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diff --git a/78082-0.txt b/78082-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..30be602 --- /dev/null +++ b/78082-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7777 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78082 *** + + + + +Transcriber’s note + +Variable spelling and hyphenation have been retained. Minor punctuation +inconsistencies have been silently repaired. A list with the +corrections made can be found at the end of the book. Formatting and +special characters are indicated as follows: + + _italic_ + =bold= + + + + + The Yellow Book + An Illustrated Quarterly + Volume III October 1894 + + + London: John Lane + Boston: Copeland & Day + + + + +Contents + + + Literature + + I. Women--Wives or Mothers By A Woman _Page_ 11 + + II. “Tell Me not Now” William Watson 19 + + III. The Headswoman Kenneth Grahame 25 + + IV. Credo Arthur Symons 48 + + V. White Magic Ella D’Arcy 59 + + VI. Fleurs de Feu José Maria de Hérédia, + of the French Academy 69 + + VII. Flowers of Fire, a Translation Ellen M. Clerke 70 + + VIII. When I am King Henry Harland 71 + + IX. To a Bunch of Lilac Theo Marzials 87 + + X. Apple-Blossom in Brittany Ernest Dowson 93 + + XI. To Salome at St. James’s Theodore Wratislaw 110 + + XII. Second Thoughts Arthur Moore 112 + + XIII. Twilight Olive Custance 134 + + XIV. Tobacco Clouds Lionel Johnson 143 + + XV. Reiselust Annie Macdonell 153 + + XVI. To Every Man a Damsel or Two C. S. 155 + + XVII. A Song and a Tale Nora Hopper 158 + + XVIII. De Profundis S. Cornish Watkins 167 + + XIX. A Study in Sentimentality Hubert Crackanthorpe 175 + + XX. George Meredith Morton Fullerton 210 + + XXI. Jeanne-Marie Leila Macdonald 215 + + XXII. Parson Herrick’s Muse C. W. Dalmon 241 + + XXIII. A Note on George the Fourth Max Beerbohm 247 + + XXIV. The Ballad of a Nun John Davidson 273 + + + Art + + I. Mantegna By Philip Broughton _Page_ 7 + + II. From a Lithograph George Thomson 21 + + III. Portrait of Himself } + IV. Lady Gold’s Escort } + V. The Wagnerites } Aubrey Beardsley 50 + VI. La Dame aux Camélias } + + VII. From a Pastel Albert Foschter 89 + + VIII. Collins’ Music Hall, Islington } + IX. The Lion Comique } Walter Sickert 136 + X. Charley’s Aunt } + + XI. The Mirror } + XII. Skirt-Dancing } P. Wilson Steer 169 + + XIII. A Sunset William Hyde 211 + + XIV. George the Fourth Max Beerbohm 243 + + XV. Study of a Head An Unknown Artist 270 + + + + +The Yellow Book + +Volume III October, 1894 + + + + +The Editor of THE YELLOW BOOK can in no case hold himself responsible +for rejected manuscripts; when, however, they are accompanied by +stamped addressed envelopes, every effort will be made to secure their +prompt return. + + + + + The Yellow Book + An Illustrated Quarterly + Volume III October, 1894 + + + [Illustration] + + London: John Lane, The Bodley Head, Vigo Street + Boston: Copeland & Day + Agents for the Colonies: Robt. A. Thompson & Co. + + + + + BALLANTYNE PRESS + LONDON & EDINBURGH + + + + +Mantegna + +By Philip Broughton + + +[Illustration: ANDREAS. MANTEGNA. PAINTER. AND. ENGRAVER. OF PADVA. +1491-1506. ] + + + + +Women--Wives or Mothers + +By a Woman + + +WE believe it to be well within the truth to say that most men +cherish, hidden away in an inner pocket of consciousness, their own +particular ideal of the perfect woman. Sole sovereign she of that +unseen kingdom, and crowned and sceptred she remains long after her +faithful subject has put aside the other playthings of his youth. The +fetish is from time to time regarded rapturously, though sorrowfully, +by its possessor, but it is never brought forth for public exhibition. +If to worship and adore were the beginning and end of the pastime, no +cavilling word need be said, for the power to worship is a great and +good gift, and, save in the fabulous region of politics, is nowadays +so rare an one, that when discovered in the actual world its steady +encouragement becomes a duty. But to this apparently innocent diversion +there is another side. Somewhat grave consequences are apt to follow, +and it is to this point of view that we wish to call attention. + +When the woman uncreate becomes the measuring rod by which her +unconscious living rivals are judged, and are mostly found wanting, +then we are minded to lift up our voice and put in a plea for +fair-play. To the shrined deity are given by the acolothyst, not only +all the perfections of person demanded by a severely æsthetic sense, +but all the moral qualities as well. Every grace of every fair woman he +has ever met--the best attributes of his mother, his sister, and his +aunt--are freely hers. None of the slight blemishes which occasionally +tarnish the high lustre of virtue, none of the caprices to which +sirens are constitutionally liable, are permitted. Faultless wife +and faultless mother must she be, faithful lover and long-suffering +friend, or he will have none of her in his temple. Now, this is surely +a wholly unreasonable, an utterly extravagant demand on the part of +man, and if analysed carefully, will, we believe, be found to yield +egoism and gluttony in about equal parts. How, we venture to inquire, +would he meet a like claim, were it in turn presented to him? A witty +and light-hearted lady--a remnant yet remains, in spite of the advent +of the leaping, bounding, new womanhood--once startled a selected +audience by the general statement, “All men are widowers.” But even +if this generous utterance can be accepted as absolutely accurate, it +can hardly be taken as a proof of man’s fitness for both the important +rôles involved. + +For our own part, we are convinced that, broadly speaking, the +exception only proving the rule--whatever that supporting phrase +may mean--woman, fresh from Nature’s moulding, is, so far as first +intention is concerned, a predestined wife or mother. She is not both, +though doubtless by constant endeavour, art and duty taking it turn +and turn about, the dual end may, with hardness, be attained unto. +For Nature is not economic. Far from her is the fatal utilitarian +spirit which too often prompts the improver man (or--dare we confess +it?--still more frequently woman) to attempt to make one object do the +work of two. From all such sorry makeshifts Nature, the great modeller +in clay, turns contemptuously away. Not long ago we read in a lady’s +journal of a ‘combination gown’ which by some cunning arrangement, +the secret whereof was only known to its lucky possessor, would do +alternate day and night duty with equal credit and despatch. We have no +desire to disparage the varied merits of this ingenious contrivance, +but at the best it must remain an unlovely hybrid thing. Probably it +knew this well, for gowns, too, have their feelings, and before now +have been seen to go limp in a twinkling, overcome by a sudden access +of despondency. Such a moment must certainly have come to the omnibus +garment referred to above, when it found itself breakfasting with a +severe and one-idea’d “tailor-made,” or, more cruel experience still, +dining skirt by skirt with a “mysterious miracle”--the latest label--in +gossamer and satin. + +We dare to go even further, and to declare that every woman knows in +her heart--though never, never will she admit it to you--within which +fold she was intended to pass. Is it an exaggeration to say that many +a girl marries out of the superabundance of the maternal instinct, +though she may the while be absolutely ignorant of the motive power at +work? Believing herself to be wildly enamoured of the man of her (or +her parents’) choice, she is in reality only in love with the nursery +of an after-day. Of worship between husband and wife, as a factor in +the transaction, she knows nothing, or likely enough she imagines +it present when it is the sweet passion of pity, or the more subtle +patronage of bestowal, one or both, which are urging her forward into +marriage. Gratitude, none the less real because unrealised, towards +the man who thus enables her to fulfil her true destiny--the saving +of souls alive--has also its share in the complex energy. Well for +the husband of this wife if he allows himself gradually to occupy the +position of eldest and most important of her children, to whom indeed +a somewhat larger liberty is accorded, but from whom also more is +required. In return for this submission boundless will be the care +and devotion bestowed upon his upbringing day by day. He will be +foolish if he utters aloud, or even says in the silence of his heart, +that motherhood is good, but that wifehood was what he wanted. It +would be but a bootless kicking against the pricks. For he has chosen +the mother-woman, and it is beyond his power, or that of any other +specialist, to effect the fundamental change for which his soul may +long. It only remains for him to make the best of a very good bargain, +and one to which it is very probable his strict personal merits may +hardly have entitled him. + +If such a marriage is childless, it may still be a very useful one. +Nature’s accommodations often verge on the miraculous. The unemployed +maternal instincts of the wife easily work themselves out in an +unlimited and universal auntdom. It must be confessed that bad blunders +are apt to ensue, but where the intentions are good, the pavement +should not be too closely scanned. In fiction these are the Dinahs, the +Romolas, the Dorotheas, the Mary Garths. Dear to the soul of the female +writer is the maternal type. With loving, if tiresome frequency, she +is presented to us again and yet again. In truth we sometimes grow a +little weary of her saintly monotony. But as it is given to few of us +to have the courage of our tastes, we bear with her, as we bear with +other not altogether pleasing appliances, presented to us by earnest +friends, with the assurance that they are for our good, or for our +education, or some other equally superfluous purpose. + +With the male artist this female model is not nearly so popular. It +may be that he feels himself wholly unequal to cope with her countless +perfections. Certain it is that he makes but a sad muddle of it when +he tries. Witness Thackeray’s faded, bloodless Lady Esmond, as set +against his glowing wayward Trix--she, by the way, a beautifully-marked +specimen of the wife-woman--though whether it would be pure wisdom to +take her to wife must be left an open question. Still, we have in our +time loved her well, and some of us have found it hard to forgive the +black treachery done in bringing her back in her old age, a painted +and scolding harridan. For these, well-loved of the gods, should, in +fiction at least, die young. + +Truth compels us to own regretfully that man in his self-indulgence +shrinks from both the giving and receiving of dull moments, whilst +woman, believing devoutly in their saving grace, is altruistic enough +to devote herself with enthusiasm to the task of their administration. +Now, dull moments are apt to lie hidden about the creases of the +severely classic robe, which, in the story-books at any rate, these +heroines always wear. We must all agree that during the last twenty +years this type, with its portentous accumulation of self-conscious +responsibility has increased alarmingly. To what is the increase to be +attributed? The too rapid growth of the female population stands out +plainly as prime cause. Legislators are athirst for things practical. +Is it beyond their power to devise some method of dealing with this +problem? The Chinese plan is painfully obvious, but only as a last +and despairful resource, when the wise men of Westminster sitting +on committees and commissions have failed, can it be mentioned for +adoption in Europe. We are, alas! Science-ridden, and are likely to +remain thus bridled and saddled for weary years to come. Every bush +and every bug grows its own specialist, and yet we, the patient, the +long-suffering public, are left to endure both the fogs that make +of London one murky pit, and the redundant female birth-rate which +threatens more revolutions than all the forces of the Anarchists in +active combination. Meanwhile these devotees of the abstract play about +with all sorts of trifles, masquerading as grave thinkers, hoping thus +to escape their certain judgment-day. The identification of criminals +by the variation of thumb-prints is a pretty conceit; so too is the +record of the influence of the moon on the tides, which, we are +informed, employs all to itself a whole and highly paid professor with +a yearly average of three pupils at Cambridge. But what are these save +mere fads, on a par with leapfrog and skittles, in the presence of the +momentous problems about and around us? Let these gentlemen jockeys +look to it. The hour is not far distant when public opinion shall +discover their uselessness and send them about their business. + +In humbler ways, too, much might be done to stem the morbid activity +of the collective female conscience. Big sins lie at the doors of the +hosts of good men and women who turn out year by year tons of “books +for the young” to serve as nutriment for the hungry nestlings of +culpable, thoughtless parents. It is hard to overstate the pernicious +effect of this class of _motif_ literature. _Féerie_ in old or new +dress is the only nourishing food for the happy child who is to remain +happy. The little girl, aged seven, who lately wrote in her diary +before going to bed, “Of what _real_ use am I in the world?” had, it +is certain, been denied her Andersen, her Grimm, her Carroll, even +her Blue fairy book. Turned in to browse on “Ministering Children,” +“Agatha’s First Prayer,” and the fatal “Eric”--into how many editions +has this last well-meaning but poisonous romance not passed--the little +victim of parental stupidity is thus left with an organ damaged for +life by over-much stimulation at the start. This new massacre of the +innocents is of purely nineteenth-century growth. It dates from the era +of the awakened conscience, and is coincident with the formation of all +the societies for the regeneration of the human race. + +_Per contra_, the wife-woman, though but seldom to be met with in the +multitudinous pages written by women, is the well-beloved, the chosen +of the male artist. Week-days and Sundays he paints her portrait. +Shakespeare returns to her again and again, as though it were hard +to part from her. Wicked Trix stands out as bold leader of one bad +band. Tess belongs to the family, though she is of another branch; +so does Cathy of Wuthering Heights, and Lyndall of the African Farm; +whilst latest and slightest scamp of the lot comes dancing Dodo of +Lambeth. Save in a strictly specialised sense, none of this class can +be said to contrive the greatest good of the greatest number. These +are the women to whom the nursery is at best but an interlude, and +at worst a real interruption of their life’s strongest interests. +They are not skilled in dealing with early teething troubles, nor +in the rival merits of Welsh and Saxony flannel stuffs. Their crass +ignorance of all this deep lore may, it is true, go far to kill off +superfluous offspring, but, unjust as it would appear, these are the +mothers who each succeeding year become more and more adored of their +sons. Fribblers though they be, they sweeten the world’s corners with +the perfume of their charm. And the bit of world’s work in which they +excel is the keeping alive the tradition of woman’s witchery. Who, +then, can deny them their plain uses? When Fate is kind and bestows the +fitting partner, the fires of their love never die down. They remain +lovers to the end. Their husbands need fear no rival, not even in the +person of their own superior son. When Fate is unkind and things go +crookedly, these are the women whose wreckage strews life’s high road, +and from whom their wiser sisters turn reprovingly away. For the good +woman who has to “work for her living,” and who pretends to enjoy the +healthful after-pains in her moral system, is rarely tolerant of the +existence of the _leichtsinnïge_ sister for whom, as to Elijah at the +brook, dainty morsels without labour are cheerfully provided by that +inconsequent raven, man. This lady goes gaily, wearing what she has not +spun, reaping where she has not sown. Sad reflections these for the +high-souled woman whose enlightened demand for justice turns in its +present day impotency to wrath and bitterness. + +Wisdom and foresight are never the attributes of the wife-woman. +Charm, beguilement, fascination of sorts, form her poor equipment for +life’s selective struggle. These gifts cannot be said to promise, save +when the stars are in happiest conjunction, long life and useful days +for her intimates. Variations of the two types of Primitive Woman +may abound, but the broad distinction between them is clearly cut +and readily to be made out by the dullest groper after truth. We can +imagine a modern Daniel addressing (quite uselessly) a modern disciple +thus: + +“Look to it now, O young man! that your feet go straight, and slip +not in search for the pearl that may be hid away for you. For she who +loveth you best may work you all evil, and she who loveth her own +soul’s travail best will hardly fail you in the days and the years. But +Love remaineth, and the way of return is not.” + + + + +“Tell me not Now” + +By William Watson + + + Tell me not now, if love for love + Thou canst return,-- + Now while around us and above + Day’s flambeaux burn. + Not in clear noon, with speech as clear, + Thy heart avow, + For every gossip wind to hear; + Tell me not now! + + Tell me not now the tidings sweet, + The news divine; + A little longer at thy feet + Leave me to pine. + I would not have the gadding bird + Hear from his bough; + Nay, though I famish for a word, + Tell me not now! + + But when deep trances of delight + All Nature seal; + When round the world the arms of Night + Caressing steal; + When rose to dreaming rose says, “_Dear, + Dearest_;” and when + Heaven sighs her secret in Earth’s ear,-- + Ah, tell me then! + + + + +From a Lithograph + +By George Thomson + + +[Illustration] + + + + +The Headswoman + +By Kenneth Grahame + + +I + +IT was a bland sunny morning of a mediæval May--an old-style May of +the most typical quality; and the Council of the little town of St. +Radegonde were assembled, as was their wont at that hour, in the +picturesque upper chamber of the Hotel de Ville, for the dispatch of +the usual municipal business. Though the date was early sixteenth +century, the members of this particular town-council possessed some +resemblance to those of similar assemblies in the seventeenth, +eighteenth, and even the nineteenth centuries, in a general absence of +any characteristic at all--unless a pervading hopeless insignificance +can be considered as such. All the character, indeed, in the room +seemed to be concentrated in the girl who stood before the table, +erect, yet at her ease, facing the members in general and Mr. Mayor in +particular; a delicate-handed, handsome girl of some eighteen summers, +whose tall, supple figure was well set off by the quiet, though +tasteful mourning in which she was clad. + +“Well, gentlemen,” the Mayor was saying; “this little business appears +to be--er--quite in order, and it only remains for me to--er--review +the facts. You are aware that the town has lately had the misfortune +to lose its executioner--a gentleman who, I may say, performed the +duties of his office with neatness and dispatch, and gave the fullest +satisfaction to all with whom he--er--came in contact. But the +Council has already, in a vote of condolence, expressed its sense of +the--er--striking qualities of the deceased. You are doubtless also +aware that the office is hereditary, being secured to a particular +family in this town, so long as any one of its members is ready +and willing to take it up. The deed lies before me, and appears to +be--er--quite in order. It is true that on this occasion the Council +might have been called upon to consider and examine the title of the +claimant, the late lamented official having only left a daughter--she +who now stands before you; but I am happy to say that Jeanne--the young +lady in question--with what I am bound to call great good-feeling +on her part, has saved us all trouble in that respect, by formally +applying for the family post, with all its--er--duties, privileges, +and emoluments; and her application appears to be--er--quite in order. +There is therefore, under the circumstances, nothing left for us to do +but to declare the said applicant duly elected. I would wish, however, +before I--er--sit down, to make it quite clear to the--er--fair +petitioner, that if a laudable desire to save the Council trouble in +the matter has led her to a--er--hasty conclusion, it is quite open to +her to reconsider her position. Should she determine not to press her +claim, the succession to the post would then apparently devolve upon +her cousin Enguerrand, well known to you all as a practising advocate +in the courts of this town. Though the youth has not, I admit, up to +now proved a conspicuous success in the profession he has chosen, +still there is no reason why a bad lawyer should not make an excellent +executioner; and in view of the close friendship--may I even say +attachment?--existing between the cousins, it is possible that this +young lady may, in due course, practically enjoy the solid emoluments +of the position without the necessity of discharging its (to some +girls) uncongenial duties. And so, though not the rose herself, she +would still be--er--near the rose!” And the Mayor resumed his seat, +chuckling over his little pleasantry, which the keener wits of the +Council proceeded to explain at length to the more obtuse. + +“Permit me, Mr. Mayor,” said the girl, quietly, “first to thank you +for what was evidently the outcome of a kindly though misdirected +feeling on your part; and then to set you right as to the grounds of +my application for the post to which you admit my hereditary claim. +As to my cousin, your conjecture as to the feeling between us is +greatly exaggerated; and I may further say at once, from my knowledge +of his character, that he is little qualified either to adorn or to +dignify an important position such as this. A man who has achieved +such indifferent success in a minor and less exacting walk of life, +is hardly likely to shine in an occupation demanding punctuality, +concentration, judgment--all the qualities, in fine, that go to make +a good business man. But this is beside the question. My motives, +gentlemen, in demanding what is my due, are simple and (I trust) +honest, and I desire that you should know them. It is my wish to be +dependent on no one. I am both willing and able to work, and I only +ask for what is the common right of humanity--admission to the labour +market. How many poor toiling women would simply jump at a chance +like this which fortune lays open to me! And shall I, from any false +deference to that conventional voice which proclaims this thing as +“nice,” and that thing as “not nice,” reject a handicraft which +promises me both artistic satisfaction and a competence? No, gentlemen; +my claim is a small one--only a fair day’s wage for a fair day’s work. +But I can accept nothing less, nor consent to forgo my rights, even for +any contingent remainder of possible cousinly favour!” + +There was a touch of scorn in her fine contralto voice as she finished +speaking; the Mayor himself beamed approval. He was not wealthy, and +had a large family of daughters; so Jeanne’s sentiments seemed to him +entirely right and laudable. + +“Well, gentlemen,” he began, briskly, “then all we’ve got to do, is +to----” + +“Beg pardon, your worship,” put in Master Robinet, the tanner, who +had been sitting with a petrified, Bill-the-Lizard sort of expression +during the speechifying; “but are we to understand as how this here +young lady is going to be the public executioner?” + +“Really, neighbour Robinet,” said the Mayor somewhat pettishly, “you’ve +got ears like the rest of us, I suppose; and you know the contents of +the deed; and you’ve had my assurance that it’s--er--quite in order; +and as it’s getting towards lunchtime----” + +“But it’s unheard-of,” protested honest Robinet. “There hasn’t ever +been no such thing--leastways not as I’ve heard tell.” + +“Well, well, well,” said the Mayor, “everything must have a beginning, +I suppose. Times are different now, you know. There’s the march of +intellect, and--er--all that sort of thing. We must advance with the +times--don’t you see, Robinet?--advance with the times!” + +“Well I’m----” began the tanner. + +But no one heard, on this occasion, the tanner’s opinion as to his +condition, physical or spiritual; for the clear contralto cut short his +obtestations. + +“If there’s really nothing more to be said, Mr. Mayor,” she remarked, +“I need not trespass longer on your valuable time. I propose to take +up the duties of my office to-morrow morning, at the usual hour. The +salary will, I assume, be reckoned from the same date; and I shall make +the customary quarterly application for such additional emoluments +as may have accrued to me during that period. You see I am familiar +with the routine. Good morning, gentlemen!” And as she passed from +the Council chamber, her small head held erect, even the tanner felt +that she took with her a large portion of the May sunshine which was +condescending that morning to gild their deliberations. + + +II + +One evening, a few weeks later, Jeanne was taking a stroll on the +ramparts of the town, a favourite and customary walk of hers when +business cares were over. The pleasant expanse of country that lay +spread beneath her--the rich sunset, the gleaming sinuous river, and +the noble old château that dominated both town and pasture from its +adjacent height--all served to stir and bring out in her those poetic +impulses which had lain dormant during the working day; while the cool +evening breeze smoothed out and obliterated any little jars or worries +which might have ensued during the practice of a profession in which +she was still something of a novice. This evening she felt fairly happy +and content. True, business was rather brisk, and her days had been +fully occupied; but this mattered little so long as her modest efforts +were appreciated, and she was now really beginning to feel that, +with practice, her work was creditably and artistically done. In a +satisfied, somewhat dreamy mood, she was drinking in the various sweet +influences of the evening, when she perceived her cousin approaching. + +“Good evening, Enguerrand,” cried Jeanne pleasantly; she was thinking +that since she had begun to work for her living, she had hardly seen +him--and they used to be such good friends. Could anything have +occurred to offend him? + +Enguerrand drew near somewhat moodily, but could not help relaxing his +expression at sight of her fair young face, set in its framework of +rich brown hair, wherein the sunset seemed to have tangled itself and +to cling, reluctant to leave it. + +“Sit down, Enguerrand,” continued Jeanne, “and tell me what you’ve been +doing this long time. Been very busy, and winning forensic fame and +gold?” + +“Well, not exactly,” said Enguerrand, moody once more. “The fact +is, there’s so much interest required nowadays at the courts, that +unassisted talent never gets a chance. And you, Jeanne?” + +“Oh, I don’t complain,” answered Jeanne, lightly. “Of course it’s +fair-time just now, you know, and we’re always busy then. But work +will be lighter soon, and then I’ll get a day off, and we’ll have a +delightful ramble and picnic in the woods, as we used to do when we +were children. What fun we had in those old days, Enguerrand! Do you +remember when we were quite little tots, and used to play at executions +in the back-garden, and you were a bandit and a buccaneer, and all +sorts of dreadful things, and I used to chop off your head with a +paper-knife? How pleased dear father used to be!” + +“Jeanne,” said Enguerrand, with some hesitation, “you’ve touched upon +the very subject that I came to speak to you about. Do you know, dear, +I can’t help feeling--it may be unreasonable, but still the feeling is +there--that the profession you have adopted is not quite--is just a +little----” + +“Now, Enguerrand!” said Jeanne, an angry flash sparkling in her eyes. +She was a little touchy on this subject, the word she most affected to +despise being also the one she most dreaded--the adjective “unladylike.” + +“Don’t misunderstand me, Jeanne,” went on Enguerrand, imploringly: +“You may naturally think that, because I should have succeeded to the +post, with its income and perquisites, had you relinquished your claim, +there is therefore some personal feeling in my remonstrances. Believe +me, it is not so. My own interests do not weigh with me for a moment. +It is on your own account, Jeanne, and yours alone, that I ask you +to consider whether the higher æsthetic qualities, which I know you +possess, may not become cramped and thwarted by ‘the trivial round, +the common task,’ which you have lightly undertaken. However laudable +a professional life may be, one always feels that with a delicate +organism such as woman, some of the bloom may possibly get rubbed off +the peach.” + +“Well, Enguerrand,” said Jeanne, composing herself with an effort, +though her lips were set hard, “I will do you the justice to believe +that personal advantage does not influence you, and I will try to +reason calmly with you, and convince you that you are simply hide-bound +by old-world prejudice. Now, take yourself, for instance, who come here +to instruct me: what does _your_ profession amount to, when all’s said +and done? A mass of lies, quibbles, dodges, and tricks, that would +make any self-respecting executioner blush! And even with the dirty +weapons at your command, you make but a poor show of it. There was that +wretched fellow you defended only two days ago. (I was in court during +the trial--professional interest, you know.) Well, he had his regular +_alibi_ all ready, as clear as clear could be; only you must needs go +and mess and bungle the thing up, so that, as I expected all along, he +was passed on to me for treatment in due course. You may like to have +his opinion--that of a shrewd, though unlettered person. ‘It’s a real +pleasure, miss,’ he said, ‘to be handled by you. You _knows_ your work, +and you _does_ your work--though p’raps I ses it as shouldn’t. If that +blooming fool of a mouthpiece of mine’--he was referring to you, dear, +in your capacity of advocate--‘had known his business half as well as +you do yours, I shouldn’t a bin here now!’ And you know, Enguerrand, he +was perfectly right.” + +“Well, perhaps he was,” admitted Enguerrand. “You see, I had been +working at a sonnet the night before, and I couldn’t get the rhymes +right, and they would keep coming into my head in court and mixing +themselves up with the _alibi_. But look here, Jeanne, when you saw I +was going off the track, you might have given me a friendly hint, you +know--for old times’ sake, if not for the prisoner’s!” + +“I daresay,” replied Jeanne, calmly: “perhaps you’ll tell me why I +should sacrifice my interests because you’re unable to look after +yours. You forget that I receive a bonus, over and above my salary, +upon each exercise of my functions!” + +“True,” said Enguerrand, gloomily: “I did forget that. I wish I had +your business aptitudes, Jeanne.” + +“I daresay you do,” remarked Jeanne. “But you see, dear, how all your +arguments fall to the ground. You mistake a prepossession for a logical +base. Now if I had gone, like that Clairette you used to dangle after, +and been waiting-woman to some grand lady in a château--a thin-blooded +compound of drudge and sycophant--then, I suppose, you’d have been +perfectly satisfied. So feminine! So genteel!” + +“She’s not a bad sort of girl, little Claire,” said Enguerrand, +reflectively (thereby angering Jeanne afresh): “but putting her +aside,--of course you could always beat me at argument, Jeanne; you’d +have made a much better lawyer than I. But you know, dear, how much I +care about you; and I did hope that on that account even a prejudice, +however unreasonable, might have some little weight. And I’m not alone, +let me tell you, in my views. There was a fellow in court only to-day, +who was saying that yours was only a _succès d’estime_, and that woman, +as a naturally talkative and hopelessly unpunctual animal, could never +be more than a clever amateur in the profession you have chosen.” + +“That will do, Enguerrand,” said Jeanne, proudly; “it seems that when +argument fails, you can stoop so low as to insult me through my sex. +You men are all alike--steeped in brutish masculine prejudice. Now +go away, and don’t mention the subject to me again till you’re quite +reasonable and nice.” + + +III + +Jeanne passed a somewhat restless night after her small scene with +her cousin, waking depressed and unrefreshed. Though she had carried +matters with so high a hand, and had scored so distinctly all around, +she had been more agitated than she had cared to show. She liked +Enguerrand; and more especially did she like his admiration for her; +and that chance allusion to Clairette contained possibilities that were +alarming. In embracing a professional career, she had never thought for +a moment that it could militate against that due share of admiration +to which, as a girl, she was justly entitled; and Enguerrand’s views +seemed this morning all the more narrow and inexcusable. She rose +languidly, and as soon as she was dressed sent off a little note to the +Mayor, saying that she had a nervous headache and felt out of sorts, +and begging to be excused from attendance on that day; and the missive +reached the Mayor just as he was taking his usual place at the head of +the Board. + +“Dear, dear,” said the kind-hearted old man, as soon as he had read the +letter to his fellow-councilmen: “I’m very sorry. Poor girl! Here, one +of you fellows, just run round and tell the gaoler there won’t be any +business to-day. Jeanne’s seedy. It’s put off till to-morrow. And now, +gentlemen, the agenda----” + +“Really, your worship,” exploded Robinet, “this is simply ridiculous!” + +“Upon my word, Robinet,” said the Mayor, “I don’t know what’s the +matter with you. Here’s a poor girl unwell--and a more hardworking +girl isn’t in the town--and instead of sympathising with her, and +saying you’re sorry, you call it ridiculous! Suppose you had a headache +yourself! You wouldn’t like----” + +“But it _is_ ridiculous,” maintained the tanner stoutly. “Who ever +heard of an executioner having a nervous headache? There’s no precedent +for it. And ‘out of sorts,’ too! Suppose the criminals said they were +out of sorts, and didn’t feel up to being executed?” + +“Well, suppose they did,” replied the Mayor, “we’d try and meet +them halfway, I daresay. They’d have to be executed some time or +other, you know. Why on earth are you so captious about trifles? The +prisoners won’t mind, and _I_ don’t mind: nobody’s inconvenienced, and +everybody’s happy!” + +“You’re right there, Mr. Mayor,” put in another councilman. “This +executing business used to give the town a lot of trouble and bother; +now it’s all as easy as kiss-your-hand. Instead of objecting, as +they used to do, and wanting to argue the point and kick up a row, +the fellows as is told off for execution come skipping along in the +morning, like a lot of lambs in Maytime. And then the fun there is on +the scaffold! The jokes, the back-answers, the repartees! And never +a word to shock a baby! Why, my little girl, as goes through the +market-place every morning--on her way to school, you know--she says to +me only yesterday, she says, ‘Why, father,’ she says, ‘it’s as good as +the play-actors,’ she says.” + +“There again,” persisted Robinet, “I object to that too. They ought to +show a properer feeling. Playing at mummers is one thing, and being +executed is another, and people ought to keep ’em separate. In my +father’s time, that sort of thing wasn’t thought good taste, and I +don’t hold with new-fangled notions.” + +“Well, really, neighbour,” said the Mayor, “I think you’re out of sorts +yourself to-day. You must have got out of bed the wrong side this +morning. As for a little joke, more or less, we all know a maiden loves +a merry jest when she’s certain of having the last word! But I’ll tell +you what I’ll do, if it’ll please you; I’ll go round and see Jeanne +myself on my way home, and tell her--quite nicely, you know--that +once in a way doesn’t matter, but that if she feels her health won’t +let her keep regular business hours, she mustn’t think of going on +with anything that’s bad for her. Like that, don’t you see? And now, +gentlemen, let’s read the minutes!” + +Thus it came about that Jeanne took her usual walk that evening with a +ruffled brow and a swelling heart; and her little hand opened and shut +angrily as she paced the ramparts. She couldn’t stand being found fault +with. How could she help having a headache? Those clods of citizens +didn’t know what a highly-strung sensitive organisation was. Absorbed +in her reflections, she had taken several turns up and down the grassy +foot-way, before she became aware that she was not alone. A youth, of +richer dress and more elegant bearing than the general run of the +Radegundians, was leaning in an embrasure, watching the graceful figure +with evident interest. + +“Something has vexed you, fair maiden?” he observed, coming forward +deferentially as soon as he perceived he was noticed; “and care sits +but awkwardly on that smooth young brow.” + +“Nay, it is nothing, kind sir,” replied Jeanne; “we girls who work for +our living must not be too sensitive. My employers have been somewhat +exigent, that is all. I did wrong to take it to heart.” + +“’Tis the way of the bloated capitalist,” rejoined the young man +lightly, as he turned to walk by her side. “They grind us, they grind +us; perhaps some day they will come under your hands in turn, and then +you can pay them out. And so you toil and spin, fair lily! And yet +methinks those delicate hands show little trace of labour?” + +“You wrong me, indeed, sir,” replied Jeanne merrily. “These hands of +mine, that you are so good as to admire, do great execution!” + +“I can well believe that your victims are numerous,” he replied; “may I +be permitted to rank myself among the latest of them?” + +“I wish you a better fortune, kind sir,” answered Jeanne demurely. + +“I can imagine no more delightful one,” he replied; “and where do you +ply your daily task, fair mistress? Not entirely out of sight and +access, I trust?” + +“Nay, sir,” laughed Jeanne, “I work in the market-place most mornings, +and there is no charge for admission; and access is far from difficult. +Indeed, some complain--but that is no business of mine. And now I +must be wishing you a good evening. Nay”--for he would have detained +her--“it is not seemly for an unprotected maiden to tarry in converse +with a stranger at this hour. _Au revoir_, sir! If you should happen +to be in the market-place any morning”----And she tripped lightly +away. The youth, gazing after her retreating figure, confessed himself +strangely fascinated by this fair unknown, whose particular employment, +by the way, he had forgotten to ask; while Jeanne, as she sped +homewards, could not help reflecting that for style and distinction, +this new acquaintance threw into the shade all the Enguerrands and +others she had met hitherto--even in the course of business. + + +IV + +The next morning was bright and breezy, and Jeanne was early at her +post, feeling quite a different girl. The busy little market-place +was full of colour and movement, and the gay patches of flowers and +fruit, the strings of fluttering kerchiefs, and the piles of red and +yellow pottery, formed an artistic setting to the quiet impressive +scaffold which they framed. Jeanne was in short sleeves, according to +the etiquette of her office, and her round graceful arms showed snowily +against her dark blue skirt and scarlet tight-fitting bodice. Her +assistant looked at her with admiration. + +“Hope you’re better, miss,” he said respectfully. “It was just as +well you didn’t put yourself out to come yesterday; there was nothing +particular to do. Only one fellow, and he said _he_ didn’t care; +anything to oblige a lady!” + +“Well, I wish he’d hurry up now, to oblige a lady,” said Jeanne, +swinging her axe carelessly to and fro: “ten minutes past the hour; I +shall have to talk to the Mayor about this.” + +“It’s a pity there ain’t a better show this morning,” pursued the +assistant, as he leant over the rail of the scaffold and spat +meditatively into the busy throng below. “They do say as how the young +Seigneur arrived at the Château yesterday--him as has been finishing +his education in Paris, you know. He’s as likely as not to be in the +market-place to-day; and if he’s disappointed, he may go off to Paris +again, which would be a pity, seeing the Château’s been empty so long. +But he may go to Paris, or anywheres else he’s a mind to, he won’t see +better workmanship than in this here little town!” + +“Well, my good Raoul,” said Jeanne, colouring slightly at the obvious +compliment, “quality, not quantity, is what we aim at here, you know. +If a Paris education has been properly assimilated by the Seigneur, +he will not fail to make all the necessary allowances. But see, the +prison-doors are opening at last!” + +They both looked across the little square to the prison, which fronted +the scaffold; and sure enough, a small body of men, the Sheriff at +their head, was issuing from the building, conveying, or endeavouring +to convey, the tardy prisoner to the scaffold. That gentleman, however, +seemed to be in a different and less obliging frame of mind from that +of the previous day; and at every pace one or other of the guards was +shot violently into the middle of the square, propelled by a vigorous +kick or blow from the struggling captive. The crowd, unaccustomed of +late to such demonstrations of feeling, and resenting the prisoner’s +want of taste, hooted loudly; but it was not until that ingenious +mediæval arrangement known as _la marche aux crapauds_ had been brought +to bear on him, that the reluctant convict could be prevailed upon to +present himself before the young lady he had already so unwarrantably +detained. + +Jeanne’s profession had both accustomed her to surprises and taught +her the futility of considering her clients as drawn from any one +particular class: yet she could hardly help feeling some astonishment +on recognising her new acquaintance of the previous evening. That, with +all his evident amiability of character, he should come to this end, +was not in itself a special subject for wonder; but that he should +have been conversing with her on the ramparts at the hour when--after +courteously excusing her attendance on the scaffold--he was cooling his +heels in prison for another day, seemed hardly to be accounted for, +at first sight. Jeanne, however, reflected that the reconciling of +apparent contradictions was not included in her official duties. + +The Sheriff, wiping his heated brow, now read the formal _procès_ +delivering over the prisoner to the executioner’s hands; “and a nice +job we’ve had to get him here,” he added on his own account. And the +young man, who had remained perfectly tractable since his arrival, +stepped forward and bowed politely. + +“Now that we have been properly introduced,” said he courteously, +“allow me to apologise for any inconvenience you have been put to by my +delay. The fault was entirely mine, and these gentlemen are in no way +to blame. Had I known whom I was to have the pleasure of meeting, wings +could not have conveyed me swiftly enough.” + +“Do not mention, I pray, the word inconvenience,” replied Jeanne with +that timid grace which so well became her: “I only trust that any +slight discomfort it may be my duty to cause you before we part, will +be as easily pardoned. And now--for the morning, alas! advances--any +little advice or assistance that I can offer is quite at your service; +for the situation is possibly new, and you may have had but little +experience.” + +“Faith, none worth mentioning,” said the prisoner, gaily. “Treat me as +a raw beginner. Though our acquaintance has been but brief, I have the +utmost confidence in you.” + +“Then, sir,” said Jeanne, blushing, “suppose I were to assist you in +removing this gay doublet, so as to give both of us more freedom and +less responsibility?” + +“A perquisite of the office?” queried the prisoner with a smile, as he +slipped one arm out of the sleeve. + +A flush came over Jeanne’s fair brow. “That was ungenerous,” she said. + +“Nay, pardon me, sweet one,” said he, laughing: “’twas but a poor jest +of mine--in bad taste, I willingly admit.” + +“I was sure you did not mean to hurt me,” she replied kindly, while +her fingers were busy in turning back the collar of his shirt. It was +composed, she noticed, of the finest point lace; and she could not +help a feeling of regret that some slight error--as must, from what +she knew, exist somewhere--should compel her to take a course so at +variance with her real feelings. Her only comfort was that the youth +himself seemed entirely satisfied with his situation. He hummed the +last air from Paris during her ministrations, and when she had quite +finished, kissed the pretty fingers with a metropolitan grace. + +“And now, sir,” said Jeanne, “if you will kindly come this way: and +please to mind the step--so. Now, if you will have the goodness to +kneel here--nay, the sawdust is perfectly clean; you are my first +client this morning. On the other side of the block you will find a +nick, more or less adapted to the human chin, though a perfect fit +cannot of course be guaranteed in every case. So! Are you pretty +comfortable?” + +“A bed of roses,” replied the prisoner. “And what a really admirable +view one gets of the valley and the river, from just this particular +point!” + +“Charming, is it not?” replied Jeanne. “I’m so glad you do justice +to it. Some of your predecessors have really quite vexed me by their +inability to appreciate that view. It’s worth coming here to see it. +And now, to return to business for one moment,--would you prefer to +give the word yourself? Some people do; it’s a mere matter of taste. Or +will you leave yourself entirely in my hands?” + +“Oh, in your fair hands,” replied her client, “which I beg you to +consider respectfully kissed once more by your faithful servant to +command.” + +Jeanne, blushing rosily, stepped back a pace, moistening her palms +as she grasped her axe, when a puffing and blowing behind caused her +to turn her head, and she perceived the Mayor hastily ascending the +scaffold. + +“Hold on a minute, Jeanne, my girl,” he gasped. “Don’t be in a hurry. +There’s been some little mistake.” + +Jeanne drew herself up with dignity. “I’m afraid I don’t quite +understand you, Mr. Mayor,” she replied in freezing accents. “There’s +been no little mistake on my part that I’m aware of.” + +“No, no, no,” said the Mayor, apologetically; “but on somebody else’s +there has. You see it happened in this way: this here young fellow was +going round the town last night; and he’d been dining, I should say, +and he was carrying on rather free. I will only say so much in your +presence, that he was carrying on decidedly free. So the town-guard +happened to come across him, and he was very high and very haughty, he +was, and wouldn’t give his name nor yet his address--as a gentleman +should, you know, when he’s been dining and carrying on free. So our +fellows just ran him in--and it took the pick of them all their time +to do it, too. Well, then, the other chap who was in prison--the +gentleman who obliged you yesterday, you know--what does he do but +slip out and run away in the middle of all the row and confusion; and +very inconsiderate and ungentlemanly it was of him to take advantage +of us in that mean way, just when we wanted a little sympathy and +forbearance. Well, the Sheriff comes this morning to fetch out his man +for execution, and he knows there’s only one man to execute, and he +sees there’s only one man in prison, and it all seems as simple as A B +C--he never was much of a mathematician, you know--so he fetches our +friend here along, quite gaily. And--and that’s how it came about, you +see; _hinc illæ lachrymæ_, as the Roman poet has it. So now I shall +just give this young fellow a good talking to, and discharge him with a +caution; and we shan’t require you any more to-day, Jeanne, my girl.” + +“Now, look here, Mr. Mayor,” said Jeanne severely, “you utterly fail to +grasp the situation in its true light. All these little details may be +interesting in themselves, and doubtless the press will take note of +them; but they are entirely beside the point. With the muddleheadedness +of your officials (which I have frequently remarked upon) I have +nothing whatever to do. All I know is, that this young gentleman has +been formally handed over to me for execution, with all the necessary +legal requirements; and executed he has got to be. When my duty has +been performed, you are at liberty to re-open the case if you like; and +any ‘little mistake’ that may have occurred through your stupidity you +can then rectify at your leisure. Meantime, you’ve no _locus standi_ +here at all; in fact, you’ve no business whatever lumbering up my +scaffold. So shut up and clear out.” + +“Now, Jeanne, do be reasonable,” implored the Mayor. “You women are so +precise. You never will make any allowance for the necessary margin of +error in things.” + +“If I were to allow the necessary margin for all _your_ errors, Mayor,” +replied Jeanne, coolly, “the edition would have to be a large-paper +one, and even then the text would stand a poor chance. And now, if +you don’t allow me the necessary margin to swing my axe, there may be +another ‘little mistake’----” + +But at this point a hubbub arose at the foot of the scaffold, and +Jeanne, leaning over, perceived sundry tall fellows, clad in the livery +of the Seigneur, engaged in dispersing the municipal guard by the +agency of well-directed kicks, applied with heartiness and anatomical +knowledge. A moment later, there strode on to the scaffold, clad in +black velvet, and adorned with his gold chain of office, the stately +old seneschal of the Château, evidently in a towering passion. + +“Now, mark my words, you miserable little bladder-o’-lard,” he roared +at the Mayor (whose bald head certainly shone provokingly in the +morning sun), “see if I don’t take this out of your skin presently!” +And he passed on to where the youth was still kneeling, apparently +quite absorbed in the view. + +“My lord,” he said, firmly though respectfully, “your hair-brained +folly really passes all bounds. Have you entirely lost your head?” + +“Faith, nearly,” said the young man, rising and stretching himself. “Is +that you, old Thibault? Ow, what a crick I’ve got in my neck! But that +view of the valley was really delightful!” + +“Did you come here simply to admire the view, my lord?” inquired +Thibault severely. + +“I came because my horse would come,” replied the young Seigneur +lightly: “that is, these gentlemen here were so pressing; they would +not hear of any refusal; and besides, they forgot to mention what my +attendance was required in such a hurry for. And when I got here, +Thibault, old fellow, and saw that divine creature--nay, a goddess, +_dea certé_--so graceful, so modest, so anxious to acquit herself with +credit----Well, you know my weakness; I never could bear to disappoint +a woman. She had evidently set her heart on taking my head; and as she +had my heart already----” + +“I think, my lord,” said Thibault with some severity, “you had better +let me escort you back to the Château. This appears to be hardly a safe +place for light-headed and susceptible persons!” + +Jeanne, as was natural, had the last word. “Understand me, Mr. Mayor,” +said she, “these proceedings are entirely irregular. I decline to +recognise them, and when the quarter expires I shall claim the usual +bonus!” + + +V + +When, an hour or two later, an invitation arrived--courteously worded, +but significantly backed by an escort of half-a-dozen tall archers--for +both Jeanne and the Mayor to attend at the Château without delay, +Jeanne for her part received it with neither surprise nor reluctance. +She had felt it especially hard that the only two interviews fate had +granted her with the one man who had made some impression on her heart, +should be hampered, the one by considerations of propriety, the other +by the conflicting claims of her profession and its duties. On this +occasion, now, she would have an excellent chaperon in the Mayor; and +business being over for the day, they could meet and unbend on a common +social footing. The Mayor was not at all surprised either, considering +what had gone before; but he was exceedingly terrified, and sought some +consolation from Jeanne as they proceeded together to the Château. +That young lady’s remarks, however, could hardly be called exactly +comforting. + +“I always thought you’d put your foot in it some day, Mayor,” she said. +“You are so hopelessly wanting in system and method. Really, under the +present happy-go-lucky police arrangements, I never know whom I may +not be called upon to execute. Between you and my cousin Enguerrand, +life is hardly safe in this town. And the worst of it is, that we other +officials on the staff have to share in the discredit.” + +“What do you think they’ll do to me, Jeanne?” whimpered the Mayor, +perspiring freely. + +“Can’t say, I’m sure,” pursued the candid Jeanne. “Of course, if it’s +anything in the _rack_ line of business, I shall have to superintend +the arrangements, and then you can feel sure you’re in capable hands. +But probably they’ll only fine you pretty smartly, give you a month +or two in the dungeons, and dismiss you from your post; and you will +hardly grudge any slight personal inconvenience resulting from an +arrangement so much to the advantage of the town.” + +This was hardly reassuring, but the Mayor’s official reprimand of the +previous day still rankled in this unforgiving young person’s mind. + +On their reaching the Château, the Mayor was conducted aside, to be +dealt with by Thibault; and from the sounds of agonised protestation +and lament which shortly reached Jeanne’s ears, it was evident that +he was having a _mauvais quart d’heure_. The young lady was shown +respectfully into a chamber apart, where she had hardly had time +to admire sufficiently the good taste of the furniture and the +magnificence of the tapestry with which the walls were hung, when the +Seigneur entered and welcomed her with a cordial grace that put her +entirely at her ease. + +“Your punctuality puts me to shame, fair mistress,” he said, +“considering how unwarrantably I kept you waiting this morning, and how +I tested your patience by my ignorance and awkwardness.” + +He had changed his dress, and the lace round his neck was even richer +than before. Jeanne had always considered one of the chief marks +of a well-bred man to be a fine disregard for the amount of his +washing-bill; and then with what good taste he referred to recent +events--putting himself in the wrong, as a gentleman should! + +“Indeed, my lord,” she replied modestly, “I was only too anxious to +hear from your own lips that you bore me no ill-will for the part +forced on me by circumstances in our recent interview. Your lordship +has sufficient critical good sense, I feel sure, to distinguish between +the woman and the official.” + +“True, Jeanne,” he replied, drawing nearer; “and while I shrink from +expressing, in their fulness, all the feelings that the woman inspires +in me, I have no hesitation--for I know it will give you pleasure--in +acquainting you with the entire artistic satisfaction with which I +watched you at your task!” + +“But, indeed” said Jeanne, “you did not see me at my best. In fact, +I can’t help wishing--it’s ridiculous, I know, because the thing is +hardly practicable--but if I could only have carried my performance +quite through, and put the last finishing touches to it, you would not +have been judging me now by the mere ‘blocking-in’ of what promised to +be a masterpiece!” + +“Yes, I wish it could have been arranged somehow,” said the Seigneur +reflectively; “but perhaps it’s better as it is. I am content to let +the artist remain for the present on trust, if I may only take over, +fully paid up, the woman I adore!” + +Jeanne felt strangely weak. The official seemed oozing out at her +fingers and toes, while the woman’s heart beat even more distressingly. + +“I have one little question to ask,” he murmured (his arm was about her +now). “Do I understand that you still claim your bonus?” + +Jeanne felt like water in his strong embrace; but she nerved herself to +answer faintly but firmly: “Yes!” + +“Then so do I,” he replied, as his lips met hers. + + * * * * * + +Executions continued to occur in St. Radegonde; the Radegundians being +conservative and very human. But much of the innocent enjoyment that +formerly attended them departed after the fair Chatelaine had ceased +to officiate. Enguerrand, on succeeding to the post, wedded Clairette, +she being (he was heard to say) a more suitable match in mind and +temper than others of whom he would name no names. Rumour had it, +that he found his match and something over; while as for temper--and +mind (which she gave him in bits)----But the domestic trials of +high-placed officials have a right to be held sacred. The profession, +in spite of his best endeavours, languished nevertheless. Some said +that the scaffold lacked its old attraction for criminals of spirit; +others, more unkindly, that the headsman was the innocent cause, and +that Enguerrand was less fatal in his new sphere than formerly, when +practising in the criminal court as advocate for the defence. + + + + +Credo + +By Arthur Symons + + + EACH, in himself, his hour to be and cease + Endures alone, yet few there be who dare + Sole with himself his single burden bear, + All the long day until the night’s release. + + Yet, ere the night fall, and the shadows close, + This labour of himself is each man’s lot; + All a man hath, yet living, is forgot, + Himself he leaves behind him when he goes. + + If he have any valiancy within, + If he have made his life his very own, + If he have loved and laboured, and have known + A strenuous virtue, and the joy of sin; + + Then, being dead, he has not lived in vain, + For he has saved what most desire to lose, + And he has chosen what the few must choose, + Since life, once lived, returns no more again. + + For of our time we lose so large a part + In serious trifles, and so oft let slip + The wine of every moment at the lip + Its moment, and the moment of the heart. + + We are awake so little on the earth, + And we shall sleep so long, and rise so late, + If there is any knocking at that gate + Which is the gate of death, the gate of birth. + + + + +Four Drawings + +By Aubrey Beardsley + + I. Portrait of Himself + II. Lady Gold’s Escort + III. The Wagnerites + IV. La Dame aux Camélias + + +[Illustration: PAR LES DIEVX JVMEAVX TOVS LES MONSTRES NE SONT PAS EN +AFRIQVE.] + +[Illustration] + +[Illustration] + +[Illustration] + + + + +White Magic + +By Ella D’Arcy + + +I SPENT one evening last summer with my friend Mauger, _pharmacien_ +in the little town of Jacques-le-Port. He pronounces his name Major, +by-the-bye, it being a quaint custom of the Islands to write proper +names one way and speak them another, thus serving to bolster up that +old, old story of the German savant’s account of the difficulties of +the English language--“where you spell a man’s name Verulam,” says he +reproachfully, “and pronounce it Bacon.” + +Mauger and I sat in the pleasant wood-panelled parlour behind the shop, +from whence all sorts of aromatic odours found their way in through the +closed door to mingle with the fragrance of figs, Ceylon tea, and hot +_gôches-à-beurre_, constituting the excellent meal spread before us. +The large old-fashioned windows were wide open, and I looked straight +out upon the harbour, filled with holiday yachts, and the wonderful +azure sea. + +Over against the other islands, opposite, a gleam of white streaked +the water, white clouds hung motionless in the blue sky, and a tiny +boat with white sails passed out round Falla Point. A white butterfly +entered the room to flicker in gay uncertain curves above the cloth, +and a warm reflected light played over the slender rat-tailed forks +and spoons, and raised by a tone or two the colour of Mauger’s tanned +face and yellow beard. For, in spite of a sedentary profession, his +preferences lie with an out-of-door life, and he takes an afternoon off +whenever practicable, as he had done that day, to follow his favourite +pursuit over the golf-links at Les Landes. + +While he had been deep in the mysteries of teeing and putting, with no +subtler problem to be solved than the judicious selection of mashie and +cleek, I had explored some of the curious cromlechs or _pouquelayes_ +scattered over this part of the island, and my thoughts and speech +harked back irresistibly to the strange old religions and usages of the +past. + +“Science is all very well in its way,” said I; “and of course it’s an +inestimable advantage to inhabit this so-called nineteenth century; +but the mediæval want of science was far more picturesque. The once +universal belief in charms and portents, in wandering saints, and +fighting fairies, must have lent an interest to life which these +prosaic days sadly lack. Madelon then would steal from her bed on +moonlight nights in May, and slip across the dewy grass with naked +feet, to seek the reflection of her future husband’s face in the first +running stream she passed; now, Miss Mary Jones puts on her bonnet and +steps round the corner, on no more romantic errand than the investment +of her month’s wages in the savings bank at two and a half per cent.” + +Mauger laughed. “I wish she did anything half so prudent! That has not +been my experience of the Mary Joneses.” + +“Well, anyhow,” I insisted, “the Board school has rationalised them. +It has pulled up the innate poetry of their nature to replace it by +decimal fractions.” + +To which Mauger answered “Rot!” and offered me his cigarette-case. +After the first few silent whiffs, he went on as follows: “The innate +poetry of Woman! Confess now, there is no more unpoetic creature under +the sun. Offer her the sublimest poetry ever written and the _Daily +Telegraph’s_ latest article on fashions, or a good sound murder or +reliable divorce, and there’s no betting on her choice, for it’s a dead +certainty. Many men have a love of poetry, but I’m inclined to think +that a hundred women out of ninety-nine positively dislike it.” + +Which struck me as true. “We’ll drop the poetry, then,” I answered; +“but my point remains, that if the girl of to-day has no superstitions, +the girl of to-morrow will have no beliefs. Teach her to sit down +thirteen to table, to spill the salt, and walk under a ladder with +equanimity, and you open the door for Spencer and Huxley, and--and all +the rest of it,” said I, coming to an impotent conclusion. + +“Oh, if superstition were the salvation of woman--but you are thinking +of young ladies in London, I suppose? Here, in the Islands, I can +show you as much superstition as you please. I’m not sure that the +country-people in their heart of hearts don’t still worship the old +gods of the _pouquelayes_. You would not, of course, find any one to +own up to it, or to betray the least glimmer of an idea as to your +meaning, were you to question him, for ours is a shrewd folk, wearing +their orthodoxy bravely; but possibly the old beliefs are cherished +with the more ardour for not being openly avowed. Now you like bits +of actuality. I’ll give you one, and a proof, too, that the modern +maiden is still separated by many a fathom of salt sea-water from these +fortunate isles. + +“Some time ago, on a market morning, a girl came into the shop, and +asked for some blood from a dragon. ‘Some what?’ said I, not catching +her words. ‘Well, just a little blood from a dragon,’ she answered very +tremulously, and blushing. She meant of course, ‘dragon’s blood,’ a +resinous powder, formerly much used in medicine, though out of fashion +now. + +“She was a pretty young creature, with pink cheeks and dark eyes, and a +forlorn expression of countenance which didn’t seem at all to fit in +with her blooming health. Not from the town, or I should have known +her face; evidently come from one of the country parishes to sell her +butter and eggs. I was interested to discover what she wanted the +‘dragon’s blood’ for, and after a certain amount of hesitation she +told me. ‘They do say it’s good, sir, if anything should have happened +betwixt you an’ your young man.’ ‘Then you have a young man?’ said I. +‘Yes, sir.’ ‘And you’ve fallen out with him?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ And tears +rose to her eyes at the admission, while her mouth rounded with awe at +my amazing perspicacity. ‘And you mean to send him some dragon’s blood +as a love potion?’ ‘No, sir; you’ve got to mix it with water you’ve +fetched from the Three Sisters’ Well, and drink it yourself in nine +sips on nine nights running, and get into bed without once looking in +the glass, and then if you’ve done everything properly, and haven’t +made any mistake, he’ll come back to you, an’ love you twice as much +as before.’ ‘And la mère Todevinn (Tostevin) gave you that precious +recipe, and made you cross her hand with silver into the bargain,’ said +I severely; on which the tears began to flow outright. + +“You know the old lady,” said Mauger, breaking off his narration, “who +lives in the curious stone house at the corner of the market-place? A +reputed witch who learned both black and white magic from her mother, +who was a daughter of Hélier Mouton, the famous sorcerer of Cakeuro. +I could tell you some funny stories relating to la Mère Todevinn, who +numbers more clients among the officers and fine ladies here than in +any other class; and very curious, too, is the history of that stone +house, with the Brancourt arms still sculptured on the side. You can +see them, if you turn down by the Water-gate. This old sinister-looking +building, or rather portion of a building, for more modern houses +have been built over the greater portion of the site, and now press +upon it from either hand, once belonged to one of the finest mansions +in the islands, but through a curse and a crime has been brought down +to its present condition; while the Brancourt family have long since +been utterly extinct. But all this isn’t the story of Elsie Mahy, which +turned out to be the name of my little customer. + +“The Mahys are of the Vauvert parish, and Pierre Jean, the father of +this girl, began life as a day-labourer, took to tomato-growing on +borrowed capital, and now owns a dozen glass-houses of his own. Mrs. +Mahy does some dairy-farming on a minute scale, the profits of which +she and Miss Elsie share as pin-money. The young man who is courting +Elsie is a son of Toumes the builder. He probably had something to do +with the putting up of Mahy’s greenhouses, but anyhow, he has been +constantly over at Vauvert during the last six months, superintending +the alterations at de Câterelle’s place. + +“Toumes, it would seem, is a devoted but imperious lover, and the +Persian and Median laws are as butter compared with the inflexibility +of his decisions. The little rift within the lute, which has +lately turned all the music to discord, occurred last Monday +week--bank-holiday, as you may remember. The Sunday school to which +Elsie belongs--and it’s a strange anomaly, isn’t it, that a girl going +to Sunday school should still have a rooted belief in white magic?--the +school was to go for an outing to Prawn Bay, and Toumes had arranged to +join his sweetheart at the starting-point. But he had made her promise +that if by any chance he should be delayed, she would not go with the +others, but would wait until he came to fetch her. + +“Of course, it so happened that he was detained, and, equally of +course, Elsie, like a true woman, went off without him. She did all +she knew to make me believe she went quite against her own wishes, +that her companions forced her to go. The beautifully yielding nature +of a woman never comes out so conspicuously as when she is being +coerced into following her own secret desires. Anyhow, Toumes, arriving +some time later, found her gone. He followed on, and under ordinary +circumstances, I suppose, a sharp reprimand would have been considered +sufficient. Unfortunately, the young man arrived on the scene to find +his truant love deep in the frolics of kiss-in-the-ring. After tea in +the Câterelle Arms, the whole party had adjourned to a neighbouring +meadow, and were thus whiling away the time to the exhilarating strains +of a French horn and a concertina. Elsie was led into the centre of +the ring by various country bumpkins, and kissed beneath the eyes of +heaven, of her neighbours, and of her embittered swain. + +“You may have been amongst us long enough to know that the Toumes family +are of a higher social grade than the Mahys, and I suppose the Misses +Toumes never in their lives stooped to anything so ungenteel as public +kiss-in-the-ring. It was not surprising, therefore, to hear that after +this incident ‘me an’ my young man had words,’ as Elsie put it. + +“Note,” said Mauger, “the descriptive truth of this expression ‘having +words.’ Among the unlettered, lovers only do have words when vexed. +At other times they will sit holding hands throughout a long summer’s +afternoon, and not exchange two remarks an hour. Love seals their +tongue; anger alone unlooses it, and, naturally, when unloosened, it +runs on, from sheer want of practice, a great deal faster and farther +than they desire. + +“So, life being thorny and youth being vain, they parted late that same +evening, with the understanding that they would meet no more; and to be +wroth with one we love worked its usual harrowing effects. Toumes took +to billiards and brandy, Elsie to tears and invocations of Beelzebub; +then came Mère Todevinn’s recipe, my own more powerful potion, and now +once more all is silence and balmy peace.” + +“Do you mean to tell me you sold the child a charm, and didn’t +enlighten her as to its futility?” + +“I sold her some bicarbonate of soda worth a couple of _doubles_, +and charged her five shillings for it into the bargain,” said Mauger +unblushingly. “A wrinkle I learned from once overhearing an old lady +I had treated for nothing expatiating to a crony, ‘Eh, but, my good, +my good! dat Mr. Major, I don’t t’ink much of him. He give away his +add-vice an’ his meddecines for nuddin. Dey not wort nuddin’ neider, +for sure.’ So I made Elsie hand me over five British shillings, and +gave her the powder, and told her to drink it with her meals. But +I threw in another prescription, which, if less important, must +nevertheless be punctiliously carried out, if the charm was to have any +effect. ‘The very next time,’ I told her, ‘that you meet your young man +in the street, walk straight up to him without looking to the right or +to the left, and hold out your hand, saying these words: “Please, I so +want to be friends again!” Then if you’ve been a good girl, have taken +the powder regularly, and not forgotten one of my directions, you’ll +find that all will come right.’ + +“Now, little as you may credit it,” said Mauger, smiling, “the charm +worked, for all that we live in the so-called nineteenth century. Elsie +came into the shop only yesterday to tell me the results, and to thank +me very prettily. ‘I shall always come to you now, sir,’ she was good +enough to say, ‘I mean, if anything was to go wrong again. You know +a great deal more than Mère Todevinn, I’m sure.’ ‘Yes, I’m a famous +sorcerer,’ said I, ‘but you had better not speak about the powder. You +are wise enough to see that it was just your own conduct in meeting +your young man rather more than halfway, that did the trick--eh?’ She +looked at me with eyes brimming over with wisdom. ‘You needn’t be +afraid, sir, I’ll not speak of it. Mère Todevinn always made me promise +to keep silence too. But of course I know it was the powder that worked +the charm.’ + +“And to that belief the dear creature will stick to the last day of her +life. Women are wonderful enigmas. Explain to them that tight-lacing +displaces all the internal organs, and show them diagrams to illustrate +your point, they smile sweetly, say, ‘Oh, how funny!’ and go out to buy +their new stays half an inch smaller than their old ones. But tell them +they must never pass a pin in the street for luck’s sake, if it lies +with its point towards them, and they will sedulously look for and pick +up every such confounded pin they see. Talk to a woman of the marvels +of science, and she turns a deaf ear, or refuses point-blank to believe +you; yet she is absolutely all ear for any old wife’s tale, drinks it +greedily in, and never loses hold of it for the rest of her days.” + +“But does she?” said I; “that’s the point in dispute, and though your +story shows there’s still a commendable amount of superstition in the +Islands, I’m afraid if you were to come to London, you would not find +sufficient to cover a threepenny-piece.” + +“Woman is woman all the world over,” said Mauger sententiously, “no +matter what mental garb happens to be in fashion at the time. _Grattez +la femme et vous trouvez la folle._ For see here: if I had said to +Mademoiselle Elsie, ‘Well, you were in the wrong; it’s your place to +take the first step towards reconciliation,’ she would have laughed in +my face, or flung out of the shop in a rage. But because I sold her a +little humbugging powder under the guise of a charm, she submitted +herself with the docility of a pet lambkin. No; one need never hope to +prevail through wisdom with a woman, and if I could have realised that +ten years ago, it would have been better for me.” + +He fell silent, thinking of his past, which to me, who knew it, seemed +almost an excuse for his cynicism. I sought a change of idea. The +splendour of the pageant outside supplied me with one. + +The sun had set; and all the eastern world of sky and water, stretching +before us, was steeped in the glories of the after-glow. The ripples +seemed painted in dabs of metallic gold upon a surface of polished +blue-grey steel. Over the islands opposite hung a far-reaching golden +cloud, with faint-drawn, up-curled edges, as though thinned out upon +the sky by some monster brush; and while I watched it, this cloud +changed from gold to rose-colour, and instantly the steel mirror of +the sea glowed rosy too, and was streaked and shaded with a wonderful +rosy-brown. As the colour grew momentarily more intense in the sky +above, so did the sea appear to pulse to a more vivid copperish-rose, +until at last it was like nothing so much as a sea of flowing fire. +And the cloud flamed fiery too, yet all the while its up-curled edges +rested in exquisite contrast upon a background of most cool cerulean +blue. + +The little sailing-boat, which I had noticed an hour previously, +reappeared from behind the Point. The sail was lowered as it entered +the harbour, and the boatman took to his oars. I watched it creep over +the glittering water until it vanished beneath the window-sill. I +got up and went over to the window to hold it still in sight. It was +sculled by a young man in rosy shirt-sleeves, and opposite to him, in +the stern, sat a girl in a rosy gown. + +So long as I had observed them, not one word had either spoken. In +silence they had crossed the harbour, in silence the sculler had +brought his craft alongside the landing-stage, and secured her to a +ring in the stones. Still silent, he helped his companion to step out +upon the quay. + +“Here,” said I, to Mauger, “is a couple confirming your ‘silent’ theory +with a vengeance. We must suppose that much love has rendered them +absolutely dumb.” + +He came, and leaned from the window too. + +“It’s not _a_ couple, but _the_ couple,” said he; “and after all, +in spite of cheap jesting, there are some things more eloquent than +speech.” For at this instant, finding themselves alone upon the jetty, +the young man had taken the girl into his arms, and she had lifted a +frank responsive mouth to return his kiss. + +Five minutes later the sea had faded into dull greys and sober browns, +starved white clouds moved dispiritedly over a vacant sky, and by +cricking the back of my neck I was able to follow Toumes’ black coat +and the white frock of Miss Elsie until they reached Poidevin’s +wine-vaults, and, turning up the Water-gate, were lost to view. + + + + +Fleurs de Feu + +By José Maria de Hérédia of the French Academy + + + BIEN des siècles depuis les siècles du Chaos, + La flamme par torrents jaillit de ce cratère + Et le panache igné du volcan solitaire + Flamba encore plus haut que les Chimborazos. + + Nul bruit n’éveille plus la cime sans échos. + Où la cendre pleuvait l’oiseau se désaltère; + Le sol est immobile, et le sang de la Terre + La lave, en se figeant, lui laissa le repos. + + Pourtant, suprême effort de l’antique incendie, + A l’orle de la gueule à jamais refroidie, + Éclatant a travers les rocs pulvérisés. + + Comme un coup de tonnerre au milieu du silence, + Dans le poudroîement d’or du pollen qu’elle lance, + S’épanouit la fleur des cactus embrasés. + + + + +Flowers of Fire + +A Translation, by Ellen M. Clerke + + + FOR ages since the age of Chaos passed, + Flame shot in torrents from this crater pyre, + And the red plume of the volcano’s ire + Higher than Chimborazo’s crown was cast. + + No sound awakes the summit, voiceless, vast, + The bird now sips where rained the ashes dire, + The soil is moveless, and Earth’s blood on fire, + The lava--hardening--gives it peace at last. + + But, crowning effort of the fires of old, + Close by the gaping jaws, for ever cold, + Gleaming ’mid rocks that crumble in the gloom, + + As with a thunderclap in hush profound, + ’Mid golden dust of pollen hurled around, + The burning cactus blazes into bloom. + + + + +When I am King + +By Henry Harland + +“_Qu’y faire, mon Dieu, qu’y faire?_” + + +I HAD wandered into a tangle of slummy streets, and began to think +it time to inquire my way back to the hotel; then, turning a corner, +I came out upon the quays. At one hand there was the open night, +with the dim forms of many ships, and stars hanging in a web of +masts and cordage; at the other, the garish illumination of a row of +public-houses: _Au Bonheur du Matelot_, _Café de la Marine_, _Brasserie +des Quatre Vents_, and so forth; rowdy-looking shops enough, designed +for the entertainment of the forecastle. But they seemed to promise +something in the nature of local colour; and I entered the _Brasserie +des Quatre Vents_. + +It proved to be a _brasserie-à-femmes_; you were waited upon by ladies, +lavishly rouged and in regardless toilets, who would sit with you and +chat, and partake of refreshments at your expense. The front part of +the room was filled up with tables, where half a hundred customers, +talking at the top of their voices, raised a horrid din--sailors, +soldiers, a few who might be clerks or tradesmen, and an occasional +workman in his blouse. Beyond, there was a cleared space, reserved +for dancing, occupied by a dozen couples, clumsily toeing it; and +on a platform, at the far end, a man pounded a piano. All this in an +atmosphere hot as a furnace-blast, and poisonous with the fumes of gas, +the smells of bad tobacco, of musk, alcohol, and humanity. + +The musician faced away from the company, so that only his shoulders +and the back of his grey head were visible, bent over his keyboard. It +was sad to see a grey head in that situation; and one wondered what +had brought it there, what story of vice or weakness or evil fortune. +Though his instrument was harsh, and he had to bang it violently to be +heard above the roar of conversation, the man played with a kind of +cleverness, and with certain fugitive suggestions of good style. He had +once studied an art, and had hopes and aspirations, who now, in his +age, was come to serve the revels of a set of drunken sailors, in a +disreputable tavern, where they danced with prostitutes. I don’t know +why, but from the first he drew my attention; and I left my handmaid to +count her charms neglected, while I sat and watched him, speculating +about him in a melancholy way, with a sort of vicarious shame. + +But presently something happened to make me forget him--something of +his own doing. A dance had ended, and after a breathing spell he began +to play an interlude. It was an instance of how tunes, like perfumes, +have the power to wake sleeping memories. The tune he was playing now, +simple and dreamy like a lullaby, and strangely at variance with the +surroundings, whisked me off in a twinkling, far from the actual--ten, +fifteen years backwards--to my student life in Paris, and set me to +thinking, as I had not thought for many a long day, of my hero, friend, +and comrade, Edmund Pair; for it was a tune of Pair’s composition, a +melody he had written to a nursery rhyme, and used to sing a good deal, +half in fun, half in earnest, to his lady-love, Godelinette: + + “Lavender’s blue, diddle-diddle, + Lavender’s green; + When I am king, diddle-diddle, + You shall be queen.” + +It is certain he meant very seriously that if he ever came into his +kingdom Godelinette should be queen. The song had been printed, but, so +far as I knew, had never had much vogue; and it seemed an odd chance +that this evening, in a French seaport town where I was passing a +single night, I should stray by hazard into a sailors’ pothouse and +hear it again. + +Edmund Pair lived in the Latin Quarter when I did, but he was no +longer a mere student. He had published a good many songs; articles +had been written about them in the newspapers; and at his rooms you +would meet the men who had “arrived”--actors, painters, musicians, +authors, and now and then a politician--who thus recognised him as more +or less one of themselves. Everybody liked him; everybody said, “He is +splendidly gifted; he will go far.” A few of us already addressed him, +half-playfully perhaps, as _cher maître_. + +He was three or four years older than I--eight or nine and twenty +to my twenty-five--and I was still in the schools; but for all that +we were great chums. Quite apart from his special talent, he was a +remarkable man--amusing in talk, good-looking, generous, affectionate. +He had read; he had travelled; he had hob-and-nobbed with all sorts +and conditions of people. He had wit, imagination, humour, and a +voice that made whatever he said a cordial to the ear. For myself I +admired him, enjoyed him, loved him, with equal fervour; he had all of +my hero-worship and the lion’s share of my friendship; perhaps I was +vain as well as glad to be distinguished by his intimacy. We used to +spend two or three evenings a week together, at his place or at mine, +or over the table of a café, talking till the small hours--Elysian +sessions, at which we smoked more cigarettes and emptied more _bocks_ +than I should care to count. On Sundays and holidays we would take +long walks arm-in-arm in the Bois, or, accompanied by Godelinette, go +to Viroflay or Fontainebleau, lunch in the open, bedeck our hats with +wildflowers, and romp like children. He was tall and slender, with dark +waving hair, a delicate aquiline profile, a clear brown skin, and grey +eyes, alert, intelligent, kindly. I fancy the Boulevard St. Michel, +flooded with sunshine, broken here and there by long crisp shadows; +trams and omnibuses toiling up the hill, tooting their horns; students +and _étudiantes_ sauntering gaily backwards and forwards on the +_trottoir_; an odour of asphalte, of caporal tobacco; myself one of the +multitude on the terrace of a café; and Edmund and Godelinette coming +to join me--he with his swinging stride, a gesture of salutation, a +laughing face; she in the freshest of bright-coloured spring toilets: I +fancy this, and it seems an adventure of the golden age. Then we would +drink our _apéritifs_, our Turin bitter, perhaps our absinthe, and go +off to dine together in the garden at Lavenue’s. + +Godelinette was a child of the people, but Pair had done wonders by +way of civilising her. She had learned English, and prattled it with +an accent so quaint and sprightly as to give point to her otherwise +perhaps somewhat commonplace observations. She was fond of reading; she +could play a little; she was an excellent housewife, and generally a +very good-natured and quite presentable little person. She was Parisian +and adaptable. To meet her, you would never have suspected her origin; +you would have found it hard to believe that she had been the wife of a +drunken tailor, who used to beat her. One January night, four or five +years before, Pair had surprised this gentleman publicly pummelling +her in the Rue Gay-Lussac. He hastened to remonstrate; and the husband +went off, hiccoughing of his outraged rights, and calling the universe +to witness that he would have the law of the meddling stranger. Pair +picked the girl up (she was scarcely eighteen then, and had only been +married a sixmonth), he picked her up from where she had fallen, half +fainting, on the pavement, carried her to his lodgings, which were +at hand, and sent for a doctor. In his manuscript-littered study for +rather more than nine weeks she lay on a bed of fever, the consequence +of blows, exhaustion, and exposure. When she got well there was no +talk of her leaving. Pair couldn’t let her go back to her tailor; he +couldn’t turn her into the streets. Besides, during the months that he +had nursed her, he had somehow conceived a great tenderness for her; +it made his heart burn with grief and anger to think of what she had +suffered in the past, and he yearned to sustain and protect and comfort +her for the future. This perhaps was no more than natural; but, what +rather upset the calculations of his friends, she, towards whom he had +established himself in the relation of a benefactor, bore him, instead +of a grudge therefor, a passionate gratitude and affection. So, Pair +said, they were only waiting till her tailor should drink himself +to death, to get married; and meanwhile, he exacted for her all the +respect that would have been due to his wife; and everybody called her +by his name. She was a pretty little thing, very daintily formed, with +tiny hands and feet, and big gipsyish brown eyes; and very delicate, +very fragile--she looked as if anything might carry her off. Her name, +Godeleine, seeming much too grand and mediæval for so small and actual +a person, Pair had turned it into Godelinette. + +We all said, “He is splendidly gifted; he will do great things.” He +had studied at Cambridge and at Leipsic before coming to Paris. He was +learned, enlightened, and extremely modern; he was a hard worker. +We said he would do great things; but I thought in those days, and +indeed I still think--and, what is more to the purpose, men who were +themselves musicians and composers, men whose names are known, were +before me in thinking--that he had already done great things, that the +songs he had already published were achievements. They seemed to us +original in conception, accomplished and felicitous in treatment; they +were full of melody and movement, full of harmonic surprises; they had +style and they had “go.” One would have imagined they must please at +once the cultivated and the general public. I could never understand +why they weren’t popular. They would be printed; they would be praised +at length, and under distinguished signatures, in the reviews; they +would enjoy an unusual success of approbation; but--they wouldn’t +_sell_, and they wouldn’t get themselves sung at concerts. If they +had been too good, if they had been over the heads of people--but +they weren’t. Plenty of work quite as good, quite as modern, yet no +whit more tuneful or interesting, was making its authors rich. We +couldn’t understand it, we had to conclude it was a fluke, a question +of chance, of accident. Pair was still a very young man; he must go on +knocking, and some day--to-morrow, next week, next year, but some day +certainly--the door of public favour would be opened to him. Meanwhile +his position was by no means an unenviable one, goodness knows. To have +your orbit in the art world of Paris, and to be recognised there as a +star; to be written about in the _Revue des Deux-Mondes_; to possess +the friendship of the masters, to know that they believe in you, to +hear them prophesy, “He will do great things”--all that is something, +even if your wares don’t “take on” in the market-place. + +“It’s a good job, though, that I haven’t got to live by them,” Pair +said; and there indeed he touched a salient point. His people were +dead; his father had been a younger son; he had no money of his own. +But his father’s elder brother, a squire in Hampshire, made him rather +a liberal allowance, something like six hundred a year, I believe, +which was opulence in the Latin Quarter. Now, the squire had been +aware of Pair’s relation with Godelinette from its inception, and had +not disapproved. On his visits to Paris he had dined with them, given +them dinners, and treated her with the utmost complaisance. But when, +one fine morning, her tailor died, and my quixotic friend announced +his intention of marrying her, _dans les délais légaux_, the squire +protested. I think I read the whole correspondence, and I remember that +in the beginning the elder man took the tone of paradox and banter. +“Behave dishonourably, my dear fellow. I have winked at your mistress +heretofore, because boys will be boys; but it is the _man_ who marries. +And, anyhow, a woman is so much more interesting in a false position.” +But he soon became serious, presently furious, and, when the marriage +was an accomplished fact, cut off the funds. + +“Never mind, my dear,” said Pair. “We will go to London and seek our +fortune. We will write the songs of the people, and let who will make +the laws. We will grow rich and famous, and + + ‘When I am king, diddle-diddle, + You shall be queen!’” + +So they went to London to seek their fortune, and--that was the last I +ever saw of them, nearly the last I heard. I had two letters from Pair, +written within a month of their hegira--gossipy, light-hearted letters, +describing the people they were meeting, reporting Godelinette’s quaint +observations upon England and English things, explaining his hopes, +his intentions, all very confidently--and then I had no more. I wrote +again, and still again, till, getting no answer, of course I ceased +to write. I was hurt and puzzled; but in the spring we should meet in +London, and could have it out. When the spring came, however, my plans +were altered: I had to go to America. I went by way of Havre, expecting +to stay six weeks, and was gone six years. + +On my return to England I said to people, “You have a brilliant young +composer named Pair. Can you put me in the way of procuring his +address?” The fortune he had come to seek he would surely have found; +he would be a known man. But people looked blank, and declared they +had never heard of him. I applied to music-publishers--with the same +result. I wrote to his uncle in Hampshire; the squire did not reply. +When I reached Paris I inquired of our friends there; they were as +ignorant as I. “He must be dead,” I concluded. “If he had lived, it is +impossible we should not have heard of him.” And I wondered what had +become of Godelinette. + +Then another eight or ten years passed, and now, in a water-side +public at Bordeaux, an obscure old pianist was playing Pair’s setting +of “Lavender’s blue,” and stirring a hundred bitter-sweet far-away +memories of my friend. It was as if fifteen years were erased from my +life. The face of Godelinette was palpable before me--pale, with its +sad little smile, its bright appealing eyes. Edmund might have been +smoking across the table--I could hear his voice, I could have put out +my hand and touched him. And all round me were the streets, the lights, +the smells, the busy youthful _va-et-vient_ of the Latin Quarter; and +in my heart the yearning, half joy and all despair and anguish, with +which we think of the old days when we were young, of how real and dear +they were, of how irrecoverable they are. + +And then the music stopped, the Brasserie des Quatre Vents became a +glaring reality, and the painted female sipping _eau-de-vie_ at my +elbow remarked plaintively, “Tu n’es pas rigolo, toi. Vieux-tu faire +une valse?” + +“I must speak to your musician,” I said. “Excuse me.” + +He had played a bit of Pair’s music. It was one chance in a thousand, +but I wanted to ask him whether he could tell me anything about the +composer. So I penetrated to the bottom of the shop, and approached his +platform. He was bending over some sheets of music--making his next +selection, doubtless. + +“I beg your pardon----” I began. + +He turned towards me. You will not be surprised--I was looking into +Pair’s own face. + + * * * * * + +You will not be surprised, but you will imagine what it was for me. +Oh, yes, I recognised him instantly; there could be no mistake. And he +recognised me, for he flushed, and winced, and started back. + +I suppose for a little while we were both of us speechless, speechless +and motionless, while our hearts stopped beating. By-and-by I think +I said--something had to be said to break the situation--I think I +said, “It’s you, Edmund?” I remember he fumbled with a sheet of music, +and kept his eyes bent on it, and muttered something inarticulate. +Then there was another speechless, helpless suspension. He continued +to fumble his music, without looking up. At last I remember saying, +through a sort of sickness and giddiness, “Let us get out of +here--where we can talk.” + +“I can’t leave yet. I’ve got another dance,” he answered. + +“Well, I’ll wait,” said I. + +I sat down near him and waited, trying to create some kind of order +out of the chaos in my mind, and half automatically watching and +considering him as he played his dance--Edmund Pair playing a dance +for prostitutes and drunken sailors. He was not greatly changed. There +were the same grey eyes, deep-set and wide apart, under the same broad +forehead; the same fine nose and chin, the same sensitive mouth. The +whole face was pretty much the same, only thinner perhaps, and with a +look of apathy, of inanimation, that was foreign to my recollection +of it. His hair had turned quite white, but otherwise he appeared no +older than his years. His figure, tall, slender, well-knit, retained +its vigour and its distinction. Though he wore a shabby brown Norfolk +jacket, and his beard was two days old, you could in no circumstances +have taken him for anything but a gentleman. I waited anxiously for the +time when we should be alone--anxiously, yet with a sort of terror. +I was burning to understand, and yet I shrunk from doing so. If to +conjecture even vaguely what experiences could have brought him to +this, what dark things suffered or done, had been melancholy when he +was a nameless old musician, now it was appalling, and I dreaded the +explanation that I longed to hear. + +At last he struck his final chord, and rose from the piano. Then he +turned to me and said, composedly enough, “Well, I’m ready.” He, +apparently, had in some measure pulled himself together. In the street +he took my arm. “Let’s walk in this direction,” he said, leading off, +“towards the Christian quarter of the town.” And in a moment he went +on: “This has been an odd meeting. What brings you to Bordeaux?” + +I explained that I was on my way to Biarritz, stopping for the night +between two trains. + +“Then it’s all the more surprising that you should have stumbled into +the Brasserie des Quatre Vents. You’ve altered very slightly. The +world wags well with you? You look prosperous.” + +I cried out some incoherent protest. Afterwards I said, “You know what +I want to hear. What does this mean?” + +He laughed nervously. “Oh, the meaning’s clear enough. It speaks for +itself.” + +“I don’t understand,” said I. + +“I’m pianist to the Brasserie des Quatre Vents. You saw me in the +discharge of my duties.” + +“I don’t understand,” I repeated helplessly. + +“And yet the inference is plain. What could have brought a man to such +a pass save drink or evil courses?” + +“Oh, don’t trifle,” I implored him. + +“I’m not trifling. That’s the worst of it. For I don’t drink, and I’m +not conscious of having pursued any especially evil courses.” + +“Well?” I questioned. “Well?” + +“The fact of the matter simply is that I’m what they call a failure. I +never came off.” + +“I don’t understand,” I repeated for a third time. + +“No more do I, if you come to that. It’s the will of Heaven, I suppose. +Anyhow, it can’t puzzle you more than it puzzles me. It seems contrary +to the whole logic of circumstances, but it’s the fact.” + +Thus far he had spoken listlessly, with a sort of bitter levity, an +affectation of indifference; but after a little silence his mood +appeared to change. His hand upon my arm tightened its grasp, and he +began to speak rapidly, feelingly. + +“Do you realise that it is nearly fifteen years since we have seen each +other? The history of those fifteen years, so far as I am concerned, +has been the history of a single uninterrupted _déveine_--one +continuous run of ill-luck, against every probability of the game, +against every effort I could make to play my cards effectively. When I +started out, one might have thought, I had the best of chances. I had +studied hard; I worked hard. I surely had as much general intelligence, +as much special knowledge, as much apparent talent, as my competitors. +And the stuff I produced seemed good to you, to my friends, and not +wholly bad to me. It was musicianly, it was melodious, it was sincere; +the critics all praised it; but--it never took on! The public wouldn’t +have it. What did it lack? I don’t know. At last I couldn’t even get it +published--invisible ink! And I had a wife to support.” + +He paused for a minute; then: “You see,” he said, “we made the mistake, +when we were young, of believing, against wise authority, that it _was_ +in mortals to command success, that he could command it who deserved +it. We believed that the race would be to the swift, the battle to +the strong; that a man was responsible for his own destiny, that +he’d get what he merited. We believed that honest labour couldn’t go +unrewarded. An immense mistake. Success is an affair of temperament, +like faith, like love, like the colour of your hair. Oh, the old story +about industry, resolution, and no vices! I was industrious, I was +resolute, and I had no more than the common share of vices. But I had +the unsuccessful temperament; and here I am. If my motives had been +ignoble--but I can’t see that they were. I wanted to earn a decent +living; I wanted to justify my existence by doing something worthy of +the world’s acceptance. But the stars in their courses fought against +me. I have tried hard to convince myself that the music I wrote was +rubbish. It had its faults, no doubt. It wasn’t great, it wasn’t +epoch-making. But, as music goes nowadays, it was jolly good. It was a +jolly sight better than the average.” + +“Oh, that is certain, that is certain,” I exclaimed, as he paused again. + +“Well, anyhow, it didn’t sell, and at last I couldn’t even get it +published. So then I tried to find other work. I tried everything. I +tried to teach--harmony and the theory of composition. I couldn’t get +pupils. So few people want to study that sort of thing, and there were +good masters already in the place. If I had known how to play, indeed! +But I was never better than a fifth-rate executant; I had never gone in +for that; my ‘lay’ was composition. I couldn’t give piano lessons, I +couldn’t play in public--unless in a _gargotte_ like the hole we have +just left. Oh, I tried everything. I tried to get musical criticism to +do for the newspapers. Surely I was competent to do musical criticism. +But no--they wouldn’t employ me. I had ill luck, ill luck, ill +luck--nothing but ill luck, defeat, disappointment. Was it the will of +Heaven? I wondered what unforgivable sin I had committed to be punished +so. Do you know what it is like to work and pray and wait, day after +day, and watch day after day come and go and bring you nothing? Oh, I +tasted the whole heart-sickness of hope deferred; Giant Despair was my +constant bed-fellow.” + +“But--with your connections----” I began. + +“Oh, my connections!” he cried. “There was the rub, London is the +cruellest town in Europe. For sheer cold blood and heartlessness give +Londoners the palm. I had connections enough for the first month or so, +and then people found out things that didn’t concern them. They found +out some things that were true, and they imagined other things that +were false. They wouldn’t have my wife; they told the most infamous +lies about her; and I wouldn’t have _them_. Could I be civil to people +who insulted and slandered _her_? I had no connections in London, +except with the underworld. I got down to copying parts for theatrical +orchestras; and working twelve hours a day, earned about thirty +shillings a week.” + +“You might have come back to Paris.” + +“And fared worse. I couldn’t have earned thirty pence in Paris. Mind +you, the only trade I had learned was that of a musical composer; and +I couldn’t compose music that people would buy. I should have starved +as a copyist in Paris, where copyists are more numerous and worse paid. +Teach there? But to one competent master of harmony in London there are +ten in Paris. No; it was a hopeless case.” + +“It is incomprehensible--incomprehensible,” said I. + +“But wait--wait till you’ve heard the end. One would think I had had +enough--not so? One would think my cup of bitterness was full. No +fear! There was a stronger cup still a-brewing for me. When Fortune +takes a grudge against a man, she never lets up. She exacts the +uttermost farthing. I was pretty badly off, but I had one treasure +left--I had Godelinette. I used to think that she was my compensation. +I would say to myself, ‘A fellow can’t have all blessings. How can +you expect others, when you’ve got her?’ And I would accuse myself +of ingratitude for complaining of my unsuccess. Then she fell ill. +My God, how I watched over, prayed over her! It seemed impossible--I +could not believe--that she would be taken from me. Yet, Harry, do you +know what that poor child was thinking? Do you know what her dying +thoughts were--her wishes? Throughout her long painful illness she was +thinking that she was an obstacle in my way, a weight upon me; that if +it weren’t for her, I should get on, have friends, a position; that it +would be a good thing for me if she should die; and she was hoping in +her poor little heart that she wouldn’t get well! Oh, I know it, I knew +it--and you see me here alive. She let herself die for my sake--as if I +could care for anything without her! That’s what brought us here, to +France, to Bordeaux--her illness. The doctors said she must pass the +spring out of England, away from the March winds, in the South; and I +begged and borrowed money enough to take her. And we were on our way to +Arcachon; but when we reached Bordeaux she was too ill to continue the +journey, and--she died here.” + +We walked on for some distance in silence, then he added: “That was +four years ago. You wonder why I live to tell you of it, why I haven’t +cut my throat. I don’t know whether it’s cowardice or conscientious +scruples. It seems rather inconsequent to say that I believe in a God, +doesn’t it?--that I believe one’s life is not one’s own to make an +end of? Anyhow, here I am, keeping body and soul together as musician +to a _brasserie-à-femmes_. I can’t go back to England, I can’t leave +Bordeaux--she’s buried here. I’ve hunted high and low for work, and +found it nowhere save in the _brasserie-à-femmes_. With that, and a +little copying now and then, I manage to pay my way.” + +“But your uncle?” I asked. + +“Do you think I would touch a penny of his money?” Pair retorted, +almost fiercely. “It was he who began it. My wife let herself die. It +was virtual suicide. It was he who created the situation that drove her +to it.” + +“You are his heir, though, aren’t you?” + +“No, the estates are not entailed.” + +We had arrived at the door of my hotel. “Well, good-night and _bon +voyage_,” he said. + +“You needn’t wish me _bon voyage_,” I answered. “Of course I’m not +leaving Bordeaux for the present.” + +“Oh, yes, you are. You’re going on to Biarritz to-morrow morning, as +you intended.” + +And herewith began a long and most painful struggle. I could persuade +him to accept no help of any sort from me. “What I can’t do for +myself,” he declared, “I’ll do without. My dear fellow, all that +you propose is contrary to the laws of Nature. One man can’t keep +another--it’s an impossible relation. And I won’t be kept; I won’t be +a burden. Besides, to tell you the truth, I’ve got past caring. The +situation you find me in seems terrible to you; to me it’s no worse +than another. You see, I’m hardened; I’ve got past caring.” + +“At any rate,” I insisted, “I shan’t go on to Biarritz. I’ll spend my +holiday here, and we can see each other every day. What time shall we +meet to-morrow?” + +“No, no, I can’t meet you again. Don’t ask me to; you mean it kindly, I +know, but you’re mistaken. It’s done me good to talk it all out to you, +but I can’t meet you again. I’ve got no heart for friendship, and--you +remind me too keenly of many things.” + +“But if I come to the _brasserie_ to-morrow night?” + +“Oh, if you do that, you’ll oblige me to throw up my employment there, +and hide from you. You must promise not to come again--you must respect +my wishes.” + +“You’re cruel, you know.” + +“Perhaps, perhaps. But I think I’m only reasonable. Anyhow, good-bye.” + +He shook my hand hurriedly, and moved off. What could I do? I stood +looking after him till he had vanished in the night, with a miserable +baffled recognition of my helplessness to help him. + + + + +To a Bunch of Lilac + +By Theo Marzials + + +“_Dis-moi la fleur, je te dirai la femme_” + + Is it the April springing, + Or the bird in the breeze above? + My throat is full of singing, + My heart is full of love. + + O heart, are you not yet broken? + O dream, so done with and dead, + Is life’s one word not spoken, + And the rede of it all not read? + + No hope in the whole world over! + No hope in the infinite blue! + Yet I sing and laugh out like a lover-- + Oh, who is it, April--who? + + And the glad young year is springing; + And the birds, and the breeze above, + And the shrill tree-tops, are singing-- + And I am singing--of love. + + * * * * * + + O beautiful lilac flowers, + Oh, say, is it you, is it you + The sun-struck, love-sick hours + Go faint for murmuring through? + + O full of ineffable yearning, + So balmy, mystical, deep, + And faint beyond any discerning, + Like far-off voices in sleep-- + + I love you, O lilac, I love you! + Till life goes swooning by, + I breathe and enwreathe and enfold you, + And long but to love, and die. + + + + +From a Pastel + +By Albert Foschter + + +[Illustration] + + + + +Apple Blossom in Brittany + +By Ernest Dowson + + +I + +IT WAS the feast of the Assumption in Ploumariel, at the hottest part +of the afternoon. Benedict Campion, who had just assisted at vespers, +in the little dove-cotted church--like everything else in Ploumariel, +even vespers were said earlier than is the usage in towns--took up his +station in the market-place to watch the procession pass by. The head +of it was just then emerging into the Square: a long file of men from +the neighbouring villages, bare-headed and chaunting, followed the +crucifer. They were all clad in the picturesque garb of the Morbihan +peasantry, and were many of them imposing, quite noble figures with +their clear-cut Breton features, and their austere type of face. +After them a troop of young girls, with white veils over their heads, +carrying banners--children from the convent school of the Ursulines; +and then, two and two in motley assemblage (peasant women with their +white coifs walking with the wives and daughters of prosperous +_bourgeois_ in costumes more civilised but far less pictorial) half +the inhabitants of Ploumariel--all, indeed, who had not, with Campion, +preferred to be spectators, taking refuge from a broiling sun under the +grateful shadow of the chestnuts in the market-place. Last of all a +muster of clergy, four or five strong, a small choir of bullet-headed +boys, and the Curé of the parish himself, Monsieur Letêtre chaunting +from his book, who brought up the rear. + +Campion, leaning against his chestnut tree, watched them defile. Once +a smile of recognition flashed across his face, which was answered +by a girl in the procession. She just glanced from her book, and the +smile with which she let her eyes rest upon him for a moment, before +she dropped them, did not seem to detract from her devotional air. +She was very young and slight--she might have been sixteen--and she +had a singularly pretty face; her white dress was very simple, and +her little straw hat, but both of these she wore with an air which at +once set her apart from her companions, with their provincial finery +and their rather commonplace charms. Campion’s eyes followed the +little figure until it was lost in the distance, disappearing with +the procession down a by-street on its return journey to the church. +And after they had all passed, the singing, the last verse of the +“Ave Maris Stella,” was borne across to him, through the still air, +the voices of children pleasantly predominating. He put on his hat +at last, and moved away; every now and then he exchanged a greeting +with somebody--the communal doctor, the mayor; while here and there a +woman explained him to her gossip in whispers as he passed, “It is the +Englishman of Mademoiselle Marie-Ursule--it is M. le Curé’s guest.” +It was to the dwelling of M. le Curé, indeed, that Campion now made +his way. Five minutes’ walk brought him to it; an unpretentious white +house, lying back in its large garden, away from the dusty road. It was +an untidy garden, rather useful than ornamental; a very little shade +was offered by one incongruous plane-tree, under which a wooden table +was placed and some chairs. After _déjeûner_, on those hot August days, +Campion and the Curé took their coffee here; and in the evening it was +here that they sat and talked while Mademoiselle Hortense, the Curé’s +sister, knitted, or appeared to knit, an interminable shawl; the young +girl, Marie-Ursule, placidly completing the quartet with her silent, +felicitous smile of a convent-bred child, which seemed sometimes, at +least to Campion, to be after all a finer mode of conversation. He +threw himself down now on the bench, wondering when his hosts would +have finished their devotions, and drew a book from his pocket as if +he would read. But he did not open it, but sat for a long time holding +it idly in his hand, and gazing out at the village, at the expanse +of dark pine-covered hills, and at the one trenchant object in the +foreground, the white façade of the convent of the Ursuline nuns. Once +and again he smiled, as though his thoughts, which had wandered a long +way, had fallen upon extraordinarily pleasant things. He was a man of +barely forty, though he looked slightly older than his age: his little, +peaked beard was grizzled, and a life spent in literature, and very +studiously, had given him the scholar’s premature stoop. He was not +handsome, but, when he smiled, his smile was so pleasant that people +credited him with good looks. It brought, moreover, such a light of +youth into his eyes, as to suggest that if his avocations had unjustly +aged his body, that had not been without its compensations--his soul +had remained remarkably young. Altogether, he looked shrewd, kindly +and successful, and he was all these things, while if there was also a +certain sadness in his eyes--lines of lassitude about his mouth--this +was an idiosyncracy of his temperament, and hardly justified by his +history, which had always been honourable and smooth. He was sitting in +the same calm and presumably agreeable reverie, when the garden gate +opened, and a girl--the young girl of the procession, fluttered towards +him. + +“Are you quite alone?” she asked brightly, seating herself at his side. +“Has not Aunt Hortense come back?” + +Campion shook his head, and she continued speaking in English, very +correctly, but with a slight accent, which gave to her pretty young +voice the last charm. + +“I suppose she has gone to see _la mère Guémené_. She will not live +another night they say. Ah! what a pity,” she cried, clasping her +hands; “to die on the Assumption--that is hard.” + +Campion smiled softly. “Dear child, when one’s time comes, when one is +old as that, the day does not matter much.” Then he went on: “But how +is it you are back; were you not going to your nuns?” + +She hesitated a moment. “It is your last day, and I wanted to make tea +for you. You have had no tea this year. Do you think I have forgotten +how to make it, while you have been away, as I forget my English words?” + +“It’s I who am forgetting such an English habit,” he protested. “But +run away and make it, if you like. I am sure it will be very good.” + +She stood for a moment looking down at him, her fingers smoothing a +little bunch of palest blue ribbons on her white dress. In spite of her +youth, her brightness, the expression of her face in repose was serious +and thoughtful, full of unconscious wistfulness. This, together with +her placid manner, the manner of a child who has lived chiefly with old +people and quiet nuns, made her beauty to Campion a peculiarly touching +thing. Just then her eyes fell upon Campion’s wide-awake, lying on the +seat at his side, and travelled to his uncovered head. She uttered a +protesting cry: “Are you not afraid of a _coup de soleil_? See--you are +not fit to be a guardian if you can be so foolish as that. It is I who +have to look after you.” She took up the great grey hat and set it +daintily on his head; then with a little laugh she disappeared into the +house. + +When Campion raised his head again, his eyes were smiling, and in the +light of a sudden flush which just died out of it, his face looked +almost young. + + +II + +This girl, so foreign in her education and traditions, so foreign in +the grace of her movements, in everything except the shade of her dark +blue eyes, was the child of an English father; and she was Benedict +Campion’s ward. This relation, which many persons found incongruous, +had befallen naturally enough. Her father had been Campion’s oldest +and most familiar friend; and when Richard Heath’s romantic marriage +had isolated him from so many others, from his family and from his +native land, Campion’s attachment to him had, if possible, only been +increased. From his heart he had approved, had prophesied nothing but +good of an alliance, which certainly, while it lasted, had been an +wholly ideal relation. There had seemed no cloud on the horizon--and +yet less than two years had seen the end of it. The birth of the +child, Marie-Ursule, had been her mother’s death; and six months +later, Richard Heath, dying less from any defined malady than because +he lacked any longer the necessary motive to live, was laid by the +side of his wife. The helpless child remained, in the guardianship of +Hortense, her mother’s sister, and elder by some ten years, who had +already composed herself contentedly, as some women do, to the prospect +of perpetual spinsterhood, and the care of her brother’s house--an +ecclesiastic just appointed curé of Ploumariel. And here, ever since, +in this quiet corner of Brittany, in the tranquil custody of the +priest and his sister, Marie-Ursule had grown up. + +Campion’s share in her guardianship had not been onerous, although +it was necessarily maintained; for the child had inherited, and what +small property would come to her was in England, and in English +funds. To Hortense Letêtre and her brother such responsibilities in +an alien land were not for a moment to be entertained. And gradually, +this connection, at first formal and impersonal, between Campion +and the Breton presbytery, had developed into an intimacy, into a +friendship singularly satisfying on both sides. Separate as their +interests seemed, those of the French country-priest, and of the +Englishman of letters, famous already in his own department, they +had, nevertheless, much community of feeling apart from their common +affection for a child. Now, for many years, he had been established in +their good graces, so that it had become an habit with him to spend +his holiday--it was often a very extended one--at Ploumariel; while to +the Letêtres, as well as to Marie-Ursule herself, this annual sojourn +of Campion’s had become the occasion of the year, the one event which +pleasantly relieved the monotony of life in this remote village; though +that, too, was a not unpleasant routine. Insensibly Campion had come +to find his chief pleasure in consideration of this child of an old +friend, whose gradual growth beneath influences which seemed to him +singularly exquisite and fine, he had watched so long; whose future, +now that her childhood, her schooldays at the convent had come to an +end, threatened to occupy him with an anxiety more intimate than any +which hitherto he had known. Marie-Ursule’s future! They had talked +much of it that summer, the priest and the Englishman, who accompanied +him in his long morning walks, through green lanes, and over white, +dusty roads, and past fields perfumed with the pungently pleasant +smell of the blood-red _sarrasin_, when he paid visits to the sick +who lived on the outskirts of his scattered parish. Campion became +aware then of an increasing difficulty in discussing this matter +impersonally, in the impartial manner becoming a guardian. Odd thrills +of jealousy stirred within him when he was asked to contemplate +Marie-Ursule’s possible suitors. And yet, it was with a very genuine +surprise, at least for the moment, that he met the Curé’s sudden +pressing home of a more personal contingency--he took this freedom +of an old friend with a shrewd twinkle in his eye, which suggested +that all along this had been chiefly in his mind. “_Mon bon ami_, why +should you not marry her yourself? That would please all of us so +much.” And he insisted, with kindly insistence, on the propriety of the +thing: dwelling on Campion’s established position, their long habit of +friendship, his own and his sister’s confidence and esteem, taking for +granted, with that sure insight which is the gift of many women and of +most priests, that on the ground of affection alone the justification +was too obvious to be pressed. And he finished with a smile, stopping +to take a pinch of snuff with a sigh of relief--the relief of a man who +has at least seasonably unburdened himself. + +“Surely, _mon ami_, some such possibility must have been in your mind?” + +Campion hesitated for a moment; then he proffered his hand, which +the other warmly grasped. “You read me aright,” he said slowly, +“only I hardly realised it before. Even now--no, how can I believe +it possible--that she should care for me. _Non sum dignus, non sum +dignus._ Consider her youth, her inexperience; the best part of my life +is behind me.” + +But the Curé smiled reassuringly. “The best part is before you, +Campion; you have the heart of a boy. Do we not know you? And for the +child--rest tranquil there! I have the word of my sister, who is a +wise woman, that she is sincerely attached to you; not to speak of the +evidence of my own eyes. She will be seventeen shortly, then she can +speak for herself. And to whom else can we trust her?” + +The shadow of these confidences hung over Campion when he next saw +Marie-Ursule, and troubled him vaguely during the remainder of his +visit, which this year, indeed, he considerably curtailed. Inevitably +he was thrown much with the young girl, and if daily the charm which +he found in her presence was sensibly increased, as he studied her +from a fresh point of view, he was none the less disquieted at the +part which he might be called upon to play. Diffident and scrupulous, +a shy man, knowing little of women; and at least by temperament, a sad +man, he trembled before felicity, as many at the palpable breath of +misfortune. And his difficulty was increased by the conviction, forced +upon him irresistibly, little as he could accuse himself of vanity, +that the decision rested with himself. Her liking for him was genuine +and deep, her confidence implicit. He had but to ask her and she would +place her hand in his and go forth with him, as trustfully as a child. +And when they came to celebrate her _fête_, Marie-Ursule’s seventeenth +birthday--it occurred a little before the Assumption--it was almost +disinterestedly that he had determined upon his course. At least +it was security which he could promise her, as a younger man might +not; a constant and single-minded kindness; a devotion not the less +valuable, because it was mature and reticent, lacking, perhaps, the +jealous ardours of youth. Nevertheless, he was going back to England +without having revealed himself; there should be no unseasonable +haste in the matter; he would give her another year. The Curé smiled +deprecatingly at the procrastination; but on this point Campion was +firm. And on this, his last evening, he spoke only of trivial things +to Marie-Ursule, as they sat presently over the tea--a mild and +flavourless beverage--which the young girl had prepared. Yet he noticed +later, after their early supper, when she strolled up with him to the +hill overlooking the village, a certain new shyness in her manner, a +shadow, half timid, half expectant in her clear eyes which permitted +him to believe that she was partly prepared. When they reached the +summit, stood clear of the pine trees by an ancient stone Calvary, +Ploumariel lay below them, very fair in the light of the setting sun; +and they stopped to rest themselves, to admire. + +“Ploumariel is very beautiful,” said Campion after a while. “Ah! +Marie-Ursule, you are fortunate to be here.” + +“Yes.” She accepted his statement simply, then suddenly: “You should +not go away.” He smiled, his eyes turning from the village in the +valley to rest upon her face; after all, she was the daintiest picture, +and Ploumariel with its tall slate roofs, its sleeping houses, her +appropriate frame. + +“I shall come back, I shall come back,” he murmured. She had gathered a +bunch of ruddy heather as they walked, and her fingers played with it +now nervously. Campion stretched out his hand for it. She gave it him +without a word. + +“I will take it with me to London,” he said; “I will have Morbihan in +my rooms.” + +“It will remind you--make you think of us sometimes?” + +For answer he could only touch her hand lightly with his lips. “Do +you think that was necessary?” And they resumed their homeward way +silently, although to both of them the air seemed heavy with unspoken +words. + + +III + +When he was in London--and it was in London that for nine months out of +the twelve Benedict Campion was to be found--he lived in the Temple, at +the top of Hare Court, in the very same rooms in which he had installed +himself, years ago, when he gave up his Oxford fellowship, electing +to follow the profession of letters. Returning there from Ploumariel, +he resumed at once, easily, his old avocations. He had always been a +secluded man, living chiefly in books and in the past; but this year +he seemed less than ever inclined to knock at the hospitable doors +which were open to him. For in spite of his reserve, his diffidence, +Campion’s success might have been social, had he cared for it, and not +purely academic. His had come to be a name in letters, in the higher +paths of criticism; and he had made no enemies. To his success indeed, +gradual and quiet as this was, he had never grown quite accustomed, +contrasting the little he had actually achieved with all that he had +desired to do. His original work was of the slightest, and a book that +was in his head he had never found time to write. His name was known in +other ways, as a man of ripe knowledge, of impeccable taste; as a born +editor of choice reprints, of inaccessible classics: above all, as an +authority--the greatest, upon the literature and the life (its flavour +at once courtly, and mystical, had to him an unique charm) of the +seventeenth century. His heart was in that age, and from much lingering +over it, he had come to view modern life with a curious detachment, a +sense of remote hostility: Democracy, the Salvation Army, the novels +of M. Zola--he disliked them all impartially. A Catholic by long +inheritance, he held his religion for something more than an heirloom; +he exhaled it, like an intimate quality; his mind being essentially of +that kind to which a mystical view of things comes easiest. + +This year passed with him much as any other of the last ten years had +passed; at least the routine of his daily existence admitted little +outward change. And yet inwardly, he was conscious of alteration, of a +certain quiet illumination which was a new thing to him. + +Although at Ploumariel when the prospect of such a marriage had dawned +on him, his first impression had been one of strangeness, he could +reflect now that it was some such possibility as this which he had +always kept vaguely in view. He had prided himself upon few things more +than his patience; and now it appeared that this was to be rewarded; +he was glad that he had known how to wait. This girl, Marie-Ursule, +had an immense personal charm for him, but, beyond that, she was +representative--her traditions were exactly those which the ideal girl +of Campion’s imagination would possess. She was not only personally +adorable; she was also generically of the type which he admired. It +was possibly because this type was, after all, so rare, that looking +back, Campion in his middle age, could drag out of the recesses of his +memory no spectre to compete with her. She was his first love precisely +because the conditions, so choice and admirable, which rendered it +inevitable for him to love her, had never occurred before. And he could +watch the time of his probation gliding away with a pleased expectancy +which contained no alloy of impatience. An illumination--a quite +tranquil illumination: yes, it was under some such figure, without +heart-burning, or adolescent fever, that love as it came to Campion +was best expressed. Yet if this love was lucent rather than turbulent, +that it was also deep he could remind himself, when a letter from the +priest, while the spring was yet young, had sent him to Brittany, a +month or two before his accustomed time, with an anxiety that was not +solely due to bewilderment. + +“_Our child is well, mon bon_,” so he wrote. “_Do not alarm yourself. +But it will be good for you to come, if it be only because of an idea +she has, that you may remove. An idea! Call it rather a fancy--at least +your coming will dispel it. Petites entêtées: I have no patience with +these mystical little girls._” + +His musings on the phrase, with its interpretation varying to his +mood, lengthened his long sea-passage, and the interminable leagues +of railway which separated him from Pontivy, whence he had still +some twenty miles to travel by the _Courrier_, before he reached his +destination. But at Pontivy, the round, ruddy face of M. Letêtre +greeting him on the platform dispelled any serious misgiving. Outside +the post-office the familiar conveyance awaited them: its yellow +inscription “Pontivy-Ploumariel,” touched Campion electrically, +as did the cheery greeting of the driver, which was that of an +old friend. They shared the interior of the rusty trap--a fossil +among vehicles--they chanced to be the only travellers, and to the +accompaniment of jingling harness, and the clattering hoofs of the +brisk little Carhaix horses, M. Letêtre explained himself. + +“A vocation, _mon Dieu_! if all the little girls who fancied themselves +with one, were to have their way, to whom would our poor France look +for children? They are good women, _nos Ursulines_, ah, yes; but +our Marie-Ursule is a good child, and blessed matrimony also is a +sacrament. You shall talk to her, my Campion. It is a little fancy, +you see, such as will come to young girls; a convent ague, but when +she sees you” ... He took snuff with emphasis, and flipped his broad +fingers suggestively. “_Craque!_ it is a betrothal, and a _trousseau_, +and not the habit of religion, that Mademoiselle is full of. You will +talk to her?” + +Campion assented silently, absently, his eyes had wandered away, and +looked through the little square of window at the sad-coloured Breton +country, at the rows of tall poplars, which guarded the miles of dusty +road like sombre sentinels. And the priest with a reassured air pulled +out his breviary, and began to say his office in an imperceptible +undertone. After a while he crossed himself, shut the book, and +pillowing his head against the hot, shiny leather of the carriage, +sought repose; very soon his regular, stertorous breathing, assured his +companion that he was asleep. Campion closed his eyes also, not indeed +in search of slumber, though he was travel weary; rather the better to +isolate himself with the perplexity of his own thoughts. An indefinable +sadness invaded him, and he could envy the priest’s simple logic, which +gave such short shrift to obstacles that Campion, with his subtle +melancholy, which made life to him almost morbidly an affair of fine +shades and nice distinctions, might easily exaggerate. + +Of the two, perhaps the priest had really the more secular mind, as +it certainly excelled Campion’s in that practical wisdom, or common +sense, which may be of more avail than subtlety in the mere economy +of life. And what to the Curé was a simple matter enough, the removal +of the idle fancy of a girl, might be to Campion, in his scrupulous +temper, and his overweening tenderness towards just those pieties and +renunciations which such a fancy implied, a task to be undertaken +hardly with relish, perhaps without any real conviction, deeply as his +personal wishes might be implicated in success. And the heart had gone +out of his journey long before a turn of the road brought them in sight +of Ploumariel. + + +IV + +Up by the great, stone Calvary, where they had climbed nearly a +year before, Campion stood, his face deliberately averted, while +the young girl uttered her hesitating confidences; hesitating, yet +candid, with a candour which seemed to separate him from the child by +more than a measurable space of years, to set him with an appealing +trustfulness in the seat of judgment--for him, for her. They had +wandered there insensibly, through apple-orchards white with the +promise of a bountiful harvest, and up the pine-clad hill, talking of +little things--trifles to beguile their way--perhaps, in a sort of +vain procrastination. Once, Marie-Ursule had plucked a branch of the +snowy blossom, and he had playfully chided her that the cider would be +less by a _litre_ that year in Brittany. “But the blossom is so much +prettier,” she protested; “and there will be apples and apples--always +enough apples. But I like the blossom best--and it is so soon over.” + +And then, emerging clear of the trees, with Ploumariel lying in its +quietude in the serene sunshine below them, a sudden strenuousness had +supervened, and the girl had unburdened herself, speaking tremulously, +quickly, in an undertone almost passionate; and Campion, perforce, +had listened.... A fancy? a whim? Yes, he reflected; to the normal, +entirely healthy mind, any choice of exceptional conditions, any +special self-consecration or withdrawal from the common lot of men +and women must draw down upon it some such reproach, seeming the mere +pedantry of inexperience. Yet, against his reason, and what he would +fain call his better judgment, something in his heart of hearts stirred +sympathetically with this notion of the girl. And it was no fixed +resolution, no deliberate justification which she pleaded. She was +soft, and pliable, and even her plea for renunciation contained pretty, +feminine inconsequences; and it touched Campion strangely. Argument +he could have met with argument; an ardent conviction he might have +assailed with pleading; but that note of appeal in her pathetic young +voice, for advice, for sympathy, disarmed him. + +“Yet the world,” he protested at last, but half-heartedly, with +a sense of self-imposture: “the world, Marie-Ursule, it has its +disappointments; but there are compensations.” + +“I am afraid, afraid,” she murmured. + +Their eyes alike sought instinctively the Convent of the Ursulines, +white and sequestered in the valley--a visible symbol of security, of +peace, perhaps of happiness. + +“Even there they have their bad days: do not doubt it.” + +“But nothing happens,” she said simply; “one day is like another. They +can never be very sad, you know.” + +They were silent for a time: the girl, shading her eyes with one small +white hand, continued to regard the convent; and Campion considered her +fondly. + +“What can I say?” he exclaimed at last. “What would you put on me? Your +uncle--he is a priest--surely the most natural adviser--you know his +wishes.” + +She shook her head. “With him it is different--I am one of his +family--he is not a priest for me. And he considers me a little +girl--and yet I am old enough to marry. Many young girls have had a +vocation before my age. Ah, help me, decide for me!” she pleaded; “you +are my _tuteur_.” + +“And a very old friend, Marie-Ursule.” He smiled rather sadly. Last +year seemed so long ago, and the word, which he had almost spoken then, +was no longer seasonable. A note in his voice, inexplicable, might +have touched her. She took his hand impulsively, but he withdrew it +quickly, as though her touch had scalded him. + +“You look very tired; you are not used to our Breton rambles in this +sun. See, I will run down to the cottage by the chapel and fetch you +some milk. Then you shall tell me.” + +When he was alone the smile faded from his face and was succeeded +by a look of lassitude, as he sat himself beneath the shadow of the +Calvary to wrestle with his responsibility. Perhaps it was a vocation: +the phrase, sounding strangely on modern ears, to him, at least, was +no anachronism. Women of his race, from generation to generation, had +heard some such voice and had obeyed it. That it went unheeded now +was, perhaps, less a proof that it was silent, than that people had +grown hard and deaf, in a world that had deteriorated. Certainly the +convent had to him no vulgar, Protestant significance, to be combated +for its intrinsic barbarism; it suggested nothing cold nor narrow +nor mean, was veritably a gracious choice, a generous effort after +perfection. Then it was for his own sake, on an egoistic impulse, +that he should dissuade her? And it rested with him; he had no doubt +that he could mould her, even yet, to his purpose. The child! how he +loved her.... But would it ever be quite the same with them after +that morning? Or must there be henceforth a shadow between them; the +knowledge of something missed, of the lower end pursued, the higher +slighted? Yet, if she loved him? He let his head drop on his hands, +murmured aloud at the hard chance which made him at once judge and +advocate in his own cause. He was not conscious of praying, but his +mind fell into that condition of aching blankness which is, perhaps, +an extreme prayer. Presently he looked down again at Ploumariel, with +its coronal of faint smoke ascending in the perfectly still air, at +the white convent of the Dames Ursulines, which seemed to dominate and +protect it. How peaceful it was! And his thought wandered to London: to +its bustle and noise, its squalid streets, to his life there, to its +literary coteries, its politics, its society; vulgar and trivial and +sordid they all seemed from this point of vantage. That was the world +he had pleaded for, and it was into that he would bring the child.... +And suddenly, with a strange reaction, he was seized with a sense of +the wisdom of her choice, its pictorial fitness, its benefit for both +of them. He felt at once and finally, that he acquiesced in it; that +any other ending to his love had been an impossible grossness, and +that to lose her in just that fashion was the only way in which he +could keep her always. And his acquiescence was without bitterness, and +attended only by that indefinable sadness which to a man of his temper +was but the last refinement of pleasure. He had renounced, but he had +triumphed; for it seemed to him that his renunciation would be an ægis +to him always against the sordid facts of life, a protest against the +vulgarity of instinct, the tyranny of institutions. And he thought of +the girl’s life, as it should be, with a tender appreciation--as of +something precious laid away in lavender. He looked up to find her +waiting before him with a basin half full of milk, warm still, fresh +from the cow; and she watched him in silence while he drank. Then their +eyes met, and she gave a little cry. + +“You will help me? Ah, I see that you will! And you think I am right?” + +“I think you are right, Marie-Ursule.” + +“And you will persuade my uncle?” + +“I will persuade him.” + +She took his hand in silence, and they stood so for a minute, gravely +regarding each other. Then they prepared to descend. + + + + +To Salomé at St. James’s + +By Theodore Wratislaw + + + FLOWER of the ballet’s nightly mirth, + Pleased with a trinket or a gown, + Eternal as eternal earth + You dance the centuries down. + + For you, my plaything, slight and light, + Capricious, petulant and proud, + With whom I sit and sup to-night + Among the tawdry crowd, + + Are she whose swift and sandalled feet + And postured girlish beauty won + A pagan prize, for you unmeet, + The head of Baptist John. + + And after ages, when you sit + A princess less in birth than power, + Freed from the theatre’s fume and heat + To kill an idle hour, + + Here in the babbling room agleam + With scarlet lips and naked arms + And such rich jewels as beseem + The painted damzel’s charms, + + Even now your tired and subtle face + Bears record to the wondrous time + When from your limbs’ lascivious grace + Sprang forth your splendid crime. + + And though none deem it true, of those + Who watch you in our banal age + Like some stray fairy glide and pose + Upon a London stage, + + Yet I to whom your frail caprice + Turns for the moment ardent eyes + Have seen the strength of love release + Your sleeping memories. + + I too am servant to your glance, + I too am bent beneath your sway, + My wonder! My desire! who dance + Men’s heads and hearts away. + + Sweet arbitress of love and death, + Unchanging on time’s changing sands, + You hold more lightly than a breath + The world between your hands! + + + + +Second Thoughts + +By Arthur Moore + + +I + +AS the clock struck eight Sir Geoffrey Vincent cast aside the dull +society journal with which he had been beguiling the solitude of his +after-dinner coffee and cigar, and abandoned, with an alacrity eloquent +of long boredom, his possession of one of the capacious chairs which +invited repose in the dingy smoking-room of an old-fashioned club. It +had been reserved for him, after twenty monotonous years of almost +unbroken exile, spent, for the most part, amid the jungles and swamps +of Lower Burma, to realise that a friendless man, alone in the most +populous city of the world, may encounter among thousands of his peers +a desolation more supreme than the solitude of the most ultimate +wilderness; and he found himself wondering, a little savagely, why, +after all, he had expected his home-coming to be so different from the +reality that now confronted him. When he landed at Brindisi, a short +ten days ago, misgivings had already assailed him vaguely; the fact +that he was practically homeless, that, although not altogether bereft +of kith and kin, he had no family circle to welcome him as an addition +to its circumference, had made it inevitable that his rapid passage +across the Continent should be haunted by forebodings to which he had +not cared to assign a shape too definite; phantoms which he exorcised +hopefully, with a tacit reliance on a trick of falling on his feet +which had seldom failed his need. He consoled himself with the thought +that London was home, England was home; he would meet old comrades in +the streets perhaps, assuredly at his club, and such encounters would +be so much the more delightful if they were fortuitous, unexpected. The +plans which he had laid so carefully pacing the long deck of the P. and +O. boat in the starlight, or, more remotely, lying awake through the +hot night hours under a whining punkah in his lonely bungalow, had all +implied, however vaguely and impersonally, a certain companionship. He +was dimly conscious that he had cousins somewhere in the background; he +had long since lost touch with them, but he would look them up. He had +two nieces, still in their teens, the children of his only sister who +had died ten years ago; he had never seen them, but their photographs +were charming--they should be overwhelmed with such benefactions as +a bachelor uncle with a well-lined purse may pleasantly bestow. His +friends--the dim legion that was to rise about his path--should take +him to see Sarah Bernhardt (a mere name to him as yet) at the Gaiety, +to the new Gilbert and Sullivan opera at the Savoy; they should +enlighten him as to the latent merits of the pictures at Burlington +House; they should dine with him, shoot with him, be introduced to +his Indian falcons; in a word, he would keep open house, in town and +country too, for all good fellows and their pretty wives. It had even +occurred to him, as a possibility neither remote nor unattractive, that +he might himself one day possess a pretty wife to welcome them. + +His sanguine expectations encountered their first rebuff when he found +the Piccadilly Club, which had figured so often in the dreams of its +exiled member, abandoned to a horde of workmen, a mere wilderness of +paint and whitewash; and it was with a touch of resentment that he +accepted the direction of an indifferent hall-porter to an unfamiliar +edifice in Pall Mall as its temporary substitute. Entering the +smoking-room, a little diffidently, on the evening of his arrival in +London, he found himself eyed, at first with faint curiosity, by two +or three of the men upon whom his gaze rested expectantly, but in no +case was this curiosity--prompted doubtless by that touch of the exotic +which sometimes clings to dwellers in the East--the precursor of the +kindly recognition, the surprised, incredulous greeting which he had +hoped for. After a few days he was simply ignored; his face, rather +stern, with its distinctive Indian tan through which the grey eyes +looked almost blue, his erect figure, and dark hair sparsely flecked +with a frosty white, had become familiar; he had visited his tailor, +and his garments no longer betrayed him to the curious by their fashion +of Rangoon. + +The Blue-book, which he had been quick to interrogate, informed him +that his old friend Hibbert lived in Portman Square, and that the old +lady who was the guardian of his nieces had a house at Hampstead: +further inquiry at the addresses thus obtained left him baffled by the +intelligence that Colonel Hibbert was in Norway, his nieces at school +in Switzerland. Mackinnon, late of the Woods and Forests, whom he met +at Burlington House, raised his hopes for an instant by a greeting +which sounded precisely the note of cordiality that he yearned for, +only to dash them by expressing a hope that he should see more of his +old friend in the autumn; he was off to Southampton to join a friend’s +yacht on the morrow, and after his cruise he had designs on Scotland +and the grouse. + +Sir Geoffrey, chained to the neighbourhood of London by legal +business, already too long deferred, connected with the succession +which had made him a rich man and brought him home, could only rebel +mutely against the ill-fortune which left him solitary at a time when +he most longed for fellowship, acknowledging the while, with a touch +of self-reproach, that the position which he resented was very largely +due to his own shortcomings; he had always figured as a lamentably +bad correspondent, and his inveterate aversion to letter-writing had +allowed the links of many old friendships to fall asunder, had operated +to leave such friends as were still in touch with him in ignorance of +his home-coming. + +Now, as he paused in the hall of his club to light a cigarette before +passing out into the pleasant July twilight, he told himself that +for the present he had done with London; he would shake the dust of +the inhospitable city from off his feet, and go down to the place in +Wiltshire which was learning to call him master, to await better days +in company with his beloved falcons. He even found himself taking +comfort from this prospect while a hansom bore him swiftly to the Savoy +Theatre, and when he was safely ensconced in his stall he beguiled +the interval before the rising of the curtain--a period which his +impatience to escape from the club rather than any undue passion for +punctuality had made somewhat lengthy--by considering, speculatively, +the chances of society which the Willescombe neighbourhood seemed +to afford. He enjoyed the first act of the extravaganza with the +zest of a man to whom the work of the famous collaborators was an +entire novelty, his pleasure unalloyed by the fact, of which he was +blissfully unconscious, that one of the principal parts was played by +an understudy. His _ennui_ returning with the fall of the curtain, +he prepared to spend the entr’acte in contemplation of the people +who composed the house, rather than to incur the resentment of the +placid dowagers who were his neighbours, by passing and repassing, +like the majority of his fellow-men, in search of the distant haven +where cigarettes and drinks, obtained with difficulty, could be +hastily appreciated. More than once his wandering eyes returned to a +box next the stage on a dress-circle tier, and finally they rested +rather wistfully on its occupants, or, to be more accurate, on the +younger of the two ladies who were seated in front. It was not simply +because the girl was pretty, though her beauty, the flower-like charm +of a young Englishwoman fresh from the schoolroom, a fine example +of a type not particularly rare, would have furnished a sufficient +pretext: he was struck by a resemblance, a haunting reminiscence, +which at first exercised his curiosity, and ended by baffling and +tantalising him. There was something vaguely familiar, he thought, in +the manner of her smile, the inclination of her head as she turned +now and then to address a remark to her companion, the lady in grey, +whose face was hidden from him by the drapery at the side of the box. +When she laughed, furling a feathery fan, and throwing a bright glance +back at the gentleman whose white shirt-front was dimly visible in +the background, Sir Geoffrey felt himself on the verge of solving +his riddle, but at this point, while a name seemed to tremble on his +lips, the lights of the auditorium were lowered, and the rising of the +curtain on the fairyland of the second scene diverted his attention to +the stage. Later, when he had passed into the crowded lobby, and was +making his way slowly through a jungle of pretty dresses towards the +door, he recognised in front of him the amber-coloured hair and dainty, +pale-blue opera cloak of the damsel who had puzzled him. The two ladies +(her companion of the grey dress was close at hand) halted near the +door while their cavalier passed out in search of their carriage; the +elder lady turned, adjusting a cloud of soft lace about her shoulders, +and Sir Geoffrey was struck on the instant by a swift thrill. Here, +at last, was an old friend--that face could belong to no one else +than Margaret Addison. It was natural that her maiden name should +first occur to him, but he remembered, as he edged his way laboriously +towards her, that she had married just after he sailed for Burma; yes, +she had married that amiable scape-grace Dick Vandeleur, who had met +his death in the hunting-field nearly fifteen years ago. + +As he drew near, Mrs. Vandeleur’s gaze fell upon him for a brief +instant; he thought that she had not recognised him, but before his +spirits had time to suffer any consequent depression, her eyes returned +to him, and as he smiled in answer to the surprise which he read in +them, he saw her face flush, and then grow a little pale, before a +responsive light of recognition dawned upon it. She took his hand +silently when he offered it, eyeing him with the same faint smile, an +expression in which welcome seemed to be gleaming through a cloud of +apprehension. + +“I’m not a ghost,” he said, laughing; “I’m Geoffrey Vincent. Don’t be +ashamed of owning that you had quite forgotten me!” + +“I knew you at once,” she said simply. “So you are home at last: you +must come and see me as soon as you can. This is my daughter Dorothy, +and here is my brother--of course you remember Philip?--coming to tell +us that the carriage is waiting. You will come, to-morrow--to prove +that you are not a ghost? We shall expect you.” + + +II + +A fortnight later Sir Geoffrey was sitting in a punt, beguiling the +afternoon of a rainy day by luring unwary roach to their destruction +with a hair-line and pellets of paste, delicately kneaded by the +taper fingers of Miss Dorothy Vandeleur. He was the guest of Mrs. +Vandeleur’s brother, his school friend, Philip Addison the Q.C., and +Mrs. Vandeleur and her daughter were also staying at the delightful +old Elizabethan house which nestled, with such an air of immemorial +occupation, halfway down the wooded side of one of the Streatley hills, +its spotless lawn sloping steeply to the margin of the fairest river in +the world. Miss Vandeleur had enshrined herself among a pile of rugs +and cushions at the stern of the punt, where the roof of her uncle’s +boat-house afforded shelter from the persistent rain. She was arrayed +in the blue serge dear to the modern water-nymph; and at intervals +she relieved her feelings by shaking a small fist at the leaden vault +of sky. For the rest, her attention was divided impartially between +her novel, with which she did not seem to make much progress, her +fox-terrier Sancho, and the slowly decreasing lump of paste, artfully +compounded with cotton-wool for consistency, with which, as occasion +arose, she ministered to her companion’s predatory needs. The capture +of a fish was followed inevitably by a disarrangement of her nest +of cushions, and a pathetic petition for its instant release and +restoration to the element from which it had been untimely inveigled. +Occasionally, the rain varied the monotony of the dolorous drizzle by +a vehement and spirited downpour, lasting for some minutes, prompting +one of the occupants of the punt to remark, with misplaced confidence, +that it must clear up soon, after that. Then Sir Geoffrey would abandon +his rod, and beat a retreat to the stern of the punt; and during these +interludes, much desultory conversation ensued. Once, Miss Vandeleur +startled her companion by asking, suddenly, how it was that he seemed +so absurdly young? + +“I hope I am not rude?” she added, “but really you do strike me as +almost the youngest person I know. You are much younger than Jack--Mr. +Wilgress--for instance, and it’s only about three years since he left +Eton.” + +Sir Geoffrey smiled, wondering a little whether the girl was laughing +at him; for though a man of forty-seven, who has for twenty years +successfully resisted a trying climate, may consider himself as very +far from the burden of old age, it was conceivable that the views of a +maiden in her teens might be very different. + +“It’s because I am having such a good time,” he hazarded. “You and your +mother are responsible, you know; before I met you at the Savoy, on +that memorable evening, I was feeling as blue as--as the sky ought to +be if it had any decency, and at least as old as the river. I suppose +it’s true that youth and good spirits are contagious.” + +Dorothy gazed at him for a moment reflectively. “How lucky it was that +Uncle Philip took us to the theatre on that evening! It was just a +chance. And we might never have met you.” + +“It was lucky for me!” declared the other simply. “But would you have +cared?” + +“Of course!” said the girl promptly, but lowering her blue eyes. “You +see, I have never known a real live hero before. Do tell me about your +fight in the hill-fort, or how you caught the Dacoits! Uncle Philip +says that you ought to have had the V.C.” + +Sir Geoffrey replied by a little disparaging murmur. “Oh, it was quite +a commonplace affair--all in the day’s work. Any one else would have +done the same.” + +Dorothy settled herself back among her cushions resentfully, clasping +her hands, rather sunburned, across her knees. + +“I should like to see them!” she declared contemptuously. “That’s just +what that Jack Wilgress said--at least he implied it. It is true, he +apologised afterwards. How I despise Oxford boys!” + +“I thought he was a very good fellow,” said Sir Geoffrey, +diplomatically turning the subject from his own achievements. “I +suppose it might improve him to have something to do; but he strikes me +as a very good specimen of the ornamental young man.” + +“Ornamental!” echoed Dorothy sarcastically. “It would do him good to +have to work for his living.” + +“Poor beggar, he couldn’t help being born with a silver spoon in his +mouth--it isn’t his fault.” + +“Spoon!” exclaimed Miss Vandeleur. “A whole dinner service I should +think. A soup-ladle at the very least. It’s quite big enough: perhaps +that accounts for it!” + +The girl laughed, swaying back, with the grace of her years, against +her cushions; then, observing that her companion’s grave grey eyes were +fixed upon her, she grew suddenly demure, sighing with a little air of +penitence. + +“I am very wicked to-day,” she confessed. “It’s the rain, I suppose, +and want of exercise. Do you ever feel like that, Sir Geoffrey? Do you +ever get into an omnibus and simply loathe and detest every single +person in it? Do you long to swear--real swears, like our army in +Flanders--at everybody you meet, just because it’s rainy or foggy, and +because they are all so ugly and horrid? I do, frequently.” + +“I know, I know,” said the other sympathetically, while he reeled in +his line and deftly untied the tiny hook. “Only, the omnibus has not +figured very often in my case; it has generally been a hot court-house, +or a dusty dâk-bungalow full of commercial travellers. But I don’t feel +like that now, at all. I hope I am not responsible for your frame of +mind?” + +“Oh,” protested Dorothy, “don’t make me feel such an abandoned wretch! +I should have been much worse if you had not been here. I should have +quarrelled with Uncle Phil, or been rude to my mother, or something +dreadful. I’m perfectly horrid to her sometimes. And as it is, I have +let her go up to town all alone--to see my dressmaker.” + +Sir Geoffrey stood up and began to take his rod to pieces. “And are you +quite sure that you haven’t been ‘loathing and detesting’ me all the +afternoon?” + +Dorothy picked up her novel and smoothed its leaves reflectively. + +“I----But no. I won’t make you too conceited. Look, the sun is actually +coming out! Don’t you think we might take the Canadian up to the weir? +You really ought to be introduced to the big chub under the bridge.” + +The rain had almost ceased, and when they had transferred themselves +into the dainty canoe, a few strokes of the paddle which Miss Vandeleur +wielded with such effective grace swept them out into a full flood +of delicate evening sunlight. The sky smiled blue through rapidly +increasing breaks in the clouds; the sunbeams, slanting from the west, +touched with pale gold the quivering trees, which seemed to lift +their wet branches and spread their leaves to court the warm caress. +A new radiance of colour crept into the landscape, as if it had been +a picture from which a smoky glass was withdrawn; the water grew very +still--this too was in the manner of a picture--with the peace of a +summer evening, brimming with an unbroken surface luminously from +bank to bank. Strange guttural cries of water-birds sounded from the +reed-beds; from the next reach came the rhythmic pulse of oars, faint +splashes, and the brisk rattle of row-locks; voices and laughter +floated down from the lock, travelling far beyond belief in the hushed +stillness of the evening. The wake of the light canoe trailed unbroken +to the shadows of the boathouse, and the wet paddle gleamed as it slid +through the water. Presently Dorothy stayed her hand. + +“What an enchanting world it is!” she murmured, with wide eyes full of +the glamour of the setting sun. “Beautiful, beautiful----! How soon one +forgets the fogs, and rain, and cold! I feel as if I had lived in this +fairyland always.” + +Her lips trembled a little as she spoke, and Sir Geoffrey found +something in the pathos of her youth which held him silent. When they +broke the spell of silence, their words were trivial, perhaps, but +the language was that of old friends, simple and direct. Sir Geoffrey +at least, for whom the charm of the occasion was a gift so rare that +he scarcely dared to desecrate it by mental criticism, was far from +welcoming the interruption which presently occurred, in the shape of +a youth, arrayed in immaculate flannels and the colours of a popular +rowing club, who hailed them cheerfully from a light skiff, resting on +his sculls and drifting alongside while he rolled a cigarette. + + +III + +Dorothy sank down, rather wearily, in the low basket-chair which stood +near the open window of her mother’s bedroom--a tall French window, +with a wide balcony overrun by climbing roses, and a view of the river, +and waited for Mrs. Vandeleur to dismiss her maid. As she lay there, +adjusting absently the loose tresses of her hair, she could feel the +breath of the faint breeze as it wandered, gathering a light burden of +fragrance, through the dusky roses; she could see the river, dimly, +where the moonbeams touched its ripples, and once or twice the sound of +voices reached her from the distant smoking-room. The closing of the +door as the maid went out disturbed her reverie, and turning a little +in her chair she found her mother regarding her thoughtfully. + +“No,” said Dorothy, swiftly interpreting her mother’s glance. “You +mustn’t send me away, my pretty little mother. I’ll promise not to +catch cold. I haven’t been able to talk to you all day.” + +Mrs. Vandeleur half closed the window, and then seated herself with an +expression of resignation on the arm of her daughter’s chair. In the +dim light shed by the two candles on the dressing-table, one would have +thought them two sisters, plotting innocently the discomfiture of man. +The occasion did not prove so stimulating to conversation as might have +been expected. For a few minutes both were silent; Dorothy began to +hum an air from the Savoy opera, rather recklessly; she kicked off one +of her slippers, and it fell on the polished oak floor with a little +clatter. + +“Little donkey!” murmured her mother sweetly. “So much for your +talking. I’m going to bed at once.” Then she added, carelessly, “Did +you see Jack to-day?” + +The humming paused abruptly; then it went on for a second, and paused +again. + +“Oh yes, the inevitable Mr. Wilgress was on the river, as usual. He +nearly ran us down in that idiotic skiff of his.” + +Mrs. Vandeleur raised her eyebrows, gazing at her unconscious daughter +reflectively. + +“You didn’t see him alone, then?” she inquired presently. + +“Who? Mr. Wilgress? Ye-es, I think so. When we got back to the +boathouse he insisted on taking me out again in the canoe, to show me +the correct Indian stroke. Much he knows about it! That’s why I was so +late for dinner. Oh, please don’t talk about Mr. Wilgress.” + +“Mr. Wilgress again?” murmured Mrs. Vandeleur. “I thought it always +used to be ‘Jack.’” + +“Only, only by accident,” said the girl weakly. “And when he wasn’t +there.” + +“Well, he isn’t here now. At least I hope not. You--you haven’t +quarrelled, have you Dolly?” + +“No--yes. I don’t know. He--he asked me--oh, he was ridiculous. How I +hate boys--and jealousy.” + +Mrs. Vandeleur shivered, then rose abruptly and closed the window +against which she leaned, gazing down at the formless mass of the +shrubs which cowered over their shadows on the lawn. Her mind, vaguely +troubled for some days past, and now keenly on the alert, travelled +swiftly back, bridging a space of nearly twenty years, to a scene +strangely like this, in which she and her mother had held the stage. +She too, a girl then of Dorothy’s eighteen years, had brought the +halting story of her doubts and scruples to her natural counsellor: +she could remember still how the instinct of reticence had struggled +with the yearning for sympathy, for the comfort of the confessional. +She could recall now and appreciate her mother’s tact and patient +questioning, her own perversity, the dumbness which seemed independent +of her own volition. A commonplace page of life. Two men at her +feet, and the girl unskilled to read her heart: one had spoken--that +was Dick Vandeleur, careless, brilliant, the heir to half a county; +the other--her old friend; she could not bear to think of him now. +Knowledge had come too late, and the light which made her wonder +scornfully at her blindness. And her mother--she of course had played +the worldly part; but her counsel had been honest, without bias: it +were cruel to blame her now. Loyal though she was, Margaret Vandeleur +had asked herself an hundred times, yielding to that love of threading +a labyrinth which rules most women, what would have been the story +of her life if she had steeled herself to stand or fall by her own +judgment, if she had refused to allow her mother to drop into the +wavering scale the words which had turned it, ever so slightly, in +favour of the richer man, the man whom she had married, whose name she +bore. + +It seemed plain enough, to a woman’s keen vision--what sense so subtle, +yet so easily beguiled--that Dorothy’s choice was embarrassed, just +as her own had been. The girl and her two admirers--how the old story +repeated itself!--one, Jack Wilgress, the good-natured, good-looking +idler, whose devotion to the river threatened to make him amphibious, +and whose passion for scribbling verse bade fair to launch him adrift +among the cockle-shell fleet of Minor Poets; the other--Geoffrey +Vincent! To call upon Margaret Vandeleur to guide her daughter’s choice +between two men of whom Geoffrey Vincent was one--surely here was the +end and crown of Fate’s relentless irony. She felt herself blushing as +she pressed her forehead against the cool window-pane, put to shame +by the thoughts which the comparison suggested, which would not be +stifled. Right or wrong, at least her mother had been impartial: there +was a sting in this, a failure of her precedent. She sighed, concluding +mutely that silence was her only course; even if she would, she could +not follow in her mother’s footsteps--the girl must abide by her own +judgment. + +When she turned, smiling faintly, the light of the flickering candles +fell upon her face, betraying a pallor which startled Dorothy from her +reverie. She sprang from her chair, reproaching her selfishness. + +“You poor, tired, little mother,” she murmured penitently, with a hasty +kiss. “How could I be so cruel as to keep you up after your journey! +I’m a wretch, but I’m really going now. Good-night.” + +“Good-night,” said her mother, caressing the vagrant coils of the +girl’s amber-coloured hair. “Don’t worry yourself; everything will come +right if--if you listen to your own heart.” + +Dorothy’s answer was precluded by another kiss. “It’s so full of you +that it can’t be bothered to think of any one else,” she declared +plaintively, as she turned towards the door. Then she paused, fingering +nervously a little heap of books which lay upon a table. “He--he isn’t +so very old, you know,” she murmured softly before she made her escape. + +When she was alone Mrs. Vandeleur sank into the chair which her +daughter had just quitted, nestling among the cushions and knitting +her brows in thought. The clock on the mantelpiece had struck twelve +before she rose, and then she paused for an instant in front of the +looking-glass, gazing into it half timidly before she extinguished +the candles. The face which she saw there was manifestly pretty, in +spite of the trouble which lurked in the tired eyes, and when she +turned away, a hovering smile was struggling with the depression at the +corners of the delicate, mobile lips. + + +IV + +When Sir Geoffrey returned to Riverside, three days later, after a +brief sojourn in London, spent for the most part at the office of his +solicitor in Lincoln’s Inn, he found Mrs. Vandeleur presiding over +a solitary tea-table in a shady corner of the garden. A few chairs +sociably disposed under the gnarled walnut-tree, and a corresponding +number of empty tea-cups, suggested that her solitude had not been of +long duration, and this impression was confirmed when Mrs. Vandeleur +told her guest that if he had presented himself a short quarter of an +hour earlier he would have been welcomed in a manner more worthy of his +deserts. + +Sir Geoffrey drew one of the low basket chairs up to the table, +protesting, as he accepted a cup of tea, that he could not have wished +for better fortune. + +“This is very delightful,” he declared. “I don’t regret the tardiness +of my train in the least. The other charming people are on the river, I +suppose?” + +Mrs. Vandeleur nodded. “Yes, the Patersons have just taken up their +quarters in that house-boat, which you must have noticed, near the +lock, and my brother and Dorothy have gone with Jack Wilgress and his +sisters to call upon them. You ought to have seen Daisy Wilgress; she +is very pretty.” + +Sir Geoffrey smiled gravely, sipping his tea. + +“If she is prettier than your daughter, Miss Wilgress must be very +dangerous. But I must see her with my own eyes before I believe that.” + +“Oh, she is!” declared Mrs. Vandeleur, laughing lightly, but throwing a +quick glance at him. “Ask Philip; he is more wrapped up in her than he +has been in anything since his first brief.” + +“Poor Philip!” said the other quietly, stooping to pick a fallen leaf +from the grass at his feet. “I--I have a fellow-feeling for him.” + +“You know you may smoke if you want to,” interposed Mrs. Vandeleur, +rather hurriedly. “And perhaps--if you really won’t have any more +tea--you might like to go in pursuit of the other people; I don’t think +they have taken all the boats. But I daresay you are tired? London is +so fatiguing--and business.” + +Sir Geoffrey smiled, his white teeth showing pleasantly against the tan +of his lean, good-humoured face. + +“I _am_ rather tired, I believe,” he owned. “I have been spending a +great deal of time in my solicitor’s waiting-room, pretending to read +_The Times_. And I have been thinking--that is always fatiguing. If I +am not in your way, I should like to stay here.” + +Mrs. Vandeleur professed her satisfaction by a polite little murmur, +leaning forward in her chair to marshal the scattered tea-cups on the +tray, while Sir Geoffrey watched her askance, rather timidly, with a +keen appreciation of the subtle charm of her personality; her face, +like a perfect cameo, or some rare pale flower, seeming to have gained +rather in beauty by the deliberate passage from youth; winning, just as +some pictures do, an added grace of refinement, a delicacy, which the +slight modification of contours served only to intensify. + +“I told you just now that I had been thinking,” he said presently, when +she had resumed her task of embroidering initials in the corner of a +handkerchief: “would it surprise you if I said that I had been thinking +of you?” + +Mrs. Vandeleur raised her eyebrows slightly, her gaze still intent upon +her patient needle. + +“Perhaps it was natural that you should think of us,” she hazarded. + +“But I meant you,” he continued; “you, the Margaret of the old days, +before I went away. For I used to call you ‘Margaret’ then. We were +great friends, you know.” + +“I have always thought of you as a friend,” she said simply. “Yes, we +were great friends before--before you went away.” + +“It doesn’t seem so long ago to me,” he declared, almost plaintively, +struck by something in the tone of her voice. Mrs. Vandeleur smiled +tolerantly, scrutinising her embroidery, with her head poised on one +side, a little after the manner of a bird. + +“And now that I have found you again,” he added with intention, +dropping his eyes till they rested on the river, rippling past the +wooden landing-stage below in the sunshine, “I--I don’t want to lose +you, Margaret!” + +Mrs. Vandeleur met this declaration with a smile, which was courteous +rather than cordial, merely acknowledging, as of right, the propriety +of the aspiration, treating it as quite conventional. The simplicity +of the gesture testified eloquently of the discipline of twenty years; +only a woman would have detected the shadow of apprehension in her +eyes, the trembling of the hands which seemed so placidly occupied. +Her mind was already anxiously on the alert, racing rapidly over the +now familiar ground which she had quartered of late so heedfully. For +her, his words were ominous; it was of Dorothy surely that he wished +to speak, and yet----! In the stress of expectation her thoughts took +strange flights, following vague clues fantastically. The inveterate +habit of retrospection carried her back, in spite of her scruples; her +honest desire to think singly of Dorothy, regarding the fortune of her +own life as irrevocably settled, impelled her irresistibly to call to +the stage of her imagination a scene which she had often set upon it, a +duologue, entirely fictive, which might, but for her perversity, have +been enacted--twenty years ago. + +Sir Geoffrey rose, and stood leaning with one hand on the back of his +chair. This interruption--or perhaps it was the sound of oars and +voices which floated in growing volume from the river--served to recall +his companion to the present. The silence, of brief duration actually, +seemed intolerable. She must break it, and when she spoke it was to +name her daughter, aimlessly. + +“Dorothy?” repeated Sir Geoffrey, as she paused. “She is +extraordinarily like you were before I went away. Not that you are +changed--it is delightful to come back and find you the same. It’s only +when she is with you that I can realise that there is a difference, +a----” + +“I was never so good as Dorothy,” put in Mrs. Vandeleur quickly; “she +will never have the same reason to blame herself----I don’t think you +could imagine what she has been to me.” + +“I think I can,” said Sir Geoffrey simply. Then he added, rather shyly: +“Really, we seem to be very good friends already: it’s very nice of +her--it would be so natural for her to--to resent the intrusion of an +old fellow like me.” + +“You need not be afraid of that; she looks upon you as--as a friend +already.” + +“Thank you!” murmured the other. “And you think she might grow to--to +like me, in time?” + +Mrs. Vandeleur nodded mutely. Sir Geoffrey followed for a moment the +deliberate entry and re-entry of her needle, reflectively; then, as +his eyes wandered, he realised vaguely that a boat had reached the +landing-stage, and that people were there: he recognised young Wilgress +and Miss Vandeleur. + +“You said just now that you always thought of me as a friend,” he +began. “I wonder----Oh! it’s no good,” he added quickly, with a nervous +movement of his hands, “I can’t make pretty speeches! After all, it’s +simple; why should I play the coward? I can take ‘no’ for answer, if +the worst comes to the worst, and----Margaret, I know it’s asking a +great deal, but--I want you to marry me.” + +She cast a swift, startled glance at him, turning in her chair, and +then dropped her eyes, asking herself bewilderedly whether this +was still some fantasy. The words which he murmured now, pleading +incoherently with her silence, confirmed the hopes which, in spite of +her scrupulous devotion, refused to be gainsaid, thrusting themselves +shamelessly into the foreground of her troubled thoughts. An inward +voice, condemned by her wavering resolution as a whisper from the lips +of treachery, suggested plausibly that after all Dorothy might have +made a mistake; she repelled it fiercely, taking a savage pleasure in +her pain, accusing herself, with vehement blame, as one who would fain +stand in the way of her daughter’s happiness. Even if she had deserved +these fruits of late harvest which seemed to dangle within her grasp, +even if her right to garner them had not been forfeited long ago by +her folly of the past, how could she endure to figure as a rival, +triumphing in her own daughter’s discomfiture? Womanly pride and a +thousand scruples barred the way. + +“I love you,” she heard him say again; “I believe I have always loved +you since----But you know how it was in the old days.” + +“Don’t remind me of that!” she pleaded, almost fiercely; “I was--I +can’t bear to think of what I did! You ought not to forgive me; I don’t +deserve it.” + +“Forgive?” he echoed, blankly. + +“Oh, you are generous--but it is impossible, impossible; it is all a +mistake; let us forget it.” + +“I don’t understand! Is it that--that you don’t care for me?” + +Margaret gave a despairing little sigh, dropping her hands on the sides +of her chair. + +“You don’t know,” she murmured. “It isn’t right. No--oh, it must be No!” + +Sir Geoffrey echoed her sigh. As he watched her silently, the instinct +of long reticence making his forbearance natural, he saw a new +expression dawn into her troubled face. Her eyes were fixed intently +on the river; that they should be fixed was not strange, but there +was a light of interest in them which induced Sir Geoffrey, half +involuntarily, to bend his gaze in the same direction. He saw that +Dorothy had now disembarked, and was standing, a solitary figure, +close to the edge of the landing-stage. Something in her pose seemed +to imply that she was talking, and just at this moment she moved to +one side, revealing the head and shoulders of Jack Wilgress, which +overtopped the river-bank in such a manner as to suggest that he was +standing in the punt, of which the bamboo pole rose like a slender +mast above his head. The group was certainly pictorial: the silhouette +of Dorothy’s pretty figure telling well against the silvery river, +and the young man’s pose, too, lending itself to an effective bit of +composition; but Sir Geoffrey felt puzzled, and even a little hurt, +by the interest that Margaret displayed at a moment which he at least +had found sufficiently strenuous. He turned, stooping to pick up his +hat; then he paused, and was about to speak, when Mrs. Vandeleur +interrupted him, mutely, with a glance, followed swiftly by the return +of her eyes to the river. Acquiescing patiently, Sir Geoffrey perceived +that a change had occurred in the grouping of the two young people. +Wilgress had drawn nearer to the girl; his figure stood higher against +the watery background, apparently he had one foot on the step of the +landing-stage. Dorothy extended a hand, which he clasped and held +longer than one would have reckoned for in the ordinary farewell. The +girl shook her head; another movement, and the punt began to glide +reluctantly from the shore; then it turned slowly, swinging round and +heading down-stream. Dorothy raised one hand to the bosom of her dress, +and before she dropped it to her side threw something maladroitly +towards her departing companion. Wilgress caught the flower--it was +evidently a flower--making a dash which involved the loss of his +punt-pole; a ripple of laughter, and Dorothy, unconscious of the four +eyes which watched her from the shadows of the walnut tree, turned +slowly, and began to climb the grassy slope. + +Mrs. Vandeleur’s eyelids drooped, and her lips, which had been parted +for an instant in a pensive smile, trembled a little; she sighed, +tapping the ground lightly with her foot, then sank back in her chair +and seemed lost in contemplation of the needlework that lay upon +her lap. Sir Geoffrey began to move away, but turned suddenly, and +stooping, took one of her hands reverently in his own, clasping it as +it lay upon the arm of her chair. + +“Margaret,” he said, “forgive me; but must it be good-bye, after all +these years, or is there a chance for me?” + +Mrs. Vandeleur’s reply was inaudible; but her hand, though it fluttered +for a moment, was not withdrawn. + + + + +Twilight + +By Olive Custance + + Mother of the dews, dark eyelashed Twilight! + Low-lidded Twilight o’er the valley’s brim. + MEREDITH. + + + SPIRIT of Twilight, through your folded wings + I catch a glimpse of your averted face, + And rapturous on a sudden, my soul sings + “Is not this common earth a holy place?” + + Spirit of Twilight, you are like a song + That sleeps, and waits a singer, like a hymn + That God finds lovely and keeps near Him long, + Till it is choired by aureoled cherubim. + + Spirit of Twilight, in the golden gloom + Of dreamland dim I sought you, and I found + A woman sitting in a silent room + Full of white flowers that moved and made no sound. + + These white flowers were the thoughts you bring to all, + And the room’s name is Mystery where you sit, + Woman whom we call Twilight, when night’s pall + You lift across our Earth to cover it. + + + + +Three Pictures + +By Walter Sickert + + + I. Collins’s Music Hall, Islington + II. The Lion Comique + III. Charley’s Aunt + + +[Illustration] + +[Illustration] + +[Illustration] + + + + +Tobacco Clouds + +By Lionel Johnson + + +CLOUD upon cloud: and, if I were to think that an image of life can lie +in wreathing, blue tobacco smoke, pleasant were the life so fancied. +Its fair changes in air, its gentle motions, its quiet dying out and +away at last, should symbolise something more than perfect idleness. +Cloud upon cloud: and I will think, as I have said: it is amusing to +think so. + +It is that death, out and away upon the air, which charms me: charms +more than the manner of the blown red rose, full of dew at morning, +upon the grass at sunset. The clouds’ end, their death in air, fills +me with a very beauty of desire; it has no violence in it, and it is +almost invisible. Think of it! While the cloud lived, it was seemly +and various; and with a graceful change it passed away: the image of a +reasonable life is there, hanging among tobacco clouds. An image and +a test: an image, because elaborated by fancy: a true and appealing +image, and so, to my present way of life, a test. + +That way is, to walk about the old city, with “a spirit in my feet,” as +Shelley and Catullus have it, of joyous aims and energies; and to speed +home to my solitary room over the steep High Street; in an arm-chair, +to read Milton and Lucretius, with others. There is nothing unworthy +in all this: there is open air, an ancient city, a lonely chamber, +perfect poets. Those should make up a passing life well: for death! +I can watch tobacco clouds, exploring the secret of their beautiful +conclusion. And, indeed, I think that already this life has something +of their manner, those wheeling clouds! It has their light touch upon +the world, and certainly their harmlessness. Early morning, when the +dew sparkles red; honey, and coffee, and eggs for a breakfast; the +quick, eager walk between the limes, through the Close of fine grass, +to the river fields; then the blithe return to my poets; all that, +together, comes to resemble the pleasant spheres of tobacco cloud; I +mean, the circling hours, in their passage, and in their change, have +something of a dreamy order and progression. Such little incidents! +Now, grey air and whistling leaves: now, a marketing crowd of country +folk round the Cross: and presently, clear candles; with Milton, in +rich Baskervile type, or Lucretius, in the exquisite print of early +Italy. + +Such little incidents, in a world of battles and of plagues: of violent +death by sea and land! Yet this quiet life, too, has difficulties and +needs: its changes must be gone through with a ready pleasure and a +mind unhesitating. For, trivial though they be in aspect and amount, +yet the consecration of them, to be an holy discipline of experience, +is so much the greater an attempt: it is an art. Each thing, be it +man, or book, or place, should have its rights, when it encounters +me: each has its proper quality, its peculiar spirit, not to be +misinterpreted by me in carelessness, nor overlooked with impatience. +That is clear: but neither must I vaunt my just view of common life. +Meditation, at twilight, by the window looking toward the bare downs, +is very different from that anxious examination of motives, dear to +sedulous souls. My meditation is only still life: the clouds of smoke +go up, grey and blue; the earlier stars come out, above the sunset +and the melancholy downs; and deep, mournful bells ring slowly among +the valley trees. Then, if my day have been successful, what peace +follows, and how profound a charm! The little things of the day, sudden +glances of light upon grey stone, pleasant snatches of organ music +from the church, quaint rustic sights in some near village: they come +back upon me, gentle touches of happiness, airs of repose. And when +the mysteries come about me, the fearfulness of life, and the shadow +of night; then, have I not still the blue, grey clouds, _occultis de +rebus quo referam_? So I escape the tribulations of doubt, those gloomy +tribulations: and I live in the strength of dreams, which never doubt. + +Is it all a delusion? But that is a foolish wonder: nothing is a +delusion, except the extremes of pleasure and of pain. Take what +you will of the world; its crowds, or its calms: there is nothing +altogether wrong to every one. Lucretius, upon his watch-tower, deny it +as he may, found some exultation and delight in the lamentable prospect +below: it filled him with a magnificent darkness of soul, a princely +compassion at heart. And Milton, in his evil days, felt himself to be +tragic and austere: he knew it, not as a proud boast, but as a proud +fact. No! life is never wrong, altogether, to every one: you and I, he +and she, priest and penitent, master and slave: one with another, we +compose a very glory of existence before the unseen Powers. Therefore, +I believe in my measured way of life; its careful felicities, fashioned +out of little things: to you, the change of Ministries, and the +accomplishment of conquests, bring their wealth of rich emotion: to +me, who am apart from the louder concerns of life, the flowering of +the limes, and the warm autumn rains, bring their pensive beauty and a +store of memories. + +Is it I, am indolent? Is it you, are clamorous? Why should it be +either? Let us say, I am the lover of quiet things, and you are +enamoured of mighty events. Each, without undue absorption in his +taste, relishes the savour of a different experience. + +But I think, I am no egoist: no melancholy spectator of things, +cultivating his intellect with old poetry, nourishing his senses upon +rural nature. There are times, when the swarms of men press hard +upon a solitary; he hears the noise of the streets, the heavy vans +of merchandise, the cry of the railway whistle: and in a moment, his +thoughts travel away, to London, to Liverpool; to great docks and to +great ships; and away, till he is watching the dissimilar bustle of +Eastern harbours, and hearing the discordant sounds of Chinese workmen. +The blue smoke curls and glides away, with blue pagodas, and snowy +almond bloom, and cherry flowers, circling and gleaming in it, like +a narcotic vision. O magic of tobacco! Dreams are there, and superb +images, and a somnolent paradise. Sometimes, the swarms of humanity +press wearily and hardly; with a cruel insistence, crushing out my +right to happiness. I think, rather I brood, upon the fingers that +deftly rolled the cigarette, upon the people in tobacco plantations, +upon all the various commerce involved in its history: how do they all +fare, those many workers? Strolling up and down, devouring my books +through their lettered backs; remembering the workers with leather, +paper, ink, who toiled at them, they frighten me from the peace. +What a full world it is! What endless activities there are! And, oh, +Nicomachean Ethics! how much conscious pleasure is in them all! Things, +mere tangible things, have a terrible power of education: of calling +out from the mind innumerable thoughts and sympathies. Like childish +catechisms and categories--_Whence have we sago?_--plain substances +introduce me to swarms of men, before unrealised. And they all lived +and died, and cared for their children, or not, and led reasonable +lives, or not: and, without any alternative, had casual thoughts and +constant passions. Did each one of them ever stop in his work, and +think that the world revolved about him alone; and all was his, and for +him? Most men may have thought so, and shivered a little afterwards; +and worked on steadily. Or did each one of them ever think that he +was always beset with companions, hordes of men and women, necessary +and inevitable? Then, he must have struggled a little in his mind, as +a man fights for air, and worked on steadily. It does not do: this +interrogation of mysteries, which are also facts. Nor am I called upon, +from without or from within, to write an Essay upon the Problem of +Economic Distribution. _Præsentia temnis!_ Nature says to me: it is the +stir of the world, and the great play of forces, that I am wailing, +to no end. Let the great life continue, and the sun shine upon bright +palaces; and geraniums, red geraniums, glow at the windows of dingy +courts; death and sorrow come upon both, and upon me. And on all sides +there is infinite tenderness; the invincible good-will, which says kind +and cheerful things to every one sometimes, by a friend’s mouth; the +humane pieties of the world, which make glad the _Civitas Dei_, and +make endurable the _Regnum Hominis_. I need not make myself miserable. + +Full night at last; the dead of night, as dull folk have it; ignorant +persons, who know nothing of nocturnal beauty, of night’s lively magic. +It was a good thought, to come out of my lonely room, to look at the +cloisters by moonlight, and to wander round the Close, under the black +shadows of the buttresses, while the moon is white upon their strange +pinnacles. There is no noise, but only a silence, which seems very old; +old, as the grey monuments and the weathered arches. The wreathing, +blue tobacco clouds look thin and pale, like breath upon a dark frosty +night; they drift about these old precincts, with a kind of uncertainty +and discomfort; one would think, they wanted a rich Mediterranean +night, heavy odours of roses, and very fiery stars. Instead, they break +upon mouldering traceries, and doleful cherubs of the last century; +upon sunken headstones, and black oak doors with ironwork over them. +Perhaps the cigarette is southern and Latin, southern and Oriental, +after all; and I am a dreamer, out of place in this northern grey +antiquity. If it be so, I can taste the subtle pleasures of contrast: +and, dwelling upon the singular features of this old town, I can make +myself a place in it, as its conscious critic and adopted alien. There +is a curious apprehension of enjoyment, a genuine touch of luxury, in +this nocturnal visit to these old northern things! I consider, with +satisfaction, how the Stuart king, who spurned tobacco contumeliously, +put a devoted faith in witches, those northern daughters of the devil; +northern, and very different from the dames of Thessaly; from the +crones of Propertius, and of Horace, and of Apuleius the Golden. Who +knows, but I may hear strange voices in the near aisle before cockcrow? +By night, night in the north, happen cold and dismal things; and then, +what a night is this! Chilly stars, and wild, grey clouds, flying over +a misty moon. + +At last, here comes a great and solemn sound; the commanding bells of +the cathedral tower, in their iron, midnight toll. Through the sombre +strokes, and striking into their long echoes, pierce the thin cries +of bats, that wheel in air, like lost creatures who hate themselves; +the uncanny flitter-mice! They trace superb, invisibles circles on the +night; crying out faintly and plaintively, with no sort of delight in +their voices: things of keen teeth, furry bodies, and skeleton wings +covered scantily in leather. The big moths, too: they blunder against +my face, and dash red trails of fire off my cigarette; so busily they +spin about the darkness. _Sadducismus triumphatus!_ Yes, truly: here +are little, white spirits awake and at some faery work; white, as +heather upon the Cornish cliffs is white, and all innocent, rare things +in heaven and earth. There is nothing dreadful, it seems, about this +night, and this place; no glorious fury of evil spirits, doing foul and +ugly things; only the quiet town asleep under a wild sky, and gentle +creatures of the night moving about ancient places. And the wind rises, +with a sound of the sea, murmuring over the earth and sighing away to +the sea: the trembling sea, beyond the downs, which steals into the +land by great creeks and glimmering channels; with swaying, taper masts +along them, and lantern lights upon black barges. Certainly, this is no +Lucretian night: not that tremendous + + _Nox, et noctis signa severa + Noctivagæque faces cæli, flammæque volantes._ + +Rather, it reminds me of the Miltonic night, which is peopled +alluringly with + + “faery elves, + Whose midnight revels by a forest side + Or fountain, some belated peasant sees, + Or dreams he sees, while overhead the moon + Sits arbitress:” + +a Miltonic night, and a Shakespearean dawn; for the white morning has +just peered along the horizon, white morning, with dusky flames behind +it; and the spirits, the visions, vanish away, “following darkness, +like a dream.” + +The streets are very still, with that silence of sleeping cities, +which seems ready to start into confused cries; as though the Smiter +of the Firstborn were travelling through the households. There is the +Catholic chapel, in its Georgian, quaint humility; recalling an age of +beautiful, despised simplicity; the age of French emigrant old priests +and vicars-apostolic, who stood for the Supreme Pontiff, in grey wigs. +The sweet limes are swaying against its singular, umbered windows, +with their holy saints and prophets in last-century design; ruffled, +querulous persons looking very bluff and blown. I wonder, how it would +be inside; I suppose, night has a little weakened that lingering smell +of daily incense, which seems so immemorial and so sad. Wonderful grace +of the mighty Roman Church! This low square place, where the sanctuary +is poor and open, without any mystical touch of retirement and of +loftiness, has yet the unfailing charm, the venerable mystery, which +attend the footsteps of the Church; the same air of command, the same +look of pleading, fill this homely, comfortable shrine, which simple +country gentlemen set up for the ministrations of harassed priests, in +an age of no enthusiasm. I like to think that this quiet chapel, in the +obedience of Rome, in communion with that supreme apostolate, is always +open to me upon this winding little by-street; it fills me with perfect +memories, and it seems to bless me. + +But here is a benediction of light! the quick sun, reddening half the +heavens, and rising gloriously. In the valley, clusters of elm rock and +swing with the breeze, quivering for joy: far away, the bare uplands +roll against the sunrise, calm and pastoral; _otia dia_ of the morning. +Surely the hours have gone well, and according to my preference; one +dying into another, as the tobacco clouds die. My meditations, too, +have been peaceful enough; and, though solitary, I have had fine +companions. What would the moral philosophers, those puzzled sages, +think of me? An harmless hedonist? An amateur in morals, who means +well, though meaning very little? Nay! let the moralist by profession +give, to whom he will, _sa musique, sa flamme_: to any practical +person, who is a wise shareholder and zealous vestryman. For myself, +my limited and dreamy self, I eschew these upright businesses; upright +memories and meditations please me more, and to live with as little +action as may be. Action: why do they talk of action? Match me, for +pure activity, one evening of my dreams, when life and death fill my +mind with their messengers, and the days of old come back to me. And +now, homewards, for a little sleep; that profound and rich slumber +at early dawn which is my choice delight. A sleep, bathed in musical +impressions, and filled with fresh dreams, all impossible and happy; +four hours, and five, and six perhaps: then the cathedral matin bell +will chime in with my fancies, and I shall wake harmoniously. I shall +feel infinitely cheerful, after the spirit of the _Compleat Angler_; +I shall remember that I was once at Ware, and at Amwell, those placid +haunts of Walton. A conviction of beauty, and contentment in life will +lay hold on me, more than commonly; it is probable that I shall read +_The Spectator_, and Addison, rather than Steele, at breakfast. And I +know which paper it will be: it will be about _Will Wimble_ coming up +to the house, with two or three hazel twigs in his hand, fresh cut in +_Sir Roger’s_ woods. Or, if I prove faithful to my great Lucretius: +the man, not the book, for I read him in the Giuntine: I will read +that marvellous _It ver et Venus_; that dancing masque of beauty. For +_L’Allegro_, I do not read that; it is read aloud to me by the morning, +with exquisite, bright cadences. After my honey from the flowers of a +very rustic farm, and my coffee, from some wonderful Eastern place; +and my eggs, marked by the careful housewife as she took them from her +henhouse, covered with stonecrop over its old tiles; after all these +delicates, now comes the first cigarette, pungent and exhilarating. As +the grey blue clouds go up, the ruddy sunlight glows through them, +straight as an arrow through the gold. Away they wander, out of the +window, flung back upon the air, against the roses, and disappear in +the buoyant morning. + +My thoughts go with them, into the morning, into all the mornings over +the world. They travel through the lands, and across the seas, and are +everywhere at home, enjoying the presence of life. And past things, +old histories, are turned to pleasant recollections: a _pot-pourri_, +justly seasoned, and subtly scented; the evil humours and the monstrous +tyrannies pass away, and leave only the happiness and the peace. + +Call me, my dear friend, what reproachful name you please; but, by +your leave, the world is better for my cheerfulness. True, should the +terrible issues come upon me, demanding high courage, and finding +but good temper, then give me your prayers, for I have my misdoubts. +Till then, let me cultivate my place in life, nurturing its comelier +flowers; taking the little things of time with a grateful relish and a +mind at rest. So hours and years pass into hours and years, gently, and +surely, and orderly; as these clouds, grey and blue clouds, of tobacco +smoke, pass up to the air, and away upon the wind; incense of a goodly +savour, cheering the thoughts of my heart, before passing away, to +disappear at last. + + + + +Reiselust + +By Annie Macdonell + + + NAY, Love, but stay thy blame; + For if men have their claim, + The day’s but theirs-- + Poor gift, the day of heat and cares! + Thou hast the night, the calm cool night, + When the soul’s garden blooms in sight, + With roses tinted by the moon’s soft smile, + On that far fringed horizon isle. + The night, the long sweet night is thine, + Then I awake, and find thee, soul of mine. + + Ah, rushing hours beneath the sun! + Ah, fevered crying haste, have done! + Yet let your coursing swifter run! + Now let the still night fall. + I hear the water lapping ’gainst the wall, + I open wide my door unto the sea + Whence Death, thy keeper, brings thee back to me. + So mild he waits without, yet laughs at Life, + That cannot give her hirelings such a wife. + + Day, have I not paid the toll? + My body given the whole + That will let pass my soul? + The roses of the morn lie thick on my Love’s bier, + And she is risen; she is no longer here. + A star upon the stern she beckons me. + Sweet Death, one dawn, let me go back with thee, + Sweet Death, take me from out the noisy light + Into thy night, thy comforting still night. + + Yea, soon, for my Love’s sake, + Sweet Death my hand will take, + And I shall not awake + Till past the blooming isle. + Then shall my eyelids quiver ’neath her smile, + And I shall gaze, and from my Love’s clear eyes + Shall learn her slow wide learning, and be wise, + Shall learn the speech they speak across the sea: + ’Tis a large language my Love speaks to me. + + Then far beyond to sail, + And further further coasts to hail, + And ventures shall not fail. + And missionary dreams my Love and I + We’ll hover mid the world’s troubled sky, + And sleeping men to discontent shall tease, + To venture further skies and wider seas. + + Have I not guessed the meaning of the dark? + Thy hand, O Death! To-night let me embark. + + + + +“To Every Man a Damsel or Two” + +By C. S. + + +HE wandered up the carpeted steps, rather afraid all the while of the +two tall men in uniform who opened the great doors wide to let him into +the soft warm light and babble of voices within. At the top he paused, +and slowly unbuttoned his overcoat, not knowing which way to turn; but +the crowd swept him up, and carried him round, until he found himself +leaning against a padded wall of plush, looking over a sea of heads at +the stage far beneath. He turned round, and stood watching the happy +crowd, which laughed, and talked, and nodded ceaselessly to itself. +Near him, on a sofa, with a table before her, was a woman spreading +herself out like some great beautiful butterfly on a bed of velvet +pansies. He stood admiring her half unconsciously for some time, and at +last, remembering that he was tired and sleepy, and seeing that there +was still plenty of room, he threaded his way across and sat down. + +The butterfly began tossing a wonderful little brown satin shoe, and +tapping it against the leg of the table. Then the parasol slipped +across him, and fell to the ground. He hastened to pick it up, lifting +his hat as he did so. She seemed surprised, and glancing at a man +leaning against the wall, caught his eye, and they both laughed. He +blushed a good deal, and wondered what he had done wrong. She spread +herself out still further in his direction, and cast side glances at +him from under her Gainsborough. + +“What were you laughing at just now?” he said impulsively. + +“My dear boy, when?” + +“With that man.” + +“Which man?” + +“It doesn’t matter,” he said, blushing again. + +She looked up, and winked at the man leaning against the wall. + +“Have I offended you by speaking to you?” he said, looking with much +concern into her eyes. + +She put a little scented net of a handkerchief up to her mouth, and +went into uncontrollable fits of laughter. + +“What a funny boy you are!” she gasped. “Do do it again.” + +He looked at her in amazement, and moved a little further away. + +“I’m going to tell the waiter to bring me a port--after that last bit +of business.” + +“I don’t understand all this,” he said desperately: “I wish I had never +spoken to you; I wish I had never come in here at all.” + +“You’re very rude all of a sudden. Now don’t be troublesome and say +you’re too broke to pay for drinks,” she added as the waiter put the +port down with great deliberation opposite her, and held out the empty +tray respectfully to him. He stared. + +“Why don’t you pay, you cuckoo?” + +Mechanically he put down a florin, and the waiter counted out the +change. + +There was a pause. She fingered the stem of her wine-glass, taking +little sips, and watching him all the while. + +“How often have you been here before?” she said, suddenly catching at +his sleeve. “You must tell me. I fancy I know your face: surely I’ve +met you before somewhere?” + +“This is the first time I have ever been to a music-hall,” he said +doggedly. + +She drank off her port directly. + +“Come--come away at once. Yes, all right--I’m coming with you; so go +along.” + +“But I’ve only just paid to come in,” he said hesitatingly. + +“Never mind the paying,” and she stamped her little satin foot, “but +do as I tell you, and go.” And taking his arm, she led him through the +doors down to the steps, where the wind blew cold, and the gas jets +roared fitfully above. + +“Go,” she said, pushing him out, “and never come here again; stick to +the theatres, you will like them best.” And she ran up the steps and +was gone. + +He rushed after her. The two tall men in uniform stepped before the +doors. + +“No re-admission, sir,” said one, bowing respectfully and touching his +cap. + +“But that lady,” he said, bewildered, and looking from one to the other. + +The men laughed, and one of them, shrugging his shoulders, pointed to +the box-office. + +He turned, and walked down the steps. Was it all a dream? He glanced at +his coat. The flower in his buttonhole had gone. + + + + +A Song and a Tale + +By Nora Hopper + + +I--Lament of the Last Leprechaun + + FOR the red shoon of the Shee, + For the falling o’ the leaf, + For the wind among the reeds, + My grief! + + For the sorrow of the sea, + For the song’s unquickened seeds, + For the sleeping of the Shee, + My grief! + + For dishonoured whitethorn-tree, + For the runes that no man reads, + Where the grey stones face the sea, + My grief! + + Lissakeole, that used to be + Filled with music night and noon, + For their ancient revelry, + My grief! + + For the empty fairy shoon, + Hollow rath and yellow leaf; + Hands unkissed to sun or moon: + My grief--my grief! + + +II--Aonan-na-Righ + +AONAN-NA-RIGH they called him in Tir Ailella[I.]--“Darling of the +King”--but it was in idle sport, for Cathal the Red hated the son of +his old age as men now have forgotten to hate; and once Aonan had +sprung from his sleep with a sharp skene thrust through his arm, that +had meant to drink his life-blood; and once again he had found himself +alone in the heart of the battle, and he had scarcely won out of the +press with his life--and with the standard of the Danish enemy. Thus it +was seen that neither did the Danish spears love the “King’s Darling”; +and the sennachies made a song of this, and it was chanted before the +King for the first time when he sat robed and crowned for the Beltane +feast, and Aonan stood at his left hand, pouring out honey-wine into +his father’s cup. And before he drank, Cathal the King stared hard at +the cup-bearer, and the red light that burned in his eyes was darkened +because of the likeness in Aonan’s face to his mother Acaill (dead and +buried long since), whom Cathal had loved better than his first wife +Eiver, who was a king’s daughter, and better than the Danish slave +Astrild, who bore him five sons, elder and better-loved than Aonan, for +all the base blood in their veins. And of these, two were dead in the +battle that had spared Aonan, and there were left to Cathal the King +only the Druid Coloman, and Toran the boaster, and Guthbinn of the +sweet voice, who as yet was too young to fight. + +“Drink, Aonan-na-Righ,” shrilled Astrild from her seat at the King’s +left hand. “Drink: lest there be death in the cup.” + +Aonan took up the golden cup, and gave her back smile for smile. “I +drink,” he said, “to my mother, Acaill of Orgiall.” + +But the King snatched the cup from his fingers, and dashed it down on +the board, so that the yellow mead spilled and stained Astrild’s cloak; +but she did not dare complain, for there was the red light in Cathal’s +eyes that was wont to make the boldest afraid. + +“Bring me another cup,” he said to one that stood near. “And now, will +none of ye do honour to the toast of Aonan-na-Righ? Bring ye also a cup +for the prince; and, Guthbinn, put your harp aside.” + +So in silence they drank to the memory of Acaill of Orgiall, and +afterwards they sought to spin together the threads of their broken +mirth, but not easily, for Astrild, who was wont to be gayest, sat +pale, with her hand on the knife hidden in her breast; and the King sat +dumb and frowning, thinking, as Astrild knew, of dead Acaill: how he +had loved and hated her, and, having slain her father and brothers, and +brought her to Dunna Scaith a Golden Hostage wearing a golden chain, +he had wedded her for her beauty’s sake; and how until her child was +born she had never so much as smiled or frowned for him; and how, when +her babe lay in her arms, she sent for her husband, and said: “I thank +thee, Cathal, who hast set me free by means of this babe. I bless thee +for this last gift of thine, who for all thine other gifts have cursed +thee.” And Cathal remembered how he had held babe and mother to his +heart, and said: “Good to hear soft words from thy mouth at last, O +Acaill! Speak again to me, and softly.” But she had not answered, for +her first soft words to him were her last. And Astrild, watching him, +saw his face grow black and angry, and she smiled softly to herself, +and aloud she said: + +“Oh, Guthbinn, sing again, and sing of thy brothers who fell +to-day--sing of Oscar, the swift in battle, and Uaithne, of the dark +eyes. And will my lord give leave that I, their mother, go to weep for +them in my own poor house where they were born?” + +“No,” said Cathal. “I bought you and your tears, girl, with gold rings, +from Ocaill of Connaught. Sing to me now, and keep thy tears for +to-morrow.” So Astrild drove back her sorrow, and began to sing, while +her son Guthbinn plucked slow music from his harpstrings. + + “Earrach, Samhradh, Foghmhar, and Geimhridh, + Are over all and done: + And now the web forgets the weaver, + And earth forgets the sun. + I sowed no seed, and pulled no blossom, + Ate not of the green corn: + With empty hands and empty bosom, + Behold, I stand forlorn. + Windflower I sang, and Flower o’ Sorrow, + Half-Summer, World’s Delight: + I took no thought o’ the coming morrow, + No care for the coming night.” + +Guthbinn’s hand faltered on the harpstrings, and the singer stopped +swiftly: but King Cathal stayed the tears in her heart with an angry +word. “Have I had not always had my will? And it is not my will now +for you to weep.” So Astrild sat still, and she looked at her sons: +but Toran was busy boasting of the white neck and blue eyes of the new +slave-girl he had won, and Coloman was dreaming, as he sat with his +eyes on the stars that showed through the open door: and only Guthbinn +met her eyes and answered them, though he seemed to be busy with his +harp. And presently Cathal rose up, bidding all keep their seats and +finish out the feast, but Astrild and Aonan he bade follow him. And +so they went into the farthest chamber of the House of Shields, which +looked upon a deep ditch. Now the end of the chamber was a wall of +wattles, and here there was cut a door that led out on a high bank +which overlooked the ditch. And the King went out upon the bank, where +there was a chair placed ready for him, and Astrild sat at his knee, +and Aonan-na-Righ stood a little way off. And Cathal sat still for a +time, holding Astrild’s hand in his, and presently he said: “Who put +the death in the cup to-night, Astrild, thou or Guthbinn?” And Astrild +tried to draw her hand away and to rise, but he held her in her place, +and asked again, “Guthbinn, or thou?” until she answered him sullenly +as she knelt, “King, it was I.” + +“Belike, Guthbinn’s hand did thy bidding,” he said, in laughing +fashion. “Was the death for me or for Aonan yonder, thou Red-Hair?” + +And Astrild laughed as she answered, “For Aonan-na-Righ, my lord.” And +then she shrieked and sought to rise, for she saw death in the king’s +face as it bent over her. + +“If thou hadst sought to slay thy master, Red-Hair, I might have +forgiven thee,” Cathal said; “but what had my son to do with thee, my +light-o’-love?” + +“Give me a day,” Astrild said desperately, “and I will kill father and +son, and set the light-o’-love’s children on your throne, Cathal.” + +“I doubt it not, my wild-cat, but I will not give ye the day:” Cathal +laughed. “Good courage, girl--and call thy Danish gods to aid, for +there is none other to help thee, now.” + +“What will my lord do?” Aonan said quickly, as the Dane turned a white +face and flaming eyes to him. “Wouldst kill her?” + +“Ay,” said Cathal the King. “But first she shall leave her beauty +behind her, lest she meet thy mother in the Land of Youth, and Acaill +be jealous.” + +“Leave her beauty and breath, lord,” Aonan said, drawing nearer. “If my +mother Acaill lived she would not have her slain. My king, she pleased +thee once; put her from thee if she vexes thee now; but leave her life, +since something thou owest her.” + +“She would have slain thee to-day, Aonan, and if I have dealt ill by +thee, I let no other deal thus. Yet if thou prayest me for thy life, +girl, for love of Acaill I will give it thee.” + +And Cathal laughed, for he knew the Dane would not plead in that name. +Astrild laughed too. “Spare thy breath, son of Acaill,” she said +scornfully. “To-morrow the cord may be round thy neck, and thou be in +need of breath; now lord, the cord for mine----” + +Cathal smiled grimly. + +“Blackheart,” he said, “thou hast no lack of courage. Now up,” and he +loosened her hands, “and fly if thou wilt--swim the ditch, and get thee +to Drumcoll-choille--and Guthbinn shall die in thy stead. What! Thou +wouldst liefer die? Back then to yonder chamber, where my men will deal +with thee as I have ordered, and be as patient as in thee lies. A kiss +first, Red-Hair; and hearken from yonder chamber if thou wilt, while +Aonan sings a dirge for thee.” + +She went; and presently there rang from within the chamber the shrill +scream of a woman’s agony, and Cathal laughed to see Aonan’s face turn +white. “She is not as patient as thou,” he said, “but she will learn. +Keep thou my word to her, Aonan; sing a dirge for her beauty a-dying.” + +“I cannot sing,” Aonan-na-Righ said, shivering as there rose another +shriek. “Let them slay her, my lord, and have done.” + +“My will runs otherwise,” said Cathal, smiling. “Sing, if thou lovest +thy life.” + +“My lord knows that I do not,” Aonan answered; and Cathal smiled again. + +“Belike not; but sing and lessen the Dane’s punishment. When the song +is finished she shall be released, and even tended well.” + +So Aonan sang the song of the Dane-land over the water, and the Danes +that died in the Valley of Keening--which is now called Waterford; of +the white skin and red hair of Astrild; of her grace and daring; of the +sons that lay dead on the battle-place; of Coloman the dreamer that +read the stars; and of the beautiful boy whose breast was a nest of +nightingales. And then he sang--more softly--of the Isle of the Noble +where Acaill dwelt, and how she would have shadowed Astrild with her +pity if she had lived; and then he stopped singing and knelt before the +King, dumb for a moment with the passion of his pity, for from the open +door they could hear a woman moaning still. + +“Lord,” he said, “make an end. My life for hers--if a life the King +must have; or my pain for hers--if the King must needs feed his ears +with cries.” + +“Graciously spoken, and like Acaill’s son,” King Cathal said. “And +Astrild shall be set free. You within the chamber take the Dane to her +son the lord Coloman’s keeping; and thou, my son Aonan, tarry here till +I return. I may have a fancy to send thee with a message to thy mother +before dawn. Nay, but come with me, and we will go see Coloman, and ask +how his mother does. Give me thine arm to lean on; I am tired, Aonan, +I am old, and an end has come to my pleasure in slaying.... Coloman!” + +They were in Coloman’s chamber now, and the Druid turned from +star-gazing to greet the King, with a new dark look in his gentle face. +“Coloman, how does thy mother do now? She had grown too bold in her +pride, but we did not slay her because of Aonan here. How works our +medicine that we designed to temper her beauty?” + +“Well, lord. No man will kiss my mother’s beauty more.” + +“Good: now she will turn her feet into ways of gentleness, perhaps. +Thou holdest me a grudge for this medicine o’ mine, my son Coloman?” + +“Lord, she is my mother,” the Druid said, looking down. + +“The scars will heal,” Cathal said; “but--Aonan here has only seen her +beautiful. Coloman, wouldst thou have him see her scarred and foul to +see?” + +“No, lord,” the Druid said fiercely. Cathal laughed. + +“Have a gift of me, then, O Coloman,” he said. “Spare him from sight of +a marred beauty, in what way thou canst. I give thee his eyes for thy +mother’s scars.” + +The two young men looked at each other steadily: then Aonan spoke. +“Take the payment that the King offers thee, Coloman, without fear: a +debt is a debt.” + +“And the debt is heavy.” + +Coloman said hoarsely: “Lord, wilt thou go and leave Aonan-na-Righ to +me? And wilt thou send to me thy cunning men, Flathartach and Fadhar? I +must have help.” + +“Aonan-na-Righ will not hinder thee, Coloman,” said the King, +mockingly. “He desires greatly to meet with his mother: and do thou +commend me also to the Lady Eivir, whom I wedded first, and who loved +me well.” + +“Call me also to thy mother’s memory,” Toran the boaster cried +presently, when all was made ready, and Coloman bade draw the irons +from the brazier--“if thou goest so far, Darling of the King.” + +“I will remember,” Aonan said: and then fire and flesh met. + + * * * * * + +At the next Beltane feast Cathal the Red slept beside Acaill in the +burial-place of the kings at Brugh, and Guthbinn sat in the high seat, +Toran the boaster at his right hand. But Coloman the Druid stood on +the tower-top, reading the faces of the stars; and along the road that +wound its dusty way to the country of the Golden Hostages there toiled +two dark figures: a woman and a man. Now the woman was hooded and +masked, but under the grey hood the moonlight found a gleam of ruddy +hair; and the man she led by the hand and watched over as a mother +watches her son. Yet the woman was Danish Astrild, and the blind man +was Aonan-na-Righ. + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[I.] Now Tirerrill, Co. Sligo. + + + + +“De Profundis” + +By S. Cornish Watkins + + + The hot white road winds on and on before, + The hot white road fades into haze behind, + With clinging dust each hedge is powdered o’er, + The sun is high, no shelter can we find. + A dusty bird upon a dusty spray + Sings o’er and o’er a little dreary song, + There is no rest, no rest, the livelong day, + And we are weary, and the way is long. + + We know not whence we come, or whither wend, + What goal may be to which our journey draws, + Fate binds this burden on us, and the end + We know not, care not, and we must not pause. + A motley train we move. The young, the old, + Women and men, with feeble steps or strong, + Driven, like herded sheep, from fold to fold-- + Oh, we are weary, and the way is long. + + Vain whispers have we known, and hopes as vain; + And one, he bore a banner with a cross, + And spake wild words of comfort after pain, + And future gain to balance present loss. + But where he is we wot not. We have lost + All hopes we had, all faiths or right or wrong, + We have been shaken, shattered, tempest-tost, + And we are weary, and the way is long. + + Yet still, within each bosom smoulders there + Some little spark that might have been divine, + Something that will not let us quite despair, + Something we cannot, if we would, resign. + Some day the spark may quicken and may guide, + And fire the soul within us, dead so long, + So may there be, when falls the eventide, + A joyous ending to a grievous song. + + + + +Two Pictures + +By P. Wilson Steer + + + I. The Mirror + II. Skirt Dancing + + +[Illustration] + +[Illustration] + + + + +A Study in Sentimentality + +By Hubert Crackanthorpe + + +A PHANTOM regiment of giant mist-pillars swept silently across the +valley; beaded drops loaded each tuft of coarse, dull-tinted grass; the +peat-hags gaped like black, dripping flesh-wounds in the earth’s side; +the distance suggested rectangular fields and wooded slopes--vague, +grey, phantasmagoric; and down over everything floated the damp of fine +rain. + +Alec’s heavy tread crunched the turfed bridle-path rhythmically, and +from the stiff rim of his clerical hat the water dribbled on to his +shoulders. + +It was a rugged, irregular, almost uncouth face, and now the features +were vacantly huddled in a set expression, obviously habitual. The +cheeks were hunched up, almost concealing the small eyes; a wet wisp +of hair straggled over the puckered forehead, and the ragged, fair +moustache was spangled by the rain. + +At his approach the sheep scampered up the fell-side; then, stood +staring through the mist in anxious stupidity. And Alec, shaking the +water from his hat, strode forward with an almost imperceptible gleam +on his face. It was so that he liked the valley--all colourless and +blurred, with the sky close overhead, like a low, leaden ceiling. + +By-and-by, a cluster of cottages loomed ahead--a choppy pool of black +slate roofs, wanly a-glimmer in the wet. As he entered the village, a +group of hard-featured men threw him a curt chorus of greetings, to +which he raised his stick in response, mechanically. + +He mounted the hill. Three furnace-chimneys craned their thin necks +to grime the sky with a dribbling, smoky breath; high on a bank of +coal-dust, blurred silhouettes of trucks stood waiting in forlorn +strings; women, limp, with unkempt hair, and loose, bedraggled skirts, +stood round the doorways in gossiping groups. + +“Which is Mrs. Matheson’s?” he stopped to ask. + +“There--oop there, Mr. Burkett--by yon ash--where them childer’s +standin’,” they answered, all speaking together, eagerly. “Look ye! +that be Mrs. Matheson herself.” + +Alec went up to the woman. His face clouded a little, and the puffs +from his pipe came briskly in rapid succession. + +“Mrs. Matheson, I’ve only just heard----Tell me, how did it happen?” he +asked gently. + +She was a stout, red-faced woman, and her eyes were all bloodshot with +much crying. She wiped them hastily with the corner of her apron before +answering. + +“It was there, Mr. Burkett, by them rails. He was jest playin’ aboot +in t’ road wi’ Arnison’s childer. At half-past one, t’ grandmoother +stepped across to fetch me a jug o’ fresh water an’ she see’d him +settin’ in door there. Then--mabbee twenty minutes later--t’ rain coome +on an’ I thought to go to fetch him in. But I could’na see na sign of +him anywhere. We looked oop and doon, and thought, mabbee, he’d toddled +roond to t’ back. An’ then, all at once, Dan Arnison called to us that +he was leein’ in t’ water, doon in beck-pool. An’ Dan ran straight +doon, an’ carried him oop to me; but ’twas na use. He was quite cold +and drownded. An’ I went----” But the sobs, rising thickly, swallowed +the rest. + +Alec put his hand on her shoulder soothingly. + +“Ay, I know’d ye’d be grieved, Mr. Burkett. He was the bonniest boy in +all t’ parish.” + +She lifted the apron to her eyes again, while he crossed to the +railings. The wood of the posts was splintered and worm-eaten, and the +lower rail was broken away. Below, the rock shelved down some fifteen +feet to the beck-pool, black and oily-looking. + +“It’s a very dangerous place,” he said, half to himself. + +“Ay, Mr. Burkett, you’re right,” interrupted a bent and wizened old +woman, tottering forward. + +“This be grandmoother, Mr. Burkett,” Mrs. Matheson explained. “’Twas +grandmoother that see’d him last----” + +“Ay, Mr. Burkett,” the old woman began in a high, tremulous treble. +“When I went fer to fill t’ jug fer Maggie he was a-settin’ on t’ steps +there playin with t’ kitten, an’ he called after me, ‘Nanny!’ quite +happy-like; but I took na notice, but jest went on fer t’ water. I +shawed Mr. Allison the broken rail last month, when he was gittin’ t’ +rents, and I told him he ought to put it into repair, with all them +wee childer playin’ all daytime on t’ road. Didn’t I, Maggie?” Mrs. +Matheson assented incoherently. “An’ he was very civil-like, was Mr. +Allison, and he said he’d hev’ it seen to. It’s alus that way, Mr. +Burkett,” the old woman concluded, shaking her head wisely. “Folks wait +till some accident occurs, and then they think to bestir themselves.” + +Alec turned to the mother, and touched her thick, nerveless hand. + +“There, there, Mrs. Matheson, don’t take on so,” he said. + +At his touch her sobbing suddenly ceased, and she let her apron fall. + +“Will ye na coome inside, Mr. Burkett?” she asked. + +And they all three went in together. + +The little room had been scrubbed and tidied, and a number of chairs, +ranged round the table, blocked the floor. + +“We’ve bin busy all marnin’, gitting’ things a bit smartened oop for t’ +inquest. T’ coroner’s cooming at twelve,” the grandmother explained. + +“Will ye coome oopstairs, Mr. Burkett--jest--jest to tak’ a look at +him?” Mrs. Matheson asked in a subdued voice. + +Alec followed her, squeezing his burly frame up the narrow, creaking +staircase. + +The child lay on the clean, white bed. A look of still serenity slept +on his pallid face. His tawny curls were smoothed back, and some +snowdrops were scattered over the coverlet. All was quite simple. + +Mrs. Matheson stood in the doorway, struggling noisily with her sobs. + +“It is God’s will,” Alec said quietly. + +“He was turned four last week,” she blurted out. “Ye’ll excuse me, Mr. +Burkett, but I’m that overdone that I jest canna’ help myself,” and she +sank into a chair. + +He knelt by the dead child’s side and prayed, while the slow rise and +fall of the mother’s sobs filled the room. When he rose his eyes were +all moist. + +“God will help you, if you ask Him. His ways are secret. We cannot +understand His purpose. But have faith in Him. He has done it for the +best,” he said. + +“Ay, I know, I know, Mr. Burkett. But ye see he was the youngest, and +that bonny----” + +“Let me try to comfort you,” he said. + + * * * * * + +When they came downstairs again, her face was calmer and her voice +steadier. The coroner, a dapper man with a bright-red tie, was taking +off his gloves and macintosh; the room was fast filling with silent +figures, and the old grandmother was hobbling to and fro with noisy, +excited importance. + +“Will ye na’ stay for t’ inquest?” + +Alec shook his head. “No, I can’t stop now. I have a School-board +meeting to go to. But I will come up this afternoon.” + +“Thank’ee, Mr. Burkett, God bless thee,” said Mrs. Matheson. + +He shook hands with the coroner, who was grumbling concerning the +weather; then strode out back down the valley. + +Though long since he had grown familiar with the aspects of suffering, +that scene in the cottage, by reason of its very simplicity, had +affected him strangely. His heart was full of slow sorrow for the +woman’s trouble, and the image of the child, lying beautiful in its +death-sleep, passed and repassed in his mind. + +By-and-bye, the moaning of the wind, the whirling of lost leaves, the +inky shingle-beds that stained the fell-sides, inclined his thoughts to +a listless brooding. + +Life seemed dull, inevitable, draped in sombre, drifting shadows, like +the valley-head. Yet in all good he saw the hand of God, a mysterious, +invisible force, ever imperiously at work beneath the ravages of +suffering and of sin. + +It was close upon six o’clock when he reached home. He was drenched to +the skin, and as he sat before the fire, dense clouds of steam rose +from his mud-stained boots and trousers. + +“Now, Mr. Burkett, jest ye gang and tak off them things, while I make +yer tea. Ye’ll catch yer death one of these days--I know ye will. I +sometimes think ye haven’t more sense than a boy, traipsin’ about all +t’ day in t’ wet, and niver takin’ yer meals proper-like.” + +A faint smile flickered across his face. He was used to his landlady’s +scoldings. + +“A child was drowned yesterday in the beck up at Beda Cottages. I had +to go back there this afternoon to arrange about the funeral,” he +mumbled, half-apologetically. + +Mrs. Parkin snorted defiantly, bustling round the table as she spread +the cloth. Presently she broke out again: + +“An’ noo, ye set there lookin’ as white as a bogle. Why don’t ye go an’ +git them wet clothes off. Ye’re fair wringin’.” + +He obeyed; though the effort to rise was great. He felt curiously +cold: his teeth were clacking, and the warmth from the flames seemed +delicious. + +In his bedroom a dizziness caught him, and it was a moment before he +could recognise the familiar objects. And he realised that he was ill, +and looked at himself in the glass with a dull, scared expression. He +struggled through his dressing however, and went back to his tea. But, +though he had eaten nothing since the morning, he had no appetite; so, +from sheer force of habit, he lit a pipe, wheeling his chair close to +the fire. + +And, as the heat penetrated him, his thoughts spun aimlessly round the +day’s events, till these gradually drifted into the background of his +mind, as it were, and he and they seemed to have become altogether +detached. His forehead was burning, and a drowsy, delicious sense of +physical weakness was stealing over his limbs. He was going to be ill, +he remembered; and it was with vague relief that he looked forward to +the prospect of long days of monotonous inactivity, long days of repose +from the daily routine of fatigue. The details of each day’s work, the +accomplishment of which, before, had appeared so indispensable, now, +he felt in his lassitude, had faded to insignificance. Mrs. Parkin +was right: he had been overdoing himself; and with a clear conscience +he would take a forced holiday in bed. Things in the parish would get +along without him till the end of the week. There was only the drowned +child’s funeral, and, if he could not go, Milner, the neighbouring +vicar, would take it for him. His pipe slipped from his hand to the +hearthrug noiselessly, and his head sank forward.... + +He was dreaming of the old churchyard. The trees were rocking their +slim, bare arms; drip, drip, drip, the drops pattered on to the +tombstones, tight-huddled in the white, wet light of the moon; the +breath of the old churchyard tasted warm and moist, like the reek of +horses after a long journey. + +The child’s funeral was finished. Mrs. Matheson had cried noisily into +her apron; the mourners were all gone now; and alone, he sat down +on the fresh-dug grave. By the moonlight he tried to decipher the +names carved on the slabs; but most of the letters had faded away, +and moss-cushions had hidden the rest. Then he found it--“George +Matheson, aged four years and five days,” and underneath were carved +Mrs. Matheson’s words: “He was the bonniest boy in all the parish.” He +sat on, with the dread of death upon him, the thought of that black +senselessness ahead, possessing him, so sudden, so near, so intimate, +that it seemed entirely strange to have lived on, forgetful of it. +By-and-bye, he saw her coming towards him--Ethel, like a figure from +a picture, wearing a white dress that trailed behind her, a red rose +pinned at the waist, and the old smile on her lips. And she came beside +him, and told him how her husband had gone away for ever, and he +understood at once that he and she were betrothed again, as it had been +five years ago. He tried to answer her, but somehow the words would not +come; and, as he was striving to frame them, there came a great crash. +A bough clattered down on the tombstones; and with a start he awoke. + +A half-burned coal was smoking in the fender. He felt as if he had been +sleeping for many hours. + +He fell to stupidly watching the red-heat, as it pulsed through +the caves of coal, to imagining himself climbing their ashen +mountain-ridges, across dark defiles, up the face of treacherous +precipices.... + +Hundreds of times, here, in this room, in this chair, before this +fire, he had sat smoking, picturing the old scenes to himself, +musing of Ethel Fulton (Ethel Winn she had been then; but, after +her marriage, he had forced himself to think of her as bearing her +husband’s name--that was a mortification from which he had derived +a sort of bitter satisfaction). But now, with the long accumulation +of his solitude--five years he had been vicar of Scarsdale--he had +grown so unconscious of self, so indifferent to the course of his own +existence, that every process of his mind had, from sheer lack of +external stimulation, stagnated, till, little by little, the growth +of mechanical habit had come to mould its shape and determine its +limitations. And hence, not for a moment had he ever realised the grip +that this habit of sentimental reminiscence had taken on him, nor the +grotesque extent of its futile repetition. Such was the fervour of his +attitude towards his single chapter of romance. + +Five years ago, she and he had promised their lives to one another. And +the future had beckoned them onward, gaily, belittling every obstacle +in its suffusion of glad, alluring colour. He was poor: he had but +his curate’s stipend, and she was used to a regular routine of ease. +But he would have tended her wants, waiting on her, watching over +her, indefatigably; chastening all the best that was in him, that he +might lay it at her feet. And together, hand in hand, they would have +laboured in God’s service. At least so it seemed to him now. + +Then had come an enforced separation; and later, after a prolonged, +unaccountable delay, a letter from her explaining, in trite, discursive +phrases, how it could never be--it was a mistake--she had not known her +own mind--now she could see things clearer--she hoped he would forgive +and forget her. + +A wild determination to go at once to her, to plead with her, gripped +him; but for three days he was helpless, bound fast by parish duties. +And when at last he found himself free, he had already begun to +perceive the hopelessness of such an errand, and, with crushed and +dogged despair, to accept his fate as irrevocable. + +In his boyhood--at the local grammar-school, where his ugliness +had made him the butt of his class, and later, at an insignificant +Oxford college, where, to spare his father, whose glebe was at the +time untenanted, he had set himself grimly to live on an impossibly +slender allowance--at every turn of his life, he had found himself +at a disadvantage with his fellows. Thus he had suffered much, +dumbly--meekly many would have said--without a sign of resentment, +or desire for retaliation. But all the while, in his tenacious, +long-suffering way, he was stubbornly inuring himself to an acceptance +of his own disqualifications. And so, once rudely awakened from his +dream of love, he wondered with heavy curiosity at his faith in its +glamorous reality, and, remembering the tenour of his life, suffered +bitterly like a man befooled by his own conceit. + +Some months after the shattering of his romance, the rumour reached him +that James Fulton, a prosperous solicitor in the town, was courting +her. The thing was impossible, a piece of idle gossip, he reasoned with +himself. Before long, however, he heard it again, in a manner that left +no outlet for doubt. + +It seemed utterly strange, unaccountable, that she, whose eager echoing +of all his own spiritual fervour and enthusiasm for the work of the +Church still rang in his ears, should have chosen a man, whose sole +talk had seemed to be of dogs and of horses, of guns and of game; a man +thick-minded, unthinking, self-complacent; a man whom he himself had +carelessly despised as devoid of any spark of spirituality. + +And, at this moment, when the first smartings of bitter bewilderment +were upon him, the little living of Scarsdale fell vacant, and his +rector, perhaps not unmindful of his trouble, suggested that he should +apply for it. + +The valley was desolate and full of sombre beauty; the parish, +sparsely-peopled but extensive; the life there would be monotonous, +almost grim, with long hours of lonely brooding. The living was offered +to him. He accepted it excitedly. + +And there, busied with his new responsibilities, throwing himself into +the work with a suppressed, ascetic ardour, news of the outside world +reached him vaguely, as if from afar. + +He read of her wedding in the local newspaper: later, a few trite +details of her surroundings; and then, nothing more. + +But her figure remained still resplendent in his memory, and, as time +slipped by, grew into a sort of gleaming shrine, incarnating for him +all the beauty of womanhood. And gradually, this incarnation grew +detached, as it were, from her real personality, so that, when twice +a year he went back to spend Sunday with his old rector, to preach a +sermon in the parish church, he felt no shrinking dread lest he should +meet her. He had long ceased to bear any resentment against her, or to +doubt that she had done what was right. The part that had been his in +the little drama seemed altogether of lesser importance. + + * * * * * + +All night he lay feverishly tossing, turning his pillow aglow with +heat, from side to side; anxiously reiterating whole incoherent +conversations and jumbled incidents. + +At intervals, he was dimly conscious of the hiss of wind-swept leaves +outside, and of rain-gusts rattling the window-panes; and later, of +the sickly light of early morning streaking the ceiling with curious +patterns. By-and-bye, he dropped into a fitful sleep, and forgot the +stifling heat of his bed. + +Then the room had grown half full of daylight, and Mrs. Parkin was +there, fidgetting with the curtains. She said something which he did +not hear, and he mumbled that he had slept badly, and that his head was +aching. + +Some time later--how long he did not know--she appeared again, and +a man, whom he presently understood to be a doctor, and who put a +thermometer, the touch of which was deliciously cool, under his armpit, +and sat down at the table to write. Mrs. Parkin and he talked in +whispers at the foot of the bed: they went away; Mrs. Parkin brought +him a cup of beef-tea and some toast; and then he remembered only the +blurred memories of queer, unfinished dreams. + +Consciousness seemed to return to him all of a sudden; and, when it was +come, he understood dimly that, somehow, the fatigue of long pain was +over, and he tasted the peaceful calm of utter lassitude. + +He lay quite still, his gaze following Mrs. Parkin, as she moved to and +fro across the room, till it fell on a basket-full of grapes that stood +by the bedside. They were unfamiliar, inexplicable; they puzzled him; +and for awhile he feebly turned the matter over in his mind. Presently +she glanced at him, and he lifted his hand towards the basket. + +“Would ye fancy a morsel o’ fruit noo? ’Twas Mrs. Fulton that sent +’em,” she said. + +She held the basket towards him, and he lifted a bunch from it. They +were purple grapes, large and luscious-looking. Ethel had sent them. +How strange that was! For an instant he doubted if he were awake, and +clutched the pillow to make sure that it was real. + +“Mrs. Fulton sent them?” he repeated. + +“Ay, her coachman came yesterday in t’ forenoon to inquire how ye were +farin’, and left that fruit for ye. Ay, Mr. Burkett, but ye’ve had a +mighty quantity o’ callers. Most all t’ parish has been askin’ for +news o’ ye. An’ that poor woman from t’ factory cottages has been doon +forenoon and night.” + +“How long have I been in bed?” he asked after a pause. + +“Five days and five nights. Ye’ve bin nigh at death’s door, ravin’ +and moanin’ like a madman. But, noo, I must’na keep ye chatterin’. +Ye should jest keep yeself quiet till t’ doctor coomes. He’ll be +mighty surprised to find ye so much improved, and in possession of yer +faculties.” + +And she left him alone. + +He lay staring at the grapes, while excitement quickened every pulse. +Ethel had sent them--they were from Ethel--Ethel had sent them--through +his brain, to and fro, boisterously, the thought danced. And then, he +started to review the past, dispassionately, critically, as if it were +another man’s; and soon, every detail, as he lingered on it, seemed +to disentangle itself, till it all achieved a curious simplification. +The five years at Scarsdale became all blurred: they resembled an +eventless waste-level, through which he had been mechanically trudging. +But the other day, it seemed, he was with her--he and she betrothed +to one another. A dozen scenes passed before his eyes: with a flush +of hot, intolerable shame, he saw himself, clumsy, uncouth, devoid of +personal charm, viewing her bluntly, selfishly through the cumbrous +medium of his own personality. And her attitude was clear too: the +glamour, woven of habitual, sentimental reminiscence, faded, as it +were, from her figure, and she appeared to him simply and beautifully +human; living, vibrating, frail. _Now_ he knew the meaning of that last +letter of hers--the promptings of each phrase; the outpourings of his +ideals, enthusiasms, aspirations--callow, blatant, crude, he named them +bitterly--had scared her: she had felt herself unequal to the strain +of the life he had offered her: in her loveable, womanish frailty, she +had grown to dread it; and he realised all that she had suffered before +she had brought herself to end it--the long struggles with doubt and +suspense. The veil that had clogged his view was lifted: he knew her +now: he could read the writing on her soul: he was securely equipped +for loving her; and now, she had passed out of his life, beyond recall. +In his blindness he had not recognised her, and had driven her away. + +How came it that to-day, for the first time, all these things were made +clear? + +The clock struck; and while he was listening to its fading note, the +door-handle clicked briskly, and the doctor walked in. He talked +cheerily of the crops damaged by the storm, and the sound of his voice +seemed to vibrate harshly through the room. + +“There’s a heavy shower coming up,” he remarked. “By the way, you’re +quite alone here, Mr. Burkett, I believe. Have you no relatives whom +you would like to send for?” + +“No--no one,” Alec answered. “Mrs. Parkin will look after me.” + +“Yes--but you see,” and he came and sat down by the bedside, “I don’t +say there’s any immediate danger; but you’ve had a very near touch of +it. Now isn’t there any old friend?--you ought not to be alone like +this.” He spoke the last words with emphasis. + +Alec shook his head. His gaze had fallen on the basket of grapes again: +he was incoherently musing of Ethel. + +“Mind, I don’t say there’s any immediate danger,” he heard the man +repeating; “but I must tell you that you’re not altogether out of the +wood yet.” + +He paused. + +“You ought to be prepared for the worst, Mr. Burkett.” + +The last phrase lingered in Alec’s mind; and slowly its meaning dawned +upon him. + +“You mean I might die at any moment?” he asked. + +“No, no--I don’t say that,” the other answered evasively. “But you see +the fever has left you very weak; and of course in such cases one can +never be quite sure----” + +The rest did not reach Alec’s ears; he was only vaguely aware of the +murmur of the man’s voice. + +Presently he perceived that he had risen. + +“I will come back in the afternoon,” he was saying. “I’ll tell +Mrs.--Mrs. Parker to bring you in some breakfast.” + +After the doctor had gone he dozed a little.... + +Then remembered the man’s words--“No immediate danger, but you must +be prepared for the worst.” The sense of it all flashed upon him: he +understood what the man had meant: that was the way doctors always told +such things he guessed. So the end was near.... He wondered, a little +curiously, if it would come before to-night, or to-morrow.... It was +near, quite near, he repeated to himself; and gradually, a peacefulness +permeated his whole being, and he was vaguely glad to be alone.... + +A little while, and he would be near God. He felt himself detached from +the world, and at peace with all men. + +His life, as he regarded it trailing behind him, across the stretch +of past years, seemed inadequate, useless, pitiable almost; of his +own personality, as he now realised it, he was ashamed--petty +mortifications, groping efforts, a grotesque capacity for futile, +melancholy brooding--he rejoiced that he was to have done with it. The +end was near, quite near, he repeated once again. + +Then, afterwards, would come rest--the infinite rest of the +Saviour’s tenderness, and the strange, wonderful expectation of the +mysterious life to come.... A glimpse of his own serenity, of his +own fearlessness, came to him; and he was moved by a quick flush of +gratitude towards God. He thought of the terror of the atheist’s +death--the world, a clod of dead matter blindly careering through +space; humanity, a casual, senseless growth, like the pullulating +insects on a rottening tree.... + +A little while, only a little while, and he would be near God. And, +softly, under his breath, he implored pardon for the countless +shortcomings of his service.... + +The German clock on the mantel-piece ticked with methodical fussiness: +the flames in the grate flickered lower and lower; and one by one +dropped, leaving dull-red cinders. Through the window, under the +half-drawn blind, was the sky, cold with the hard, white glare of the +winter sun, flashing above the bare, bony mountain-backs; and he called +to mind spots in the little, desolate parish, which, with a grim, +clinging love, he had come to regard as his own for always. Who would +come after him, live in this house of his, officiate in the square, +grey-walled church, move and work in God’s service among the people?... + +And, while he lay drowsily musing on the unfinished dream, a muffled +murmur of women’s voices reached his ears. By an intuition, akin +perhaps to animal instinct, he knew all at once that it was she, +talking with Mrs. Parkin down in the room below. Prompted by a rush of +imperious impulse he raised himself on his elbow to listen. + +There was a rustling of skirts in the passage and the sound of the +voices grew clearer. + +“Good day, ma’am, and thank ye very kindly, I’m sure,” Mrs. Parkin was +saying. + +No reply came, though he was straining every nerve to catch it.... At +last, subdued, but altogether distinct, _her_ voice: + +“You’re sure there’s nothing else I can send?” + +The door of his room was ajar. He dug his nails into the panel-edge, +and tried to swing it open. But he could scarcely move it, and in a +moment she would be gone. + +Suddenly he heard his own voice--loud and queer it sounded: + +“Ethel--Ethel.” + +Hurried steps mounted the stairs, and Mrs. Parkin’s white cap and +spectacled face appeared. + +“What be t’ matter, Mr. Burkett?” she asked breathlessly. + +“Stop her--tell her.” + +“Dearie, dearie me, he’s off wanderin’ agin.” + +“No, no; I’m all right--tell--ask Mrs. Fulton if she would come up to +see me?” + +“There, there, Mr. Burkett, don’t ye excite yeself. Ye’re not fit to +see any one, ye know that. Lie ye doon agin, or ye’ll be catchin’ yer +death o’ cauld.” + +“Ask her to come, please--just for a minute.” + +“For Heaven’s sake lie doon. Ye’ll be workin’ yeself into a fever next. +There, there, I’ll ask her for ye, though I’ve na notion what t’ doctor +’ud say.” + +She drew down the blind and retired, closing the door quietly behind +her. + +The next thing he saw was Ethel standing by his bedside. + +He lay watching her without speaking. She wore a red dress trimmed +with fur; a gold bracelet was round her gloved wrist, and a veil +half-hid her features. + +Presently he perceived that she was very white, that her mouth was +twitching, and that her eyes were full of tears. + +“Alec--I’m so sorry you’re so ill.... Are you in pain?” + +He shook his head absently. Her veil and the fur on her cloak looked +odd, he thought, in the half-light of the room. + +“You will be better soon: the worst is over.” + +“No,” he answered, with a dreary smile. “I am going to die.” + +She burst into sobs. + +“No, no, Alec.... You must not think that.” + +He stretched his arm over the coverlet towards her, and felt the soft +pressure of her gloved hand. + +“Forgive me, Ethel, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pain you. But it is so; +the doctor told me this morning.” + +She sat down by the bedside, still crying, pressing her handkerchief to +her eyes. + +“Ethel, how strange it seems. Do you know I haven’t seen you since I +left Cockermouth?” The words came deliberately, for his mind had grown +quite calm. “How the time has flown!” + +Her grasp on his hand tightened, but she made no answer. + +“It was very kind of you to come all this way, Ethel, to see me. Will +you stay a little and let me talk to you? It’s more than five years +since we’ve talked together, you know,” and he smiled faintly. “Don’t +cry so, Ethel, dear. I did not mean to make you cry. There’s no cause +to cry, dear; you’ve made me so happy.” + +“My poor, poor Alec,” she sobbed. + +“You’d almost forgotten the old days, perhaps,” he continued dreamily, +talking half to himself; “for it’s a long while ago now. But to me it +seems as if it had all just happened. You see I’ve been vegetating +rather, here in this lonely, little place.... Don’t go on crying, Ethel +dear ... let me tell you about things a little. There’s no harm in it +now, because you know I’m----” + +“Oh! don’t--don’t say that. You’ll get better. I know you will.” + +“No, Ethel, I sha’n’t. Something within me tells me that my course +is done. Besides, I don’t want to get better. I’m so happy.... Stay +a little with me, Ethel.... I wanted to explain.... I was stupid, +selfish, in the old days----” + +“It was I--I who----” she protested through her tears. + +“No, you were quite right to write me that letter. I’ve thought that +almost from the first.... I’m sure of it,” he added, as if convincing +himself definitely. “It could never be ... it was my fault.... I +was stupid and boorish and wrapped up in myself. I did not try to +understand your nature.... I didn’t understand anything about women.... +I never had a sister.... I took for granted that you were always +thinking and feeling just as I was. I never tried to understand you, +Ethel.... I was not fit to be entrusted with you.” + +“Alec, Alec, it is not true. You were too good, too noble-hearted. +I felt you were far above me. Beside you I felt I was silly and +frivolous. Your standards about everything seemed so high----” + +But he interrupted, unheeding her: + +“You don’t know, Ethel, how happy you’ve made me.... I have thought +of you every day. In the evenings, I used to sit alone, remembering +you and all the happy days we had together, and the remembrance of +them has been a great joy to me. I used to go over them all, again and +again. The day that we all went to Morecambe, and that walk along the +seashore, when the tide caught us, and I carried you across the water +... the time that we went to those ruins, and you wore the primroses I +picked for you. And I used to read over all your letters, and remember +all the things you used to say. Downstairs, under the writing-table, +there is a black, tin cash-box--the key is on my bunch--Mrs. Parkin +will give it you. It’s where I’ve kept everything that has reminded +me of you, all this time. Will you take it back with you?... You +don’t know how you’ve helped me all these years--I wanted to tell you +that.... When I was in difficulties, I used to wonder how you would +have liked me to act.... When I was lonely and low-spirited, I used to +tell myself that you were happy.” He paused for breath, and his voice +died slowly in the stillness of the room. “You were quite right,” he +murmured almost inaudibly, “I see it all quite clearly now.” + +She was bending over him, and was framing his face in her two hands. + +“Say I was wrong,” she pleaded passionately. “Say I was wicked, wrong. +I loved you, Alec.... I was promised to you. I should have been so +happy with you, dear.... Alec, my Alec, do not die.... God will not +let you die.... He cannot be so cruel.... Come back, Alec.... I love +you.... Do you hear, my Alec? I love you.... Ethel loves you.... Before +God I love you.... I was promised to you.... I broke my word.... I +loved you all the time, but I did not know it.... Forgive me, my Alec +... forgive me.... I shall love you always.” + +He passed his fingers over her forehead tentatively, as if he were in +darkness. + +“Ethel, every day, every hour, all these years, you have been with me. +And now I am going away. Kiss me--just once--just once. There can be no +wrong in it now.” + +She tore her veil from her face: their lips met, and her head rested a +moment, sobbing on his shoulder. + +“Hush! don’t cry, Ethel dear, don’t cry. You have made me so glad.... +And you will remember to take the box.... And you will think of me +sometimes.... And I shall pray God to make you happy, and I shall wait +for you, Ethel, and be with you in thought, and if you have trouble, +you will know that I shall be sorrowing with you. Isn’t it so, dear?... +Now, good-bye, dear one--good-bye. May God watch over you.” + +She had moved away. She came back again, however, and kissed his +forehead reverently. But he was not aware of her return, for his mind +had begun to wander. + +She brushed past Mrs. Parkin in the passage, bidding her an incoherent +good-bye: she was instinctively impatient to escape to the protection +of familiar surroundings. Inside the house, she felt helpless, dizzy: +the melodrama of the whole scene had stunned her senses, and pity for +him was rushing through her in waves of pulsing emotion. + +As she passed the various landmarks, which she had noted on her outward +journey--a group of Scotch firs, a roofless cattle-shed, a pile of +felled trees--each seemed to wear an altered aspect. With what a +strange suddenness it had all happened! Yesterday the groom had brought +back word that he was in delirium, and had told her of the loneliness +of the house. It had seemed so sad, his lying ill, all alone: the +thought had preyed on her conscience, till she had started to drive +out there to inquire if there were anything she could do to help him. +Now, every corner round which the cart swung, lengthened the stretch of +road that separated her from that tragic scene in his room.... Perhaps +it was not right for her to drive home and leave him? But she couldn’t +bear to stay: it was all so dreadful. Besides, she assured herself, +she could do no good. There was the doctor, and that old woman who +nursed him--they would see to everything.... Poor, poor Alec--alone in +that grey-walled cottage, pitched at the far end of this long, bleak +valley--the half-darkened room--his wasted, feverish face--and his +_knowing_ that he could not live--it all came back to her vividly, +and she shivered as if with cold. Death seemed hideous, awful, almost +wicked in the cruelty of its ruthlessness. And the homeward drive +loomed ahead, interminably--for two hours she would have to wait with +the dreadful, flaring remembrance of it all--two hours--for the horse +was tired, and it was thirteen miles, a man by the roadside had told +her.... + +He was noble-hearted, saint-like.... Her pity for him welled up +once more, and she convinced herself that she could have loved him, +worshipped him, been worthy of him as a husband--and now he lay dying. +He had revealed his whole nature to her, it seemed. No one had ever +understood, as she did now, what a fine character he was in reality. +Her cheeks grew hot with indignation and shame, as she remembered +how she had heard people laugh at him behind his back, refer to him +mockingly as the ‘love-sick curate.’ And all this while--for five whole +years--he had gone on caring for her--thinking of her each day, reading +her letters, recalling the things she used to say--yes, those were his +very words. Before, she had never suspected that it was in his nature +to take it so horribly tragically; yet, somehow, directly he had fixed +his eyes on her in that excited way, she had half-guessed it.... + +The horse’s trot slackened to a walk, and the wheels crunched over a +bed of newly-strewn stones.... She was considering how much of what had +happened she could relate to Jim. Oh! the awfulness of his _knowing +beforehand_ like that! She had kissed him; she had told him that she +cared for him; she hadn’t been able to help doing that. There was +no harm in it; she had made him happier--he had said so himself.... +But Jim wouldn’t understand: he would be angry with her for having +gone, perhaps. He wouldn’t see that she couldn’t have done anything +else. No, she couldn’t bear to tell him: besides, it seemed somehow +like treachery to Alec.... Oh! it must be awful to _know beforehand_ +like that!... The doctor should never have told him. It was horrible, +cruel.... In the past how she had been to blame--she saw that now: +thoughtless, selfish, altogether beneath him. + +It was like a chapter in a novel. His loving her silently all these +years, and telling her about it on his deathbed. At the thought of it +she thrilled with subtle pride: it illuminated the whole ordinariness +of her life. The next moment the train of her own thoughts shamed her. +Poor, poor Alec.... And to reinforce her pity, she recalled the tragic +setting of the scene. + +That woman--his landlady--could she have heard anything, she wondered +with a twinge of dread? No, the door was shut, and his voice had been +very low. + +The horse turned on to the main road, and pricking his ears, quickened +his pace. + +She would remember him always. Every day, she would think of him, as +he had asked her to do--she would never forget to do that. And, if she +were in trouble, or difficulty, she would turn her thoughts towards +him, just as he had told her he used to do. She would try to become +better--more religious--for his sake. She would read her Bible each +morning, as she knew had been his habit. These little things were all +she could do now. Her attitude in the future she would make worthy of +his in the past.... He would become the secret guiding-star of her +life: _it_ would be her hidden chapter of romance.... + +The box--that box which he had asked her to take. She had promised, and +she had forgotten it. How could she get it? It was too late to turn +back now. Jim would be waiting for her. She would only just be in time +for dinner as it was.... How could she get it? If she wrote to his +landlady, and asked her to send it--it was under the writing-table in +the sitting-room he had said.... She _must_ get it, somehow.... + +It was dark before she reached home. Jim was angry with her for being +late, and for having driven all the way without a servant. She paid +no heed to his upbraiding; but told him shortly that Alec was still +in great danger. He muttered some perfunctory expression of regret, +and went off to the stables to order a bran-mash for the horse. His +insensibility to the importance of the tragedy she had been witnessing, +exasperated her: she felt bitterly mortified that he could not divine +all that she had been suffering. + + * * * * * + +The last of the winter months went, and life in the valley swept its +sluggish course onwards. The bleak, spring winds rollicked, hooting +from hill to hill. The cattle waited for evening, huddled under the +walls of untrimmed stone; and before the fireside, in every farmhouse, +new-born lambs lay helplessly bleating. On Sundays the men would loaf +in churlish groups about the church door, jerk curt greetings at one +another, and ask for news of Parson Burkett. It was a curate from +Cockermouth who took the services in his stead--one of the new-fangled +sort; a young gentleman from London way, who mouthed his words like +a girl, carried company manners, and had a sight of strange clerical +practices. + +Alec was slowly recovering. The fever had altogether left him: a +straw-coloured beard now covered his chin, and his cheeks were grown +hollow and peaky-looking. But by the hay-harvest, the doctor reckoned, +he would be as strong as ever again--so it was commonly reported. + +Mrs. Parkin declared that the illness had done him a world o’ good. +“It’s rested his mind like, and kept him from frettin’. He was alus +ower given to studyin’ on his own thoughts, till he got dazed like and +took na notice o’ things. An’ noo,” she would conclude, “ye should jest +see him, smilin’ as free as a child.” + +So, day after day, floated vaguely by, and to Alec the calm of their +unbroken regularity was delicious. He was content to lie still for +hours, thinking of nothing, remembering nothing, tasting the torpor of +dreamy contemplation; watching through the window the slow drifting +of the shadows; listening to the cackling of geese, and the plaintive +bleating of sheep.... + +By-and-bye, with returning strength, his senses quickened, and +grew sensitive to every passing impression. To eat with elaborate +deliberation his invalid meals; to watch the myriad specks of gold +dancing across a bar of sunlight--these were sources of keen, exciting +delight. But in the foreground of his mind, transfiguring with its +glamour every trivial thought, flashed the memory of Ethel’s visit. He +lived through the whole scene again and again, picturing her veiled +figure as it had stood by the bedside, wrapped in the red, fur cloak; +and her protesting words, her passionate tears, seemed to form a +mystic, indissoluble bond between them, that brightened all the future +with rainbow colours. + +God had given him back to her. Whether circumstances brought them +together frequently, or whether they were forced to live their lives +almost wholly apart, would, he told himself, matter but little. Their +spiritual communion would remain unbroken. Indeed, the prospect of +such separations, proving, as it did to him, the sureness of the bond +between them, almost elated him. There would be unquestioning trust +between them, and, though the world had separated them, the best that +was in him belonged to her. When at length they met, there would be no +need for insistance on common points of feeling, for repeated handling +of past threads, as was customary with ordinary friendships. Since each +could read the other’s heart, that sure intuition born of chastened, +spiritual love would be theirs. If trouble came to her, he would be +there to sacrifice all at a moment’s bidding, after the fashion of the +knights of old. Because she knew him, she would have faith in him. To +do her service would be his greatest joy. + +At first the immobile, isolated hours of his convalescence made all +these things appear simple and inevitable, like the events of a great +dream. As time went on, however, he grew to chafe against his long +confinement, to weary of his weakness, and of the familiar sight of +every object in the room; and in the mornings, when Mrs. Parkin brought +him his breakfast, he found himself longing for a letter from her--some +brief word of joy that he was recovering. He yearned for some material +object, the touch of which would recall her to him, as if a particle of +her personality had impregnated the atoms. + +Sometimes, he would force himself into believing that she would +appear again, drive out to learn the progress of his recovery.... +After luncheon she would leave home ... about half-past one, probably +... soon after three, he would see her.... Now, she was nearing the +cross-roads ... now climbing the hill past Longrigg’s farm ... she +would have to walk the horse there ... now, crossing the old bridge. He +would lie watching the clock; and when the suspense grew intolerable, +to cheat it, he would bury his head in the pillow to count up to a +thousand, before glancing at the hands again. So would slip by the +hour of her arrival; still, he would struggle to delude himself with +all manner of excuses for her--she had been delayed--she had missed +the turning, and had been compelled to retrace her steps. And, when at +length the twilight had come, he would start to assure himself that it +was to be to-morrow, and sink into a fitful dozing, recounting waking +dreams of her, subtly intoxicating.... + + * * * * * + +In April came a foretaste of summer, and, for an hour or two every +day, he was able to hobble downstairs. He perceived the box at once, +lying in its accustomed place, and concluded that on learning that +he was out of danger, she had sent it back to him. The sight of it +cheered him with indefinable hope: it seemed to signify a fresh token +of her faith in him: it had travelled with her back to Cockermouth on +that wonderful day which had brought them together; and now, in his +eyes, it was invested with a new preciousness. He unlocked it, and, +somehow, to discover that its contents had not been disturbed, was a +keen disappointment. He longed for proof that she had been curious to +look into it, that she had thus been able to realise how he had prized +every tiny object that had been consecrated for him by her. Then it +flashed across him that she herself might have brought the box back, +and fearing to disturb him, had gone home again without asking to see +him. All that evening he brooded over this supposition; yet shrank +from putting any question to Mrs. Parkin. But the following morning, +a sudden impulse overcame his repugnance; and the next moment he had +learned the truth. Untouched, unmoved, the box had remained all the +while--she had never taken it--she had forgotten it. And depression +swept through him; for it seemed that his ideal had tottered. + +His prolonged isolation and his physical lassitude had quickened his +emotions to an abnormal sensibility, and had led him to a constant +fingering, as it were, of his successive sentimental phases. And +these, since they constituted his sole diversion, he had unconsciously +come to regard as of supreme importance. The cumbersome, complex +details of life in the outside world had assumed the simplification of +an indistinct background: in his vision of her figure he had perceived +no perspective. + +But now the grain of doubt was sown: it germinated insidiously; and +soon, the whole complexion of his attitude towards her was transformed. +All at once he saw a whole network of unforeseen obstacles, besetting +each detail of the prospect he had been planning. Swarming uncertainty +fastened on him at every turn; till at last, goaded to desperation, +he stripped the gilding from the accumulated fabric of his idealised +future. + +And then his passion for her flamed up--ardent, unreasoning, human. +After all, he loved as other men loved--that was the truth: the rest +was mere calfish meandering. Stubbornly he vindicated to himself his +right to love her.... He was a man--a creature of flesh and blood, and +every fibre within him was crying out for her--for the sight of her +face; the sound of her voice; the clasp of her hand. Body and soul he +loved her; body and soul he yearned for her.... She had come back to +him--she was his again--with passionate tears she had told him that she +loved him. To fight for her, he was ready to abandon all else. At the +world’s laws he jibed bitterly; before God they were man and wife. + +The knowledge that it lay in his power to make her his for life, +to bind her to him irrevocably, brought him intoxicating relief. +Henceforward he would live on, but for that end. Existence without her +would be dreary, unbearable. He would resign his living and leave the +church. Together they would go away, abroad: he would find some work to +do in the great cities of Australia.... She was another man’s wife--but +the sin would be his--_his_, not hers--God would so judge it; and +for her sake he would suffer the punishment. Besides, he told himself +exultantly, the sin was it not already committed? “Whosoever looketh on +a woman to lust after her, hath committed adultery with her already in +his heart.” + +He would go to her, say to her simply that he was come for her. It +should be done openly, honestly in the full light of day. New strength +and deep-rooted confidence glowed within him. The wretched vacillation +of his former self was put away like an old garment. Once more he sent +her words of love sounding in his ears--the words that had made them +man and wife before God. And on, the train of his thoughts whirled: +visions of a hundred scenes flitted before his eyes--he and she +together as man and wife, in a new home across the seas, where the past +was all forgotten, and the present was redolent of the sure joy of +perfect love.... + + * * * * * + +He was growing steadily stronger. Pacing the floor of his room, or +the gravel-path before the house, when the sun was shining, each day +he would methodically measure the progress of his strength. He hinted +of a long sea voyage to the doctor: the man declared that it would be +madness to start before ten days had elapsed. Ten days--the stretch +of time seemed absurd, intolerable. But a quantity of small matters +relating to the parish remained to be set in order: he had determined +to leave no confusion behind him. So he mapped out a daily task for +himself: thus he could already begin to work for her; thus each day’s +accomplishment would bring him doubly nearer to her. The curate, who +had been taking his duty, came once or twice at his request to help +him; for he was jealously nursing his small stock of strength. He +broke the news of his approaching departure to Mrs. Parkin, and asked +her to accept the greater portion of his furniture, as an inadequate +token of his gratitude towards her for all she had done for him. The +good creature wept copiously, pestered him with questions concerning +his destination, and begged him to give her news of him in the future. +Next he sent for a dealer from Cockermouth to buy the remainder, and +disputed with him the price of each object tenaciously. + +One afternoon his former rector appeared, and with tremulous cordiality +wished him God-speed, assuming that the sea voyage was the result of +doctor’s advice. And it was when the old man was gone, and he was +alone again, that, for the first time, with a spasm of pain, he caught +a glimpse of the deception he was practising. But some irresistible +force within him urged him forward--he was powerless--to look back was +impossible now--there was more yet to be done--he must go on--there was +no time to stop to think. So to deaden the rising conscience-pangs, he +fiercely reminded himself that now, but five days more separated her +from him. He sat down to write to his bishop and resign his living, +struggling with ambiguous, formal phrases, impetuously attributing to +his physical weakness his inability to frame them. + +The letter at length finished, instinctively dreading fresh gnawings of +uneasiness, he forced himself feverishly into thinking of plans for the +future, busying his mind with time-tables, searching for particulars of +steamers, turning over the leaves of his bank-book. All the money which +his father had left to him had remained untouched: for three years they +could live comfortably on the capital; meanwhile he would have found +some work. + +At last, when, with the growing twilight, the hills outside were +hurriedly darkening, he sank back wearily in his chair. And all at once +he perceived with dismay that nothing remained for him to do, nothing +with which he could occupy his mind. For the moment he was alone with +himself, and looking backwards, realisation of the eager facility +with which he had successively severed each link, and the rapidity +with which he had set himself drifting towards a future, impenetrable +with mysterious uncertainty, stole over him. He had done it all, he +told himself, deliberately, unaided; bewildered, he tried to bring +himself face to face with his former self, to survey himself as he +had been before the fever--that afternoon when he had gone up to Beda +Cottages--plodding indifferently through life in the joyless, walled-in +valley, which, he now understood, had in a measure reflected the spirit +of his own listless broodings. Scared remorse seized him. The prospect +of departure, now that it was close at hand, frightened him; left him +aching as with the burden of dead weight, so that, for a while, he +remained inert, dully acquiescing in his accumulating disquietude. + +Then, in desperation, he invoked her figure, imagining a dozen +incoherent versions of the coming scene--the tense words of greeting, +his passionate pleading, her impulsive yielding, and the acknowledgment +of her trust in him.... + +By-and-bye, Mrs. Parkin brought him his dinner. He chatted to her with +apparent unconcern, jested regarding his appetite; for a curious calm, +the lucidity evoked by suppressed elation, pervaded him. + +But through the night he tossed restlessly, waking in the darkness to +find himself throbbing with triumphant exhilaration; each time striking +matches to examine the face of his watch, and beginning afresh to +calculate the hours that separated him from the moment that was to bind +them together--the irrevocable starting towards the future years. + + * * * * * + +She stood in the bow-window of her drawing-room, arranging some cut +flowers in slender pink and blue vases, striped with enamel of +imitation gold. Behind her, the room, uncomfortably ornamental, +repeated the three notes of colour--gilt paper shavings filling the +grate; gilt-legged chairs and tables; stiff, shiny, pink chintzes +encasing the furniture; on the wall a blue-patterned paper, all +speckled with stars of gold. + +Outside, the little lawn, bathed in the fresh morning sunlight, glowed +a luscious green, and the trim flower-beds swelled with heightened +colours. A white fox-terrier came waddling along the garden path: she +lifted the animal inside the window, stroking his sleek sides with an +effusive demonstration of affection. Would Jim remember to be home in +good time, she was idly wondering; she had forgotten to remind him +before he went to his office, that to-night she was to sing at a local +concert. + +Suddenly, she caught sight of a man’s figure crossing the lawn. For an +instant she thought it was an old clerk, whom Jim sometimes employed +to carry messages. Then she saw that it was Alec--coming straight +towards her. Her first impulse was to escape from him; but noticing +that his gaze was fixed on the ground, she retreated behind an angle +of the window, and stood watching him.... Poor Alec! He was going away +on a sea-voyage for his health, so Jim had heard it said in the town; +and she formed a hasty resolve to be very kind to the poor fellow. Yet +her vanity felt a prick of pique, as she noticed that his gait was +grown more gaunt, more ungainly than ever; and she resented that his +haggard face, his stubbly beard, which, when he lay ill, had signified +tense tragedy, should now seem simply uncouth. Still, she awaited his +appearance excitedly; anticipating a renewed proof of his touching, +dog-like devotion to her, and with a fresh thrill of unconscious +gratitude to him for having supplied that scene to which she could look +back with secret, sentimental pride. + +The maid let him into the room. As he advanced towards her, she saw +him brush his forehead with his hand impatiently, as if to rid his +brain of an importunate thought. He took her outstretched hand: the +forced cheeriness of her phrase of greeting died away, as she felt his +gaze searching her face. + +“Let us sit down,” he said abruptly. + +“I’m all right again, now,” he began with a brisk, level laugh; and it +occurred to her that perhaps the illness had affected his mind. + +“I’m so glad of that,” she stammered in reply; “so very glad.... And +you’re going away, aren’t you, for a long sea voyage? That will do you +ever so much good----” + +But before she had finished speaking, he was kneeling on the carpet +before her, pouring out incoherent phrases. Bewildered, she gazed at +him, only noticing the clumsy breadth of his shoulders. + +“Listen to me, Ethel, listen,” he was saying. “Everything is +ready--I’ve given it all up--my living--the Church. I can’t bear it any +longer--life without you, I mean.... You are everything to me--I only +want you--I care for nothing else now. I am going away to Australia. +You will come with me, Ethel--you said you loved me.... We love one +another--come with me--let us start life afresh. I can’t go on living +without you ... I thought it would be easy for you to come; I see now +that perhaps it’s difficult. You have your home: I see that.... But +have trust in me--I will make it up to you. Together we will start +afresh--make a new home--a new life. I will give you every moment; I +will be your slave.... Listen to me, Ethel; let us go away. Everything +is ready--I’ve got money--I’ve arranged everything. We can go up to +London to-morrow. The steamer starts on Thursday.” + +The sound of his voice ceased. She was staring at the door, filled with +dread lest it should open, and the maid should see him kneeling on the +carpet. + +“Don’t,” she exclaimed, grasping his coat. “Get up, quick.” + +He rose, awkwardly she thought, and stood before her. + +“We were so happy together once, dear--do you remember--in the first +days, when you promised yourself to me? And now I know that in your +heart you still care for me. You said so. Say you will come--say you +will trust me--you will start to-morrow. If you can’t come so soon +I will wait, wait till you can come,” he added, and she felt the +trembling touch of his hands on hers, and his breath beating on her +face. + +“Don’t, please,” and she pushed back his hands. “Some one might see.” + +“What does it matter, my darling? We are going to belong to one another +for always. I am going to wait for you, darling--to be your slave--to +give up every moment of my life to you.... It’s the thought of you +that’s made me live, dear.... You brought me back to life, that day you +came.... I’ve thought of nothing but you since. I’ve been arranging it +all----” + +“It’s impossible,” she interrupted. + +“No, dear, it’s not impossible,” he pleaded. + +“You’ve resigned your living--left the Church?” she asked incredulously. + +“Yes, everything,” he answered proudly. + +“And all because you cared so for me?” + +“I can’t begin to live again without you. I would suffer eternal +punishment gladly to win you.... You will trust yourself to me darling; +say you will trust me.” + +“Of course, Alec, I trust you. But you’ve no right to----” + +“Oh! because you’re married, and it’s a sin, and I’m a clergyman. But +I’m a man first. And for you I’ve given it all up--everything. You +don’t understand my love for you.” + +“Yes, yes, I do,” she answered quickly, alarmed by the earnestness of +his passion, yet remembering vaguely that she had read of such things +in books. + +“You will come to-morrow, darling--you will have trust in me?” + +“You are mad, Alec. You don’t know what you are saying. It would be +absurd.” + +“It’s because you don’t understand how I love you, that you say that,” +he broke out fiercely. “You can’t understand--you can’t understand. + +“Yes, I can,” she protested, instinctively eager to vie with his +display of emotion. + +“Then say you will come--promise it, promise it,” he cried; and his +features were all distorted by suspense. + +But at this climax of his insistance, she lost consciousness of her own +attitude. She seemed suddenly to see all that clumsiness which had made +her refuse him before. + +“It’s altogether ridiculous,” she answered shortly. + +He recoiled from her: he seemed to stiffen a little all over; and she +felt rising impatience at his grotesque denseness in persisting. + +“You say it’s altogether ridiculous?” he repeated after her slowly. + +“Yes, of course it’s ridiculous,” she repeated with uneasy emphasis. +“I’m very sorry you should mind--feel it so--but it isn’t my fault.” + +“Why did you say then that before God you loved me, when you came that +day?” he burst out with concentrated bitterness. + +“Because I thought you were dying.” The bald statement of the truth +sprang to her lips--a spontaneous, irresistible betrayal. + +“I see--I see,” he muttered. His hands clenched till the knuckles +showed white. + +“I’m very sorry,” she added lamely. Her tone was gentler, for his dumb +suffering moved her sensibilities. In her agitation, the crudity of her +avowal had slipped her notice. + +“That’s no use,” he answered wearily. + +“Alec, don’t be angry with me. Can’t we be friends? Don’t you see +yourself now that it was mad, absurd?” she argued, eager to reinstate +herself in his eyes. Then, as he made no answer, “Let us be friends, +Alec, and you will go back to Scarsdale, when you are well and strong. +You will give up nothing for my sake. I should not wish that, you know, +Alec.” + +“Yes,” he assented mechanically, “I shall go back.” + +“I shall always think of this morning,” she continued, growing +sentimentally remorseful as the sensation of rising relief pervaded +her. “And you will soon forget all about it,” she added, with a +cheeriness of tone that rang false; and paused, awaiting his answer. + +“And I shall forget all about it,” he repeated after her. + +To mask her disappointment, she assumed a silly, nervous gaiety. + +“And I shall keep it quite secret that you were so naughty as to ask me +to run away with you. I sha’n’t even tell Jim.” + +He nodded stupidly. + +With a thin, empty smile on her face, she was debating how best to part +with him, when, of a sudden, he rose, and, without a word, walked out +of the room. + +He strode away across the lawn, and, as she watched his retreating +figure, she felt for him a shallow compassion, not unmingled with +contempt. + + + + +George Meredith + +By Morton Fullerton + + + DEEPEST and keenest of our time who pace + The variant by-paths of the uncertain heart + In undiscerned mysterious ways apart, + Thou huntest on the Assyrian monster’s trace: + That sweeping-pinioned Thing--with human face, + Poor Man, with wings hoof-weighted lest they start + To try the breeze above this human mart, + In heights pre-occupied of a god-like race. + + Among the stammering sophists of the age + Thy words are absolute, thy vision true; + No hand but thine is found to fit the gage + The Titan, Shakespeare, to a whole world threw. + Till thou hadst boldly to his challenge sprung, + No rival had he in our English tongue. + + + + +A Sunset + +By William Hyde + + +[Illustration] + + + + +Jeanne-Marie + +By Leila Macdonald + + +I + +JEANNE-MARIE lived alone in the white cottage at the far end of the +village street. + +It was a long narrow street of tall houses, stretching each side of +the white shining road, for two hundred yards or more. A street that +was cool and shadeful even in the shadeless summer days, when the sun +burned most hotly, when the broad roads dazzled between their avenues +of plane-tree and poplar, and the mountains disappeared from the +horizon in the blue haze of heat. + +From her little garden Jeanne-Marie liked to look at the mountains each +morning, and, when for two or three days following they were not to be +seen, she would shake her head reproachfully, as at the failing of old +friends. + +“My boys, Jeanne-Marie is only thirty-seven,” Bourdet the innkeeper +said to his companions, as they sat, one May afternoon, smoking under +the chestnut-trees in front of the café. They all looked up as he +spoke, and watched Jeanne-Marie, as she walked slowly past them to her +cottage. + +“Bourdet has been paying court,” said Leguillon, the fat, red-faced +butcher, with a chuckle, as he puffed at his long pipe. “You see, he +is anxious we should think her of an age suitable, before he tells us +the betrothals are arranged.” + +“For my part I should give many congratulations,” said the village +postman and tobacconist, gruffly. “Jeanne-Marie is worth any of our +girls of the village, with their bright dresses and silly giggles.” + +Bourdet laughed. “You shall come to the wedding, my friends,” he said, +with a wink and a nod of the head to the retreating figure; “and since +our friend Minaud there finds the girls so distasteful, he shall wait +till our babies are old enough, and be betrothed to one of them.” + +The postmaster laughed with the rest. “But seriously,” he said, +“Bourdet will pardon me if I tell him our Jeanne-Marie is a good deal +past the thirties.” + +Laurent, the good-looking young farmer, who stood leaning against the +tree round which their chairs were gathered, answered him gravely. +“Wait, _beau-père_, till you see her on Sunday coming from Mass on M. +Bourdet’s arm; the cap that hides the grey knot of hair at the back of +the head is neat and bright--oh! so bright--pink or blue for choice, +and if M. Bourdet chances to compliment the colour of the stockings--he +is gay, you know, always--the yellow face turns rosy and all the +wrinkles go.” And laughing maliciously at Bourdet, the young fellow +turned away homewards. + +Bourdet looked grave. “’Tis your son-in-law that speaks like that, +Minaud,” he said, “otherwise I would say that in my day the young +fellows found it better to amuse themselves with the young girls than +to mock at the old ones.” + +“You are right, my friend,” said Minaud. “’Tis the regiment that taught +Laurent this, and many other things. But it is a good boy, though with +a sharp tongue. To these young ones it seems all foolishness to be an +old girl.” + +And the others nodded agreement. + +So they sat, chatting, and drawing at their long pipes, while the +afternoon sun gleamed on the little gardens and on the closed green +shutters of the houses; and the slow, large oxen lumbered through the +village street, their yoked heads pressed well down, and their tails +flicking unceasingly at the swarm of flies. + +Jeanne-Marie stood in her garden, blinking thoughtfully at the flowers, +while she shaded her eyes with her hand. On her bare head the sparse +brown hair was parted severely and neatly to each side, and the deep +southern eyes looked steadily out of the tanned and wrinkled face. +Her light cotton bodice fell away from the thin lines of her neck and +shoulders, and her sabots clicked harshly as she moved about the garden. + +“At least the good God has given me a fine crab-apple bloom this year,” +Jeanne-Marie said, as she looked at the masses of rich blossom. On the +wall the monthly roses were flowering thickly, and the Guelder roses +bent their heads under the weight of their heavy bunches. “In six days +I shall have the peonies, and the white rose-bush in the corner is +coming soon,” said Jeanne-Marie contentedly. + + +II + +It was four and a half years ago that Jeanne-Marie had come to the +white cottage next to the mill, with the communal school opposite. Till +that autumn day, when a pair of stout oxen had brought her goods to the +door, she had lived with her brother, who was _métayer_ to M. François, +the owner of the big villa a quarter of a mile beyond the village. +Her father had been _métayer_; and when he died, his son Firman--a +fine-looking young man, not long home from his service--had taken +his place. So the change at the _métairie_ had very little affected +Jeanne-Marie. + +But she missed her father sorely every day at mid-day, when she +remembered that there was one less to cook for; that the tall, straight +old figure would not come in at the door, and that the black pudding +might remain uncooked for all Firman’s noticing; and Jeanne-Marie would +put the bouillon by the fire, and sit down and cry softly to herself. + +They were very kind to her at the villa, and at night, when Firman +was at the café, she would take the stockings and the linen and darn +them in the kitchen, while she listened to the servants’ talk, and +suppressed her _patois_ as much as possible, for they were from the +North, and would not understand. + +Two years after her father’s death, Jeanne-Marie began to notice that +Firman went no more to the café in the evening, and had always his +shirt clean, and his best black smocked cape for the market in the town +on Mondays, and for Mass on Sundays. + +“It astonishes me,” she had said, when she was helping M. +François’ cook that day the château-folk had come to _déjeûner_, +unexpectedly--for Jeanne-Marie’s cooking was very good +indeed--“because, you understand, that is not his way at all. Now, if +it were Paul Puyoo or the young André, it would be quite ordinary; but +with Firman, I doubt with him it is a different thing.” + +And Anna had nodded her black head sagely over the _omelette aux +fines herbes_ as she answered; “Jeanne-Marie, Firman wishes to marry; +Jeanne-Marie, for my own part, I say it’s that little fat blue-eyed +Suzanne from the _métairie_ on the hill.” + + +III + +Suzanne looked very pretty the day she came home to Mr. François’ +_métairie_, leaning on her husband’s arm; but Jeanne-Marie was not +there to see; she was sitting in the large chair in the kitchen of the +white cottage, and she was sobbing with her head in her hands. “And +indeed the blessed Virgin herself must have thought me crazy, to see me +sitting sobbing there, with the house in confusion, and not a thing to +cook with in the kitchen,” she said, shamefacedly, to Marthe Legrand +from the mill, when she came in, later, to help her. “You should have +remained,” Marthe answered, nodding at her pityingly. “You should have +remained, Jeanne-Marie; the old house is the old house, and the good +God never meant the wedding of the young ones to drive away the old +ones from the door.” + +Jeanne-Marie drew in her breath at the words “old ones.” “But the book +says I am only thirty-four!” she told herself; and that night she +looked in the old Mass-book, to be sure if it could be true; and there +was the date set down very clearly, in the handwriting of Dubois, her +father’s oldest friend; for Jeanne-Marie’s father himself could neither +read nor write--he was, as he said with pride, of the old school, +“that kissed our sweethearts, and found that better than writing them +long scribbles on white paper, as the young ones do now; and thought +a chat with a friend on Sundays and holidays worth more than sitting +cramped up, reading the murders and the adulteries in the newspapers.” +So it was Dubois who wrote down the children’s births in the old Mass +book. Yes, there they were. Catherine first of all; poor Catherine, +who was so bright and pretty, and died that rainy winter when she was +just twelve years old. Then “Jeanne-Marie, née le 28 Novembre 1854, +à minuit,” and added, in the same handwriting, “On nous raconte qu’à +cette heure-la nous étions en train de gagner une grande bataille en +Russie! Que ça lui porte bonheur!” Eight years later: “Jacques Firman, +né le 12 Février à midi.” It all came back to Jeanne-Marie as she +read; that scene of his birth, when she was just eight years old. She +was sitting alone in the kitchen, crying, for they had told her her +mother was very ill, and had been ill all the night, and just as the +big clock was striking twelve she heard the voice of the neighbour +who had spent the night there, calling to her: “Jeanne-Marie, viens +vite, ta mère veut te voir”; and she had gone, timid and hesitating, +into the darkened room. The first thing she noticed was the large fire +blazing on the open hearth--she had never known her father and mother +have a fire before--and she wondered much whether it was being too cold +that had made her mother ill, as it had little Catherine. She looked +towards the bed and saw her mother lying there, her eyes closed, and +very pale--so pale that Jeanne-Marie was frightened and ran towards her +father; but he was smiling where he stood by the bed, and the child was +reassured. She saw him stoop and kiss his wife on the forehead, and +call her his “bonne petite femme,” and taking Jeanne-Marie by the hand +he showed her the _sage-femme_--the _sage-femme_ who had come the night +before to make her mother well--sitting near the fire with a white +bundle in her arms, and thanked the good God aloud that he had sent him +a fine boy at last. Old Dubois had come in gently, his béret in his +hand, as Jeanne-Marie’s father was speaking, and turning to the bed had +reiterated emphatically, “Tu as bien fait, chère dame, tu as bien fait.” + +Jeanne-Marie sat silently going over it all in her mind. “Té,” she +murmured, “how quickly they all go; the father, the mother, old +Dubois, even Jeanne the _voisine_, is gone. I alone am left, and the +good God knows if there will be any to cry for me when my turn comes +to go.” She shut the old Mass-book, and put it carefully back on the +shelf, and she went to the old looking-glass and the tanned wrinkled +face met its reflection very calmly and patiently. “I think it was the +hard work in the fields when I was young,” she said; “certainly Marthe +was right. It is the face of an old woman, a face more worn than hers, +though she is beyond forty and has borne so many children.” + + +IV + +Firman had urged his sister to stay on at the _métairie_ after his +marriage. “You should not go, it is not natural,” he said one evening +a few weeks before his wedding, while they were piling the small wood +in the shed. “The old house will not be the old house without you. +Suzanne wishes it also. _Parbleu!_ Is it the custom for the fathers +to turn their sons out, when they marry? Then, why should I let the +old sister go, now my time for marrying has come? Suzanne is a good +girl and pretty; and has never even looked at any young fellow in the +village--for I, as you know, am particular, and I like not the manners +in some villages, where a girl’s modesty is counted nothing--but blood +is worth the most, _ma foi_, as the old father used to say; and badly +must he think of me to see the old sister making room even for the +little Suzanne.” + +But Jeanne-Marie shook her head. “I cannot well explain it, Firman,” +she said. “It’s not that your Suzanne comes unwelcome to me--no, the +good God knows it’s not that--but it would be so strange. I should +see the old mother’s shadow, at the table where you sat, and in the +bed where you lay. I might get foolish, and angry, Firman. So let me +go, and, when the little ones come, I shall be their grandmother, and +Suzanne will forgive me.” + +That was four and a half years ago, and it was a very lonely four and +a half years at the white cottage. Even the cooking, when it was for +herself alone, became uninteresting, and the zest went out of it. +Jeanne-Marie, in her loneliness, hungered for the animal life that had +unconsciously formed a great part of her existence at the _métairie_. +Every springtime she would sit, sometimes for hours, in her garden, +watching the flocks of callow geese, as they wandered along the road in +front of the mill, pecking at the ground as they went, and uttering all +the time their little plaintive cries, that soothed her with its echo +of the old home. When the boys in their bérets, with their long poles +and their loud cries of “guà, guà,” drove the cows and the oxen home +from the fields at sunset, Jeanne-Marie would come out of her cottage, +and watch the patient, sleek beasts, as they dawdled along. And she +would think longingly of the evenings at the _métairie_, when she never +missed going out to see the oxen, as they lay contentedly on their +prickly bedding, moving their heavy jaws slowly up and down, too lazy +even to look up as she entered. + +Firman loved his oxen, for they were well trained and strong, and did +good work; but Jeanne-Marie would have laughed in those days, had she +been told she loved the animals of the farm. “I remember,” she said to +Marthe of the mill one day, “how I said to the old father years ago: +‘When the children of M. François came to the _métairie_, it is--“Oh, +Jeanne-Marie, you will not kill that pretty little grey hen with the +feathered legs,” and “Oh! Jeanne-Marie, you must not drown so many +kittens this time”: but I say to them always: “My children, the rich +have their toys and have the time and money to make toys of their +animals; but to us poor folk they are the useful creatures God has +given us for food and work, and they are not playthings.”’ So I said +then; but now, ah, now Marthe, it is different. Do you remember how old +Dubois for ever quarrelled with young Baptiste, but when they wrote +from the regiment to tell him the boy was dead of fever, during the +great manœuvres, do you remember how the old father mourned, and lay +on his bed for a whole day, fasting? So it always is, Marthe. The cow +butts the calf with her horns, but when the calf is gone, the mother +moans for it all the day.” + +Firman was too busy with his farm and his new family ties to come +much to see his sister, or to notice how rarely she came up to the +_métairie_ now. For Suzanne had never forgiven, and that was why +Jeanne-Marie walked up so seldom to M. François’s _métairie_. + +Did not all the village say that it was Suzanne’s doing that Firman’s +sister left the farm on his marriage? That Suzanne’s jealousy had +driven Jeanne-Marie away? And when this came to the ears of Firman’s +wife, and the old folks shook their heads in her presence over the +strange doings of young couples now-a-days, the relief that the dreaded +division of supremacy with her husband’s sister was spared her, was +lost in anger against Jeanne-Marie, as the cause of this village +scandal. The jealousy that she had always felt for the “chère sœur,” +whom Firman loved and respected, leapt up within her. “People say he +loves his sister, and that it is I who part them; they shall see--yes, +they shall see.” + +And bit by bit, with all a woman’s subtle diplomacy, she drew her +husband away from his sister’s affection, until in a year or two their +close intimacy had weakened to a gradually slackening friendship. + +At night-time, when Firman’s passionate southern nature lay under the +thrall of his wife’s beauty, she would whisper to him in her soft +_patois_, “Love me well, my husband, for I have only you to love; +others are jealous of my happiness, and even Jeanne-Marie is envious of +your wife, and of the babe that is to come.” + +And the hot Spanish blood, that his mother had given him, would leap to +Firman’s face as he took her in his arms, and swore that all he loved, +loved her; and those who angered her, he cared not for. + +In the first year of their marriage, when Jeanne-Marie came almost +every day, Suzanne would show her with pride all the changes and +alterations in the old house. “See here, my sister,” she said to her +one day, only six months after the wedding, when she was taking her +over the house, “this room that was yours, we have dismantled for the +time; did it not seem a pity to keep an unused room all furnished, for +the sun to tarnish, and the damp to spoil?” And Jeanne-Marie, as she +looked round on the bare walls and the empty corners of the little +room, where she and Catherine had slept together in the old days, +answered quietly, “Quite true, Suzanne, quite true; it would be a great +pity.” + +That night when she and Marthe sat together in the kitchen she told her +of the incident. + +“But, Jeanne-Marie,” Marthe interrupted eagerly, “how was it you had +left your furniture there, since it was yours?” + +“How was it? But because little Catherine had slept in the old bed, and +sat in the old chairs, and how could I take them away from the room?” + +“Better that than let Suzanne break them up for firewood,” Marthe +replied shortly. + +When little Henri was born, a year after the marriage, Suzanne would +not let Jeanne-Marie be at the _métairie_, and she sent Firman down +beforehand to tell her that she feared the excitement of her presence. +Jeanne-Marie knew she was disliked and distrusted; but this blow fell +very heavily: though she raised her head proudly and looked her brother +full in the face when he stammered out his wife’s wishes. + +“For the sake of our name, and what they will say in the village, I am +sorry for this,” she said; and Firman went without a word. + +But when he was gone Jeanne-Marie’s pride broke down, and in the +darkness of the evening she gathered her shawl round her, and crept up +to the _métairie_ door. + +Hour after hour she sat there, not heeding the cold or the damp, her +head buried in her hands, her body rocked backwards and forwards. “I +pray for Firman’s child,” she muttered without ceasing. “O dear Virgin! +O blessed Virgin! I pray for my brother’s child.” And when at length +an infant’s feeble cry pierced through the darkness, Jeanne-Marie rose +and tottered home, saying to herself contentedly, “The good God himself +tells me that all is well.” + +Perhaps the pangs of maternity quickened the capabilities for +compassion in Suzanne’s peasant mind. She sent for Jeanne-Marie two +days later, and watched her with silent wonder, but without a sneer, as +she knelt weeping and trembling before the small new bundle of humanity. + +From that day little Henri was the idol of Jeanne-Marie’s heart. All +the sane instincts of wifehood and motherhood, shut up irrevocably +within the prison of her maiden life, found vent in her devotion to +her brother’s child. The natural impulses, so long denied freedom, of +whose existence and force she was not even aware, avenged their long +suppression in this worship of Firman’s boy. + +To watch the growth of the childish being, the unveiling of his +physical comeliness, and the gradual awakening of his perceptions, +became the interest and fascination of her life. Every morning at +eleven o’clock, when the cottage showed within the open door all white +and shining after her energetic scrubbings, she would put on a clean +bodice, and a fresh pink handkerchief for the little coil of hair at +the back of her head, and sit ready and impatient, knitting away the +time, till one o’clock struck, and she could start for the farm. + +She would always arrive at the same hour, when the _métairie_ dinner +was finished, and Suzanne’s fretful complaints: “Jeanne-Marie, you are +so proud, you will not come for the dinner or stay for the supper,” met +only a smile and a deprecating shake of the head. + +On her arrival, if Suzanne were in a good temper, she would surrender +Henri to her, and Jeanne-Marie’s hour of heaven reached her. If it were +cold, she would sit in the kitchen, crooning snatches of old tunes, or +chattering soft nothings in _patois_ to the sleeping child. If fine, +she would wander round the garden with him in her arms, sometimes as +far as the road, where a chance passer’s exclamation of “Oh, le beau +bébé!” would flush her face with pleasure. + +If Suzanne’s temper chanced to be ruffled, if Firman had displeased +her, or if the fitful jealousy that sprang up at times against her +_belle-sœur_, happened to be roused, she would insist that little Henri +was tired, and must not be moved; and Jeanne-Marie would sit for hours +sadly watching the cot, in which the child lay, not daring to touch him +or comfort him, even when he moaned and moved his arms restlessly in +his sleep. + +So her life went on till Henri was about a year old, when Suzanne’s +gradually increasing exasperation reached an ungovernable pitch. To +her jealous imagination it had seemed for some time that the boy clung +more to her sister than to her, and one day things reached a climax. + +Jeanne-Marie had arrived with a toy bought for three sous from a +travelling pedlar, and the child had screamed, and cried, because his +mother, alleging that he was tired, refused to allow Jeanne-Marie to +take him or show him the toy. The boy screamed louder and louder, and +Jeanne-Marie sat, silent and troubled, in her corner. Even Firman, +who was yoking his oxen in the yard, came in hurriedly, hearing the +noise, and finding nothing wrong, pleaded with his wife. “Mais, voyons, +Suzanne,” he began, persuasively, “if le petit wants to see his toy, la +tante may show it him, n’est ce pas?” And Suzanne, unable to bear it +any longer, almost threw her child into Jeanne-Marie’s lap, bursting +out, “Take him, then, and draw my baby’s love from me, as you please. +I want no child who hates his mother.” And sobbing loudly, she rushed +out. Firman followed her, his handsome face puckered with perplexity, +and Jeanne-Marie and the baby were left alone. She bent low down over +the deep Spanish eyes that were so like her own, and, while her tears +dropped on his face, she held him to her feverishly. “Adieu,” she +whispered, “adieu, petit Henri. La tante must not come to see him any +more, and Henri must be a good boy and love his mother.” And with one +long look at the child’s eyes fixed on her so wonderingly, Jeanne-Marie +rose softly and left the farm. + +From that day started the great conflict between her love and her +pride. Though, to her simple nature, the jealousy of a woman who seemed +to her to have in abundance everything that made life worth living, +was utterly incomprehensible, she said to herself over and over as she +went home, that such a scene as that should never happen again. And as +she lay in her narrow bed that night, and made her resolution for the +future, she seemed to feel the very fibres of her heart break within +her. + +Firman came down next day to beg his sister to behave as if nothing had +happened. “You are pale and your face is all drawn, _chère sœur_,” he +told her reproachfully; “but you must not take the things like that. If +poor Suzanne were herself and well, she would never have spoken as she +did.” But Jeanne-Marie smiled at him. + +“If I am pale, Firman, it is not for worrying over Suzanne. Tell her +from me, I have been selfish all this time. I will not be so again. +When she can spare the little Henri, she shall send him to play here +with me, by Anna.” Anna was Suzanne’s sixteen-year-old sister, who +lived almost entirely at the _métairie_ since her sister’s marriage. +“And every Sunday afternoon I will come up, and will sit with him in +the garden as I used to do. Tell this to Suzanne, with my love.” + +And Firman told her; and mingled with the relief that Suzanne felt, +that the face and figure which had become like a nightmare to her +strained nerves, would appear only once a week at the farm, was +gratitude that her sister had taken things so well. “Anna shall take +him every other day,” she observed to Firman, “she shall see I am +not jealous; it was the pain that took me suddenly yesterday, while +you were speaking. For that matter, in the afternoon there is always +much for me to do, and little Henri can very well go with Anna to the +cottage.” + +And no doubt she meant to keep her promise, but she was occupied mind +and body with other things. The second baby would be born in a month, +and in the afternoons, when she sat, languid and tired, she liked to +have her sister Anna by her, and Henri playing by her side. + +And after little Catherine was born, there was much for Anna to do. +“I could not well spare her if I would,” Suzanne would say to herself; +“what with two babies and me so long in getting on my feet this time.” + +And Jeanne-Marie put on the clean white bodice every day before her +dinner, and sat in the little garden with her eyes fixed on the turning +in the white road that led to M. François’s _métairie_, but it was not +more than one day a week that Anna would come in sight, with little +Henri in her arms. The other days Jeanne-Marie would sit, shading her +eyes and watching, till long after the hour when she could expect them +to appear. + +At first, after the quarrel, she had believed in Suzanne’s reiterated +assurances that “Anna would come every other day or so,” and many were +the wasted afternoons of disappointment that she courted in her little +garden. Sometimes she would rise to her feet, and a sudden impulse to +go up to the farm, not a mile away, if only to kiss _le petit_ and come +home again, laid hold of her; but the memory of Suzanne’s cold looks of +surprise, and the “Is anything wrong, Jeanne-Marie?” that would meet +her, was sufficient to force her into her chair again with a little +hopeless sigh. “When the calf is gone, the mother mourns for it all +the day,” Marthe said grimly, when she surprised her one day watching +the white turning. But Jeanne-Marie answered her miserably: “Ah, but I +never butt at my calf, and they have taken it from me all the same.” + +There was great rejoicing in the cottage the day that Anna’s white +blouse and large green umbrella came in sight, and the three sat in +the kitchen together: Anna eating smilingly the cakes and biscuits +that grateful Jeanne-Marie made specially for her, and Henri crawling +happily on the floor. “He said ‘Maman’ to Suzanne yesterday,” Anna +would announce, as Jeanne-Marie hurried to meet her at the gate; or, +“Firman says he heard him say ‘Menou,’ when the white cat ran across +the yard this morning.” And many were the attempts to induce Henri to +make these utterances again. “Je t’aime, je t’aime,” Jeanne-Marie would +murmur to him, as she kissed him again and again, and the little boy +would look up at her with his dark eyes, and smile encouragingly. + +All too quickly the time would go, and all too soon would come Anna’s +glance at the clock, and the dreaded words: “Suzanne will make herself +angry; we must go.” + +And as Jeanne-Marie watched them disappear along the white road, the +clouds of her loneliness would gather round her again. + +The Sunday afternoons at the farm were looked forward to through all +the week. There was little Catherine to admire, and in the summer days +there was the orchard, where Henri loved to play, and where he and his +aunt would sit together all the afternoon. If Suzanne were in a good +temper, she would bring Catherine out in her arms, and the children +would tumble about together in the long grass. + +And so the time wore on, and as Henri grew in mind and body, and was +able to prattle and run about the fields, Jeanne-Marie hungered for him +with a love more absorbing than ever. + +Two years had passed since Catherine’s birth, and for the last year +Anna would often bring her, when she came down to Jeanne-Marie’s +cottage. The one day a week had dropped gradually to every ten days; +it was sometimes only every fortnight that one or both children would +appear, and the days that little Henri came were marked white days on +the simple calendar of Jeanne-Marie’s heart. + + +V + +Now, as Jeanne-Marie stood in her garden this hot May afternoon, and +shaded her eyes, as she gazed at the broad white road, her face was +troubled, and there was a drawn line of apprehension round the corners +of her mouth. For lately Suzanne’s jealous temper had flamed up again, +and this alert jealousy boded evil days for Jeanne-Marie. + +Several times within the last two months, little Henri--now going on +for four years old--had come toddling down to the cottage by himself, +to his aunt’s unbounded amazement and delight. “Maman is at market,” +he explained with dignity the first time, in answer to the wondering +queries. “Papa yoked the oxen to the big cart after dinner, and they +went; Anna is talking all the afternoon to Pierre Puyoo in the road; +and Henri was alone. So Henri came; Henri loves his aunt, and would +like some biscuits.” Great was the content of that hour in the cottage, +when Jeanne-Marie sat in the big arm-chair, and the boy prattled and +ate his biscuits on her knee. Anna’s hard young smile, that scorned +emotion, was always a _gêne_ to this harmony of old and young; also, +there was no need to glance anxiously at the clock; for the oxen take +two hours to get home from the market, and who leaves the town till +late in the afternoon? “Anna will miss _le petit_,” Jeanne-Marie +suggested the first time; but he answered proudly: “She will think _le +petit_ takes care of the geese in the meadow; do I not have charge of +all the geese many afternoons? And when I am six years old, papa has +promised I may guard the cows, and bring them home to milk at sundown, +as André Puyoo and Georges Vidal do, each day. Also, why cannot Henri +come to see _la tante_ when he likes?” + +But nevertheless, the second and third occasions of these happy visits, +always on market-days, Jeanne-Marie became uneasy. Did Suzanne know +of the boy’s absences? Were those fitful jealousies she now displayed +almost every Sunday, the result of her knowledge? And if she did +not know, would there not be a burst of rage when she heard? Should +Jeanne-Marie risk this joy by telling her of its existence, and +asking her permission for its continuance? How well the hard tones of +Suzanne’s voice, framing each plausible objection, came to her mind, +as she thought. No, she could not do it. Let the child come, and go on +coming every market-day, for as long as he could. She would say no word +to encourage his keeping it secret from his mother; he would tell her +one day, if he had not told her already, and then, if anger there was, +surely the simple words, “May not your child visit his aunt alone?” +must bring peace again. + +So Jeanne-Marie reasoned away her fears. But now, as she stood in her +garden, her lips were trembling with anxiety. + +Last Sunday she had been too ill to go up to the farm. A sudden +agonising breathlessness, together with great dizziness, had forced +her to bed, and Marthe’s boy had gone up with the message. But neither +that day nor the next, which was market-day, nor any following day, +had Suzanne, or Anna, or little Henri come to see her. And to-day was +Saturday. And she realised wearily that to-morrow she could not get to +the farm; she felt too ill and feeble. “My heart aches,” she said to +Marthe each day, “my heart aches.” + +The afternoon waned slowly, and the little group at the café increased +in numbers, as the men sauntered through the village at sundown. The +women stood at their doors, laughing and chatting with one another. +M. le Curé passed down the street, smiling at the children. From the +meadows came the cows and oxen, driven slowly along, their bells +beating low harmonies as they went. The festive air of evening after +a hot day touched all the tiny town. And Jeanne-Marie stood in her +garden, waiting. + +Suddenly, while she watched, her heart bounded within her, and a spasm +of sudden pain drove the colour from her face, for she recognised +the figure that was passing from the white turning into the broad +road. Suzanne--Suzanne, who had not been near her cottage for a +year--Suzanne, alone. She pressed her two hands under her left breast, +and moved forward to the gate. She felt now she had known it for long. +All the suspense of many days had given way to a dull certainty: little +Henri was ill, was dying perhaps, and Suzanne had come with the news. + +Jeanne-Marie had her hand on the latch to let her through; but she +stood outside the gate, and said hoarsely, “I will not come in.” Her +face was flushed, there was no cap over her coil of brown hair, and +she had on the dark dress she never wore except at the farm. All this +Jeanne-Marie noticed mechanically, while that suffocating hurry at her +heart seemed to eat away her energy and her power of speech. + +But Suzanne was going to speak. The colour flamed into her face, and +her teeth ground together, as if to force down the violence of her +feeling, and then she spoke: “Jeanne-Marie, you have done your work +well. We knew you loved our boy. You were careful always to show us +how far greater was your love for him than ours. And as you could not +well turn him against me before my eyes, you waited--_ma foi_, how well +you did it!--you waited till I was well away, and then, you taught +him to sneak down to see you, and sneak home again before my return. +_Mon Dieu!_ it was a worthy son to us you wished to make of him. But +it could not be, Jeanne-Marie. Your good God, you love so well, would +not have it and so;”--there came a sob in her voice that she choked +down, and Jeanne-Marie’s face went a shade greyer as she listened--“it +happened that I was long at the market last week, and you, knowing this +would be so, because it was a big market, brought him home late, when +the fever was springing from the marshes--it was Marguerite Vallée saw +him and came and told me--and now these four days he has lain with +fever, and the officier de santé tells us there grows something in his +throat that may kill him in four days.” + +The hard tones left her voice in the last phrase. A shadow of the love +she persuaded herself she felt for Henri sprang up, and choked her +anger. She forgot Jeanne-Marie for the moment, and saw only the little +figure tossing with fever and delirium, and pity for her own sorrow +filled her eyes with tears. She was surprised at the calm cruelty of +her own words. Looking up curiously to see how her sister would take +it, she started, for Jeanne-Marie’s face seemed suddenly to have grown +old and grey. She was struggling breathlessly to speak, and when her +voice came, it sounded far off, and weak like the voice of a sick child: + +“You know well that in your anger you have lied to me. Henri may be +ill--and dying; it is not I who have made him so. You shall listen +to me now, though I will not keep you here long; for the hand that +struck my mother suddenly through the heart, struck me while you were +speaking. You have kept me all these days in suspense, and now you have +given the blow. Be satisfied, Suzanne.” + +She paused, and the sound of her heavy breathing struck Suzanne’s +frightened senses like the knell of a doom. + +“Listen to me. Henri came to me of his own will, and never did I +persuade him or suggest to him to come. Never did he go home later +than four o’clock; there was nothing done in secret; neither I, nor +any in the village, thought it a crime he came to visit me. Often I +have seen him keeping the geese in the long grass of the meadows at +six, at seven o’clock. Seek the fever there--not on the village road +before the sunset. As the good God hears me, never have I stood between +that boy and his mother. Gradually you took from me every privilege +my affection knew; but I said nothing. Ah, I loved him dearly; I was +content to wait. But all that is over. If God grants me life--but He is +good, and I think He knows my suffering all these years--I swear before +Him your house shall be to me a house of strangers, Henri the child of +strangers, and my brother’s face unknown to me. Never shall my father’s +daughter hear again what I have heard from you to-day. All these years +you have played upon my heart. You have watched the suffering; you have +known how each word seemed so innocent, but stabbed so deep. You have +seen your child wind himself round my heart, and every day, every hour, +you have struggled to pluck him from me. Now, I tell you I tear your +children from my heart; you have killed not only my body, but my love. +Go, and leave me for ever, or by my father, I will curse you where you +stand.” + +She tottered forward, and with one horrified look at the agony of her +menacing face, Suzanne turned and ran. + +And Jeanne-Marie fell all her length on the garden soil. + + +VI + +The miller’s boy saw her there, when he came past a few minutes later, +and not daring to touch her, ran to the mill for help. Marthe and her +husband came immediately and carried her into the cottage. At first, +they thought she was dead, her face was so grey and sunken; but she +came to herself, as they laid her on the bed, and shook her head +faintly when Marthe suggested fetching the officier de santé. + +As soon as she could speak she whispered: “No, Marthe, it is the +illness of the heart that killed my mother. The doctor told her she +might have lived to be old, with much care, and if no great trouble +or excitement had come to her; but, you see, I was much troubled just +now, and so it has come earlier. Do not send for any doctor; he could +but call it by the long name they called it when my mother died, and +trouble one with vain touches and questions.” + +So Marthe helped her to undress, and to get to bed quickly. The +breathlessness and the pain had gone for a time, though she was very +feeble, and could scarcely stand on her feet. But it was the grey look +of her face that frightened Marthe, and her strained quietness. No +questions could get out of her the story of the afternoon. + +“Suzanne came to tell me little Henri was ill,” was all she would say; +but Marthe only shook her head, and made her own deductions. + +Jeanne-Marie would not hear of her staying with her for the night, and +leaving her young children alone, and so it was settled the miller’s +boy should sleep below in the kitchen, and if Jeanne-Marie felt ill in +the night, she would call to him, and he would fetch Marthe immediately. + +Also, Marthe promised to call at the house of M. le Curé on her way +home. He would be out late, since he had started only an hour ago to +take the Host to old Goupé, who lay dying four kilometres away; but she +would leave a message, and certainly, when he returned, however late, +he would come round. It was nine o’clock before Marthe would leave, and +even then she stopped reluctantly at the door, with a last look at the +thin figure propped up on her pillows. “Let me stay, Jeanne-Marie,” she +said; “you are so pale, and yet your eyes burn. I do not like to think +of the long night and you sitting here.” + +“It is easier than when I lie down, which brings the breathlessness. +Do not worry yourself, Marthe, I shall sleep perhaps, and if I need +anything, I have but to call to Jean below. Good-night, and thank you, +Marthe.” + +The little house was very quiet. Jean had been asleep on his chair this +hour past, and not a sound came from the slumbering village. There was +no blind to the window of the bedroom, and Jeanne-Marie watched the +moon, as it escaped slowly from the unwilling clouds, and threw its +light on to the foot of the narrow bed. + +For a long while she lay there, without moving, while through all her +troubled, confused thoughts ran like an under-current the dull pain +that wrenched at her heart. It seemed to take the coherency from her +thinking, and to be the one unquiet factor in the calm that had come +over her. She was surprised, herself, at this strange fatigue that had +swept away even her suffering. She thought of little Henri and his +illness without a pang. He seemed, like some far-off person she had +read about, or heard of, long ago. + +She thought to herself, vaguely, that she must be dying, since she +seemed to have lost all feeling. + +Bit by bit, various little scenes between her and Henri came to her +mind, with an extraordinary vividness. He was sitting on her knee in +the cottage, and his clear child’s voice rang like a bell in the silent +room--so clearly, that Jeanne-Marie started, and wondered if she were +light-headed or had been dreaming. Then the voice faded away, and she +saw the cool, high grass of the orchard, and there was Henri laughing +at her, and rolling among the flowers. How cool and fresh it looked; +and Henri was asking her to come and play: “Tante Jeanne-Marie, viens +jouer avec ton petit. Tante Jeanne-Marie, tante Jeanne-Marie!” She must +throw herself on the grass with him--on the cool, waving grass. And she +bent forward with outstretched arms; but the movement brought her to +herself, and as she lay back on her pillows, suddenly the reality of +suffering rushed back upon her, with the agonising sense of separation +and of loss. Little Henri was dying; was dead perhaps; never to hear +his voice, or feel his warm little arms round her neck. She could do +nothing for him; he must die without her. “Tante Jeanne-Marie! Tante +Jeanne-Marie!” Was he calling her, from his feverish little bed? If +he called, she must go to him, she could not lie here, this suffering +was choking her. She must have air, and space to breathe in; this room +was suffocating her. She must go to Henri. With a desperate effort she +struggled to her feet, and stood supporting herself by the bed-post. +The moon, that had hidden itself in the clouds, struggled out, the +long, old-fashioned glass hanging on the wall opposite the bed became +one streak of light, and Jeanne-Marie, gazing at herself, met the +reflection of her own face, and knew that no power on earth could make +her reach the farm where little Henri lay. + +She stood, as if spell-bound, marking the sunken look of the eyes, the +grey-blue colour of the cheeks, the face that was the face of an old +woman. + +A sudden, fierce revolt against her starved life swept through her at +the sight, and conquered even the physical pain raging at her heart. +Still struggling for breath, she threw up her arms and tore the cotton +nightgown from her shoulders, and stood there beating her breast with +her hands. + +“Oh, good God! good God! see here what I am. How old and shrunken +before my time! Cursed be these breasts, that no child has ever +suckled; cursed be this withered body, that no man has ever embraced. I +could have loved, and lived long, and been made beautiful by happiness. +Ah, why am I accursed? I die, unloved and neglected by my own people. +No children’s tears, no husband to close my eyes; old, worn out, before +my time. A woman only in name--not wife, not mother. Despised and +hideous before God and men--God and men.” + +Her voice died away in a moan, her head fell forward on her breast, +and she stumbled against the bed. For a long time she lay crouched +there, insensible from mere exhaustion, until, just as the clocks were +striking midnight, the door opened gently, and Marthe and M. le Curé +came in. Jean, awakened by the sounds overhead, had run quickly for +Marthe, and coming back together, they had met M. le Curé on his way. + +They raised her gently, and laid her on the bed, and finding she still +breathed, Marthe ran to fetch brandy, and the Curé knelt by the bed in +prayer. + +Presently, the eyes opened quietly, and M. le Curé saw her lips move. +He bent over her, and whispered: “You are troubled, Jeanne-Marie; you +wish for the absolution?” + +But her voice came back to her, and she said clearly: “To die unloved, +unmourned; a woman, but no wife; no mother.” + +She closed her eyes again. There were noises singing in her head, +louder and louder; but the pain at her heart had ceased. She was +conscious only of a great loneliness, as if a curtain had risen, and +shut her off from the room; and again the words came, whispered from +her lips: “A woman, accursed and wasted; no mother and no wife.” + +But some one was speaking, speaking so loudly that the sounds in her +head seemed to die away. She opened her eyes, and saw M. le Curé, +where he knelt, with his eyes shining on her lace, and heard his +voice saying: “And God said, ‘Blessed be the virgins above all women; +give unto them the holy places; let them be exalted and praised by My +church, before all men, and before Me. Worthy are they to sit at My +feet--worthy are they above all women.’” + +A smile of infinite happiness and of supreme relief lit up +Jeanne-Marie’s face. + +“Above all women,” she whispered: “above all women.” + +And Jeanne-Marie bowed her head, and died. + + + + +Parson Herrick’s Muse + +By C. W. Dalmon + + + THE parson dubs us, in our cups, + “A tipsy, good-for-nothing crew!” + It matters not--it may be false; + It matters not--it may be true. + But here’s to parson Herrick’s Muse! + Drink to it, dear old comrades, please! + And, prithee, for my tombstone choose + A verse from his “Hesperides.” + + The parson’s rich, but we are poor; + And we are wrong, but he is right-- + Who knows how much his cellar holds, + Or how he goes to bed at night? + But here’s to parson Herrick’s Muse! + Drink to it, dear old comrades, please! + And, prithee, for my tombstone choose + A verse from his “Hesperides.” + + The landlord shall our parson be; + The tavern-door our churchyard gate; + And we will fill the landlord’s till + Before we fill the parson’s plate! + But here’s to parson Herrick’s Muse! + Drink to it, dear old comrades, please! + And, prithee, for my tombstone choose + A verse from his “Hesperides.” + + + + +George the Fourth + +By Max Beerbohm + + +[Illustration] + + + + +A Note on George the Fourth + +By Max Beerbohm + + +THEY say that when King George was dying, a special form of prayer +for his recovery, composed by one of the Archbishops, was read aloud +to him, and that his Majesty, after saying Amen “thrice, with great +fervour,” begged that his thanks might be conveyed to its author. +To the student of royalty in modern times there is something rather +suggestive in this incident. I like to think of the drug-scented room +at Windsor, and of the King, livid and immobile among his pillows, +waiting, in superstitious awe, for the near moment when he must stand, +a spirit, in the presence of a perpetual King. I like to think of +him following the futile prayer with eyes and lips, and then, custom +resurgent in him and a touch of pride that, so long as the blood moved +ever so little in his veins, he was still a king, expressing a desire +that the dutiful feeling and admirable taste of the Prelate should +receive a suitable acknowledgment. It would have been impossible +for a real monarch like George, even after the gout had turned his +thoughts heavenward, really to abase himself before his Maker. But +he could, so to say, treat with him, as he might have treated with a +fellow-sovereign, long after diplomacy was quite useless. How strange +it must be to be a king! How delicate and difficult a task it is to +judge him! So far as I know, no fair attempt has been made to form +an estimate of George the Fourth. The hundred and one eulogies and +lampoons, published irresponsibly during and immediately after his +reign, are not worth a wooden hoop in Hades. Mr. Percy Fitzgerald has +published a history of George’s reign, in which he has so artistically +subordinated his own personality to his subject, that I can scarcely +find from beginning to end of the two bulky volumes a single opinion +expressed, a single idea, a single deduction from the admirably +arranged facts. All that most of us know of George is from Thackeray’s +brilliant denunciation. Now, I yield to few in my admiration of +Thackeray’s powers. He had a charming style. We never find him +searching for the _mot juste_ as for a needle in a bottle of hay. Could +he have looked through a certain window by the river at Croisset, or +in the quadrangle at Brasenose, how he would have laughed! He blew on +his pipe, and words came tripping round him, like children, like pretty +little children who are perfectly drilled for the dance, or came, did +he will it, treading in their precedence, like kings, gloomily. And I +think it is to the credit of the reading mob that, by reason of his +beautiful style, all that he said was taken for the truth, without +questioning. But truth after all is eternal, and style transient, and +now that Thackeray’s style is becoming, if I may say so, a trifle +1860, it may not be amiss that we should inquire whether his estimate +of George is in substance and fact worth anything at all. It seems +to me that, as in his novels, so in his history of the four Georges, +Thackeray made no attempt at psychology. He dealt simply with types. +One George he insisted upon regarding as a buffoon, another as a yokel. +The Fourth George he chose to hold up for reprobation as a drunken, +vapid cad. Every action, every phase of his life that went to disprove +this view, he either suppressed or distorted utterly. “History,” +he would seem to have chuckled, “has nothing to do with the First +Gentleman. But I will give him a niche in Natural History. He shall +be king of the Beasts.” He made no allowance for the extraordinary +conditions under which any monarch finds himself, none for the +unfortunate circumstances by which George was from the first hampered. +He judged him as he judged Barnes Newcome and all the scoundrels he +created. Moreover, he judged him by the moral standard of the Victorian +Age. In fact he applied to his subject the wrong method in the wrong +manner, and at the wrong time. And yet every one has taken him at his +word. I feel that my essay may be scouted as a paradox; but I hope that +many may recognise that I am not, out of mere boredom, endeavouring to +stop my ears against popular platitude, but rather, in a spirit of real +earnestness, to point out to the mob how it has been cruel to George. I +do not despair of success. I think I shall make converts. For the mob +is notoriously fickle, and so occasionally cheers the truth. + +None, at all events, will deny that England to-day stands otherwise +than she stood a hundred and thirty-two years ago, when George was +born. We to-day are living a decadent life. All the while that we are +prating of progress, we are really so deteriorate! There is nothing but +feebleness in us. Our youths who spend their days in trying to build +up their constitutions by sport or athletics, and their evenings in +undermining them with poisonous and dyed drinks, our daughters who are +ever searching for some new quack remedy for new imaginary megrim, what +strength is there in them? We have our societies for the prevention +of this and the promotion of that and the propagation of the other, +because there are no individuals among us. Our sexes are already nearly +assimilate. Real women are becoming nearly as rare as real ladies, and +it is only at the music halls that we are privileged to see strong +men. We are born into a poor, weak age. We are not strong enough to be +wicked, and the Nonconformist Conscience makes cowards of us all. + +But this was not so in the days when George was walking by his tutor’s +side in the gardens of Kew or of Windsor. London must have been a +splendid place in those days--full of life and colour and wrong and +revelry. There was no absurd press nor vestry to see that everything +should be neatly ordered, nor to protect the poor at the expense of the +rich. Every man had to shift for himself and, in consequence, men were, +as Mr. Clement Scott would say, manly, and women, as Mr. Clement Scott +would say, womanly. A young man of wealth and family in that period +found open to him a vista of such license as had been unknown to any +since the barbatuli of the Roman Empire. To spend the early morning +with his valet, gradually assuming the rich apparel that was not then +tabooed by a false sumptuary standard; to saunter round to White’s for +ale and tittle-tattle and the making of wagers; to attend a “drunken +déjeûner” in honour of “la très belle Rosaline” or the Strappini; to +drive a friend out into the country in his pretty curricle, “followed +by two well-dressed and well-mounted grooms, of singular elegance +certainly,” and stop at every tavern on the road to curse the host +for not keeping better ale and a wench of more charm; to reach St. +James’ in time for a random toilet and so off to dinner. Which of _our_ +dandies could survive a day of pleasures such as this? Which would be +ready, dinner done, to scamper off again to Ranelagh and dance and skip +and sup in the rotunda there? Yet the youth of this period would not +dream of going to bed before he had looked in at White’s or Crockford’s +for a few hours’ faro. + +This was the kind of life that young George found opened to him, when, +in his nineteenth year, he at length was given an establishment of +his own in Buckingham House. How his young eyes must have sparkled, +and with what glad gasps must he have taken the air of freedom into +his lungs. Rumour had long been busy with the confounded surveillance +under which his childhood had been passed. A paper of the time says +significantly that “the Prince of Wales, with a spirit which does him +honour, has three times requested a change in that system.” For a long +time King George had postponed permission for his son to appear at any +balls, and the year before had only given it, lest he should offend +the Spanish Minister, who begged it as a personal favour. I know few +pictures more pathetic than that of George, then an overgrown boy of +fourteen, tearing the childish frill from around his neck and crying +to one of the royal servants, “See how they treat me!” Childhood has +always seemed to me the tragic period of life--to be subject to the +most odious espionage at the one age when you never dream of doing +wrong, to be deceived by your parents, thwarted of your smallest wish, +oppressed by the terrors of manhood and of the world to come, and to +believe, as you are told, that childhood is the only happiness known: +all this is quite terrible. And all Royal children, of whom I have +read, particularly George, seem to have passed through greater trials +in childhood than do the children of any other class. Mr. Fitzgerald, +hazarding for once an opinion, thinks that “the stupid, odious, German, +sergeant-system of discipline that had been so rigorously applied, +was, in fact, responsible for the blemishes of the young Prince’s +character.” Even Thackeray, in his essay upon George III., asks what +wonder that the son, finding himself free at last, should have plunged, +without looking, into the vortex of dissipation. In Torrens’s “Life +of Lord Melbourne” we learn that Lord Essex, riding one day with the +King, met the young prince wearing a wig, and that the culprit, being +sternly reprimanded by his father, replied that he had “been ordered +by his doctor to wear a wig, for he was subject to cold.” Whereupon +the King, whether to vent the aversion he already felt for his son or +in complacence at the satisfactory result of his discipline, turned +to Lord Essex and remarked, “A lie is ever ready when it is wanted.” +George never lost this early-engrained habit of lies. It is to George’s +childish fear of his guardians that we must trace that extraordinary +power of bamboozling his courtiers, his ministry and his mistresses +that distinguished him through his long life. It is characteristic +of the man that he should himself have bitterly deplored his own +untruthfulness. When, in after years, he was consulting Lady Spencer +upon the choice of a governess for his child he made this remarkable +speech, “Above all, she must be taught the truth. You know that I don’t +speak the truth and my brothers don’t, and I find it a great defect, +from which I would have my daughter free. _We have been brought up +badly, the Queen having taught us to equivocate._” You may laugh at +the picture of the little chubby, curly-heeded fellows learning to +equivocate at their mother’s knee, but you must remember that the +wisest master of ethics himself, in his theory of ἕξεις ἀποδείκτικαι, +similarly raised virtues, such as telling the truth, to the level of +regular accomplishments, and before you judge poor George harshly, in +his entanglements of lying, remember the cruelly unwise education he +had undergone. + +However much we may deplore this exaggerated tyranny, by reason of its +evil effect upon his moral nature, we cannot but feel glad that it +existed, to afford a piquant contrast to the life awaiting him. Had he +passed through the callow dissipations of Eton and Oxford, like other +young men of his age, he would assuredly have lacked much of that +splendid pent vigour with which he rushed headlong into London life. He +was so young and so handsome, and so strong, that can we wonder if all +the women fell at his feet? “The graces of his person,” says one whom +he honoured by an intrigue, “the irresistible sweetness of his smile, +the tenderness of his melodious, yet manly voice, will be remembered by +me till every vision of this changing scene are forgotten. The polished +and fascinating ingenuousness of his manners contributed not a little +to enliven our promenade. He sang with exquisite taste, and the tones +of his voice, breaking on the silence of the night, have often appeared +to my entranced senses like more than mortal melody.” But besides his +graces of person, he had a most delightful wit, he was a scholar who +could bandy quotations with Fox or Sheridan; and, like the young men +of to-day, he knew all about Art. He spoke French, Italian, and German +perfectly, and Crossdill had taught him the violoncello. At first, as +was right for one of his age, he cared more for the pleasures of the +table and of the ring, for cards and love. He was wont to go down to +Ranelagh surrounded by a retinue of bruisers--rapscallions, such as +used to follow Clodius through the streets of Rome, and he loved to +join in the scuffles like any commoner. He learnt to box from Angelo, +and was considered by some to be a fine performer. On one occasion, +too, at an _exposition d’escrime_, he handled the foils against the +_maître_, and “was highly complimented upon his graceful postures.” +In fact, in spite of his accomplishments, he seems to have been a +thoroughly manly young fellow. He was just the kind of figure-head +Society had long been in need of. A certain lack of tone had crept +into the amusements of the _haut monde_, and this was doubtless due +to the lack of an acknowledged leader. The King was not yet mad, but +he was always bucolic, and socially out of the question. So at the +coming of his son Society broke into a gallop. Balls and masquerades +were given in his honour night after night. Good Samaritans must have +approved when they found that at these entertainments great ladies +and courtesans brushed beautiful shoulders in utmost familiarity, but +those who delighted in the high charm of society doubtless shook their +heads. We need not, however, find it a flaw in George’s social bearing +that he did not check this kind of freedom. At the first, as a young +man full of life, of course he took everything as it came, joyfully. No +one knew better than he did, in later life, that there is a time for +laughing with great ladies and a time for laughing with courtesans. But +as yet it was not possible for him to exert influence. How great that +influence became I will indicate later on. + +I like to think of him as he was at this period, charging about, +in pursuit of pleasure, like a young bull. The splendid taste for +building had not yet come to him. His father would not hear of him +patronising the turf. But already he was implected with a passion for +dress, and seems to have erred somewhat on the side of dressing up, +as is the way of young men. It is fearful to think of him, as Cyrus +Redding saw him, “arrayed in deep-brown velvet, silver embroidered, +with cut-steel buttons, and a gold net thrown over all.” Before that +“gold net thrown over all,” all the mistakes of his after-life seem to +me to grow almost insignificant. Time, however, toned his too florid +sense of costume, and we should at any rate be thankful that his +imagination never deserted him. All the delightful munditiæ that we +find in the contemporary “fashion-plates for gentlemen” can be traced +to George himself. His were the much-approved “quadruple stock of +great dimension,” the “cocked grey-beaver,” the pantaloons of mauve +silk “negligently crinkled” and any number of other little pomps and +foibles of the kind. As he grew older and was obliged to abandon many +of his more vigorous pastimes, he grew more and more enamoured of +the pleasures of the wardrobe. He would spend hours, it is said, in +designing coats for his friends and liveries for his servants, and even +uniforms. Nor did he ever make the mistake of giving away outmoded +clothes to his valets, but kept them to form what must have been the +finest collection of clothes that has been seen in modern times. With a +sentimentality that is characteristic of him he would often, as he sat, +crippled by gout, in his room at Windsor, direct his servant to bring +him this or that coat, which he had worn ten or twenty or thirty years +before, and, when it was brought to him, spend much time in laughing or +sobbing over the memories that lay in its folds. It is pleasant to know +that George, during his long and various life, never forgot a coat, +however long ago worn, however seldom. + +But in the early days of which I speak he had not yet touched that +self-conscious note which, in manner and mode of life, as well as in +costume, he was to touch later. He was too violently enamoured of all +around him to think very deeply of himself. But he had already realised +the tragedy of the voluptuary, which is, after a little time, not that +he must go on living, but that he cannot live in two places at once. +We have, at this end of the century, tempered this tragedy by the +perfection of railways, and it is possible for that splendid exemplar +of the delectable life, our good Prince, whom Heaven bless, to waken to +the sound of the Braemar bagpipes, while the music of Mdlle. Guilbert’s +latest song, cooed over the footlights of the Concerts Parisiens, +still rings in his ears. But in the time of our Prince’s illustrious +great-uncle there were not railways; and we find George perpetually +driving, for wagers, to Brighton and back (he had already acquired +that taste for Brighton which was one of his most loveable qualities) +in incredibly short periods of time. The rustics who lived along the +road were well accustomed to the sight of a high, tremulous phaeton, +flashing past them, and the crimson face of the young prince bending +over the horses. There is something absurd in representing George as, +even before he came of age, a hardened and cynical profligate, an +Elagabalus in trousers. His blood flowed fast enough through his veins. +All his escapades were those of a healthful young man of the time. Need +we blame him if he sought, every day, to live faster and more fully? + +In a brief essay like this, I cannot attempt to write, as I hope one +day to do, in any detail a history of George’s career, during the time +when he was successively Prince of Wales and Regent and King. Merely +is it my wish at present to examine some of the principal accusations +that have been brought against him, and to point out in what ways he +has been harshly and hastily judged. Perhaps the greatest indignation +against him was, and is to this day, felt by reason of his treatment +of his two wives, Mrs. Fitzherbert and Queen Caroline. There are some +scandals that never grow old, and I think the story of George’s married +life is one of them. I can feel it. It has vitality. Often have I +wondered whether the blood with which the young Prince’s shirt was +covered when Mrs. Fitzherbert first was induced to visit him at Carlton +House, was merely red paint, or if, in a frenzy of love, he had truly +gashed himself with a razor. Certain it is that his passion for the +virtuous and obdurate lady was a very real one. Lord Holland describes +how the Prince used to visit Mrs. Fox, and there indulge in “the most +extravagant expressions and actions--rolling on the floor, striking +his forehead, tearing his hair, falling into hysterics, and swearing +that he would abandon the country, forego the crown, &c.” He was indeed +still a child, for royalties, not being ever brought into contact with +the realities of life, remain young longer than most people. He had a +truly royal lack of self-control, and was unable to bear the idea of +being thwarted in any wish. Every day he sent off couriers to Holland, +whither Mrs. Fitzherbert had retreated, imploring her to return to him, +offering her formal marriage. At length, as we know, she yielded to his +importunity and returned. It is difficult indeed to realise exactly +what was Mrs. Fitzherbert’s feeling in the matter. The marriage must +be, as she knew, illegal, and would lead, as Charles James Fox pointed +out in his powerful letter to the Prince, to endless and intricate +difficulties. For the present she could only live with him as his +mistress. If, when he reached the legal age of twenty-five, he were to +apply to Parliament for permission to marry her, how could permission +be given, when she had been living with him irregularly? Doubtless, she +was flattered by the attentions of the Heir to the Throne, but, had +she really returned his passion, she would surely have preferred “any +other species of connection with His Royal Highness to one leading to +so much misery and mischief.” Really to understand her marriage, one +must look at the portraits of her that are extant. That beautiful and +silly face explains much. One can well fancy such a lady being pleased +to live after the performance of a mock-ceremony with a prince for whom +she felt no passion. Her view of the matter can only have been social, +for, in the eyes of the Church, she could only live with the Prince as +his mistress. Society, however, once satisfied that a ceremony of some +kind had been enacted, never regarded her as anything but his wife. +The day after Fox, inspired by the Prince, had formally denied that +any ceremony had taken place, “the knocker of her door,” to quote her +own complacent phrase, “was never still.” The Duchesses of Portland, +Devonshire, and Cumberland were among her visitors. + +Now, much pop-limbo has been talked about the Prince’s denial of +the marriage. I grant that it was highly improper to marry Mrs. +Fitzherbert at all. But George was always weak and wayward, and he +did, in his great passion, marry her. That he should afterwards deny +it officially seems to me to have been utterly inevitable. His denial +did her not the faintest damage, as I have pointed out. It was, so to +speak, an official quibble, rendered necessary by the circumstances +of the case. Not to have denied the marriage in the House of Commons +would have meant ruin to both of them. As months passed, more serious +difficulties awaited the unhappily wedded pair. The story of the +Prince’s great debts and desperation need not be repeated. It was +clear that there was but one way of getting his head above water, and +that was to yield to his father’s wishes and contract a real marriage +with a foreign princess. Fate was dogging his footsteps relentlessly. +Placed as he was, George could not but offer to marry, as his father +willed. It is well, also, to remember that George was not ruthlessly +and suddenly turning his shoulder upon Mrs. Fitzherbert. For some time +before the British plenipotentiary went to fetch him a bride from over +the waters, his name had been associated with that of the beautiful and +unscrupulous Countess of Jersey. + +Poor George! Half-married to a woman whom he no longer worshipped, +compelled to marry a woman whom he was to hate at first sight! Surely +we should not judge a prince harshly. “Princess Caroline very _gauche_ +at cards,” “Princess Caroline very _missish_ at supper,” are among +the entries made in his diary by Lord Malmesbury while he was at the +little German Court. I can conceive no scene more tragic than that of +her presentation to the Prince, as related by the same nobleman. “I, +accordingly to the established etiquette,” so he writes, “introduced +the Princess Caroline to him. She, very properly, in consequence of +my saying it was the right mode of proceeding, attempted to kneel to +him. He raised her gracefully enough, and embraced her, said barely +one word, turned round, retired to a distant part of the apartment, +and, calling to me, said: ‘Harris, I am not well: pray get me a glass +of brandy.’” At dinner that evening, in the presence of her betrothed, +the Princess was “flippant, rattling, affecting wit.” Poor George, I +say again! Deportment was his ruling passion, and his bride did not +know how to behave. Vulgarity--hard, implacable, German vulgarity--was +in everything she did to the very day of her death. The marriage was +solemnised on Wednesday, April 8th, 1795, and the royal bridegroom was +drunk. + +So soon as they were separated, George became implected with a morbid +hatred for his wife, that was hardly in accord with his light and +variant nature, and shows how bitterly he had been mortified by his +marriage of necessity. It is sad that so much of his life should have +been wasted in futile strainings after divorce. Yet we can scarcely +blame him for seizing upon every scrap of scandal that was whispered of +his wife. Besides his not unnatural wish to be free, it was derogatory +to the dignity of a Prince and a Regent that his wife should be living +an eccentric life at Blackheath with a family of singers named Sapio. +Indeed, Caroline’s conduct during this time was as indiscreet as ever. +Wherever she went she made ribald jokes about her husband, “in such a +voice that all, by-standing, might hear.” “After dinner,” writes one +of her servants, “Her Royal Highness made a wax figure as usual, and +gave it an amiable pair of large horns; then took three pins out of her +garment and stuck them through and through, and put the figure to roast +and melt at the fire. What a silly piece of spite! Yet it is impossible +not to laugh when one sees it done.” Imagine the feelings of the First +Gentleman in Europe when such pranks were whispered to him! + +For my own part, I fancy Caroline was innocent of any infidelity to +her unhappy husband. But that is neither here nor there. Her behaviour +was certainly not above suspicion. It fully justified him in trying to +establish a case for her divorce. When, at length, she went abroad, +her vagaries were such that the whole of her English suite left her, +and we hear of her travelling about the Holy Land attended by another +family, named Bergami. When her husband succeeded to the throne, and +her name was struck out of the liturgy, she despatched expostulations +in absurd English to Lord Liverpool. Receiving no answer, she decided +to return and claim her right to be crowned Queen of England. Whatever +the unhappy lady did, she always was ridiculous. One cannot but +smile as one reads of her posting along the French roads in a yellow +travelling-chariot drawn by cart-horses, with a retinue that included +an alderman, a reclaimed lady-in-waiting, an Italian Count, the eldest +son of the alderman, and “a fine little female child, about three years +old, whom her Majesty, in conformity with her benevolent practices +on former occasions, had adopted.” The breakdown of her impeachment, +and her acceptance of an income, formed a fitting anti-climax to the +terrible absurdities of her position. She died from the effects of a +chill caught when she was trying vainly to force a way to her husband’s +coronation. Unhappy woman! Our sympathy for her is not misplaced. Fate +wrote her a most tremendous tragedy, and she played it in tights. Let +us pity her, but not forget to pity her husband, the King, also. It is +another common accusation against George that he was an undutiful and +unfeeling son. If this was so, it is certain that not all the blame +is to be laid upon him alone. There is more than one anecdote which +shows that King George disliked his eldest son, and took no trouble +to conceal his dislike, long before the boy had been freed from his +tutors. It was the coldness of his father and the petty restrictions +he loved to enforce that first drove George to seek the companionship +of such men as the Duke of Cumberland and the Duc d’Orléans, each of +whom were quick to inflame his impressionable mind to angry resentment. +Yet when Margaret Nicholson attempted the life of the King, the Prince +immediately posted off from Brighton that he might wait upon his father +at Windsor--a graceful act of piety that was rewarded by his father’s +refusal to see him. Hated by the Queen, who at this time did all she +could to keep her husband and his son apart, surrounded by intriguers, +who did all they could to set him against his father, George seems to +have behaved with great discretion. In the years that follow, I can +conceive no position more difficult than that in which he found himself +every time his father relapsed into lunacy. That he should have by +every means opposed those who through jealousy stood between him and +the regency was only natural. It cannot be said that at any time did he +show anxiety to rule, so long as there was any immediate chance of the +King’s recovery. On the contrary, all impartial seers of that chaotic +Court agreed that the Prince bore himself throughout the intrigues, +wherein he himself was bound to be, in a notably filial way. + +There are many things that I regret in the career of George IV., and +what I most of all regret is the part that he played in the politics +of the period. Englishmen to-day have at length decided that royalty +shall not set foot in the political arena. I do not despair that some +day we shall place politics upon a sound commercial basis, as they +have already done in America and France, or leave them entirely in the +hands of the police, as they do in Russia. It is horrible to think +that under our existing _régime_ all the men of noblest blood and +highest intellect should waste their time in the sordid atmosphere +of the House of Commons, listening for hours to nonentities talking +nonsense, or searching enormous volumes to prove that somebody said +something some years ago that does not quite tally with something he +said the other day, or standing tremulous before the whips in the +lobbies and the scorpions in the constituencies. In the political +machine are crushed and lost all our best men. That Mr. Gladstone did +not choose to be a cardinal is a blow under which the Roman Catholic +Church still staggers. In Mr. Chamberlain Scotland Yard missed its +smartest detective. What a fine voluptuary might Lord Rosebery have +been! It is a platitude that the country is ruled best by the permanent +officials, and I look forward to the time when Mr. Keir Hardie shall +hang his cap in the hall of No. 10 Downing Street, and a Conservative +working man shall lead her Majesty’s Opposition. In the lifetime of +George, politics were not a whit finer than they are to-day. I feel +a genuine indignation that he should have wasted so much of tissue +in mean intrigues about ministries and bills. That he should have +been fascinated by that splendid fellow, Fox, is quite right. That he +should have thrown himself with all his heart into the storm of the +Westminster election is most natural. But it is inverideed sad to find +him, long after he had reached man’s estate, indulging in back-stair +intrigues with Whigs and Tories. It is, of course, absurd to charge +him with deserting his first friends, the Whigs. His love and fidelity +were given, not to the Whigs, but to the men who led them. Even after +the death of Fox, he did, in misplaced piety, do all he could for Fox’s +party. What wonder that, when he found he was ignored by the Ministry +that owed its existence to him, he turned his back upon that sombre +couple, the “Lords G. and G.,” whom he had always hated, and went +over to the Tories? Among the Tories he hoped to find men who would +faithfully perform their duties and leave him leisure to live his own +beautiful life. I regret immensely that his part in politics did not +cease here. The state of the country and of his own finances, and also, +I fear, a certain love that he had imbibed for political manipulation, +prevented him from standing aside. How useless was all the finesse he +displayed in the long-drawn question of Catholic Emancipation! How +lamentable his terror of Lord Wellesley’s rude dragooning! And is +there not something pitiable in the thought of the Regent at a time +of ministerial complications lying prone on his bed with a sprained +ankle, and taking, as was whispered, in one day as many as seven +hundred drops of laudanum? Some said he took these doses to deaden the +pain. But others, and among them his brother Cumberland, declared that +the sprain was all a sham. I hope it was. The thought of a voluptuary +in pain is very terrible. In any case, I cannot but feel angry, for +George’s own sake and that of his kingdom, that he found it impossible +to keep further aloof from the wearisome troubles of political +life. His wretched indecision of character made him an easy prey to +unscrupulous ministers, while his extraordinary diplomatic powers and +almost extravagant tact made them, in their turn, an easy prey to +him. In these two processes much of his genius was uselessly spent. I +must confess that he did not quite realise where his duties ended. He +wished always to do too much. If you read his repeated appeals to his +father that he might be permitted to serve actively in the British army +against the French, you will acknowledge that it was through no fault +of his own that he did not fight. It touches me to think that in his +declining years he actually thought that he had led one of the charges +at Waterloo. He would often describe the whole scene as it appeared +to him at that supreme moment, and refer to the Duke of Wellington, +saying, “Was it not so, Duke?” “I have often heard you say so, your +Majesty,” the old soldier would reply, grimly. I am not sure that the +old soldier was at Waterloo himself. In a room full of people he once +referred to the battle as having been won upon the playing-fields of +Eton. This was certainly a most unfortunate slip, seeing that all +historians are agreed that it was fought on a certain field situate a +few miles from Brussels. + +In one of his letters to the King, craving for a military appointment, +George urges that, whilst his next brother, the Duke of York, commanded +the army, and the younger branches of the family were either generals +or lieutenant-generals, he, who was Prince of Wales, remained colonel +of dragoons. And herein, could he have known it, lay the right limiting +of his life. As royalty was and is constituted, it is for the younger +sons to take an active part in the services, whilst the eldest son is +left as the ruler of Society. Thousands and thousands of guineas were +given by the nation that the Prince of Wales, the Regent, the King, +might be, in the best sense of the word, ornamental. It is not for +us, at this moment, to consider whether Royalty, as a wholly Pagan +institution, is not out of place in a community of Christians. It is +enough that we should inquire whether the god whom our grandfathers +set up and worshipped and crowned with offerings, gave grace to his +worshippers. + +That George was a moral man, in our modern sense, I do not for one +moment pretend. When he died there were found in one of his cabinets +more than a hundred locks of women’s hair. Some of these were still +plastered with powder and pomatum, others were mere little golden +curls, such as grow low down upon a girl’s neck, others were streaked +with grey. The whole of this collection subsequently passed into the +hands of Adam, the famous Scotch henchman of the Regent, and in his +family, now resident in Glasgow, it is treasured as an heirloom. I +myself have been privileged to look at all these locks of hair, and I +have seen a _clairvoyante_ take them one by one, and, pinching them +between her lithe fingers, tell of the love that each symbolised. I +have heard her tell of long rides by night, of a boudoir hung with +grass-green satin, and of a tryst at Windsor; of one, the wife of a +hussar at York, whose little lap-dog used to bark angrily whenever +the Regent came near his mistress; of a milk-maid who, in her great +simpleness, thought that her child would one day be king of England; +of an arch-duchess with blue eyes, and a silly little flautist from +Portugal; of women that were wantons and fought for his favour, great +ladies that he loved dearly, girls that gave themselves to him humbly. +If we lay all pleasures at the feet of our prince, we can scarcely +hope he will remain virtuous. Indeed, we do not wish our prince to be +an exemplar of godliness, but a perfect type of happiness. It may be +foolish of us to insist upon apolaustic happiness, but that is the kind +of happiness that we can ourselves, most of us, best understand, and so +we offer it to our ideal. In Royalty we find our Bacchus, our Venus. + +Certainly George was, in the practical sense of the word, a fine king. +His wonderful physique, his wealth, his brilliant talents, he gave them +all without stint to Society. His development from the time when, at +Madame Cornely’s, he gallivanted with rips and demireps, to the time +when he sat, a stout and solitary old king, fishing in the artificial +pond at Windsor, was beautifully ordered. During his life he indulged +himself to the full in all the delights that life could offer him. +That he should have, in his old age, suddenly abandoned his career +of vigorous enjoyment is, I confess, rather surprising. The royal +voluptuary generally remains young to the last. No one ever tires of +pleasure. It is the pursuit of pleasure, the trouble to grasp it, that +makes us old. Only the soldiers who enter Capua with wounded feet leave +it demoralised. And yet George, who never had to wait or fight for a +pleasure, most certainly broke up long before his death. I can but +attribute this to the constant persecution to which he was subjected by +duns and ministers, parents and wives. + +Not that I regret the manner in which he spent his last years. On the +contrary, I think it was exceedingly cosy. I like to think of the King, +at Windsor, lying a-bed all the morning in his darkened room, with +all the newspapers scattered over his quilt, and a little decanter of +the favourite cherry-brandy within easy reach. I like to think of him +sitting by his fire in the afternoon and hearing his ministers asking +for him at the door and piling another log upon the fire, as he hears +them sent away by his servant. After all, he had lived his life; he had +lived more fully than any other man. + +And it is right that we should remember him first as a voluptuary. +Only let us note that his nature never became, as do the natures of +most voluptuaries, corroded by a cruel indifference to the happiness +of others. When all the town was agog for the _fête_ to be given by +the Regent in honour of the French King, Sheridan sent a forged card +of invitation to Romeo Coates, the half-witted dandy, who used at this +time to walk about in absurd ribbons and buckles, and was the butt of +all the streetsters. When the poor fellow arrived at the entrance of +Carlton House, proud as a peacock, he was greeted with a tremendous +cheer from the by-standing mob, but when he came to the lacqueys he +was told that his card was a hoax, and was sent about his business. +The tears were rolling down his cheeks as he shambled back into the +street. The Regent heard later in the evening of this sorry joke, +and next day despatched a kindly-worded message, in which he prayed +that Mr. Coates would not refuse to come and “view the decorations, +nevertheless.” Though he does not appear to have treated his inferiors +with that extreme servility that is now in vogue, George was beloved +by the whole of his household, and many are the little tales that are +told to illustrate the kindliness and consideration he showed to his +valets and his jockeys and his stable-boys. That from time to time +he dropped certain of his favourites is no cause for blaming him. +Remember that a Great Personage, like a great genius, is dangerous to +his fellow-creatures. The favourites of Royalty live in an intoxicant +atmosphere. They become unaccountable for their behaviour. Either +they get beyond themselves, and, like Brummel, forget that the King, +their friend, is also their master; or they outrun the constable, and +go bankrupt, or cheat at cards in order to keep up their position, or +do some other foolish thing that makes it impossible for the King to +favour them more. Remember, too, that old friends are generally the +refuge of unsociable persons, and how great must be the temptation +besetting the head of Society to form fresh friendships, when all the +cleverest and most charming persons in the land are standing ready, +like supers at the wings, to come on and please him. At Carlton House +there was a constant succession of wits. Minds were preserved for the +Prince of Wales, as coverts are preserved for him to-day. For him +Sheridan would say his best bon-mot, and Theodore Hook contrive his +most practical jokes, his swiftest chansonette. And Fox would talk, as +only he could, of Liberty and of Patriotism, and Byron would look more +than ever like Isidore de Lara as he recited his own bad verses, and +Sir Walter Scott would “pour out with an endless generosity his store +of old-world learning, kindness, and humour.” Of such men George was a +splendid patron. He did not merely sit in his chair, gaping princely +at their wit and their wisdom, but quoted with the scholars, and +argued with the statesmen, and jested with the wits. Doctor Burney, an +impartial observer, says that he was amazed by the knowledge of music +that the Regent displayed in a half-hour’s discussion over the wine. +Croker says that “the Prince and Scott were the two most brilliant +story-tellers, in their several ways, he had ever happened to meet. +Both exerted themselves, and it was hard to say which shone the most.” +The Prince seems indeed to have been a fine conversationalist, with a +wide range of knowledge and great humour. We, who have come at length +to look upon stupidity as one of the most sacred prerogatives of +Royalty, can scarcely realise that, if George’s birth had been never +so humble, he would have been known to us as a fine scholar and wit or +as a connoisseur of the arts. It is pleasing to think of his love for +the Flemish school of painting, for Wilkie and Sir Thomas Lawrence. The +splendid portraits of foreign potentates that hang in the Banqueting +Room at Windsor bear witness to his sense of the canvas. In his later +years he exerted himself strenuously in raising the tone of the drama. +His love of the classics never left him. We know he was fond of quoting +those incomparable poets, Homer, at great length, and that he was +prominent in the “papyrus-craze.” Indeed, he inspired Society with +a love of something more than mere pleasure, a love of the “humaner +delights.” He was a giver of tone. The bluff, disgusting ways of the +Tom and Jerry period gave way to those florid graces that are still +called Georgian. + +A pity that George’s predecessor was not a man, like the Prince +Consort, of strong chastening influence! Then might the bright +flamboyance which George gave to Society have made his reign more +beautiful than any other--a real renaissance. But he found London a +wild city of taverns and cock-pits, and the grace which in the course +of years he gave to his subjects never really entered into them. The +cock-pits were gilded and the taverns painted with colour, but the +heart of the city was vulgar, even as before. The simulation of higher +things did indeed give the note of a very interesting period, but how +shallow that simulation was, and how merely it was due to George’s own +influence, we may see in the light of what happened after his death. +The good that he had done died with him. The refinement he had laid +upon vulgarity fell away, like enamel from withered cheeks. It was only +George himself who had made the sham endure. The Victorian Era came +soon, and the angels rushed in and drove the nymphs away and hung the +land with reps. + +I have often wondered whether it was with a feeling that his influence +would be no more than life-long, that George allowed Carlton House, +that dear structure, the very work of his life and symbol of his being, +to be rased. I wish that Carlton House were still standing. I wish we +could still walk through those corridors, whose walls were “crusted +with ormolu,” and parquet-floors were “so glossy that, were Narcissus +to come down from heaven, he would, I maintain, need no other mirror +for his _beauté_.” I wish that we could see the pier-glasses and the +girandoles and the twisted sofas, the fauns foisted upon the ceiling +and the rident goddesses along the wall. These things would make +George’s memory dearer to us, help us to a fuller knowledge of him. +I am glad that the Pavilion still stands here in Brighton. Its trite +lawns and cheeky minarets have taught me much. As I write this essay, +I can see them from my window. Last night I sat there in a crowd of +vulgar people, whilst a band played us tunes. Once I fancied I saw the +shade of a swaying figure and of a wine-red face. + + + + +Study of a Head + +By an Unknown Artist + + +[Illustration] + + + + +A Ballad of a Nun + +By John Davidson + + + FROM Eastertide to Eastertide + For ten long years her patient knees + Engraved the stones--the fittest bride + Of Christ in all the diocese. + + She conquered every earthly lust; + The abbess loved her more and more; + And, as a mark of perfect trust, + Made her the keeper of the door. + + High on a hill the convent hung + Across a duchy looking down, + Where everlasting mountains flung + Their shadows over tower and town. + + The jewels of their lofty snows + In constellations flashed at night; + Above their crests the moon arose; + The deep earth shuddered with delight. + + Long ere she left her cloudy bed, + Still dreaming in the orient land, + On many a mountain’s happy head + Dawn lightly laid her rosy hand. + + The adventurous sun took Heaven by storm; + Clouds scattered largesses of rain; + The sounding cities rich and warm, + Smouldered and glittered in the plain. + + Sometimes it was a wandering wind, + Sometimes the fragrance of the pine, + Sometimes the thought how others sinned, + That turned her sweet blood into wine. + + Sometimes she heard a serenade + Complaining sweetly far away: + She said, “A young man woos a maid”; + And dreamt of love till break of day. + + Then would she ply her knotted scourge + Until she swooned; but evermore + She had the same red sin to purge, + Poor, passionate keeper of the door! + + For still night’s starry scroll unfurled, + And still the day came like a flood: + It was the greatness of the world + That made her long to use her blood. + + In winter-time when Lent drew nigh, + And hill and plain were wrapped in snow, + She watched beneath the frosty sky + The nearest city nightly glow. + + Like peals of airy bells outworn + Faint laughter died above her head + In gusts of broken music borne: + “They keep the Carnival,” she said. + + Her hungry heart devoured the town: + “Heaven save me by a miracle! + Unless God sends an angel down, + Thither I go though it were Hell.” + + She dug her nails deep in her breast, + Sobbed, shrieked, and straight withdrew the bar: + A fledgling flying from the nest, + A pale moth rushing to a star. + + Fillet and veil in strips she tore; + Her golden tresses floated wide; + The ring and bracelet that she wore + As Christ’s betrothed, she cast aside. + + “Life’s dearest meaning I shall probe; + Lo! I shall taste of love at last! + Away!” She doffed her outer robe, + And sent it sailing down the blast. + + Her body seemed to warm the wind; + With bleeding feet o’er ice she ran: + “I leave the righteous God behind; + I go to worship sinful man.” + + She reached the sounding city’s gate; + No question did the warder ask: + He passed her in: “Welcome, wild mate!” + He thought her some fantastic mask. + + Half-naked through the town she went; + Each footstep left a bloody mark; + Crowds followed her with looks intent; + Her bright eyes made the torches dark. + + Alone and watching in the street + There stood a grave youth nobly dressed; + To him she knelt and kissed his feet; + Her face her great desire confessed. + + Straight to his house the nun he led: + “Strange lady, what would you with me? + “Your love, your love, sweet lord,” she said + “I bring you my virginity.” + + He healed her bosom with a kiss; + She gave him all her passion’s hoard; + And sobbed and murmured ever, “This + Is life’s great meaning, dear, my lord. + + “I care not for my broken vow, + Though God should come in thunder soon + I am sister to the mountains now, + And sister to the sun and moon.” + + Through all the towns of Belmarie, + She made a progress like a queen. + “She is,” they said, “whate’er she be, + The strangest woman ever seen. + + “From fairyland she must have come, + Or else she is a mermaiden.” + Some said she was a ghoul, and some + A heathen goddess born again. + + But soon her fire to ashes burned; + Her beauty changed to haggardness; + Her golden hair to silver turned; + The hour came of her last caress. + + At midnight from her lonely bed + She rose, and said: “I have had my will.” + The old ragged robe she donned, and fled + Back to the convent on the hill. + + Half-naked as she went before, + She hurried to the city wall, + Unnoticed in the rush and roar + And splendour of the Carnival. + + No question did the warder ask: + Her ragged robe, her shrunken limb, + Her dreadful eyes! “It is no mask; + It is a she-wolf, gaunt and grim!” + + She ran across the icy plain; + Her worn blood curdled in the blast; + Each footstep left a crimson stain; + The white-faced moon looked on aghast. + + She said between her chattering jaws, + “Deep peace is mine, I cease to strive; + Oh, comfortable convent laws, + That bury foolish nuns alive! + + “A trowel for my passing-bell, + A little bed within the wall, + A coverlet of stones; how well + I there shall keep the Carnival!” + + Like tired bells chiming in their sleep, + The wind faint peals of laughter bore; + She stopped her ears and climbed the steep, + And thundered at the convent door. + + It opened straight: she entered in, + And at the wardress’ feet fell prone: + “I come to purge away my sin, + Bury me, close me up in stone.” + + The wardress raised her tenderly; + She touched her wet and fast-shut eyes; + “Look, sister; sister, look at me; + Look; can you see through my disguise?” + + She looked and saw her own sad face, + And trembled, wondering, “Who art thou?” + “God sent me down to fill your place: + I am the Virgin Mary now.” + + And with the word, God’s mother shone; + The wanderer whispered, “Mary, hail!” + The vision helped her to put on + Bracelet and fillet, ring and veil. + + “You are sister to the mountains now, + And sister to the day and night; + Sister to God;” and on the brow + She kissed her thrice, and left her sight. + + While dreaming in her cloudy bed, + Far in the crimson orient land, + On many a mountain’s happy head + Dawn lightly laid her rosy hand. + + + + +The Yellow Book + +Index to Publishers’ Announcements + + + _Page_ + + W. 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HENRY ADY). + +_With Numerous Illustrations of his Principal Works, Views of his +Studio and Working-Room, and Garden Views of his Residence, including +the following_ + + +SIX FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS: + + “THE GOLDEN STAIRS” PHOTOGRAVURE PLATE. + “THE MIRROR OF VENUS” PHOTOGRAVURE PLATE. + “CHANT D’AMOUR” FULL-PAGE PLATE, PRINTED IN TINT. + “THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM” FULL-PAGE PLATE, PRINTED IN TINT. + “THE BRIAR ROSE.” + “LOVE AMONG THE RUINS.” + + +NEW EDITION. + +_Crown 4to, bound in Buckram, gilt top, 7s. 6d._ + +_THE PILGRIM’S WAY_ + +From Winchester to Canterbury. + +By JULIA CARTWRIGHT (MRS. HENRY ADY). + +With 46 Illustrations by A. QUINTON, and 2 Maps of the Route. + +“A delightful monograph.... The excellent drawings of Mr. Quinton do +full justice to the text, embracing every kind of subject from gloomy +church crypts and silent pools to breezy landscapes and sunny village +greens.”--_Times._ + + +SECOND EDITION. + +ENLARGED WITH ADDITIONAL CHAPTER. + +_Small Royal 8vo, cloth, 12s. 6d._ + + _CAIRO_: + Sketches of its History, Monuments & Social Life. + + By STANLEY LANE-POOLE, + Author of “The Art of the Saracens in Egypt,” + “Studies in a Mosque,” &c. + +With numerous Illustrations on Wood. + +“Will prove most useful to the innumerable travellers who now every +winter visit the Nile Valley.”--_Saturday Review._ + +LONDON: J. S. VIRTUE & CO., LTD., 26 Ivy Lane, Paternoster Row, E.C. + + +_Messrs. BELL’S NEW & FORTHCOMING WORKS._ + +ALBERT MOORE, + +His Life and Works. By A. LYS BALDRY. + +_Illustrated with 10 Photogravures and about 70 other Illustrations. +Super-royal 4to, £3 3s. Also 50 Copies on Large Paper, with the Plates +in duplicate, printed on India paper and on Japanese vellum, £5 5s. +net._ + + +RAPHAEL’S MADONNAS + +And other Great Pictures. Reproduced from the Original Paintings. With +a Life of Raphael, and an account of his chief works. By KARL KÁROLY, +Author of “A Guide to the Paintings of Florence.” + + _In One Volume, with 53 Illustrations, including 9 Photogravures. + Small Colombier 8vo, in special binding designed by_ GLEESON WHITE, + _21s. net. A few copies on Large Paper, with the Plates on India + Paper, £2 2s. net._ (_all sold._) + + +JOHN RUSSELL, R.A., + +“The Prince of Crayon Portrait Painters.” By GEORGE C. WILLIAMSON. +D.Litt. With an Introduction by Lord RONALD GOWER, F.S.A. + + _With 101 Illustrations, including Two Photogravures. Small Colombier + 8vo. handsomely bound, 250 copies only, 25s. net. Large Paper + Edition, 100 copies only, £2 2s. net._ + + +SIR EDWARD BURNE-JONES, BART., + +A Record and Review. By MALCOLM BELL. + + _Third Edition, in special binding designed by_ GLEESON WHITE. _Small + Colombier 8vo, 21s. net._ + + +THE BRITISH FLEET: + +The Growth, Achievements, and Duties of the Navy of the Empire. By +Commander CHARLES N. ROBINSON, R.N. + + _With about 150 reproductions of paintings, prints, and drawings + illustrative of battles, ships, persons, customs, and social life in + the Navy._ DEDICATED BY PERMISSION TO H.R.H. THE DUKE OF YORK. + + _Ordinary Edition. Crown 8vo, 7s. 6d. 150 copies in fcap. 4to, with + extra Engravings, 21s. net._ + + +EROS AND PSYCHE. + +A Poem in Twelve Measures. By ROBERT BRIDGES. Second Edition thoroughly +revised. + + _Printed on Hand-made Paper at the Chiswick Press, with binding + designed by_ GLEESON WHITE. + + +NEW VOLUME OF THE “EX-LIBRIS” SERIES. + +AMERICAN BOOK-PLATES. + +By CHARLES ALLEN DEXTER. + + _With numerous Illustrations. Also a limited Large Paper Edition._ + +LONDON: GEORGE BELL & SONS, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN. + + +Dean & Son’s List. + +Under the Immediate Patronage of H.R.H. the Duchess of Fife, H.I.M. the +Empress of Germany, Right Hon. the Countess of Aberdeen. + +_SECOND EDITION._ + +=BABY’S SOUVENIR.= Most handsomely bound, gilt edges, &c., 10s. 6d. + +A most charming book to preserve the Record of a Child’s Life from +its Birth to its Majority, containing Twenty-three Coloured and other +Illustrations, printed in Facsimile of the Original Aquarelles of F. M. +BRUNDAGE. The following are a few of the subjects, with spaces left for +filling in details: + + NAME OF BABY. + THE LOCK OF HAIR. + BABY’S FIRST WORD. + BABY’S FIRST TOOTH. + BABY’S FIRST STEPS. + FIRST DAY AT SCHOOL. + BABY’S FIRST PRAYER, &c. + + +_BY GORDON STABLES, C.M., M.D., R.N._ + +Demy 8vo, handsomely bound, cloth gilt, with Medallion Picture, 6s. 6d. + +=OUR FRIEND THE DOG.= Sixth Edition. Enlarged and thoroughly Revised +throughout. Richly Illustrated with full-page Portraits of all the +latest Champion Dogs, and numerous smaller Illustrations. + +A Complete and Practical Guide to all that is known about every +Breed of Dog in the World, their Show Points, Properties, Uses and +Peculiarities, Successful Management in Health and Sickness, Rules and +full Particulars of all Dog Clubs, &c. + + +_FOURTH EDITION._ + +Crown 8vo, handsomely bound, cloth gilt, gilt edges, 5s. + +=THE DOYLE FAIRY BOOK.= Consisting of Twenty nine Fairy Tales. +Translated from various Languages by ANTHONY R. MONTALBA. With +Thirty-four Illustrations by RICHARD DOYLE, a Memoir of Doyle, and an +Introduction. + + Just ready, crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 2s. 6d. + _BY FRANCIS W. MOORE_, + Author of “Humorous Plays,” &c. + +=HUMOROUS PIECES.= A Collection of Original Recitations in Prose and +Verse, including: + + JACK AND JILL. + THE FLAT IRON. + MAN PROPOSES. + ODDITIES OF EVERY DAY. + LITTLE JACK HORNER. + ADVICE GRATIS. + +And Twenty-three other Pieces. + + +Cloth gilt, crown 8vo, 2s. 6d. + +=HUMOROUS PLAYS.= By FRANCIS W. MOORE. + +This Collection of Short Plays, Duologues, and Proverbs in Action is +intended as an addition to the scanty assortment of pieces suitable for +private representation. + +Having been originally written for this purpose, they involve only +a very limited number of characters, and no exceptional amount of +dramatic experience. Each is comprised within a single act, and the +requirements as to scenery, costumes, and stage appliances are of a +simple kind. The scenes are all indoors. + +All are available for performance, whether in public or private, +without payment. + +_The Plays in this volume may also be had separately, in paper covers, +crown 8vo, at 6d each._ + + +_SECOND EDITION._ + +Handsomely bound, cloth gilt, large post 8vo, 3s. 6d. + +=SCENES THROUGH THE BATTLE SMOKE: Being Reminiscences in the Afghan +and Egyptian Campaigns.= By the Rev. ARTHUR MALE, Army Chaplain at +Lucknow, and in the Afghan and Egyptian Campaigns. With Portrait of the +Author, and Eight large Illustrations by SYDNEY PAGET, War Artist to +the _Illustrated London News_ in these Campaigns. + + +Just ready, demy 8vo, cloth, 162 pages, 2s. 6d. + +=CHESS HISTORY AND REMINISCENCES.= By H. E. BIRD, Author of “Chess +Openings,” “Modern Chess,” &c. + +This interesting book of Reminiscences of half-a-century contains a +Portrait of the Author, Notes on Ancient and Modern Chess, Anecdotes as +to the Eccentricities of Noted Players, a Sketch of Simpson’s, &c. + + +Blue cloth gilt, gilt edges, large crown 8vo, 5s. + +=DEAN’S FAIRY BOOK.= + +A Companion to the “Doyle Fairy Book.” This volume, which makes a +splendid presentation book for a child, contains most of the favourite +fairy tales of childhood, drawn from Penault, old chap books, and the +“Arabian Nights.” Such favourites as “Sleeping Beauty,” “Aladdin,” +“Valentine and Orson.” “Hop o’ My Thumb,” and “Jack the Giant Killer,” +are included in its pages, and the book is enriched with numerous +excellent illustrations by able artists. + + + LONDON: DEAN & SON, LIMITED, 160A FLEET STREET, E.C. + _Publishers of Dean’s Plays for Young Actors._ + + + + +Corrections + +The first line indicates the original, the second the correction. + +p. 27 + +But I can accept nothing less, nor consent to forgo my rights, even or +any contingent remainder of possible cousinly favour! + +But I can accept nothing less, nor consent to forgo my rights, even for +any contingent remainder of possible cousinly favour! + +p. 31 + + I will do you the justice to belive + I will do you the justice to believe + +p. 83 + + I wondered what unforgiveable sin + I wondered what unforgivable sin + +p. 118 + + her daughter were also staying at the delighful old Elizabethan house + her daughter were also staying at the delightful old Elizabethan house + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78082 *** |