word heredity, he would, from this instance of 
 its erratic working or possible reversion, have 
 instantly heaped scorn on what had previously 
 been taken for granted both by himself and his 
 ancestors for some generations. At first he 
 insisted on Geoffrey's conforming to his expecta- 
 tions, and while the lad was still young he had 
 sufficient authority to induce him to undertake 
 at least the perfunctory performance of a clerk's 
 duty. But with advancing years, and at that 
 time when with maturer feelings a stronger 
 volition and a readier revolt are brought into 
 play, the will of young Alwith came into con- 
 flict with that of his father. For some time 
 neither would give in. It seemed at first im- 
 possible to the older man that a boy, a son of 
 his, and his clerk as well, could dare to brave an 
 authority based at once on paternity and the 
 possession of capital. It was unheard of, scan- 
 dalous ! He had always, so he said, obeyed 
 his father. This must be some evil strain which 
 came from his wife's side. She must have en- 
 couraged him in such audacious and unfilial 
 conduct, and consequently he made life a burden 
 to her by a series of useless outbreaks of temper. 
 
A Portion of Bohemia. 19 
 
 This Mrs. Alwith bore with a certain Calvin- 
 istic fatalism and ascetic fervour, which had 
 supported her through life with a man who was 
 destitute both of religion and true kindliness ot 
 feeling. Rut in Geoffrey Alwith the stubborn 
 will of his father met its match, and the end of 
 the conflict was foreshadowed from the be- 
 ginning by the persistent silence with which the 
 son had received abuse, and the unfailing regu- 
 larity with which he returned to the charge when 
 Mr. Alwith had temporarily exhausted his 
 stock of cut and dried reasoning, and his ar- 
 moury of threats and abuse. Blows he did not 
 venture on, for there was that in Geoffrey Al- 
 with's expression which forbade recourse to 
 such measures. 
 
 The conflict lasted two months, during which 
 period Geoffrey refused to go to the city, spend- 
 ing his time in drawing in his bedroom, and at 
 the end of this period, Mr. Alwith confessed 
 himself beaten, and withdrew with characteristic 
 ill-grace from the encounter. At dinner one 
 night, after a long silence which he had only 
 broken by contemptuous remarks about the 
 cookery, he said to Geoffrey suddenly, — 
 
 C 2 
 
20 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 il Look here, I want to talk to you. You 
 think yourself damned clever, no doubt, but I'm 
 getting sick of you, and you just give me a 
 little more of your insolence, and I'll turn you 
 out of the house." 
 
 He stopped, as if inviting remarks, and his 
 lowering brows and protruding underlip gave a 
 touch of vivid brutality to a face which, though 
 keen, lacked no element of pure animality. 
 Geoffrey answered quietly, but with an action of 
 the hands that showed his nervous temperament. 
 
 * I am not insolent, sir, that I know of." 
 
 11 Yes, you are," shouted his father, and turn- 
 ing to Mrs. Alwith, " and you encourage him." 
 
 " She doesn't encourage me at all. Mother 
 has begged me to* go to the office a dozen 
 times/' 
 
 "And why don't you go then, you — you — 
 you idiot ? " And he banged on the table 
 violently. There was a moment's silence and 
 Mr. Alwith spoke again. 
 
 " Well, there's going to be an end of it. It 
 you weren't my only son, I would turn you out , 
 neck and crop, but as it is you shall have your 
 way this time. Now, look here, don't speak or 
 
A Portion of Bohemia. 2 1 
 
 I shall lose my temper." This was a favourite 
 remark of Mr. Alwith's when he could go no 
 further unless he committed a violent assault. 
 " I spoke to a man in the city to-day. He's a 
 picture dealer, and he says if a man has brains 
 and works he ought to be able to make a living 
 after four years at the places such fools as you 
 want to go to. So I am going to let you go. 
 But if you can't make a living then, you may 
 starve, for I'll wash my hands of you, I will, 
 and when I say a thing I mean it. Do you 
 hear me ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir," said Geoffrey, " and I am much 
 obliged to you." 
 
 " Damn your obligations," said his father 
 graciously, and going out of the room he 
 slammed the door violently, and roared to the 
 servant, to whom he talked so savagely for not 
 turning the hall gas high enough, that the poor 
 girl retreated downstairs in tears. 
 
 Geoffrey went across the room and kissed his 
 mother, who sat quite quietly, not looking as if 
 this outburst had moved her much, for custom 
 had macje her strong in endurance. 
 
 u It will be all right now, mother," he said, 
 
22 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 " for I shall work hard ; and as to succeeding 
 and making money, I'll do it just to show him 
 I can." 
 
 He looked as if he meant it, and his mother 
 glanced at him proudly. 
 
 11 1 hope you will, Geoffrey. It is a great dis- 
 appointment to your father for you not to suc- 
 ceed him in the business. But you must make 
 up for it in other ways, and then he will be 
 proud cf you. But you have always been a 
 good boy, and as long as you are that I shan't 
 mind what happens, dear." 
 
 She kissed him kindly, and stroked his hair, 
 which was dark and curly and thick. It lay 
 upon a brow that was high and broad, and 
 showed an intellect which, joined to the will of 
 his mouth and jaws, should render success as 
 sure as it can be in this curiously contrary and 
 disappointing world. And the next day Geoffrey 
 Alwith became a student at Lambeth School of 
 Art. He was then seventeen. 
 
 During the next few years, Geoffrey showed 
 that he had, with the power of making a resolu- 
 tion and keeping to it, an inborn faculty which 
 bade him hope for the highest honour his pro- 
 
A Portion of Bohemia. 23 
 
 fession can bestow on the successful. But in 
 spite of the persistence with which he worked, 
 and the dogged industry with which he over- 
 came the first difficulties in every new phase of 
 his training, he was not happy wholly in his 
 work, and as time went on he began to feel that 
 youthful desire of pleasure which few can resist 
 who are endowed with strong passions and a 
 good physique. As he approached manhood he 
 was in a state of perpetual conflict with a desire 
 for ease and enjoyment, for ever fighting to 
 put off pleasure until he could say he had 
 earned it, and could take it with a clear 
 conscience and no self-reproach. As a lad he 
 had been brought up in a home ostensibly 
 religious on one side — for Mr. Alwith deemed 
 religion as respectable and indispensable a thing 
 as a good hat — and really religious on the other, 
 for his mother had strong convictions, and did 
 her best to carry them into practice. Geoffrey's 
 own belief was a matter of habit and inheri- 
 tance, and though he did believe, he took creeds 
 as they were presented to him, and was too busy 
 with the callings of his own artistic nature to 
 take sufficient interest in them to attempt 
 
24 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 questioning the grounds on which they were 
 based. 
 
 It was this religious feeling, together with an 
 earlier recognition than is usual with young men 
 and boys of the folly of profligacy during a 
 period which should be devoted to training, and 
 to putting oneself beyond the possibility of 
 ignoble and slavish toil, that kept Geoffrey 
 Alwith pure during the first portion of his 
 novitiate in the dissolute cloister of the arts. 
 And yet the spirit of revolt was active in him, 
 and he was often tempted to pass the barriers 
 he had himself set up, or to loiter in his course. 
 But he remembered that though the apples of 
 the Hesperides were precious and golden, they 
 lost the race to Atalanta ; and he gave way 
 neither to the innate love of pleasure which he 
 had inherited from the coarser nature of his 
 father, nor to the higher idealism that came 
 from his mother's family, and which in the 
 materialistic atmosphere of the schools was 
 scouted as fantastic and unreal. 
 
 . It was quite in accordance with such a charac- 
 ter that when Mr. Alwith, at the termination of 
 Geoffrey's school training, wound up a rapidly 
 
A Portion of Bohemia. 25 
 
 failing business just in time to save himself from 
 becoming bankrupt, and to leave him with a 
 bare competency only, that this misfortune did 
 not seriously affect his son. When the father, 
 for whom " age did not stale, nor custom wither " 
 his infinite variety of ill temper, acquainted 
 Geoffrey with the fact that he must henceforth 
 look to himself, he received the news with a 
 calmness which was quite incomprehensible to 
 the older man, and the incomprehensible in 
 those who are near to them, always irritates 
 shallow characters. 
 
 " Why, damn it," said Mr. Alwith, " you don't 
 seem to be sorry." 
 
 " I'm sorry for you and mother, sir," Geoffrey 
 answered respectfully. 
 
 " And why not for yourself too ? " snorted the 
 father. 
 
 "Why not for myself? I never expected 
 your money, sir." 
 
 Mr. Alwith stared at him. He had forgotten 
 what had happened four years ago. 
 
 " You told me when I insisted on being an 
 artist that I wasn't to expect it, and I have not 
 done so," said Geoffrey. 
 
26 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 " Hum ! " replied the father, " that was a long 
 time ago. I said it in a little natural irritation ; 
 of course I didn't mean it. If you didn't have 
 it, who would ? Do you suppose I would give 
 it to an Asylum for Idiots, and go in the place 
 myself? But there," he added testily, "I 
 haven't got it now. I am going to give you 
 fifty pounds, and you'll get devilish little more 
 even when I die, so I wouldn't reckon on 
 it." 
 
 And he sat down to a newspaper and read the 
 money market with all the interest of old 
 custom, and a natural hankering after such in- 
 telligence. He spoke truly enough ; this was 
 the last money Geoffrey got from his father, and 
 with it he established himself in the studio de- 
 scribed in the beginning of this chapter, from 
 which he had never moved even when able to 
 afford a better one. For he had fallen in love, 
 and was eagerly bent on the acquisition of 
 sufficient money to make a home for her about 
 whom his ideal and physical passions were 
 twined at last. 
 
 For the next two years he was an example of 
 
A Portion of Bohemia. 27 
 
 the truth that the man who is careful with money 
 he does not earn himself, will usually be doubly 
 diligent in saving when he handles what has 
 been procured by his own toil. But as he had 
 been penurious before in the interests of his 
 artistic nature, he was avaricious now for the 
 earlier enjoyment of the promised delights of 
 love ; and he took somewhat the same pleasure 
 in denying himself what many would have 
 deemed necessaries, that an ascetic feels in a 
 self-inflicted earthly penance when contem- 
 plating in wretched ecstasy the glories of a 
 paradise worthy to be procured even at greater 
 pains. 
 
 Had the woman he loved been as passionate 
 as himself, she might have released him earlier 
 from his agony, and have rewarded his faith 
 and devotion by a remission from purgatory, 
 which in itself would have been paradise. But 
 perhaps it was the coldness and quietude of 
 passion in Elizabeth Kyle that was her greatest 
 attraction to Geoffrey Alvvith. For she was 
 something white, supreme, and fair ; something 
 exalted and removed from his own nature ; her 
 
28 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 pallor was a fair white canvas for him to colour 
 with all the hues of love ; her cold and perfect 
 form a statue for him to make breathe at last 
 with a divine and passionate life that should be 
 his own for ever. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE WOMAN HE LOVED. 
 
 The day following the evening spent at his 
 club, which had been his sole recreation during 
 the whole week, Geoffrey Alwith gave to working 
 at two portraits, one which he had nearly 
 finished, and one for which a man of business, 
 who, though apparently destitute of any artistic 
 feeling, had a soul above the ordinary photo- 
 graphic enlargement, was still sitting. Long 
 use and endurance of the commonplace and per- 
 sistent repressal of the creative faculty had 
 hardened Alwith to the general character of his 
 clients, for, accustomed to live in the future, it 
 was comparatively easy for him to say, " It is 
 only putting it off. I know my own powers, 
 and what I can do, only I cannot afford to give 
 way now to my true self. When Elizabeth is 
 my wife, I shall be free, freer than I have ever 
 
30 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 been, and I will show them what a money- 
 grubber can do." 
 
 During the short spring daylight, he worked 
 steadily, even after he had dismissed his last 
 client, and he only put down his brushes and 
 cleaned them and his palette when it was too 
 dark to work with any advantage and he felt 
 tired and worn out. He noticed his fatigue with 
 a certain wonder. 
 
 " What the deuce is it makes me feel so weak 
 to-day? I have no more strength than a cat 
 just now. It must be the weather. ,, 
 
 He sat down wearily by his stove, and 
 waited for Jim to get out his tea things ; though 
 he usually did this himself. For the annoyance 
 of leaving off work, when he still desired to do 
 more, often gave him a factitious energy after a 
 wearisome day, which he got rid of by doing 
 those things in the half-light that someone else 
 was supposed to do for him. 
 
 After he had eaten his lonely and simple meal, 
 and when Jim had cleared away, he still sat in his 
 chair. He was going to visit the woman he loved, 
 and although eager enough to see her, he sat 
 dreaming for a few minutes. He thought that it 
 
The Woman he loved. 31 
 
 would not be long now ere he could marry ; the 
 day was soon to be settled. Why should he not 
 get her to fix it to-night ? After all there was 
 no obstacle. He was making more money than 
 many of his acquaintances who were married, 
 or who spent in other ways more than enough 
 to enable them to keep wives. He had enough 
 money saved to furnish the small house they 
 would need. Why should he go on this way 
 any more ? Every time he saw her his pain at 
 leaving her presence was greater than it was 
 before ; the picture of her at home with him 
 almost grew with fervent contemplation into a 
 diseased objectivity; his future homewas a "chose 
 vue ; " distinct in every detail. Yes, he would 
 ask her to-night ; after two years of courting, 
 and two years of a settled engagement, he felt he 
 had a right to ask her to share his home, even if 
 it was not as easy and luxurious as her father's. 
 He rose, and, putting on his coat and hat, went 
 to Clapham. 
 
 When he entered the drawing-room, he found 
 Elizabeth Kyle sitting by the fire with her 
 sister Agnes. He greeted her with eagerness, 
 but with a visible constraint which arose partly 
 
32 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 from the presence of the younger girl, and more 
 largely from the necessity he always felt for 
 controlling himself in the presence of the woman 
 he loved. 
 
 Save to the eye of a lover, it is possible 
 that Elizabeth would not have seemed of more 
 than the average beauty of English girls. She 
 was under the middle height, and rather com- 
 pactly than gracefully made ; her hair was 
 light, long and abundant ; her complexion 
 pale and rarely touched with living rose ; and 
 her face, though regular and almost perfect, was 
 too immobile and cold to move any save those 
 who had a trained eye for form, and a sufficient 
 magic of idealization to infuse such chill solidity 
 with the hidden fires of their own imaginations. 
 But as a contrast to Alwith, with his slight form, 
 dark skin and gleaming eyes, she was perfect. 
 It was, perhaps, the opposition of physical and 
 mental qualities which had first drawn him to 
 her, and made him her slave so long as she gave 
 him permission to adore her. 
 
 He seated himself beside her, and after the 
 first greeting was entirely lost to Agnes, who 
 shortly afterwards rose and left the room. As 
 
The Woman he loved. 33 
 
 the door closed, Alwith took Elizabeth's hand 
 and kissed it. She smiled faintly, and seemed 
 almost unconscious that the hand was her own, 
 and a symbol of possession. 
 
 " I am glad, dearest Beth, to see you again," 
 said he, looking up at last and suddenly glanc- 
 ing down as though he feared to meet her 
 clear eyes, though surely if there was aught 
 dangerous or intoxicating in them, it must have 
 been the reflection of his own. u I am so glad, 
 for it seemed so long since I was here." 
 
 "Nonsense, Geoffrey," was the reply; "you 
 were here on Tuesday and the Friday before, 
 and so on backwards to all eternity." 
 
 He kissed her hand again, and more passion- 
 ately. She drew it away slowly. 
 
 " Does it then seem an eternity to you, Beth ? 
 Then what an eternity it must seem to me ! n 
 For he took it for granted that his love sur- 
 passed hers. How could it be otherwise ? 
 
 " Well, Geoffrey/' said Beth, quietly reaching 
 for a screen from the mantelpiece, which she 
 used in such an uncertain manner that it would 
 have led a bystander, had there been one there, 
 to doubt whether she meant to shield herself 
 
 D 
 
34 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 from Geoffrey or the fire, " well, Geoffrey, I said 
 eternity just as a mere fagon de parler; you 
 know. It really does not seem so very long. 
 You see I have got so accustomed to you. It 
 is almost like having certain dishes on certain 
 days." 
 
 Alwith laughed, for this trifling remark seemed 
 humorous to him, and a misleading exaggeration 
 of a pretended coldness, although as a matter of 
 fact it as nearly expressed Beth's real attitude to 
 her lover as a mere material simile might. 
 
 * Well, Beth," Geoffrey went on, " I am getting 
 tired of coming here, and you know it." 
 
 " Indeed, sir, your regularity does not show 
 much fatigue. You know you need not come if 
 you don't like." 
 
 " Don't speak so, Beth ; don't say that, even 
 in joke. You know well what I mean. I don't 
 want to have to come here to see you. I want 
 you nearer home — yes, at my home, dearest, 
 next my heart for ever. Oh! I am tired of 
 coming here. You don't know what anguish it 
 is to leave you. You don't know." 
 
 Beth looked down. She was certainly moved, 
 but perhaps more with this fierce and frank 
 
The Woman he loved. 35 
 
 acknowledgment of her power than with the 
 love in the tone and look and words of the man 
 who made it. Geoffrey went on, — 
 
 " You understand me, Beth ? Say you under- 
 stand me. You cannot help being moved by 
 what I feel, help being warmed by the fire 
 within me. You know I love you, and I cannot 
 say how much. Look in my face, and my eyes 
 will tell you, for speaking now almost chokes 
 me. And I know you love me too. It is the 
 crown of my life — your love ; the reward of my 
 labour, the aid of my desires, the thing I thank 
 God for. Oh, I think I should not believe in 
 Him if you did not love me ! " 
 
 Beth looked up sharply. It was strange to 
 think that a phrase which might possibly be 
 termed irreverent moved her more quickly than 
 words which, in the way they were spoken, were 
 as vivid as the heart's blood of him who used 
 them. 
 
 " Geoffrey, don't say such things. I don't 
 like them." 
 
 u Forgive me, dear love, but I am moved 
 to-night — strangely moved. Oh, Beth, this 
 cannot last ! I am not strong enough to bear 
 
 V 2 
 
36 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 it. I am eating my heart up with longing for 
 you." He rose from the chair, and stood in 
 front of her. His hair was thrown back from 
 his forehead ; his eyes gleamed, and his hands 
 shook. After a moment's pause he went on. 
 " When will you marry me, dearest ? I came 
 to-night to ask you this. I had made up my 
 mind not to speak to you till the summer, but 
 I cannot delay any longer. We have been 
 engaged two years ; I have known you four. 
 It is four centuries. Beth, answer me. Come, 
 answer me ! " And he took her hands, and 
 kissed one and then the other, with a strange 
 hungry air of absorbing passion, while he looked 
 down upon her like a sun upon a marble Memnon 
 that delayed to speak. 
 
 But Elizabeth Kyle was moved a little. 
 Perhaps there was a man in the world who 
 could have shattered her pride and calm 
 to pieces for ever by rousing the passion 
 that lurks finally in all who have a complete 
 human nature, but Alwith was not the man. 
 And yet in his fire and earnestness, his strong 
 language and virile fierceness, there was some- 
 thing which aroused at least a reflex passion 
 
T/ie Woman he loved. 37 
 
 within her, even if he had failed to rouse a 
 creative and enduring force of love such as 
 shook him to the centre of his soul. She 
 began, — 
 
 " You know I love you, Geoffrey " 
 
 He fell on his knees before her, still holding 
 her hands. She bent her head. " You know it, 
 Geoffrey/' she insisted, for she believed she 
 spoke the truth, lie was unable to speak, but 
 murmured unintelligibly. " And I will marry 
 you when you like, if you really think it is well 
 for us to do so, and if you can afford it ? 
 Geoffrey." 
 
 He rose suddenly, drawing her from the chair 
 with an irresistible force that had an element in 
 it beyond that of bodily strength, and she felt a 
 thrill go from the hands he clasped through her 
 whole being. Perhaps she was justified in 
 believing she loved him, for she had never been 
 so strangely moved before. He folded her to 
 his bosom, and kissed her lips. It was like 
 Death and Revelation to this controlled and 
 steadfast man. But he was silent, and spoke no 
 more. 
 
38 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwitk. 
 
 As they sat side by side, she with her fair 
 head leaning on his shoulder, wondering at the 
 fierce pulsation of his heart, while hers was so 
 calm, Geoffrey reviewed in triumph that had no 
 touch of bitterness the weary toil and steadfast 
 endurance of his past life. He had willed to 
 become a painter, and he was one, and in his 
 heart he knew he had the higher gifts of thought 
 and poetical imagination that go to make an 
 artist of the mere painter. He had striven for 
 success, and attained it — the success of an 
 independence so long as his eyes retained their 
 strength and his trained hands their power of 
 direction. He had loved and striven for love 
 again, and it had come to him full-handed of 
 sweetness, the soul's anodyne, a key to Paradise. 
 What was denied to him who could work and 
 wait and will ? There were power and charm, 
 in the three words, that mocked the Eastern 
 fables of treasures revealed by a spell ; they 
 were indeed wonder-working, thaumaturgic, and 
 needed no magic. Man's fate was his own, his 
 own to make or mar, to build or cast down, and 
 life a temple to render glorious with work beyond 
 
The Woman he loved. 39 
 
 the Pheidian chisel, and musical with songs as 
 great as anthems, or else to pull down and leave 
 in ruins for an owl-haunted desolation. He was 
 glad beyond expression. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE SHADOW OF FATE. 
 
 HARMER had had it in his mind to go and see 
 Alwith for weeks, and had put it off again and 
 again until at last Geoffrey wrote to him. The 
 letter put Jack into a most unusual state of 
 agitation. 
 
 u I would rather go and see the devil than 
 poor Geoffrey, he said, "and yet I must. I 
 suppose it is my duty. Curse duty, anyhow. 
 If I am right in what I think, it will be a pretty 
 thing. To-morrow ! " 
 
 And, as fate would have it, * to-morrow n was 
 the day Geoffrey had been to see Elizabeth 
 Kyle, and Jack found the studio deserted. At 
 first he was relieved, but finally he made up his 
 mind to wait for his friend. He loafed about 
 uneasily in a neighbouring studio till eleven. 
 Looking out, he saw a light in Alwith's place, 
 
The Shadow of Fate. 41 
 
 and went across the road. Finding the door 
 ajar, he knocked and went in. 
 
 When he put aside the dusty green portiere 
 and entered the studio, he found Alwith sitting 
 by the stove, in which a small fire still burned. 
 There was but a single jet of the gas flaming, and 
 its light fell full on Alwith's face, which seemed 
 in the dreary spaces of the studio the only thing 
 real and actual, to such an extent was the faint 
 glow absorbed by his colourless surroundings. 
 
 " Good evening, Geoffrey," said Harmer, and 
 he shook hands with his friend, who, considering 
 the scene through which he had passed, was 
 perhaps hardly so glad to see him as he might 
 have been at another time. 
 
 " Good evening, Jack. You pay late visits." 
 
 " Yes, it is rather late ; but then you come in 
 so late. Where have you been ? " 
 
 " I have been at the Kyles\ You know I 
 usually go there on Fridays." 
 
 " I had forgotten," said Harmer, who seemed 
 to have a difficulty in coming directly to the 
 point. " How is Miss Kyle ? " 
 
 "Very well, Jack, very well indeed, but ," 
 
 and he stopped a moment. " You know, Jack, 
 
42 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 there was once a little rivalry between us, or at 
 least, I thought so, and I have never spoken to 
 you about her, or, for that matter, to any one." 
 
 Harmer looked up, and smiled gravely. 
 " Never mind that, Geoffrey. I am quite 
 reconciled to that. Why, it was only absurd 
 folly. How can I afford to marry? I never 
 shall, unless something turns up/' 
 
 Geoffrey went to him, and held out his hand. 
 " Then you really mean that you don't mind> 
 Jack ? " Harmer nodded, and the other went on. 
 " I am glad of it, for you know there has some- 
 times seemed to be a little cloud between us, 
 and I did not quite like it, for, after all, you 
 have been almost my greatest friend since we 
 first knew each other." 
 
 He was silent, and Harmer's lips moved once 
 or twice as though he were going to speak. 
 Alwith did not notice it. 
 
 " But, Jack, she won't be Miss Kyle much 
 longer. I am going to be married ! " 
 
 t% In the summer, Geoffrey ? " 
 
 " No, sooner than that; in April. Bless her, 
 I have been solitary long enough ; I cannot 
 stand it much longer. To-night she fixed the 
 
The Shadow of Fate. 43 
 
 tenth of April. Good God ! I don't know how 
 I shall do any work between now and then. It 
 almost takes my breath away." And he put 
 his hand on his heart. Harmer clenched the 
 arms of his chair and leant forward. Alwith 
 caught his eye, and stopped. 
 
 " Does this pain you, Jack ? Are you sincere 
 with me ? " 
 
 " It is as true as daylight that I am perfectly 
 
 sincere." 
 
 "Then what did you look at me like that 
 for ? " said Alwith, in a curiously changed 
 voice. 
 
 Harmer leant forward again, but looked on 
 the floor. He tried to speak, but failed. 
 
 " What is the matter with you, Jack ? Is it 
 something about yourself you want to speak to 
 me for ? " 
 
 It was strangely characteristic of the speaker 
 that he instantly thought Harmer might be in 
 want of money. 
 
 " No," said Harmer at last, " it is not about 
 
 myself— it is about you." And he rose and 
 
 looked Alwith in the face. His voice was 
 
 trained and altered, and his expression such 
 
44 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 as a man might wear looking at an execution, 
 for there was a deep interest, a vivid pity, and a 
 strange uncertainty in it. Perhaps he looked 
 for a rescue. 
 
 "About me," said Alwith quickly, "what can 
 it be to make you look like that ? Pshaw ! it 
 can be nothing to matter," he added to himself, 
 "did I not see her an hour ago?" Then he 
 spoke again. " What is it ? " 
 
 Harmer went towards him and put his hand 
 on his arm. 
 
 M Sit down, Alwith, and I will try to tell you." 
 
 And Alwith sat down, for in his earnestness 
 this mercurial and fickle Jack Harmer had a 
 great mental force. 
 
 u Geoffrey/' said he, i( how long have we 
 known each other ? " 
 
 " Since we were both seventeen," the other 
 answered mechanically. It was true, for they 
 were of the same age. 
 
 * Yes," said Harmer, " you were at Lambeth 
 School of Art then. Do you remember where 
 I was ? » 
 
 * At St. Thomas' Hospital." 
 
 "Yes, I was a medical student then. Aiwith, 
 
The Shadow of Fate. 45 
 
 do you believe I am your friend — do you believe 
 I shrink from hurting you, as I would have you 
 shrink from hurting me ? Do you believe I 
 would say nothing unless I felt obliged to say 
 it ? And, finally, would you pay any regard to 
 what I said ? Would you ? " 
 
 He stopped speaking and looked at his friend, 
 who was sucking his lips, which seemed dry. 
 He laughed a kind of forced laugh. 
 
 " This is a very serious exordium. Why, yes, 
 I would, unless — unless it was something to do 
 with — Damn it," and he sprang up, " you have 
 nothing to say against her ? " and he looked 
 hostile and dangerous. 
 
 " Sit down, Alwith. I have nothing to say 
 about Miss Kyle at all." Geoffrey subsided into 
 his chair again. Did I not say it was about 
 you ? But," he added despairingly, M I don't 
 know how to say it." And he looked for en- 
 couragement from Alwith. 
 
 " Go on, go on ; you have gone too far to stop 
 now. What is it ?" 
 
 " Well, you remember I was a medical student. 
 Do you remember why I failed to pass the 
 cursed examinations ? fi 
 
46 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith, 
 
 u I remember you said it was because you 
 always read what you ought to have left till the 
 last, instead of taking it at first. But what has 
 that to do with me ? " 
 
 Harmer paid no attention to this question. 
 * Yes, I failed because I didn't know my ' bones ' 
 and ■ nerves/ when I knew more than half the 
 doctors about some of the more obscure diseases. 
 It was stupid of me, of course, but I have always 
 done that kind of thing. ,, 
 
 " Come," said Alwith, angrily, " what is all 
 this about ? Do you want me to think you are 
 mad ? Upon my soul I am inclined to believe 
 it already." 
 
 Harmer had been pacing the studio. His 
 eyes had been fixed on a bust of Apollo, which 
 was dingy with many years' neglect. He 
 stopped and examined it. 
 
 " This looks a good bust, Alwith, but it is full 
 of cracks. It might come to pieces any day." 
 
 Alwith lost his patience and his good manners 
 at once. " Damn the bust, and you too ! I think 
 you had better say good night ! * 
 
 " Alwith/' said Harmer, coming up to him, 
 " do you feel well ? " 
 
The Shadow of Fate. 47 
 
 " Yes, I do ! " said the other angrily. 
 
 V Quite well, I mean ? As well as you used to 
 do a year or two back ? Answer me, and don't 
 get angry." 
 
 Geoffrey looked at him, and was quieted by 
 the look in his eyes; he grew calm with an 
 effort. 
 
 " No, perhaps I am not, but that is nothing, 
 I have had enough mental perturbation to put 
 me out of sorts." 
 
 " There is nothing wrong with you, then ? M 
 said Harmer. 
 
 The persistence of the man somewhat 
 alarmed Alwith. 
 
 " Nothing particular that I know of. Do you 
 think there is ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Harmer solemnly, " I do." 
 
 "What is it? I should like to know what 
 fancy you have got in your head." 
 
 " No, I can't tell you, but I want you to go to 
 a doctor to-morrow. Will you go, Geoffrey ? 
 Oh, if it isn't to satisfy yourself, go to please me. 
 If you are all right, I will pay his fee for you." 
 
 " I don't want your money," said Alwith 
 testily. " If I am fool enough to go, I will pay 
 
48 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwitk. 
 
 for myself. But I want to know more of this. 
 Why do you think I am ill ? " 
 
 " There are several reasons, Geoffrey, but the 
 chief is this. Have you got a looking-glass ? " 
 
 Alwith nodded. 
 
 " Then get it." When Geoffrey came from 
 behind the curtain which hid his bed, Harmer 
 took the glass. 
 
 " Look at yourself. Don't you notice a 
 change ? " 
 
 "Not I. This is foolery ! " 
 
 u Geoffrey, it is not foolery. Can you see how 
 brown you are ? M 
 
 " Yes, of course I can." 
 
 u Then how do you account for it ? It's not 
 an open-air colour, and besides you are never 
 in the open air." 
 
 " No, I am not, but then a little brownness is 
 nothing. You are quite foolish." 
 
 " You think I am a fool ? " said Jack, putting 
 the glass down. 
 
 11 About this I do." 
 
 u Then won't you go to a doctor ? " 
 
 Alwith stamped with his foot and clenched his 
 teeth, " I never went to a doctor in my life, and 
 
The Shadow of Fate. 49 
 
 I won't begin when there is nothing the matter 
 with me." 
 
 Harmer began to get angry, and his eyes 
 sparkled. 
 
 " I tell you there is something the matter, 
 and very possibly something very serious. I 
 tell you what I wouldn't have told you if you 
 hadn't driven me to it, and it is that I have seen 
 men who looked just as you do in the daylight, 
 who died in two months ! " 
 
 Alwith sat down and stared at Harmer 
 steadily, but there was a visible strain about the 
 muscles of the jaw. 
 
 "Do you mean this, Jack?" said he at 
 length. 
 
 " Do I mean it?" asked Harmer, almost con- 
 temptuously, " Do I mean it ? Do you think I 
 should come and trouble you for a joke, for a 
 folly ? That I should make a fool of myself, 
 and of you, just for amusement ? Think 
 Geoffrey, think, you have known me long enough, 
 and I tell you in all, in utter, seriousness, that you 
 should see someone. Are you sure, quite sure, 
 that you feel as strong as you should do ? " 
 
 Alwith's face began to relax a little, and, as he 
 
 E 
 
50 The Degradation of Geoff ny Alwith. 
 
 thought, the rigidity of the lines of his face faded 
 away. He began to look back at the last few 
 weeks, and he remembered that at times he had 
 been easily tired, that he had been short-winded, 
 as he phrased it, and that he had not really felt 
 well. Then it was true Harmer was no fool, 
 and, moreover, he had studied medicine. Be- 
 sides, a possible fatal termination — the thought 
 was horrible. He started, turned paler, and the 
 strong decision melted away from his face like 
 frozen snow from the features of a statue in the 
 sudden sun. 
 
 " What doctor shall I go to, Harmer ? " 
 
 " To mine ; he is as clever a man as I know, 
 and as nice a man too ; Dr. Benson, of Caven- 
 dish Square. Look here, give him my card, and 
 tell him why I asked you to go. Or no ! just 
 say simply that I asked you to go and see him, 
 and then he can be in no way influenced by any 
 suggestions. Go to-morrow, and don't put it off, 
 Alwith." 
 
 "Harmer," asked Alwith, "why didn't you 
 tell me about this in the morning ? You have 
 given me pleasant thoughts to go to sleep on." 
 
 " Geoffrey," said Harmer, " I couldn't come in 
 
The Shadow of Fate. 5 1 
 
 the morning, you know that, and I have been 
 waiting here for some time, but I have done all 
 for the best, and if I am wrong, as I pray to 
 heaven I may be, don't blame me, for you ought 
 to know that I am your friend. Good night, 
 Geoffrey ! " And wringing Alwith's hands, he 
 turned away. 
 
 E 2 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 DR. BENSON. 
 
 Jack was gone, and Geoffrey Alvvith was alone 
 in his studio, but his thoughts were not the 
 sweet anticipations he had cherished when he 
 came through the stormy night from the dear 
 presence of his beloved ; the sudden spring blos- 
 soming of his tree of life was threatened with the 
 blasts of fate, and a strange and bitter prescience 
 made his heart cold with the fear of death. 
 
 For some moments he stood beside his inner 
 door, leaning against the woodwork, and either 
 the dingy green portiere that hung on his 
 shoulder cast a shade of its own colour upon his 
 countenance, or the pallor of fear changed his 
 bronzed skin to even a more unnatural hue. 
 lie moved slowly away, and the rotting drapery 
 fell back into its place, waving still with the 
 strong draught that came through the cracks of 
 
Dr. Benson. 53 
 
 the ill-fitting door. Going to the table, he 
 rolled up a letter, lighted another burner of gas, 
 and taking the glass in his hand, he looked at 
 himself curiously. 
 
 Yes, it was strange, he admitted, that he 
 should be so brown, considering that he used to 
 be pale, though dark, and that he seldom saw 
 the sun or went much in the open air. What 
 did it mean? He had not asked Harmer that. 
 Perhaps he did not know, but only came to this 
 conclusion from outward signs. . . . Well, he 
 said, " may very possibly be fatal ; ? even if he 
 was right, he had a chance, and surely he was 
 wrong, for on the whole he felt so well. There 
 was no common complaint he had ever heard of 
 that brought a man to death's door without 
 warning. Bah ! he would not think of it. 
 Harmer must be out of his mind ; no one would 
 be surprised at that, considering how erratic the 
 man was, and how his moods changed. 
 
 He threw the glass down, and emptying some 
 more coke into his stove, drew up the chair close 
 to it. He shivered a little and held his hands 
 out. He noticed they were brown too, and 
 turning back his cuff he looked at his wrist. It 
 
54 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 seemed quite as light as usual. Surely, he 
 thought, if such a change of colour were an evil 
 sign, it would affect all parts of the skin. 
 Decidedly Harmer must be wrong. He 
 clenched his teeth, showing the rigid muscles 
 just above the angle of the jaw. He would 
 think of it no more. The thing was absurd, 
 impossible, and the thought too frightful and 
 unheard of. To die just as all things came into 
 his hands. He had more faith in God than to 
 believe it could be. Who could deserve such a 
 punishment less ? 
 
 After some minutes Alwith rose, and crossing 
 the studio, took a photograph from a drawer in 
 his writing table. It was the last which Eliza- 
 beth Kyle had had taken, the last of a long 
 series, for she was a good sitter, and her regular 
 features came out well in this cold hard style of 
 mechanical portraiture. 
 
 Ah ! how much he had promised himself during 
 the bitterly contained life which he had led ; 
 what luxurious promises of future joy to com- 
 pensate his soul for a long denial of all sweetness ; 
 what harvests in asphodel meadows after long 
 wayfaring ; what draughts of nectar after the 
 
Dr. Benson. 55 
 
 abhorrent and bitter waters of Marah ! And to 
 think of losing it after all. No ! no ! it could 
 not be. For God was good, and His purposes 
 kind, and though the way was long, it led home 
 at last. Home ! home ! 
 
 And this man who loved pleasure with a 
 fierceness of passion only possible to those 
 who have denied themselves, lay back in his 
 chair with a subtle languor of overmastering 
 passion thrilling his nerves. For he saw a 
 nearer vision of Aphrodite, and she came 
 home to a paradise perfect and pure. Home ! 
 home! 
 
 But in his paradise, fragrant with overmaster- 
 ing odours of hidden spices and strange untasted 
 fruits, glorious with suddenly springing flowers, 
 radiant with the sun by day and love's moon 
 by night, harmonious with wind-chords smitten 
 from the shadowy trees that canopied green and 
 mossy couches, and with the songs of wonderful 
 birds, there crawled a strange and terrible thing 
 of evil. Upon the cool sand that margined a 
 crystal well-spring, was the long hollow track of 
 some footless thing, something not a beast, but 
 yet bestial and dangerous ; as he lay and waited 
 
56 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 for his beloved, a subtle motion in the myrtles 
 and roses chills his veins ; as he marked a bird 
 that sang in secret a hymn of natural love, a ser- 
 pentine hiss subtly smote the melody dead, and 
 made his flesh creep and crawl in a loathsome 
 and hideous sympathy. And she did not come 
 yet. He rose in a strange delirium, so it seemed, 
 from this couch whose loneliness mocked him, 
 and hunted for the Evil Thing which was for ever 
 behind him, rearing with forked tongue and 
 threatening fangs, and all the horror of death. 
 A sickening fear came upon him ; he stood by 
 the spring washing his hands, which were burnt 
 by the tropic sun, and still they became no 
 whiter. The sun burnt fiercer and fiercer, and 
 the birds came to drink and cool themselves 
 beside him, at this spring which seemed scarce 
 so deep or clear as it had been. He looked up, 
 and the landscape was thick with sun-drawn 
 mists ; the foliage was touched in its luxuriant 
 verdure, and changed to untropical autumnal 
 tints ; one by one the flowers bent their heads 
 and died, and leaf by leaf the stateliest trees 
 were bared, and the stripped bark lay under 
 their dead white limbs. The little birds came 
 
Dr. Benson, 57 
 
 panting for water, nearer and nearer, and they 
 sang no more ; but now the pool was shallow 
 and muddy ; he was thirsty himself, and with 
 anger he drove them away until they dropped 
 and died like smitten flowers, while he grovelled 
 in the pool and sucked in the tainted draught. 
 But this thing in front of him, this coiling, crawl- 
 ing serpent banded with brown, and darker 
 brown, and black, what could he do with that ? 
 Scream, shout at it, curse, and will with the last 
 gasp of life that it should come no nearer ! How 
 vain ! Slowly it rolled on and on, and lay with 
 its foul mouth at the pool's verge, with its tongue 
 flickering like a thread of fire, and its beady 
 remorseless eyes glaring at him still. And it 
 drank. With a scream he threw himself down 
 to drink again, to drink at waters that no longer 
 reflected the sky, but were foul as the beast of 
 hell that shared with him the last drops. Closer 
 came the serpent, he felt its breath ; its tongue 
 touched him like hot wires ; he put out his hands 
 and grappled with it, and slowly, ring on ring, 
 and grinding coil on coil, the serpent of death 
 slid on to him and lapped him in its folds. 
 Death ! Death ! 
 
58 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 With a scream Alwith sprang from his chair 
 and looked about him. The cold sweat lay in 
 beads upon his forehead ; his hands were cold, 
 and the stove had lost its heat. Surely he had 
 not been asleep, and yet it must have been so, 
 for him to dream ^such a horrible dream. He 
 was almost afraid to go to sleep again for fear of 
 a return of this nightmare. What a different 
 vision he had promised himself before he saw 
 Harmer. Curse him for telling him this, or at 
 least for telling him at night. 
 
 But Geoffrey Al with's will re-asserted its power 
 when he slept no longer, and the first strong 
 impression of his dream had worn off. His face, 
 which had worked with his changing emotions 
 as he lay in his chair, took once more its look of 
 firm resolve and constraint, and he lay down at 
 last deliberately, although his leaving the gas 
 burner not wholly extinguished, marked the 
 effect the shock of the evening had had upon 
 him, for he feared he might wake again in terror. 
 But this time he slept soundly. 
 
 Although his night's rest bad been somewhat 
 shorter than usual, or perhaps on account of it, 
 for in the shorter days he sometimes slept too 
 
Dr. Benson. 59 
 
 much, he felt unusually well in the morning. 
 His optimistic nature reasserted itself in the light, 
 and his fears fled away with the darkness like a 
 gloomy phantasmagoria at the word of a bene- 
 ficent magician. He almost laughed at the 
 notion of a man being near death's door when 
 every impulse and power of his nature was at 
 its full, when he was physically strong and 
 mentally bright and clear. After breakfast he 
 went almost mechanically to work, for work had 
 become a habit, and the habit impelling power, 
 although he was still debating in his mind 
 whether he should go to this doctor or not. It 
 almost seemed as if his doing so or not depended, 
 not on his selfish, but on his altruistic nature. 
 Poor Harmer would be so annoyed and dis- 
 satisfied ; he would be there again to trouble 
 him. But it is certain that besides these altru- 
 istic and commonplace selfish notions there 
 rested a certain vague fear in his mind. Had 
 he been free of passion his apparent good health 
 of that morning would have decided him to let 
 things take their course, but there was a 
 feminine presence in his lighted chamber, and 
 though she brightened it ; yet now behind her lay 
 
Co The Degradation of Geoffrey A /with. 
 
 a shadow. Had it but been swept and garnished, 
 not for the entrance of a bride of flesh and blood, 
 but for some shadowless unsubstantial spirit of 
 idealism, his chamber would have been without 
 darkness, and he would have worked on without 
 fear. But now at last he threw down his 
 brushes impatiently, put his palette away 
 unused, and taking his hat and coat, went out 
 and eastward along King's Road. 
 
 Although it was early, there were already two 
 other people in the doctor's waiting-room, and 
 Geoffrey had to wait nearly an hour before Dr. 
 Benson was ready to see him. 
 
 " Good morning ! " said the physician, 
 scarcely glancing at Alwith, "take a seat, 
 please," and he pointed to a chair which was 
 next the table at which he was writing what 
 were notes of the case of his last patient. There 
 was silence for a while, and Geoffrey looked at 
 the man who, if he did not hold his destiny in his 
 hands, was at least an instrument of fate to 
 solve doubts, or to seal fears with the stamp of 
 certainty. 
 
 The artist's first impression was that Harmer 
 had sent him to consult one whose years did not 
 
Dr. Benson. 61 
 
 number more than his own, so young did this 
 man look ; but in reality Dr. Benson was hard 
 upon forty, and before the end of the interview 
 Geoffrey saw that this was probably his age. 
 He was a man below the middle height, with 
 very broad shoulders, and a hand whose 
 strong grip suggested athletics, or some form of 
 manual labour. He was clean shaved, his 
 features were strong and very irregular, and 
 one of his patients declared that he was the 
 handsomest ugly man she had ever seen. His 
 eyes were soft and brown, and his voice, which 
 kept to no monotone, had a suggestion of 
 possible emotion in it. But he was not only 
 scientific, and Geoffrey could see from the; paint- 
 ings in this room that he had at once a sympathy 
 and insight into art, and art which was at least 
 akin to the most morbid English school. 
 
 When he had finished writing he looked up 
 with a half smile, but on seeing Geoffrey, and 
 catching his eye, he became grave at once. 
 
 "What can I do for you, Mr. ?" 
 
 "Alwith," said Geoffrey. 
 
 " Yes," said Dr. Benson, « Alwith. I think I 
 know that name. Are you the artist ? M 
 
62 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 And he looked at him with steady interest in 
 his eyes, which made Geoffrey feel less at rest 
 than he had done. 
 
 " Yes, Dr. Benson, I am Geoffrey Alwith." 
 
 " I have seen many of your portraits, Mr. 
 Alwith, and though I speak as a man who 
 knows nothing of your art, I have always been 
 pleased to see them." 
 
 "Thank you," said Geoffrey briefly, and 
 putting his hand in his pocket he took out 
 Harmer's card. " I think you know my friend, 
 Mr. Harmer ?" 
 
 Benson smiled. 
 
 " Oh yes, I know him. He is a queer fellow ; 
 very clever, and will probably never do anything. 
 He has been everything and sticks at nothing ; 
 he might do anything and consequently will 
 never succeed. Did he send you to me ? " 
 
 " Yes, he did," answered Alwith. 
 
 Benson kept his eyes fixed for a while on 
 Alwith's, and then his glance wandered about 
 his face. Finally he looked at his hands. 
 Geoffrey felt as if he was being touched. 
 
 "What did he send you for, Mr. Alwith ? " 
 said the doctor at length, and very gravely. 
 
Dr. Benson. 63 
 
 " Perhaps you know, Dr. Benson," said 
 Geoffrey. 
 
 " Yes, perhaps I know/' repeated the doctor, 
 " but what did he send you for ? * 
 
 " I do not know," answered Geoffrey, " but he 
 has got it into his head that I am ill, and he 
 insisted on my seeing you. I never felt better 
 in my life than I do this morning, but as I knew 
 that he has been a medical student, and that he 
 won't leave me alone until I did see you, I 
 thought I had better come." 
 
 " Yes," said the physician quietly. " So you 
 don't feel ill, Mr. Alwith ? " 
 
 "Why, no," answered Geoffrey, "not that I 
 know of." 
 
 " And you always feel well ? " 
 
 Geoffrey hesitated a moment. u Yes, what I 
 call well ; at least not ill." 
 
 Dr. Benson leant his right elbow on the 
 table, and twisted round a little to confront 
 his patient, if patient he was. He looked at 
 him steadily a moment. Geoffrey broke in 
 suddenly, — 
 
 " Do you think I am ill, then ? Do you ? " 
 
 The physician did not seem to notice the 
 
64 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 question, and remarked questioningly, "You are 
 very dark, Mr. Alwith?" and he added to 
 himself, " The colour of old beeswax." 
 
 A cold sweat broke out over Geoffrey. Surely 
 there must be something serious in this colour 
 when Harmer noticed it so particularly, and 
 when it was the first thing this keen grave man 
 spoke about. But he answered bravely, " Yes, 
 I am, I believe." 
 
 "And is it natural, do you think? No! 
 Then how long has it been coming on ? " 
 
 " I cannot say," answered Geoffrey. " I never 
 thought about it until Harmer came to see me, 
 though people have said several times lately, 
 that I looked very sunburnt for this time of 
 year. But surely that can be nothing ? f 
 
 And he looked appealingly at the doctor. 
 
 Dr. Benson did not answer, but made Alwith 
 open his mouth. The physician's eyes found a 
 dark spot just inside his lower lip. Then he 
 asked him to take off his coat, and on rolling 
 up Alwith's sleeve, he noticed what the artist 
 naturally had never seen, that the backs of his 
 arms were slightly browned. He told Geoffrey 
 to put on his coat again. 
 
Dr. Benson. 6$ 
 
 " You are never ill that you know of," said he 
 at length. " Are you as strong as you were 
 this time last year ? " 
 
 Geoffrey thought a while, and remembered 
 how he had been more easily fatigued than usual 
 several times lately. He said so. 
 
 " And do you ever suffer from difficulty in 
 breathing ? " 
 
 Geoffrey nodded. 
 
 Then Dr. Benson looked at his eyes. " Sit 
 down, Mr. Alwith," said he at length, and the 
 doctor took a seat too. He spoke. 
 
 " Mr. Alwith, I am afraid Mr. Harmer was 
 right, though how he came to know anything 
 about this rather puzzles me. He must have 
 read more medicine than I thought." 
 
 Geoffrey clenched his hands and teeth and 
 bent forward. " Then I am — or shall be ill, Dr. 
 Benson ? " 
 
 " I fear so," answered the doctor. 
 
 " Seriously ? " 
 
 " I am afraid it will be serious." 
 
 How far was this going ? Alwith was almost 
 afraid to ask more. 
 
 "Shall I be incapacitated from work?" 
 
 F 
 
66 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 Benson's face twitched a little, for though he 
 was a doctor he was not hardened. 
 
 11 After a while, I expect." 
 
 " But not permanently, not permanently ? " 
 said Alwith, in a strange hoarse voice he could 
 hardly recognize as his own. " Come, Dr. 
 Benson, tell me." He spoke almost savagely. 
 " What is the matter with me ? I may just as 
 well know." 
 
 '" You would not be much the wiser if I told 
 you, Mr. Alwith, but it is Morbus Addisonii, or 
 Addison's Disease." 
 
 "And what does it imply, what does it 
 imply ? " 
 
 Dr. Benson rose and put his hand on Geoffrey's 
 shoulder, " Mr. Alwith, are you a brave man ? 
 You look as if you had a strong will, and 
 few cowards have that. Are you a brave 
 man ? " 
 
 Geoffrey looked up gradually, and when he 
 did his jaws were set and rigid, but he was not 
 white, rather a bronze green perhaps than that. 
 " I'm no coward, I think. You may tell me 
 the worst. Tell me the worst," and his voice 
 trailed off into a whisper. 
 
Dr. Benson. 67 
 
 The doctor hesitated. But someone must 
 tell him the truth. 
 
 "Then, Mr. Alwith, it is serious indeed — 
 very serious." 
 
 Geoffrey looked up again. " What ! is it 
 incurable ? " 
 
 Dr. Benson nodded and pressed with his 
 hand on Alwith's shoulder. He spoke again, 
 "Incurable? Shall I be useless all my life ?." 
 The doctor made no sign. " Or mad ? " Dr. 
 Benson shook his head. * Then — then, doctor, 
 is it— is it— death ? " 
 
 He looked up again with a dreadful appeal 
 in his eyes, and a quivering on his lips against the 
 confirmation of the last dread sentence of fate. 
 But the doctor looked down on him with a great 
 pity. For it was truly death. And Geoffrey 
 recognized it and bowed his head into his hands. 
 A few hot tears crept one by one through his 
 fingers and dropped upon the floor, and he shook 
 a little. But at last hope sprang up again as 
 he sat there with death's serpent rearing over 
 him. Had he not delayed long in his dream 
 last night ? Had he not heard of men under 
 sentence of death from heart disease, or the like, 
 
 F 2 
 
68 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 who lived merrily enough for years ? Perhaps 
 after all he too might live, live long enough to 
 marry Beth, and to know happiness, to be 
 loosed from the torture of passion and the long 
 agony of desire ; so that he could go down to the 
 grave saying that life had not been all pain and 
 desolation and labour ; but, though short, was 
 glorious with much sweetness, and a thing to 
 bless God for : 
 
 ". . . They never lived, but I 
 Have lived indeed, and so (yet one more kiss) can die ! ' 
 
 But was it so? It was almost more than he 
 could do to ask this, the last great question. 
 But at last he did it. " And how long have I 
 to live, doctor ? " he said it almost wearily, and 
 yet with hope. 
 
 " I cannot say, Mr. Alwith, not with any 
 certainty." 
 
 " But I may live long ? " 
 
 " I do not think very long, Mr. Alwith." 
 
 " Well, how long do you think, then ? Shall 
 I live years with this hanging over me ? " Dr. 
 Benson shook his head. "Then a year? 
 What ! my God, not a year ? Six months ? " 
 
Dr. Benson. 69 
 
 He almost screamed this out, and put his hand 
 on the doctor's arm. 
 
 " Mr. Alwith, I am sorry for you, but I think 
 — mind I say think, you may not live much 
 more than six months. You may, but it is 
 uncertain. And remember — " 
 
 * Remember what ? Ah ! I see, I may die 
 sooner ! " 
 
 (i It is possible, but if you desire to live you 
 must take care of yourself — " 
 
 " If I desire to live. Oh, God, you don't 
 know what this is to me. Next month I was to 
 be married, yes, married, to the sweetest girl 
 in England, aye, or anywhere, and she loves me, 
 and I have loved her for years, and worked for 
 her — yes, like a slave, and denied myself every- 
 thing, and for her sake. Oh, it is cruel, 
 cruel ! " 
 
 " Mr. Alwith, calm yourself, calm yourself." 
 He stopped and said in a different voice from 
 any he had used perhaps before, a voice that 
 was soft, appealing, and persuasive, " Are you 
 a Christian, Mr. Alwith ?" 
 
 Geoffrey stood up, and as he did so he 
 staggered. Benson caught his arm. 
 
JO The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 " Am I a Christian, Dr. Benson ? I do not 
 know, but I was before I came to see you, or at 
 least I believed so. But everything is shocked 
 and shaken. I do not know anything, except 
 that this is cruel to me — and to her too ! M 
 
 His voice shook, and though he strove to 
 repress them, and though he was in a fierce 
 agony of revolt, the tears dropped one by one 
 from his eyes and rolled slowly down his 
 cheeks. 
 
 "Sit down for a moment again, Mr. Alwith. 
 I must tell you what to do." And the physician 
 wrote out a prescription which was at once a 
 tonic and a sedative. Then he spoke again to 
 Geoffrey, telling him that he should live quietly, 
 and gave him directions about food, and then 
 accompanied him to the front door, saying, 
 u Come in again soon, Mr. Alwith. I shall be 
 glad to see you, for I admire your art, and I 
 think you are a brave man." They shook hands, 
 and Geoffrey was alone in the street 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 FOR DID SHE NOT LOVE HIM? 
 
 The night of the Saturday on which Geoffrey 
 Alwith had learnt the truth with certainty had 
 been one of endless torture. The whole of the 
 day he had remained seated in the studio, he 
 had not moved or eaten, and when at last Jim 
 asked him whether he was unwell, he had 
 repulsed him savagely. For the very sound of 
 a voice jarred on him ; he thought how soon 
 his own would be mute. For a long time, for 
 many hours, he had not been able to think 
 coherently, and in the vague current of his 
 thoughts, his old life, his days at home, in his 
 fathers office, in the School of Art, and the 
 Academy School, and the long years of toil in 
 this his workshop, mingled in confusion with 
 those pictures of the future which his imagina- 
 tion had made so real, the success he had 
 
72 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 earned, the home he had striven for, the woman 
 he had loved, and loved now with that intensity 
 which came to him with the new fear he might 
 never possess her. To die now, and to have 
 never lived, to have never lived ! That was the 
 burden of his wail, and there could be nothing 
 bitterer. And suppose, just suppose for the 
 sake of argument with the devil of darkness, that 
 propounded questions to him with a grin, that 
 Beth would not marry him now. Bah ! it was 
 monstrous to imagine any such thing, for 
 though he doubted the goodness of God, he 
 never doubted the love of her upon whom he 
 had lavished the whole of his affection, and 
 left his heart's treasury beggared even of charity! 
 No, the devil of doubt and discord might grin, 
 he was sure of her, sure of her, yes, ye — es, quite 
 sure. But — yes, there was a but after all — what 
 should he do ? 
 
 By night he had worked himself into such a 
 state of fear and apprehension that he had much 
 difficulty in restraining himself from going to 
 Clapham and asking her to marry him at once ; 
 but he did restrain himself at last. She could 
 not marry in such indecent haste ; it would 
 
For did She not love Him ? 73 
 
 shock her to be hurried ; she would be so over- 
 come with this fatal news that he must give her 
 time to accustom herself to the thought that 
 he would die and leave her desolate. But — 
 but — and he rose up and stared into the dark- 
 ness. If she— if she didn't love him so much 
 after all ? Who could come even by faith to 
 the soul's soul of a woman ? For he had never 
 lived, and what did he know of women ? Had 
 he not taken them on trust as good for the most 
 part ? But she was so perfect and pure, so open 
 and sincere, so loving, yes, so loving. 
 
 He still stood up, staring against the lightless 
 unansw^ering wall. And he whispered to him- 
 self, w r as it not a risk to tell her ? Even if the 
 chances were a thousand to one that she would 
 still marry him, and they were more, aye much 
 more, yet one chance might (let him whispef it 
 lightly) destroy him for ever. He could not 
 risk it. No ! no ! fate should not rob him of 
 his one pearl, his delight for ever,, nor of the 
 vision of the bridal chamber, and the multiplied 
 intensity of passion in a man who knew death 
 held the nuptial torch, and strewed cypress with 
 the myrtle and the roses. Perhaps after all it 
 
74 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 would be better to say nothing at all. Did not 
 many men die soon after marriage ? He would 
 be one of those, and people would simply say 
 how sad it was for the young bride, and what a 
 loss he was to Art, just in the ordinary common- 
 place fashion, and go away to tell the news 
 without knowing what a tragedy lay within the 
 tragedy. But it would be a lie, a lie, and to 
 her, to Beth ! He sat down and struggled with 
 himself until nature could stand no more, and 
 falling back in his chair, he slept for an hour. 
 But he had debated as to whether he might lie, 
 even by silence, and it was the first time in his 
 life. 
 
 When he awoke, which he did suddenly, and 
 with a start, the reality of things stared at him 
 painted on the darkness as on a veil. He 
 groaned and hid his face in his hands. After a 
 while he rose and lighted the lamp and stirred 
 the fire, and in desperation at his own thoughts 
 he began to work on some charcoal sketches. 
 He worked feverishly and hard far into the 
 night and morning, and only laid his task aside 
 when the dawn began to grow gradually in the 
 east, and he felt weary and exhausted. This 
 
For did She not love Him ? 75 
 
 alarmed him, and he made a resolution to be 
 more careful. He could not afford to shorten 
 his too brief span of life by any foolishness. He 
 would be more calm and cool in the future, for it 
 was necessary to live while he could. He went 
 to bed and slept heavily till the Sunday noon. 
 
 In the forenoon Jack Harmer came in. The 
 men shook hands without looking at each other, 
 and Jack sat down. It was the painter who 
 spoke first. 
 
 a Did you see Benson, Jack ? " said he. 
 
 " No, but he wrote me a line though," 
 Harmer answered. There was no need to. say 
 what the letter contained. Presently Alwith 
 spoke again. 
 
 "What do you think about it? Oh, is it 
 not cruel, Jack ? Tell me, what should you do 
 if you were in my place ? " 
 
 Harmer fidgetted in his chair. " It is very 
 hard to say, Geoffrey. How can a man tell 
 what he would do ? I suppose I should go on 
 as I usually do until — until the end came." 
 
 " Go on just the same," cried Alwith. 
 " But," then he added bitterly, " at any rate 
 you have lived." 
 
7 6 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 " Yes, in a way, and not in too nice a way, 
 take it all round, Geoffrey." 
 
 11 But I have never lived," replied Alwith, 
 with increasing bitterness. " I have never lived 
 at all. I have existed, fed myself on hope in 
 the future, lived in dreams, in visions, but not in 
 reality ; and now there is no future and but 
 little hope, my dreams are like smoke, and my 
 visions the visions of hell ! For not to be and 
 live is hell enough in contemplation for a man 
 like me." 
 
 He put out his hand and caught Harmer by 
 the arm. 
 
 "Jack, I want you to give me some advice, 
 if you will andean. I told you the other day, 
 Jack, I was to be married on the ioth of next 
 month. What am I to do about it ? H 
 
 Harmer started. He had thought of this, it 
 is true, but not knowing the depth of passion in 
 Alwith, he had taken it for granted that there 
 would be no marriage at all. 
 
 " Why, what do you mean, Geoffrey ? Do you 
 mean how are you to tell her that you cannot 
 marry her ? " 
 
 11 Not marry her ! No, no, how am I to tell 
 
For did She not love Him ? 77 
 
 her that she will be a widow almost before the 
 end of the honeymoon ? Poor girl ! poor 
 girl ! " 
 
 Harmer turned round and stared at Alwith. 
 " Do you really mean to marry her, then, and 
 now ? " 
 
 " Of course I do," said Alwith, almost 
 angrily. " Why not ? " 
 
 There was surely plenty of reasons, but 
 Harmer saw it would be useless to urge them 
 on his friend. 
 
 " Well," said he, " I don't know any particular 
 reason, but do you think she will agree, 
 Geoffrey ? " 
 
 This came too near Alwith's own fears to be 
 pleasant to him, and he began to look uneasy. 
 " Of course she would agree. Doesn't she love 
 me ? Don't I know that ? " He was silent for 
 a moment. " But, Jack, do you think I ought 
 to tell her?" He spoke in a pleading voice, as 
 though he wished for a word to confirm him in 
 what he himself conceived to be dishonour- 
 able. 
 
 " What, Geoffrey," said Harmer sharply, " I 
 think you must be joking, and yet you can't be, 
 
78 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith, 
 
 now. No, you surely can't marry her without 
 telling her the truth/' 
 
 Alwith got up in agitation. 
 
 " But, Jack, supposing — supposing," and his 
 voice faltered, and he almost whispered, 
 " supposing she refuses me ? I don't believe 
 she will, but there is just a chance ; and 
 then think, lots of men die soon after their 
 marriage, and many marry when they know 
 they cannot live long. What should I do, what 
 should I do, if she wouldn't have me ?" 
 
 He stared at Harmer, praying with his eyes 
 for a favourable answer. But his friend felt 
 this was special pleading. 
 
 " No, Geoffrey," he said at length, " it would 
 not be fair to the girl. It would not be quite 
 honourable, at least I think so." 
 
 Alwith sank down in his chair and covered 
 his face with his hands. Presently he looked 
 up with an angry suspicion in his face which at 
 last found utterance. 
 
 " Harmer, I don't think you are straight- 
 forward with me. Once you loved her yourself. 
 I think you are pleading your own case, and 
 that you love her still. Damnation, perhaps 
 
For did She not love Him ? 79 
 
 you think you will marry her when I am dead ! 
 Is that it ? " 
 
 For a moment his companion felt angry, but 
 remembering the position in which Alwith 
 stood, he restrained himself, and answered sadly, 
 " You wrong me, Geoffrey, you wrong me. I do 
 not love her, and never did, not really ; and, 
 Geoffrey, I love someone else, it is her sister." 
 
 " Do you mean this ? " said Alwith. 
 
 " I do, Geoffrey," said Jack. " I have often 
 fancied myself in love, but I think I begin to 
 know what it is now." And he sighed. 
 
 Alwith laughed a strange unnatural laugh. 
 " What have you to sigh about ? You are 
 young and haven't got to die in a week or two ; 
 and the girl has no lover. Make her love you, 
 make her. Ah ! if you were I, you would have 
 something to sigh about." 
 
 He laughed again. 
 
 u Ah ! " said Harmer, " but you see I am as 
 poor as a church mouse." 
 
 " Then, why don't you work ? See how I 
 worked. Ah ! and my God ! what have I got 
 by it ? " He threw his hands up despairingly. 
 11 If I have to die — to die," and he sprang from 
 
80 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 his chair. "But I will tell Beth, yes, I will tell 
 her. I will go — what's to-day, Saturday ? I 
 will go on Tuesday. I must think — I must 
 think. You are right, Jack, I was mad to think 
 of not doing it. But if she doesn't marry me, 
 what shall I do, tell me, what shall I do ? " 
 And he caught hold of Jack's arm with both 
 hands and glared at him with his features 
 working convulsively. Harmer shuddered. 
 
 "For God's sake don't, Geoffrey, for God's 
 sake be calm." 
 
 M For God's sake, for God's sake," screamed 
 the unhappy man, with the tears running down 
 his face, M there is no God, do you hear me ? 
 There is none ! " 
 
 And with that he dropped on his knees and 
 prayed aloud to the God he had just denied, 
 prayed for life and for love, and for time — for 
 time to enjoy the sweetness of the world, and 
 for time to do something great. And Harmer, 
 overcome at last, leant upon the table and 
 sobbed for very shame and pity. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 YES ! OR NO ! 
 
 DURING the two days and two nights which 
 elapsed between the time of his seeing Harmer 
 and his visit to Clapham, Geoffrey w r as out- 
 wardly calm §?s usual. His will, which was 
 not strong enough to conceal the conflicting 
 passions of his mind from one who knew his 
 state, nor to control the vivid play of his fancy, 
 was yet sufficiently under his control to pre- 
 vent those who did not possess his confidence 
 from seeing anything more than an occasional 
 prepossession of mind. At times he did a little 
 work on the last portrait he had in his studio, 
 he even went across the road to see Worthing- 
 ton, or Vine, his nearest neighbours. He went 
 so far as to ask the former to come back with him. 
 Perhaps this was partly done for the purpose of 
 distracting his own attention, and not wholly 
 
 G 
 
82 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 to make others believe, at least for the present, 
 that there was nothing wrong with him ; but if 
 so it was in vain. He never for an instant got 
 rid of himself, and it was only by an effort 
 which greatly tasked him that he kept from 
 going to see Beth Kyle before his usual day. He 
 wished to see her as usual, desiring not to alarm 
 her by anything out of the common course, but 
 to break the fatal news so gradually to her, that 
 she might not be overwhelmed by this sudden 
 and awful calamity. And yet a day, two days 
 out of the six months ! Lon<f as were his 
 struggles, and continuous as was his anguish, 
 the hours of pain were infinitely short, and 
 seemed to grow still shorter and shorter. At 
 one moment he said, " Will it never be Tuesday 
 night ? " and the next he shivered to notice the 
 position of the sun, which seemed urged anew 
 by a mad Phaethon, and announced the destruc- 
 tion of his world by fire. He was fiercely joy- 
 ful when the hour came at last, and he shut 
 the door of his dim and dusty studio 
 behind him with a shudder, for it was inhabited 
 now with the ghosts of counted hours, and 
 haunted by the shade of his former self, for in 
 
Yes lor No! 83 
 
 the knowledge of death, the man he knew so 
 well had died. 
 
 It was half-past seven when he left the quiet 
 and moonlit road behind him and entered the 
 home of her whom he loved so well to ask her 
 once more, under new conditions, that same 
 question, the answer to which but a few days 
 before had made him so dizzy with hope and joy 
 
 She was alone in the drawing-room, for Geoffrey 
 met Agnes on the stairs, and Mr. and Mrs. Kyle 
 always sat down below. He greeted her in 
 silence but with the kiss of a lover, for he yet 
 had the rights of one, and it was with a fierce 
 pang that his lips met hers, for it might be, yes 
 it might be, the last time he should kiss her so 
 again. They sat down together on the sofa, 
 he with his arm round her waist, while her head 
 again leant upon his shoulder as she stared pen- 
 sively at the fire. He held her hand, and, as it 
 seemed, too hard, for she said at last, " Don't 
 squeeze so, Geoffrey, you hurt me." 
 
 He lifted it up and kissed it, and when he let 
 it go she slowly drew it back on to her lap. At 
 last, as he still kept silence, she said a little 
 pettishly, u Why don't you say something, 
 
 G 2 
 
84 The Degradation of Geoffrey Ahvitk. 
 
 Geoffrey ? You are not a very lively companion 
 to-night. Surely I ought to hear somebody say 
 something in this dull house, where nobody talks 
 but you when you come ! " 
 
 " What shall I say, dearest, that I love you ? n 
 
 "Dear me," replied Beth, sitting up, "what 
 startling news ? Have you nothing more excit- 
 ing, something that I haven't heard a dozen 
 times a week for two years ? You musn't come 
 to me for topics. I can't make conversation.'' 
 
 It was true enough, for she rarely spoke two 
 sentences as long as those she had just uttered, 
 and few conversations were ever indebted to her 
 for the suggestion of the subject. But her inno- 
 cent request for something exciting, something 
 new, made Geoffrey feel cold at heart. How 
 would she bear it ? Was he strong enough to 
 tell her, to bear the sight of her anguish ? 
 
 M But you love me, dearest, don't you ? say it 
 again. I can never hear it often enough." He 
 took her hand as he spoke. 
 
 "Of course I do, Geoffrey, but that is just as 
 old as the other and not new at all. Why, you 
 are gloomy to-night," and she looked him in the 
 face. With an effort he smiled. 
 
Yes lor No! 85 
 
 " Beth," he said, " you love me, I know, and I 
 love you so well that I always shall love you ; 
 yes, if you were dead I should love you." 
 
 11 Don't say such things, Geoffrey, If I was 
 dead ? Do I look like dying ? It is quite 
 nasty to suggest any such thing," and she 
 said, " Faugh ! what makes you think of 
 such things ? " 
 
 He shivered but went on, " What would you 
 do if I were to die and leave you, Beth ? What 
 would you do ? " 
 
 She put her right hand down and gently 
 pushed his arm from her waist, and, turning 
 round, faced him. 
 
 " What is the matter with you to-night, 
 Geoffrey ? I can't think why you talk so. You 
 ought to know by now I don't like such sub- 
 jects." 
 
 He bent forward a little, and taking her hand 
 again, held it tight. 
 
 " But tell me, Beth, what would you do ? " 
 
 " I won't talk about such things, Geoffrey. 
 What do other people do ? " 
 
 It was a characteristic question. What was 
 the proper thing to do ? Oh, to cry and to look 
 
86 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwilk. 
 
 pale, and to wear good mourning and not to go 
 out till it came home. That is what "other 
 people " did. But Geoffrey was not satisfied. 
 " Tell me, Beth, tell me, for I have a reason." 
 Beth's eyes sparkled with as much anger as 
 she could command on a short notice. 
 
 " I shan't do anything of the kind. It is just 
 as if you were going to die. It is a perfectly 
 ridiculous question, and you are not kind. So 
 there, Geoffrey." 
 And she closed her lips firmly. 
 Alwith felt sick at heart. How firmly she 
 refused even to entertain the idea of his being 
 as much as mortal ! Such a thought disturbed 
 her, she wanted to blind her eyes even to far-off 
 facts, and live in an elysium of immortal love. 
 Poor girl ! poor girl ! But he must tell her, for 
 who else could do it ? 
 
 " But, Beth," said he at last, ft I shall not live 
 for ever ! " 
 
 " Of course you won't," a little con- 
 temptuously. 
 
 " And perhaps not for so very long. Why I 
 might even die soon, you know," he went on. 
 But Beth got up. 
 
Yes ! or No I 87 
 
 " So might I, Geoffrey," she said in a sharp, 
 clear voice, " and anybody else, I suppose even 
 you. But I am not going to talk about it." 
 She stamped and clenched her hands. He had 
 never seen her use such gestures, never seen her 
 so much moved. His task grew harder and 
 harder, but it must be done. He could not, for 
 his own sake, and for the sake of the few days 
 yet remaining, leave the house without her 
 answer. And how beautiful she looked, with 
 her well-set head thrown back, showing her 
 white firm throat To die and leave her ! Ah, 
 it was dreadful. The blood ran to his head, he 
 felt blind and dizzy, the room and her figure 
 reeled, he fell back slowly against the cushions. 
 And as Beth stared at him with a slow, a very 
 slow, comprehension that there was something 
 wrong, her heart gave a little beat and she 
 paled a trifle. When she spoke her voice was 
 strained. 
 
 " What is the matter, Geoffrey ? Are you 
 really ill to-night ? " He put out his hand, and 
 catching the arm of the sofa pulled himself into 
 an upright position. The act indicated a strange 
 momentary weakness. 
 
83 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 " Sit down, Beth, sit down," he said at last, 
 "and I will tell you." And his voice was 
 strangely hoarse. She sat down and he rose, 
 standing by the mantelpiece, on which burnt 
 four candles with rose-coloured shades. Slowly 
 he took these off, and Beth watched him with- 
 out making any remonstrance. Perhaps she 
 too felt the need of more light. Then he moved 
 the two furthest candles and put them with the 
 others, so that the light of all four fell upon his 
 own face. Then he spoke slowly. 
 
 " Look at me, Beth, while I speak. Do you 
 see how brown I am ? " 
 
 " Yes, Geoffrey," she answered faintly, looking 
 at him as if fascinated, for his motions were so 
 strange and unexpected. Perhaps, too, there 
 was an indication of will power about this 
 quiet deliberation. For he had made up his 
 mind. 
 
 " You do see, Beth. Am I browner than I 
 was last summer when I came from Corn- 
 wall?" 
 
 " I think so," she answered in the same 
 tone. 
 
 " Isn't it curious that I should be ? " He 
 
Yes ! or No ! 89 
 
 looked at her straight as he spoke without a 
 quiver of the lips. 
 
 " Yes, Geoffrey, I suppose so, but " and 
 
 she hesitated. 
 
 " But what, Beth ? * 
 
 " But what of that ? " It seemed strange 
 trifling to her, and she was in conscious revolt 
 against it, and yet she could not actually rebel 
 for the time. 
 
 u What do you suppose it means, Beth ? " and 
 then at last his lips quivered. Beth shook her 
 head impatiently, but did not speak, and Geoffrey 
 drew nearer her. 
 
 " Don't you know, dearest ? But I do, Beth, 
 now. I know at last." His lips quivered very 
 strangely, and he fell on his knees before her. 
 She looked at him fascinated and her lips formed 
 the word " what," but no sound issued from 
 them. Then he cried in a low voice of agony, 
 "Beth, Beth, it means — it means that I have- 
 that I have not long to live. Oh, my love, my 
 love ! " and he buried his face in her lap. And 
 Beth sat still in silence and did not move. But 
 at last she spoke. 
 
 "You dcn't mean this, Geoffrey, you surely 
 
90 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 cannot mean it? No, no, I don't believe it," 
 and she caught his shoulder. He did not lift 
 his head, but shook convulsively. 
 
 " Beth, dearest, dearest Beth, I do mean it. 
 Oh, my God, I wish I didn't— I wish I didn't." 
 
 His tone carried conviction with it in its evi- 
 dent agony, and she felt that his words were 
 true, and yet she could not believe it; the thing 
 seemed so incredible. He looked so well, and 
 everything had been arranged. She had slowly 
 drawn him into her life, slowly come to look 
 upon him as hers in the future, in the long 
 future, and her mind refused suddenly to re- 
 place by a blank that which she had come by 
 custom and contemplation to regard as neces- 
 sary and fated. But yet he said so, and in tones 
 of bitter pain, and the tears came into her eyes, 
 for he was her lover, she loved him. She had 
 told him so, so often that she believed it. And 
 as he knelt there he felt her warm tears drop 
 slowly upon his neck. 
 
 " I cannot believe it, Geoffrey," she whispered 
 at last, and burst into tears. For indeed it 
 seemed terrible that he should die, and die so 
 young when he was so clever and loved her so 
 
Yes I or No I 91 
 
 much. For two years ! And after all he could 
 not marry her ! But she forgave him those two 
 years — for he was going to die ! Poor Geoffrey ! 
 
 At last he rose, and sitting down again beside 
 her, wiped away her tears. He was calmer, for 
 he would not agitate her more than possible. 
 But what blessed balm her tears were ! 
 
 " Oh, Beth, Beth," he whispered, " is it not 
 bitter, is it not bitter? But you love me, 
 dearest, and I have still some time left to love 
 you ! " She looked curiously, and stared him 
 in the face. It was very brown, strangely 
 brown. Was it the sign, the outward sign of 
 something dreadful ? It was rather horrible 
 then. Once she had thought it nice, for he 
 made such a good contrast to her. Everybody 
 said so. But a sign ! She shuddered a little, 
 for she did not like the idea of death and 
 disease. They were not comfortable to think of, 
 and she liked being comfortable ; and she ceased 
 to cry, But though Geoffrey's arm was round 
 her, she did not let her head rest on his shoulder. 
 She wondered how long it would be until he 
 died. She turned towards him again and his 
 eyes met her. She began to cry again. 
 
92 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 " Oh, Geoffrey, I am so sorry ! What shall I 
 do, Geoffrey ? " And he drew her towards him 
 and kissed her passionately. She shuddered 
 again, and put her hand up to her mouth and 
 forehead as though she thought he might 
 stain her white skin. It was very horrible to 
 think of. But he spoke again. 
 
 " Dearest Beth, dearest love. Oh, you cannot 
 tell how I love you, and to lose you now, to die ! 
 oh, it almost kills me to think of it. But, Beth," 
 and he whispered, "we were to have been 
 married in a month. ' Beth ! a month is a long 
 time, a very long time now ! "■ — he stopped, and 
 she wondered in an idle dreamy way what he 
 meant — " it might be half my life. For dearest 
 Beth, I may not live more, oh, be strong, love, be 
 strong — I cannot live more than six months,'' 
 and he sobbed a hard dry tearless sob, as she 
 looked down at his brown hands which worked 
 convulsively, and yet she was very calm. It 
 was as if she were witnessing something in a 
 dream, a dream in which she had command of 
 her body, but not of her mind, for some of its 
 faculties seemed asleep or numb, or struck with 
 paralysis. She could take no initiative, could 
 
Yes ! or No ! 93 
 
 scarcely speak, and yet all the time she was 
 conscious of an increasing loathing mixed with 
 her love for this man, like mingled sun and 
 shade, as if he were a leper and an outcast, not 
 one of ordinary humanity. She believed now 
 what he said, this repugnance was the sign of 
 it, and she was at first ashamed, both of her 
 ready belief, and her feeling that he was Death's 
 and not hers ; that he already smelt of the 
 tomb, and not of the upper air she wished to 
 breathe. But she could not conquer it, and it 
 aided to subdue her tears; for they spring from 
 pity, and pity in her gave way gradually to 
 horror that does not weep. After a while 
 Geoffrey spoke again, and in a voice of whispered 
 passion. 
 
 " Beth, when will you marry me ? " and he 
 looked her in the face. She almost started and 
 stared at him, with her under lip drawn in 
 between her teeth, with the soft white flesh of 
 her cheeks wrinkled up under her eyes, and on 
 the cheek bones, and her brows corrugated half 
 in wonder, half in dread. It was very strange 
 indeed, what did he mean ? Marry him ! Why 
 what did marriage mean, what was its full 
 
94 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 import ? She had never lived in a golden haze 
 of illusion. It made her tremble a little, but it 
 was not with what might have been. She shook 
 her head slowly, much more to herself than him. 
 But he was staring at her, and caught her hands 
 almost angrily. 
 
 " Beth, marry me to-morrow ! " He almost 
 commanded her, and in the semi-dormant state 
 of her volition, she felt the power of his will, and 
 looked at him with a look of doubt that was 
 purely mental, for her body and very face 
 rebelled against the expression of such a vacilla- 
 tion. For physically she was resolved against 
 him ; but he had acquired a certain mental hold 
 upon her long ago. If he had not touched her, 
 but had kept his eyes fixed on hers, and com- 
 manded her to do as he bid, he might almost 
 have taken her away with him that night. 
 There was silence between them, and each 
 looked at the other ; but in Alwith the will, 
 which was yet strong, though perhaps destined to 
 be weakened by the state of health he was in, was 
 not now working to restrain his passion. He saw, 
 and it was more than horrible to think of, that 
 she was in a curious state of doubt ; he almost 
 
Yes ! or No ! 95 
 
 fathomed her mind and came near discovering 
 her physical loathing. But, as he thought, for 
 he did think rapidly, in the fierce conflict 
 that was raging within him, surely passion and 
 virile force was the magic to bring her to him, 
 to conquer her doubt and overcome all possible 
 hesitation ; for she was a woman, and loved 
 him ; how could she resist this ? He caught her 
 suddenly to his bosom, and before she knew, he 
 covered her face with passionate kisses, straining 
 her to his heart, and the next moment she was 
 free, loosed from his arms, awake, whole, alive, 
 her mind and body one. He had taken his eyes 
 away, and had handled her with the hands of 
 Death. And he stared at her with a wild, fierce 
 glance, with palpitating heart ; for he was 
 thunderstruck as she stood facing him. She 
 spoke no longer in a dreamy way, but in clear 
 ringing tones. 
 
 fl Geoffrey, you must be mad. It can never 
 be. It is quite impossible." 
 
 He looked at her silently, and then fell on his 
 knees. It was not an attitude of humbleness, 
 nor did he kneel to pray to her ; it was simply 
 sudden weakness, and he looked now through a 
 
Q6 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 mist, for it was his turn to be thrust out for a 
 while into a land of shadows and unrealities, as 
 he fain would have believed. For he was unable 
 to realize that she had broken from him, and 
 even thrust him away, and that her words were 
 not the figment of his brain, an illusion, a very 
 chimera. He was so sure she loved him, and 
 what did love mean ? He knew what it meant 
 to him. Then there was a God in heaven, 
 although in the wildness of his agony he had for 
 a moment denied Him ; and if there was, He 
 would not allow such a thing as this to happen ; 
 certainly it would be worse than war, or pes- 
 tilence, or famine ! He should know soon if he 
 was right in thinking so, and he prayed as he 
 knelt there, perhaps the attitude suggested it, 
 and though he did not know it, his unuttered 
 words offered faith and continued belief as a 
 bribe for Beth, she who stood there before him, 
 white and shining in the candle-light. When he 
 did speak, it was in a quiet voice, such as he 
 should have used before, and now, when it was 
 too late, he kept his eyes on her. 
 
 " Beth, you don't mean it ? Beth, say you 
 don't mean it. You don't know what it means 
 
Yes ! or No ! gy 
 
 to me ! " He paused, and she shook her head. 
 11 Oh, God, are you a woman, don't you see the 
 agony I am in ? can't you see it ? Don't you know 
 how I love you ? are there any words left to say 
 it in ? And you don't love me ? Yes, you have 
 said so often, and I know it, I know it ! " and he 
 choked a little, " Tell me you don't mean it, that 
 it was the shock, that you meant to try me, 
 anything, anything but that ! " And he rose ; 
 he came towards her, but she shrank away, and 
 he stood still within four feet of her, with his 
 eyes glittering, the sweat rolling down his fore- 
 head, and a slight fleck of blood upon his lower 
 lip, where he had bitten it. Had he been well, 
 he would have been pale, but he was brown, 
 very brown, and the colour seemed so strange 
 with the expression. But suddenly the blood 
 rushed to his face and dyed it deeper still, and 
 he spoke eagerly and with violence, — 
 
 " Speak ! speak, can't you hear me ? What 
 is wrong with you that you can't answer ? Do 
 you want to kill me here? Speak!" and he 
 stamped on the floor. " Tell me, am I mad or 
 dreaming ? Oh, is this real, real ? " 
 
 But she still stood there, and was free. His 
 
 H 
 
98 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 words went past her and never struck home. 
 She was the incarnation of a negative and a 
 repulse. 
 
 " Beth, I am dying, and you won't help me ! 
 I am starving, and you refuse me bread ! I am 
 thirsty, and you refuse me water ! " His voice 
 had changed, and he pleaded with her and with 
 heaven. " You will kill me, soul and body. Oh ! 
 my love, my love, think of me now as I stand 
 so near death ; I, who have never known life or 
 love, who have worked so hard for you, toiled 
 and slaved these years, and for you and our 
 home. Think of me dying without knowing 
 the sweets of the world, dying without expres- 
 sion of the best of me, and you stand there with- 
 out a word — without a word ! stabbing me as I 
 bleed to death ! Oh ! my God, don't let it be, 
 don't let it be ! M And, putting up his hand, he 
 tore away his collar, for it seemed to choke him, 
 and he showed his throat low down. 
 
 Beth looked at it fascinated, for it should 
 have been whiter. But she never spoke, and 
 the silence was only broken by the strange 
 gurgling noises and mutterings of the man who 
 stood before her, under worse than a sentence of 
 
Yes ! or No ! 99 
 
 death. For the life of her she could say no 
 more, she could not answer or reason with him. 
 She felt that she was right, she was sure of that, 
 and quite justified. Who could expect her to 
 marry a man who would leave her a widow in 
 a few months, which might be taken up in 
 attending on a sick bed ? And she loathed sick 
 beds most sincerely. She did not like being a 
 widow, it was quite a ridiculous position for one 
 almost a girl, an absurd, anomalous position. She 
 could not sacrifice herself so; she had looked 
 forward to being the wife of a distinguished 
 man, one who would occupy a good position in 
 society. To be the widow of a man who was 
 Sir Geoffrey Alwith was different from being 
 the widow of a young and promising artist who 
 had really done nothing. Besides — and she 
 shuddered again and shook her head vehe- 
 mently. And Geoffrey moved forward a 
 step and caught her by the wrist. She 
 struggled, but he held her and spoke, — 
 
 " Once more, Beth, I ask you, will you be 
 my wife, or must I die desolate? Yes, and 
 damned for ever and ever ! " 
 
 She lifted up her face at last and looked at 
 
 II 2 
 
100 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 him. He turned sick and faint, for he saw 
 horror and loathing in her eyes. He felt 
 tainted ; he was not fit to touch her, and sud- 
 denly she burst into tears and screamed, — 
 
 "Let me go, Geoffrey, let me go. Don't 
 touch me. You are so brown and horrible," 
 and, wrenching her wrists free, she put out her 
 palms as if to bar and repulse him for ever ; for 
 she gave him over to the kingdom of darkness. 
 And for him in his blind and selfish egotism, in 
 his awful passion of loss and despair, the heaven 
 above him was void and desolate, empty of its 
 ancient choirs of angels, and without a throne. 
 The old skies shook for the end of the world, 
 for the new earth was possessed with devils and 
 discordant screams, and fire and endless pain. 
 He turned away and left her standing there 
 alone, white and fair and sweet ; she who had 
 been the one hope, the one desire of his heart, 
 and by her hand his soul had been robbed of 
 its birthright, and there was no more 
 beauty and no more joy and no more love in 
 the universal wilderness in which he stood, and 
 there should be none for evermore. 
 
 Blindly he found the door, and blindly passed 
 
Yes ! or No ! 101 
 
 out of it, nor did he know as he left the house 
 and plunged into the night, that the sister of 
 the woman he loved, who had denied him 
 in his bitterest need, had knelt sobbing by 
 the door as he pleaded vainly in such anguish 
 and despair. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 OUTSIDE THE STUDIO. 
 
 On Monday morning early, Harmer went to 
 Cavendish Square and sent in his card to Dr. 
 Benson, asking to see him as soon as possible ; 
 for he did not desire to wait an hour or more 
 among the patients in the outer room. In a 
 quarter of an hour the attendant opened the 
 door and said in a low voice, " Mr. Harmer"; 
 whereupon a stout gentleman, whose turn it was, 
 growled very loudly at being defrauded of it. 
 Leaving the man to explain or not, as he 
 pleased, Jack picked up his hat and made his 
 escape. 
 
 u Good morning, Doctor/' said he, as he 
 entered the consulting-room. 
 
 "Sit down, sit down, John Harmer, I am glad 
 to see you," and Dr. Benson went on writing fur 
 
Outside the Studio. 103 
 
 a moment. He threw the pen down at last, 
 and turned to Harmer. 
 
 u Well, what's the matter this morning ?" 
 
 " Nothing with me, Doctor, but you sent me 
 a note." 
 
 "Yes, yes, I remember now," said Benson. 
 " Poor young fellow. Geoffrey Alwith, isn't it ? 
 What did you suppose was the matter with him 
 when you sent him here, eh ? " 
 
 Harmer shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " What could it be but one thing ? I thought 
 it was what you said, for I remembered well 
 the outward appearance of such cases. You 
 know I saw one at St. Thomas's, and besides 
 that I read ' Addison ' when I ought to have 
 been reading * bones.' " 
 
 " I can quite believe you," said Benson, " and 
 that is why you are neither fish, flesh, fowl, nor 
 good red herring. Pray," he added sarcastic- 
 ally, M how many new irons have you in the 
 fire ? Have you added Sanscrit, Celtic, neuter 
 roots in -s, and the study of the Obscurer Brain 
 Diseases to your list ? Then the bi-metallic 
 question would do for light reading at odd 
 hours.'' 
 
104 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 He chuckled amiably, and Harmer laughed, 
 but he grew grave again suddenly. 
 
 " How long do you give him, Doctor ? " 
 "Well, Harmer, it is hard to say, but six 
 months I should think. Of course it may be 
 more, and he can easily kill himself in less. 
 You see we still know nothing satisfactory about 
 this, but then I suppose you have been reading 
 it up, and perhaps know as much as I do, eh ? 
 Come, now, haven't you ? " 
 Harmer smiled. 
 
 " I did look up the authorities, I confess." 
 " Then I won't discuss it ; besides I haven't 
 time, but this is what I wanted you for. I take 
 an interest in the case, and in the man too. 
 You are his friend ? " 
 "Yes!" 
 
 " Well, then, make him come as often as you 
 can ; and then, who is there to look after him ? 
 Has he any relatives ? " 
 
 " His father and mother," answered Harmer. 
 
 " If that's the case," said Benson, "it's all right." 
 
 "I don't know whether it is all right, Dr. 
 
 Benson. Did he tell you he was going to be 
 
 married ? " 
 
Outside the Studio. 105 
 
 " Yes," answered the physician, " he spoke 
 about it, but he can't very well marry now." 
 Harmer got up. 
 
 " Do you think he has any right to ? For if 
 she will marry him, he will do it." 
 
 Dr. Benson looked grave, but shook his head 
 and shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 11 It is a matter for the girl to settle. If she 
 asked my advice I should say no, for it would 
 hardly be fair to her, taking it all round. Still 
 if she says yes, why — " and he shrugged his 
 shoulders again. 
 
 "Do you think the lady will marry him, 
 Harmer ? " he went on. 
 
 "He does, but I don't," said Harmer, "she is 
 a curiously cold person, I think, and I fancy 
 she can be trusted to look after her own inte- 
 rests. But I don't know what will happen if 
 she refuses him ! The shock might kill him." 
 
 " No, I think not," said Benson ; u but I 
 certainly wonder what he will do. What is his 
 character ? Very strong willed, isn't he ? ,J 
 Harmer nodded. 
 
 " What kind of life has he led ? " 
 " A very quiet and hard-working one. He is 
 
io5 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 quite the good boy among the artists, I assure 
 you." 
 
 " Do you think that he will go on quietly, the 
 same as ever until the end comes, Harmer ? " 
 said Benson. 
 
 Jack twisted his mouth sideways and con- 
 sidered a minute. 
 
 " My dear Doctor, I can't fathom the man. 
 I have known him for years, but in such 
 circumstances I should not like to predict 
 what he will do. But it is dreadful to hear 
 him talk ; he says continually he has never 
 lived, only existed ; that life was just coming 
 to him, and that now it cannot come, and 
 that it is bitter beyond belief. I believe him, 
 poor fellow ! By the way, Doctor, what are 
 the mental effects of this ? I see no remarks on 
 that in Addison or Greenhow." 
 
 Benson shook his head. u There are none 
 characteristic of it that I know of." 
 
 " H'm ! " said Harmer, "but there is a slight 
 atrophy of the brain, isn't there ? " 
 
 Benson nodded. 
 
 "It will be interesting," said Harmer, "to 
 note what effect it has on him. The man loves 
 
Outside the Studio. 107 
 
 pleasure, I should think somewhat strongly, but 
 his will has kept him out of it. Now, if that 
 goes gradually, or at once ? " 
 
 He stopped and looked at Benson. 
 
 " I see what you mean, Harmer. You think 
 he might go headlong on his natural bent ? " 
 
 " That is possible," said Jack. " Almost cer- 
 tain." 
 
 " Well, it would be interesting ; but there, 
 keep your eyes on him if you can, and let me 
 see him if he will come, and now you must go. 
 How many were there waiting when you 
 came? " 
 
 " Six," said Harmer, laughing ; and then 
 Benson steered him out of the room by the 
 elbows, saying, " What a fearful fellow you are 
 to talk ! " 
 
 And Jack returned to his office, where he did 
 little work. He was waiting anxiously to know 
 what the result would be when Geoffrey asked 
 Beth to marry him. 
 
 • • • • • 
 
 He was glad when Tuesday came. In -spite 
 of his natural light-heartedness, he could not 
 help feeling deeply anxious as to what Alwith 
 
io8 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 would do if, as he expected, Elizabeth Kyle 
 refused to keep her promise under such terribly 
 altered circumstances. He fidgeted through 
 the whole day. Perhaps even now Geoffrey was 
 with her. He determined at last to go to 
 Chelsea; but it was nine o'clock before he 
 reached it, for tea at a restaurant which he fre- 
 quented led to the playing of chess, in which 
 game he was fairly skilful. Even by nine he 
 found no one in the studio, and had to take 
 refuge in Worthington's. He had no sooner 
 greeted this artist and got comfortably estab- 
 lished on the sofa with a pipe and a glass of 
 whisky and water than a knock came to the 
 door. Sooner than let it disturb Frank Worth- 
 ington, who was at the piano singing " Celia's 
 Arbour/' he rose and opened the door himself. 
 A young woman stood outside who asked for 
 Mr. Worthington. 
 
 " Tell him my name is Nellie Mitchell." 
 Harmer did so, and Worthington stared for a 
 moment. 
 
 " Nellie Mitchell ! Nellie Mitchell ! Oh, I re- 
 member, she was a model, but I have not seen 
 her for a long time. Tell her to walk in." 
 
Outside the Studio. 109 
 
 It was the same woman who had spoken to 
 Alwith at the Sloane Square end of King's 
 Road, and she looked much the same as she had 
 done then, only more contained and quiet. 
 
 " Why, Nellie," said Frank, " what a time it is 
 since we saw you. Have you been to Paris or 
 Rome, or to Central Africa ? " 
 
 " I have never been away from London, Mr. 
 Worthington, but I was ill for a long time, and 
 it has made me thin. That spoilt the business 
 for me. But I want to know if you have any- 
 thing that would suit me." 
 
 Worthington sat astride his chair and, smok- 
 ing his cigarette, looked at her critically. 
 
 " I am afraid not, Nellie. I have done my 
 Academy pictures and am at nothing of im- 
 portance now, only a portrait or two. Have 
 you been round the studios ? " 
 
 11 Yes," said Nellie, somewhat sadly, " but I 
 could not find anything." 
 
 " H'm," said Worthington, " been over to 
 Mr. Alwith?" 
 
 " No," said she with a slight shiver. 
 
 * Not that he's much good for models, I must 
 confess, but he was in here a couple of weeks 
 
1 10 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 ago, and said something of a figure picture he 
 was going to do." 
 
 "What's that?" said Harmer. " I never 
 heard of it." 
 
 " I daresay not, and perhaps it's nothing. His 
 ideas come down to grinding at something quite 
 sure to sell ; but you might try him, Nellie. No 
 good throwing away a chance. And here, come 
 in and see me next week, perhaps I might have 
 something then." 
 
 She rose and stood with some grace, for 
 though she was thin, her figure had much 
 dignity in it, and her manner of holding herself 
 suggested the old trick of posing. 
 
 " Well, thank you, Mr. Worthington, I will 
 come in again, and I think I will see Mr. 
 Alwith." 
 
 "Don't go to-night, Miss Mitchell," said 
 Harmer, who somehow was impressed with this 
 woman. There seemed something deeper about 
 her than most of the models, or than most of 
 the girls he saw about the studios. She turned 
 towards him. 
 
 " Why not, sir ? " she said, quietly. 
 
 Harmer hesitated. 
 
Outside the Studio. in 
 
 " Well, I would much rather you didn't. I 
 
 know he won't be able to see anyone. I have 
 
 been waiting here for a long time. But I can't 
 
 quite explain why not, but don't go to-night. 
 
 Go to-morrow." 
 
 91 Very well ;■ perhaps you know best, Mr. 
 *— — )} 
 
 " Harmer," said he. 
 
 " Mr. Harmer. So I will go to-morrow if I 
 go at all." 
 
 She bowed slightly to him, and nodded to 
 Worthington. Jack got up and bowed very 
 politely, and escorted her to the door. He 
 saw then that there was a light in Alwith's 
 studio and came back for his hat. 
 
 " You were very ceremonious with that girl, 
 Jack," said Worthington laughing, " you treated 
 her with more respect than some of the very 
 respectable girls you meet here." 
 
 " Well," said Harmer, " I did perhaps. I 
 can't tell why, but I think that she has more 
 heart and brain than most of those, if I am a 
 judge of character. And then she looked very 
 sad." 
 
 Worthington grinned. 
 
H2 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 " You are quite taken with her, my boy, but 
 — well, I won't say anything. She used to be a 
 very lively young girl. There is a great change 
 in her now. Why shouldn't she see Alwith to- 
 night ? " 
 
 By this time Harmer had his coat on. 
 " Selfish reasons, my boy," he said, " I want 
 to see him myself. Good night." 
 
 Across the way in Alwith's studio was a dim 
 light shining through the glass over which 
 the tattered green roller blinds were partly 
 drawn. The sky overhead was sombre, heavy, 
 the rain was falling lightly and threatening 
 to come down heavier ere long. Down the 
 road Harmer could see what he thought was 
 Nellie Mitchell, standing under a gas lamp 
 which shone in the pools of water in the 
 neglected road, which was a " no thoroughfare." 
 He stood for a moment in thought, wondering 
 what Alwith was doing or what thinking behind 
 that dull dead wall. What of despair and 
 anguish or what of a joy doomed to be but 
 short lived and a very delirium, would greet 
 him when he entered. He was almost afraid to 
 cross the road, afraid to knock at the door. He 
 
Outside the Studio. 113 
 
 looked up, and the woman he had seen was near 
 him now, close by the entrance to Alwith's 
 place. But it was not Nellie. Seeing him 
 there, she stopped and called across the road 
 in a tone half frightened and half resolute, 
 " Please can you tell me Mr. Alwith's studio ? " 
 And at the sound of her voice the blood ran to 
 his head and he almost fell, but, recovering him- 
 self, said in a hollow arid hoarse voice no one 
 could recognize, " You are at his door now." 
 
 He waited there, and saw her knock, saw 
 Geoffrey open the door, saw her enter and the 
 door close, and then in a state of wondering and 
 jealous surprise, went away up the road, for- 
 getting why he had come and why he had 
 waited. For the girl was Agnes Kyle, and he 
 knew her. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 A SISTER OF MERCY. 
 
 Agnes Kyle little resembled her sister. She 
 was slighter and taller, her complexion had 
 more colour, her hair was more positively gold 
 in tint. And with these physical differences, 
 the two girls were even more divergent in 
 character. The coldness and dignity of Beth 
 were replaced in Agnes by impulsiveness ; a 
 revolt against the elder's selfishness, which had 
 begun very early, moulded the younger by a 
 strong repulsion into self-abnegation. She grew 
 to hate her sister's dominant claims, but even 
 then sacrificed herself both to her and others. 
 Beth would have been deeply offended if any 
 one had called her selfish, but it would have dis- 
 tressed her only by wounding her vanity. Such 
 an accusation would have wounded Agnes very 
 deeply. Like most unselfish people she often 
 
A Sister of Mercy. 1 1 5 
 
 blamed herself for not thinking enough of others, 
 and she might have believed the reproach true. 
 Even though she too had been attracted by the 
 fire and strength that lay under the restraint 
 which clothed Geoffrey Alwith, she had willingly, 
 or almost willingly, yielded him in silence to 
 Beth. Yet, with the intuition which never be- 
 longs to self-contained natures, since it is a 
 quality of sympathy, she feared that her sister 
 would never make Geoffrey happy, though 
 she hoped that she might be mistaken. But 
 even yet in the under current of her mind there 
 was a tide that still set towards her sister's 
 lover, and it needed little to make her believe 
 she loved him entirely. And it was more than 
 a little that made her kneel outside the door of 
 the drawing-room, sobbing and choked with 
 anguish, for love and pity, a great commisera- 
 tion and yearning to comfort the desolate filled 
 her heart and soul when half in joy, that was 
 wicked she knew, and half in bitter anger against 
 her sister, she heard him pleading, and pleading 
 in vain, for the love that w r as his due and that he 
 had never found. What could it mean that she 
 heard ? What could it mean ? 
 
 I 2 
 
1 1 6 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 She had come up to the door and opened it 
 quite in the usual way, and had stopped stricken 
 motionless by the words she heard. "Once 
 more, Beth, I ask you, will you be my wife, or 
 must I die desolate, yes, and damned for ever 
 and ever ? M What did it mean ? Was she not to 
 be his wife in less than a month, and yet he was 
 speaking in this dreadful voice, with such anguish 
 in its tones ? With her hand on the door she 
 listened, and then she heard her sister speak, 
 almost scream, commanding him to let her go. 
 And in her accents was horror and loathing. 
 What was it, what was it ? She stood white 
 and trembling, and heard him groan. As he 
 came to the door she let it go, and sank down 
 on her knees. She saw him, as he passed her 
 blindly, and she hardly recognized his face, for 
 it was writhed in anguish, anguish such as she 
 had never yet dreamed of, and was absolutely 
 ghastly with despair and desolation. He went 
 downstairs and out of the house, and still Agnes 
 knelt by the door which had closed of itself as 
 he passed through it, and she could not move. 
 
 " What is it, oh, what is it ? " she muttered to 
 herself. And she who knew was inside the door. 
 
A Sister of Mercy. 1 1 7 
 
 But still Agnes sat there. How dreadful he 
 had looked ! What could it be ? She kept 
 on repeating it in a half whisper, looking up at 
 the lighted gas on the landing that fell on a 
 pale and frightened face, for it must be some- 
 thing very strange. 
 
 Had the sisters been confidential with each 
 other, she would have gone in, but Beth had 
 always kept her own counsel. They never 
 showed each other the little trifles that are so 
 important to girls, nor had they ever told each 
 other "secrets." For that matter, Beth never 
 told any to anyone, not even to Geoffrey, if 
 indeed she had any to tell. 
 
 Presently Agnes heard her sister move. She 
 was coming out. With some difficulty the girl 
 rose and anticipated Beth by entering before the 
 other was half across the room. It was done 
 partly on impulse, partly on the knowledge that 
 if Beth got to her own room, it would be hard, 
 nay, almost impossible to make her say any- 
 thing that night. The candles on the mantel- 
 piece were just as Alwith had left them, and 
 Agnes noted the unwonted alteration. It made 
 more light in the room, and by it she examined 
 
1 1 8 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 her sister swiftly, almost in one glance. Beth was 
 a little paler, that was all ; she looked, too, as if 
 she might have been crying, but certainly there 
 was nothing in her appearance to warrant the 
 belief she had been a principal actor in tragedy, 
 or something much akin to it. She looked 
 straight at Agnes, as if wondering why the 
 latter was so white and excited. Agnes was 
 the first to speak, and she made herself heard 
 with difficulty. 
 
 " What is it, Beth ? What is the matter with 
 you and Geoffrey ? " said she, holding out her 
 hands, which she shut and opened in nervous 
 agitation, a strange contrast to her sister. 
 
 Beth tossed her head impatiently, saying in a 
 strained tone, " What is it to you?" For she 
 had arrived at the stage of personal injury. She 
 had been cheated and defrauded by someone, 
 by Geoffrey, and she must vent her irritation. 
 Agnes dropped her hands to her sides, bent 
 her head forward a little and flushed some- 
 what. 
 
 " What is it to me ? It is something, and I 
 will know, Beth. What did he mean by saying 
 he was dying, and why did you scream at him 
 
A Sister of Mercy. 1 19 
 
 so ? What did you say to him ? Aren't you 
 going to be married ? Come ! " 
 
 She stamped a little with her right foot, and 
 her eyes began to sparkle. Beth stared at her. 
 
 " If you must know, then, we are not going to 
 be married." 
 
 Agnes stepped up to her sister and caught her 
 by the arm, but Beth shook her off. 
 
 " Why can't you tell me more, Beth ? Oh, I 
 must know. He looked so dreadful. Did you 
 quarrel ? M 
 
 Beth turned on her suddenly, "No, we didn't 
 quarrel, but it is no business of yours. He says 
 he is not going to live six months. Why," 
 and she shuddered, "it would be like 
 marrying a dead man ! " 
 
 " And you refused," said Agnes, " you did 
 refuse him/' 
 
 "Of course I did," her sister answered 
 angrily. 
 
 " Then, Beth, you are wicked and cruel, and 
 not a woman at all, and I hate you ! " and she 
 began to sob hurriedly, and the tears ran down 
 her face. " I don't believe he is dying unless 
 you kill him, you are capable of it" 
 
120 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 " He is dying," said Beth sullenly, " he said so 
 himself! And don't you dare to speak so 
 to me." 
 
 The two sisters looked at each other as they 
 had never done before, in spite of the semi- 
 hostility which had sometimes prevailed between 
 them, and both were changed and altered. 
 
 " I shall dare, Beth," Agnes cried. "You are 
 cruel and cold — you are not a woman — you are 
 a block, a stone, and haven't any blood in your 
 veins. Didn't he plead with you ? yes he did. I 
 heard him just before he went, and you told him 
 to let you go. You must be mad, you never 
 loved him. You don't know what love is, you 
 horrible girl. You ought to be ready to die for 
 him, and when he is dying you turn away from 
 him. Beth, you are not my sister, you are not 
 a woman ! " 
 
 And her voice rose high, as she caught her 
 sister by the wrists just as Alwith had done. 
 But she could not hold her so, and Beth freed 
 herself suddenly and sent her reeling back. 
 She had no command of language in her anger 
 — she almost failed to speak, but when she did 
 get out a word she hissed it. 
 
A Sister of Mercy. 1 2 1 
 
 " You little beast, don't you speak to me ! " 
 Agnes' eyes flamed, and she came up to Beth 
 
 again. 
 
 "I will speak, you wretched girl. You are 
 selfish through and through, and never think 
 of anyone, no, not a soul but yourself, and you 
 haven't a soul any more than a stone. Oh, oh, 
 Beth, you are cruel, cruel — " and she burst into 
 tears, tried to speak, failed, and sat down 
 sobbing as if her heart would break. Beth 
 glared at her, utterly surprised, and yet hating 
 her sister, thinking what she ■ could best say to 
 wound her, to strike deep, to rankle as long as 
 possible. But she lacked the ability to be 
 malicious in anything but a commonplace way. 
 
 " I believe you love him yourself, you horrid 
 girl/' she said at last, coarsely. " It would be 
 like you to love a man who doesn't care a jot for 
 you. You are as bad as a bad woman — and I 
 scorn you — yes, I scorn you. Don't you ever 
 speak to me again, not as long as you 
 live ! " 
 
 She panted as she said it, and looked as if 
 she would like to strike the girl who sobbed 
 still. But at the last words Agnes got up, and 
 
122 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 ran in front of her sister, who was moving to- 
 wards the door. 
 
 " Yes, yes — perhaps I do love him, and if I 
 do I am glad of it. Yes, I do love him. What 
 have you got to say to that ? You don't know 
 what love is, and never will know ! Yes, I do 
 love him, and I always have done." 
 
 * You had better tell him so," sneered Beth, 
 who, however, was half frightened by the passion 
 her sister was in. 
 
 " Don't speak to me like that," shrieked the 
 younger girl, " I would tell him — / have some 
 pity for him, you have none — / have a heart, and 
 you are ice, ice ! " 
 
 She shook all over, and the tears ran unre- 
 garded down her face that was strangely rigid in 
 its expression in comparison with the agitation 
 of her body. She seemed to be seeking to con- 
 trol herself, and was half alarmed, and half 
 triumphant to find her will so strong, her 
 passion so great, in this hour when she was first 
 wholly a woman. Beth was frightened and 
 almost dominated by this fury of a sister, but 
 must sneer at her, or else her heart would break. 
 
 " You would tell him ! You would tell him ! " 
 
A Sister of Mercy. 123 
 
 she cried, " I don't believe you. You have some 
 decency left. But go and do it, go and — " 
 
 " Don't, Beth," gasped Agnes, putting her 
 hand up to her throat and pulling away her 
 light loose collar as thongh it choked her, 
 *- Don't ! " 
 
 "Yes, I will I* screamed Beth, thinking she 
 was getting the best of it, " I will ! Go and tell 
 him you love him and will marry him if he will 
 take you. I make you a present of him — there 
 — I don't want him, and I don't want you," and 
 she cried now. 
 
 Agnes stared at her and moved her lips, trying 
 to speak. She shook no more, but was rigid 
 all over. It was as if every faculty, bodily and 
 mental, was turned into one channel, into a 
 channel that had no barrier, no rock nor stone, 
 no stick of the old impediments left there. She 
 lifted her hand and tried to speak again, but 
 she failed, and suddenly turning, she went from 
 the room, leaving Beth standing there, motion- 
 less, and now almost awestruck. 
 
 She went upstairs with one continuous impulse, 
 and without lighting the gas, found her cloak and 
 hat, and put them on as she stood in the dark. 
 
124 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith, 
 
 With the same strange onward motion, she 
 came down and passed her sister, who stood in 
 the doorway of the drawing-room staring at her, 
 without a glance, and went downstairs. She 
 went like one in whom the concentrated faculties 
 were in the strange state of quiet of a " sleeping " 
 humming-top ; quiet by the excess of passion 
 in one direction. For she saw Geoffrey Alwith 
 dying slowly in desolation, and she believed 
 that she loved him with every nerve and fibre 
 of her body, and for that hour at least she did. 
 
 Beth stood upstairs unable to move, and 
 heard Agnes reach the hall, open the outer door 
 and shut it again, and then as though awakened 
 by the noise, she screamed in a loud voice, 
 " Mamma, mamma," and going forward she 
 caught the banisters in her agitation ; for 
 though she now hated her sister, she was very 
 keenly alive to the impropriety of the proceed- 
 ing, and was moved by the fear of what people 
 would think. 
 
 At the noise Mrs. Kyle came out of the 
 dining-room ; and going downstairs Beth 
 explained to her incredulous ears as much of 
 the story as possible. It was hard work getting 
 
A Sister of Mercy. 125 
 
 her to understand so complicated a situation, 
 and even then she refused to believe that Agnes 
 had really gone out. What ! to go out at 
 half-past nine, without an escort, to visit an 
 artist ! No ! no ! it was impossible, she would 
 not believe it ! Agnes was her daughter and 
 couldn't do such a thing ! And then she sat 
 down on the stairs and wept, while the eager 
 and delighted servants stood below on tiptoe 
 catching every word they could. 
 
 Beth kept her senses when she had once 
 recovered them, and had hard work to restrain 
 herself from shaking her mother for not making 
 some suggestion instead of crying. She was 
 half inclined to go after Agnes herself, and, in her 
 desire to avoid scandal, that is what she might 
 have done at last had not Mr. Kyle returned 
 home at the moment when she finally recognized 
 the fact that her mother was little better than 
 an idiot for the time being. Mr. Kyle was an 
 elderly Civil Servant, one of the old regime, and 
 was called a fossil in the department to which he 
 belonged, which was the same as that in which 
 Harmer earned his living ; but fossil or not in 
 matters of official routine, he had some common 
 
126 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 sense outside, and when he had made Beth 
 explain only twice what the matter was, he 
 asked for Alwith's address and went out. If any 
 one should go, if anything might avail, it was 
 best he should be the one, for he alone had had 
 much sympathy for poor Agnes, and she had 
 often gone to him for consolation in those 
 childish sorrows which her mother could not 
 understand, and which Beth was accustomed to 
 scorn. There may be happy homes in which 
 neither parent has won, or cared to win, the con- 
 fidence of the children, but they have not the 
 blessedness of those in which the little ones can 
 go to their father or mother, sure that there 
 will be no repulse, and confident of consola- 
 tion. 
 
CHAPTER XL 
 
 A CASE OF CONSCIENCE. 
 
 And meanwhile Geoffrey Alwith was going 
 home. Home ! to his barren studio, to a soli- 
 tary room, to dark shadows and darker 
 thoughts. Yet he seemed hardly so desperate 
 and full of passion as he ought to be, for he was 
 tired, strangely and unnaturally tired, with a 
 lassitude that had a deadening effect upon his 
 nerves and brain. He noticed this with a 
 curious interest, as if he was some other person, 
 and tried to analyze his sensations. These were 
 not keen and sharp, the thought of Beth was 
 not like a blow on raw flesh, but a dull aching 
 pain. His loneliness did not seem so over- 
 powering, for he himself was divided into 
 watcher and worker, nurse and patient as it were. 
 The fear of death was hardly in his mind at all, 
 or if it was it was so inevitable that it was quite 
 
128 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 useless to think of it, and when he leant against 
 the wall for a moment to rest, it seemed no more 
 to him than that it would rain again before long. 
 He was like a prisoner who had tried every 
 means of escape, every means of alleviation, and 
 after failure was reconciled coldly to his own 
 door, his unpierceable walls, and his bed of 
 boards. What was the use of struggling against 
 a blind and irresponsible fate ? what was the use ? 
 What was the use ? 
 
 Mechanically he found his way to the station ; 
 he entered a carriage as though he was an 
 automaton, and sat there till he left it at the end 
 of his short and accustomed journey, as though 
 he was carved from mahogany or Egyptian 
 granite. He stopped on the embankment for 
 a minute and stared at the river. Pshaw ! — 
 what was the use ? He must live his time. 
 Then he thought of his mother, she whom he 
 had not seen for nearly two weeks ; she who 
 was quite ignorant of what was to happen. He 
 actually smiled, it was strange to think he was 
 to die first. But his mother's sorrow did not 
 then come home to him. It was true he was 
 her son, and her only son, but he had no power 
 
A Case of Conscience. 129 
 
 to imagine another's pain. Why, he could not 
 imagine his own, he knew that. He was too 
 tired to think of his mother, or even of Beth, or 
 any of his friends. They belonged after all to 
 quite another world than his, they were by com- 
 parison immortal. Besides, they believed they 
 had faith — and he — no, he had none now. Even 
 this did not shock him, though a sudden loss of 
 faith is as keen an anguish as can well befall a 
 man. Let the dead bury their dead ; he should 
 take dead faith in man, woman, and God into the 
 grave with him. He smiled again, a flickering 
 fire of a smile, like phosphorescence on a hand 
 in the dark, or on something decaying, but it 
 was much sadder than tears. 
 
 When he reached home he lighted the gas 
 through custom, and sat down, as he thought, to 
 think, but there was no clearness in his mind, 
 everything was vague and without continuity. 
 He thought he would go to bed, but he was 
 almost too tired to get out of his chair. He 
 determined to rest and think of nothing. So he 
 looked at his hands and thought that Beth had 
 stared at them with horror, just as if they had 
 been covered with blood. His blood, then, and 
 
 K 
 
130 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 of her slaying — or fate's. He picked at his 
 fingers nervously and rubbed them. They 
 did look rather strange, he admitted that. And 
 presently a knock came at the door. He looked 
 up slowly, as though doubtful if there was any- 
 one outside asking for admittance. He almost 
 decided to let them knock in vain. He wanted 
 nobody to trouble his peace, for was he not 
 peaceful now ? But he remembered as though 
 by chance that he had asked his friend Harmer 
 to come down, so he got up, though very un- 
 willingly, to open the door. Outside in the dark- 
 ness stood a girl, and by the light that came 
 through from the inner studio he saw who it 
 was. Yet he could scarcely believe his eyes, for 
 it was Agnes Kyle ; it was she and no other, 
 the sister of Beth. 
 
 " Geoffrey, Geoffrey," she said in a low voice, 
 and then her tongue failed her. For the first 
 time it seemed so incredible that he could be 
 dying, he who stood before her so well and 
 strong. " Can I come in ? " 
 
 Alwith nodded, for his lips seemed glued 
 together. Had she come to tell him that Beth 
 repented ? He shut the door, and they were in 
 
A Case of Conscience. 131 
 
 the studio together. Agnes let her cloak slip off 
 and stood there in a dark brown tight-fitting 
 dress, that showed her slender and yet un- 
 developed figure well. She was as pale as 
 death. 
 
 " Geoffrey/' she said again, " Is it — is it 
 true ? " 
 
 And he nodded, and, keeping his head bent 
 forward a little, he looked at her straight, so that 
 the white of the eye showed under the pupil 
 and seemed to glitter. 
 
 <c And Geoffrey," went on Agnes, speaking 
 more hurriedly, "did Beth say she wouldn't 
 marry you now that you are — dying, Geoffrey ? " 
 She looked at him appealingly, as though to 
 beg him to say that it was not so, even though 
 she knew it was. Geoffrey's face twitched. He 
 was waking up once more to pain and anguish. 
 But he only nodded again. He was afraid to 
 speak. Then Agnes burst into tears and caught 
 him by the hand. 
 
 u Geoffrey, dear Geoffrey, don't look so ; don't 
 look so. Never mind her, she never can have 
 loved you, she doesn't know what love is, 
 Geoffrey, she doesn't know." 
 
 K 2 
 
132 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 She choked again, and Geoffrey stared at her. 
 Then she had not brought a messsge from Beth 
 after all. She went on speaking, still more 
 hurriedly, and she shook as she spoke, as 
 though a spirit rent her frame and tortured her 
 to prophesy. 
 
 14 Geoffrey, I can't believe it and yet I do, I 
 do," and she wrung her hands. What had Beth 
 said ? " You can't die, Geoffrey, you must not 
 die, and alone. I can't let it be, I can't, 
 I can't. Oh ! what shall I say, what shall I 
 say ! " 
 
 " What can any one say, Agnes ? " said he at 
 last, with a groan, " What indeed ! " 
 
 She stamped on the floor and screamed out. 
 " Don't speak so, Geoffrey, you will kill me if 
 you speak so and groan," and she caught him 
 by the arm. . " Look at .me, Geoffrey, see me, 
 see me ; and I, dear Geoffrey, I do love you, I 
 do love you ! " 
 
 And she did not blush or take her eyes 
 away, but still she sobbed, and the tears ran 
 down her* face in streams. And he stared at 
 her strangely and sat down. She fell on her 
 knees and caught him by his hand and went on. 
 
A Case of Conscience. 133 
 
 " Don't be angry with me, Geoffrey, I have 
 always loved you, and it will break my heart to 
 see you desolate. Oh ! my dear, marry me, and I 
 will serve you till the end, faithfully, faithfully, 
 with my service, my blood, my own life. And 
 forget her, Geoffrey, forget her, she is cruel, cruel, 
 and not a woman, as I am this night." She 
 caught him by his hand and kissed it. And 
 he stared at her. Did she know ? Did she ? 
 
 What a temptation it was, a hard one to re- 
 sist. He who had never seen aught like this in 
 Beth, who had never known anything like an 
 answering passion, to be wept over and implored 
 like this. And yet he did not love her. He 
 would think of Beth every time he kissed her. 
 And then he knew that his friend loved her. 
 He could scarcely do this thing. Yet why not ? 
 What was friendship or the opinion of the world 
 to him ? It would be like their laughter, the 
 crackling of thorns under a pot. He dallied 
 with the temptation, for she was sweet, yes, very 
 sweet, and though the spirit might be willing, 
 the flesh was weak — yes, even yet. 
 
 " Do you mean this, Agnes ? " he muttered at 
 last. 
 
134 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 "Do I mean it?" she said. " What do I 
 mean by coming here ? Yes, I do mean it. I 
 know you don't love me, as you do her, but you 
 must not be miserable and thinking of her all 
 the time. And, yes, I do love you, Geoffrey/' 
 and she writhed up against the side of his chair, 
 and caught his shoulder. He shivered a little, 
 just a little. 
 
 " Do you know why Beth shrank from me, 
 Agnes ? " he whispered. 
 
 " Yes, I do, the wretch, because you are dying, 
 Geoffrey. She ought to have loved you all the 
 more, as I do, as I do, because she would lose 
 you." 
 
 "No, Agnes/' said he quietly, but without 
 looking at her, " it was more, I think, because I 
 am so brown, for it is a sign of death in me," 
 and then he looked at her. She herself shivered 
 for a moment and flinched, and for the sake of 
 that in herself she almost forgave Beth. But 
 she lifted her eyes and spoke. 
 
 11 I don't care, Geoffrey, I don't care at all. 
 Believe me, I don't," and the tears which had 
 stopped started again. But Geoffrey said nothing. 
 It was a hard decision he had to make, and he 
 
A Case of Conscience. 135 
 
 went through another torture both of soul and 
 body. But he got confused, and hardly knew 
 what was in his mind. At last he found him- 
 self vaguely wondering how she found his studio. 
 It was hard to find, even when one was in 
 the very street in which it stood. He asked 
 her. 
 
 " Some man outside said this was your place, 
 Geoffrey," she said. Some man outside ! Har- 
 mer, perhaps, He ought to be here now, thought 
 Alwith. It would be hard on poor Jack if he 
 took both sisters from him, one after the other, 
 very hard. Jack loved him and was bitterly 
 grieved he knew. Should he take the girl his 
 friend loved when he did not love her himself ? 
 She would get over this, for he could see what 
 she could not yet see, how great a part pity 
 played in her love. 
 
 " Dear Agnes," he said at last, and he spoke 
 wearily, for passion on passion had worn him 
 out, "you know I was always fond of you." 
 
 " Yes, Geoffrey," she said meekly. 
 
 " And, dear, it would be a bad return for 
 your love to tie you now to a dying man who 
 loves another. For I love her yet, Agnes, cruel 
 
136 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 as she has been. She might have offered me 
 this, although perhaps I was selfish to ask it. 
 And yet I thought she loved me so, I thought 
 so, Agnes," and his lips quivered; "and you 
 know, dear Agnes, I must die quite soon now. 
 It will not be many months, not many months ! " 
 and he was silent, staring out into the future. 
 She cried silently, sitting in a heap on the floor. 
 But she spoke. 
 
 " Never mind, Geoffrey, I will marry you all 
 the same if you like," and she looked up with 
 the ghost of a smile about her face. 
 
 Geoffrey took her hand and kissed it. She 
 did not draw it away, but he did not retain it. 
 He felt so weak and weary then ; it grew com- 
 paratively easy to say no to her gently. Had 
 he been as well as he was in the afternoon, how 
 hard it would have been ! It is not only the 
 devil that becomes a saint in sickness. It is at 
 times easy to be good in some ways, and to do 
 the right thing. Our good principles may get 
 the credit. 
 
 " Agnes, dear, you will forget this after a 
 while." She shook her head. " You will, dear, 
 when I am dead, and you remember me as one 
 
' A Case of Conscience. 137 
 
 who was almost your brother, and one who 
 always loved you as one. When you are happy 
 in some new home, you will think of me, as you 
 think now of some past day that was half 
 sorrow and half joy." 
 
 She shook her head again, but not so ve- 
 hemently ; she, too, was feeling shaken and 
 wearied, and his quiet voice had a strange 
 lulling effect upon her, calming and soothing 
 her passion and pain. 
 
 " For, Agnes, you know, there are others who 
 love you, and in a different way from me; one 
 at least," she looked up quickly and then looked 
 down again, " one at least who does, I know. 
 And he is my friend, dear sister. Perhaps one 
 of these days," he faltered, " you will tell him 
 about this, and weep tears of joy on his breast 
 when you know how great a thing love is that 
 does not change." 
 
 And Agnes kept silence. She did not believe 
 in what he said, but she knew that he had made 
 up his mind. Perhaps, too, the reaction in her 
 was having its natural course. Perhaps even 
 then, though she knew it not, the first drops of 
 balm dropped in her wounds were these words. 
 
138 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwitk. 
 
 Pity was still strong in her, but passion grew 
 strangely pale in the shadow of death. 
 
 " God bless you, dear Agnes," Geoffrey said 
 after a moment's silence, and he quivered at the 
 words he uttered, for her pity was something 
 good in the universe, " God bless you always 
 for your goodness, and tenderness and gentle 
 thoughts. And think well of me, whatever they 
 say, for your sister Beth has been very cruel to 
 me. Forgive me, dear ! " and he was silent 
 while the tears ran down his face. She did not 
 speak, for she could not, but sat there holding 
 his hand. 
 
 He felt strangely and sweetly pure and quiet 
 in this attack of weakness, he seemed another 
 and a better man, for with the good in passion 
 had fallen away the evil, and if he was not 
 quired by angels, no devils at that moment 
 screamed and yelled at him with suggestions of 
 the lower nature. If in that moment he had 
 died, it would have been well, for it would have 
 saved him that yet to fall upon him which was 
 to be very grievous and heavy and sorrowful to 
 the pure in heart. 
 
 And Agnes, too, was exalted in an ascetic 
 
A Case of Conscience. 139 
 
 weakness after strife, and felt in her quies- 
 cent sorrow that death might not be all evil, 
 nor life all good. But she was destined to 
 live, and to know life in its fulness, in its griefs 
 and joys. For her time would not be yet for a 
 long while. 
 
 The gas overhead flickered and flamed and 
 cast wavering shadows about them and the 
 studio. The wind came through the cracks 
 and stirred the old green portiere and rustled 
 along the walls and floors, blowing the dust in 
 lines. The stove burnt steadily and the steam 
 of the kettle upon it blew out and up and dis- 
 appeared. It was a silence broken but by the 
 beating of the hearts of brother and sister as 
 they sat there side by side, like life and death, 
 incarnate in a haven where they knew the 
 strange and hidden beauty of each other. But 
 the sacred and awful quiet did not last, for again 
 there came a knock at the outer door, Geoffrey 
 and Agnes both rose, and turning to each other 
 they kissed and embraced in silence. Agnes 
 stooped and picked up her cloak as Geoffrey went 
 to the door. He opened it and Mr. Kyle 
 entered in silence. His daughter looked him 
 
140 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 fairly in the face and smiled sorrowfully, and he 
 turned towards Alwith. 
 
 " Geoffrey/' said he, u is this true what I 
 hear?" 
 
 " Yes, sir," said Alwith, " it is true." 
 
 The old man held out his hand and the other 
 took it. 
 
 " I am sorry, Geoffrey, bitterly sorry. May 
 God help you." 
 
 That was all they said. He let the father and 
 daughter out, looking sorrowfully at Agnes, 
 who watched him slowly shut the door. And 
 then she turned to her father, threw her arms 
 round his neck, buried her face in his bosom, 
 and cried, " Oh, papa, papa ! " And the tears 
 came to the old man's eyes. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 ON THE VERGE. 
 
 THOUGH Harmer had acknowledged to Geoffrey 
 Alwith that he was fond of Agnes Kyle, his 
 fondness partook very little of passion. It 
 seemed so impossible to him to marry for a long 
 time, even if he ever made enough money, that 
 he had kept away from the girl many times 
 when he might have met her. But when he 
 saw her at Geoffrey's studio, he instantly became 
 jealous and bitterly suspicious. Yet he could 
 form no theory to account for her being there 
 at that hour of the night, even if the very worst 
 were true. Finally he got to see that he was 
 probably wrong, but that did not prevent his 
 feeling too sore to go to Alwith and ask for an 
 explanation. He regretted he had not let 
 things take their natural course. But he went 
 
142 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 as usual to Curgenven's, and in the evening 
 Geoffrey came in. 
 
 Harmer kept his seat and looked at his friend 
 with pity, even in his ill-grounded anger. For 
 he was so worn and tired looking. Alwith 
 shook hands with Curgenven, and then started 
 at seeing Harmer, who greeted him coldly, and 
 did not hold out his hand. Alwith knew then 
 that it was he who had directed Agnes to his 
 studio on the previous evening, though he had 
 fervently hoped that he had been mistaken in 
 thinking so. He was sorry, very sorry, and 
 excused Harmer's demeanour, for he himself 
 could understand jealousy. The three men sat 
 down by the fire, and Curgenven, who did not 
 notice the lugubrious faces of his two com- 
 panions, was at first in a mood to be merry. 
 
 " Now this," said he, " is what I call comfort- 
 able. There is a good fire, plenty of tobacco — * 
 
 " Hay ! " interjected Harmer, for he detested 
 the tasteless stuff Will found strong enough for 
 his palate. 
 
 " And three friends/' went on Curgenven, not 
 noticing this trivial interruption. " Now, if we 
 could only have tripe and onions for supper, for 
 
On the Verge. 143 
 
 I love tripe just as Thackeray did, and some 
 strong waters, there would be nothing left to 
 wish for." 
 
 Neither of the men spoke. 
 
 " You are not lively to-night, is he, Geoffrey ? n 
 and Will looked at his cousin who was sitting 
 staring in the fire. And he did not answer. 
 Curgenven turned to Harmer and saw him just 
 as solemn. He began to be curious, but left the 
 word to one of the others, and the silence 
 deepened for awhile. Presently Alwith spoke. 
 
 " Harmer, does my cousin here know any- 
 thing of this — business ? " 
 
 Curgenven looked up. There was going to 
 be a light let in on the mystery at last, 
 
 " Not a word that I have told him, Geoffrey ," 
 answered Jack, rather softly, considering his 
 previous mood. There was silence again. 
 
 " Why didn't you come to see me last night ? " 
 said Geoffrey, waking up once more. 
 
 "Don't you know, Geoffrey?" answered the 
 other, staring at him hard. And Geoffrey did 
 not speak for a moment, but dropped his 
 head. 
 
 "Yes, I think I know, but there is no reason 
 
144 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 for you to be angry with me, Jack. No, nor 
 with any one else, not with any one else." 
 
 He spoke decidedly, and looked Harmer full 
 in the face. 
 
 u I think," he went on, " that if you knew all 
 you might even be glad. Believe me, believe me." 
 
 For answer Jack held out his hand, and 
 Alwith took it and wrung it hard. 
 
 " Harmer," Alwith went on again, " if I had 
 seen you last night I should not have come here 
 to-day. I came up to tell my cousin here, you 
 know what, but now we are friends again, I don't 
 think I shall do it." Here Curgenven's face fell. 
 It was very annoying, all this. " I should prefer 
 you to tell him." Will looked up brightly, but 
 did not speak, and his face changed. H And then 
 I want you, Will, to tell my mother and father 
 about it. I can't do it, I can't." 
 
 He stopped, for his voice choked a little, and 
 he turned away, brushing off a single tear with 
 his hand. When the light fell on his face again, 
 it was calm and quiet. He rose. 
 
 " Will you do it, Will ? " said he to Curvengen, 
 who nodded, though he was puzzled to the last 
 degree, and awed a little, for he began to think 
 
On the Verge. 145 
 
 his own wild solution of the mystery might after 
 all be the correct one. Alwith shook hands 
 with him. 
 
 "Good-bye, Will, good-bye," he said, and 
 there was a little tremor in his voice. 
 u Harmer," he continued, "let me speak a word 
 with you outside." And as Harmer rose 
 Curgenven followed them with his eyes, and 
 even when the door shut he stood staring in the 
 same direction. 
 
 When they were outside, Alwith took his 
 friend's hand and spoke in a very quiet, con- 
 strained voice. 
 
 " I suppose you can guess what happened 
 over there ? " 
 
 Harmer nodded, for he could scarcely trust 
 himself to speak. 
 
 " Yes," went on Alwith, " it was so. But 
 Agnes, Harmer," and his voice faltered a little, 
 "is an angel, an angel of light and mercy. 
 Believe in her always, there is no other woman 
 like her. And you will know her better some 
 day, Jack, for I think she will love you. And, 
 Jack, she knows you love her. Man, be good to 
 her — be good to her. I think I saw a soul last 
 
1 46 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 night; if ever you see it you will know some- 
 thing white in this black world. Good-bye, 
 Jack, good-bye. Don't come down to see me, 
 I will write to you. If I never see you again — 
 don't forget me quite, Jack, when you are happy. 
 For we are friends." 
 
 He caught Harmer's hand, wrung it, and 
 turned away. Slowly he went down the stairs, 
 as Jack watched him, but he did not look back ; 
 he went on as though he did not mean to turn 
 back any more. And he was going down, 
 down. . . . 
 
 Harmer still stood there when the sound of 
 his descending footsteps ceased, and when the 
 outer door closed on Alwith, who was in the 
 night, he thought it no shame to wipe away 
 some tears before he entered the room in which 
 Curgenven was yet standing almost in the same 
 attitude. Jack sat down quietly, and, putting 
 his elbows on his knees, stared in the fire for a 
 while. Then he turned to Will, and pointed to 
 a chair in silence. 
 
 "Do you think my mystery a very joyful one, 
 Will do you?" 
 
On the Verge. 147 
 
 Curgenven shook his head. 
 
 "Then sit down and I will tell you what 
 it is." 
 
 And he did so, telling the whole story as he 
 knew it from the beginning, which was but so 
 short a time ago, and Will listened in silence, for 
 he had been prepared. When Harmer ceased, 
 neither spoke for a long while. At last Will 
 broke out. 
 
 "My poor aunt ! And he is her only child ! 
 What a task he has given me ! Poor Geoffrey, 
 and we always thought he would do so much, 
 such great things ! "■ 
 
 Harmer nodded. 
 
 " He says he will write you again. Perhaps 
 you had better not say anything till he does. 
 Good night, Will. I am in no mood now to 
 talk." 
 
 He went away without another word, but in 
 his sorrow was light. In Alwith's there was 
 none. None ! 
 
 • . • • • • • 
 
 Geoffrey walked home fast with his mind in a 
 curious state of impressibility. He seemed to 
 notice everything just as if he knew it was the 
 
 L 2 
 
148 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 last time he should see it. He saw little things 
 he had never seen before, such as the irregular- 
 ities in the pavements ; almost illegible signs 
 over paltry shops, and queer articles in them. 
 Faces, too, were vivid in themselves, and as 
 strangely solid and real as if he were a ghost 
 among them. His walk was a long continuous 
 picture, that remained with him even to the 
 dark road where he lived. Lived ! he said. 
 When he came to his door, or nearly to it, he 
 saw a woman standing there. An evil woman 
 of course ! There was but one good woman (he 
 did not think of his mother) and she was Agnes 
 Kyle. But evil had no repugnance to him ; it 
 was quite natural. When he came up to her, he 
 saw it was Nellie Mitchell. He remembered her 
 and her name now. Poor Nellie, he had refused 
 her money ; if she was evil, so much the more 
 would she want it. She spoke to him. 
 
 " Is it you, Mr. Alwith ? " 
 
 " Yes, Nellie, it Is/ 1 he spoke in a kind voice. 
 
 " I called to know — " 
 
 " Never mind, never mind, come in, there's a 
 good girl. It is dark outside." 
 
 He opened the doors, and she followed him 
 
On the Verge. 149 
 
 until he lighted the gas, all the burners. Then 
 he turned to the woman. 
 
 iC Sit down, Nell, sit down. It is a long time 
 since you sat here, isn't it ? " 
 
 She nodded, being hardly able to speak. It 
 had been a hard fight to get herself to call on 
 him, but she was bent on living in the old way 
 again. 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Alwith, and I wanted to know if 
 you need a model." 
 
 He laughed, a little harshly as it seemed. She 
 flushed. 
 
 " No, Nellie, I shan't want any more models. 
 I don't think I shall paint any more." 
 
 " Not paint any more, Mr. Alwith ? " she said 
 in surprise. For it was indeed unaccountable. 
 "Then you must have come into a fortune." 
 
 She laughed a little sadly, for how much 
 money did cost. Soul and body sometimes ! 
 Alwith laughed too, a sound with no mirth in it 
 Had she not been so pre-occupied, it would 
 have seemed ghastly and most unnatural. 
 
 " Yes, my girl, I have enough to last me the 
 rest of my life. What do you think of that, 
 eh ? " 
 
ISO The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith, 
 
 "That you are very lucky," and she 
 sighed. 
 
 " Yes, am I not ? The very devil at luck. 
 There never was luck like mine ! But here, 
 Nell, do you want a job ? I'll give you a last 
 one ; you are a woman, and ought to be good at 
 packing. Pack my portmanteau for me, and I 
 will pay you well ! " and he opened a large 
 parcel on the table which contained clean linen. 
 Nellie rose and said, " I will do it for nothing, 
 Mr. Alwith ; are you going away ? " 
 
 11 Yes, Nellie, I am going away. On pleasure, 
 you know. Not on business," and his voice had 
 a subtle ring of mockery in it, as though it 
 pleased him to play so grim a comedy. He got 
 out the portmanteau for her, and threw his 
 things on the table, handing them to her as she 
 folded them up and put them away carefully, 
 and he talked all the time. 
 
 " It is pleasant to go away, is it not? You 
 know how hard I worked, didn't I ? None of 
 the other men did as I did. Well, there you 
 are, Nell, and now for payment. What will you 
 have, a kiss or a guinea, or both ? " 
 
 He got off the table and went towards her. 
 
On the Verge, 1 5 1 
 
 She could not help seeing something strange in 
 him at last. Perhaps he had been drinking. 
 
 "I don't want anything, Mr. Alwith," she 
 said meekly. 
 
 " Nonsense, Nellie. Do you remember the 
 other night I refused you money when you 
 asked me ? I was a brute, and should have been 
 well kicked. But I was saving money then for 
 — pleasure, you know, and now I have plenty." 
 
 His eyes glittered a little and he took her hand. 
 
 u Well, Nellie, I shall give you the kiss." 
 
 And he took her suddenly in his arms and 
 kissed her on the mouth. She shivered all over 
 and trembled. As for him, she was the only 
 woman he had ever kissed, save Beth — for with 
 Agnes it was different. He held her in his arms 
 still. 
 
 " Nellie, if I give you some money, will you 
 give me a kiss yourself ? n 
 
 She looked up angrily. 
 
 " Not for money, Mr. Alwith." 
 
 u No, dear, for love." 
 
 She looked down ; it was bitter when she loved 
 him. But she shook all over, and then — she 
 threw her arms round his neck and kissed him 
 
1 52 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 as he had never been kissed before. For it 
 was a good and evil revelation to the man. 
 But a certain sense of shame and fear caught 
 him, for he felt weak, very weak. He loosed 
 his hold of her, and, going to the wall, he took a 
 purse from a shelf, and out of it extracted a five 
 pound note. He crumpled it up and went back 
 to her, caught her hand, opened it, and put the 
 money in. . . " Put it away, Nell, and take care 
 of it while it lasts." 
 
 But she looked at it, and could hardly credit 
 her senses. Geoffrey Alwith give away five 
 pounds ! It seemed incredible. 
 
 " No ! no ! Mr. Alwith," she said earnestly, 
 " I don't want money." 
 
 " Take it, take it, Nell, if you won't have it 
 I'll put it in the stove, I swear I will. Don't I 
 tell you I have money, plenty of it ? " 
 
 He laughed again till the hollow room rang. 
 
 " Don't laugh so, Mr. Alwith/' said Nellie, 
 looking at him with her brilliant eyes that were 
 wet with tears, while her bosom heaved. "You 
 are very strange to-night." 
 
 " Am I not, sweet ? w said Geoffrey with bitte r 
 mockery, " did I ever speak so before ? Forge 
 
On the Verge. 153 
 
 the money, and if you can, forget that there is a 
 world outside, and kiss me again to show me 
 you forgive me for being so cruel to you. Am 
 I not merry, merry, quite given over to joy ? 
 Kiss me, for you have a kind heart, or are you 
 like the others ? " 
 
 No, she was not like them, poor girl, and 
 the ring of bitter pathos in his voice struck 
 her to her very soul. He was not really glad, 
 but miserable, very miserable. She felt a 
 choking in her throat, the tears came one by one, 
 and then in a sudden torrent of sobs that made 
 her shake. But she lifted up her head at last 
 and offered him her lips once more in a simple, 
 sorrowful way, in a way that was so pure and 
 kind that it touched the dry and withered soul 
 of the man with the dew of a divine tenderness 
 that made him merciful to her new-born desire 
 for purity. He kissed her once again, and led 
 her to the door. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A NEW DEPARTURE. 
 
 It was a distressing duty which had fallen upon 
 Curgenven, for to a man of such a temperament 
 the task of telling his aunt (for it was of her he 
 chiefly thought) the apparently inevitable fate 
 of her only son was scarcely less bearable than 
 having to face death upon his account. He 
 implored Harmer to relieve him of his task, for 
 his half suggestions, and a trick of his eyes, 
 seemed imploring to Jack, who, however, was 
 not so unselfish as to do anything of the kind. 
 He who was not over strict in his own duty, of 
 course carefully pointed out to Will that he had 
 no alternative, that a letter would not do. 
 Alwith had said " tell," and really one could not 
 refuse such a request ; especially when it would 
 as a consequence fall on Harmer's own shoulders. 
 The result was that though Curgenven was 
 
A New Departure. 155 
 
 being pressed by his publishers for the third 
 volume of a novel, he did not work, sat moping 
 all day, went out for walks to be actively miser- 
 able, and came home to be passively wretched. 
 
 For three days he awaited the letter his cousin 
 had promised to write, and it came at last one 
 evening when Harmer, who was with him now 
 on most nights of the week, had run over to keep 
 his friend up to the mark. The long expected 
 missive came from abroad, from France, 
 and though Alwith gave no address than the 
 Poste Restante, he was evidently domiciled in 
 Paris, the city in which he had always planned 
 to spend his honeymoon. This was the 
 letter :— 
 
 "Paris, March, 188-. 
 
 " Dear Will, — You see where I am. I always 
 said I would go, and I am here at last. For the 
 present I am reasonably well, and you can tell 
 mother so when you go to her. I could not tell 
 her myself. Forgive me for asking you. You 
 see I had not the courage to do even that, but 
 had to get Jack to do it for me. 
 
 " I want you and him to go to my studio (you 
 will find the keys at Worthington's) and take 
 
156 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith, 
 
 away all my pictures and sketches, and shut 
 the place up until the end of the next quarter, 
 for I wrote to the landlord giving it up at that 
 time. If you or Jack or Worthington know any 
 young artist to whom the place would be of use, 
 let him have it for nothing till then. As to the 
 pictures, one is a portrait, send it to the address 
 on the back, the others sell for what they will 
 fetch, and keep the money till I return. If I die 
 here, you can keep it as a legacy. The sketches 
 I give to you and Jack, but after you and he 
 have taken one apiece, let Worthington have one 
 if he cares for it. Of course Jack can tell him 
 now. That is all, I think. No, there is one 
 thing more. If the model, Nellie Mitchell, goes 
 to Worthington again, you can give him money 
 to give to her if she wants it, and if she can't get 
 work. 
 
 " If either you or Harmer can get away from 
 London for a week or two, come over here, I 
 will stand the expenses. Though I am not 
 alone, as you will see if you come, I am slow at 
 picking up the language. Yet I have gone 
 about it the very best way in the world for 
 acquiring a colloquial knowledge of it. The 
 
A New Departure. 157 
 
 only places I don't go to see are the picture 
 galleries. 
 
 " Your cousin, 
 
 "Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 " P.S. — I quite mean what I say above. I 
 have plenty of money." 
 
 Curgenven read this letter aloud, while Jack 
 sat with his elbows on the table, staring at him 
 gravely. But at the last paragraph but one, a 
 ghost of a smile flitted across his face. Will 
 looked at him over the top of the letter. 
 
 " What's he mean by the best way of learning 
 a language ? " 
 
 It was quite natural for him to think of this 
 first. 
 
 " Don't you know, Will ? " said Jack. Will 
 shook his head. Jack looked a little surprised, 
 but answered mockingly, " Then I shall adapt 
 my conversation, virginibus puerisque (which, 
 by the way, Alwith doesn't, I suppose), and not 
 tell you." 
 
 Curgenven stared at him vacantly for a 
 moment, for he was thinking about the other 
 parts of the letter, but suddenly a look of Intel- 
 
I S 8 The Degradation of Geoffrey A Iwith . 
 
 ligence displaced the vacancy, and he smiled and 
 shook his head. 
 
 "Will," said Harmer, after a pause, "there is 
 much bitterness in that, the only places I don't 
 go to see are the picture galleries." 
 
 Curgenven nodded thoughtfully, and turned 
 the letter over and over. 
 
 " Can you go and see him, Jack ? " he asked, 
 at length, 
 
 " Not unless I get a medical certificate," said 
 the other, " And the wretched doctors say I look 
 the picture of health. Even Benson wouldn't 
 prescribe Paris for me, though we are friends. 
 Will you go ? " 
 
 u Jack," said Curgenven, " I adore Paris, there 
 is no place like it to me. To just look at the 
 names of the streets is heavenly, and then to 
 think of going to dine in the Cafe* Murger; but 
 for all that I wouldn't go over and be with 
 Alvvithfor— for— " 
 
 "The Poet Laureateship ! " said Jack. 
 
 u That's more in your line, you miserable 
 rhymester, unless they give it to a man who 
 sprinkles his poems with notes of exclama- 
 tion, and ends the last line with three. 
 
A Nezu Departure. 159 
 
 No, 1 wouldn't go for an independence. 
 There ! " 
 
 He nodded emphatically. 
 
 " When will you go to your uncle's ? " asked 
 Jack, presently, after he had smoked half a pipe 
 of Curgenven's "hay" in three whiffs. 
 
 " Oh, we'd better look after the studio and 
 pictures first/' said Will hastily. 
 
 " Why, what a fool you are," cried Jack, " you 
 will never do any work until it's over. You go 
 to-morrow, or I won't come near you till you do 
 it, and I'll get the key from Worthington and 
 keep it." 
 
 That night Curgenven spent in sleeplessness, 
 picturing before his eyes every conceivable 
 attitude of horror and distress that a mother 
 could take on hearing such news as he had to 
 tell ; and he heard, yes, almost heard her 
 sobs of agony, her wild disbelief, her groans of 
 acceptance of God's will. Or would she sit in 
 stony despair, with fierce wild eyes that could 
 not see him who spoke to her, but looked out 
 into the Valley of the Shadow of Death, 
 beholding her beloved son toiling through the 
 dreadful way ? He tortured himself by thinking 
 
160 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 into a state of ghastly nervousness that showed 
 in his face, and made him a fitting bearer of ill 
 news, for he was more white and worn in the 
 morning than he would have been had he sat up 
 all the night at work. He almost groaned as he 
 left the house, and went on his way to Hammer- 
 smith, where the Alwiths had lived since the 
 winding up of the business. He walked slowly, 
 and yet he never found the road so short, 
 although he chose the longest way, and stared 
 idly into a dozen shops. When he turned off 
 the main road into the street where his uncle 
 dwelt, he stopped at the corner, and counted 
 half a dozen 'buses go by, and then he twirled 
 round suddenly, and went straight to the house. 
 He was there an hour. 
 
 • ••... . . 
 
 Harmer got this note from him in the 
 evening : — 
 
 " I went. And I wouldn't do it again for any- 
 thing. I may as well be simple. She was, 
 poor woman. But I never saw greater anguish 
 and a greater fight between the faith of a sincere 
 Christian (for she is that), and the natural revolt 
 against what seems so unjust a blow. Help her 
 
A New Departure, 1 6 [ 
 
 who can ! She didn't scream, even at first. She 
 disbelieved me, asked for proof, I spoke of all I 
 knew, showed her Geoffrey's letter. Had hard 
 work to get it again. Then she turned white 
 as paper, and stared \ so ! man, I cried like 
 a child myself, but she, his mother, the mother 
 of one, never shed a tear. You can judge by 
 that. I didn't see my uncle, but sent the 
 servant out for a neighbour who is with my 
 aunt now. 
 
 "If you can get away to-morrow, let us go 
 down to Chelsea. I want this finished as far as 
 it can be. 
 
 u Yours always, 
 
 "Will Curgenven." 
 
 m 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 IN PARIS. 
 
 The letter Geoffrey wrote from Paris expressed 
 all the good left in him. Pity for his mother 
 was in it, regard for his friends, and thought for 
 one woman. Yet it was intensely egotistic and 
 selfish in its way. He would not tell his mother 
 himself, because of his own pain and hers ; his 
 wish for Harmer and his cousin was half a 
 matter of custom, and half of convenience, 
 because he could not speak French fluently. 
 His kindness to Nellie was the most unselfish 
 thing in it, it showed he felt a pang still for the 
 way he had treated her on their first meeting 
 after a long interval of time. Yet, had he still 
 expected to marry Beth, and had still looked at 
 the future, that would have seemed but his 
 duty. 
 
 The letter too had shown his will. Bitter as 
 
In Paris. 163 
 
 Paris must have been to him, he went there 
 because he had made up his mind to do it years 
 ago. He had expected to see these things with 
 his wife, and now — . Well, he shrugged his 
 shoulders as he spoke to his companion. It was 
 not so bitter as he had expected, for he hated 
 Beth now, and despised her. He tried to believe 
 he was happy over there. 
 
 He had been away rather more than six 
 weeks when Dr. Benson received a letter from 
 him. 
 
 " Paris, April 24th, 188—. 
 
 "Dear Dr. Benson, — You may have ex- 
 pected to see me long before this, but the 
 explanation is in the address given above. 
 
 " I wished you were here about ten days ago, 
 for I have been very ill, though I am much 
 better now, though I suppose it is only tem- 
 porary. I became very weak and exhausted 
 about that time, and could scarcely get up. I 
 forced myself to do it, but next day it was 
 impossible. I sent for a doctor, his name is 
 S^chard, perhaps you know him, and as he 
 speaks English well, I got on fairly with him. 
 For more than a week I lay in bed, and it was 
 
 M 2 
 
164 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 only the day before yesterday I was able to get 
 up. Now I feel wonderfully well, much better 
 as it seems than I was before. The brownness, 
 too, seems much lighter. Isn't this a good sign ? 
 S^chard says that it often does for a while after 
 a recovery such as mine, but somehow I don't 
 trust these Frenchmen as I should an English- 
 man. 
 
 " If you see Harmer, you can tell him this, 
 but don't let him say anything about it to my 
 people. I wrote home saying that I was as 
 well as usual. 
 
 " I shall be back, I think, in less than a 
 month. 
 
 " Yours very faithfully, 
 
 "Geoffrey Alwith." 
 
 Dr. Benson read this letter with interest, but 
 at the end of the second paragraph he shook his 
 head. 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 MOTHER AND SON. 
 
 JUST a month after Dr. Benson received this 
 letter, Curgenven got a note from Alwith dated 
 the same day from a house in Regent Street. 
 He would come and see his cousin in the even- 
 ing. He asked Will to receive him alone. He 
 came at the time appointed, and his cousin 
 looked at him narrowly, although by stealth. 
 
 There was little change in his appearance. It 
 is true he was much browner, but then that 
 might be attributable to his having been more 
 in the open air. Certainly he was no thinner. 
 It really seemed not to be believed that the man 
 could be at the very gates of death. But he was 
 exhausted by his climb up Curgenven's stairs, 
 and he panted even after he had taken a seat. 
 
 11 How have you been, Geoffrey ? " said 
 Curgenven, after he had shaken hands. 
 
1 66 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 Alvvith shrugged his shoulders slightly. 
 
 11 I was ill a while ago, and had to stay in bed, 
 but lately I have felt much better," answered 
 Alwith, preserving a steady and grave coun- 
 tenance. Will noticed, however, that he hardly 
 kept his lips and jaws in that old familiar atti- 
 tude of strong will and determination. It w r as, 
 perhaps, the only sign of any alteration mentally, 
 for he had always been grave and quiet. 
 
 Presently Geoffrey spoke again, but without 
 any visible emotion. 
 
 " Have you seen my mother or father 
 lately ? " 
 
 " Yes," answered Will ; " last week." 
 
 Geoffrey looked down, and fidgeted a little 
 with his hands. 
 
 " I suppose," said he at length, " that I should 
 go and see them. But I am almost afraid to do 
 it, Will. How is she ? " 
 
 Curgenven looked at his cousin, and at length 
 spoke. 
 
 M How should she be, Geoffrey, how should 
 she be ? " 
 
 And there was a pathetic silence, only broken 
 by the crackling of the fire ; the rumbling of 
 
Mother and Son . 1 67 
 
 some vehicle in , the street, and the lively shouts 
 of some happy boy at play outside. Geoffrey 
 was thinking of the painfulness of the visit before 
 him, the shock of seeing emotion, due to the in- 
 evitable snapping of the strongest ties in the 
 nature of humanity. Yet he was mostly thinking 
 of himself. Very willingly he would never see her 
 again until the last, for in some forms of bodily 
 exhaustion there is a curious weakening of the 
 affections. He was almost ashamed to think 
 how coldly he thought of almost everyone, 
 whether relative, friend, or those, or rather of 
 her, to whom he would have attached himself. 
 He could scarcely be angry with Beth now; 
 and if so, how could he really feel for his mother ? 
 He loved but one thing, the life which was 
 ebbing away from him, even although he had 
 found out that life, as he understood and com- 
 prehended it, did not come up to his imagination. 
 Wrongly, but naturally enough, he had attri- 
 buted this to his illness. Still, he could not 
 afford to expose himself in scenes of anguish, 
 and waste away like a candle in the wind ; or 
 even be suddenly extinguished. For in the 
 physical self-analysis which had been forced 
 
168 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 upon him, he had begun to suspect that his 
 heart was implicated in some way. 
 
 " Will," he said, at length, " I suppose I ought 
 to see mother ?" 
 
 Curgenven lifted his eyebrows in surprise. 
 
 " I should say so, Geoffrey," he said, " she will 
 expect to see you, I think." 
 
 The mild satire in this speech escaped 
 Alwith's notice. Yes, it was true she would 
 expect him. He spoke again. 
 
 " I want you to come with me, if you will," 
 said he, " for I don't think I can stand it alone. 
 At least you can help to restrain poor mother 
 you know, Will. You might tell her I am 
 coming, and prepare her. And, then, if I get 
 unwell there, remember I don't want to stay 
 there. I must go back to my rooms. Do you 
 understand me ? " 
 
 Curgenven nodded. He did not like the task, 
 but he could scarcely refuse. 
 
 Alwith harped on the same theme. 
 
 " I must get back there, you know. I don't 
 care if I am ill. I won't be ill at home. Will 
 you go up now, or wait till to-morrow." 
 
 " Now, now," burst in Curgenven, " don't put 
 
Mother and Son. 169 
 
 it off. For heaven's sake do it at once, or I 
 shall do nothing until it is over." 
 
 For he, too, was selfish in his own way. The 
 characters in his new book were imperatively 
 demanding a permanent record. So Geoffrey 
 rose at once. 
 
 " Have you got any brandy ? " said he. It was 
 the first time Will had heard him ask for such a 
 thing, and he stared, but finally produced some 
 spirits without any remark. 
 
 " Shall we take a 'bus ? n said Will, when they 
 got in the street. 
 
 " 'Bus, no ! " answered Alwith, and he hailed 
 a cab. It suddenly occurred to Curgenven he 
 had never seen his cousin dressed so well in his 
 life. It was one of the pleasures the man had 
 denied himself, but now he could afford to dress 
 and to ride in cabs. It was a strange luxury. 
 
 When the driver drew up outside the door. 
 Alwith kept his seat. 
 
 " You go in," said he, " and call me when you 
 have prepared her. I shall stay here." 
 
 The door closed on Will, and Alwith was 
 alone. He looked up the street, which he had 
 not seen since the week before his first warning 
 
170 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 by Harmer. He remembered well walking over 
 from Chelsea to save twopence or threepence 
 in 'bus fares ; for he was going to be married 
 soon. How proud his mother had been of his 
 latest successes ; his father, too, had growled 
 approval from behind the evening newspaper. 
 This lad of his would be a great man yet, and 
 make money by his brains, or prove that he had 
 brains by making money. He had taken praise 
 as his due, and Mrs. Alwith had spoken kindly 
 of Beth, although she did not like her. She 
 would do anything that was not wrong for her 
 son. She was so proud of his uprightness, his 
 industry, his purity. Her model son ! It was 
 something to be his mother. And so clever too ! 
 though she could not understand rightly in what 
 it consisted, and had to trust to the money 
 coming in as evidence. Yes, she loved her son. 
 And then when the news came, the news which 
 had almost destroyed her reason and her faith, 
 she had fought against believing it, the thing 
 was so impossible ! But they all said the same, 
 his father believed it, for he had seen Dr. Benson, 
 and she could not stand against the evidence. 
 But then God was good, how she struggled to 
 
Mother and Son. 171 
 
 believe that as fully as she had done, and He 
 might order it otherwise. There was not five 
 minutes in the day she did not importune the 
 throne of heaven, and she awoke at night weep- 
 ing and praying still. Sometimes she dreamed 
 that this fear had been but a dream, and when 
 she awoke she screamed with sudden anguish ; 
 sometimes she dreamed the end was come, and 
 woke to thank God that it was but a dream. 
 She was living in torture, and her son did not 
 come to her. But she solaced herself with the 
 belief that it was his pity, he was so afraid to 
 shock her. Then she had been told emotion 
 might kill him. How natural it was to want to 
 live. If he only desired life as much, aye, a 
 tenth part as much as she desired it for him, 
 she could forgive him for avoiding the pain of 
 seeing his mother whom he had always loved. 
 But she ate her heart day by day in longing 
 with pangs of bodily anguish, worse than those 
 of child-birth, for the sight of him once more, 
 her own, her darling, her only joy and her pride. 
 God help her and him, she cried with bitter tears, 
 as she sat waiting, waiting. 
 
 She was in the sitting-room when Will 
 
172 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwitk. 
 
 entered, and she rose to meet him. She was a 
 tall woman, and had grown worn and wasted 
 during the last six weeks. Her hair, which had 
 never been abundant, was drawn back tightly, 
 and done in an old-fashioned knot at the top of 
 her head. But it was much greyer than it had 
 been a month ago. Her complexion had once 
 been rosy, now it was white with a touch of 
 sallowness in it, her cheeks were hollow, as 
 though she sucked them in, her eyes ringed with 
 dark circles, her lips bloodless, and her whole 
 expression was that of anxious and fearful ex- 
 pectation. She greeted Will in silence, and 
 kissed his cheek. 
 
 " Have you no news for me, Willie ? " she said, 
 at length, when she sat down. 
 
 " Yes, aunt," he answered slowly, " I have some 
 news." 
 
 She started a little and locked her fingers into 
 each other so tightly, that when she unclasped 
 them at last, there were four white marks on the 
 backs of her hands. 
 
 11 What is it ? Willie," she said, and stared at 
 him, half rising as she spoke. " Is it good 
 news ? " and she looked as though it must be bad. 
 
. Mother and Son. 173 
 
 " It is good news, aunt, I think ! " said Will, 
 who was frightfully nervous, " Geoffrey has 
 come back to England. 
 
 * Thank God for that," said the mother. 
 How afraid she had been he would die faraway 
 from her, in the care of strangers. 
 
 " And, aunt, he is coming to see you," he 
 went on. 
 
 She bent her head and burst into tears. She 
 would see him again, then. 
 
 " But, dear aunt," said Will, who was nearly 
 crying himself, "you must be careful. Don't 
 agitate him. Remember he looks well, very 
 well, but he is not. Don't cry, and don't 
 look so. For anything might do him 
 harm." 
 
 She looked up. 
 
 " When is he coming ?" she said hoarsely. 
 
 "To-night," answered Will. "Can you see 
 him now ? " 
 
 She sprang up. 
 
 " Is he here now ? Is he ? tell me, Willie, I 
 am his mother," she cried wildly. 
 
 " Be calm, dear aunt, be calm." And she 
 made an effort to control herself. * Yes, he is 
 
174 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 here now, he is outside, he will be with you in a 
 minute. Sit down quietly." 
 
 And she sat down. Will bent over and 
 kissed her pale cheek, but she made no sign, and 
 never moved. Curgenven left the room, and 
 did not return, but when the door opened again 
 her son came in, and mother and son were 
 together. She looked at him, her joy and hope 
 and pride, the best gift God had given her in all 
 her life, which had not been so full of joy, and 
 she did not move. But her lips did, and though 
 they made no sound, he knew she said " my 
 son," and he was drawn towards her. Slowly 
 and one by one the tears ran down her wither- 
 ing cheeks, but they fell unregarded ; her hands 
 were needed to clasp him with, to hold him to 
 her bosom, to hold him back from death, to 
 pray to God with, to stroke his hair and cheeks, 
 but not to wipe away these salt and bitter tears. 
 She dared not speak, and at first she could not, 
 she had so much to say to him and to heaven 
 and to herself, love, entreaty and command to 
 each. And she almost choked as he knelt 
 down beside her. But she said with dumb 
 lips : 
 
Mother and Son. 175 
 
 "My son, my son," and nothing else, but 
 that again and again ; was there anything else 
 to say, any phrase to express more ? 
 
 And he was marvelling at himself, so little 
 was he moved. He could not understand this 
 grief; he could not see how it could be as great 
 as that he had felt at the loss of Beth Kyle ; and 
 just then he could hardly ijnderstand his having 
 been so much moved by that. For he was 
 living so differently now, circumstances had 
 changed so, and moreover he felt exhausted. 
 How would it be a little later with him ? So he 
 felt only sorry for his mother, just as if she was 
 suffering some common ordinary grief ; his 
 sorrow was almost a matter of custom, or of 
 association ; to see anyone weep was naturally 
 sad, and made him sorry. And yet he felt he 
 ought to be greatly moved; he had certainly 
 feared that he would be. But it was a 
 mistake. Perhaps this was a fatal sign in him, 
 it could not be natural. He did not just then 
 much care whether it was or not, for as much as 
 his exhausted nature would allow of sympathy 
 was for his mother, and he was less egotistic 
 through that. So at last he said, — 
 
176 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 " Poor mother ! " 
 
 And she threw her arms about him, and 
 kissed him again and again, and was shaken 
 with weeping, with hard tearing sobs that 
 seemed to burst her heart. For it was so vain 
 all she could do. 
 
 She restrained herself at last, and sat up 
 again, but he remained on a low stool at her 
 feet as he had done when he was a little boy. 
 Was it not bitter and sweet to see him thus ? 
 Geoffrey was the first to speak. 
 
 " Where is father ? " he said almost mechan- 
 ically, for he had no particular desire to see 
 him. 
 
 u He is out, I don't know where, Geoffrey," she 
 answered almost in the same way, for the father 
 was nothing to her compared with the son. 
 " Do you want him, dear ? " 
 
 Geoffrey shook his head. Presently his 
 mother spoke suddenly. 
 
 "You are going to stay with us now, 
 Geoffrey ? " 
 
 It was so natural that she took it for 
 granted, but he shook his head. He had no 
 wish to be in that house, a house which he had 
 
Mother and Son. 177 
 
 always detested, where he had never really been 
 at home since the first break between him and 
 his father. Besides he had other ties. He 
 would drain life's cup to the dregs, to the very 
 bitterest of them. He had but little time to 
 live, and would not play the invalid yet, not till 
 he was forced. It was curious that when the 
 apprehension of a tragic scene had passed 
 away, when he found his mother quiet, a load 
 seemed taken from him, and his heart beat more 
 freely. He seemed to have more life in his 
 veins. To-night, he said, he should sleep well, 
 and to-morrow he would be much stronger. 
 This weakness and coldness of emotion and 
 desire was only passing. This was his own 
 analysis, and it was correct enough in the main. 
 But he had not yet quite recognized that every 
 recovery did not bring him back to the place he 
 had stood in before. 
 
 Mrs. Alwith started to see him shake his 
 head. She was greedy for every moment with 
 her son, even if she spent them in ceaseless 
 watching, and the arduous duties of a nurse. 
 
 " Why not, Geoffrey ? " she asked, but at the 
 same time her heart sank, for she saw the old 
 
 N 
 
178 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 look of obstinate will appear in his face. With 
 that she knew it was vain. 
 
 11 1 prefer not, mother, I am not so ill that I 
 cannot get on alone ! " he hesitated a little at 
 this, it was the first time he had ever lied or 
 equivocated with his mother, "and when I am 
 ill I can come home." 
 
 "You will stay to-night, Geoffrey, won't 
 you ? " she implored. 
 
 But no, he would not. He had other things 
 to attend to, he didn't like this house, it was 
 mean and squalid compared with his own 
 rooms. Surely he was entitled to luxury 
 during his last days. He didn't want to see his 
 poor mother's worn, anxious face always about 
 him. He preferred a merry laughing face. 
 That was like a tonic, in its way, though even 
 that was bitter, for the owners of these laugh- 
 ing faces would laugh when he was dead. 
 Sometimes when he thought that he gnashed 
 his teeth with envy. But now he was not 
 strong enough, or rather was too divided in 
 mind, to think of this. He was anxious to 
 get away. He rose and stood by the fire. 
 
 Death, she said, death ! How strange and 
 
Mother and Son. 179 
 
 horrible ! How handsome and well he looked. 
 And his clothes were fine and new and fitted 
 him. She had never seen him in such good 
 clothes since he had left his father's house. 
 And she knew why. She thought of the 
 woman he had loved so. How much she had 
 loved in return. That love and a mother's love! 
 If it had not been so awfully tragic, it would 
 have been laughable. She went swiftly to him 
 and put her arms round him and laid her head 
 upon his shoulder. 
 
 " Geoffrey," she said at last, " there is only one 
 comfort left to me now, and that is that you 
 have always been so kind to me, and so good. 
 There never was a boy so good as mine." He 
 shivered a little. "Oh, Geoffrey, it made me 
 almost mad, I doubted God, yes, Geoffrey, I 
 did." He smiled bitterly. "And, dear, I 
 prayed for you, oh, how I prayed ! But I 
 know that He knows best. I know it now, 
 even though He slay me, yet will I trust in 
 Him, and even if He takes my son, my son 
 away from me. Geoffrey, Geoffrey," she spoke 
 earnestly, " do you trust in Him ? Oh, Geoffrey, 
 you must. There is nothing on earth, this is 
 
 N 2 
 
1 80 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 our trial, but in Him is our recompense. I 
 believe, I believe it," and she spoke as though in 
 strife. But she did not persist in questioning 
 him as to whether his faith had been disturbed. 
 Perhaps she feared, knowing how great her own 
 struggle had been. But she clung to him in 
 silence, and once more she wept, but now very 
 quietly, as if in resignation. She sobbed no 
 more. 
 
 At last Curgenven came into the room, and 
 Geoffrey kissed his mother again and again. 
 She looked at him with her wan and hollow 
 eyes, so loath to let him go, so eager to hold him, 
 and then she kissed him solemnly once more. 
 
 " God keep you, Geoffrey," she said in a low 
 whisper, and he left the room. She followed 
 him with her eyes until he had disappeared, and 
 then turned to Will with so dreadful and drawn 
 a face that he almost trembled. She was as 
 white as ashes and shook pitifully. He took 
 her in his arms and laid her on the sofa. 
 
 11 Take care of him, Willie, take care of him/' 
 was all she said, and then she turned her eyes 
 away, turned them to the wall as if it were she 
 
Mother and Son. 1 8 1 
 
 who was to die, and not her son. Will left the 
 room softly, but he was blinded by tears, and 
 could hardly see Geoffrey in the dimly-lighted 
 passage. 
 
 As they drove away the mother was again 
 upon her knees, and her husband found her, 
 when he returned an hour later, in a dead faint 
 upon the floor. 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 A MOABITISH WOMAN. 
 
 Two days after Geoffrey's visit to his mother 
 his father called on him at his rooms, and found 
 there a young Frenchwoman. Mr. Alwith was 
 highly shocked and demanded an explanation, 
 which was refused. He lost his temper, and 
 Geoffrey showed himself slightly sarcastic, until 
 with the increasing wrath of the elder man, the 
 younger actually requested him to be calmer or 
 to leave the room. Such a provocation on such 
 a character as Mr. Alwith's could have but one 
 result ; he became so furious that had Geoffrey 
 risen to his feet he might even have struck him. 
 As it was the son remained seated in a most un- 
 natural state of calm, he was quite conscious of 
 feeling, not angry, but surprised and disgusted 
 by such a show of unreason. He even saw his 
 father leave the room without any emotion, and 
 
A Moabitish Woman. 183 
 
 it struck him as exceedingly strange that it 
 should be so. He felt that he had no particular 
 affection left for any one in the world, unless 
 it was for the living reason of this tremen- 
 dous outburst of moral rage, which he had 
 rightly put down as caused by his father's 
 worship of the fetish respectability, and not to 
 any innate or deep religious instincts, such as 
 he was sure would be the case with his 
 mother. 
 
 When Mr. Alwith reached home he did not 
 spare his wife in the recitals of the wrongs and 
 insults which her son had heaped upon him. 
 He had never been in the habit of sparing her, 
 and was hardly likely to begin in the greatest 
 passion he had experienced for years. Her 
 son, he said, for surely all this wickedness must 
 come from her side. His withers were unwrung, 
 and he made the galled jade wince indeed, 
 though not with his taunts, for she was past 
 being afflicted with them when she learned what 
 he had to tell her. At first she treated this news 
 as she had done that of his foretold death. It 
 was quite impossible, more impossible even 
 than that, for she did know her son's heart and 
 
184 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 mind, though she could not be supposed to have 
 an intimate acquaintance with his constitution. 
 But she ended by believing at least enough to 
 make her wish she had died before this last 
 affliction which God had laid on her. It was 
 worse than his death. That touched but his 
 body, this his soul. 
 
 Her creed was harsh and harshly formulated. 
 Her heaven might be a holy dreamland, but 
 her hell was material, and of fire, and the worm 
 that never dies. She had seen it in her awful 
 struggles before she had come to trust humbly 
 that she was an elected handmaiden of the 
 Lord, and all her horrible visions of mortal 
 and immortal anguish rushed before her once 
 again ; the vapour and smoke of the pit choked 
 her, and among the screams of the damned she 
 heard the voice of her child, whom she had born 
 for torment. She must save him, she must save 
 him, and she prayed in a loud voice without 
 kneeling, as she put on her bonnet and wrapped 
 her cloak about her. She went that night. 
 
 As it happened, when she reached her son's 
 chambers, he was in and alone. He was seated 
 in a deep arm-chair by the side of a blazing fire, 
 
A Moabitish Woman. 185 
 
 the fire-place of which was lined with tiles of an 
 arabesque pattern, a twisting serpentine pattern 
 she remembered ever afterwards. The andirons 
 and what they supported were of bright brass. 
 The room itself was large and lofty, the walls 
 were painted with a dado, a brass picture-rod ran 
 round them close to the ceiling. She noticed 
 the pictures. There were some etchings, some 
 engravings, she did not know the difference 
 between them, and some oil paintings, two of 
 them nude figures. She had never been to the 
 academy but once, even to see Geoffrey's 
 pictures, because she had been shocked at 
 such immoral daring. She was sincere in this, 
 and now he lived here with pictures about him 
 she refused to look at. On one side of the room 
 were folding doors, half concealed with heavy 
 plush curtains. That was — yes, that was his 
 bedroom, she said to herself. The poor woman 
 had never trodden for years on such a soft and 
 deep carpet; the curtains over the windows, which 
 were two, and deeply recessed, were better than 
 she had ever had even in her old home when 
 they were rich. The bronzes on the mantle- 
 piece she admired vaguely. Certainly they 
 
1 86 The Degradation of Geoffrey A Iwith. 
 
 were beautiful, and so was the lamp, which was 
 of fine brass, resembling some Indian work. It 
 cast a soft and pleasant light over the room. 
 And on him. He rose to receive her, and 
 kissed her calmly on the forehead. He felt her 
 tremble, and he was troubled. He feared a scene, 
 and scenes grew more and more disagreeable. 
 He placed a chair for her ; it ran easily on 
 castors, and was like the one he sat in him- 
 self. She looked at it hesitatingly, and she 
 wondered who had used it last. But she sat 
 down, and so did Geoffrey. 
 
 He was quiet, she could see no more emotion 
 in his face than in the bronze on the mantle- 
 piece above her. How like his colour was 
 to its metallic tint. He kept his jaws firmly 
 closed. The muscles in and above the angle 
 of the jaw were hard and rounded. His eyes 
 were half shut, and the flesh wrinkled 
 under them, while three lines came per- 
 pendicularly on his forehead. He looked at 
 her almost coldly. 
 
 She was white and wasted, and the rims of 
 her eyelids were red with weeping. She took 
 off her bonnet and smoothed back the few stray 
 
A Moabitish Woman. 187 
 
 white hairs that crept out from the rest, which 
 was strained tightly back, showing her high and 
 narrow forehead. He noticed as she did so that 
 her hands were no wider than their bones, for the 
 muscle on the outside and that between the 
 thumb and first finger had wasted away. He 
 remembered she used to have plump hands. 
 Now her cheeks were very hollow, and under 
 her eyes she was purple. 
 
 After they were both seated there was silence 
 for a minute. He was waiting almost curiously, 
 to hear what was to be said. Surely these 
 people had other interests than he. They 
 belonged to another world. She was praying 
 for guidance, for direction. He saw her lips 
 move, and he even dared to sneer a little to 
 himself. He was right ; there was a difference 
 between him and others now. Yet he might 
 have been like others. 
 
 She spoke at last, and in a low, quiet tone. 
 
 " I saw your father, Geoffrey, this afternoon, ,, 
 she said, and then stopped. But he made no 
 sign. " And he told me something that I can't 
 believe.'' She glanced at him nervously, 
 " something that cannot be, must not be true, 
 
1 88 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 Geoffrey, tell me, Geoffrey, that it is false, that 
 it is a calumny, a lie, so that I can rest 
 to-night." 
 
 She leant forward and writhed her ringers 
 together, as she did when much moved. 
 
 But he leant back in his chair and answered 
 quietly, with a kind of quietness that was a 
 strange contrast to her enforced calmness. 
 
 " Really, mother, I don't know what you 
 want me to say. Father was here to-day and 
 made such a disturbance that I told him to go 
 away. I cannot stand these disturbances." 
 
 He spoke a little peevishly. 
 
 She knew it was true that they were harmful 
 to him. But then his soul was at stake. 
 
 <c Geoffrey," she said once more, " tell me if it 
 is true." 
 
 " If what is true ? please speak plainly," said 
 he, with a little irritation. 
 
 "My son, you have. no right to make your 
 mother speak plainly on such subjects," she 
 answered, with a touch of dignity that he did 
 not see, for he was fiddling with his fingers, and 
 staring into the fire. " But if I must speak, I ask 
 if it is true that you are not living alone here ? " 
 
A Moabitish Woman. 189 
 
 He glanced at her and dropped his eyes again, 
 and still fidgeted with his hands. 
 
 11 No ! ,; he said slowly, " No, I am not exactly 
 alone." 
 
 " Then, Geoffrey, dear Geoffrey," she cried, 
 " am I to believe what I have been told ? " 
 
 " You can believe what you please, mother," 
 he answered, with what would have been 
 brutality had there not been a pathetic touch 
 of weariness in his voice. 
 
 She did not answer. It was true, true, he 
 could not deny it. And his attitude was so 
 strange and so unexpected. She had expected 
 shame and embarrassment ; but he was as calm 
 as if he had spoken of the veriest trifle. She 
 grew more and more bewildered. 
 
 " I can't understand this," she said at last, 
 " but do you mean, Geoffrey, that you can sit 
 there, and you a dying man— yes, dying," and 
 she choked back a sob, " and tell me this, and 
 in this way ? Oh, what is the meaning of it ? 
 Tell me, tell me." 
 
 And she rose and caught hold of the mantel- 
 piece. He frowned a little, and shrugged his 
 shoulders impatiently. 
 
190 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 " Answer me, Geoffrey, what has changed you 
 so ? You always were so good, so good, and 
 now — my God, don't you think of the sin of 
 it ?" and she caught his arm and stared at him. 
 He drew it away. 
 
 11 Don't, mother, don't," he said, almost 
 angrily, u I wish you wouldn't bother me so." 
 
 Bother him, when she was thinking of what 
 would be after death. She gasped a little, and 
 straightened herself up. 
 
 " Geoffrey," she said, in a strained and hurried 
 voice, "you must come, come away from here. 
 Come home, come home, and don't stay a 
 moment. Think what you are doing ; don't 
 you know you are damning your soul? My 
 God," she cried, " look down on him, save 
 him." She muttered a few words, " Come, 
 Geoffrey, come," in a sharp, commanding 
 voice. 
 
 She caught him by the arm, but he pulled it 
 away once more and spoke. 
 
 "What is the good of troubling me? I am 
 not going away. I shall stay, but you had 
 better go away yourself, for it is getting quite 
 late." 
 
A Moabitish Woman. 191 
 
 He glanced at the clock. It was nearly eight. 
 She fell on her knees. 
 
 " Geoffrey, my son, kiss me." He bent for- 
 ward and touched his lips to her forehead. 
 " Geoffrey, am I not your mother ? n It struck 
 him as being an idle question. " Don't you 
 think I have your good at heart ? Can I see 
 you go to hell before my eyes. Come ! " she 
 whispered it hoarsely, " and now God will forgive 
 you, there is yet time, come ! H 
 
 And she shook his arm with a strange con- 
 tained frenzy. For she believed so strongly. 
 He got up, and she thought that she had con- 
 quered. But he spoke. 
 
 " It is no use, mother, for you to speak so. 
 Am I so changed that you don't know that I 
 mean what I say ? I do mean it, and I am 
 going to stay here." 
 
 " Geoffrey," she muttered hoarsely, " are you a 
 Christian ? are you ? " she paused, and he was 
 silent for a minute. If he said he was, the whole 
 thing would go on again. 
 
 " How can you expect me to be," he said, 
 " didn't you say the other day that this made you 
 doubt ? " 
 
192 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 She fell back, and sat crouched up on the 
 floor. She prayed for tears, but they would not 
 come. Had her wicked words had any effect 
 on him ? Had she herself helped to — . She 
 groaned. 
 
 " Are you, are you ? " she insisted, for he had 
 equivocated. 
 
 "No, I am not !" he answered steadily. 
 
 There was silence for a while, and it was 
 broken by the clock chiming eight with a sweet 
 silvery sound. She heard the roar of Regent 
 Street outside. That was the world. She 
 heard the cracking of the coals, and the flutter- 
 ing of the flames, more distinctly than she had 
 ever done. It was a pleasant noise. And 
 Geoffrey was not a Christian ! She would not 
 see her child in heaven ! She sprang up ghastly, 
 white, haggard and strained, with her eyes 
 almost glaring, and caught him with her arms. 
 
 " For God's sake, don't say that ! Don't tell 
 me that my boy, my child that I love so, that I 
 loved for all these years, won't be with me when 
 I die. Geoffrey/' she screamed, " tell me a lie, 
 say you are a Christian, and that your wretched 
 mother will meet you in heaven after this 
 
A Moabitish Woman. 193 
 
 dreadful world, that you only have made bright 
 for me. Say it, say it." 
 
 And she laid her white head on his bosom, 
 and writhed against him, but still she did not 
 weep. Her eyes were burning like fire, fierce 
 physical pangs shot through her, and she could 
 not control the twitching of her arms. 
 
 Surely this would move him, and it did. He 
 sprang away from her, and rested both hands 
 on the corner of the table, and panted for 
 breath. 
 
 " Do you want to kill me, do you want to 
 kill me ? " he said hoarsely. " Haven't I told 
 you I can't stand these scenes ? Don't you see 
 how I restrain myself? Go away, go away, 
 mother, unless you want to see me dead at your 
 feet. Do you think I don't want to live ? " 
 
 She reeled, and caught at the chair to support 
 herself. For a moment everything was a mist 
 before her, the room rose and fell, the lamps 
 waved, the curtains shook, and yet she saw 
 Geoffrey's bronze face, with his glittering eyes 
 fixed on hers. She made a step towards him, 
 and fell on her knees at the table. 
 
 Was it not true what he said ? suppose she 
 
 o 
 
194 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 killed him now, killed him as he lived in mortal 
 sin. He would be lost, lost for ever. But he 
 had time, yes, he had. He would repent, he 
 would repent and come back to her at last, say- 
 ing that he had sinned. But her duty ? Was 
 it not to insist, to struggle, to wrestle with the 
 devil for him ? Yet if he died this night, now 
 if he lay at her feet dead, where would his soul 
 be, where indeed ? . . . She must give him 
 time, and God was merciful. Yes, she insisted 
 on that. 
 
 She rose at last, the poor worn mother, who 
 thought she had plumbed the depths of despair, 
 and she did not speak. She was not beautiful 
 in face or form, but there was assuredly some- 
 thing divine in her, and something sacred as she 
 stood there in silence without weeping, without 
 one tear, and without one sob. For she loved 
 so greatly. Slowly she took her bonnet and put 
 it on. Simple as it was, it was as though she 
 assumed a martyrs crown, and there was about 
 her a strange and dreadful dignity, that could 
 be no greater in death at last. And Geoffrey 
 still leant on the table. She went to him and 
 took his face in her hands, and kissed him once, 
 
A Moabitish Woman. 195 
 
 twice, and yet again. And he kissed her fore- 
 head, but his expression did not alter. She 
 turned away. 
 
 As she passed the folding doors a sudden 
 impulse swayed her, and, catching the handle, 
 she threw it open. It was done as though she 
 had been condemned to the arena, and herself 
 dared to loose the lions that should rend her 
 limb from limb, and she looked in as she might 
 have done had ten thousand heathen Romans 
 screamed at her as she stood on the blood- 
 stained sand. But surely there was nothing in 
 that room to alarm a woman. 
 
 It was a sleeping room, and well furnished. 
 She could see that, for on the dressing-table 
 burnt two wax candles with rosy shades over 
 them, that w T ere reflected in the large glass 
 opposite her. The bed was soft and large and 
 deep, with rose hangings, and a rose-coloured 
 quilt of eider-down. The windows were doubly 
 curtained with soft lace, and soft creamy folds 
 that ran down to the thick piled carpet. On 
 the dressing-table was an array of bottles, and 
 little pots and boxes with a large powder puff. 
 Did Geoffrey use it to whiten his bronze cheeks ? 
 
 O 2 
 
196 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 She stood and looked. There came floating to 
 her a strange and subtle scent, a faint odour 
 that grew and poured out of the room, becoming 
 stronger and stronger, defiling her as with some 
 sweet impurity that filled her nostrils and clung 
 to her dress and her flesh, as it were marring 
 her and making her part of itself, and evil. 
 It was alive and very personal, this odour, and 
 seemed to thicken and take form before her 
 eyes. Or were the tears coming at last ? She 
 shivered and started to see herself in the mirror, 
 for what Moabitish woman's face was last seen 
 in it ? Ah, what indeed ! 
 
 She turned away slowly, and looked at 
 Geoffrey, who still kept the same attitude with 
 his hands flat upon the table, and his jaws 
 locked together as though he had spoken his 
 last word for ever. She could never move him. 
 So she left him to God — or to evil. He fol- 
 lowed her with his eyes, as she moved without a 
 rustle towards the door on to the landing, going 
 as though mechanically, as if pushed thither, 
 and she touched the handle, and opened it. 
 But she looked back once more, just once more. 
 Should she ever see him again ? Ever in life ? 
 
A Moabiiish Woman. 197 
 
 Ever in heaven ? or in — ? Ah, she shivered. 
 He looked, and slowly she opened the door. 
 She had seen him for the last time. 
 
 No, it was not the last time. 
 
 Outside of that door the landing was dark, 
 but it seemed to grow lighter. She saw a nude 
 statue holding a lamp, and she saw the banisters 
 in front of her, and caught hold of them. And 
 then, at last, her tears came in a torrent, and 
 she wept without restraint, but in silence. 
 
 But stay ! and she dried her tears. Some- 
 body had entered the house, and was coming 
 upstairs. Was it a man ? Nay, the step was 
 light, too light — and she heard the frou 
 frou of trailing garments, the low mocking tones 
 of a light-hearted love song, — 
 
 " C'est l'amour, c'est l'amour 
 Qui du monde fait la ronde ! " 
 
 Who was it ? She drew back into the shadow 
 and leant over the railing. She saw a woman's 
 figure coming up the stairs, and she was aware 
 of an odour that seemed to float and rise before 
 her, an odour she poured forth, like a sweet 
 poison flower, something enticing, treacherous. 
 
19S The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 It was that same sweet personal writhing scent 
 of impurity she had just tasted, that yet clung 
 to her like a gum and made her foul. And she 
 came up, this Moabite, and up, and sang, — 
 
 " Et chaque jour a son tour 
 Tout le monde fait Pamour." 
 
 What song of foreign unintelligible enchantment 
 was it, that could work such desolation ? She drew 
 back yet further, and saw her loose her dress, and 
 let it trail on the soft carpet. She was slight and 
 supple, and tall, and went straight, yes, straight 
 to Geoffrey's door. What was this witch, this 
 she-devil, like, that had stolen the son from his 
 mother, and kept the man from his God ? It was 
 not light enough to see. But as the Moabite 
 opened the door and went in, the mother started 
 from her place of concealment, going swiftly to 
 the closing door that would shut of itself. And 
 just before it closed she saw a smile upon 
 Geoffrey's face, yes, she saw him again, and he 
 smiled because this woman bent and kissed him. 
 And the woman's face was very beautiful. But 
 not good, not good ! And slowly the door was 
 shut against the mother, who turned and went 
 
A Moabitish Woman. 199 
 
 swiftly down the stairs, and out into the weeping 
 desolation of the night and wind and rain, 
 leaving her son lapped in softness and luxury, 
 with beauty by him, and sweet words, and all 
 pleasant things for which he had hungered and 
 thirsted in long years of strife and self-denial. 
 And it was for a certain season. 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 A CRISIS. 
 
 The scenes with his father and mother had 
 during their progress troubled Geoffrey greatly, 
 but it was from the knowledge that they were 
 dangerous to the life he clung to, and the little 
 foul sweetness that yet entered in it. With the 
 closing of the door upon his mother he had 
 forgotten her anguish, and was certainly not 
 desirous of seeing her again. His father he 
 regarded now as an enemy who must be guarded 
 against, and he gave orders that he should not 
 be admitted ; and when the servant in repeating 
 his directions interpreted them as against the 
 mother also, he allowed the addition to pass 
 without remark. But he was getting very ill 
 again. 
 
 After a few days of sullen resistance and of 
 
A Crisis. 201 
 
 hope against hope, he sent for Dr. Benson, 
 whom he had never seen since the first visit, 
 which had had such momentous results upon 
 his career; and when he had despatched the 
 message he waited for his arrival with dull 
 irritation, thinking of nothing else. He was 
 incapable of more than one idea at a time. 
 
 It was half-past two in the afternoon when 
 the doctor entered his room, and he found 
 Geoffrey tossing on the sofa. He had only 
 just risen, and had been obliged to lie down on 
 entering his living room. Dr. Benson was struck 
 with the deeper tint of bronze on his patient's 
 face. He who had not seen him for two months 
 was best able to observe how fearfully changed 
 he was. 
 
 " How are you, Mr. Alwith ? n said Benson, 
 quietly. " It is some time since I saw you." 
 
 Geoffrey turned over on to his side, for he had 
 been lying on his back. He answered slowly, 
 and with a little irritation ; 
 
 " How am I ? You are a doctor, and ought 
 to know how I am. I am very weak." 
 
 Benson felt his pulse, which was a trifle above 
 the normal, though he did not seem feverish. 
 
202 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 He asked a few professional questions, and got 
 the answers he expected. 
 
 " Am I very ill, doctor ? n asked Geoffrey, 
 anxiously ; "shall I be as I was at Paris ?" 
 
 " Possibly/' answered Benson, who knew that 
 it was quite certain. " You must keep very 
 quiet. What have you been taking ? " 
 
 " What Sechard gave me," said Geoffrey. 
 The physician asked to see the prescriptions. 
 \ " Madeline ! " called Geoffrey, and the door of 
 the next room opened. His mistress entered. 
 She bowed to the doctor, who rose and bowed 
 again. Geoffrey spoke in French to her, and she 
 left the room, returning in a few moments with 
 an envelope, which she placed in Benson's hands 
 with a smile. But she did not speak. She was 
 a striking looking woman of about twenty-five, 
 purely French and Parisian, well and quietly 
 dressed so as to show her lithe and shapely 
 figure. Her complexion was dark, though it 
 was pale beside that of Geoffrey ; her eyes were 
 calm and cold, her mouth and lips red and firm ; 
 she looked eminently quiet, though that might 
 be entirely due to the circumstances under which 
 Bencon saw her. She was evidently her own 
 
A Crisis. 203 
 
 mistress in every way ; a woman who had never 
 been led ; one capable of making a resolution 
 and carrying it out ; one who regarded herself 
 first, and the world, not next, but when she was 
 obliged to regard it. And yet she was lovely. 
 It was strange that she who had become con- 
 nected with Geoffrey in some strange way, 
 whether by marriage or not, should have been 
 emotionally something like Beth, though intel- 
 lectually enormously her superior. 
 
 She waited a moment while Benson read the 
 prescriptions, but Geoffrey waved his hand for 
 her to go. She smiled again, bowed very prettily 
 to Benson, who looked up, and then left the 
 room. 
 
 " I should like to copy the prescriptions, Mr. 
 Alwith," said the doctor, " for one is quite new 
 to me. I will send them back this afternoon " 
 
 Geoffrey nodded carelessly, for he was thinking 
 of Death, and the thought made him careless of 
 details. He muttered a little, and seemed about 
 to speak, for his lips moved. Presently he spoke 
 in a whisper : 
 
 a Doctor, shall I die this time ? " 
 
 His expression was painfully animal. Benson 
 
204 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 noticed the tremendous difference between it 
 and the expression he had worn when yet the 
 power of life was strong in him. 
 
 " Certainly not, certainly not, Mr. Alwith," 
 said he, cheerfully. " You must not give way 
 like this." 
 
 "What's the use, what's the use, doctor," 
 muttered Geoffrey, " are you sure I must die at 
 all ? I tell you I don't want to die. It doesn't 
 matter what kind of a life it is, but tell me I 
 shall not die just yet — not for a long time. 
 Death is so horrible." 
 
 He shivered and twitched a little. The doctor 
 was silent, and Geoffrey took it for an answer. 
 
 u I won't die/' said he, with a strange and 
 rather loathsome energy, for it seemed like 
 galvanized motion in one past feeling ; " I will 
 live. Bah ! Death ! " 
 
 He spat on the floor, as though he was spitting 
 out poison. Then he lay quiet. 
 
 " Have you any friends to come and see you, 
 Alwith ? " said Dr. Benson, who was very much 
 pained at this spectacle of degradation. 
 
 11 Damn my friends ! " said Alwith. " They 
 come and worry me. I won't have them here. 
 
A Crisis. 205 
 
 I told the servants not to let them in. They 
 will kill me before my time." 
 
 " Don't you see Harmer now ? " asked the 
 physician. 
 
 " Not since I came back," answered Geoffrey. 
 " What do I want with friends ? I want to live. 
 Madeline is quite enough for me now. She is 
 very good to me — better than that other woman 
 would have been," he muttered to himself 
 quietly. 
 
 Presently he put his hand in his pocket, and 
 took out a bunch of keys. 
 
 " Do you see that desk, doctor ? " he said, 
 pointing to a heavy one on a side table. Benson 
 nodded. 
 
 " Please open it for me — this is the key — and 
 bring me one of the rouleaux in it." 
 
 Benson opened the desk, and found several 
 rolls of sovereigns done up in paper. He took 
 out one and brought it to Alwith, who broke 
 the roll and handed him two sovereigns. 
 
 " Your fees, doctor. I might die and you 
 wouldn't get them. I am not going to leave 
 money behind me for my friends. No ! " 
 
 " Nonsense," said Benson, " I am in no hurry," 
 
206 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 but he put the gold in his pocket The re- 
 mainder of the roll, eighteen sovereigns, he 
 returned to the desk. If he had looked at the 
 door, he might have seen the Frenchwoman 
 spying through the crack of it. 
 
 " Surely, Mr. Alwith," asked Benson, " you 
 don't keep all your money there ?" 
 
 " Yes," snapped Geoffrey. " Why shouldn't 
 
 "You might be robbed," answered Benson. 
 Geoffrey made a mouth, for it was not money 
 that troubled him. Had he not more than 
 enough to last him ? He wished he had not. He 
 would be content to begin again as a beggar, if 
 only he could live. 
 
 " I took it all with me to Paris/' he said, after 
 a moment's pause, " for I didn't intend to come 
 back here. Doctor," he asked, suddenly, " there 
 is more than three hundred pounds in that desk. 
 I will give it all to you if you can save me ! " 
 
 Ah ! what a bright thought that was. He 
 rolled over and caught the doctor's arm, and 
 glared at him eagerly. He wanted to bribe the 
 doctor to cheat Death and Fate. Benson shook 
 his head sadly, and the man rolled back again 
 
A Crisis. 207 
 
 into his old position with the dull despair that 
 just for one moment had given place to golden 
 hope ; 
 
 " Mr. Alvvith," said Benson at last, for he did 
 not reply to the last' words of Geoffrey, " I shall 
 come in again soon. Whenever you want me 
 send for me ; it is not far to send, and by day 
 or night I will come, at any moment, if I am in. 
 For though I cannot promise to save you, I 
 will do all I can. For the rest we must trust in 
 God." 
 
 Alwith's upper lip curled a little. He was 
 almost inclined now to distrust a doctor who 
 believed as he had believed himself less than 
 three months ago. But he shook hands with 
 Benson, and the doctor went away. On getting 
 home, he wrote to Harmer and told him of the 
 state in which he had found his friend. 
 
 That night Benson was again called in, and 
 he remained with Geoffrey for hours. For he 
 despaired of the man's life. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 COULD FATE DO WORSE ? 
 
 Geoffrey Alwith was sick almost to death, 
 and, in the weakness consequent on some of the 
 most characteristic symptoms of his illness, the 
 fierce revolt against that blank conclusion which 
 is the groundwork for the greatest fear of the 
 end, was starved into a quiescence which was 
 almost acquiescence and submission, in spite of a 
 characteristic pathological restlessness. He lay 
 for days and hours in a vacant passivity, for he 
 could not find nerve or brain power to indulge 
 in retrospect, and forecasting was denied him. 
 But there were more than subtle indications of 
 the end which might be postponed, but could 
 not, as it seemed, be even postponed in- 
 definitely. He began to fail in many ways. 
 Madeline, to whom he at first spoke French, but 
 latterly English when the effort of using a 
 
Could Fate do worse t 20 
 
 tongue never quite familiar became too great, 
 seemed no longer necessary to him. At the 
 commencement of his attack he was loth to let 
 her out of his sight, he desired her to do things 
 which the woman nurse, whom Benson had 
 retained for him, could have done much better ; 
 but as he grew feebler he troubled her less and 
 less, and apparently at the time when the crisis 
 grew near, he appeared to have almost forgotten 
 her. Even in his delirium, for at times he was 
 delirious, he never spoke her name. But it was 
 after the crisis had passed, and when he was 
 no longer in any immediate danger, that the 
 alteration in him was most manifest. And to 
 some, certainly to his mother, the change 
 would have seemed a happy one; 
 
 For as his vitality was lowered, one by one 
 his passions, desires and faculties seemed to slip 
 away from him, like petals dropping from a 
 cankered flower. But there was a survival, and 
 to some extent a survival of the best. In the 
 struggle of his natural tendencies to assert 
 themselves, passion, so long as it had a strong 
 physical basis to assert itself from, had over- 
 come the ideality which was part of the man's 
 
 P 
 
10 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 real being, but when passion died with failing 
 vigour, the spirituality so long dormant seemed 
 to spring again into being. The thorns had not 
 quite choked the wheat, the soul of the man did 
 not seem so basely physical as it had done, and 
 when he began to rally it was perhaps the 
 revived power of the ideal part in the brain 
 which prevented the resurrection of passion. 
 For he must be one thing or the other, he had 
 no strength for both. 
 
 His will remained much as it had been before, 
 he was obstinate and not truly volitional. 
 Perhaps that very atrophy of the brain which 
 was symptomatic in him was directly and 
 indirectly the cause of this ; directly by weaken- 
 ing one portion of it before another, indirectly 
 in thus causing one set of ideas to be more 
 prominently put before him than a contrasted 
 set. 
 
 It would be false to say that with the revival 
 of dormant ideal energy there was any real 
 awakening of the affections, but still, being in 
 one way less engrossed in self and more able to 
 vividly picture things before his mind, he grew 
 less inconsiderate in his thoughts of others. He 
 
Could Fate do worse ? 211 
 
 even recalled his mother with a certain tender- 
 ness of pity ; he almost desired to see Harmer 
 and Curgenven, both of whom he had dismissed 
 from his mind before with a certain hatred as 
 being of another world than his. 
 
 Dr. Benson on one of his visits had noticed 
 some of the most remarkable alterations in his 
 patient. Geoffrey said to him one morning : 
 
 " I think I should like to paint something, 
 doctor." 
 
 " Yes," replied Benson, encouragingly, " that 
 is a good sign. You will pull through this 
 time." 
 
 Geoffrey did not answer for a while, but 
 presently he turned his strange glittering eyes 
 on the doctor. 
 
 " Would it hurt me, do you think ? " he 
 said. 
 
 " Not in the least," said Benson, " if you feel 
 strong enough and don't over-exert yourself. 
 There is nothing like some occupation. What 
 will you paint ? " 
 
 Geoffrey closed his eyes, and then answered 
 with a little irritation, for he could see nothing 
 very vividly depicted before him : 
 
 P 2 
 
212 The Degradation oj Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 " I don't know. Something, something." 
 
 Just then Madeline came into the room, 
 smiling at Geoffrey with a sort of set smile. 
 
 "You should paint Madame," said Benson, 
 who, however, detested the woman on personal 
 and moral grounds. 
 
 Geoffrey shut his eyes and frowned slightly. 
 It was strange that she did not interest him. 
 He even thought vaguely that he disliked her. 
 The doctor did not allude to the subject again. 
 
 The next day Geoffrey made astonishing 
 progress. He dressed himself entirely without 
 assistance, and walked into the sitting-room 
 while the nurse was out of his bed-chamber. 
 When the woman came up, Geoffrey called her 
 and told her that he should not require her 
 services any longer. She remonstrated, but with 
 no more effect than to make him angry. 
 
 " How much do I owe you ? M he said at last, 
 and when she told him he paid her in gold 
 which he took from his desk. As he did 
 Madeline came into the room. She looked over 
 his shoulder, and her eyes glittered when she 
 saw roll after roll of money. He turned round, 
 but did not notice her expression. 
 
Could Fate do worse ? 213 
 
 " Cest beaucoup cTargent, Geoffrey," she said, 
 smiling. He did not smile, but said briefly : 
 
 " II y en aura assez," and turning he gave the 
 woman the money. She ventured to remon- 
 strate again. 
 
 " But, sir, I really think I ought to stay," said 
 she, " for Dr. Benson said — " 
 
 " Damn Dr. Benson," said Geoffrey, angrily. 
 "You mind your own business and go away 
 when I tell you." 
 
 The nurse fired up at this. She did not care 
 if he was ill. 
 
 a I shall tell Dr. Benson what you say, sir, 
 and I am much obliged for your politeness." 
 
 It was a small enough incident, but it made 
 Geoffrey for a few moments very angry. He 
 was incapable of thinking of more than one 
 thing at once, and by the time the nurse had 
 collected what things of hers were in his bed- 
 chamber, in his irritation at seeing her about 
 him even for a little while longer he quite 
 forgot that he had not locked his desk. But 
 when she was gone he turned towards it again. 
 Had he locked it or not ? Yes, he had, for the 
 key was gone. He was perfectly satisfied, and 
 
214 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 lay down on the sofa and went to sleep, while 
 Madeline sat by the fire and went on with 
 some crochet work, a task which was either 
 interminable or invisibly renewed. She smiled 
 again, and seemed very satisfied and yet just a 
 trifle uneasy. She felt in her pocket, too, as 
 Geoffrey had done in his. And as she sat 
 thinking and crocheting, Geoffrey lay at rest and 
 was fast recovering his strength, for every hour 
 after the crisis had passed brought back part of 
 the strength which the previous hours of pain 
 and sickness had robbed him of. 
 
 He lay for a while in a half-somnolent 
 condition, and was almost — almost — happy. 
 The fearful black depression which had weighed 
 upon him was gone for a time, and the very 
 lifting of that purely physical cloud was nearly 
 a joy. He smiled a little, a vague wandering 
 smile that was sw r eet, and remained on his 
 features when he fell asleep at last. But even 
 then Madeline sat thinking, her hand went fast 
 but her thoughts quicker. And she smiled a 
 little too, but her smile was not sweet, and it 
 was momentary; little more than a twitching of 
 the lips after all. 
 
Could Fate do worse ? 215 
 
 How regularly he breathed now ! Even yes- 
 terday he gasped somewhat for breath when he 
 moved. A week before he had gasped lying in 
 bed. Now he breathed as though he was well — 
 and as if he was asleep. She rose suddenly but 
 very quietly, thrusting the crochet-work into a 
 large pocket. The key was in a watch pocket 
 at her lithe waist, which was a little too small. 
 She walked across the room very lightly and 
 looked at Geoffrey, and saw the vague smile on 
 his lips. Her nostrils dilated and she shivered 
 a little. She knew he could not live long. 
 The nurse had told her that. What — what 
 
 did he want with so much money ? But to 
 her — 
 
 She walked to the mantelpiece and took a 
 
 railway guide from behind the right hand bronze, 
 
 a Hercules and Antaeus. . She had been in 
 
 England before, and knew more English than 
 
 Geoffrey gave her credit for. She went into the 
 
 next room. If Geoffrey woke it would look 
 
 strange to see her studying the guide. She 
 
 came back in ten minutes. But she stood 
 
 behind the door, with its curtain half concealing 
 
 that it was open, and listened for Geoffrey's 
 
216 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 breathing. It was faint, but her ears were 
 quick as she stood with uplifted hand and bent 
 head. She came into the room again. 
 
 She wore her bonnet and long cloak, and in 
 her left hand, which was not gloved yet, she 
 carried a little bag. In her right hand was a 
 key. The key. Smoothly and noiselessly she 
 went to the desk and opened it, and one by one 
 removed the rouleaux of gold. How heavy 
 they were. But then the bag was strong. 
 There were fourteen rolls and one broken. The 
 loose sovereigns she put softly on the crochet in 
 her large pocket. She closed the desk and 
 locked it and threw the key into the fire. It 
 dislodged a little piece of cinder that fell on the 
 hearth with a very faint noise. But it sounded so 
 loud to Madeline, that she blamed her rashness. 
 She moved towards the door, and in a moment 
 was gone. In plenty of time, too, she knew 
 that. And Geoffrey still smiled as he lay asleep 
 in that warm and comfortable room. 
 
 Although Alwith had risen without assistance 
 he had had a late breakfast in bed. It was two 
 o'clock when he was left alone in his rooms, 
 and he slept till six. He had slept well, and 
 
Could Fate do worse ? 217 
 
 wondered to feel how strong he was, for com- 
 pared with his recent weakness, he was now 
 strong indeed. He might possibly need it. 
 
 He sat down in the chair by the fire and looked 
 into its comfortable red glow, for it had burnt 
 down gradually. He felt much like a reprieved 
 criminal, but the vanished depression and this 
 comparative strength made him almost content. 
 He wondered a little where Madeline was, but it 
 did not trouble him to see that she was not in, 
 for she had been so accustomed to leave him 
 alone since he had been ill. He did not in the 
 least mind that now, he even thought vaguely 
 that he did not particularly care to see her again. 
 She was indifferent to him, and now he seemed 
 to see that she really did not, and perhaps 
 naturally could not, care for him. He did not 
 really care for any one, and only occasionally 
 thought of his old friends ; he wondered for a 
 moment what Harmer was doing, and Cur- 
 genven. Pshaw ! they had their lives to live ; 
 and then he clenched his teeth for a moment as 
 a spasm shot through him. For it did not 
 matter how well he felt, the end must come soon. 
 In three or four months it would all be over. 
 
2 1 8 The Degradation of Geoffrey A Iwith. 
 
 He had now no desire to " live " in the curious 
 technical sense of seeing what was in life. 
 There was no more desire for that in him. But 
 still, to live was something, to be, to exist even 
 meant a good deal. He wondered to see that 
 he did not regard even that as he had done, for 
 he felt relieved from his blackest melancholy. 
 What should he do with his remaining time ? 
 Perhaps paint something, he had no other in- 
 clination. 
 
 When he thought of Beth he almost smiled, 
 though his half-smile was bitter. She was in 
 the same category with this Madeline, who was 
 rather long in coming home. If she liked she 
 might go back to Paris now. He was tired of 
 her, and he liked to speak English. It was 
 much easier than French. 
 
 He began to feel somewhat hungry, and rang 
 the bell to order something nice. The servant 
 took his orders, lighted the gas, without com- 
 mand or comment from Geoffrey, and left the 
 cheerful room after putting a few coals on. 
 She returned again in twenty minutes. He ate, 
 and lay down again to sleep a little more. 
 
 It was nine when he awoke, and finding him- 
 
Could Fate do worse ? 219 
 
 self still alone, he felt a little irritated at 
 Madeline, though he was not jealous. He 
 distinctly said to himself he did not care what 
 she did, but still he thought she ought to 
 be about him, that under the circumstances she 
 might attend on him a little more, give him a 
 little more of her company. For he was very 
 selfish, as was so natural to him. 
 
 Yet, after a while, he thought she must 
 naturally dislike being with a sick man. She 
 had attended on him very well until Benson 
 sent the nurse in. On the whole she had acted 
 well enough. He would release her, give her 
 enough money to send her to France again 
 without regret. He would tell her so when she 
 came in. But she was very long, very long in 
 coming. He grew angry again and nervously 
 irritated. 
 
 He rose at last and paced the room for a little 
 while, and forgot Madeline in the pleasure it 
 was to him to feel that he could do it without 
 weakness. But when he sat down again and he 
 heard the clock on the mantel strike ten, he 
 looked irritably at the door, as though that 
 noise heralded, her approach. Certainly she had 
 
220 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 never been later. What did she mean by 
 annoying him that way ? It shouldn't occur 
 again. He rose suddenly and went to his desk. 
 He stood with his hand upon it for a moment, 
 thinking how much he should give her, and then 
 he fumbled among his silver for the key. He 
 took a loose key out and tried it. Pshaw ! 
 it was the wrong one, he muttered a little 
 crossly, and feeling obstinately sure that it 
 was in that pocket, he felt again for it. 
 He emptied his pocket of its contents, three 
 half-crowns, two florins, three shillings, and 
 three sixpences. It wasn't among them. He 
 turned each coin over impatiently, as though 
 it was hidden underneath one of them. He felt 
 in his other trousers pocket, in his waistcoat, 
 and in his coat, even going so far as to grope in 
 the tail pockets of the last. As he did so he 
 turned away from the table, and saw himself in 
 the large glass over the fire-place. He noticed 
 his own puzzled and half-alarmed face, as 
 though it was some one else's, and he stood 
 still with one hand behind him, looking at himself 
 half dreamily. He turned away impatiently. 
 What had he done with that key ? He went 
 
Could Fate do worse ? 221 
 
 through all his pockets again, then hunted on 
 the mantelpiece, and round the desk, but he did 
 not touch that. 
 
 But he stared at it as though it was alive and 
 personal. He put his hand out and touched it 
 at last, sliding his fingers over its polished 
 surface. He was very confused, and looked as 
 if trying to recall something. 
 
 " Cest beaucoup d'argent, Geoffrey," Madeline 
 had said that. Yes, it was a lot of money, all 
 he had. And plenty. He nodded angrily to 
 himself at that. Yes, it was plenty to last him 
 all his life. How heavy it was ! He knew 
 that. He put his hand out suddenly and 
 pushed it. Pshaw ! it was against the wall. 
 He took hold of the handles and pulled it 
 towards him. Ah ! how easily it came. He 
 started and stared at it with painful eagerness, 
 and bent forward. What foolishness ; ought he 
 not to rejoice because he was getting so strong ? 
 Yes, yes, he said furiously, he ought to rejoice. 
 Certainly, certainly, he ought. But then he let 
 go, and went back a step. 
 
 He kept biting his upper lip nervously ; his 
 hands trembled, and opened and shut. He 
 
222 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwilh. 
 
 looked at the door as though expecting her to 
 come. Then he stared at the fire, anywhere 
 but at the desk. . . . Yes, yes, he would lift 
 it! 
 
 He sprang forward, caught it with both 
 hands, and up it came. He struck the little 
 shelf above it, and a glass vase fell on the floor. 
 He wheeled and dropped the desk with a crash 
 on the table, and stood staring at it with twitch- 
 ing face. How glad he ought to be to feel 
 so strong ! 
 
 He stood there five minutes without motion, 
 like a bronze statue, and then he pounced on 
 it as if he were a wild animal, and shook 
 it, shook it hard, hard enough to burst the rolls 
 of money, and send some crashing and ringing 
 against the wood. But there was no sound, none 
 at all. 
 
 He sat down in his chair and glared at it. 
 The confusion came over him again. He must 
 be mad or dreaming. Then he asked himself 
 why he sat there. He was waiting, waiting for 
 Madeline, for the key, for his money, that was 
 to last him his life, and keep him comfortably, 
 and bury him, too, without begging of his damned 
 
Could Fate do worse ? 223 
 
 friends. Friends ! he hated them. What were 
 live men to him ? 
 
 For some minutes he did not move, and when 
 he did, it was in the strange mechanical way of 
 a man who is all one faculty, one undivided 
 being. He took the desk and set it on the 
 hearthrug, looked at it for a moment, then 
 stared into the fire-place ; he took up the 
 poker ; threw it down. Then the tongs, and the 
 shovel, though he knew they must be light. 
 Then he caught the andiron, a heavy brass 
 thing, and wheeling, he threw all the strength 
 of all his excitement into one blow, and struck 
 the lock full and hard. He crashed it into the 
 desk, and open came the lid. 
 
 He dropped on his knees and grovelled inside 
 with both hands, and tore out the papers one 
 after another. There should have been a pile 
 of sovereigns, a pile he could bury his hands in. 
 But there were none, none ! He lifted it and 
 shook it again. He took up the papers one by 
 one, as if they could hide the gold. None, 
 none ! 
 
 He staggered to the chair and sat down. He 
 stared at the desk and at the papers. What 
 
224 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 did it all mean ? He had been robbed, robbed. 
 He had no money now, and he had to live. 
 What should he do ? He could not believe it, 
 and again he turned over the desk and the 
 papers, looking at them vacantly, almost with 
 an idiotic expression. He leant back again, 
 and fiddled with his fingers on the arm of his 
 chair, as he stared at the fire. 
 
 He had to pay money, too. Money to those 
 people who had let him the rooms, money to 
 Benson, money to Madeline, to send her back 
 to Paris. To Madeline ! 
 
 To Madeline! He repeated the name 
 vaguely, as though it was a kind of spell. 
 Perhaps it had been. He remembered how 
 pretty he had thought her. Prettier than Beth, 
 after all, or than Agnes. But if it hadn't been 
 for Beth, he would never have seen her. 
 
 His face twitched and wavered. How fate 
 had played with him, leading him on and on. 
 Fate ! What had it done ? Robbed him of 
 life, love and hope, and fame ! Now his money 
 was gone. Money. All his money. And — 
 and — He got up and stared round. It was 
 nigh to twelve o'clock. Madeline — Madeline. 
 
Could Fate do worse ? 225 
 
 Wasn't she coming back ? No ! No ! Then 
 — Oh ! God — it was she — she who had robbed 
 him. What a fool he had been ! Fool ! fool ! 
 He fell on his knees, and glared into vacancy, 
 and tried to gather his faculties again. But 
 he was confused, so confused. Oh ! could fate 
 do worse ? Could — it — do — worse ? 
 
 He muttered it slowly, and falling upon his 
 face insensible, lay quiet and still. 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 WHERE NELLIE LIVED. 
 
 If Geoffrey Alwith had been mentally stronger 
 and more able to thoroughly realize what had 
 happened to him in all its bearings, the shock 
 would, in all probability, have been fatal. As it 
 was, the effect was principally upon his mind, 
 and for some time after he awoke he acted in a 
 manner suggestive of imbecility. 
 
 The first thing he did, on rising from the 
 hearthrug, was to sit down and stare at his open 
 desk, and the debris of the torn and scattered 
 papers it had contained. After a little while he 
 knelt and gathered these together, replaced 
 them in the desk, which he shut, and then put it 
 in its old position with the broken lock against the 
 wall. He looked at it with a curious kind of 
 satisfaction, or even of affection, as though he 
 saw what an emblem it was of his own life. 
 
Where Nellie lived. 227 
 
 After doing this he opened the bedroom door, 
 went in, and lighted a candle. Taking it in his 
 hand, he went to the bed and patted the coverlet 
 as though to make sure no one was sleeping 
 there. Then he went round to the other side 
 and repeated the same operation. Finally, he 
 put the light on the dressing-table, and in- 
 spected, one by one, the bottles near the looking- 
 glass. It was one o'clock when he returned to 
 the sitting-room. He looked at the clock, and 
 then wandered about the room in an idle fashion, 
 at everything as he passed, now and again stay- 
 ing to touch something that more especially 
 attracted his attention, such as the curtains, the 
 picture frames. But he did not touch the desk 
 again. He had gone round the table twice 
 before he noticed the silver he had emptied 
 from his pocket. When he did see it he stared, 
 and then said, "Ah!" in a painfully strained 
 voice. He came and touched it doubtfully, and 
 then counted it once, and again and again. 
 There were exactly sixteen shillings in the little 
 pile, but he had much difficulty in making sure 
 as to the amount. When he had satisfied him- 
 self, he put it in his pocket again. 
 
 Q 2 
 
228 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 By this time the fire was cold, and presently 
 the candle went out that he had brought into 
 the room. But overhead the gas still flared. 
 He went to the window and opening it, let 
 the cool night air blow in on him. The night 
 was calm and warm, the sky clear, or with but 
 a few clouds, the wind westerly and light. 
 Presently he turned round, and going into the 
 other room put on his coat and overcoat. The 
 latter took him some trouble, for he felt weak, 
 and when it was on he went to the cupboard of 
 the sideboard and drank some brandy. In five 
 minutes he was in the street. 
 
 He walked down Regent Street, and late as 
 it was, was spoken to by several persons. He 
 went on dully without answering, until he found 
 himself at Charing Cross. He was very tired, 
 and turned instinctively to go back. But to go 
 where ? He stopped and put his hand to his 
 head. To go back to a desolate place where he 
 owed money, much money, and he had none ! 
 He shook his head. Yet, after all, what could 
 he do ? He put his hand in his pocket, took out 
 a couple of pieces of silver, and looked at them. 
 They were plenty for a time, and afterwards he 
 
Where Nellie lived. 229 
 
 could die. He seemed almost reconciled to that 
 in this utter desolation. The thought of going 
 home never occurred to him. He had never 
 slept there since he moved first into a studio. 
 So he calculated in a confused manner his means, 
 and how to dispose of them and himself. 
 
 That night Geoffrey Alwith slept in a respect- 
 able enough lodging house close to Charing 
 Cross, and was shown to bed by a frowzy 
 headed man who looked half barman, half bully. 
 He thought Geoffrey a swell who had lost his 
 money, and was " a leetle under the weather," 
 as he phrased it. 
 
 It showed the state at which he had arrived, 
 that he never remembered he had asked 
 Curgenven to leave some money with Frank 
 Worthington. Perhaps he might have thought 
 when Will sent him 35/. from the sale of the odd 
 sketches and pictures, that that was all. As a 
 matter of fact Frank had ten pounds in his 
 keeping in case Nellie Mitchell came to ask for 
 work, and could get none. 
 
 Next day he spent in wandering about with- 
 out any definite aim, and without taking any 
 precautions against being seen. Yet he desired 
 
230 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 obscurity as much as a wounded animal that 
 withdraws itself to die into some retired place, 
 where it will not be disturbed. 
 
 But in the evening he went down to Chelsea, 
 and at dark to his own studio. It was dark 
 inside. He wished he had the key. He went 
 across the road and stood outside Worthington's 
 place. He could hear voices, and recognized 
 those of Frank and Vine, and a girl's besides. 
 He stood in the shadow as they came out, and 
 heard Frank at the door laughing. 
 
 " Come, Vine," said he, " I am sick of your 
 turning up when Dottie is here. You must 
 choose some other night." 
 
 Vine came out arm in arm with a young girl 
 who dragged hard against him. 
 
 " Let me go, Mr. Vine," she said, " I hate you, 
 I perfectly detest you. Let me go ! " 
 
 Vine took her hand in his and held it. 
 
 " I won't, Dottie," he laughed, " for I know 
 you don't mean it. Does she Frank ? " 
 
 Worthington leant against the door negli- 
 gently, and smoked his cigarette. 
 
 " Can't say, I'm sure, Vine," he answered, " but 
 your style of rough and tumble courtship is, per- 
 
Where Nellie lived. 23 1 
 
 haps, too vigorous to be pleasant. It is worse 
 than Harmer's, and he appears to have learnt 
 his among Patagonian Indians." 
 
 Vine chuckled, and Dottie broke away from 
 him with a shout of delighted laughter. He did 
 not attempt to go after her, but turned to Frank. 
 
 " By the way," said he, " I never spoke of 
 Alwith. How's he getting on ? " 
 
 Frank shrugged his shoulders, and answered, 
 " Ah, you don't know he has disappeared. 
 Harmer came here this morning ! " 
 
 " Disappeared, eh ! " said Vine, " how did he 
 do it, and why ? " 
 
 " I have no explanation to offer," replied 
 Frank, " only Harmer asked me to let him know 
 if I heard anything. Jack was only here about 
 five minutes, and was quite incoherent. I don't 
 see the use of making such a devil of a fuss. 
 Let him go his own way." 
 
 Vine nodded, " Yes," said he, " and I don't 
 care much, though, of course, I'm sorry for the 
 man. To tell the truth, I never liked him, not 
 in the least. He was too close for me, and he 
 never made a joke in his life. Well, ta ta, for 
 Dot is waiting for me." 
 
232 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwitk. 
 
 She was, though she disclaimed it vigorously, 
 and the two went off together, as Worthington 
 slammed his door, and locked it. 
 
 Alwith listened to this conversation, and 
 heard his own name spoken, without any agita- 
 tion. It was characteristic of his state that 
 the impulse he had to speak when he saw 
 Worthington, was counterbalanced by the little 
 fact that he had not defended him when Vine 
 spoke so carelessly of him. He turned and 
 walked away. 
 
 The next night, at the same hour, found him 
 in the same place. He had been irresistibly 
 drawn thither by his old associations. It seemed 
 that itw r as the only place in London to which 
 he knew his way, and from which he could find 
 other places. He had completely lost all power 
 of calculating a short cut, and even familiar 
 topography grew more and more strange. It 
 is very doubtful if he could have gone with cer- 
 tainty on that day to his rooms in Regent 
 Street, and he assuredly had not been able to 
 find a second time the house in which he had 
 slept the first night. But Chelsea he knew, 
 and knew well, for it was graved on his mind 
 
Where Nellie lived. 233 
 
 by the years of his life he had spent 
 there. 
 
 It was half-past nine, or perhaps nearer ten, 
 when he again went westward, and came to his 
 old turning. The light was visible in Frank's 
 studio, and it was evident from the noise that 
 went on inside, that more than the occupier 
 were there. Alwith sat down on a block of 
 wood in the shadow opposite, and leant his head 
 on his breast, remembering the few times he had 
 been in there, and for him had made passably 
 merry. But he could not, and would not, 
 analyze his own feelings, he was simply aware 
 of an almost overwhelming loneliness, and a 
 desolation which was around and over him, yet 
 keeping just a little aloof. As a matter of fact, 
 in his inability to comprehend, lay that which 
 prevented either his immediately seeking his 
 friends, or putting an end to his own life. For it 
 was scarcely pride that stopped his doing the first. 
 
 He had been in the same position for an hour 
 when he heard a knock at the door opposite ; 
 and, looking up, he saw the figure of a woman. 
 In a minute the door opened and Frank stood 
 in the light. 
 
234 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 "Oh, Nellie, is it you ?" said he jovially, for 
 there had been whisky going inside, " Come in, 
 my girl, for a moment/' The door closed on 
 them and Alwith sat thinking. 
 
 So that was Nellie Mitchell. He remembered 
 the last time he had seen her ; she had seemed 
 very fond of him. For she had kissed him. 
 How sorry she seemed to. She was about as 
 good a woman as there was. Unless it was 
 Agnes. But then Agnes was quite another 
 kind of person. She was an angel, but this 
 after all was a woman. Poor Nellie. 
 
 His head dropped on his breast again. 
 
 When Nellie Mitchell entered the studio and 
 saw two or three other men there she drew back 
 and stood by the door. 
 
 " Well, Nellie, what is it you want ? n said 
 Frank, who was in a hurry to get back to the 
 piano. 
 
 ° Nothing very much, Mr. Worthington," said 
 Nellie hurriedly and in a very low voice. " Only 
 I saw Mr. Harmer, at least I think that's his 
 name, he stopped me in the Strand yesterday. 
 And he asked me — asked me if — I was hard up. 
 I said ' Yes/ and then he said I had better see 
 
Where Nellie lived, 23 5 
 
 you. So I thought, Mr. Worthington, you 
 might want me." 
 
 Frank laughed a little. " No, my dear, I 
 don't." Nellie's face fell. " But don't look 
 down in the mouth. I will help you. Stay a 
 minute. 
 
 He went to his desk and took out a couple of 
 sovereigns, and, returning to Nellie, dropped 
 them in her hand. She started. 
 
 " What is this for, Mr. Worthington ? " she 
 said, breathing short. 
 
 " For you, for you ! " said Frank. " There, 
 go away and when you want any more come 
 here." 
 
 Nellie looked more puzzled than pleased, 
 but still money was money, and gold was 
 very pleasant when one had nothing. She 
 put it in her pocket, and Frank opened the 
 door. 
 
 " Thank you — " she began, but Frank cut her 
 sentence short. 
 
 " Don't thank me, but thank—" 
 Here a mingled howl for " Frank " and 
 " Worthington " broke in and cut him short in 
 his turn, for Nellie did not hear the name that 
 
236 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 was on the painter's lips. He shut the door on 
 her with no very great politeness, for as a 
 matter of fact he thought it was throwing money 
 away to give it to her. 
 
 Nellie was extremely puzzled to think that 
 anybody should give her money. Nobody 
 had ever done it but Alwith, and she knew 
 nothing, had heard nothing, of him since the 
 night she had helped to pack his portmanteau 
 on the eve of his departure for Paris. For she 
 had not dared to inquire, knowing how she felt 
 towards him. 
 
 As she left the yard of the studios Alwith 
 rose and followed her at a little distance. She 
 walked slowly and he had no difficulty in keeping 
 her in sight even when they got into the more 
 crowded thoroughfare of King's Road. For she 
 was tall, and her walk and figure noticeable, 
 although she was poor and poorly dressed. 
 She turned to the left hand up Sydney Street, 
 and, turning to the right, presently came to 
 that district which is most like a slum Chelsea 
 and Brompton can boast between them. She 
 stopped at a house of three stories, whose street 
 door was wide open. In the lower windows 
 
Where Nellie lived. 237 
 
 were two dirty cards bearing the legends, 
 " Rooms to Let," and " Lodgings to Let." 
 Another one read " Mangling done here." 
 
 Ill-savoured as the neighbourhood was, 
 Geoffrey knew it, though not so well as the 
 better parts of Chelsea. Still it was something 
 of a short cut from his studio to South Ken- 
 sington Museum, and instead of going direct 
 into the Fulham Road and then bearing to the 
 right, he had frequently gone that way, especially 
 when it was light, for at night-time some of it 
 was hardly safe for a man dressed like a 
 gentleman. He remembered that, as he stood 
 looking at the house, and then he glanced at 
 himself. He was still well dressed — though two 
 days passed without brushing his hat, or coat, or 
 boots, and without shaving or being shaved, 
 made him look indescribably disreputable and 
 rakish. 
 
 He appeared as if he had been engaged in 
 days of wild debauchery, so continuous that he 
 had had no time to attend to his personal 
 appearance. He knew he looked strange, for 
 people had glanced at him with surprise, and 
 some even with disgust. He began to prefer to 
 
238 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 be about at nights. He walked on, after staying 
 a few moments outside the house. 
 
 However, in two days more he did not possess 
 the clothes which he might once have con- 
 sidered a danger in the street where Nellie 
 Mitchell lived. He had been obliged to pawn 
 his watch — a poor one it was, and one he had 
 worn since he was a school boy — and he had 
 exchanged his fine overcoat for a much poorer 
 one, receiving a little cash into the bargain. 
 
 He had but fifteen shillings when he left the 
 pawnbrokers, and he was debating in his mind 
 what he should do. To sleep in a new place 
 every night was expensive. He must take a 
 room. He walked on to Chelsea, for it was in 
 that direction he went mechanically. In these 
 last few days he had recovered slightly from the 
 shock he had experienced, his mind was a little 
 clearer. He even had a return of his notion for 
 painting ; for he must make something to live 
 on, he would ask no one to help him. 
 
 As he walked, he still pondered where he 
 should go to live. Chelsea would do ; it was 
 much the best place, for he was so at home 
 there. Presently he thought of Nellie Mitchell ; 
 
Where Nellie lived, 239 
 
 she lived there too ; and he knew the street. 
 In twenty minutes he stood outside her house, if 
 indeed she really lived there, and gazed at the 
 tickets in the window, wondering vaguely 
 whether he should go in or not. He felt more 
 sympathy for Nellie than for anyone. She alone 
 of all he knew was thoroughly poor, and, as he 
 thought, unhappy. Was it not natural he should 
 think of her ? He walked inside, and in ten 
 minutes more had rented a furnished room, if 
 furnished it could be called, and sat down by 
 the light of a tallow candle with which his new 
 landlady had provided him, in his own place 
 once more. His own room ; but it was a 
 thousand times more beggarly than his old 
 studio. Rough and dusty as that was, this 
 last state of the man was worse than the first ; 
 but even so he fell asleep that night with a 
 strange and animal content. 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW. 
 
 Geoffrey Alwith had been given about six 
 months to live. He had been told it might be 
 longer, or possibly less, but that roughly and 
 humanly speaking had been the term allotted to 
 him. He was now in the fourth month, but he 
 had no longer that frantic and fearful desire for 
 life which had characterized him at first. The 
 very wish for existence was being slowly sapped 
 in him, and if he reached or passed that term, it 
 was possible that he would surrender existence 
 — which by the decay of his faculties was worth- 
 less, and by the decrease of his vitality less and 
 less desired — almost without a pang. But in 
 this fourth month he still desired to live, for his 
 mind was not yet ruined, and possibly even 
 the cunning of his hand had not yet deserted 
 him. 
 
The Valley of the Shadow. 241 
 
 He had been for a week in that house which 
 he had seen Nellie Mitchell enter, and during 
 that time he had never met her, and had almost 
 forgotten what had led him to the place. He 
 spent the major portion of his time in bed, and 
 naturally, seeing that he was in constant need 
 of a nurse's, if not of a doctor's assistance, he 
 became worse in health than he would have 
 been had he been under the eyes of those who 
 understood his case. 
 
 Yet that kind of gradual failing, though it 
 might end suddenly in a catastrophe, seemed a 
 small thing to him as the little money he had 
 obtained from the pawnshop melted away day 
 by day. He ate but little, it is true, and had 
 no other expenses during that week, for he had 
 paid for his lodging in advance, but still the few 
 shillings that expenditure had left him went 
 one by one. He had been, and still was, in- 
 capable of looking ahead. He had gone into 
 Chelsea blindly, as though drawn by fate, and 
 now, when destiny had led him to an impasse, 
 he had no active volition left to enable him to 
 extricate himself, and he sat in a blank despair 
 when he found himself without hope and with- 
 
 R 
 
242 The Degradation of Geoffrey A Iwith. 
 
 out means. The sole thought which was left to 
 him when this forced itself upon his attention 
 was that of a desire to hide himself until the 
 end. 
 
 The room in which he slept, and for the most 
 part lived, was one of most brutal meanness, and 
 in strange and violent con trast with those chambers 
 which he had almost forgotten. The floor was 
 of rough uneven boards, which were stained and 
 dirty ; the walls were covered with a dark smoke- 
 stained paper, which came off here and there in 
 patches, showing underneath the cracked and 
 dropping plaster. The ceiling in places dis- 
 covered the laths, and even where it was sound 
 and whole it bulged ominously, as though some 
 heavy weight in the room above threatened to 
 burst through and scatter the vile plaster on the 
 viler piece of carpet beneath. The bed was of 
 iron, and rusty ; the slats were ill-fitting, and 
 creaked as Geoffry rolled over in the dark and 
 unwashed bed-clothes, which had not been 
 changed for him when he entered into posses- 
 sion. There was a rush-bottomed chair, with 
 one leg shorter than the others, that had been 
 hacked in idleness by some former tenant ; 
 
The Valley of the Shadow. 243 
 
 against the wall stood a washstand with cracked 
 washing utensils, that were never themselves 
 washed, and a piece of hard yellow soap in a 
 broken saucer. The dressing-table was a little 
 shelf, and over it a piece of triangular glass, 
 kept in position by three short nails, was the 
 mirror. The windows were uncleaned and 
 adorned with finger marks, and one pane was 
 replaced by a piece of brown paper with a 
 hole in its middle. Three others were cracked, 
 and one was only just saved from immediate 
 dissolution by some strips of postage-stamp 
 edging. The lower part only could be opened, 
 and judging by the foul and fetid atmosphere,, 
 it was seldom raised to admit even the air of 
 that most evil part of Chelsea. 
 
 Geoffrey had been in that room a week, and 
 on the morning of the seventh day he rose with- 
 out a farthing in his possession. He felt in 
 all his pockets vaguely, and then shook his head. 
 It was quite certain he had no money. He sat 
 on the edge of the bed and drew the counter- 
 pane about his shoulders ; for though it was June, 
 it was one of those cold days which sometimes 
 come in the early English summer, and he felt 
 
 R 2 
 
244 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 wretched and chilly. He sat with his elbows 
 on his knees, and his chin on his hands, staring 
 at the wall opposite. He moved his fingers up 
 and down upon his cheeks, feeling the growth 
 of hair which had come in the few days that 
 had elapsed since he had been shaved. As he 
 did so he looked almost foolish, and yet in his 
 face was a certain revolt which had always been 
 his since he had known that he was ill. 
 
 He sat on the bed for more than an hour, 
 thinking vaguely what he was to do. At times 
 he had an impulse to go home just to die, and 
 it grew stronger as his own misery was more 
 patent to him. Still he put it away for the 
 present, for he could last out by himself a little 
 longer. He thought he had been a fool to leave 
 that place in Regent Street. They could not 
 have turned him out if he had declined to go. 
 Besides, they might not have known he had no 
 money. There it was ; no money, no money ! 
 He had none now. 
 
 The exertion of thinking wearied him, so he 
 lay down and went to sleep again till noon, 
 when he was disturbed in order that the slip- 
 shod girl, who was the sole servant of the house, 
 
The Valley of the Shadow. 245 
 
 might "do his room." He put on his boots and 
 crawled downstairs into the open air. But 
 he did not go out of the street, and rinding it 
 cold he soon went back again. He lay down 
 and went to sleep. It was growing dusk when 
 he awoke shivering, weak and hungry ; and he 
 sat on the edge of the bed once more. 
 
 How very miserable he was ! He wondered 
 if there was any one so miserable as he. He 
 was so cold and hungry. He had never been 
 really hungry in his life, and was not now ; but 
 the sensation of weakness from want of food, 
 which most people call hunger, for they know 
 no other, was upon him. He wished he had 
 some money to buy brandy with. He wished 
 he had a fire, and drew the clothes round him 
 tightly, as the light of the gas-lamps in the 
 street shot up and illumined his darkened 
 room. The children in the street were shouting 
 and screaming, and the uproar at first came 
 only as an uncomprehended accompaniment to 
 his thoughts; but when he suddenly heard it 
 fully, he cursed the noise, it made him angry and 
 uncomfortable. He wished they would be quiet. 
 
 It grew darker and darker; presently there 
 
246 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 was peace, and he thought for a while with more 
 coherence. He was so animal when hunger and 
 cold struck him that his pride went away from 
 him. He simply longed for comfortable rest, 
 for food, for fire. He began to think of home 
 with more tolerance. He forgave his father for 
 his interference and want of understanding ; he 
 thought his mother would be glad to see him, 
 and pleased to make him comfortable. After 
 all, it didn't matter what people thought, he 
 would be dead soon. He shivered as he said 
 that, and clutched the blankets closer to him. 
 He would go home. Perhaps to-morrow, or 
 the next day. Two months, a little more than 
 two months to live ! It was strange that he did 
 not desire to live so much. How ill he felt ! 
 It was true enough he was ill, worse than he 
 thought, and perhaps nearer the end. 
 
 Presently he heard some one moving in the 
 next room. It was a woman. He had heard 
 her often enough. He cursed all women ; 
 hadn't they destroyed him in a way, Beth and 
 Madeline ? People called one good and the 
 other evil. In his mind they were much the 
 same. But he wondered, in an idle, vague way, 
 
The Valley of the Shadow. 247 
 
 who the woman was through that thin .wall. 
 Was it Nellie Mitchell ? He did not believe 
 she was in the house, he would have seen her. 
 Poor Nellie, she was almost the only woman, 
 save his mother, whom he liked now. Nellie 
 had looked at him kindly. He remembered 
 how she had kissed him ; he remembered how 
 he felt. Then he snarled angrily to himself 
 against this death in life. There was nothing 
 more for him in the world. Yet, after all, what 
 did it matter ? 
 
 He began biting his nails, and shivered again 
 and again. The cold and weakness became 
 almost overpowering. Presently he heard his 
 neighbour strike a match, and in a minute h e 
 heard wood crackle in the grate. She had 
 lighted a fire. How he wished he had one. 
 But there was not even a fireplace in his room. 
 He listened to the wood and coal as it caught, 
 for he could hear it plainly. Damnation ! why 
 should it be so ? He, he had nothing, he was 
 ill, dying, cold, weak, and hungry ; and this 
 woman — some vile wretch — had all things, and 
 a warm, blazing fire. It was cruel. The 
 wretched man slid off the bed, and crawled over 
 
248 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 to the other side of the room, so that he might 
 be nearer the fire. For if the grate was against 
 the wall, he would catch its heat as it warmed 
 through the partition; but it was only a partition, 
 not brick and mortar, and the fire was at the far 
 side of the room. He soon found that out, but 
 still sat on the floor with the coverlet and 
 blanket over him. He tried to fancy he was a 
 little warmer, and not so hungry. 
 
 Presently he heard a knock, not at his own 
 door, but apparently at that of his neighbour. 
 He heard her voice call, u Come in," or at least 
 he thought so. He wondered who they were, 
 and what they did in order to be able to live and 
 have fires, and be happy. He almost cursed 
 them ; and then, hearing voices, he put his ear 
 to the lath plaster in order to catch what was 
 said. He was in deadly earnest, for now when 
 he did anything he seemed to forget all things 
 else. So he put his very ear to the wall, as he 
 knelt in darkness with the blankets slipping 
 from his shoulders. He held up his left hand, 
 and with his right flat on the floor, he supported 
 himself. He could hear, but not distinctly. 
 
 u It is very cold to-night for summer/' said 
 
The Valley of the Shadow. 249 
 
 one voice. He did not catch the reply, for the 
 other woman or girl spoke more softly. 
 
 " Did you get anything ? " said the same voice. 
 
 " No, but I got a little money from — ," he 
 could hear nothing more. 
 
 " Ah ! " said the first speaker, in a bitter tone, 
 " money ! Good God, what money does mean 
 to some of us. And to think there's them as 
 rolls in it." 
 
 Geoffrey almost chuckled to think that there 
 was somebody in misery here. But then she 
 did not speak as if she were hungry, and she was 
 before a fire. Damn them both ! 
 
 The conversation continued in low tones, but 
 presently there was a laugh, and then another, 
 and Geoffrey ground his teeth. Was it not 
 horrible, horrible to think that these wretches 
 could laugh, when he was so utterly, so basely 
 wretched ? He dropped from his former attitude, 
 and sat in a crouched-up heap. What did it 
 mean that people were able to laugh ? It 
 seemed months since he had even smiled. As 
 he sat there he tried to writhe his features into 
 a smile. He would have seemed ghastly had 
 there been anyone to see him. Then he laughed 
 
250 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 a little, a grating horrible sound of fury and 
 despair. He hated anyone who could dare to 
 laugh. For his deep depression was coming on 
 him again, and he was a physical lump of pro- 
 test against joy and merriment, worse than an 
 Egyptian mummy at a feast, for he was alive, 
 barely alive, among ghastly ghosts of dead days 
 and desires. 
 
 After a while the other woman went away 
 and shut the door. He heard her say good- 
 night, and then the fire was stirred, and a chair 
 moved. The woman next door was seated in 
 front of the fire. He knew that, and he drew 
 the blankets about him and shivered. He 
 wondered if she would let him sit by it for a 
 little while. It would be nothing to her, and so 
 much to him. But no, she had a little money, 
 and was merry enough to laugh, what could she 
 have of pity for a poor devil in misery ? She 
 was rich in comparison, and they could have 
 nothing in common. 
 
 He leant against the wall, and began to think 
 of going to bed. He might be more comfort- 
 able, though the clothes were so thin, and the 
 vile mattress so lumpy. He tried to rise, and 
 
The Valley of the Shadow. 251 
 
 fell back, for a fit of weakness seized him. So 
 he remained as he was, and fell into a doze that 
 lasted some minutes. He was roused by hear- 
 ing his neighbour poke the fire again, and then 
 he heard her make preparations for going to 
 bed. After a while there was a sound, quite 
 familiar to him now, of someone getting into 
 bed, and making the iron slats creak. She was 
 in bed in a warm room, and not hungry. How 
 very happy she must be ! What could anyone 
 desire more than food and warmth ? She would 
 be asleep in a few minutes ; he wondered what 
 she thought of, what she dreamed of. He 
 wished he had been bold enough to ask her to 
 let him warm himself, she might have done it, 
 if she had any heart at all. He put his 
 ear to the partition again, and heard no 
 sound. 
 
 Yes ! she was asleep ! And he remembered 
 now that she had never locked her door ! He 
 must have recognized the sound if she had, for 
 they did not use much oil in that house. Why 
 — why shouldn't he go in and warm himself ? 
 He would be quiet, perfectly quiet : just crawl in, 
 sit there a little while, and come away again. 
 
252 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 To-morrow he would go home, or else send 
 home. Then he should be comfortable. 
 
 He threw off the coverlet and blankets and 
 tried to rise. He found it quite impossible, so 
 he went on his hands and knees to his own door, 
 and opened it softly. When it stood wide with- 
 out a sound, he almost smiled with gratified 
 cunning. 
 
 There was no light on the landing, but he 
 knew his way. He stopped once or twice when 
 the boards creaked under him. At last he came 
 to the next door. He was on all fours, but 
 lifted up his head and listened, fancying that he 
 heard the regular breathing of one asleep. He 
 put up his hand and turned the handle slowly, 
 very slowly. It did not make any sound, and 
 he pushed it open, crawling in like an animal or 
 a midnight murderer. He saw the fire and 
 chuckled a little, for it was bright and red even 
 yet. He tried to shut the door behind him, and 
 at last pushed it so close that it remained almost 
 shut. Then he went to the fire, and crouched 
 in front of it, spreading out his hands, and 
 putting them up to his face that his cheeks 
 might feel the warmth the sooner. 
 
The Valley of the Shadow. 253 
 
 The room in which he was now was 
 larger than his own. The bed was larger, too, 
 and the window. For cleanliness of paint and 
 wood-work it was on a par with his, and the 
 window was mended with brown paper too. 
 But he had no eyes for anything but the fire. 
 
 How pleasant it was ! New life it seemed to 
 him, new vital heat. He spread out his hands 
 and almost crowed and chuckled. But he 
 hushed himself and was quiet. He might wake 
 this woman, and then she would turn him out 
 before he was ready to go. To-morrow he 
 would have a fire of his own again, and some- 
 one to wait on him. Now he must take what 
 he could, and get warm, warm. But he still 
 wished that he had something to eat. 
 
 He sat still until he got a little drowsy and 
 nodded. He woke up again at that, and held 
 out his hands once more. He began to fear the 
 fire was going down, and wished to put more 
 coals on. He could see none, or he would have 
 done it, for that moment's doze seemed to have 
 broken the thread of his consciousness. He 
 forgot almost where he was, and what reasons 
 he had for being quiet. It was, perhaps, that 
 
254 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 his state almost approached delirium. Certainly 
 his thoughts were wild, and had been discon- 
 nected all day. 
 
 He began muttering to himself, stopped, and 
 then went on again. Presently he spoke a 
 little louder, much too loud if he desired not to 
 be disturbed. For the sleeper moved in her 
 bed, and the irons creaked a little. But Geoffrey 
 took no notice, and went on muttering. All at 
 once he said " Ah," in quite a loud tone, and 
 stopped, holding out his hands once more to the 
 dying embers. He did not see that the woman 
 in the bed was staring at him with wide open 
 eyes, for he had awakened her either by the 
 noise he made, or by the subtle influence of his 
 presence. She stared in fear and kept quiet. 
 
 " Ah," said he, in a low tone, * to-morrow I 
 will go home. Or I will send to Frank." 
 
 The woman raised herself softly on her 
 elbow. 
 
 " To Frank. Frank Worthington, he is near 
 enough to this horrible hole." 
 
 She rose in a sitting position, and stared 
 dreadfully at the man. The red blaze of the 
 fire showed a dead white face. 
 
The Valley of the Shadow. 255 
 
 "Frank Worthington. He's a good fellow, 
 though he'll never be as great a man as I might 
 have been. Frank's a good fellow." 
 
 He was silent for a minute, and again he held 
 his hands out mechanically. The woman 
 behind him in her white bed-gown did not move, 
 but stared at him fixedly, as if lost in terror and 
 wonderment. 
 
 "There's Harmer, too,— and Nellie — Nellie 
 Mitchell. I liked her." 
 
 He turned round slowly, and as he did so a 
 little piece of coal flared up. He saw the 
 woman's form dimly, but she saw him better 
 than he could see her, far better, and her jaw 
 dropped suddenly. He made a motion as if to 
 deprecate her just wrath. 
 
 " Don't be angry," said he humbly, " I was 
 very, very cold, and I came to warm myself. 
 You aren't angry, are you ? And — and — my 
 God, I'm hungry, too, I'm hungry ! " 
 
 The girl, for she was not so much more, 
 moved in the bed and crouched together, and 
 she stared continuously without speaking, as 
 though she could not believe her eyes ) as though 
 she believed she was dreaming. But at last she 
 
256 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 spoke, and her voice was strange, strained and 
 hollow. 
 
 " Mr. Alwith ? " she said suddenly. 
 
 Geoffrey started as though he was touched, 
 and looked round as if something had occurred 
 that had no explanation. It was his name, yes, 
 his own name. 
 
 "Alwith," he said, sharply, " Alwith is my 
 name. Who said Alwith, Geoffrey Alwith ? " 
 
 He turned back to the fire impatiently, as 
 though it was an hallucination. He felt his arm 
 touched. The woman stood beside him, and 
 then knelt. She caught his arm, pressed it, and 
 then touched herself, slowly. 
 
 " What does it mean ? " she said, panting, 
 " what does it mean that you are here ? " 
 
 She clutched his arm tightly and he turned 
 round. He looked her curiously in the face. 
 Yes, he knew her, and was not surprised at all. 
 It was very natural. 
 
 M Ah," he said, slowly, after a moment's 
 pause, "you are Nellie, Nellie Mitchell. And 
 you know me now ? M He rubbed his hands 
 together, muttering, " I don't get very warm/' 
 
 Nellie remained quiet, still looking at him, 
 
The Valley of the Shadow. 257 
 
 her eyes bright and feverish, her lips moving 
 nervously, her colour coming in floods, till it 
 made her like a red rose of blood. But when it 
 passed it left her features like a death mask. It 
 was so strange, she said, so dreadful ; what did 
 it mean, what could it mean ? 
 
 " Mr. Alwith," she said suddenly, " are you 
 ill ? " 
 
 " Yes, Nellie," he answered, with a dull 
 pathos, " very ill. I am dying. They all say 
 
 so." 
 
 She clutched him tight, and the tears sprang 
 to her eyes. Her breast heaved ; the colour 
 lay now on her face in patches, and she panted. 
 Had she not loved the man ? Did she not love 
 him still ? But she did not speak, though her 
 lips moved. 
 
 He turned to her again, and his lips trembled 
 vaguely, and then the tears dropped slowly 
 down his bronzed cheeks. He saw that she was 
 sorry, and he was like a child, simple and 
 almost without thought, without strength, with- 
 out passion. He took her hand and held it in 
 both his. 
 
 " You are sorry for me, Nellie ? " he said, in 
 
 s 
 
258 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwitk. 
 
 a low far away voice, " and I am so miserable 
 and all alone. Don't go and leave me 
 
 now." 
 
 Leave him ! She would have given him her 
 heart's blood. She trembled all over, and her 
 lips quivered. She could not understand, but 
 still he was there. She was not dreaming. 
 Suddenly her tears came in a rush, and she put 
 out her hands and caught him to her. 
 
 " No, Geoffrey Alwith, no," she said in her 
 sobs, " I won't leave you. God knows I won't." 
 She put one hand to her forehead. " But I don't 
 understand, I don't understand." 
 
 He received her embrace quietly, and leant 
 back with his head on her shoulder, as the tears 
 ran down his face. 
 
 " It is so cold in my room, Nellie," he 
 muttered, " and I am hungry and poor." 
 
 She started and caught his face in her hands, 
 turning it towards her. How strange he looked, 
 and how the whites of his eyes glittered in the 
 light that was still left. She spoke to herself 
 and muttered, — 
 
 "What does it mean, what does it mean ? " 
 
 He leant back against her bosom, and fell 
 
The Valley of the Shadow. 259 
 
 into a dreamy, half-sleeping state, while she 
 wrapped the coverlet from her bed about him. 
 He muttered a little and then was quiet, and in 
 all her amazement and sorrow there was a 
 strange joy in the woman's heart. He had 
 been scorned by Fate, thrust out by men, he 
 was weak and ill, aye and dying, but the very 
 Fate which had been so cruel to him had 
 brought her a wonderful yet woeful passion of 
 bliss. Now she had him at last to herself, she 
 could caress him, his head might lie upon her 
 heart, for she loved him, and would yet love 
 him when the embers of her passionate soul 
 grew cold and wan like the expiring coals that 
 winked and glimmered before her tearful 
 eyes. 
 
 A dying fire and a dying man, and outside a 
 waning moon that threw cold and silvery beams 
 upon the dark floor. But the night was waning 
 too ; she grew chill and stiff, for she was so 
 lightly clad, yet a tumultuous passion of 
 thought ran through her and stirred her pulses. 
 She wondered that he should be sleeping upon 
 her bosom. How wonderful it was. She was 
 too cold to be dreaming. Presently the ashes 
 
 S 2 
 
260 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith, 
 
 began to drop, tinkling from the grate on the 
 hearth, and the slow moonbeams travelled until 
 they poured across her head, lighting up her 
 long hair, and glimmering through it upon her 
 slender neck. It seemed like a chilly cataract. 
 He must be cold. 
 
 She slowly moved away and laid him upon 
 the floor with his head upon the pillow that she 
 took with her extended arm from the bed. He 
 muttered a little and half woke. She raised him 
 to his feet, he staggered weakly to the bed, and 
 fell upon it. She moved him gently until he 
 lay straight, and then gave him the pillow again, 
 replacing the blankets and counterpane. Had 
 it been light, she would have seen him smile 
 gently, and then he fell asleep. She put her 
 hand across his breast, leant and kissed him 
 softly. 
 
 She walked to the window and looked out. 
 The light of the moon fell full upon her face, 
 showing her eyes wet with tears, and her shapely 
 head with its masses of falling, floating hair. 
 Her bosom heaved a little, her mouth quivered 
 again. 
 
 Outside was the world, the cold night and 
 
The Valley of the Shadow. 261 
 
 the cruel world, and here was her love, her 
 love ! 
 
 She went to the bed, and kneeling, she prayed 
 long and fervently. 
 
CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE FACE OF DEATH. 
 
 On the next morning Frank Worthington was 
 in his studio, busily engaged in persuading him- 
 self that he was busy, that is to say, he was 
 trifling with a water-colour sketch of two girls 
 at a well. Jim, the attendant, kept on coming 
 in and out. Presently he said, " Miss Mitchell 
 wants to see you, sir." 
 
 Nellie entered without waiting, and came at 
 once to Frank. As a rule, of late, she had been 
 somewhat timid, and he noticed the air of pre- 
 occupation with which she moved. 
 
 " Well, Nellie ! " said he, in surprise, " what 
 do you want to-day ? Why, you were here 
 yesterday." 
 
 She did not answer for a minute, and then 
 did not answer his question. 
 
The Face of Death. 263 
 
 " May I sit down, Mr. Worthington ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 " Of course you can/' said Frank, and she 
 seated herself. There was a pause, and Frank 
 whistled. Meanwhile, Nellie fidgeted upon her 
 chair. She opened her lips several times, as 
 though to speak, but was silent. Presently 
 she caught Frank's eye. 
 
 " Mr. Worthington," she said, hurriedly, f I 
 want to know what this is about Mr. Alwith." 
 
 Frank looked at her, dabbed a bit of colour 
 on his drawing, drew back, eyeing it critically, 
 and then answered : 
 
 "What do you mean, Nellie ? His sudden 
 disappearance ?" 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " I want to know everything," she said. 
 " What is the matter with him ? " 
 
 Frank laid his brushes down. 
 
 " Why, Nell, haven't you heard anything, 
 then?" 
 
 " Nothing at all," she answered impatiently ; 
 " but I want to know now." 
 
 Though Frank wondered a little what 
 interest Nellie could have in Geoffrey, con- 
 
264 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith, 
 
 sidering his well-known character, he pro- 
 ceeded to tell her everything in detail. He 
 was so engrossed in his narrative that he did 
 not notice that Nellie dropped her veil, as 
 though by accident. 
 
 "And that is all?" she asked, when he had 
 told of Alwith's disappearance. She spoke in a 
 quiet voice. 
 
 " Yes," answered Frank cheerfully, " that is 
 as far as we have got yet." 
 
 He picked up his brushes and went on 
 working. Nellie spoke again. 
 
 " Mr. Worthington," she said, " you gave me 
 some money yesterday, as you have done be- 
 fore. I don't understand why you did. But I 
 am in great trouble. One of my friends is 
 very ill, and I want some more if you can give 
 it me." 
 
 She spoke in a hard, choked voice, as though 
 the effort of asking was almost too much for 
 her. Frank grinned a trifle sardonically. 
 
 " It is only right, my dear," said he at length, 
 "that you should take an interest in Mr. 
 Alwith ; for he did in you. Do you know 
 whose money it is I have been giving you ? " 
 
The Face of Death. 265 
 
 Nellie threw up her veil and stared at him. 
 
 " No, I don't," she said, in a sharp, and much 
 altered voice. 
 
 " It is Alwith's, then ! " answered Worthington, 
 chuckling, " he left it with me in case you were 
 hard up." 
 
 She dropped her veil again, and looked down. 
 He could not see that the tears ran down her 
 face. Geoffrey had thought of her ! How kind 
 he was. 
 
 Frank, for his part, thought she was what he 
 had always taken her for ; no better than she 
 should be, and hard and grasping after money 
 as well. He wondered whether she thought he 
 believed the story about the frie nd who was ill. 
 He was not quite such a fool. However, it did 
 not matter to him. He rose, and went to his 
 desk. 
 
 " How much will you have, Nellie ? " he asked, 
 a little coldly. * Will a sovereign do ? Re- 
 member it won't last for ever, if you come 
 every day. I have only seven pounds, I 
 think." 
 
 Had Nellie known nothing as to whose money 
 it was, she^ would have been meekly contented 
 
266 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 with ten shillings, and thought herself blessed 
 to get so much. But it was Geoffrey's money, 
 and she wanted it for Geoffrey himself. 
 
 " I should like some more, if you please, Mr. 
 Worthington/' she answered, with more assur- 
 ance, which, of course, Frank very naturally 
 misinterpreted. 
 
 "As you like, my girl," said he, stiffly. 
 "Will you have it all }» 
 
 " No, thank you, Mr. Worthington," answered 
 Nellie, a little hurt by his tone ; " but if you can 
 let me have two pounds." 
 
 He opened his desk and gave it her. She 
 rose at once, and thanked him. 
 
 When she was gone Frank Worthington 
 soliloquized a little. " Damn the woman — she 
 is just what I said. It's mighty little work she 
 will do until she has drained me dry. Pre- 
 cious little she cares about Alwith. Still, I 
 can't quite understand the relations between her 
 and Geoffrey. He must have been a little slyer 
 than we thought." 
 
 Nellie went on her way homeward, with her 
 heart overflowing, to think that Geoffrey, whom 
 she now had with her, had been able to remem- 
 
The Face of Death. 267 
 
 ber her in his extremity. Yet the thought that 
 he had to die, to die inevitably, as they said, 
 was horrible and bitter to her. Still, if it had 
 never been so, she would never have come close 
 to him, perhaps she would never have known 
 of his thought for her in his own misery ; never 
 would his head have rested upon her heart ; he 
 would never have turned to her as if she were 
 the last woman in the world for him, and con- 
 fided, in his semi-childish and painful way, the 
 gnawing bitterness of his soul. Perhaps it was 
 better as it was, she would hold him to the last, 
 she would guard, comfort, and protect the 
 wretched man whom she had loved vaguely 
 for so many years. 
 
 Nellie Mitchell was a no uncommon com- 
 pound of strength and weakness, of impulse and 
 reason. Her strength had been sufficient to 
 make her go her own way, but insufficient to 
 keep her upon the straight path. She might 
 desire the evil, but she could desire the good 
 also. At times she had suffered with a pathetic 
 stoicism, and at others had given way wholly, 
 running headlong into an abyss that might 
 promise apathy if not peace. When she first 
 
268 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith, 
 
 knew Geoffrey Alwith she had been pure, and it 
 was, perhaps, her despair of ever making his 
 heart respond to hers that had made her fall, if 
 not beyond redemption, at least beyond the 
 line that made her his equal in her own 
 sight. At the last she had come to crave for 
 a look, a touch, a kind word, and that dreadful 
 night when he had kissed her, and she had 
 kissed him again with passion and trembling, 
 had been a marked day for the joy and the 
 misery of unaccomplished desires. But now he 
 was hers, and hers only, abandoned, for so she 
 deemedi t, by his friends, deserted and scorned 
 by the woman he had loved, mocked by destiny, 
 marred by disease, a wreck and part of a man, 
 he was hers ! She thanked heaven for the scant 
 mercy which rewarded her devotion ; for its 
 being not wholly just in its retribution for her 
 sins ; for the gift of that which had been cast 
 out and rejected. She would make a strange 
 and ascetic bridal wreath of this bemired and 
 withered garland, without sap or life, or savour, 
 which could never be restored. 
 
 Geoffrey clung to her in a strange and touch- 
 ing way. He was glad of kindness, unspeakably 
 
The Face of Death. 269 
 
 glad at last for a loving word, and yet he was 
 cold and passionless. As he had desired warmth 
 and food, so he desired her presence ; she was 
 something living, soft, pitiful and gracious to 
 him. When he found himself in her care, the 
 thought that he had entertained in his misery 
 of returning home vanished, and did not come 
 back again. So that he could live, he would be 
 content. He did not wish to see any one ; he 
 did not wish that they should see him. 
 
 "Nellie," he said, as she went out to see 
 Worthington, "don't tell anyone. They might 
 come and take me away, and put me in a 
 hospital ; I don't want to go, I will stay with 
 you." 
 
 She had assured him that she would not, for 
 she had the same notion as he, indeed she 
 gathered it from his vague talk that he had a 
 certain time to live, that could not be pro- 
 longed. She did not know, and he had for- 
 gotten, that he might not live so long. 
 
 When she came home he was waiting for her 
 in her room, which still had a fire, although the 
 day was much milder than the yesterday, and 
 he greeted her approach with a faint smile. 
 
270 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 She was almost joyous. She had two pounds, 
 and Worthington had five more for her. The 
 sum seemed almost boundless, and if it should 
 come to an end, she would take care that he had 
 money, aye, if she had to steal it ! 
 
 Geoffrey was not well, indeed he was far worse 
 than either he or she had any conception of. 
 Constant skilled attendance was what he wanted, 
 and what he had made up his mind not to have. 
 During the day he was sick and very ill, but 
 when Nellie implored him to let her bring a 
 doctor, he assured her that he was often like 
 that ; that it would go away. He allowed her 
 to bring brandy, and he drank a little at in- 
 tervals, and it had an exhilarating effect upon 
 him, though it is possible that its ultimate effect 
 was anything but beneficial. ' He passed a fair 
 night, though he complained of some pain. 
 
 The next morning he had made a slight re- 
 covery, and seemed much better. The day was 
 fair and bright, the unclouded sun shone in the 
 loathsome and degraded street as brightly as it 
 shone on the green parks, or the free and open 
 river half a mile away ; it came through the case- 
 ment and lighted up the dingy room, and made 
 
The Face of Death. 271 
 
 Geoffrey feel almost happy. He lay on the bed 
 and talked at intervals. 
 
 " Nellie/' he said, after a long pause, " I 
 wonder shall I ever paint again ? n 
 
 She was seated in the chair beside the bed, 
 and she leant her head against his hand. She 
 was pale and worn, and the skin of his hand 
 was dark deep brown. 
 
 " I don't know, dear," she said softly, " would 
 you like to paint ? " 
 
 "Aye, Nellie," he answered, dreamily, "I 
 think so ; perhaps I will to-morrow. I have 
 never painted," he added, with an access of 
 energy that almost made her start, " never what 
 I wanted to paint ! " 
 
 She turned her head and watched him, and 
 saw one by one the slow tears run over from 
 his eyes, and trickle down his face upon the 
 dingy pillow. She took his hand and kissed 
 it. 
 
 " Nellie/' he said again, " I will paint 
 to-morrow — What shall I paint ? — something — ■ 
 something — I will . . . They never saw what I 
 could do, never. The fools ! " 
 
 He lay muttering as though he saw visions. 
 
272 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 The ideal faculty of the man seemed to be in a 
 state of exaltation. 
 
 That evening he was again ill, and when 
 Nellie once more asked him to see a doctor, he 
 refused, but to satisfy her he took from his 
 pocket-book two or three prescriptions which 
 Benson had given him. He chose one in a 
 dreamy kind of way, for he had no notion 
 which was the right one in the state he was in. 
 Indeed he took the longest one. As it hap- 
 pened it was as good a thing as he could have 
 done, and when he had taken a few doses he 
 was much relieved. Nevertheless during the 
 night he was slightly delirious, and talked, 
 though his articulation was so indistinct that 
 Nellie was unable to follow him. He awoke in 
 the morning feverish, but comparatively strong. 
 He drank some of the medicine, and soon after 
 breakfast he took some brandy. 
 
 " Nellie," he said, after some consideration, 
 " I shall paint to-day. I must, Nellie. I feel 
 as if I could do something. Perhaps I shan't 
 be able to do it to-morrow." 
 
 He sat muttering, and he scowled a little and 
 looked strange. He began to think more of 
 
The Face of Death. 273 
 
 death. The stronger he felt the more that was 
 in his mind. He soon let Nellie see of what he 
 was thinking, for he turned to her with a 
 dreadful expression, half rage, half terror. She 
 wished she had not let him touch the spirits. 
 
 " Don't you hear me, Nellie ? " he said sharply, 
 " don't you know I have got to die ? I must 
 do some work before I do that. Go and get 
 me some things. Haven't you any money ? " 
 
 " Yes, Geoffrey," she said meekly. 
 
 " Then," said he, M you go and get me a 
 canvas, some brushes and what colours I want." 
 
 " What are they, Geoffrey ? " she asked, a 
 little timidly. 
 
 He turned round angrily as though he had 
 been disturbed, and as if he expected her to 
 know. But before he spoke he saw his own 
 folly. He named several colours, and gave her 
 a list of other things needed. 
 
 "Then half-a-dozen brushes, and — and a 
 palette, Nellie, not a good one, you know, — and 
 the canvas. What size ought it to be ? " 
 
 It was a stupid question, and Nellie knew it, 
 but she answered softly : 
 
 "Any size you like, Geoffrey." 
 
 T 
 
274 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 He stared at her a little, and then smiled 
 strangely. 
 
 " Get me a thirty by twenty-four," he 
 said quietly, and soon after Nellie left the 
 room with the list of things in her ungloved 
 hand. 
 
 After she was gone Geoffrey went to the 
 brandy and drank again. Then he sat down 
 and tried to think what he should paint. His 
 mind was confused, although he apparently was 
 so much stronger, and his thoughts ran riot in 
 a furious Phantasmagoria of form and colour. 
 All the blood in his brain seemed to be settled 
 in one part, he had no balance of faculties or 
 control over his mind as soon as an outward 
 support was removed, such as Nellie's words or 
 presence even had afforded. He was hardly 
 conscious of more than two thoughts : the work 
 he wished to do, and the death which might 
 prevent him doing any, and one thing suggested 
 the other alternately. Work and death ! Death 
 and work ! He sat and scowled to himself, and 
 then lay back and smiled. But he seemed to 
 feel time was running away, he felt it more 
 keenly than he had done since his last severe 
 
The Face of Death. 275 
 
 attack. He must do something, and he would 
 do it. 
 
 He kept his eyes fixed on the door, as 
 though expecting Nellie back every moment, 
 and every minute that passed he cursed her 
 delay. For perhaps the impulse might go, and 
 the thought was insufferable, so long as his 
 desire to work lasted. Had it really fled, he 
 would have cared no more, and have gone to 
 sleep or to death calmly. But now his heart 
 beat hard, the blood surged in unwonted quan- 
 tities to his wasted brain ; he had the fever 
 and the impulse. 
 
 He did not speak a word when Nellie 
 returned, and by motions made her fetch 
 another chair. On that he fixed his canvas 
 took his palette, squeezed out the paints from 
 the tubes, and dabbled with his brushes. 
 
 There was a strange and painfully bitter 
 eagerness and doubt upon his face. He was 
 afraid, dreadfully afraid that he would not be 
 able to do anything as soon as he had the brush 
 in his hand. Yet his whole soul and mind was 
 fixed upon that one end. He must do it. He 
 would do it. He spoke at last 
 
 T 2 
 
276 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 "What shall I do, Nellie? Tell me, what 
 shall I do ? " 
 
 He spoke in a strained voice, and for a 
 moment there was a vacancy in his face, as 
 though a cloud had darkened it. Nellie was at 
 her wits end. 
 
 " I don't know, Geoffrey," she answered feebly. 
 And then a bright idea flashed upon her. Had 
 she not been a model ? " Paint me," she said, 
 and tried to smile. 
 
 Geoffrey stared at her as if he had never seen 
 her before, looked at her with eager curiosity, 
 as though she were a new model and he was 
 plumbing her depths, scanning her to see what 
 she might well do for. At first he shook his 
 head, and Nellie looked a trifle pained. Perhaps 
 that answer touched the vanity which is at 
 bottom in all human beings. But at that look 
 Geoffrey brightened. He knew she was good 
 looking, and sweet and gentle, but now he did not 
 want sweetness and gentleness. He had a cruel 
 idea in his brain. He would paint a — Well, he 
 would see if he could paint what he wanted. 
 
 He made Nellie sit to him full face with all 
 the light from the window upon her. 
 
The Face of Death. 277 
 
 " Don't smile, Nellie," he said, " look solemn 
 — as solemn as — death." 
 
 He chuckled and Nellie shivered. She had 
 no wish to smile. He lifted his brush and made 
 a stroke or two feebly. His hand trembled and 
 his face fell. He shook all over and sat glaring 
 at his model and at the canvas, for he was 
 fearful that his strength was gone, his power, his 
 will. He rose with the palette on his thumb, 
 and took the brandy. 
 
 " Don't, Geoffrey," pleaded Nellie, " it will do 
 you harm." 
 
 But he took no notice and drank. He placed 
 the bottle by his chair and sat down. He tried 
 again, and a gleam of triumph shot over his 
 face. He could work ! 
 
 With a few rapid strokes he dashed in the 
 outline of Nellie's face, and proceeded to work 
 furiously, with a curious and horrible absorption 
 in his work. If Nellie moved ever so slightly 
 he frowned, and once or twice he spoke harshly 
 and even swore at her, a thing he had never 
 done before, so far as she knew. He kept her 
 sitting for an hour without a respite, and she 
 felt stiff and horribly tired, although it was an 
 
278 The Degradation of Geoffrey A hvith. 
 
 easy position and she was seated. At the end 
 of the hour he told her she could get up, and 
 she rose to look at what he had done. 
 
 11 Stand back, Nellie," he said, in a half 
 savage voice, " I don't want you to look at it. 
 I won't have you see it yet." 
 
 She refrained, and did as he bid her meekly. 
 He had a great power over her, even as he was, 
 and she could not prevent his drinking spirits 
 again. It seemed as if all his old obstinacy 
 awoke with his ideal faculties. These and his 
 volition had been intimately connected of 
 old. 
 
 She sat down again, and he went on painting 
 fast and eagerly. Nellie could hardly bear his 
 glance. It seemed to grow cruel and savage, 
 with a certain delight, and yet with a tinge of 
 fear in it, as though he was looking at some- 
 thing dreadful ; as Frankenstein looked at the 
 monster he made to breathe. She wondered 
 what he was doing ; was it a simple portrait ? 
 No, it could not be that. 
 
 At the end of a long, long time, as it appeared, 
 he released her again, and she made another 
 attempt to look at what he had done. He 
 
The Face of Death. 279 
 
 repulsed her savagely and brutally, until the 
 tears came into her eyes. 
 
 " You do what I tell you," he said, when he 
 calmed a little, " I don't want you to see 
 it." 
 
 When she sat down again he made her strip 
 to the waist ; he ordered her to do it in a cool, 
 calm, cold-blooded way, as though she was a 
 paid model whom he had hired. Nellie 
 hesitated a moment, for, strange to say, though 
 it was her trade, a certain feeling of shame 
 made her blush. Altered though he was, cold 
 and calm though he might be, yet she loved 
 him. She would have wished him to be her 
 lover. But Geoffrey was past understanding 
 such a feeling, and stared at her until she did 
 as he told her. He drank more spirit and 
 went on painting. 
 
 Once or twice he stopped, and Nellie spoke. 
 
 " Geoffrey, dear Geoffrey," she pleaded, 
 " don't work so hard, you will kill yourself." 
 
 But he shook his head. Once he leant back 
 as if tired, and the look of vacancy came across 
 his face again. 
 
 " Geoffrey," she said, " you must be hungry. 
 
280 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 Let me get you something to eat. Is it not 
 time you took your medicine ? " 
 
 But he sat up again, moved his hand im- 
 patiently, and went on working. At last he did 
 not look at her very often. 
 
 She sat there with her face white, and it 
 seemed to grow whiter, and the lines deepened 
 as the time went on. The light fell full upon 
 her face, upon her bare shoulders and bosom, 
 her rounded arms, and in her sorrow touched 
 her with a sweet melancholy and passion. Her 
 look was anxious and pained, but it was pure, 
 her form not voluptuous though it was beauti- 
 ful, for her eyes would have sanctified her 
 nudity, though it had been complete. Her love 
 was a chastened one, a calm passion that was 
 checked and unfulfilled. She was good, at least 
 in that hour. 
 
 But Geoffrey thought not of that as he painted. 
 He felt his strength fail him, as it seemed to 
 rush into his hand and arm and brain. He 
 grew cold about the extremities, but still he 
 slaved on. He was determined to do this last 
 work as it should be done, and as he saw it 
 grow in evidence of power and expression he 
 
The Face of Death. 281 
 
 was proud of his own work, and he almost 
 laughed. He would show the world what he 
 could do, what he might have done. He knew 
 he had never done anything better with his full 
 strength than he was doing now with his body 
 almost in the grasp of death. For he had never 
 tried before, and now all that was left of his very 
 being seemed to rush in and focus itself into 
 this one supreme effort, that should be immortal 
 if he died, as he must die. It should live for 
 men to stare at, to marvel at, while they said, 
 with bated breath, that it was the last work of 
 a dying man, of a man who had wrestled with 
 fate and death, and had made his name and 
 gained his glory in the last fight. For Geoffrey 
 Alwith was painting a head of death. 
 
 He went on with marvellous persistence, 
 and Nellie sat weeping in her chair, for now he 
 did not look at her. Yet he forbade her to 
 move, and to please him she stayed as she was, 
 but she could not restrain her tears. For the 
 man whom she loved was killing himself before 
 her very eyes. She seemed to see the shadow 
 of death in the shadows that fell about him as 
 the light altered and it grew towards evening. 
 
282 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 C( 
 
 Geoffrey, dear Geoffrey," she said at last, 
 " don't, don't go on any more. You are killing 
 yourself. Are you not tired ? I know you are. 
 You will be so ill again. For God's sake, dear 
 Geoffrey, stop and go on to-morrow. I will sit 
 as patiently as you like, and not complain. 
 Fcr, Geoffrey, / am tired, too, my head aches." 
 
 He took no notice of her, he was hidden 
 behind the canvas, working with the smaller 
 brushes. But she saw his left hand shake. 
 
 " Geoffrey/' she said, in a voice almost like a 
 scream, " don't, don't ! " 
 
 He lifted up his head, and as he did so he grew 
 dizzy. He grasped the side of the chair to 
 keep himself from falling. Nellie sprang from 
 her seat and caught him, staring with an awful 
 anxiety into his face, that quivered and twitched. 
 But he recovered, and sat up without dropping 
 brush or palette. And Nellie turned and saw 
 her own face. Her own face ! 
 
 But it was something horrible, something 
 changed and dreadful, without love, or hope, 
 or faith, or charity, a mask of furious, yet 
 calm insatiable passion for evil, and hatred of 
 good. The eyes were quiet and steadfast, but 
 
The Face of Death. 283 
 
 with an inner light as of hell and torment, con- 
 taining an awful suggestion that they had once 
 been lovely ; they glittered with strange colours 
 that were ophidian, and yet basely human ; the 
 lips were writhed into an immortal stony sneer 
 that mocked life and love, and prophesied 
 desolation, the solitary triumph of perpetual 
 evil. The hands of this being, this horrible 
 likeness of an imagined death, were clasped 
 upon the bosom, as though their work was 
 done, and there was nothing left but con- 
 templation of devilish and unutterable corrup- 
 tion. The background was smoke and fire, 
 mingled in curious conventional forms, leaping 
 up and twining with the hair of the death, until 
 there was no mark or limit between the black 
 locks and the flame of the fire. It was a dread- 
 ful sight, a horrible and immoral thing, the 
 work of a maniac, or a man divorced from 
 good, and tortured into insanity. 
 
 When Nellie saw it she fell upon her knees, 
 and stared with horror. Her hands clutched 
 Geoffrey's arm, that rested like a brown patch 
 upon her fair white shoulder, she was bent 
 back and sideways ; her mouth was open, her 
 
284 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 eyes strained. She tried to speak, but could not, 
 she would have wept, but the sight dried up her 
 tears. She turned away from it shuddering. 
 She caught Geoffrey, and held him yet tighter. 
 She spoke at last. 
 
 "For God's sake, Geoffrey, dear Geoffrey," 
 she screamed, " don't paint me like that ! Oh, 
 it is like me, I see it. But, Geoffrey, I love 
 you, you know I love you, and I ask you for 
 God's sake don't do it ! Oh, it will haunt me 
 all my life, even if you destroy it. Do, 
 Geoffrey, do ! " 
 
 The tears came to her eyes and gushed over, 
 and the man looked down in a kind of evil 
 triumph. It was his work. Nellie went on. 
 
 "Answer, Geoffrey, say you won't keep it," she 
 panted, and put her hand to her bare bosom, "say 
 you will cut it out. Yes, say so ! and to-morrow 
 I will get another canvas. To-morrow — " She 
 struggled and choked, and threw her head 
 back, with its masses of loose hair that trailed 
 over her and touched the floor as she knelt. 
 "Geoffrey — " and she stopped and stared at 
 him, for he was not regarding her. 
 
 He was looking at his work in a fashion that 
 
The Face of Death 285 
 
 made her flesh creep. For a moment she 
 thought she saw an expression in his face like 
 that which he had given the picture. But it 
 was terror, and terror mixed with his triumph. 
 She saw him put his hand to his heart, and he 
 gasped a little and panted. He fell back 
 against his chair and looked bewildered, as she 
 stared at him in intent expectancy. She saw 
 him move his head, he put his hand to his throat, 
 he again panted a little and half choked. Her 
 heart seemed to stop, and she was turned into 
 stone, unable to move. He looked at the 
 picture again and then at her, and smiled a 
 vague smile that was more dreadful than a 
 frown, for it was so mixed with pain and fear, 
 and fled like the sunlight before a cloud. He 
 caught Nellie's hand, and in a spasm clenched 
 it hard, and almost hurt her. Then he looked 
 in a bewildered way, and again his eyes caught 
 his own work in front of him. 
 
 He rose up suddenly, and Nellie was at his 
 feet kneeling, unable to move. She feared 
 something, some horrible catastrophe, for he 
 was so changed. He looked down at the 
 picture, and clasped his hands; he looked 
 
286 The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith. 
 
 intently, even fiercely at it, as though his 
 vision was failing and he wanted to see it 
 better — better still. He leant forward and 
 spoke, — 
 
 " It is good, it is good ; I know it." 
 
 As he spoke — even as he spoke, a ghastly 
 change came over his face, that brought the 
 blood in one great leap to Nellie's heart, and 
 obscured her vision. He tottered and grasped 
 at the air ; she looked up and saw him reel, saw 
 his eyes turn up into his head, saw him clutch 
 his throat and breast, and she sprang to her 
 feet to catch him as he fell. 
 
 She was too late, too late, and he slipped 
 heavily from her grasp. Good God ! would he 
 never reach the ground ? He seemed so long, 
 so long in falling ! 
 
 But the chair was in front of him with his 
 picture upon it as on an easel. He caught 
 the top of the canvas and the chairback, and 
 fell sideways upon the two heavily, very 
 heavily. There was a crash, the chair was 
 splintered and shattered, and the canvas torn, 
 and half the colour was upon his coat, as he 
 rolled over and over and lay still. 
 
The Face of Death, 287 
 
 Nellie knelt beside him, and caught up his 
 head to her naked bosom. She was not weep- 
 ing, but her face was white and ghastly, save 
 when a touch of the paint upon her cheek made 
 a horrible mockery of colour. She put her 
 hand to his heart. She watched his lips, and 
 saw him gasp, once, twice, thrice ; he stiffened 
 a little in her arms, so that his head pressed 
 more heavily upon her; he shivered slightly 
 from head to foot, and then his form relaxed and 
 lay limply on the floor. 
 
 Nellie caught his hands and rubbed them, 
 she opened his collar and chafed his heart, staring 
 at him still, without removing her eyes from his 
 face, but muttering in a low voice, " Geoffrey, 
 Geoffrey, Geoffrey ;" then she loosed his hand 
 suddenly, and with a low scream that was 
 hardly more than a sigh, she dropped suddenly 
 in a faint, and as she did so her mass of beauti- 
 ful hair fell like a pall upon the dead man's 
 face. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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